Dominion Infest The Rats' Nest | Dominion of Ithor | NIO

[Gedeon Rath]

Ithor | QRF Force Talon | Medevac/Support
Status: Green | En Route
I_M_G_O_D
Jorus Fel | Meko Sorrin | Kolson Vrask | Darth Vinaze
-​

Shit. Things had gone from bad to worse - fortunately for Gedeon he couldn't have cared less except for the timing. The incessant alarm echoing across the small jungle outpost had interrupted the Commando mid-growler. Giving it one final push he grunted, a sneer of dissatisfaction at having this one quiet moment interrupted by.. what was that? He barely heard it come over the comm.

<"MASSIFF-ONE, TO radio static -AL CALLSIGNS, I AM PINNE- radio static at JUNGLE CRESH at GRID radio static REPEAT, GRID radio static NEED BACKUP radio static.">
​

Hastily rising from the makeshift latrine the man pulled up the one piece combat suit, slinging his armor up and atop that before retrieving his helmet from a nearby hook. "Damn this place. Damn this hell." he grumbled, sealing up his combat suit and donning the helm. With another grunt of effort his booted foot slammed into the door of the latrine throwing the door open, his fingers latching on to the weapon leaned up in the corner before dashing out towards the landing pad where the Quick Reaction Force dropship was waiting. Already several other soldiers had mounted up. In one fluid movement borne of experience, Gedeon Rath leapt into the vehicle, hand grasping the overhead handle like a vicegrip. :: All aboard. :: he growled through the comm, the pilot's acknowledgement known only by the heavy hum of the engines whirring to life and the deck of the dropship lurching upwards from the ground.

It would be their burden to coordinate with the ground forces, support forces, and if need be any further commo traffic. His burden was a simple one. Disembark once they reached the coordinates, locate the unit in trouble. Evac. That's when the fun would begin. Blood. Carnage. Death.

​

 

[Zrotâl Freeman]

OBJECTIVE II //: IMMOLATE

Ithor. Peaceful, green, and vibrant. Something that was constantly shown through holovideos of the Old Regime of the decadence of the galaxy. Lo, behold the proud Ithorians, content in their lives and their custodianship. The propaganda machine had always ran hard and fast against those happy with their lives, it had always attempted to demonize those that hadn’t forged an existence out of struggle and pain. As if there was less to be had in a life free of suffering, as if the Ithorians were somehow less of a people for their happiness. They were a kind people. A gracious people. One that hadn’t asked anything of this war. Yet, it came to Ithor’s doorstep regardless. The ground teams were in charge of dealing with the Qo’krataa, a gathering of would be roleplayers using his tongue for their own ill gotten reputation. Qo’krataa, the Path of Death. He couldn’t imagine anything more ridiculous to call your terror cell. Especially when he was damned near certain not a single one of them were Redborn, not a single on them were graced with the upbringing of Korriban’s sun and desolate wastes. They should be thankful for that.

Though, it was not the Qo’krataa he would be sparring with today.

No, the Dread Ascendancy actually seemed to understand what they were doing. While the Qo’krataa clawed at the edges of civilization, formulating together attacks from scraps and shattered together rag tag groups of insurgents, the Dread Ascendancy instead knew exactly what they were doing. From nearly nowhere, radiating into space from the background noise of the universe, came the Dread Ascendants. With cruisers and destroyers, with infantry and specialists, with the rage of the Old Regime. Zrotâl was there for the Sundering, the long age of decline of the Sith Empire, he was one of the prime victims. As the Old Regime struggled to find it’s footing again in a Galaxy much more prone to dealing with the Dark, as it stumbled and lost the identity of conquest and Empire that had guided it, the True Sith remained. Within the Dread Ascendancy, Zrotâl saw this same fire.

He wouldn’t allow it to rise once more.

He was walking through the hallway, deep inside of the vessel, before the alarms began to blare, before doors began to shutter open, before he looked down at his datapad and saw that, yes, in fact, it was an hour ahead more than he thought it was a moment ago. And yes, they had completed their hyperspace jump. And yes, they were about to enter into pitched combat with the Dread Ascendant vessels.

He looked down at his "Hungry Hutt" breakfast sandwich™ that was in his left hand, back to the datapad, checking the time once more, and then glancing around at the bodies rushing past him and shouting out various calls into coms and to their fellows. One of them gave him a sharp slap on the shoulder and a call to action. Down to the sandwich again, he was still chewing.

He was jogging now, stuffing large bites of the meal down his throat as he clipped the datapad onto his belt and brought his helmet from the tucked position between his body and arm, holding it for a second as it bounced in his grip, pushing the final bite of the combination of muffin and egg into his mouth. The cheap taste of processed bread and pseudo-proteins filling his mouth as he slammed his helmet into place, breaking into the gunnery section of the vessel, where the rest of his crewmates were already fast at work, prepping one of the broadside mass-driver cannons for action. They intended to give the hostile vessels a run for their money, and break up any clustered starfighter positions.

 

[Ravraa Vyshraal]

OBJECTIVE I //: SUPERBUG

<”Seal up, prime your weapons. Check targets. Don’t go gunnin’ down every stray. Blendin’ with the folks of the town. We’re here to save folks.”> Ravraa said, the voice that normally carried so much more hope and joy now was caught. Scratching at the lining, the undersuit just ever so tighter than normal. The armor’s weight more than he recalled it being even as a recruit. He was a Captain now, soaring above his betters, a new medal and badge to patchwork against his betaplast. His father’s rifle lost, broken, his own Imperial weapons traded in for a Sith Judicator. As a reminder. To know his enemy.

This wasn’t war. This was slaughter. The unnamed gunship they called home, simply a serial number rattled off in the background of every deployment, screeched through the air as it circled the Tree of Tarintha. A dome enclosing the life and death of hundreds, thousands even, of Ithorians. They hadn’t asked for this, they were simple people. They didn’t even have a proper defense force, it wasn’t something that they had to consider. They were roamers, children of nature, of the Earth. He had known many in his life, he had walked the fields of an Ithorian herdship as a young child, traveling with Zohlees across the stars. He had held the hand of one of the Hammerheads as he rumbled out stories and tales of his people.

Ithor was a link, a call to the past, tugging at his skin.

The gunship eventually found an opening, clear of immediate hostiles, though that was far from their main concern. There were others that could handle the brunt work of taking on the terrorists, Ravraa had requested the assignment in specific. They were here to save whoever had survived, escort them back to the gunship, and send them off. However many or however little they could manage.

The gunship slipped past the shielding of the hanger, twisting onto it’s side as the doors sallied open. Ravraa sparing a glance over to his partner, he knew the sniper would be offering a comforting smile under his helmet, but Ravraa couldn’t see it.

Nor would he want to right now.

He was the first one off of the ship, slamming the powercell into his blaster rifle, eyes scanning the scorchmarks, desecrated vessels, and shattered husks of Ithorians that littered the room.

<“Start checkin’ bodies, if you get any bit a’pulse, anything at all, you bring them home.”>

 

[Darth Interitus]

​

The time had finally come, the Dread Ascendancy had at last revealed themselves. While they had only so much support, the cause for the Dread Autarch had been growing at an exceptionally fast pace. It wasn't before long before those that had followed Sith Ideology supported the growing cause. The former Overseer of Commenor was among them. Now returned from his exile, ready to serve the growing strength of a new empire in the making. Interitus himself hoped to serve as the Sith'ari's own right hand, as many others hoped for, but for now, the will of the dark side and that of the true sith must be done. The first thing on the agenda was revenge. The studious Sith recalled how even across the galaxy he felt the immense pain and death of those that were purged. Of rumors of how the bodies were burned and how the bodies were piled so much, that the smoke rose high into the sky for days on end. This what the rumors called Operation Kyber Dark.

Now motivated by the shared feeling for revenge among the Sith. Interitus remained on board the Hallowed Grave, while others so eagerly made it to the surface to take a more direct approach. While the Sith Lord was fond of direct combat, he himself thought that his years of study on Exogal would be put to good use. As the flagship jumped from hyperspace ready to begin the assault on Ithor, Interitus quietly retreated to a room where his talents would be put to good use. The Hallowed Grave was massive, some say an ancient design found by the Dread Autarch himself as if some proof of his divine claim to Dark Lord of the Sith. Within one o the chambers were where it was most opportune to harness the dark side energies of the ship. Using it as if the ancient Sith of old did. To destroy one's enemies with the powers of Illusion and Magic.

He breathed slowly, as he reached out, the room in of itself was dark. But as he knelt the room ignited into a bright crimson red. Next to Interitus's own black robes and mask, he was adorned with an amulet given to him by the Sith Eternal cultists on Exogol when he left. Now he was using its power, that of the room, and that of all the energy around him. He saw nothing, but that changed in moments on the more power he concentrated on. To the point where he could see the TIEs. He could see what was going on the surface. But even he knew that he was not strong enough to coordinate an entire skirmish alone, he could bolster the morale through battle meditation. Give the Sith an edge over the Iron Sun.

However, he had other plans. Plans to confuse and terrify his enemies. As he heard the screeching of TIE Fighters, and laser blasts. He would concentrate his efforts to make the pilots go away, either through force or cunning illusion. His eyes closed, he spoke in the language of the Sith, while he often struggled with the language, he knew enough to be an adept, and learner of Sith Magic. The room growing brighter, as he spoke. It wasn't before long that out in space. It appeared if support ships jumped from hyperspace along with corvettes to stave off the attack of the Fighters, while they looked real, they weren't in fact only an illusion. He settled into the likes of a meditative pose. Focusing his efforts on moving the illusionary ships, firing it's own turbo lasers at any nearby enemy craft.

Kascalion Giedfield Damocles Artem Strag Chasianna

 

[Trajan Fett]

S U P E R C O M M A N D O
THE OATHSWORN
SONS OF MANDALORE
IMMOLATE | HEADHUNT
S N I P E R _ A T _ T H E _ G A T E S _ O F _ H E A V E N
Kascalion Giedfield

​

Time to kill again. After Mandalore. After her false sons and daughters marched among the dustied ruins in a ineffective crusade to retake the sacred Manda'yaim, Trajan had secluded himself within Ijaat Taylir for some length of time. To lick his wounds and overcome the failure. The failure of the Sons of Mandalore to reclaim home, to batter the Sith bloodied enough only for the false Mandalorians who'd rested in wait to come and take it from them just as at the dawning of their moment of vengeance for the injustice done to them and the moment of ultimate reckoning unto the Sith.

They'd been set back now.

<"OATHSWORN!"> Trajan beckoned to the Sons of Mandalore loaded up and into the belly of the Vandal-class Corvette.

The Basilisk war-droids screamed the shriek of the metal monsters in return.

<"YOUR PROFESSION!">

<"OYA!">

<"OYA!">

<"OYA!">

They shouted back in reply. This would be no grand showing as Manda'yaim was...but it was time to hunt.

Time to sever the head from the snake.

The Mandalorian Supercommandos mounted atop their Basilisks lurched into the sensory flush of the space battle over Ithor, the lifts of the heavy metal monsters proppelling them forward as Trajan and a choice team of four other Mandalorians atop their war droids caught the scent of the Dread flagship and chased it like sharks after blood in the water.

Time to kill again.

 

[Djorn Bline]

S N A K E
71st CF-RECONAISSANCE GROUP "GHOST VIPERS"
COBRA SQUAD
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
T H A T _ S M E L L

​

Good, he still retained his knowledge of illicit activities. Never once Djorn indulged himself into that particular industry until now. Performance enhancers he, admittedly, had used, but recreational spice that created a toxic love to its consumer was something he stayed away from. From a scout trooper, to Storm Commando, and now a COMPNOR operative with a part-time gig as a spice supplier. Not that he’d be cooking or moving the stash, just funding it and supervising it.

Surprisingly this movement caught the attention of other parties.

But of course, this would provide an avenue of income that would be impossible to tax on. Just had to make sure those funds were converted into taxable credits, and certainly Tambor and the swole Geonosian were able to do that with the respectable businesses they ran; both entities having connections with the New Imperial Order.

“I plan on having this spice being snorted or injected from the slums of Nar Shaddaa to the corporate offices of Coruscant, gentlemen,” Snake addressed to his audience. Yes, even corporate executives would indulge into this filth. Miserable fucks swayed by the endless credits in their pockets, nothing better to do with their wealth other than be reckless with it.

“I want it controversial; I want it to create domestic issues; I want it to be something to be killed for,” venom in his words, no regret in saying that. He didn’t give a damn about the money, he let be the worries for Gat and Strappa. He saw this as a weapon, a powerful one to be used against the Alliancd unconventionally.

He could see it all: the streets of Coruscant littered with cartels spilling blood over this with Judicial Agents, the people in fear of the dangers of this blood, Senators bickering over how to approach this issue, the prison industrial complex enjoying the the stream of convicts to be their legally slaves, and weapons manufacturers being met with high demand of weapons to be sold to parties of this conspiracy.

A spice war.

And who would be winning while everyone else was losing? The Iron Sun.

Tavius Muuaji | Gat Tambor | Strappa The Thicka​

 

[Meko Sorrin]

O B J E C T I V E 1
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
Focus | Kolson Vrask | Jorus Fel | Gedeon Rath | Darth Vinaze

​

The message had been relayed.

Over the consistent blaster fire from the Sith, a new location ping had been marked on his HUD. As Sorrin squeezed the trigger to put another Sith flat on their ass he looked over to Berik. The Commando had signaled towards the now open hanger bay doors. Sorrin acknowledged and looked towards the doors. Grabbing a thermal detonator, he primed it. In one swift motion is was thrown over the speeder and into the crowd of Sith scum. Wait for it.

3...

2...

1...

A small yet deadly explosion went off, releasing a booming sound that was hurtful for his ears. Grabbing his rifle, he sprinted towards the doors. As they headed for the power lift, the bodies of dead Ithorians lay waste everywhere. A damn shame. They wouldn't be helpful after all. The Commandos reached the lift and pushed into it. Going up.

Not a second past that they were introduced to the jungle of the Herd Ship. Vast in size, beautiful in nature. The wide glasteel dome that protected them from the harsh elements of space battle also revealed the sea of stars that Meko had seen oh so many times. Another relay was made towards Massiff, reassuring that Vandal was on their way. Afterward, it was a speedy trek into the jungle.

They moved at a speedy pace. Not so slow so they wouldn't get caught in whatever the hell the Sith might have for them, but not so fast so Massiff can relay the information in time so they don't get lost. Sorrin adjusted his helmet as he scanned the area in front of him. This rebreather was a godsend and worked perfectly. If anything on his person needed to be checked regularly, it was that piece of equipment. Another scan in front of him went when he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye. A quick turn revealed what he had thought originally. Something, no someone was coming towards the squad. A fist was raised to stop the pack as he stared straight towards the shape. Was it someone from the 501st? Was it a half-dead Sith <"Identify yourself.>" Sorrin said, loud enough for the person to hear. No response, it only kept walking towards them. He focused his sight in front of him. <"Again. Identify!"> He repeated himself, something he hated doing. Why didn't they respond the first time? Just like before, no response. Sorrin laid his finger on the trigger and pulled tightly. The figure slumped over, presumably dead. Another casualty, hopefully, it wasn't one of the boys. He pointed towards the now dead body as he started to creep towards it. As it came more into view he could see it was neither Sith nor 501st, it was an Ithorian.

<"Damn, now the Ithorians are against us too? Can't get a break, can we."> He looked again towards the LT and pointed towards the body. <"It's a hammerhead. They don't seem to be so friendly up here.>" Sorrin slightly jogged back to his squad. It was getting hectic. Massiff only had so much time before they were wiped off the face of the galaxy. And the Ithorians had seemingly turned into another hostile force out of nowhere. More investigation needed to be done about that situation, that doesn't happen randomly. All within the looming threat of an armor leak that could lead to your quick and painful death.

Sorrin needed a drink. And a heavy one at that.

 

[Tavius Muuaji]

S N A K E
IMPERIAL DRUG CABAL
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
NARROW_ROADS

​

Necessary work.

That's what this was.

Back then he hadn't done it to gain money, it had to gain protection. To avoid the marauding hands of violent gangs. The only way to do that was to join them, that way, his family was their family and went untouched. But this? This was something his moral compass was forced to be mute on, practically nonexistent.

​

Thankfully, they were interrupted, pushing those useless thoughts of what was good and bad in the preparation for war to the back of his mind. A specific Gat Tambor . It was the first time actually seeing the man. Prior to this, they had just been a name. A benefactor of the New Imperial Order, as far as he knew, but here they were in the person. Their words were rang true, but Tavius was no cooker. He was a seller, and sometimes supplier. All he could realistically do was provide ideas as soon as they manifested in his head. But otherwise, he was useless.

Upon that end, words were also added by an enormous Geonosian, Strappa The Thicka . He wasn't able to contain his surprise at the sight of the beast, nostrils flaring and exhaling air in surprise, but otherwise keeping his mouth shut unless otherwise referred to. It was easy to do, especially in the lines of work that he had been in. Low level thug? Don't question your superior. Imperial Special Forces? Don't question your superior. Based off where he started, and where he was now, things hadn't changed all that much in regards to his station.

"Our galaxy is at constant war in all corners almost always, there is no doubt about it. Something to... Target the dopamine centre while also neutralizing the sense of dread a person has." There was a pause, even a shrug. Just saying the words sounded like an impossible feat. "Alternatively, a hallucinogen wrapped up in the promise of happiness and better days has the potential for doing well. Especially in the repetitive days of Coruscant pencil pushers."

Djorn Bline

 

[Gat Tambor]

Y U N G _ S K A K O
DIRECTOR OF THE TRADE FEDERATION
N O S E T A L G I A
Djorn Bline | Tavius Muuaji | Strappa The Thicka ​

---

---

---

Djorn was a truly despicable man, an Imperial dedicated to the cause through and through. All the while Tavius had the chops, the experience of this trade. He looked forward to working with them both with great anticipation, Gat Tambor being the man with the means, the resources. The lining of pure and unfettered plausible deniability within all facets of this operation. He had a hand in everything and his ventures breathed profit, employment, stability for the worlds he'd set them down upon.

The key to managing this spice operation on the corporate scale of the Trade Federation was compartmentalization. The synthetic bacta processing, medical supplies, processing plants all provided means of piecing together each component of this substance before assembling in unmarked facilities before being shipped out to the Galaxy at large.

He just had to figure out...what exactly the spice was supposed to do and what exactly he was supposed to get ahold of begin industrial scale distribution to the underlying syndicates, cabals and gangs which would doll out the substance to their local dealers and the cash flow would coalesce at the bottom, the user.

"Correct you are, Muuaji. The Galaxy is in flames, the media is a contradictory mess with conflicting narratives from one minute to the next. People are under the code of despair, disbelieve, inner conflict. They don't know what to believe, what to think as they continue bury their nose to the grindstone and try and ignore the chaos, as un-ignorable as it ever could be. It has to be a form of chemical bliss and as Bline says, appealing to both the street, recreational user as well as the upper strata. The wider appeal, the more underlying social acceptance it will recieve thus, the more difficult to demonize the use of...even if, well. It will take the Trade Federation's resources and other Corporatist entities to ensure that it is not legalized, then the formula falls out of our hands and we lose the cash flow. Then it is in the hands of the competitors, under the regulations of governments." Gat explains.

"Dopamine is the primary component to this, it must be appealing, it must have an all but positive effect on the user. The actual compound however needs to be easily transferred between all three states. Ideally, its main means of transportation is dissolution into Ambori, able to be written off as material for synthetic bacta or Slabin, allowing us to dillute and distribute more from each batch. So then, what might we use as a proper delivery medium? What is the foundation of this spice?" The Skakoan inquires.

 

[Velexia]

Location: Space, Ithor Orbit
Objective: Immolate
Tags: Artem Strag Damocles Cartr Arkhis
Fighter: Chasianna's Modified TIE/HF Slasher - Hammer Seven
Wearing: New Imperial Flight Suit
Onboard Equipment: Survival Kit │ BH ‘Durin’ Charric Blaster Pistol

Eyes on the prize.

Chasianna kept her Slasher slightly behind her wingman’s machine as he dove into the growing melee of Sith and New Imperial fighters, taking on a support role in following after Hammer Six as he took the lead in the element. While she had not gotten the opportunity to converse with the man after being assigned to Hammer squadron, the diminutive Zeltron knew his survival was her responsibility.

Her eyes danced between her sensor readout and viewport as she drove after Hammer Six. Just as he achieved a firing solution on a Sith fighter, Chasianna saw another bandit turning to draw a bead on her wingman. Fortunately, the bandit’s path put them almost directly in front of her Slasher’s nose, only requiring that Chasianna turn her craft slightly to the left in order to center the enemy in her sights. From there, Chasianna pressed the triggers on her control sticks, firing off a salvo of supercharged particle beams that quickly depleted her target’s shields before ripping into the craft with a series of plasmatic explosions, vaporizing sections of the hull and turning the pilot within into ash, scattered across the cosmic tides.

A bated breath escaped from her lips, her eyes taking in the swarm of Sith fighters as she angled her Slasher towards the coordinates issued by the squadron lead. It had taken three sorties for her to achieve her first kill. Of course, that wasn’t unusual for freshly-graduated pilots, but it was a bit longer than she would have liked. Nevertheless, the elation of her first victory quickly dissipated as she took in the imposing form of the Dread flagship, which was quickly growing larger in her viewport as the Hammer drew ever closer to their quarry.

“Y-you too. Uh good kill, as well.” Chasianna answered her wingman, albeit somewhat awkwardly, at first. “That won’t be the last. I’ll have your six covered and we’ll make every shot on that flag count.” She added, attempting to inject a bit of misbegotten confidence into her voice. “Remember, when we get into range, wait for the lead’s order to lower shields and fire. These aren’t laser cannons.”

 

[The Grim Lady]

F E T C H
D R E A D M O T H E R

​

They had arrived as promptly as she had been told they would. Beautiful. The surface of the planet was crawling with the petulant troopers- an outright feast, plated and prepared for the taking. She felt the dark hunger of the one hollowing her gnawing at her guts, chewing and spitting each bite out with venomous disdain that it wasn't what He craved. Heretics, now, that was something He could savor. New Imperial dogs? Even more so.

The nigh-skeletal woman remained far from the first of the line, and away from the troopers as they moved. She was powerful, sure, but so were they in their numbers. Witness, she had been, to it on Bastion. They swarmed like cockroaches into the fortress there and overthrew it with sheer force. Thus, if the Dread Autarch's forces had any chance of impactful success here, it was going to have to be through insidious means. Guerilla warfare.

A delight even the corpsely woman could appreciate.

Her forces were quite eager to get into the fray, as much was obvious by the rampant gnashing of teeth and guttural growls echoing behind her. Sith Sorcery had been employed in the New Imperial's advantage on Bastion, so she had foreseen, but... how would they fare against a ravenous force themselves? She had more than a few deathly tricks up her sleeve, and perhaps now was the time to introduce the first.

"Woyunoks hadzuska koshûjontû-"
​

The first line of the sinister incantation passed through her cold lips as she wove The Force and the air around her, imposing her will upon it just as she had everything else. From The Shackler within, she drew strength. Hatred, anger, and a pinch of macabre creativity were poured into her spell as she wove it, shaping and twisting the air into something of a dark, evil intent. The demonic entity manifested before her, soundless, and shapeless as she recoiled from the toil of her effort. It was not an easy spell to cast. But... it would be worth it, she had no doubt.

The incorporeal sithspawn stared her down for a moment, awaiting command, and when it came, it was by the sharp, shaky stab of a bony finger through the air. "Run them down. Leave but a handful of survivors to spread the terror of what happened here." Her voice rasped.

The smoke demon rushed through the trees in the direction she had pointed, more than eager to fetch the souls of the unfaithful in her stead. It would ambush the group of troopers, seeming to shapeshift into whatever it was the unfortunate who saw it feared the most. Deep secrets, exposed. And once it had a victim in its clutches, a fate far worse than death awaited.


TARGETS | Kolson Vrask Meko Sorrin Gedeon Rath
FRIENDLY | Darth Vinaze

 

[Kascalion Giedfield]

Ithor
Hallowed Grave
Sith Fighters - 192 - First Wave of 48 Taking Losses | Support Ships - 144 - Awaiting Launch of Second Wave| Attending Corvettes - 12 - Under Assault | Illusionary Ships - Unknown Number - Engaging the Enemy
Armor | Lightsaber | Body
HOLY BLADE
Damocles | Darth Interitus | Chasianna | Artem Strag | Trajan Fett | Zrotâl Freeman

​

The first wave encountered resistance in quick fashion, a challenge presented in steely swaths of New Imperial fighters aiming to destroy not only the starships presented before them on a platter of knowing sacrifice, but to unleash their own meal course of destruction upon the great stone wyrm that roved through the stars of Ithor's orbit. The Autarch's hidden gaze - now alight with the shadings of pinkish emotion - watched the displays with newly formed interest as the forty-eight released to gauge the defensive rating of his foes began to whittle down as expected, yet inflicted the damage they were sent out to inflict. Already, Ithorian Herd Ships were pelted by the orange wave of missiles that sundered their shields and crippled their engines and cracked their hulls. The power of Interitus was also made apparent in the void, drawing forth illusionary vessels to distract and confound the enemy. An enigmatic display of knowledge in the ancient magicks that had appeared lost to many in the current age, a fact that only solidified the young man's value in the eyes of the Master of Dread.

"Pain has been dealt to the defense in ample measure already, Lord Autarch," Lenu suddenly reported, the subtle hint of joy laced in his words. "Wave Two is set to be released in the coming moments upon these infernal dogs."

"Hold enthusiasm, dear Lenu," the Autarch grumbled through the modulator of his helm. "Let them complete their purpose in full."

In truth, the Autarch merely wanted to let the energies of corruption from those combating the Imperials to flow into his being, empowering him for the coming conflict. For each warrior snuffed out candle-like in their clash against the defensive lines, he could sense their anger and pride at the annihilations they were able to inflict within moments. Every fighter of stone and mechanical mastery bursting into orbs of red flames - charred pilot remains scattered to the non-existent winds - had done the same to three before their end, five for some, six or more for fewer. The power of their innate sensitivity to the Force, yet also their weakness. He knew that the New Imperials - bastardly as they were - were more than capable to grab hold of advantage against any Force user whether the conflict was upon ground or amongst the heavens themselves.

However, it was partly for this very reason that the Autarch chose this fight, alongside the base reasoning of destruction and threats. For if his people were to live and become true threats to all who oppose them and the will of the Darkness, they had to be tempered by the inferno of war. Transformed into master crafted blades, capable of slicing impervium like silk and melting it into liqui- a series of ping markers dotting up on the displays of the bridge consoles alerted all to the unexpectedly encroaching threat. Chatter around the chamber quickly identified the incoming assailants as New Imperial Order fighter squadrons, operating in their standard tight formations.

"Utilizing the quickened chaos outside to nearly reach the perimeter of this magnificent vessel undetected...most impressive. But I'm afraid it will be the end of you mongrels." The Autarch would smile if he could. Instead, he merely nodded and announced to those on the bridge: "I want every defense laser on the starboard side targeting those Imperial squadrons, full auto. Have the Corvettes break from the battle to form an anchored wall as we maintain a slowed motion. If one squadron can reached this vessel undeterred, that will only show the rest that they can as well. I will not have this ship stand as pin cushion."

"And the port side lasers, Lord Autarch?" asked one of the deckhands - a middle aged man of unknown Human origin.

"Keep them on defensive protocols. Scatter shots on any enemy ship that passes by. The top and bottom are to keep them clustered for the starboard to maintain visuals. I want no reprieve for these bastard Imperials. Lenu! Alert Wave Two. Twice as many fighters once this rabble has been dealt with sufficiently. The support ships are to head to the stranded Herds and begin boarding processes. No survivors. Two corvettes are to accompany them and break off from the wall," the Autarch finally rose from his throne of skulls, forcing all before him to bow in reverence. "Once Wave Two has engaged in their tasks, I want this vessel back in full motion with turbolasers, missile salvos, and and ion cannons firing upon their fleet. We whittle down their fleet while our fighters finish them off. If their Destroyers seek to target us, engage in offensive rotation protocols and fire the heavy cannons. Keep them stagnant and incapable of moving. Understood?"

"Understood Lord Autarch!" they all shouted in unison before going about their tasks.

Spoiler: OOC Actions

• Fed off the destructive energies of the First Wave, slightly empowering Kascalion.
• Detected incoming squadrons, enacted defensive protocols, and began preparations for future offensive advancements.
• Alerted Wave Two to prepare for deployment.
• Has not detected Incoming Mandalorian Forces - To be dealt with later personally

 

[Kolson Vrask]

V A N D A L
STORM COMMANDO TASK FORCE 'DARK RIDER'
VANDAL SQUAD
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
O N _ F I R E
Meko Sorrin | Jorus Fel | Gedeon Rath | Darth Vinaze

War was hell. Mortal men and women fought in and amongst these specially branded unholy flames time and time again. Unafraid to delve into the embers, the white hot base of the fires.

But the Sith, for all their despicable rot had a certain means of creating and living in this hell all their own and soon the Hammerheads slaughtered on the first approach of the Sith rose revenant once more, reanimated in their shambling massacre as they began to walk free from the jungle enveloping them once more.

The first thing he saw was the glint of their eyes before they drew in toxic air into their six lungs, bellowing out in horrible, nightmarish screams fixated on the New Imperial operatives.

A wave, a swarm of them began to bare down on Meko and Berik's unit. He could feel the threshold of his rebreather sounding out with his increased rate of breathing, a polite machine like reminder to try and calm the fuck down in the face of death. But instead, he squeezed the trigger of his rifle and fired a burst into the jungle, the bright glint of the bolt revealing the silhouette of more approaching before he fired again...and again. In aimless desperation.

<"Fuck...come in, Massiff! This is Vandal! Give me something!"> Berik shouted, he needed to know there were others in the bowels of this hell as he pressed his thumb down unto the distress beacon on his wrist mounted tacpad, the lack of proper oxygen being delivered to him in his frantic breathing upping the intensity of this encounter even more as he sought to continue deeper in all his fear. All it took was one rake of the enemy's arm and Berik could be breathing in that horrid toxin. The stakes and risks had never been higher.

 

[Strappa The Thicka]

There were suddenly more paddy frogs in the aquarium. His will manifests. Slowly, the behemoth nodded as he listened to THE MIGHTY GAT TAMBOR and the words of the two accompanying COMPNOR agents. The Geonosian looked around, surveying the native flora. Each specimen extended its bloom and became even more vibrant to avoid displeasing the Lord of Girth.

A series of clicks, gurgles, and sputters emanated from his maw in his mother Geonosian tongue.

< Our substance will gain such prominence that the very nations it infects will take initiatives against it. Naive 'wars on spice' will come to fruition, entrenching its people in patterns of spice addiction and planting the roots of this plan even deeper. They will criminalize this spice, in an attempt to ensure that the context of spice use habitually turns the brain toward shame, illegality, secrecy and depravity. The stress and social isolation imposed on users from this initiative will only drive relapse. They reinforce prisons. They reinforce dealers. They reinforce violence. And through this, the associated context of every other criminal enterprise that accommodates drug use will also be reinforced. We will recreate a tragedy where the artificial solution causes the problem. We must engineer a war on spice within the borders of those we wish to infiltrate.>

Strappa The Thicka's thunderous words boomed across the atmosphere. It would be impossible to transcribe these words without a twenty-two point bold font. As his will, so it shall be. Despite his use of an esoteric language, his words translated true into the ears of each listener. Not by the work of any vocoder or interpreter, but by his own sheer willpower.

Tavius Muuaji Gat Tambor Djorn Bline

 

[Waymar Dathrohan]

H A M M E R - S I X
181st STARFIGHTER WING | HAMMER SQUADRON
SEVENTH FLEET | NIV PENITENT PELLAEON IV-CLASS STAR DESTROYER
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
TIE/HF Slasher | Flight Suit
Damocles | Chasianna | Kascalion Giedfield
V E N G E R

<"Yeah- Yeah I know."> He spoke up in reply to the Zeltron to her words of wariness directed to him, biting his tongue before he switched the hardware mute on his comms. Just as the TIE Slashers were about to drop the hammer, press their attack unto the Hallowed Grave, Hammer-Nine saw his ship spiral out of control in a blazing inferno before crashing flush against the twisting hull of the flagship.

Fighters swarmed to intercept them, corvettes positioned to block and prevent their nearing of the Dread flagship.

In panicked beats, Hammer-leader sounded out through the unit's comms.

<"Hammer! Pair off and fall back! We need to thin their numbers before we draw back in for another run..."> He barked out in command, Artem grit his teeth as he wrenched back on the throttles to pull his Slasher from its trajectory toward the Hallowed Grave's twisting hull, flicking his shields to the aft of his ship in attempt to ward and protect from the point defense fighter and starfighters bearing down on them.

<"Need the INT squadrons to thin the herd before we go back in."> Hammer-Leader sounded out once more.

<"Support is on the way we just need to hold the line..."> He relayed once more.

<"Damnit..."> Was all Artem could sound out in the comms linked to his squadron pair. Evidently disappointed. The role of the Slasher was to bear down and reap destruction unto these biggers vessels and they'd been robbed of that chance.

<"I'm hitting one of these corvettes, I'll ping it."> He took initiative and twisted his fighter in the corvettes direction, flipping the power to his weapons systems as he primed the turbo lasers to fire as soon as they gained the distance on the vessel, a thumb resting over the ordinance switch all the same. Disruptor torpedoes. All the while, illusionary vessels surged into the fray. It had all the makings of a losing battle while the Seventh Fleet played defensively near Tafanda Bay.

Though still, its flagship, the Dissident Aggressor had yet to appear here...Artem could only hope it was in waiting for its chance to surge into the field and strike.

 

[Darth Vinaze]

FEAR LEADS TO SUFFERING
Meko Sorrin | Kolson Vrask | Jorus Fel | Gedeon Rath | The Grim Lady​

The Cacophony of the Ithorian screams would have been a nightmarish sound for their victims, but to Derleth it was a sweet symphony of dread. It echoed around the jungle, reminding anyone around that the Sith were perverting the very sacred ground of the Ithorian peoples. As the sithspawn bellowed, Derleth stood overlooking a small pond hidden within the jungle. It was perfectly shaded and secluded.

He watched his ugly reflection off the water, a reminder of what he had been through and the strength it gave him. Introspection was key, for understanding the hate and fear inside himself would allow him to push it onto others. He closed his eyes and uttered the spell. As he opened them, his reflection in the water was a dark, even more twisted version of himself. The reflection began to rise from the water and formed a dark silhouette of Derleth, standing across from him.

“Is this the form you wish me to take?” it said in the Sith language with a deep, raspy voice.

“Or perhaps these forms would better suit you?” it changed from a shadowy version of himself to a shadowy version of the man who had corrupted him, then it transformed into his late master,

It was toying with him. It knew Derleth was afraid. It knew the fears of every being it encountered, but it would relent. It would submit.

“You mistake your purpose, demon. You are bound to a Lord of the Sith. You will obey me.” Derleth reached out and put his hand through the smoke demon, focusing his will through him as well, and then clenching his fist. The silhouette of his master dissipated and the smoke demon assumed the form of an incorporeal cloud. Derleth turned and pointed towards the sound of fighting, and the cloud of smoke floated away to catch its victims.

When it left, Derleth returned to looking at his reflection. His heart raced. The demon had sensed his fears immediately. Derleth could not deny that he was afraid of those things which the demon had shown him. The past, himself… he knew those were not fears befitting a Sith Lord, but he knew as well that the past was behind him and that it only made him more powerful…

 

[Zrotâl Freeman]

OBJECTIVE II //: IMMOLATE

Damocles Artem Strag Chasianna Kascalion Giedfield

t h e w e l l e r m a n

<”You’re late!”> Came the call from one of the crew, a name lost in the miasma of needs and demands. The statement clipping through Freeman’s mind the moment it had entered, falling out the other end and clattering to the floor. He knew he was late, he was always late to something, wasn’t he? In some odd way or another, in some off kilter beat.

From outside of the shielding of the gun emplacement, into the endless expanse of the void, Zrotâl was given full view of the cacophony of conflict. He saw starfighters dancing between one another, keeping hostile vessels off of the more important, heavier craft as they moved in to deliver heavy punches to the main line of the Ascendants line. He watched as green and red turbolasers blurted across the field of combat, scoring off put hits here and there as titans rolled and moaned through realspace. The Ascendants vessels were strange to Zrotâl, he had worked and served on many vessels, from the lowest freighter to the highest dreadnought, and yet he had never seen something that looked exactly like the Ascendants vessels. They looked like monsters, birthed from pits of stone and flesh, with strange shapes and odd just here and there. Their cruisers struck him as a strange piece to some form of computing device, none of it were makes or models that he was familiar with.

This thought settled in his mind as he brought himself into the gunner seat of the mass-driver cannon, tapping at the holodisplay in front of him as the barrel began to break into light at different intervals. Every couple half steps, a red circle would come to life as the weapon charged to life, the electronic component of the warmachine. He heard the mechanical grinding, the opening and shutting of the massive hatch, and the automated arm feeding one of the shells into the weapon before shutting once more. The gun groaned and shifted in it’s bearings as Zrotâl pushed the command stick forward, his helmet hardlinking with the piece’s HUD. Bringing the view in front of him to bright shades of green, projecting a crosshair in real space in the distance, followed by a trail of a green tracing line. Something he would match to the sightlines displayed on the holopad.

<”Broadside teams! Corvettes moving into defensive positions, holding up our fighters. Punch a hole in the bastards.”> Screeched a commanding voice through the crew’s helmets.

Command was given, it was simple to follow.

Coordinates began to appear in the top right corner of his helmet, with a secondary red set of numbers below it, shifting with the angle of the barrel of the behemoth tool. Clicking and adjusting shade slowly to yellow as the weapon was adjusted and aligned more in tune with the assigned target, before clicking to a solid green of matching numbers as it settled directly on the point in distant space assigned by the top brass.

It was nothing at this distance, a vaguely T shaped form slowly shifting to it’s side, a slight yellow underglow barely visible between the onslaught of blaster rounds and insects screaming around it’s hull.

<”Main Gun Cherek-4 asking for permission to fire at will.”> Zrotâl said into comms.

<”Permission granted. Light them up, Cherek-4.”>

With that, Zrotâl leaned onto the trigger of the cannon.

It came with a momentary silence as the electronic signal was sent from the trigger to the shell, but a moment after, the explosion rocked the ground. The shell blew it’s payload through the barrel of the driver, sending a flare of gas, flame, and light as it passed each of the red lining rings. Eclipsing out of the shielding of the gunnery position before breaking into the bleak void. Traveling through at speed faster than the crew could register. A moment later, miles outside of the cruiser it was targeted at, it slammed against the shielding. Sending waves of jittering purples and blues echoing across the flank of the vessel, before a handful of other explosions from other main guns were tossed in tandem across the shielding, following in staggered fire from the first round launched by Zrotâl. The kick from the gun dared to buck Zrotâl from his seat, and while he would have liked to shout, to holler out joy and salutations, some grand badass chant of victory, he kept strong. Buckling himself back down into the seat as he listened for the sound of the crew maneuvering the shell cover, the harsh hiss of the burning metal hitting the open air and the smell of spent chemicals, the whirring of the mechanical arm being fed another round, the shut, and the orange of his holopad blinking back to green. The trigger was pulled again, and once more, hellfire ruled from the barrel. Slamming once more into the shield of the vessel before the scattering of it’s brethren followed in close pursuit. Again. Again. Again.

They were extensions of the ship, part of the vessel, part of the crew.

 

[Trajan Fett]

S U P E R C O M M A N D O
THE OATHSWORN
SONS OF MANDALORE
IMMOLATE | HEADHUNT
S N I P E R _ A T _ T H E _ G A T E S _ O F _ H E A V E N
Kascalion Giedfield

​

The Sith swarmed in droves over the New Imperial fighters, fleet. So too did the Sons of Mandalore fall prey to their interdiction. But not for long. Such was not the way of the Mandalore. Kurze and his war droids continued to press the advantage, everything else be damned they would make the gods bleed again. The bitter defeat at Mandalore mean't the Sons could not leave here without blood staining their fingers, the blood of the Sith, the blood of the existential enemy.

Kascalion might have not wielded the banner of the crimson saber any longer, but he would be put down like the rest. It didn't seem to matter anywhere. Who they were, what nation they fought under. All Sith were the same. If the New Imperials knew nothing else, they had registered this fact and it led to one of the greatest mass killings in Galactic history. Kyber Dark.

His howling metal monsters continued their surge toward the Hallowed Grave. They would have their blood. They would draw The Devil from his hole and slay him outright.

It is the way of the Mandalore to be hunter or prey.

They would be no prey on this day.

 

[Wilhuff Krieg]

G R A ' T U A _ C U U N
GRA'TUA CUUN | VENGEANCE-CLASS MANDALORIAN DREADNOUGHT
SONS OF MANDALORE
IMMOLATE | OUR VENGEANCE

​

The calling had been given. The skies above Ithor were alight in fire. The Sith had lurched from their hole to disrupt this precarious peace once more. A summon had sounded out, calling for the curled fist of the Seventh Fleet in the form of the Dissident Aggressor to rip into real space once more and devastate the enemy but strategic demands called it elsewhere.

Consolidating on their Vinsoth outpost, the Sons of Mandalore were prepared for war. While reluctantly integrated into the machinations of New Imperial High Command, the Gra'tua Cuun was tapped to relieve the parceled task force above Ithor.

Surging into hyperspace, it would soon make due on its answer.

And show these Sith true dread.

 

[Damocles]

I _ A M _ D A M O C L E S
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
181ST STARFIGHTER WING | 5/181ST "ANVIL" SQUADRON
IMMOLATE | ITHOR ORBIT
TIE/INX INTERCEPTOR

He felt it almost as soon as it started - a dark tendril reaching out from that abominable ship to brush up against what it believed to be the feeble mind of a non-Force user. His squadron was getting sloppier, giving newly-appeared vessels a wide berth as if terrified by their visage, some even perishing as the enemy goliath began an onslaught against its David-esque adversary. Damocles, however, pushed back hard in a strong showing of willpower, his presence in the Force rivalling many of the Sith for the sheer magnitude of hatred radiating off of his being.

This was not his first mission against a significantly more powerful enemy, memories of the battle over Huk still fresh, and he was not about to be permanently retired by the deadly void of space just yet. Stabilizing his shields and surging forward like a bolt of thunder, Damocles sheared through the shields of a nearby corvette and started pelting some of the turrets and instruments with a burst of laser fire, letting loose a pair of proton torpedos that tore it to shreds. Destroying a single corvette was nothing game-changing for the battle, but it would do much in the way of letting the squadron of interceptors clear up the local area without being harassed by an oversized gunship.

As if on queue, another horde of Sith fighters were released onto the field and began swarming the Imperials with a renewed vigour. Some of Anvil Squadron had already fallen prey to the point defence weapons of the enemy flagship, but most of the 5/181st was still alive and well enough to fight back against the scourge, the squadron splitting up into elements once again to deal with the threat.

Damocles followed after Anvil Nine, helping her fend off any hostile lucky enough to put her in their sights, another Sith fighter getting dispatched by a burst of laser fire from his cannons. The pilot grunted as a particularly feisty enemy pilot got through his shields are put a hole in one of his solar arrays, prompting him to flip around and shove a concussion missile into their face, a dark laugh escaping his mouth when he watched the burning wreck slam into their wingmate. <"Splash two hostiles, you alright Anvil Nine?"> He called over the comms, swinging back around to rejoin them. <"A little cooked but better than the Sith, aye?"> She replied quickly, veering to the right to avoid a blast from a point defence gun.

<"Anvil Squadron! Split off and move closer to the flagship, they won't be able to pick us off without hitting their own ship!"> Anvil Leader crackled, the red-striped interceptor racing towards the dreaded capital ship. It was an alright idea in Damocles' opinion; he supposed if he were to die he would at least die quickly.

Better than he could say for the poor sod in the starfighter he just depressurized with laser fire.

Artem Strag | Chasianna | Darth Interitus | Kascalion Giedfield ​