League's End - TSE Dominion of Munto Codru

[Darth Hadius]

The light banter had stopped completely now. The tension seemed so thick in the air, he was almost shocked it didn't fog up his helmet's visors. They could all feel it. The battle was near. Nothing short of top professionalism would do now. Failure to live up to his training and stick to his orders did not only put himself at risk, but the man standing to his left, to his right, all around him.
So yeah, no pressure.

Halt! The NCOs raised their fists to the air to signal the men closest to them. The chatter over their comms was shut now, and everything became eerily quiet. Soft boots shuffled into space, tall grass licked against their polished armour. The trees surrounding them would only cover them for so long, the edge to the clearing was just ahead. And they waited.

Soon, the ground shook. Once, then again, then once more, before it became a deep, rumbling cacophony that seemed like it would never end. The aerial assault had begun, pushing their lines, forcing them to flee. Towards their position. That was their signal.

The officers were the first to rise, synchronized. The order was relayed to their comms too shortly thereafter, but whatever the voice said was soon drowned out by the roaring battle cry as all platoons near him rose and charged out of the bushes. A red light guided them from the center, the crimson lightsaber of the Zabrak, the Sith. Darth Pyrrhus fights with us, Hazard thought to himself as he too allowed himself to join in on the shouting.

They came out of the bushes, blasters set to stun, and unleashing a wild barrage on the fleeing people in front of them. Many of them seemed unarmed, but many were recovering from the surprise and started to fire back. As far as he was concerned, this was the beginning of the battle for Munto Codru.

 

[Kuzo]

Capable. Polite. Soft spoken. Walking mountain. Generated a feth-ton of heat.

If [member="Jairus Starvald"] had been there, Raj would have looked up and over and asked Can we keep him?

A gloved hand came up, waving away the apology.

"None needed," came the buzzing reply. "I have found that I have grown quite accustomed to the anonymity it affords me, as well as useful in the labs." The mask itself was well known. But the woman beneath it was not. Either Vain or Irajah, it didn't matter. It meant that if she did need to go about in the Empire, unmasked for some reason or another, there would be few outside of those who already knew of her presence here who would recognize her.

Of course, those few could risk bringing all of it down.

He didn't need to ask twice for her to start to explain some of the work Vain had been working on, with no small amount of relish. The work was good, no matter her opinion of the copy. It was her own mind that had gone there, had done the work. As far as Irajah was concerned, all of Vain's research by right belonged to her. Intellectual property, once removed.

There was plenty that was classified, even within the Empire, eyes only for those in power. But there were small, pet projects that Vain had been perusing for her own interests and there were several of those that piqued the same passions Irajah held and were harmless enough to share.

In truth, he would find an animated conversation partner for some time on this track. Hands gesturing, mask bobbing, explaining with out condescending while still keeping the topics accessible. For the moment, it was absolutely Irajah Ven, rather than Doctor Vain that he spoke to.

[member="Vulgrim Blackwell"]

 

[Vestille Thumahra]

"Mendhal, look alive!"

The call from his Sergeant had brought the Private back to his senses as both his body and his mind wandered through the thickness of the foliage that surrounded him. Sure enough, the once safe haven of the League of Voss had become their tomb-- And among the many who had flocked to bring about the end of their sworn enemy, the 7th were yet another with the intent to smite their foes from the face of the galaxy. Even without the guidance of General Thumahra and his whereabouts still unknown, it was nothing more than a footnote as the 7th's chain of command and mass assault doctrine fell into place; the numerous elements that made up the 7th Field Army spread across the planet like locusts, cutting their way through whatever resistance dared to stand against them-- It was admirable, at least the Private thought so as his mind wandered through the forest, that the enemy could be beaten down to what one could consider pulp yet they would always find it within themselves to stand defiant. Yes, some may have frowned upon it to view the enemy in a positive light, especially one like the League of Voss, yet within his mind Vaskri was by himself, alone with his thoughts-- Well, save for the near constant buzz of his communications pack that was hooked up with the long-range communications with the rest of the Legion and its command elements.

Yet it was the call from his Sergeant that brought him back to the state of reality. Bombers flew overhead and delivered their payloads only a kilometer or so away; the detonation of munitions and the screaming of wounded was heard beyond. To the Private, this was his first true taste of combat, thrown right in the deep end to witness the horrors of war first hand without any sort of filter. It was this that made the 7th the elite fighting force of the Sith Empire, a relentless approach to ensuring that every man, woman and alien was battle-hardened and well-accustomed to the hellish landscape that war often brought about. As the squad made its way through the lush green leaves amid the echoes of blaster fire and the earth-shaking explosions, it was clear that they were coming up on their objective; the capture of a deep-rooted outpost that sat within the center of the valley itself, full of supplies and munitions that their superiors clearly wanted recovered rather than simply allowing the bombers to level the compound. It was a simple task, supposedly, the fresh-faced comm-pack operator had placed his trust in those that surrounded him; including the hard-headed Sergeant that led them. The Legionaries soon found themselves upon the edge of the compound, a swift and silent hand signal from the Sergeant indicated that they should go prone and lie in wait for the right time to strike.

That they did, soon the armor-clad troopers took their positions amid the forest floor, watching as unarmored and rag-tag militiamen and the occasional soldier scrambled about in order to prepare defenses-- Entirely unaware that they were being watched. The Sergeant giving her silent orders and directing each soldier within her squad to their target. Vaskri eventually had his-- A bright-eyed man, must have been no more than nineteen years old; in some ways, there was very little difference between the unknowing militiaman and the Legionary that now had his sights upon him. Each second went by, waiting for the first shot that was to act as the signal, the tension within his chest gripping tighter and tighter as the moments passed. The militiaman turned and looked into the helmeted eyes of the Private that had his finger firmly placed upon the trigger. They both knew what was to happen, the member of the League never blinking as he stared at the man who was about to shed his blood-- Before he could say anything, two shots spewed a fine red mist from his clothed chest.

Vaskri has killed him. The rest followed in kind, the squad of Legionaries opening up on the confused and disorientated rabble of dissidents as they flailed and dived for some sort of cover. As the Sergeant barked her orders and waved the rest of the squad on, the Private could do nothing but stare at where the young man had once stood. His counterpart in this war, a life that had just been spent in the service of a cause he believed in-- Did he have a family? Just who did he kill? The realization that he had taken a life and scored his first kill took some considerable time to come to grips with-- Not that he was granted such time, for his squad had pushed beyond their concealed position in order to take the compound; whatever thoughts or regrets were rushing through his mind had to quickly be pushed to the side, for war was not one to be lenient on the fate of his life or his comrades; it was kill or be killed and, as instincts kicked in, he would rather live than die on this backwater of a planet, among the enemy.

The first splatter of someone else's blood on one's hands was usually the most difficult to come to terms with but-- He was a killer now, in an army of monsters. His path to darkness had started and a long road lay ahead of him. He too would become a monster, in time.

 

[Jairus Starvald]

[member="Irajah Ven"]

For most of the conversation Vulgrim relegated himself as an avid listener.

This was to say- he listened, found something interesting and asked for more clarification, then listened some more as Doctor Vain elaborated. It was perfectly pleasant and Vulgrim was enjoying himself much. In truth, he preferred things like this.

Being the listener.

"All of this is quite fascinating, Doctor Vain." He clapped his hands in pleasure. It was presumably meant as soft support, but instead it served to make even the viewport shiver in anticipation a bit. No matter. He calmly sat down on the bunch of crates again. If it weren't for the animation in his eyes (they flowed like molten lava) he might have disappeared into the background again. "I can't help but.... hmm. I wonder if the Lord Inquisitor would allow me to serve as a liaison for your office. I could function as a bridge between your scientific institute and the Saaraishash, perhaps."

She received a conspiratorial smile there.

Filled to the brim with knife-shaped teeth

"This would enable me to hear more about your work. I am afraid I am not very functional as a spy for the Saaraishash." His size. It was one thing to disappear in the background, but another thing to walk around the crowd and talk information out of people, no?

 

[LT-137]

The battle between the ailing Prophetess and the collection of Thyrsian warships was admittedly shorter than Khonsu would’ve liked. While the Star Destroyer was formidable in its own right, the starship was wounded from the successive skirmishes against the military might of the Sith-Imperial armada. The man was expecting something more from a warship that repulsed the Sith Empire time and again, but was utterly disappointed with the reality of their collective situation. His flotilla danced around the wounded starship, essentially acting like a flock of carrion birds circling a rotting carcass.

There was little return fire from the warship itself and was swiftly disabled by the precision bombardments from the Thyrsian ships. When it was finally dead in the water, the Twisuns Praetor ordered that the Nebula II was boarded and subsequently purged of all that resisted.

The Sith Empire would have their scalps, one way or another.

With their defences crippled, the Prophetess was powerless to deny the Golden Company of their ability to land troops within her sundered husk. No transports that bore the Twinned Suns were destroyed; nor were they damaged beyond anything that could be repaired through conventional means. As those same transports landed amongst the carnage and chaos, their blast doors retracted; allowing for the heavily armed and armoured troops within to spill outwards like a torrential flood.

Khonsu was the first to board the Prophetess and the first to claim a kill amongst what remained of the League’s forces. It was a simple kill - in the grand scheme of things - but it was effective at striking terror in those who bore witness to the man’s death. A single cartridge hit the debris-strewn deck, and the slug found its mark. When the impact was made, the vial within shattered and began spreading almost instantly. The Xenoboric acid ate away at the organic matter; leaving nothing left but a thick, viscous puddle in its wake.

Fear began to spread, and the Twisuns Praetor almost shivered with the thrilling rush.

It was only a matter of time now. There was only a finite amount of resources that the remaining forces of the League could deploy, as they were cut off from reinforcements and alone amongst the stars.

Nothing would save them; not even the dwindling sensations of Hope.​

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Weapons were passed from wife, to man, and even to the children.

The rangers protested, but the Jedi was adamant that there was nowhere left to run.

The armies of the Sith closed upon the refuge.

Carnage - A desperate fight, breaking the spirit of even the most zealous believer in the righteousness of the League.

The Sith-Imperial Legion were simply too many. No spirit could match their hate, and in the end.

"Jedi Knight, you live yet."

The old woman appeared before the young knight once more. She took her hands and helped her lay more comfortably. The commander bled profusely, but the glow of the Force made her cling still to the barest scrap of life.

"You survived. Were there o-" "None." she interjected "Not even the children were spared."

Images travelled through her hands and into the Jedi's mind. The children, hiding or fighting, brave - Suddenly cold. A red light. A stinging pain.

The face of a pallid woman with burning eyes.

"You." "Yes."

She let the mask fall. Her chilling presence embracing the Jedi like a blanket of discomfort.

"So I join with the Force. A comfort you shall never have, Darth"

 

[Thyne]

Of all things, Thyne was not known for being an expressive being. In fact, he was quite the opposite, seemingly existing in a perpetual state of being lost in thought. He was a follower, a tag along at least until the powers that be determined otherwise. That was just who he was - whether it be a distinct personality shift dealt by a different home life in comparison to his original, or if it was something manufactured, something intentionally placed to keep him docile until needed.

Any other day, he would've fallen behind Joyce. almost clinging to her shadow as she entered the room, petrified by the idea of being left behind. But those were days before that sword and its oh so persuasive voice slinked its way into his head. That was before he entertained the idea of giving the blade what it so desperately desired, before he knew the euphoria that came with the rush of energy the sword provided each time it knew the taste of blood.

It was addicting, to the point in which going so long without combat was almost maddening. Both the boy and sword had spent much of the voyage antsy, nearly jumping wall to wall if not for the social stigma against doing so. And just as that little boost of power was growing addicting, so too was it becoming a bit too easy to listen to that voice.

Do you hear them? You're less than a ghost to them, boy. Nothing. It couldn't be true, not entirely. Why, then, would he have been brought along at all, then? Why would Joyce bring him to any mission? You're a pet, child. A pet that'll be replaced the moment something else catches their interest. And they'll continue to treat you as such until you show them otherwise. Until we show them otherwise.

Don't be their victim, Thyne.

Make them ours.

In the moment itself, outside of the mental constraints that made up the sword's telepathic domain, Thyne's physical form was just about seething in such a way he could've easily been a different person. Back straight, legs about shoulder-width apart, standing just inside the doorway and no longer in the shadow of Joyce, the majority of what Darth Pyrrhus had said fell on deaf ears. When the Sith Lord's gaze turned to him, however, one would find him glaring at the Togrutan with an intensity one would never associate with the boy. His fists were shaken, driven by sheer rage. His teeth dug into his cheek and lip, drawing blood.

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"] | [member="Darth Pyrrhus"]​

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

[member="Thyne"] [member="Darth Pyrrhus"]

The tall Vahlacanthix stepped into the room fully, and as such stepped into her diplomatic role. As Darth Pyrrhus spoke her name, Joycelyn made a small bow, her head turning slightly to the side in deference to the Sith Lord and apprentice of her father. He was her senior in all respects, and from the rumours, appreciative of respect but not of bootlickery.

"Darth Pyrrhus"

She kept her eyes on the togruta, knowing that breaking eye contact or straying from his attention could be interpreted as a sign of weakness. Weakness was not something she could afford to show. Especially not here, not now. Still, she had a concern about Thyne. She knew him by now, and this posture was not a normal reaction. So, maintaning focus on Pyrrhus, she reached a hand out and touched Thyne's shoulder with a firm, but non-intrusive squeeze.

"As Wyyrlock passed down his title and responsibility, so have I decided to adopt the mantle and moniker my Father once bore." "Before he was Carnifex, our Dark Lord of the Sith."

There was something of a twofold message in her words: Darth Vornskr had been a governor, a warlord, and above all an unquestionably loyal servant to the Dark Lord of the One Sith. However, as Pyrrhus would know, it was also the moniker he carried when he and the Reach killed the Dark Lord's resurgent form deep under Coruscant. What was beyond question was that the name Vornskr demanded strength, in arms, in command, and in the Force.

Joycelyn was not only claiming her inheritance as a Zambrano, but as a Sith.

"You of all should know what that entails." "Honoured Triumvir."

She finally found a moment in which she could look at Thyne, her hand still clutching his shoulder if he had not shrugged it away.

"Allow me to introduce another member of the family: Thyne Zambrano." "Thyne, meet Darth Pyrrhus."

 

[Darth Ophidia]

"Unfortunately my dear."

A crackle of electricity surged from Ophidia's fingers and into the Jedi's body.

"You shan't have the pleasure."

While the Jedi's body arched in pain, her wounds began closing, cauterising, turning into pallid, jagged scars right before her eyes.

The Sith Lord's eyes lit up with delight as a chuckle rolled up through her throat, accumulating into a wild cackle as she kept the stream of pale electricity coursing through her opponent. Only the first few blasts cured the cuts, the remaining were just there to cause suffering and to exhaust her new plaything. Screams echoed through the caves, falling only on the deaf ears of the dead laying strewn throughout the system. The wounds of the freshest still smouldered.

And just before she crossed the threshold of death, the once so proud Jedi was brought back to the brink.

Only this time, she was dragged away. Her sabre hanged from the belt of a Sith.

 

[Keira Cerdulan]

Quickly, Keira had learned she was less than needed for this whole operation. Command just wanted to smack some sense into the fresh lieutenant, or at least that was her guess: still wouldn’t listen to her that that Duros was asking for it. Any combat that had befallen the little group was brutally quick and hadn’t given her the chance to do nothing more than just firing off a single shot.

This place was boring and hot.

She liked green, there wasn’t any green in space, wasn’t any green on Cademimu: but for once she decided she didn’t like all the green that much. Only given credence once she tripped over part of a tree trunk sticking out of the ground, taking an impressive tumble face first into the dirty, and of course, showed her impressive vocabulary of cuss words: like any good Pilot should.

 

[Amseth Typho]

Objective: Put on an excellent display of force.
Allies: Open
Enemies: N/A

Amseth Typho gazed at the surveillance monitor of the Square Hammer conference room, sizing up the various noble lords and ladies and men of the Court who had been invited for the occasion. In many ways, the conclusion of this little spectacle was already predetermined: He had handpicked the guests after personally assessing their likeliness to approve of Project Clemency. If they weren't allies of the Court, then they were proponents of cybernetics, allies of House Typho, or, more importantly, enemies of the Inquisition who would approve of another faction in the Empire to keep them in check. Regardless of what would happen, the demonstration was already a success.

"Is General Paesante's unit in position?" He asked the ship's Captain. He was making his preparations to unveil Project Clemency to his awaiting audience from the bridge of the Square Hammer, which was presently maintaining orbit around Munto Codru.

"Affirmative," the Captain replied. "Likewise, all observation units are in position, and the Legion cordon around the village is airtight so as to prevent interference. The operation is ready to begin on your command."

"Excellent," Amseth concluded. "Captain, you have full command over the battlegroup until Commodore Pax or I return to the bridge. Maintain orbit in line with the blockade." The adjudicator made a dramatic pivot and walked down the bridge to the tubolift. As he did so, he telekinetically adjusted his robes ever so slightly. It was essential that his appearance was utterly impeccable, beyond reproach. This was a big day. And even though victory was already a foregone conclusion, Amseth Typho knew that no plan was flawless until after it was executed.

 

[Darth Pyrrhus]

Pyrrhus managed a smile, although it was mostly distorted by the mask he now wore. "Very good" he said aloud. Invoking the name of Wyyrlock as well, very good indeed. This had not been done on a whim. "I shall watch your career with great interest, then, Darth Vornskr reborn." Very promising indeed.

Finally it was time for the other one's introduction, and it actually came as a surprise to him. Another Zambrano. He must admit this one had slipped under the radar.

Pyrrhus met the stare of Thyne. Something about him seemed to change. #Triggered. "Careful, boy." He best control himself, he thought, even as Pyrrhus was goading him. "Sith use emotion, they do not let it so easily use them." But he was young, and would still have time to learn. With Joycelyn's hard hand on his shoulder, he liked his chances.

"Master Dun Möch, or become its victim." To see Thyne succumb to his rage and make a grave mistake he could not recover from would not benefit the Sith, and so he imparted the brief lesson. The better a Sith he became, the better their Order would be for it, he figured. Be that as it may, given the way his fists were shaking, and his teeth biting hard into his lip, the Togruta had a feeling his words would fall on deaf ears.

"Your apprentice?" he turned back to Joyce with the question, asked in a flat and neutral tone.

[member="Joycelyn Zambrano"]​

[member="Thyne"]​

 

[Amseth Typho]

Objective: Celebrate your victory.
Allies: N/A
Enemies: N/A

The presentation had gone off entirely as expected. Amseth had opened with a flowery speech, given a decent enough overview of the project, and then went right into the demonstration. The Penal Legion did their job perfectly, and the village was utterly decimated with no survivors. The entire affair had been perfectly captured, and every kill was visible for the audience to revel in. He had concluded the entire affair with a projection of Project Clemency's production capacity going forward, and a vow to build the most innovative and unique army the Sith had ever seen. His closing was met with a round of applause, and now the guests were socializing and conversing as they were escorted back to their shuttles. In short, the whole affair had proceeded exactly as planned.

It was so boring.

Here he was, having finally debuted his grand project to the public, and it felt so underwhelming. What was left to accomplish? What further significant obstacles could he face? The most challenging aspect of the entire project had already been completed: he had a working product and a steady base of support. His projections were accurate, and the army was only set to grow. Sure, it felt fine being triumphant, but without any challenge, victory felt so...

So...

So hollow?

 

[LT-137]

After having broken through their outer defences, and assailed their internal blockades, Khonsu found himself disappointed with what remained of the League. They were a mighty foe in the beginning; back when their Homeworld wasn’t conquered by the Sith Empire. It seemed that with the silencing of the Mystics, these Voss simply sought to throw themselves at their newfound, and hated foes until they perished. They couldn’t end their own lives, because of their religious beliefs, so they wanted the Sith and their Imperial Lackey’s to do it for them instead.

Well, they got what they wanted, and more, as the Sun Guard and their Auxiliary forces swept through the vessel - trudging through the dust left behind by those who fell prey to their technological might.

For what seemed like hours, the Thyrsian’s combed through the entirety of the wounded vessel; halted only by the sources of measured resistance that cropped up whenever they encountered a critical junction within the warship. It was handy that the League chose a starship from the catalogue of their contractual allies, as that allowed them almost instantaneous access to the operational schematics. Such a boon permitted Khonsu to direct his forces accordingly, and within a matter of minutes - the warship that had proven to be a thorn in the Sith Empire’s side was disabled.

It’s once-roaring engines now lay silent, forcing the wounded craft to drift upon the stellar winds by momentum alone. At least until the Warships of the Myrmidon began pulling the sundered ship into their grasp with a myriad of tractor beams and mass-driven harpoons.

The Prophetess was dead in the water, and now; the Sharks began to encircle her -- ready to land the killing blow.​

_____________________________________________​

Within the sundered husk of the Prophetess, Khonsu found himself standing over the wheezing ruin of the Starship’s Commander. The ashen remnants of his security complement surrounded the command dais, coating the grated deck beneath with their smouldering corpses and carelessly discarded weapons. They hadn’t lasted long after the blast doors were melted, as the Sun Guard strode onto the command deck like the avatars of war they were; gunning down any opposition that dared to raise a weapon at their gilded splendour.

The Captain was the only known survivor, but the man didn’t escape like those that surrendered. He went for his weapon as soon as his last barricade was breached, but his arm was halted as it reached across his chest - as a bladed spear pierced his arm and cored through his torso - pinning him atop his command throne.

There, he remained as the Sun Guard systematically butchered his comrades. Men and Women, he’s known and served alongside for years. All of them, even those that surrendered, were slaughtered before his eyes. He was on the verge of giving into despair but held himself back from the abyss as a hulking warrior gripped the textured shaft of the impaled spear. Instead of tears of sorrow, the Captain unleashed the floodgates of agony and began cursing his would-be-killer in his homeworld’s tongue.

Khonsu couldn’t understand what the mewling wretch was spewing forth, nor did the man really care. He was going to die anyway, and the annals of history would mock the ashes of his bones before the day was out.

“The Sith Emperor sends his regards,” the Thyrsian intoned, before shoving his armoured fist forward, forcing the Force Pike to lance through the command throne. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head as the pain seared through his spine; severing all sensations from his body to his mind.

The last remnants of the League were now nothing more than a bad memory, awaiting the moment when they’d be for-

Before he could finish revelling at the moment of Triumph, one of his subordinates rushed into the room, drawing his attention away from the newfound corpse.

“Sire, there’s something below that you need to see.”​