Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Dominion Kickin Ast | SO Dominion of Ast Kikorie


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Ast Kikorie had once sat at the edge of known space, a lonely sentinel perched on the rim of mapped hyperspace lanes where the known galaxy thinned into rumor and speculation. From its orbital platforms scholars and watchers had long peered outward, ancient telescopes hanging like silent guardians above the world, their lenses turned toward distant stars no one had yet claimed. It had been a place of observation, of patience, of quiet vigilance.

Now its purpose had turned inward.

For the Sith Order, the observatories held little appeal beyond passing curiosity. Knowledge for its own sake rarely survived long in the shadow of conquest. What mattered was position. Ast Kikorie lay along a vector that opened pathways deeper toward the Core, a stepping stone through which fleets could advance with speed and certainty. Control of the world would anchor supply lines and give the Order a forward base from which to press their advantage. Its conquest had not been debated for long. It was treated as inevitable, another mark to be struck from a long ledger of campaigns.

The keyword being was.

The first indication that something was amiss came quietly. Scout craft dispatched to survey landing zones descended through the upper cloud layers and simply vanished from contact. No distress calls, no telemetry drift, no debris fields detected by long range scans. They were present one moment and gone the next, swallowed by the planet’s atmosphere as though it were an ocean closing over a stone. Attempts to reestablish communication returned only silence, sensor returns distorted by interference that could not be cleanly categorized or filtered out.

Undeterred, command proceeded as planned. The invasion timetable allowed little room for hesitation, and the assumption remained that any localized disruption could be overcome by mass and momentum. The first wave of the main assault force launched soon after, hundreds of shuttles and drop craft streaking toward the world in tight formations, their hulls glowing as they cut through the upper atmosphere. Confidence remained high aboard the fleet above. Whatever resistance waited below would be crushed beneath the weight of numbers and firepower.

The planet answered with violence.

As the descending armada pushed through the thickening clouds, a surge of ion energy erupted upward in a sweeping wave that rippled across the sky like a silent storm front. Systems flickered and died in an instant. Guidance thrusters cut out. Navigation displays went dark. One by one the craft lost control, their descent turning from disciplined approach to uncontrolled plunge. Hundreds of hulls tumbled through the clouds, contrails twisting as pilots fought dead controls and failing power.

Those few vessels equipped with hardened shielding managed to remain operational long enough to glimpse the second layer of defense. Anti air batteries, concealed across the surface, came alive with precise and devastating fire. Lances of energy reached upward, picking targets with methodical efficiency. One after another the surviving craft were struck, breaking apart or spiraling down in burning arcs that scarred the cloud cover.

Within minutes the landing force had been shattered.

What remained fell scattered across the surface, isolated pockets of survivors cut off from one another and from the fleet in orbit. Communications arrays refused to function, long range transmitters choked by the same atmospheric interference that had swallowed the scouts. Attempts to relay warnings upward failed again and again, signals dissolving into static before they could escape the planet’s grip.

Now the remnants of the invasion scramble amid unfamiliar terrain, gathering what troops and equipment they can salvage from the wreckage. Command structures are being improvised in the field, perimeter lines drawn where possible, wounded triaged under the shadow of smoking hulls. Above them the fleet waits in uneasy silence, blind to the full extent of the disaster unfolding below.

And across Ast Kikorie, unseen defenders begin to close in.


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If you've survived the crashing shuttle or pod that you arrived to Ast Kikorie's surface in then you shouldn't consider yourself too lucky. That was the easy part. Now with the invasion forces scattered and in disarray without a means of proper communication no real plan can be organized at the moment so it falls to one simple objective.

Survive. Link up with whatever survivors you can and find some defensible area to hold up in until you can make sense of the situation. The locals seem to have shielded much of their military and urban assets from the ion waves so the boldest and most capable among you may be able to seize control of these assets and turn them to our advantage. Carve your own landing zones and gathering points from the enemy piece by piece if you must, and if possible be sure to alert the fleet in orbit of the dire situation.

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The source of the ion waves appears to be a towering spire looming just outside of the shielded Kikorie City, undoubtedly fortified and well defended. Receiving any aid or reinforcements from the fleet in orbit will be impossible as long as the spire is still functional which leaves only one option. A full on assault.

Gather what forces and allies you can along the route towards the spire and assail it with all you have. Few vehicles have survived the ion wave and the crash landings so wit, tactical prowess, and raw Force power will have to substitute in a siege. Disable the spire by any means necessary and the skies will be cleared for landings once more.



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While the campaign centers on breaking Ast Kikorie’s defenses and securing the world as a staging ground toward the Core, the conflict has exposed far more than military targets. Ancient observatories, sealed research sites, and scattered settlements now sit in the shadow of invasion, offering opportunities for reconnaissance, recovery of lost data, investigation into the planet’s unusual atmospheric interference, or encounters with locals who have long lived beneath the watchful arrays. Not every story here must unfold at the tip of a blade.

The disruption of sensors and communications has created pockets where small operations, exploration, diplomacy, or Force driven experiences can unfold beyond the main battle lines. Whether securing sensitive facilities, uncovering forgotten infrastructure, rescuing stranded forces, or pursuing mysteries stirred by the war, Ast Kikorie offers space for narratives that run parallel to the conquest even as the larger campaign presses forward.


 

Tag: Helix Helix
Objective: TBD

Pain. It shot through out Reina's body as she came to. The sensation focused on her shoulder, increasing in agony with ever slight movement.
Blood. It was the first thing she tasted, spitting out a glob of the stuff, only to be hit in the face by it, as sight slowly came back to her.
Smoke. Heat. Flames. Something was on fire. And if she wasn't fast, she would be next.

Everything was slowly clearing up within her mind. The shuttle had crashed. Veered off course. It had flipped whilst she was strapped in, and now she was hanging upside down as smoke spewed all around her. She went to reach her right hand out towards her hip, before letting out a scream of agony that echoed through out the wreckage. Her shoulder was wrecked. How? To what extent? She wouldn't know until she got out. Using her opposite hand to reach for her dagger, Reina unsheathed the blade before slicing off the straps, slamming down onto hard metal, another scream escaping her lips, her siren-like nature only making the sound louder.

Crawling through a smoke filled shuttle, over various dead bodies whilst fire roared from the cockpit wasn't a fun experience. Who could have guessed? Not that it mattered, as Reina dragged herself towards the rear of the Shuttle, slamming her boot against the door in an attempt to open it. Each strike increasing in force as she used the pain to enhance herself. Letting the pain flow through her before she slammed the shuttle door off with a Force-infused strike, before she rolled out of the shuttle, tasking in gasps of fresh air through her gills, as she stared up towards the sky.

In a twisted sense, the sight was beautiful. Shuttles and drop pods fell from the sky, some lit up in flames like shooting stars, escaping through the clouds and hurtling down towards the ground. She couldn't waste time focusing on that however. She had to assess herself. First off, she was bleeding from her head, the liquid dripping down her brow. It wasn't anything major, not worth the effort it would take for her to heal it. The big issue was going to be her shoulder. It didn't feel broken but with the pain every movement brought, her shoulder had more than likely popped out of place.

Fortunately, this wasn't the first time that had happened. Popping it back into place wouldn't be too hard. There'd be the pain of shoving it back into place, and it wouldn't be anywhere near full strength...but it'd be better than letting it agonise her every time she moved her arm. So she took her dagger and placed the handle between her teeth. Not even that could stop her screams however, which travelled far.

"Kark...Have to get moving. Someone will have heard that."

She reached down to her lightsaber, trying to ignite it a few times before letting out a few curses. Damned thing didn't work. The EMPs must have fried it. That left her with her own hands and her dagger to fight. There was a part of her that wanted to try and face all of this by herself. But she wasn't an idiot. She knew she couldn't do this alone. Not until she could heal her shoulder. Healing hadn't been something she was particularly...good at. She'd be able to do it, but it would take a while. The Siren would need to find someone nearby to work with. Time for her to brush up on her people skills.
 
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Objective II: Douse The Lamp
Tags: Reina Daival Reina Daival


Helix grunted as he tore the hatch from another pod, only to find recently-humanoid meat inside. These looked as though a proximity flak shell had gone off mere meters from the pod, after the ion waves had sent it off course. So far, the search for survivors hadn't gone well. Only pod after pod, vehicle after vehicle full of shredded organic offal.

He himself had survived reentry because well... of course he had. Unlike his so-called "superiors", he'd been sold on the benefits of ion-hardening from day one. The suppressive field over the AO hadn't affected him much, but the same couldn't be said for the pod he'd been in.

If he lived through this, the after-action report would include every form and fashion of profanity he could think of. Given his age, and his knowledge of many, many languages, he was certain he could get the point across.

At the very least, he'd find and personally vivisect the sorry excuse for "military intelligence" that had been responsible for this debacle. That thought sent him into a warm, momentary daydream, a pleasant distraction from this particular day's trash fire. He swore he could almost hear the screaming already.

...

He did hear screaming. It was strange, oddly-resonant and endowed with remarkable carrying power, given the general auditory chaos of the area. Restrained, not the panicked, half-animal noises one would expect if he got ahold of them. Helix extended one arm into a hook-festooned tendril, grappling and hoisting himself atop the fallen pod for a better view.

From there, he latched onto a nearby outcropping of rock, briefly reforming himself into a many-legged, wormlike configuration. He scurried up the side of the formation, rearing his head up when he reached the top.

It was a grim scene, no doubt about it. Dozens and dozens of telltale black smoke-pyres as far as his photoclusters could see, and those were just the ones visible from here. His internal coms were working, as was everything else, but the interference made any realistic hailing impossible. Even as he watched, another shuttle or two flopped to the ground like a dead bird, trailing flames. Helix wasn't prone to empathy, though he at least possessed the capacity nowadays. He almost felt some for the poor sods trapped in a falling, inescapable death box.

Another truncated sound of pain. Helix focused, forming a series of sonic receptor-pits across his skin to better pick up the sound. He had a direction and approximate distance shortly. 430 meters, east.

No time to linger. He doubted he was the only one looking for survivors, and that noise wouldn't necessarily only draw friendly attention.

Helix dispersed himself, taking to the air in the form of a near-invisible cloud of fine nanodust. With luck, it was a friendly left alive, and they might go some way towards salvaging this unmitigated disaster.

It didn't take him long to get close. He landed, reformed himself, and strode easily about the area with his usual disturbingly-alien grace. At first glance, this one looked to be another disappointment. Bodies lay about in various different stages of corporeal ruin, and the wreck itself was an upended shuttle consumed almost entirely by a cheerfully-burning blaze. It would be a miracle if anything or anyone survived that.

Though he walked on two legs and operated with two arms for convenience, Helix was not limited to that shape, nor to the traditionally-limited range of vision and hearing that most beings had to bear.

Movement. He felt the air move, more than heard it. He turned, ducking with surprising agility behind the vehicle itself, only to see someone come staggering out.

Battered, bloodied, and clearly the worse for wear, but alive. And holding a lightsaber. Friendly, then. Or at least, not an issue for the moment.

Sith tended to be twitchy when startled. That was just a reality of living in a culture where casual murders over disagreements (or just for fun) were part of the everyday humdrum. He didn't know this one personally, but that wasn't surprising. It was a big empire.

No getting around it, though. The sooner he announced his presence, the sooner they could figure out what the hell was going on, and better yet, who to blame and kill for it.

"You're lucky to be alive." He rumbled, in the closest approximation his grinding chorus of a voice could get to 'nonthreatening'. Helix stepped from behind the vehicle, slowly and carefully. "Very lucky. I've checked six crash sites in the last few minutes. Yours is the only one so far with even a single survivor. Whoever organized this op has some explaining to do."


 
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TAG: Aerik Lechner Aerik Lechner

Holding to the nature of the Sith, the invasion of Ast Kikorie was chaotic.

Between the rush to board waiting dropships and the desire for fresh glory, it was inevitable that the careful planning and plotting would fall apart the moment Sith craft entered the atmosphere of yet another world destined to fall into the grasp of the dark side. Yet such a destiny would not be easy to achieve, as it appeared Ast Kikorie was well prepared for the oncoming storm, a rather devious defensive tool that could not have been properly planned for, let alone overcome in the short time table put forth by high command.

Still, Nefaron should have expected something to go wrong. He wasn't involved in the planning.

That explained his current predicament, trapped within the hull of a near-destroyed dropship, the bodies of various forces serving countless Sith Lords scattered in various states of dismemberment. Nefaron remembered the crash quite well, considering the ship's sudden loss of power and the empty feeling that came with free-fall. Panic set in as troopers braced themselves and pilots struggled to restore power, all in vain, of course, as they tumbled toward the ground. The Dark Side, of course, shielded the Corpse Lord upon impact tough it could only do so much when faced with such a fall and the weight of an entire starship. Surprisingly, the dropship did not crumple entirely upon impact and managed to remain at least somewhat intact, a credit to the builders.

Though nothing was perfect.

Which explained the multitude of broken bones and, as if a bow on top of this particular gift of a day, the sharp chunk of metal that had impaled the Terror Lord. Pain, of course, accompained conciousness, but a good Sith learned to use that pain to survive far beyond what could be expected of a normal being. It took a few moments for Nefaron to snap his bones back into place, his arms being the most difficult, but eventually the barely-human Sith was prepared to rip himself free from the metal.

And he did. Thankfully, his black cloak hid the blood quite well.

Nefaron reached into his cloak and withdrew his lightsaber, providing the necessary light to help the Corpse Lord better understand his own situation. It appeared the dropship had actually landed upsidedown, but that hardly mattered as a large gash had been torn in the side of the ship, weakening the structure enough for the force to create an opening. Nefaron wasted little time doing so, prepared to push forward alone until the light of Ast Kikorie poured in and revealed that there was another who had survived the crash, though he had yet to wake. The Corpse Lord did not recognize the being, though he could sense the Dark Side within him.

For a moment, Nefaron considered turning his crimson blade on a possible rival. Instead, he returned the hilt of his saber into his cloak and knelt before the unconscious Sith.

It appeared he needed a wakeup call.

Nefaron provided one. A firm slap should do the trick.

"You lived. Better than I can say for the rest of this lot. Can you walk?"

 

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