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

[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

"Stand your ground you bastards!"

Colonel Stazi sunk his teeth into flesh, tearing out the neck of a wailing cultist and pitching them back over the walls. He was running low on power cells for his sidearm. A few meters away two pathfinders had slung their heavy repeater over an improvised barricade of Maw bodies. Elsewhere vibroknives clashed against crude blunt instruments in a medieval close quarters brawl.

"Status on the charges?" Sol cursed when he heard nothing but comlink static, "Troopers, with me!"

It didn't take them long to find what was left of his saboteurs. Something unnatural tore them to pieces. The duros stripped their bandoliers and distributed each among his remaining fireteam. Time to kick the hornet's nest.

"Ion grenades, on my lead."

Sol primed the detonator and tossed his grenade at the closest fuel cell. Each trooper followed suit and shortly after there was a deafening electromagnetic whine followed by bone chilling shrieks. Before he even had time to verify mission success they were beset on all sides by the walking dead. Colonel Stazi emptied his heavy blaster into both fallen friend and foe alike. When it was exhausted the Alliance pathfinder tore a riot control baton from a dead cultist's hands.

After hacking his way through a growing army of the dead Sol was confronted at last with their dark masters.

"I can do this all day," he growled in challenge.

With a violent twist Stazi activated the baton's sparking electric currents. Enough charge to resist the plasma blade of a lightsaber.

 

[Dakrul]

Objective: Remnants of a Dead World - Destroy
Location: Inside the Research Station - Heading towards opposition
Allies: The Maw
Enemies: Kenth Berik / Stiketeam Xesh - Kingsley Viribus Maijan Paisea Kreg Jare
Equipment: Staff of Dakrul, Cursed Gen'Dai Flesh Armour, Dread Blade

The faceless giant stood motionless in the wrecked control room. Shattered glass sparkled in the red flashes of an alarm. Cables and sheets of metal littered the ground.

The Heathen Priest wasn't truly present, his essence was afoot. Wandering among heaps of flesh, the carcasses of a planet. Csillas remains truly were a holy site. The death of a planet, was its spirit also presented to the hellfire of the Nether? Would its soul be gifted to the gods? Judged and sentenced by the Avatars?

What a lovely thought.

A red blaster bolt hit the crown of rusted durastell atop his hide. A short ping-like sound, air dispersed by heat. His rotten head flicks to the side, his eyeless gaze rest upon a smaller creature to the corner of the room. It had emerged from a hallway. To the force-driven senses of the masked monster, the intruder appeared unlike mortals would witness it's from. It was a creature made of charcoal, unable to harness the energies of life, holding a weapon of stone towards Dakrul, it was the origin of this nuisance. But the reanimated Cha'ta'ri felt his hunger, he had torn his form from enclosure to enclosure, wreaking havoc upon its inners. Susstneacne would empower his carnage.

Tendrils burst forth from underneath his greyish skin, ruptured from between his chitin plates of armor. With a single fearfully large step his massive body encroached on his attacker. Possibly stunned by fear his prey reacted a single moment too late already in range of his wretched grip. The defender was ripped apart. Within a single moment to the next blood splattered the walls. Torn in four at the arms and legs. A display of strength by the cosmic horrors fledging flesh tendrils.

To the killer's amusement, there were more, there why quite a few more. It seemed those distant flickers of life were not so distant after all, or had he just moved too far in one or the other direction without noticing?

Well, their fates would be sealed now.

A terrible nightmare would befall the small troop of defenders send to ambush the freakish beast that was terrorizing their station. It was their doom that they had absolutely no idea what they were engaging. The necromantic sith spawn fed on the crux of their essence, the precious flickers of light that would nourish his own fires of undead life to burn grander.

He had tasted the relief of futter, now he sought a meal. His grotesque six-armed arachnid-like frame now wrothe forward into the gangways covered in his victim's remains. Except that soon after they would follow, a herd of leftover, a parade of bits and pieces of the dead following their new master on his quest for calamity.

 

[Darth Tennacus]

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

Of course they would come.

The annihilation of his horde reverberated through the air as much as it did through the Force. The sounding of ghastly screams were quickly swallowed beneath the weight of the explosions, of which the Sith Lord could see such residue rise up in dense clouds over the walls he stood. He was not immediately aware of who was responsible for such destruction; he first thought it might have been a mistake, given that explosives so close to the depot would threaten their integrity. But it seemed such an act was intentional, as the individual responsible for it was quickly bold to present themselves, allowing the Sith to look upon them over the respirator which sounded his breaths broadly. Given their weapon, it appeared not that they were a Jedi. Whoever they were, Tennacus regarded them an enemy, nonetheless, and silently observed them before he finally spoke. When he did, his lilt carried his words with blunt monotony.

". . . I admire your bravery, warrior. Not many would approach the likes of two Sith without first being aware of who they were engaging. But if you already knew such things, then I believe your bravery is even greater. It's only unfortunate that it is in vain."

Tennacus put his hand against his ear, making a connection within a commlink. "77-B, I believe we are in need of a bombing run."

His hand lowered away from his ear, unconfirmed as to whether a response came back to him.

"Lord Senthral, I believe you deserve this kill. You have been denied the taste of blood after that last individual fled your presence."

 

[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]
​

Darkness. Heat. Smoke.

The severed illumination circuits, courtesy of Perseus's unrelenting attacks, had died alongside any internal lighting-- save for the flashlights built in to Qellene's helmet. The displays, and an occasional status indicator, had thankfully survived the carnage. The good news ended after that. Because while she may have been alive, death may very well have been preferable to the game of cat and mouse between the two rival pilots.

No. She couldn't think like that. Not with so many people waiting...

Qellene forced her craft to starboard, registering a jolt of pain as the Divine Eagle's proton beam cannons seared through a wing, cutting closer to the cockpit as she banked. Then it stopped... for now. She dove past another asteroid, though too preoccupied with a cockpit now flooding with the smoke of fried circuitry to relish her new cover. Metal had begun to turn red under the stress, splintering into cardinal colored shrapnel, cutting further into the circuitry that the beams themselves had failed to touch while the residual thermal energy took its sweet time dissipating.

Time. If only she was provided the same luxury.

The A-wing executed another unsteady spin toward port, diving within a path through a cloud of debris at the same moment a similar display of carnage burst into being behind her. The Divine Eagle was throttling toward her all the way, closing in faster and faster now.

Four missiles left. The chase had already burnt through half her supply. But for her purposes, Qellene could make do. She had to...

Guidance systems were off. If she wanted to make any progress, she'd have to aim her warheads manually. If her faceless opponent knew, he likely would start laughing his head off. Let Perseus laugh all he wanted. Soon enough, Qellene would be the one laughing, and the Eagle's pilot would...

Don't get cocky. She forced a glance at the aft-view monitor, in time to watch her warnings justified with another sharp beam of light cutting clean across the port side of her viewports. Another cut just overhead, illuminating the beads of sweat forming over her forehead in blinding crimson. Qellene instinctively ducked her head, throwing the loose perspiration against the shield of her helmet as excited transparisteel fractured, and burst into clouds of invisible shrapnel right above her.

Her eyes raised after a tense few seconds. There was little left of the interceptor's canopy, not in the form of a viable shape, at least. The enemy pilot had to be laughing now...

They were approaching an asteroid now-- E.T.A to the Wyvern: Two minutes. By now, she could see the brief flickers of light in the foreground of crumbling asteroids. One for every down fighter, only to be upstaged by the reduction of far more massive rocks to smithereens, each careening toward overwhelmed victims-- Brotherhood and Alliance alike.

A deep breath managed to pass across the flight officer's chapped lips, absent from view amidst the heat trapped within her pressurized flight helmet. She braced for any number of impacts next, gripping the dashboard tighter than ever while struggling to pull the interceptor through a number of evasive twirls. Another breath, accompanied by fear and anxious anticipation as the controls to the sitting ordnances were unlocked, as her hand clapped down on the launch igniter. And out of loosely restrained desperation, Qellene dispatched the four missiles, banking hard to starboard in retreat as they rocketed for the asteroid dead ahead.

Tu'teggacha

 

[Kyrel Ren]

Location: Fuel Depot
Allies: BOTM, The Mongrel
Enemies: GA Bernard of Arca
The horde of the dead only continued to March upon the fuel depots, as if they were too many to hold off. The one leading the charge, Kyrel Ren only walked with the dead, anyone living to come across his path were met with a slash from his lightsaber. He continued to walk with the dead, a gnawing hunger filled him as he looked to see who would be among his victims. Be it if the depots were captured, or destroyed made little to no difference to the dead man. He came here bearing a message with death and fire. The one that he would carry out with ease.

Among the dead, the sights and sounds of screams, growls, bodies, and blaster fire were beheld for all to witness. The carnage being as if home to Kyrel. Surrounded by his dead creations and that of his enemy. His eyes darting across the battlefield. Locking upon one singular signature in the force. His senses going wild, as he spoke to himself first softly, of which only escalated into a roar. “Jedi…. Jedi!!! JEDI!!!!” Sounding off as a mad berserker pointing his blade to the man. Shortly after Kyrel lost in a mixture of fury, and hunger charged in a mad dash to the man.

His blade twirling in his hands, attracting the dead to surround him, and his pry to make an enclosed space. Kyrel lunged with a war cry as he attempted to engage the light sider before him. His attacks appearing brute like in nature, his own variant of form V appeared more barbaric. With wide power charged swings attempting to bash his opponents own blade out of his hands in a series of opening strikes.

Kyrel’s now only concern was to destroy this Jedi before him, the hunger given to him by his maker had driven him, compelled him to strike in order to consume his flesh. Attempting to use his undead strength to get the better of his enemy.

 

[Tu'teggacha]

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

Viscount Squadron, a family, forged in the fires of battle. To have survived the Stygian Campaign, striking deep into the heart of the sinister Sith Empire at a time when they were perhaps the ultimate galactic evil, was an incredible achievement. Though the pilots bore scars, both the reminders of physical wounds and the less tangible weight on their minds that came with enduring the horrors of war, they had managed to pull through. Yet now they were facing a grim truth: that the galaxy had no shortage of evil, and thus there was no rest for those who dared to fight against it. War would continue until it managed to wear them down.

Until they made a fatal mistake, one that would finally cost them everything.

As One Flight approached across the Csillan Belt, moving boldly through the wreckage of a dead world in order to assist their friends, they could not know that many eyes were upon them. Lurking amid the asteroids was a full squadron of Divine Eagles, patiently awaiting the opportune moment to strike. The Knyght pilots had killed all power to their craft, using the Force to enable trace oxygen to sustain them while their foes moved into the killing field. Without an energy signature, and with the heavy metals of Csilla's rubble confusing most sensor readings, they were almost undetectable, their gunmetal-colored craft blending in well.

Until One Flight reached that place where they thought they'd be heroes again.

It was, as a famous admiral once belatedly realized, a trap... and at the very moment that One Flight emerged into the little asteroid clearing where they had detected Three Flight's distress signals, the Mawites sprang it. Proton bombs, launched inert so that they nestled against huge asteroids, exploded as they were struck with beam cannons, sending out huge chunks of rocky shrapnel to batter the B-Wings and block any easy retreat. Then the Divine Eagles themselves closed in - from above, from below, from every side. They were here to kill enemy aces, as the Taskmaster had decreed, and they would use overwhelming force to do it.

Twenty-four beam cannons glowed as the dozen heavy fighters made their attack.

Elsewhere, a smaller-scale but no less desperate hunt continued to unfold. Perseus of Kasparov laughed madly as his beam cannons cut deep into his target's wing, like a boar spear wounding a squealing swine's flank. It was just a game now, a foregone conclusion, full of the thrill of the chase... and the sweet taste of his target's desperation, a spoonful of sugar on his tongue, experienced through the force. There was nothing the wounded Alliance fighter could do except keep trying to run, after all. Certainly nothing that could possibly so much as concern Perseus. He blasted through another asteroid and lined up a new shot.

The A-Wing's canopy shattered, rent open by his cannons. Not long now.

The only possible problem was that they were getting close to the edge of the Csillan Belt. To stray beyond its confines was to disobey the Taskmaster... and to likely receive a faceful of Alliance flak. But no matter; it would never come to that. The pilot had survived the canopy's destruction thanks to her pressurized flight suit, but his next shot would surely go right through her, and she would find a hole in the head more difficult to shake off. "Goodbye, little creature," Perseus crooned, his mouth set in a horrible grin. "You danced the dance well, but there was never any question of how this would end." He squeezed the firing stud...

... and missed as the A-Wing climbed into a series of evasive twirls.

Perseus rolled his eyes. Why did this pilot insist on prolonging the inevitable? He followed her, less gracefully, simply blowing apart - or plowing through - the asteroid fragments she had so artfully evaded. His onboard computer chimed a warning as the A-Wing launched missiles that must surely be its last. The weapons, unguided, plowed straight ahead. The Knyght laughed again; it was like a prey animal voiding its bowels as it felt the predator's jaws close around its neck, messy and useless and born of panic. Then the A-Wing rocketed hard to starboard... and came right back in his direction, pulling away from the path of the missiles.

Perseus stared. Was the pilot surrendering the foolish hope of reaching the Alliance picket line, choosing to die head-on in battle, or had the tension of the situation finally driven her insane? His shock cost him the instant he needed to react. Even damaged, the A-Wing was far more maneuverable than the powerful but bulky Divine Eagle, allowing it to pull off that hard turn. As the giant asteroid ahead fractured in the huge four-missile explosion, sending vast chunks of rocky shrapnel out in all directions, the Knyght realized that it was far too late for him to even begin the same turn. Even near death, with a half-broken ship, she'd outfoxed him.

"You clever little bitc-" A spear of rock passing through his cockpit silenced him.

 

[Darth Senthral]

​

DARTH SENTHRAL​

Occupation: Sith Apprentice under Darth Tennacus
Objective: Confront Sol Stazi and kill if at all possible, always more to every battle.
Weaponry: Double Bladed Lightsaber, DL-22 Blaster Pistol, and the Dark Side of the Force​

The explosions around them brought forth power, in the common shape of fear. Yet here and now it mixed with anger, at battle stolen. It wasn't always cowards that ran, but often they ran faster than the rest. His next enemy would not get off so easy as his last. The explosives had not killed him, and maybe anything thrown at him wouldn't. Deep down the Will to Fight burned brighter than any other. So he would, and his Master only confirmed that. 'Have fear opposer, I will pull no punches. Not now, nor likely ever.'

"Thank you my Master, go forth, and leave this one to me. With all due trust, that little which is held between Sith, Master and Apprentice." His words suited thankfulness, for in truth, excitement came forth. It was time to let loose, and this one would not pull any fleeing, not on his watch. "Hopefully you don't think that weapon can you win you this. It is time to see whether or not your own strength can!" Quick words preceded quicker action: he dashed forth at the Duros before them, single blade of his 'saber alight just as fast. This was the beginning of battle, but really the testing grounds. He needed to see what this man had in him, whether victory could be clawed at or not by either party, and what he needed to do to make it his own party that got it.

With a leap at the end of his sprint he bore down a lightsaber slash unto the Duros, he expected deflection. Expectation would bring forth less surpise, and preparation for what came after would save him from injury. Already he was thinking on his next move. For now it was best to keep things simple though, size up the strengths and weaknesses. Then unleash the powers at his disposal. Those that needed unleashing as needed unleashing. Such were the ways a Sith often fought. Well, Tennacus and himself atleast. Observation, followed then by destruction.

 

[Kenth Berik]

Location: Csilla's Asteroid Field
Objective: Remnants of a Dead World | The Grand Overseer's Orders
Tags: Allies Hand of Purification | Enemies Kingsley Viribus Maijan Paisea Dakrul Garven Piarcos

​

Moving from hallway to hallway they advanced with Kenth leading the way. Each room he cleared the same dread of uncertainty rippled through his body. He could've easily had someone else take this mission, a junior officer or Security trooper NCO yet here he was. Kenth knew his men would follow him to the gates of hell, they had proved themselves already on so many occasions from the raids on the Arkanian labs to the battle of Ord mantell where his losses were great. Yet they never faltered. "Not often you get mercenaries of that caliber" he thought to himself before letting out a chuckle. His loyalty was entrenched to the men that served under him as he grew more distrustful of his clients.

The 12 men began closing in on the control room and Kenth felt something was off. He felt slightly cold, as if something dark and inhuman was nearby. He wondered what insidious creature Sularen had deployed him against in the bid for the stations information. One of the soldiers holding a datapad spoke up as he thought.

"Sir, power readings are minimal from the control room." Kenth raised an eyebrow before speaking. "What does that mean." The soldier fiddled with his datapad before he continued speaking. "I'm seeing only emergency lighting in, someone might have scuttled the consoles." The imperial stood there and thought. His job had gotten a lot harder. He turned to two of the men bringing up the rear guard. "Head to the comms room, download all data, logs and power readings. I don't care what it is we need it." he said and the two troopers nodded before disappearing into another hallway. He turned to his other men and spoke. "We need to salvage what we can. If we're lucky we might be able to find some intact memory drives. Be on guard, whatever's caused the power outage might still be in there." he said before checking on his pistol and heading towards the control room.

Down to 10 men they awaited by the blast doors to the control room. The cold feeling he had initially felt had increased, the dread of death in the back of his mind. More and more Kenth began to guess they were now much closer to its source. He turned to the Sergeant who stood by the doors control panels. It was there he first noticed the damage in the hallway they were in. Something had come through here, slashing at the durasteel walls and air ducts, smashing most of the control pannels around. He let out a breath before turning back to the soldier and giving him a brief nod and the doors slowly opened.

The first thing he noticed was the stench, the smell of rotting flesh. It reminded him of the mass graves they dug for the Zweihander's soldiers and workers on Ord Mantell. Then they saw it. The twisted and grotesque mass of rotting flesh and chitin that was Dakrul . He stood there for a moment, in awe and disgust at the creature before he uttered a single word. "Fire!" and a hail of bolts were sent flying towards the undead Cha'ta'ri.

 

[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 Brotherhood was cunning.

The four B-wings of One Flight burst from the asteroid field of Csilla to support their colleagues. The Viscount pilots let loose a stream of ion cannon bursts toward the small group of Divine-Eagles harrying Three Flight, quickly overwhelming the enemy starfighters.

“Ten, Lead. You’re clear.”

“Lead, Ten, solid cop…”

The transmission from Viscount Ten turned to static as the B-wing was torn apart by a Brotherhood beam weapon.

Dozen upon dozens of Divine-Eagles, until that point running dead silent and invisible to scopes, came to life and opened fire with everything they had. Proton bombs and beam weapons peppered the shields of the One Flight. Their B-wings were build to survive overwhelming onslaughts when engaging capital ships, but even their heavy defences had limits. Viscount Three and Four evaporated before Chaar’s eyes as the Brotherhood laid down a withering stream of laser fire.

“Stay with me Two,” Chaar ordered, a hint of panic sneaking into his normally flat countenance.

Three Flight, who until that point thought they had been holding off the Brotherhood successfully, now learned that the enemy had only been toying with them. The Divine-Eagles, working in perfect Force coordinator, tore the remaining B-wings apart. Every tone from his tactical display as the friendly contact winked out was like a vibroblade to the heart as friends and squadron mates were slain.

The Umbaran yanked back on his control yoke as a trio of Divine-Eagles closed in on him. Viscount Two did his best to match the manoeuvrer but was a second too late - a Brotherhood beam weapon collapsed his weakened shields and tore through the B-wing. Chaar didn’t even have time to mourn as he duck and wove between ongoing enemy ships, dropping proton torpedoes into groups and laying down short bursts of laser fire at any opportunity presented to him. He spared a precious moment to glance at his tactical display.

Alone.

Completely isolated and cut off.

The sole survivor.

But he didn’t have a chance to ponder his own mortality, not if he wanted to make it out of this alive. Desperate, Chaar wheeled around his B-wing and dove toward the dense Csillian asteroid field.

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

 

[Constantine Oliva]

Spoiler: Pickett Line 253

Revenge
Glory
Raptor
10 Warrior-IIIs

Tu'teggacha Marlon Sularen



There was work to be done. Even here, at a relatively small battle for what the 253rd had seen, the Maw outnumbered us. Fighters were engaged in deadly struggles, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers the Maw had brought to bear. My own vessels couldn’t hope to take on the enemy capital ships without drawing lone vessels off. I hated this feeling of helplessness. For almost an hour, we’d been hanging at the edge of the Csilla field, watching. Listening. Waiting.​

Signals, both from the Alliance fighters being claimed by the void one by one and from the enemy command ships, directing their strike compliment, flowed into the Revenge. The ship’s communications equipment was impressive, even if mounted on a far larger vessel. But what good was being able to read the enemy’s orders if we lacked the strength to respond? There had to be something I could do.
​

With a sigh, I approached an on-duty communications officer.

“Lieutenant?”

“Aye sir?”

“Would it be possible to encrypt messages from the Revenge with Mawite codes?”

“I believe so, sir.”

That was it!​

“Begin drafting random orders then,” My voice grew more energetic as I spoke. “Send them to the enemy’s fighters, even their capital ships. Have some men help you make up false reports. I want to sow as much confusion as we can.”

The Miralan’s eyes grew wide as she realized what we were about to do.

“At once Sir!” She said with a salute, then rushed off on her task.

Once again crossing the command bridge, I approached the on-duty jamming officer.

“Jam our position. We’re going to be sending some false messages to the enemy, I don’t want them finding out it’s us sending them.”

“Yessir!”

It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do. With any luck, I’d be taking pressure off our own men, maybe even cause friendly-fire among the enemy. I’d sworn an oath to avenge Csilla, and here, amidst the planet’s corpse, I would begin to make true on that oath.

An oath I would die to see fulfilled.​

 

[Leon Gallo]

Saber Seven
Shields: Full
Stealth Systems: Disengaged
Tu'teggacha Qellene Tyliame Tren Chaar​

Blood pooled in Leon's head. Even with the inertial dampeners at full, his maneuvers were taking their toll. The ship itself could withstand much more intense turns than it's pilot, who found himself tapping into the force to keep himself awake as much as to help fly. He'd been circling in the asteroid field, exchanging fire with enemy fighter groups that had yet to find their way to the main fight.

The knight was physically alone. His instruments told him the nearest help was far away, and that they were more than busy. All that stood between him and a frigid end were a few millimeters of material that was the canopy. All that was between him and a fiery death was his skill and the X-wing’s masterful production.

But the Knight was not truly alone. The Force flowed through him, and into his craft. Flowing with it was the rage of millions who’d died on Csilla. The tide of spirits waited eagerly for him to finally step in, to guide them to vengeance. The building pressure of their host weighed upon the mental dams he used to keep them at bay. Once, he’d used spirits to aid his fight. But many more times they’d simply overwhelmed him, nearly getting him killed in the process. Now they threatened to make him join their number once again.

With a sharp breath, Leon made a decision. Saber Seven turned, hurtling into the fray. The haunted knight reached out, seeking to take control of the tide. He called upon them, their rage, their grief. He called on them to help him take revenge. To guide their fury through him and against the Brotherhood. Their power became his, and the Jedi slipped a bit further into the dark…


Once more in the thick of the fighting, the X-wing scored a new kill against an unsuspecting foe. A “Divine Eagle” turned to engage. Though it’s pilot was undoubtedly skilled, what were they supposed to do against a foe who could feel what they were doing before they did it? Leon shifted hard, spinning his X-02 to face its tail. The ship responded well, as Leon used the Force to help move the ship faster than it should have. A flare of cannonfire, and the Eagle was no more.

Saber Seven had rejoined the fray, and Leon wanted blood. ​

 

[Dakrul]

Objective: Remnants of a Dead World - Destroy
Location: Inside the Research Station
Allies: The Maw
Enemies: Kenth Berik / Striketeam Xesh - Kingsley Viribus Maijan Paisea Kreg Jare
Equipment: Staff of Dakrul, Cursed Gen'Dai Flesh Armour, Dread Blade

A vile parade stampeded through the hallways, a twisting, twitching assembly of appendages, headless trunks, and bouncing skulls. A horrific assembling with no real sense of direction but a shared wish to wreak havoc abroad the laboratory. The party was led by a ginormous crawling monstrosity. Dakrul was on a rampage.

Thrashing yet again from room to room he was living out his desire of carnage. It was different now. Now he had an audience, and he planned to grow his following.

The metal door slid open. Behind it stood the dreadful sight of the over three-meter sithspawn. A hail of red plasma exploded at the Heathen Priest. Steam erupted and burned flesh sizzled as the creature was shaken backwards on impact. For a second it seemed as if the shock had thrown him over yet his feet never moved. His upper body was oddly twisted and backwards, but with the cracking sound of snapping bones and joints, the creature seemed to correct its position, reforming its bend shape.

Nevertheless, Its foul rotting body was in terrible shape, the superheated rounds had left but charred flesh and deep burns. His internally fixated slabs of iron acting as armour protecting only the most important appendages. This attack had been much more drastic than the last. Were these creatures different from those that he had killed before? It wouldn't matter, all but coal for the greater flame, futter to the Avatars. The foul eyeless stare behind the metal crown that veiled his face now entirely rested on these feeble souls.

And the dead would pour forth behind him. As the barrage of bolts continued the dead remains of the station armed staff stormed forwards. They had been tasked to protect their master and harass these disbelievers. It was an eerie exchange as the pieces of self-aware flesh threw themselves as the firing squad. Dakrul whooshed forwards as well, the already disturbing sight escalating further as thick fleshly tendrils erupt from underneath the creature's chitin plating and wounded skin. His Gen'dai armour exposed. Tentacles now wiggle and flail, hence and forth reaching out and attempting to snare seemingly invisible targets. A beast from even the most terrible nightmares.

Eager to kill, Dakrul leaps into the hallway from which the men are firing, easily crushing the door apart and leaving a dent in the ground under him. A slight clue revealing his immense weight and strength. He thrashes about in an attempt to slay just about anyone he can as he moves into the tunnel. His four clawed appendages aimed to slice and whipping tentacles to beat the mercenaries to death.

 

[Kenth Berik]

Location: Csilla's Asteroid Field
Objective: Remnants of a Dead World | The Grand Overseer's Orders
Tags: Allies Hand of Purification | Enemies Kingsley Viribus Maijan Paisea Dakrul Garven Piarcos
Squad Count: 6/12 [4 KIA 2 Comms room]

​

They kept firing. As the rotted sithspawn used his dark magics they kept firing. It was the only thing they could do. Even as Darkul hurtled towards them at light speed Kenth kept on squeezing the trigger, firing blaster bolt after blaster bolt. He didn't even have enough time to process the oncoming attack. Kenth felt the ground shake as the gaint heathen priest landed before them. Most would've run but not them, they were soldiers, drilled to not retreat even in the face of death incarnate. Kenth kept pulling the trigger until he heard a noise which filled him with utter fear.

Click Click Click

was all that came out of his blaster, he had spent his rounds.

He felt his entire body lurch to one side as one of the soldiers bodied him out the way before being almost cleaved in half by Dakrul. Kenth watched as his lifeless body drop to the floor and as another was overcome by the fleshy sithspawn that the heathen priest had summoned. As he attempted to scramble away he felt a sharp pain starting from his lower abdomen and rising to along his right cheek. A clean and deep cut tore his uniform and let his crimson blood gush out. He felt one of his men grabbing his arm and pulling him along the ground while the others continued firing.

He watched another soldier was struck by a tentacle, sending him into the hallway's wall leaving a neat, storm trooper shaped dent while another was engulfed by the same animated remains that killed the first man. Whatever they were fighting Kenth knew was unnatural, their blasters being more or less shrugged off. Kenth reached to the trooper's belt and grabbed a concussion grenade and he threw it right at Dakrul. "Drive it back!" he cried out and another soldier followed suit launching another and soon two sonic implosions rocked the hall. Kenth knew the grenades wouldn't kill it but if they could at least push it back to give him and his men enough time to regroup.