Junction ILUMinate the Void | Junction of Ilum [GA], Pashvi [NIO], and Empty hex Northeast of Rhand [BOTM]

[Bernard of Arca]

The rasping breathing of Sardun's chuckle nearly made Bernard flinch. A light-hearted response had been the last thing he'd expected. His eyes scanned the Master's face for subtle signs, anything that betrayed incongruence between his expression and his emotions. He found nothing. But he didn't allow himself to relax the tension that kept him coiled up in his seat.

With good cause, it seemed. Sardun's next words were bereft of lightness, seeping with the grim gravity of experience. Bernard sank progressively lower in his chair as the Master's truth uncurled.

He flinched at the mention of fire-bombs. The accusation in those words may not have been as sharp as he perceived, but it struck him like the bladed edge of a sword across his skin. Looking into the Master's eyes suddenly became difficult. His gaze lowered to the soft curls of steam rising from his cup during the brief pause in Sardun's speech.

Though his mind was buzzing with wild emotion, a few thoughts solidified enough to be distractions from the whirling chaos.

The simplicity of the dyadic nature of the Force didn't carry over to the people who wielded it. The assumption that it did had been the first of his mistakes, as much began to dawn on him.

But it also raised questions. If the dark side's corruption was not absolute, then how far did a being have to fall to become barred from mercy? Where was the line drawn? His mind began to work up to more and more implications, thoughts racing all of a sudden.

Sardun cut his thoughts' efforts short when he began his speech anew.

Bernard sat with new rigidity to his body, still smaller and hunched, but firm along his spine. His gaze followed the master's gestures and he listened intently to his words. The uncertainty they introduced about the true nature of the dark side, though unpleasant, rattled the rigid beliefs he'd held onto for too long and paved a new way forward. The edge of discovery brought new life that sparked embers in his gut.

Which were then as quickly crushed by the true extent of responsibility the master uncovered.

He sat stunned to silence as the truth of it settled. He didn't respond for several moments, eyes didn't waver in piercing the edge of his cup.

The dark side had been a monolithic evil to him before, manifested in the sea of darkness constituted by a mass of sycophantic servants. Gone were the black waves crashing against white cliffs that so often symbolized the light's battle against the dark side. The truth was much more complicated. Its servants were the smallest ends of roots. They grew each time they touched the mind of a new being, broke into the soil of their innocence, and twisted all good they found beyond recognition, until only darkness remained.

Bernard's fingers tightened around the cup, and he finally glanced up again to meet the Master's gaze.

"The Dark Side, it's not contained to only the Sith that we face in battle. It carries through their actions also? Each one of them, then, is a vessel that leaks malignancy with every step? Malignancy that would seep deeper and deeper into the earth we would preserve, unless we broke those vessels and rid ourselves of their vile blood?"

Michael Sardun ​

 

[Darth Solipsis]

UNFATHOMABLE POWER

THE DARK VOICE | BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW
ILUM | CRYSTAL CAVES
Halketh | Zachariel Steelblood
​

Widening eyes fueled by inconceivable hatred filled with burning emotion through it's sulfuric veil it was clear what had happened. The Dark Voice felt it clear as day as failed to act in time to avoid the saber's edge. A beam of orange plasma had pierced his gut through to the other side of his body, his preternatural senses failing to alert him in time to the dupe he unknowingly led himself into in his hubris. The Elder nearly gasped in pure agony, rippling darkness coursed through his decrepit form as he felt the metaphysical walls close in on him and fought against losing his consciousness with all his indomitable will.

It all happened in an instant, his reaction to such treachery was instinctual as he felt the Dark Side course through him with a surge of inhuman strength augment his physical form. His right hand wrapped around his opponent's own as his free arm tensed up and immediately bowed back. With inhuman speed and strength freely coursing through him the Elder gave it his all and swiped forth at the Miralukan's brow with a heavy blow. He could feel the weight behind his efforts crash into Halketh with excessive force, he ensured the blade would not damage him further as the Lord of Carlac went down into the crystalized floor of the cave.

A deep breath and gasp for air immediately came over him as he stepped back, the Sith Master pressing his hand against his damaged form. He focused on the wound with everything he had, the pain and anguish of himself and of Halketh, he fueled the Dark Side of the Force with raw emotion to invigorate himself once more. He felt the flesh tether itself together in a twisted form as his body slowly began to heal through the corrupting efforts of the Dark Side. The Elder dwelled on his past, thoughts normally kept from the surface as he funneled his dark memories into fuel for his body's recovery. Anything to survive the damage done.

The Dark Voice immediately broke free from his trance and snapped to toward the location of Zachariel Steelblood , his voice beckoned through the empyrean wind that was the Force to the mighty warlord.

"Seize the Miralukan, we are leaving this place my friend."

He would require medical treatment and a return to the care of his loyal followers within the Final Dawn, acolytes and cultists who would tend to his needs. "He is to be brought to Gehinnom immediately."

​

 

[Halketh]

D E L I R I U M
K E Z E C
// ILUM \\
// CLOSED | Darth Solipsis \\

​

For fleeting, intangible seconds, The Vulture felt himself smile. The foul stench of burning flesh and boiling blood confirmed what his aim had been. The crackling hiss of plasma mete upon body, sating the vengeful pain eating him alive from within. He had avenged her, perhaps, in his mind, slaying the same force which had ordained him and damned him to suffer from his early life upon the blade tarnished by his Master's blood. He delighted in the savagery of it, tickled by the irony of hubris being the self-same bait to lure the Dark Voice into such a basic snare. But like all good things before, it left him as quickly as it had come, stolen from his grasp with a blow dealt far too quickly for him to counter in his lock against Solipsis.

A gasp of staggering proportion left Halketh when the hand struck his brow with enough force to splinter his hide apart, sundering a wound into a face weary of the world and this tumult. Pressure on his saber was relinquished, deactivating the blade and sending it decisively to the floor with hollowed clamor. He remained upright, but only for another breath, enough time to process the churning spill of the world's forceful colors into one another until nothing but a muted grey engulfed him. Bruised knees collapsed upon themselves, giving up the fight after enduring much, and at last, the Warlord careened to the crystalline floor, crashing into an unmoving heap. Crimson spouting from his wounds collected, deepening the soil and soak of his robes, and daring to lick the feet of the one who had sent him below.

His body was left behind, scattered through the stream of consciousness, and swept into the sea of sleep, while his mind sank into the murky depths he had always feared.​

​

It was dark, as far as he could tell, no energy lurked here to preserve his Sight. He could feel nothing at all, no air shifting against his skin, no warmth nor cold, and no sound served to reveal the size of the strange place he found himself landing. Instinctively he turned, reaching to the opposite arms to hug himself tightly as if doing such a thing would somehow guard him against whatever danger he presumed stalked him in the depths. The silence was soul-crushing and ever-enduring, persisting despite the muted efforts of his voice to call out. Trapped, was he, in a bubble of his own design from ages passed. His inner sanctum had been corrupted, stripped of its comforts, and left barren. No respite was to be found in this once delightful place, the same he retreated to in his nights of languished slavery and torment. This place was all he had to spare him the scornful face of reality, and now, not even it had been safe.

The Dark Voice had reached into his mind, crushing the chains burdening the horror of his past and unleashing them upon him, allowing them to roam free and destroy him from within. An insidious and grievous wound that had been to Halketh, one that many before had attempted and ultimately failed at. The realization, then, became apparent. Either The Dark Voice was a power beyond his comprehension, or his toil had finally bested him and left him far weaker than he ever feared he could be. Vulnerabilities were laid bare in the darkness of his psyche, and it was not long soon after the torturers would return to finish him off.​

"Whenever you're ready, Kezec. I will be right here, waiting for your return." (x)

The voice startled him, despite the near whisper it reached him as. The gentle sound echoed around him, reverberating in the incomprehensible space so that it struck him from every perceivable angle at once. He could not place it. Instinctively, his lips parted to speak, and though he felt the flow of his tongue and the strain on his throat, no response projected from his body. Paralytic ice erupted through his veins, seizing his muscles and locking him into place entirely, wracking his body with the frigid chill he was all too familiar with. Try as he might not to struggle and panic, his heart raged in his chest regardless, furthering the hold of the deathly claws on his limbs.

He was trapped.

A prisoner, at the mercy of his own regret.​

 

[Michael Sardun]

He nodded slowly as he listened to Bernard of Arca 's rationalization and summary of what he had said.

In that moment Sardun was impressed with the padawan's mind. Within the span of a few moments he had cut to the heart of his lesson. Without the need of spending a whole lecture on it either, unlike Michael who had been bloviating for minutes or at least that's how it felt.

"The Darkside is a cancer, yes, it spreads and multiplies like a malignant tumor." Leaning back he moved to pour both of them more tea. Refilling or filling the cup depending on its state. "Our duty, then, is to remove it entirely. Without anger, pleasure or joy." He raised his finger in warning there. "What we have is a solemn duty, Bernard. Never forget that."

"There are those who celebrate, who think it is appropriate to smile and laugh, as they cut down another tumor. This is wrong. We do what we must, not because it brings us pleasure, but because if not us... then who?"

A sigh there as he sipped from his refilled cup.

"I am sure this is a lot to process. The New Jedi Order..." He cringed there slightly. "...some of them mean well. But they do not prepare you for all of this." One of the reasons why Michael had not joined their new Order and instead forged his own. He disagreed with them on so many things, how could you ever reconcile that?

"If you have more questions I am here. And if you ever need support, you can always call on me. Our strength is not in suffering alone, lad. It is by cooperating and fighting together."

Only there did Michael allow his presence in the Force to project outward.

A feeling of peace and determination filled the room. And yet, there was a harsh glint at the center of it. A vortex of frost. There was nothing of the Lightside's warmth and acceptance. There was just Michael Sardun. Whose light was blinding and scorching. Unyielding. The stories were true about him, after all.

Patient here? Perhaps.

But harsh and without mercy to anything he considered part of the Darkside.

 

[Ezra Dune]

I N _T H E _ D A R K
Armor [Classified + Tsunagu] + Weapons [Pistol+ Rifle]
​

They pulled at his reigns, tightening the harness around his neck until he couldn't breathe. Shattering the cells in his body from his lack of oxygen. Time and time he'd ask for a location, for his whereabouts but they warned him to stand down, to hold back. “Julian is taking care of things, Ezra you need to relax. We can't do much without the help of the NIO.” Those words meant nothing to him, funny of them to think that just because they said, he would comply.

Ezra wouldn’t.

With each day that passed so did his willingness to stand still. Every second it felt like each atom within his body had electrified, forcing their taunting pains throughout his very being. The only option was to be given a call for release by someone or something. But Ezra would lift his own shackles of forced ignorance, he was never one to be a caged animal...he’d rather chew off his own arm than be tied down without choice.

☰ ☰​

“We’re going. I can’t wait around much longer and mope like some disastrous widower expecting a body to be planted at my doorstep.” Those words followed the gentle click of a magazine nestled into his blaster. He was already suited from the neck down in decorated armor that was buried deep within the trunk of the estate. Scuff marks and dents blessed the surface. The pieces still fit against his frame like a glove. They held onto memories of battles past, of blood shed and mission decks so secretive their pages melted with black. To save someone now in his deathly anointed dress meant absolution.

“Is it even a good idea? Not like you can tell me and the boys what to do, Dune.” She was certain of her stance, unbothered by his hot headed attitude. He would not make her bend. Though she knew nothing of him like the lord of ice knew him. His determination saw no bounds.

Hands pressed into one another, curling his fingers over his front. Those steel eyes narrowed, creating a thin horizon line on his face. “Then you will be amongst the ones to blame if he’s dead, Jack…" He lowered, nose inches from her face. "Get your team ready." He'd clenched his jaws, those signature circular frames dipped down to the tip of his nose, unmoving.

☠ ​

Within the ship, the light from his data pad graced over the mixed metal ring on his hand. He was quick to tap his message, hoping for some return.

--... ..... / --... ....- / ..... ...-- / ....- --... / --... ----. / ....- ....-
[75 74 53 47 79 44]​

Silence. Slow like tar he would wait.
Silence.
Until.

--... ...-- / -.... -.... / ---.. ..--- / -.... --...
[73 66 82 67]​

"I know where we need to go."A part of him wanted to smile knowing there was a glimpse of hope he could ride on. But he kept celebration at bay, tucking his hand against his palm to send a message only the warlord would understand.

---.. ...-- / --... ...-- / -.... -.... / ---.. --... / ---.. --... / ....- --... / --... -....
[83 73 66 87 87 47 76]


---.. ....- / -.... -.... / ....- ...-- / ....- --... / ..... ..... / ....- ....- / ...-- ....- / ..... --... / ..... -.... / -.... -.... / -.... ...-- / ---.. ....- / ....- -....
[84 66 43 47 55 44 34 57 56 66 63 84 46]​

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

Post #9
GALIDRAANI FREE-STATE
BLUE-HEART BRIGADE

Objective 1: HEARTS OF KYBER

Allies (NIO): Dante Corvus Rurik Fel Djorn Bline Izoshi

Allies (NJO/GA/RGO): Aurelian Sigismund

Enemies (BOTM/NSO): The Mongrel Kyrel Ren Maestus Caedis Umbrammor Irratar Hemstagon

Erskine's Loadout
Primary: Custom Blaster-Pistol (Right-hip Holster - left-or-right hand draw)
Secondary: Basket-Hilted Vibrosword Claymore (Left-hip Sheathe - right hand wielding)
Last Ditch/Second-Blade: Myles' Fairbairn Vibroknife (Right-hip Sheathe - right-or-left hand wielding)
Pocket-Weapons: Berach's Brass Knuckles (Both Trouser-Pockets - akimbo wielding)

Blue-Heart Brigade (Mechanized-Infantry)
*Losses are always registered 1 post after the fact
85 Repulsorlift Tanks (-7)
9 Scout-AFVs
2 ACVs
1 Coy. Elite Riflemen
3 Plat. Quartermasters (Combat-Engineers)
1 Coy. Field-Medics

Brand's Crucible IV - A TEST OF FAITH​

What the remaining Goliaths, AFVs and infantry were experiencing as the Moon Children, Athysians, Branch-Lurkers and heavy-momentum bearing armoured vehicles attacked with near-unrivalled ferocity, along with every other assortment of the marauder caste, could only be described as horror's very own take on inundation, and every man of the 2nd Brigade knew it as they knew their home-planet's moon followed after every sunset. Yet their faith, and collective resolve did not fail the men of Blue-Heart Brigade's third generation since 864 ABY, proving that no matter which iteration of the famed brigade of Commonwealth heroes stepped up to fight, every foe they faced would rue the day they fancied their chances against the Free-State's stalwarts.

Some would thank God for allowing them to die as true warriors, with weapons in their hands, as all things should be for soldiers of Tal's revolution; some would let spew forth in hateful slurs, others yet would scream out with their native warcries, and Brand could hear it all, stoking the rising fire in his heart with every last voice daring to join with it. The riflemen on AFV One's frontal engine-manifold cover were trying their best to cave in the skull of one raider in particular until one of Barran's own guardsmen sent a blaster-shot under the man's chin, ending the struggle and redirecting their attention to those still attempting to climb over the front and sides of the vehicle. Burning blood-spatter would find itself spreading all over the inside of the AFV, but none inside cared that much, only continuing to coordinate, drive and load the mini proton-slug turret as the raider's blood sizzled on their clothes, their hands or their necks as little more than an irritation.

'That's how it's done, lads! An' we're still pushing these fethers uphill! It might not look like it, but I could swear the second trenchline weren't that close a minute ago. The small-blessin's, I'll take any and all of 'em in moments like this. Just the slightest of chances is enough of a chance for us t'work with!'

Just as he finished his encouragements for the men holding their own outside, the map-holographic display began to light up with enemy activity from behind, but instead of further units on the snow, it was more from their opponents in the air; returning for more, but with more unfathomably-brave fighter pilots committed to throwing their all at the tanks on the ground. It was fortunate that the foes to the front of them were steadily beginning to drain their last aggressions out on the Goliaths, and a majority of those remaining to continue the fight were steadily gaining pace and momentum, offering one last small-blessing for Brand's desperate climb towards the mountain's summit. The proverbial you-know-what was less than a minute away from hitting the fan, and the Rooster has been left alone to his own devices to figure out what exactly the best courses of action were before it was too late to act at all, but instead of cracking - something else happened, something akin to a spiritual-awakening in the heart of the otherwise (just slightly more than-) agnostic Phillip Brand.

'All infantry callsigns, this is Brand! BAIL, BAIL BAIL!!!! God will decide the faithful among those of us who continue to push forward! Jus' send whatever lies flailing in our wake to whomever they dare call their maker! Good luck back there, lads.... An' may god be with you, AFV One out!'

All the men fighting on top of the vehicles had already ran to the backs of the makeshift-steeds that drove them safely into the heart of the Mawite's sallying-line, landing in the snow behind them long before Brand was finished talking, adhering to orders they were too well-trained to disobey in such trying moments. The Rooster would trust in God's ability to guide the shells to their desired targets in the air, and would trust in their maker again to hasten their climb with each passing second, something completely unheard from the majority of the officers in the Barran Clique. Whatever was changing in the Northern-Galidraani Leftenant, it was something drastic, something much too noticeable for the others in his AFV to ignore; but this sudden change was different, almost like it was proving to be an antithesis to the Hast-Headbutt protocol, a seemingly-necessary change that AFV One's crewmen could (in turn) learn to make for themselves.

'All vehicles, this is Brand! ALL BARRELS TO THE WEST, THROW YOUR LAST HIGH-EXPLOSIVE SHELLS AT THE AIRCRAFT BEHIND US!!!! ONE LAST BARRAGE TO THE SKIES, GENTLEMEN!!!..... WEAPONS-FREE, OPEN FIRE!!!!'

Letting loose with all of their firepower as the foes to the front steadily began to wilt under the unified pressure of the remaining Goliath, the turrets would send streams and streams of shells into the skies behind them, painting a bloody picture of warfare at it's wildest, made more intense by the bombardment and suicidal-dives of the Athysians in the air, trying with all their might to leave a lasting mark in the fully-engaged mass of Galidraani vehicles below. Nobody knew if the diving aircraft would hit, friend, foe or snow, but all knew that things were about to get very loud in the following moments, none quite so much as the budding chaplain of the Blue-Hearts; with warheads sailing past from behind, explosions chewing up elements from both sides, and crashing bombers bringing the battle to a wild climax at the tip of the second trenchline, everything would explode with raging blasts of light as Brand sighed with cathartic joy over the comm-link. Spreading his arms out wide, and closing his eyelids, the comm-link would remain open on AFV One's end as the Rooster brought his sermon to it's raucous conclusion.

'I know now, it makes more sense to me than it ever will to any who fight and die for Galidraan henceforth - but shed this light for you I will! God doesn't wait at the end of the crucible, HE WALKS IN THE HEART OF IT!!!! GOD WATCHES FROM WITHIN THE HEART OF WAR!!!!!'

Another Ideal Battlefield XI - Erskine's Sword-Dance​

'That is the only way to earn it, She will taste blood today. We'll see whose she drinks the most.'
Damn, he's good.... But am I really that easy to read, in that regard? Guess I better get back into gambling, fine by me.

The prospect of the twofold nature in the Mongrel's reply had somewhat gotten the Stormchaser's pulses racing with adrenal rushes, as it had with the Mawite's own, and perhaps, also, with the Twi'lek woman who approached from behind the ranks of the remaining swoop-bikers. The sword was of great interest to all who'd went to war with or against Lord Erskine by then, but to see it have such a strong bearing on the aftermath of their bout's end-result was something altogether more exciting to the Woad, a soul-deep feeling that greatly transcended the pre-fight poise they'd been enjoying together before the gifted marauder replied. There was no mistaking they'd both be making attempts on each other's life, but the mutual-respect (for their will to step up and face off in the snow against each other) was also plainly obvious, even to the crewmen of the Saga, standing with bayonets gleaming in the blizzard some fifty metres behind Barran's place in the makeshift arena.

'The mage-knights think their invisible power puts them above us...', the Mongrel started, pausing only to return his gaze from the sword to face of her wielder, meeting the Stormchaser's gaze with every part of the excitement widening the eyelids of his own. The impending fight could almost be tasted by all in close sight of the spectacle in the graveyard of tanks and swoop-bikes, crewman and marauders, but none dared disturb the eerie sweetness of the moment as the Lord-Commander's opponent continued,'We both know better. They are powerful, but they can be made to bleed.', happily enjoying the meditative nature of the moment, perhaps every part as intensely as the Woad standing in front of him. Then, with wicked smile widening to a near-maniacal extreme, the Mongrel concluded,'We'll see how different your fighting is from Gowrie's. I'll tell him all about it when I show him your head.', pointing at Erskine's throat, and beckoning him closer with all the daring of an undefeated matador.

Smirking, the Woad nodded joyfully as he kissed the flat of his blade, setting his stance with feet set firmly in offensive-poise when the Vibrosword's blade tilted back to rest on the right shoulder. As the Twi'lek woman caught the corner of his left-periphery, Lord Erskine put a finger up to hold on a moment, chuckling a little before he drawled,'Well where are my manners, darling? Please.... Get yourself a front-row seat for the bout, we won't bite! At least I don't think we will anyways.', before returning his gaze to the sniggering opponent standing before him. Sharing a shrug in reference to the audience's latest addition, the duellists would let the laughter die down before Barran properly concluded,'In any case, I like that attitude. Too many Sith loyalists with shaky hands, too many predictable assassin-droids have tried their luck.'

'Please make this worth my time, man.... NOW SHOW ME WHAT A WILD DOG DOES WHEN HE'S HUNGRY!!!'

​

 

[Bernard of Arca]

A solemn duty. That is what the life of a Jedi was.

Bernard began to grasp the true meaning of this. The life of a Jedi was not an adventure, but a charge. The power of the Force was not granted for the sake of personal gain. It came entwined with a responsibility to use it wisely, to benefit those in need by acting, deliberately, to defend the good. It required repeated sacrifice in service of the Light. To devote oneself to the battle against the Dark Side without falling astray from the codes and principles that governed the domain of good.

In the wake of all this information, he felt like a child. An irresponsible fool who'd abused the powers of the Force for his own benefit to sate pride. Or, he hesitated to formulate the thought, to sate a bloodlust he could not admit to.

He finally took another sip from the cup, mirroring the Master, though his own motions were almost mechanical. The revelations both shook the very core of his being and set alight the embers he'd felt moments prior. It was difficult to distinguish what thoughts caused which. He would have to meditate on this conversation more to discover the truth.

Sardun began to speak again. His words on the New Jedi Order drew a glance from the Padawan. The image of the child more vivid in his mind. It held a lightsabre hilt, swinging it wildly through the air in mock-recreation of a fight with the blade. He felt a connection to this, though why he could not tell.

Then relief washed over him. Before he knew what had changed, the embers had swelled and his uncertainty abated. Moment by moment, his doubts burned away, now fuel for something that had resurfaced deep within the Padawan.

He pondered the sudden change for a moment, but his mind reeled too much in the wake of emotions. He was exhausted from the flurry of new thoughts, too preoccupied to attempt an identification of the source of the sudden shift. Not like he'd ever studied any abilities of aura projection enough to recognize them.

The silence between them settled for several moments as Bernard gathered his thoughts. He felt the urge to say something more, to ask for more wisdom, but the words eluded him in that moment. The matters they discussed today would take a while to settle, the conflict he felt about the Sith and the Dark Side still hadn't fully resolved, but he felt a step closer to the truth.

"I appreciate your offer of support, Master, and your words of wisdom," he paused a moment as he stared at the cup in his hands, to feel its warmth course through his palms and fingers. "There is much I have to think on. I," he hesitated this time, "still carry some doubt, perhaps even fear, but I grow more confident in my place among the defenders of the Light. I can see more clearly what my duties should be. I believe I had taken the powers of the Force for granted until this moment. I won't make that mistake again."

Michael Sardun ​

 

[Janos Sovv]

JEDI TEMPLE
ILUM
UNKNOWN REGIONS
Auteme Aeris Lashiec

​

Hero despaired.

He could sense a presence beyond the ice wall, however the young padawan was singed with frigid pain every time he reached out to find a handhold. Fear and doubt consumed him. If he could not overcome the cold Hero might fall. His master's voice echoed faintly off labyrinthine cavern walls. Turning back to seek counsel seemed prudent yet he could not shake the feeling this place would not be so easy to find a second time. After all the Force could be a fickle ally.

Hero, you can follow your instincts!

His master's words came unbidden. Padawan Sovv remembered their conversation in the atrium. She had told him to think of his homeworld. Although it pained him in another way the sullustan pictured Inyusu Tor clearly in his mind. Its volcanic peaks reminded Hero of simpler times and the Jedi slowly calmed. When he reached out to touch the ice this time he found it barely tolerable. With the practiced ease of his race he moved in careful bounds higher and higher. Picturesque magma flows melted away all doubt until there were no distractions.

"Impossible."

Finally Hero understood the source of what called out to him. It was a kyber crystal unlike any other on Ilum. By every natural law it should not even be here. He immediately recognized the lava crystal for what it was. As he drew closer the cold of the tundra planet evaporated until he almost felt at home. Gently Sovv scooped it out from a thawing snow mound. It felt pleasantly warm to touch yet somehow the Jedi knew any other would find its scorching heat unbearable.

There was a sudden rumbling quake as the ice wall began to collapse and Hero was pitched violently off its peak into the dark below.

 

[Auteme]

Aeris Lashiec Janos Sovv
​

"Well our system isn't, really, you know- 'you get chosen', it's more, I had time and was willing," she said. She made a mental note to work on a proper system for the assignment of mentors. It should never be left up to chance -- as their order grew, so too did the possibility that a student might slip through the cracks.

Still, she took Aeris's point. Intent was half the battle. She couldn't teach Hero much about fighting, but she knew she had some wisdom to impart and the capacity to impart it. That took work.

She mumbled something in agreement to the librarian's observations, but found herself slightly distracted. "I'm gonna head further inside. Just to check on him-"

Some rumbling further down the cave signaled the melting (or displacement) of ice. As personal a journey it was meant to be, the ice caves were still dangerous. Surely she could check on him. Not like there were many rules for Jedi.

She walked at first, but some instinct led her to run. And run, and run- and almost slide off the ledge.

She could see the Sullustan's silhouette tumbling below. Managing to stop herself in the snow, she reached out, summoning what strength she could to take hold of her padawan and to stop his momentum.

 

[The Mongrel]

Objective I - Hearts of Kyber​

Location: Ilum, Frozen Plains
Allies: Maestus | Caedis Umbrammor | Irratar Hemstagon
Foes: DECEASED Erskine Barran | Aurelian Sigismund

Even as he scowled across the frigid plain, his gaze full of challenge and his voice full of bluster, The Mongrel knew that this was going to be an uneven contest. He'd been fighting for some time already, and had nearly been blown up several times. His shoulder still ached where he'd forced his arm back into its socket, and the cold fingers of exhaustion were already beginning to sap at his strength. He had lost most of his preferred weapons, and certainly had nothing to match Barran's fine vibrosword. The best he'd carried with him was a knife, and he couldn't possibly win with that.

Reach would be his undoing if he tried.

So the warleader put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, a quick, high pitched burst of sound. His loyal marauders quickly gathered what he meant, and one of them threw him a weapon, twisting end over end in the air before it landed point-down in the snow. The long, jagged blade was still no match for Barran's elegant vibroweapon, but The Mongrel knew how to make do with lesser equipment. He pulled the sword out of the frosted ground, testing its weight and balance. It had been quickly forged, an industrial piece clearly made of flattened ingots, but the serrated edge was wickedly sharp.

NOW SHOW ME WHAT A WILD DOG DOES WHEN HE'S HUNGRY! The Mongrel grinned. With a high, wordless cry of battle lust he charged toward Barran, his sword held low, the tip dragging in the snow beside him as he ran. Momentum would be his ally... but he would have to be careful, lest the Galidraani commander meet his headlong charge by simply raising his sword and running the marauder through. Both of the combatants had within them a blend of savagery and tactical thinking, and though the mix was different in each of them, they understood each other in ways no Jedi ever could.

As he drew close to Barran, The Mongrel put his opening gambit into action. He had no desire to be impaled on his foe's braced blade, so at the last moment he changed direction, throwing himself to the left (Barran's right). As he did, he whipped the point of his blade upward from the furrow it'd been drawing across the ground, throwing a cloud of snow into the Galidraani commander's face like a skier skidding into a hockey stop. He let the momentum turn him around counterclockwise, his blade coming up and over in a downward slash at Barran's shoulder, the full force of his arms and spin behind it.

It was a limb-severing blow if The Mongrel managed to fully land it, but it'd required him to briefly expose his back to Barran as he spun, a risky move indeed...

Meanwhile, as the skytroopers and Paladins made their move toward the Maw mining base, the Brotherhood launched its final gambit. Cages swung open, and half a dozen Branchlurkers swarmed over the base's interior, viciously stabbing and biting at everything that came close. At the same time, swarms of Skitterwings burst from the mouths of the mining tunnels, drawn by the beastmasters' special chemical marker grenades that had been planted across the base. They were the perfect distraction: savage, horrifying, and expendable. As they tore into the approaching enemy, phase two began.

Having poured a withering barrage of ion fire into the White Flame for several minutes, hopefully enough to slow if not disable the enemy frigate, the Doomsayers broke off their attack. They swooped back toward the base, where the crystal-bearing shuttles and freighters were beginning to launch. It was time to make a break for it, to ensure that as much of the Maw's precious cargo as possible escaped the fighting. The fighter-bombers stuck close to each transport, gunning past the White Flame and making for orbit. They carried the seeds of a new superweapon, and another planet's death...

 

[Ezra Dune]

D E L I V E R A N C E
Armor [Classified + Tsunagu] + Weapons [Pistol+ Rifle]
Halketh | Darth Solipsis
​

A hot breath broke the dreadful silence in his skull. It had wavered ever so slightly, sending a shiver down his hunched spine. The vizor of his helm shielded his sweat-stained brow, forcing his face to contort with a look of heavy concentration. Each step he took was weighed the same as the last. Moving forward through that silent holy chasm he was plagued with the uncertainty of what to expect.

His eyes barely left the ground, scanning for any trace of a corpse left behind for him to uncover. And yet he prayed to be overpowered by the dance of fanatics, swarming him, fueling their blood lust with bones and sinew of his make. For now, he continued on in silence.

He was alone.

Throughout, he could feel the steady beating of the ring against his palm. Its cadence would intensify with each kilometer trailed behind him. He was close, guided by that filthy word - hope.

Heavy boots ventured deeper, he could hear the static of the communications link within his helm fizzle out. A silent warning flashed on his HUD - he was nearing the dark. Would he wait for the RTs to follow up behind him or would he...?

To know Ezra was to understand his chaotic nature. He would chase. Succumbing to that dangling prey before him. Ravenous like the animal he had cast away behind the shadows, salivating from his hungry maw awoken by this thrill...this hunt.

Voices echoed now, forcing a familiar boil to bubble within his blood. Its darkness suffocated him with that beautiful unholy noose, tightening around his throat. As he watched from afar he could feel the burn of energy fry away his armor, peeling away at him until he was nothing more than exposed muscle and viscera. Ezra forgot the last time he was graced with a force much darker than the one he kept hidden.

It was exhilarating.

A neutral expression graced his features as he readied up his rifle with sights on the dark abomination lifting up the unconscious miraluka. His thoughts were as ravenous as his hunger, if he was dead... no, death was never an option.

“Give him to me...”

 

[Rekiro]

The Ren let out a breath behind his mask as he watched the Retrieval Techs push forward. He stood in the shadows, them twisting unnaturally to cover and hide his form. He'd been following after Darth Solipsis from a distance, both interested in what the Sith was planning and distrustful of the Sith's intentions, only to find another group hot on their heels. Or perhaps they were after something else.

Either way, they were to be killed like anyone else in his path.

The shadows stayed with him as he moved forward, towards the first. A man keeping his eyes on the rear to cover the rest of this squad. By the time he noticed the Shade, it was too late. Darkness parted to reveal the Ren, hand reaching out to snatch the man by his throat. A crack filled the air shortly after as he was lifted from the ground.

Then unceremoniously dropped, dead before he even returned to the earth.

Such an action didn't go unnoticed. The rest of the RT's had turned, guns raised to fire. Only there was nothing there.

"Someone check on Armon!" One near the front spoke up, already turning their gun around. It had been getting steadily darker, when did it get this dark?

"They're in the shadows, lights o-" For the briefest moment there was a flash of red. The woman who had been speaking cut off midsentence, no longer able to make a sound. She fell to the ground in two parts, her upper torso cleaved through. Lights were turned on immediately. Sensors weren't picking up whatever it was that was attacking.

Sure enough, the Ren's form, wreathed in shadows, became visible. But not before the next fell to his blade. The red of his saber burned into existence, slashing through the third in two quick, precise strikes. Their body fell into a heap on themselves, cut into too many pieces to just fall back. Blaster fire met him immediately. Super heated bolts pelted into the Ren's form, ripping through the black armor and flesh beneath.

Rekiro fell to the ground, still. Saber extinguished.

There was a lingering silence.

"Jack, the others-"

"I know. Check the Ren's body." The last of the squad nodded to the Commissioner. He moved away, crouching by the dark clad body after kicking away the saber to search for anything useful.

Jack clicked on her com. "Heads up, they got Ren and who knows what else stalking the shadows. Not sure how. Three of ours are do.. wn.." Her voice trailed off as behind her the sound of another body dropping filled her ears. A grim sort of smile formed as she clicked on her com again.

"Hey Dune? Be sure to bring him home."

The com clicked off as she turned, blaster raised. Firing. Shot after shot impacted the shadow clad Ren. The masked figure stepped forward, seemingly unfazed by the blasters this time. There was another flash of red as the blaster fire stopped. Was it her rifle? No. She turned her gaze down to where her arm rested on the ground. Jaw clenched she reached for the pistol on her hip with her remaining arm, turning her gaze back to the Ren. Defiance filled her eyes.

It was the last emotion she had.

Rekiro's red blade extinguished as he looked down at the Commissioner's carved up body. The rage he felt at being shot simmered and faded as darkness covered the area again. She called someone. There were more. Unceremoniously the Ren stepped forward, crushing what remained of Jack underfoot.

There were still more to hunt.

Ezra Dune

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Objective 3: Explore and add some new bones to the temple
Tags: Darth Solipsis | Halketh
Weapons: Sword | Axe​

Zachariel had been battling for some time now, simply stalking through the corridors to kill any who got close. Intentionally or no, he created an off limits area around the Voice and Halketh, not that they needed it. Still, he had searched for worthy prey, and only found weaklings, and that weakness was crushed. No skulls joined his armor this day, for none were worthy of that honor. The people that entered these caves came, they fought briefly, and then they died, with no hope of escape. That was also why he was still so close to them, as he hadn't found anyone worthy. Something that annoyed him, but he realized he had no control over. The worthy were few and far between.

But his slaughter was brought to an end as he was contacted once more by the Voice. He was being called back, and it made him realize just how long he'd spent here, it was already time to leave. Snarling in a dissatisfied manner, Zachariel made his way back to where the two had fought. It was a short walk, taking a mere two minutes before he finally arrived, stalking out of one of the myriad of tunnels towards the Voice and Halkeths fallen form. Glancing the two over, Zachariel took their wounds in and their weaknesses, eyes slowly drifting to Solipsis. Grinning darkly, Zachariel simply nodded to the man and marched towards the body, holstering his weapons as he did so.

He saw that the Voice was weak from battle, but how weak remained to be seen. For now though, it was time to bring Halketh to Gehinnom, wherein he would be tortured for all he was worth. Reaching down to the body, Zachariel hefted Halketh up and wrapped an arm around his torso. Usually he'd toss the body onto his shoulder, but that would most likely result in more injury or even death, something that was to be avoided in this case. Turning to Solipsis, Zachariel gave a dark grin under his helmet.
"When the times comes Dark Voice, I'd like to request the permission to help in breaking this man even more."

Other than that, he made no further comment just yet, instead motioning for Solipsis to lead on. Both to ensure he could keep an eye on all parties, and to keep better pace than losing the man in these tunnels. At least this had been successful for some of them.

 

[Aeris Lashiec]

Auteme // Janos Sovv

“Something wrong?” Aeris raised a brow at Auteme who seemed to run away. Aeris ran up alongside Auteme. There was no clear sign of what was wrong, at least not at first, but as Auteme began to reach for her student with the force to dampen his fall, Aeris placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder to provide her with a partition of her own strength. A means to ensure that Auteme had the strength to lift him up.

“Just focus on your student. Deep breaths. Calm yourself.”

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

Post #10
GALIDRAANI FREE-STATE
BLUE-HEART BRIGADE

Objective 1: HEARTS OF KYBER

Allies (NIO): Dante Corvus Rurik Fel Djorn Bline Izoshi

Allies (NJO/GA/RGO): Aurelian Sigismund

Enemies (BOTM/NSO): The Mongrel Kyrel Ren Maestus Caedis Umbrammor Irratar Hemstagon

Erskine's Loadout
Primary: Custom Blaster-Pistol (Right-hip Holster - left-or-right hand draw)
Secondary: Basket-Hilted Vibrosword Claymore (Left-hip Sheathe - right hand wielding)
Last Ditch/Second-Blade: Fairbairn Vibroknife (Right-hip Sheathe - right-or-left hand wielding)
Pocket-Weapons: Gifted Brass-Knuckles from the Guv'Nah (Both Trouser-Pockets - akimbo wielding)

Blue-Heart Brigade (Mechanized-Infantry)
*Losses are always registered 1 post after the fact
47 Repulsorlift Tanks (-38)
9 Scout-AFVs
2 ACVs
1 Coy. Elite Riflemen
3 Plat. Quartermasters (Combat-Engineers)
1 Coy. Field-Medics

FORCES OF NATURE - INTO THE FIRE​

There they were, struggling with all their mechanized might to crest the second trenchline's ridge, fighting as Blue-Heart servicemen ought to have fought whilst embracing the crucible with open arms, and every ounce of their trust, their faith and lifeforce had been placed firmly on the Rooster's shoulders in the process. Brand didn't mind, everything was happening as his heart promised it would, all the puzzle-pieces had finally clicked into place and were showing him the full, colourful picture of the impending sequence of events. The Athysian airships weren't just careening down into the masses of Goliaths this time, they were launching chaingun ammunition, rockets, warheads and even the ships they were piloting at everything pinned against the tanks this time also, a key-factor in the holy-man's reasoning (and Barran's also) for pushing the enemy-line at close-quarters in the first place.

Bedlam was ensuing all around the engaged lines, like the Heavens had opened up with fury against warriors of long-forgotten, simplistic eras. Engaged in pitched combat, with modern tools and even more-cutting edge aerial attacks, most rational minds would think they'd walked into their own anachronistic fever-dream, but to those embroiled in the madness of it all, everything and everyone involved in the battle belonged like they were made only to exist in these exact moments. In the maddening wall of ultraviolence, flame and splintering metal, in all the heat, blood, snow and smoke, the deciding factor of who would survive the uphill onslaught would be decided right there, on the crest of the Maw's second trenchline. Strong was the smoke, thick was the fog of war, incessant was the storm, but as for what had happened as the remaining Athysians veered off and released the last of their payloads on the way out, none could say for sure; none but the Rooster, none but the indomitable Leftenant Phillip Brand.

In the hostilities' lull, in the flames, smoke and deathly-wails, a singular, gut-deep roar blared out, echoing across the mountains around the one they were so desperately willing themselves to climb. It was the oil and blood-spattered voice of the Rooster, screaming into world around him as if the sun had risen on the horizon, screaming with a primeval wrath previously unheard in the newly-awakened man of God, and in a way that awakened every surviving tank, AFV and crewman like a marching-drum in the night. Before long, other Woads, Carracks, Northern-Galidraani and Archaisians roared out into the smoke-filled blizzards around them as well, sowing fear into the ranks of the Mawites on the second-trenchlines, but not quite routing them either. Resolving to die like warriors, the last line of defence for the forces would stand in the smoke, awaiting their gruesome deaths with beads of sweat dripping from their furrowed brows as the remaining operational tanks roared to life in the brigade's stead.

'All remaining units, this is Brand! I'll say this and this only - SHOW THESE HERETICS WHAT MECHANISED WRATH LOOKS LIKE!!!'

With top-turret LMGs coming to life first, the cacophony of blaster-fire that followed would provide a perfect second layer to the top-turret's gunners opening moments of effective covering-fire; cries of pain, anguish and rage would melt in with the wall of small-arms fire, brightening up the entire western face of the mountain as the tanks prepared to charge and let loose with the shells they had loaded and chambered. Injured branch-lurkers, marauders and damaged vehicles tried to ready a last-ditch attack, but the onslaught that awaited them was still too insurmountable to have any menacing effect on the Blue-Hearts who remained. Even though it appeared the crewmen and infantry were in bad shape, something was pushing them onwards, urging them all to climb to the summit with every last reserve of strength that remained; and when the smoothbores let loose with their chambered array of tank-shells, the sky would mirror the flashes on the ground as the loudest shots on the second trenchline signalled the start of their final charge for the summit.

'ONCE MORE, FOR ALL THINGS TRUE AND HOLY!!! ONCE MORE FOR GLORY!!! ADVAAAAAAANCE!!!!'

Pushing on into the dip that led to the final, summit skirting rise, the sound of mechanized and vocalized fury alike rumbled into action as they impacted against the second trenchline's backpedalling defenders, forced off their broken line in anticipation of the weighty Galidraani response. Even with Athysians flying off to their flagship, to tell of their brothers' fearlessness in death, the marauders wouldn't stop, choosing instead to collectively mount the oncoming vehicles with the intent to kill as many crewmen as they possibly could, even dragging the remaining Moon Children and Branchlurkers to either side of whatever was expected to burst out screaming from within the snowy mist. None would know if it was to work in their favour or not, but with the odds stacking against the beleaguered defenders of the Mawite fall-back trenches, the second-trenchline's vastly outnumbered marauders understood they had no choice but to bleed the Galidraani vehicle-crews as much as possible, crying out defiantly as a beacon of hope to the Mawites uphill.

'ALL GOLIATHS, THIS IS BRAND!!! AIM YOUR SMOOTHBORES AT THE FORTRESS, IGNORE THE TRENCHES!!!! WEAPONS FREE - FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!!!!'

FORCES OF NATURE II - GLORY, IN EVERY FORM​

Roaring from the guttural depths of his stomach and chest, the Mongrel sounded truly fearsome in the moment he advanced at a sprint, though the early implementation of view-obscuring methods was somewhat disappointing to Erskine, hoping the follow-up would be more dazzling than the groundwork he was trying lay from the offset. This could've only meant one thing, the gifted marauder was trying for an early finish, giving it his all with the short time his tired muscles could give. Barran's window of countering opportunity would be very short indeed, but advice from training always stated attacking through the sand or snow, (with chin tucked and eyelids closed) would force the opponent to abandon their own for evasive manoeuvres. Bending his knees with intercepting poise, the Lord-Commander picked his spot to attack as the little rising cloud of layer-compacted snow rose to meet his face, knowing the follow-up was well on its way to slashing through the cloud to meet the face as the snow would.
Pivot foot, hack cross-guard at the ankle in the range-pocket - NOW!!!

Instead of jumping upwards to meet the Mongrel's downward slash, the Stormchaser instead chose to dive low as he gradually brought his blade off his shoulder, twisting his left side upward as the claymore's path was plotted in the tackle-faking dive; with the ankle exposed in the process, Erskine would've been perfectly in line to chew up bone, muscle, and sinew on it's trajectory, but the Mongrel's pivot-foot was elevated at the time. Glancing the flat of the blade off the under-tread of his opponent's boot instead of cutting a deep gash above the foot, the irritation of seeing a miscalculation in action so vividly would bring out an involuntary growl of aggravated dissatisfaction as the Mongrel landed and readjusted his footing, and as the Mawite sent a downward stabbing thrust to a still-moving mass of opposing force, Erskine would find footing enough to slip safely out of harm's way and break his fall on the side of a burned-out AFV.

'Close, but it looks like we'll both have injuries going forward - so maybe more than close, eh? Back o' the heid, so it's fine!', the Lord-Commander started, standing himself up as the Mongrel closed some of the distance. Once his footing had been established, with blade set properly in a forward-facing position for the second clash, Erskine bent his knees again in perfect poise for the next segment of the fight, mostly unaffected by the minor-cut on the back of his head. The Mongrel would stop to plan his next attack with more consideration, though the steps he would be calculating were no doubt just as unorthodox as his first of the fight, though still being steps that Barran had every intention of cancelling out with those of his own planning. Smirking, both duellists would nod with minor gestures of respect, acknowledging each other's presence as viable threats as Barran concluded,'Be - faster, Mongrel. I can't be given time to predict your next attack either, that's the stuff early finishes are made of.... AGAIN!!!'

Heh! My first switcheroo of the fight, here we go then!​

Switching the guard-positioning of his sword on the move as tip of the marauder's sword dropped forward, Erskine would move the Basket-hilt towards his chin, dragging the claymore's pommel towards his right ear with his elbow pulling the grip back, all whilst indulging the Mongrel's charging advance in plain sight. However, seeing the twist of the Mawite's blade on approach would force the Stormchaser to factor angular evasive manoeuvres into his attacks, giving the Woad no choice but to steadily drop his hips in anticipation of the contacting lateral-escape he was expecting the need to make. Then, after closing the distance with each other, a quick backhand slash from the marauder would break the ambience of exertion, breaths and footsteps, headed straight for the Lord-Commander's jawline and giving his wrist very little time to react; the advice was being taken well, and quickly, granting much to Erskine's appreciation and irritation alike.

Aaaaaaah, chit! Here we go!​

And yet, the contacting-escape tactic would be still implemented to technical effect, and with more dignified means of maintaining his footing afterwards; as if by a flash, Erskine had pushed out his basket-hilt to meet his opponent's blade and used the Mongrel's momentum to push himself away from it, with lateral steps that both duellists were utilising to find better ground a few feet away from the clash. Sliding to a stop on both counts, Erskine and the Mongrel would have a cleaner disengagement than the opening moves, letting the underfoot snow-spray kick out behind as the Lord-Commander led the next clash with a sprint; with blade following from behind, Barran would fake the snow-blinding by noting the anticipation and tilting his pommel downward at the last instant of the implementation, slashing wide from the backhand like the marauder, but much quicker.

'Kark! That fething reaction-speed, man!', Erskine growled with competitive impatience, though aimed at nobody in particular as he sidestepped to make an inward defensive slash. With both swords clashing in the center, sparks would fly upon contact, lighting up their approach as they both attempted similar head-butts that met at the top of both foreheads. Noting their shared affinity for headbutts, both faces would draw back with laughter hard enough it forced them to reset for another round of strategic duelling, setting perfect attacking-poise on each other whilst their chuckling died down to the focus that followed. Looking back to the Mongrel in his posture, his eyes and what direction they were drifting towards, the Brigadier-General passed a brief tip before engaging again, muttering,'Seems Gowrie was right to spare you, Mongrel.', before letting out a booming, roared,'AGAIN!', to get the fight underway again.

 

[Darth Solipsis]

UNFATHOMABLE POWER

THE DARK VOICE | BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW
ILUM | CRYSTAL CAVES
Halketh | Zachariel Steelblood | Ezra Dune | Rekiro
​

He could feel the tender wound wrack his pain receptors as the finishing touches of mended flesh and sinew closed. He was no longer in danger from his wound, at least for the time being. The agony of the wound would continue to plague him unchallenged until he could receive proper treatment, such was the cost of the Dark Side of the Force.

The luminescent glare of the Dark Voice fell upon the Warlord Zachariel Steelblood as he scooped up the Lord of Carlac with an arm around his torso. The mighty ruler of Osseriton beckoned to the Elder with a request as they readied to leave,

"When the times comes Dark Voice, I'd like to request the permission to help in breaking this man even more."

Motioning for the Dark Voice to lead the way, the Sith Master nodded his head slightly with a wave of his hand to dismiss the notion.

“That will be.. unnecessary. He is already broken, he need only see the truth and that will only be his own doing now.”

It was true, there was little horror they could subject him to now. He had relieved enough pain and sacrificed everything all over again, the Elder had no desire to waste such an opportunity for a worthy executor of his will. A worthy Shadow Hand.

“Give him to me...”

The Dark Lord’s vile gaze slowly twisted away from the static form of the imposing Zachariel Steelblood . His wretched form, feeble and corrupted, turned to face this unsung hero with a haunting snare. Twin beads of yellow, glowing with sinister intent focused wholly upon Ezra Dune who held his rifle at the ready focused upon the form of his Warlord companion.

There were no words, the Elder merely observed the gap between the two as his eyes wandered in between figures. Then it happened, a warm smile crept along his face, one that hid away the vile thoughts of a dark mind. He had studied his tone, his stance, his eyes...

“He must mean something to you.”

A decrepit claw stretched out, crimson sparks leaping between fingers, teasing death before an unconscious prize.

“Doesn’t he?”

He could sense something approach, the tall tale presence of the Shadow. The presence of a Ren. The Dark Lord’s grin stretched further, “There is no hope my boy.”

 

[The Mongrel]

Objective I - Hearts of Kyber​

Location: Ilum, Frozen Plains
Allies: Maestus | Caedis Umbrammor | Irratar Hemstagon
Foes: DECEASED Erskine Barran | Aurelian Sigismund

On the hill outside the mining base, as the Galidraani drove onward and upward, rank upon rank of marauders sold their lives dearly. There were no shuttles left for them; all of the landing craft within the base were taking off, their cargo bays full of kyber crystals. All that they could do was die well, using their last moments glory in the eyes of the Avatars... and the knowledge of that harsh truth granted them fresh vigor and utter fanaticism. The men did not fear the Galidraani tanks, instead throwing themselves fearlessly at the vehicles, fighting with grenades, missiles, and explosive lances.

They fought without regard for self-preservation.

Still, their part in the battle was coming to an end. The huge Galidraani smoothbores opened up on the fortress walls, and even these mighty defenses - designed specifically to resist artillery fire - could not hold for long against such a concentrated, close-range barrage. Huge chunks of duracrete exploded outward in plumes of dust, shattering beneath the persistent impacts and exposing the heavy durasteel mesh that held the walls together. It would not be long now before this section of wall came down entirely, allowing the Blue-Hearts to link up with the Paladins already fighting inside.

Still the last of the marauders fought, engaging in suicide attacks now. Around every corner seemed to be one of the howling Bloodsworn, a live grenade clutched in each hand, ready to dive upon the advancing Galidraani with a final cry of "War! Death! Rebirth!" Their only goal was to buy as much time as possible before the NIO fully secured the mining base, so that every last shuttle could reach the safety of orbit. Branchlurkers swarmed through the second trench line as well, clambering over the snowy terrain with terrifying ease, scything into men and even battering the outside of tanks.

They'd take as many foes with them as they could.

Down the hill, beside the wreck of Birell's armored column, The Mongrel panted hard as he worked to catch his breath. Few of the men who fought for "civilization" had ever earned his respect on the battlefield. In fact, Barran might be the very first. Jedi could ought-fight the marauder, but it was by merit of their mystic powers, not their determination or martial skill... and so far, he had managed to survive every confrontation he'd had with them. And while The Mongrel had some respect for Gowrie, it hadn't been earned blade-to-blade. Not yet, anyway. That time was still coming.

But Barran fought well, with a blend of technique and ferocity that allowed him to counter The Mongrel's savagery and innovation. They were alike in some ways, the two of them, and it came out when their blades met. Their first, frantic exchange had proven it, each man anticipating the other's moves and counters, right up until they'd both tried a headbutt at the same instant. His vision still swam after that. But such was the reason that Barran had earned his respect. The other man might wear a fine uniform, but when it came down to it, both of them were eager to unleash the fierce warrior within.

AGAIN, the Galidraani commander ordered, and The Mongrel was eager to oblige him. He would have to fight more carefully now, however. He could feel weariness creeping into his limbs, and the repeated blows and parries of the last exchange had aggravated his injured shoulder. In his first rush against Barran, he had tried to end the fight quickly, bringing him down with a single mighty blow. Now he could not have managed a second attempt at such a vicious, fully-exerting strike... and he knew that Barran was too good to be so easily finished anyway. Time to test his foe's limits.

Wielding his borrowed sword in his right hand, the serrated blade now nicked and dulled in several places where he'd parried - or been parried by - his opponent, The Mongrel drew a long knife in his left. Brute strength wasn't going to serve him here, so it was time to try technique. Many duelists in the Core Worlds fought with a rapier in one hand and a parrying dagger in the other, and he was going to attempt the barbarian version of that. Although the off-hand weapon was too small to fully block one of Barran's mighty blows, it could alter their trajectory away from his body.

​

The marauder came in more slowly this time, testing Barran's defenses with jabs, swipes, and feints. When he'd fully committed to the attack, it'd nearly spelled the end for each of them several times; they were too well-matched for him to risk trying that again. But if he could lure the Galidraani commander in, draw him into a pattern of feint, strike, block, riposte, then he could take the time to gather information about his foe. He would watch and learn the intricacies of Barran's footwork, the tells of incoming blows when his shoulders and chest tensed, all the fine details of his fighting style...

And then he would change the pattern.

Still, waiting for an opening rather than diving in to try to create one had its risks. Barran would be able to observe him as well, the slight hesitation of his injured shoulder, the ways that his weariness slowed him down. Committing to such an exchange for too long risked letting the Galidraani learn as much about The Mongrel as vice-versa. And so the marauder did commit to a plan, a way to create an opening. With Barran's next blow, he attempted to catch his foe's blade between his sword and knife in a cross-parry... then aimed a vicious kick at the Galidraani commander's knee.

 

[Irratar Hemstagon]

Objective I: Hearts of Kyber

Location: Orbital War
Allies: The Mongrel Maestus
Enemies: Aurelian Sigismund DECEASED Erskine Barran

Theme

Onboard the Kiss of Death, Prince Caedis Umbrammor continues the stressful pattern of his pacing, left and right, left and right. His eyes looking up and down, tracking the flying targets and the sensors on the screens which only reveal the severity of the boardings... Brutal hand-to-hand battle spreads, with the Athysians battling against the endless waves of skytroopers that descend upon their warships...

"We must pull out!" Caedis shouts through the holo. "Their reinforcement fleet is going to surround us!"

"Continue the attack, Prince of Morias" Irratar responds, with his tone hardly altered, regardless the severity of the orbital war. "Bring your ships around, deploy in Krayt's Whip formation."

The holo disconnects almost as soon as a blinding light shines across the battlefield. The Hemstagon Destroyer slowly parts bow from stern, bleeding fire and craced debri in the void. Struggling corsairs still grasp upon the bent plating in a desperate attempt not to be driven to the abyss along the rest of the crew. Another of the Athysian gunships suddenly accelerates. Overcharging the fiery engines, the gunship sails straight to the Phalanx's hull, shaking the very fleet around it by the blast of munition and fuel tank upon impact... Two more Destroyers disengage, fleeing into Hyperspace, as the brutality of the confrontation only climaxes...

The void bleeds. The chaotic exchange of cannonfire between the warring hulks and the dozens of starfighters and shuttles swarming around them blaze the pitch of space, while countless debri and broken bodies levitate inbetween. The bald figure of the Black Prince remains almost motionless, as he observes the unfolding battle, now drawn to close ship-to-ship engagement. Swarm after swarm, the fighter squadrons return onboard, suffering the harrassement of the Rim-Guard's relentless war machine, draining more and more the Raider Fleet from its strength...

As they land on the chaotic hangar bays, possessed by battle rage and screaming warcries, the pilots of the Hoplites rejoice!
"WE BURNED THE IMPERIAL PESTS! THEY FEAR US!! THEY FEAR US!!!"

The Parriah slowly starts diverting power to engines, dragging herself slowly to Jump Point.... It soon became ever clearer, one after the other the capital ships of the Athysian fleet were disengaging...

"This is the Kiss of Death to the Mining Base commanders!" the transmission would come to the Brotherhood's high command on the besieged Mining base... "The orbital war is lost. We cannot hold the extraction point for much longer!"


'BLOOD FOR THE FIEND! PAIN FOR THE MAS-'

BOOOOM

The mawlerite warcries would be violently silenced by the barraging fire of the Galidraani host, descending from all sides to the Brotherhood's base. The black warbands of the Erevosians are bombarded by the exchanging fire. One after the other, the berserk savage warriors fly in parts, spreading across the nearby melting snow by the force of the explosions, as the shells land within their formation....

"Lets get the 'el outta here..." The Starbane pilot muttered through the holo, as he powered up his shuttle... In a rushly gathered formation, the Athysian shuttles take off from the base, struggling to maintain course by the heavy fire of the White Flame and the already landed troops within the base. After a supressive fire from the paladin-led skytroopers, the Athysian shuttle is pierced, with the shot causing a blood splatter across the cockpit as it cracks open the pilot's head. By the weight of the collapsed body upon the helm, the shuttle takes a sudden violent dive against the nearby base buildings, followed by a massive explosion on the platforms, as the fuel catches flame... By the shockwave, the nearby taking-off shuttle is knocked off course, with the wing hitting against the very wall of the base. The pilot accelerates quickly, in an attempt to push his craft higher to negate the bending of the wing. Alas, the shuttle is hit right after by a coming swarm of fighters, finally tearing the left wing clean off the craft. The fire leaves a trail of black smoke, as the shuttle holds for few seconds mid-air, before it follows a spiral descend towards the base's interior, where it lands in a roaring blast.

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

Post #11
GALIDRAANI FREE-STATE
BLUE-HEART BRIGADE

Objective 1: HEARTS OF KYBER

Allies (NIO): Dante Corvus Rurik Fel Djorn Bline Izoshi

Allies (NJO/GA/RGO): Aurelian Sigismund

Enemies (BOTM/NSO): The Mongrel Kyrel Ren Maestus Caedis Umbrammor Irratar Hemstagon

Erskine's Loadout
Primary: Custom Blaster-Pistol (Right-hip Holster - left-or-right hand draw)
Secondary: Basket-Hilted Vibrosword Claymore (Left-hip Sheathe - right hand wielding)
Last Ditch/Second-Blade: Fairbairn Vibroknife (Right-hip Sheathe - right-or-left hand wielding)
Pocket-Weapons: Gifted Brass-Knuckles from the Guv'Nah (Both Trouser-Pockets - akimbo wielding)

Blue-Heart Brigade (Mechanized-Infantry)
*Losses are always registered 1 post after the fact
41 Repulsorlift Tanks (-6)
9 Scout-AFVs
2 ACVs
1 Coy. Elite Riflemen
3 Plat. Quartermasters (Combat-Engineers)
1 Coy. Field-Medics

FORCES OF NATURE III - WRATH OF THE ROOSTER

​

Jumping on the Blue-Hearts' remaining vehicles from the front, sides and (if they'd missed their chances without ending up under the tracks and bone-crunchingly thick tyres in the process) even making attempts to board their durasteel nemeses' from the back, the Mawlerites were locked in for one last deathly struggle for the mountainside with nothing standing in the way of their actions' full desperation. As they shot, stabbed and bludgeoned whoever they could get their hands on, the last remnants of the opposition near the summit threw their all into everything they endeavoured for their collective last-hurrah, all striving for the loud, violent pinnacle transitory-point between war and rebirth with near-unmatched fanaticism. Everyone on both sides of the struggle understood who it was for, especially as the last transports were seen shooting into the sky whilst the mining camp's boundary-wall still stood to block their armour-piercing demise, making off with all the Kyber the ships could carry at the time.

When he looked up to the summit, watching on as all the shell-impacts sent chunks of the western wall flying out in all directions, Leftenant Brand chuckled as the last Kyber-laden transport ships flew off into the stormy skies above; turning his attention back to the marauders and their desperate boarding-action attempts as he inhaled for another comm-link transmission, he smiled with a grin that revealed a content, relieved state of mind. The hardest part of the battle had finally passed, and the Blue-Hearts' remaining Goliaths were more determined than any of their caste had been before them, fighting like lions to ensure the safety of the maintained barrage on the fortified mining-camp at the summit, bringing wild smiles to all who could see the fiery mess ahead. Seeing it as the perfect moment to give the final order, the Rooster tilted his head back and roared,'ALL INFANTRY, ALL SCOUT AFV'S, THIS IS BRAND!!!! FEED THEM AUTOMATIC FIRE!!!! THE WIND WILL DO THE REST!!!!'
By God, I sincerely hope you lads have your bayonets fixed. Whatever falls from those vehicles is still a threat when it lands!

Lighting up the mountainside with everything they had loaded at the time, the AFVs and remaining infantry units would send sparks flying off the steely hides of the Goliaths in front, caring little for overall accuracy if they were headed in the right pressuring direction to yield effective results; it didn't matter how these men fell off the vehicles, it was only expedient that they were no longer causing concern for the tanks still attempting to reach the summit, as it would ensure a maximum amount of fully-working Goliaths for holding the summit in the unlikely event of a Mawlerite counterattack. To take and hold the trenchlines from the mountaintop were their key objectives from the moment they landed, but the gruelling fight it became soon involved new plans and new additions to the key objectives they'd intended to complete throughout the process, creating an urge to complete something in this battle with some degree of success, as the Blue-Hearts were all quite content taking whatever small victories they could get.

<"Proost to AFV One! Requesting permission to coordinate the remaining Goliaths from here, I have a plan.... Helluva fight though, eh? These Mawites are mental!">

'Brand to Goliath Four-Two! Permission Granted! And They fought well, so those marauders punching through orbit now have more than earned their wall-defended retreat, at least as far as I'm concerned. Infidels, heathens and heretics they most certainly are to us, but in general? I think it's clear to see I can't commit to that statement in generality's form. Not after what they threw at us today, absolute heroes to the last, an' we're still fighting them now! Perspective there if ever ya needed it, eh?'

<"One-hundred percent, Brand. Couldn't have put it better myself. Cheers! Goliath Four-Two out!">

Within moments, the tanks would attempt to violently rock their hulls side-to-side in an attempt to shake off the already-inundated marauders trying to take some Woads into rebirth with them, all whilst the shells from their smoothbores tore at the widening breaches in the wall at the summit; growing increasingly devoid of defensive activity, the defenders previously manning it were withdrawing for a last stand further within the mining-camp itself, an act that further-endeared Leftenant Brand to the brothers of the Maw, one such that the Rooster saw as a profoundly holy proof of their otherworldly resolve. The joy Phillip felt in that moment filled his heart with wonder, filling his soul with visions of Heaven, and God himself, erupting into song as if a new lease of life had been given from below. What this was doing to the Northern-Galidraani Leftenant's mind would be nothing short of staggering, humbling Brand to the point that barely anything of the former self remained, calming the increasingly devout Rooster's heart in the face of what he saw as proof of the almighty.

'Heaven rejoices, lads.... God sings for joy! God sings with purpose again! *Hægl Alwealda, Bretwalda!'
**'Hail God, the true King!'

FORCES OF NATURE IV - DUEL OF THE FATES

​

The setting, with all the snow, kyber-glow and the bright delights of destruction, was perfect to Erskine in every conceivable way; even with the fact that a large quantity of the wreckages, bodies and weapons on the ground around them and beyond were of what and whom the Lord-Commander had brought with him, Barran didn't care and had no need of it in that moment. These warriors would be remembered, numbers on the uniforms of those who continued on in their place, so the Stormchaser's conscience would be clear; even as the last Athysian aircraft raid flew overhead and crashed into the hill beyond, the Brigadier-General had complete faith in his subordinates' collective ability to carry their end of the allied struggle for the Ilum kyber-mines, supremely confident the Blue-Hearts would take (and hold) the summit with frightening effect eventually.

As the duellists reengaged, everything began to make more sense, like both their sword-arms were conceived solely to strike out at each other; neither duellist could hide it, not even through the flurrying madness of the fight itself, and to top it all of, not even the crescendos of the audience in attendance could deny it seemed that way. The fight was taking on a technical pace as it continued, and though they weren't running at each other as much, the light-footed agility was still on display as they circled for each and every engagement, and though the Mongrel was fatigued, his endurance was clearly on a level with Lord Erskine's; not half as tested as the Woad's, it was still clear to all that the marauder had more yet to give. Even in the face of better opposition with fresher legs and lungs for the fight, the Malwerite champion still had confidence enough to test the Free-State wardog's defensive and countering capabilities, and with that same smile he had when his eyes first glanced across the form of the Claymore, as if survival itself came secondary to his avaricious need to earn it for himself in victory.
Oh, what devastation ah could achieve wae just ten Mongrels, just ten.... A cold-blooded natural ti the bone, man!

'I unironically LOVE IT!!!'

With the way his own sword was looking, the marauder would be needing the Woad's vibrosword in the end, which hadn't escaped Erskine's notice; and yet, rectifying this somewhat (and making matters more difficult at the same time) was the Mongrel's eventual drawing of his knife, opting to relieve some of the sword's burdens with the intelligent solution of using the knife as a parrying-dagger. Making the engagement more intense for Barran also was the fact the knife had been drawn mid-counter, and with no tell that the Mawlerite's hand was drifting anywhere near his left hip-side to bring it into play. By the time the parrying blade had been brought out and put into use, it had already busted the topside of the Stormchaser's right gauntlet-glove, and would prove quite the effective tool for feeling out weaknesses in Barran's form and rhythm before long.

A faux-opening had been left for Erskine to capitalise on, only to be caught between the Mongrel's cross-defence of sword and dagger, and after rallying back and forth with reposts, counters, parries and blocks of each other's attacks, the opportunity had appeared authentic enough to attempt a full-weighted downward slash towards the Mawlerite's head. This man wasn't tapping into the usual parts of the mind to fight as warriors do, his process was something altogether more intuitive, like a tradesman using certain tools for particular tasks, a methodology that would later end up being referred to as,"The Mongrel's Elementary.", by Lord Erskine personally. Yet even with the Mongrel's cunning, the fighting niche the marauder could proudly call his own, and the sheer ferocity in the way he fought taken into account, the opening felt more real than any Barran had capitalised on before, an assumption he'd very soon come to rue.

Once the Vibrosword had been caught in the cross-defence, the Mongrel was free to make his play, throwing his weight behind a kick aimed for the Stormchaser's knee; this left the Lord-Commander in quite the compromising position, leaving him with a hard choice to make when the bottom of the marauder's shin finally impacted. Erskine wasn't willing to surrender his main pivot-leg's knee to save his front one, and he was stubbornly unwilling to surrender ground or balance to avoid the kick completely, so there was only one last realistic move to make; under the circumstances, Barran understood much worse could've awaited him if he had been more concerned for his own safety, and quickly made his countering plan for the moment the Mawlerite's kick had been absorbed. Leaning into the locked cross-defence, the motion was straightening the Mongrel's posture as the weight of his foot went crashing closer and closer to the inside of the Woad's thigh, a loud slapping noise would echo all around them, causing the observers to cheer in appreciation as Erskine continued to walk his opponent off-balance.

Oooooooh ya cheeky wee-​

Electing the way of pain, the impact itself would work as something of a starter pistol for Erskine, pacing a few steps into his defence-breaking attempt and pushing the Mongrel off to create space (and breathing-room) for himself; letting the stinging sensation wear off as the marauder backpedalled into a safe, stationary knee-bent poise, Lord Barran decided it was time to meet the Mongrel blade-for-blade, deciding it was high-time everyone saw the Blue-Heart's swordsmanship would array itself to every possible situation. As he drew the Fairbairn of his fallen comrade, the Stormchaser let it be known to all how much he valued this Vibroknife by kissing the blade and whispering silent prayers; and as his stance corrected itself instinctually, Erskine looked back to his opponent with renewed conversational confidence, happy that he was finally well-matched with a flesh-and-blood opponent of considerable talent.

'No bad, Mongrel. Naw, honestly. No bad at all.', the Brigadier-General began, letting the makeshift parrying-dagger dance around in his grip as he accustomed himself to Meyer style for the first time since Ziost. Despite the fact the last opponent it was used against could liquify themselves at will, Effigy had proven to rely too excessively on it from the back-foot, and wasn't embodying such liquidity in her fighting technique at any point of that fight, (except in imitation of Erskine's techniques at the time) not like the Mongrel, not in mind, nor in spirit or any other conceivable way for that matter. Smirking at the notion as he noticed both their guards were low with reason, Barran nodded knowingly as he concluded,'Oh, aye? Whit's this? An' by the way, next opponent should get wan o' those kicks ti the inside o' their shin, though. Works like a charm every time it lands..... Ye ready? Good! AGAIN!!!'

 

[Xashe Tistya]

ok i pilgrim

GANG_GANG: Creuat

​

Xashe nodded reluctantly and turned towards the mouth of the cave, where chiseled stone gave way to the wilds of the planet. How long had it been for her master? Ten, fifteen years? Either way, it was a moment reincarnate. The anxieties that had plagued the nautolen in his youth simmered beneath her surface. Her cocky and confident facade had faded. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides.

The near darkness soon gave way to a soft glow. A plethora of colors guided her way, until they grew near enough to see. A gasp escaped the mirialan. It was a wonderous sight to behold. A rainbow danced in midair, every color of crystal casting its aura into the cold atmosphere. The shine of the rocks and moisture in the air caused the reflections to dance a slow rock, akin to watch she had often witnessed in the ballrooms at home, but somehow more intimate. They whispered words of an ancient, lost language- yet she understood them just the same. She was at the crossroads of her destiny.

Her eyes lost their glaze as she became attuned to the raw power of the force and its message. This was a journey of knowledge and of self-deciding. She shook her head, moving away from the dancing lights, to farther in the caverns. Something called her name from deep within. A welcoming voice. The hairs on Xashe's neck stood. Something was not right, but she could not place it.

Finally, she located the source. A single amber glow illuminated a deep offshoot of the caves. The miralan approached slowly, but it seemed to hold no further messages to her. She sat cross-legged in front of it, examing the small geode pocket for a long time.

It broke the silence first.

Welcome, child. Long have we waited.

Why me? And how did you know? The thought floated aimlessly through Xashe's mind, but the crystal knew.

The force blesses us all. We foresaw this moment. We knew you would come, and watched, and waited.

She nodded, though did not truly understand.

We were told to deliver a message.

The flashes came all at once. A planet she did not know, a battle below. The feeling that sith carried was unmistakable. The birds-eye zoomed in, until it showed her sister, robed and all, falling beneath a crimson blade.

The scene shifted before she was ready. Another battle, location still unfamiliar, but different than the one before. Hordes of monsters marched upon an army. Like the last, her sight began to focus. She wanted to shy away, fearful of what would be revealed, yet it was something she could not hide from. Her brother stood within his platoon, his blaster taking down beasts from the hive. And moving with deadly speed behind him, another monster. She cried out to warn him, despite her knowing this was in the past. He did not hear her. A pincher drove with deadly force between his ribs, lifting him from the ground.

As she came back to the cavern, she realized tears stained her cheeks. The padawan wiped them away angrily before standing.

"Why would you show me that?!" She demanded.

You had to see to know. Your master hinted, but you needed to truly understand. They are too weak to win. They will be wiped out before your order is able to invest in victory. Your family will perish. You know it to be true. You have foreseen it, too, even if you cannot admit it.

Her face remained still. She would not give the visions that plagued her power, even when they both knew.

But I can help you stop it. Together, we can save them.

The need for vengeance washed over Xashe. There was hope, too, but it was twisted. She could save them- but she would have to carve all in her path to do so. They were Darksiders, though- who would care? With their power, there stood a hope to truly beat them, and wipe out the monsters who had taken her home, too.

Understanding flashed across her face, the yellow that had taken around her irises fading. It seemed even the light of Ilum could not smother the darkness. She had passed the crossroads.

"Rhis! Please!" The yell echoed through the empty path she had come from.

She was alone in this. She wanted to run, but duty kept her. She was a Jedi. She eradicated darkness where it stood. But how? She did not have the lightsaber she possessed before. She could not destroy this without tools.

The mirialan approached the conduit of darkness with an outstretched hand.