Junction LIMINALITY || ME & DIA Junction of Orinda & Empty Resource Hex

[Beskar]

LIMINALITY
"Between the living and the dead, between past and promise, the fire waits"​

EOL SHA
Outer Rim Territories

The world of Eol Sha breathed fire.

Ash drifted like black snow across the open sky, carried on gusts that smelled of scorched stone and oil. Beneath that restless haze, the planet stretched in ribbons of volcanic glass and molten veins, its surface fractured and scarred from centuries of quiet decay. There were no cities here, no true settlements to speak of, only the outposts that clung to the ash plains like stubborn embers refusing to die. Yet even in ruin, Eol Sha drew the gaze of empires.

For beneath its crust slept Agrocite, a crystal once whispered about in war rooms and laboratories, now unearthed by miners who never understood the storm they were calling down. It shimmered faintly in the dark, a mineral with the temper of a god, capable of feeding machines, ships, and weapons that could change the course of history. To some, it was salvation. To others, it was a spark waiting to consume them all.

The Mandalorian Empire came first, their fleets descending through the upper atmosphere like silver blades through fog. Warships streaked across the horizon, their contrails glowing faintly against the ash. From orbit, the planet’s fury looked almost beautiful, like the forge of creation itself. For Mandalore, this was more than conquest. It was legacy. With agrocite in their grasp, the forges of the clans could awaken something greater than any superweapon, something that would ensure their people would never kneel again.

From the north came the Diarchy, its banners carried by legions that marched through the fire as if born of it. Their soldiers moved with precision, armored forms wreathed in the dust of old eruptions. To them, this was not ambition, but preservation. They had survived the void and the undead, carving civilization from the bones of ruin. They would not see it undone by another empire’s hunger.

Between them lay the scarred valleys of Eol Sha, where the drills had uncovered more than ore. Deep below the crust, past the magma-veined rock, an ancient chapel stirred. Its walls, carved from volcanic glass and wrapped in veins of luminous script, told stories of a people who once harnessed the Force itself to bind energy and life as one. The Paecians. A civilization long vanished, their ruins now whispering secrets that no living tongue should speak.

Those whispers spread fast. Prospectors and scavengers, cults and corporations, all came chasing the same promise: power. But the planet was no passive grave. It roared, and the ground itself seemed to shudder beneath the armies that came to claim it.

Now the first volleys flare across the horizon, crimson streaks of plasma carving through the veil of ash. The war drums of Mandalore echo from orbit, their rhythm pounding like thunder through the barren canyons. The Diarchy’s guns answer in kind, their lines advancing beneath banners that gleam against the dying light.

In that place between ruin and revelation, the war begins. And beneath the surface, the chapel waits.​

Spoiler: Key Locations

URICORP REFINERY

Once the crown jewel of industrial ambition, the UriCorp Refinery now looms like a fortress against the ash-laden sky. Its towers rise from the molten plains in tiers of scorched metal and shattered glass, every wall etched with the strain of constant heat and time. The air hums with the low roar of machinery buried deep within its core, where drills churn through volcanic stone in search of the planet’s most volatile treasure.

Here, the Agrocite is mined, refined, and stored in sealed crucibles that glow faintly through the dark, a steady pulse of emerald light that beats like the heart of the world itself. The facility is massive enough to be seen from orbit, its landing pads crowded with derelict cargo haulers and gutted transports left behind by workers who fled the first wave of conflict. Every corridor, every refinery line, tells a story of desperation and discovery.

Control of the UriCorp Refinery means control of Eol Sha’s future. With its vaults and forges under command, one could feed the machines of war across the stars. To hold it is to hold dominion over the fires that shape empires.​

PAECIAN CHAPEL

Hidden beneath the blackened crust of Eol Sha lies the Paecian Chapel, a cathedral carved into the bones of the planet itself. Its discovery began with the echo of drills striking something that should not have been there, smooth stone instead of molten ore, marked with glyphs that glimmered in the dark. When the miners broke through, they uncovered halls that seemed untouched by time, their walls alive with faint patterns of light that pulsed to some silent rhythm.

The architecture is impossible by modern standards. The pillars twist in geometric spirals, each one threaded with veins of luminous crystal. Murals stretch across the vaulted ceilings, depicting figures in communion with stars, their hands raised to command both life and death. At its center rests an altar of obsidian glass, cold and flawless, surrounded by the remnants of machines whose purpose defies reason.

To the scholars and mystics who have glimpsed its depths, the chapel is more than ruin. It is revelation. The Paecians were said to have bridged the gap between spirit and substance, binding the Force into the very matter of creation. To study their secrets might reshape the understanding of existence itself, or awaken something that should have remained buried beneath the fire.
​

Spoiler: Tag

Aether Verd
Diarch Reign
Diarch Rellik
Darth Virelia
Adelle Bastiel
Domina Prime
Arden Priest
Siv Kryze
Edward Ashcard
Laphisto
Veyla Krinn
Lord Mettallum
Ra'a'mah
Quinn Varanin
Drystan Creed
Darth Kharnaz
Darth Keres
Veyra Kryze
Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze
Renn Vizsla
Iskera Valest
Caera Kryze
Vytal Noctura
Evangel
Tohu
Mellifluous Magenta

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Objective: PAECIAN CHAPEL
Tag: Open





The night above Eol Sha split open like a wound. From the bleeding clouds descended the obsidian craft of Darth Keres — silent, cold, and consuming all light that dared touch it. The volcanic mists recoiled at her presence; even the planet’s molten veins seemed to slow their pulse, sensing a greater fire had arrived.

When her boots met the ash, the air thickened. The whispers of the dead rose from the soot, drawn to her will — the promise of agony disguised as salvation. Her eyes, crimson as fiery embers, reflected nothing but hunger. Eol Sha’s storms shrieked, yet she walked untouched, her shadow crawling faster than her steps, dragging darkness behind like a living chain.

The chapel's secrets would burn without flame. The minds of those foolish to oppose her will would crumble in perfect silence, their screams trapped in the cages of their own thoughts. For Darth Keres did not conquer with sabers or armies — she conquered with silence, with the hollowing of the soul.

By end, the chapel would kneel before her — not out of faith, but out of the dreadful realization that resistance itself had been erased.

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • Basic Lightsaber​
  • 
    
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
  • 
    
• Accessories​

 

[Domina Prime]

​

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASPHEMY​

O B J E C T I V E | Chapel
L O C A T I O N | Ark of Ha'rangir / Iron Eidolon
W A R G E A R | Glyphscript Anvil | Starfang | Warhawk | Gjallerhorn | Warpriest Beskar'gam

Aether Verd | Renn Vizsla | Adelle Bastiel | Drystan Creed | Tohu | Veyla Krinn | Siv Kryze Edward Ashcard | Arden Priest
Lord Mettallum​

The forges of The Ark burned with holy fury.

Within the cathedral holds and sanctum bays of that wandering moon-fortress, House Prime stirred to life like a slumbering colossus. The clangor of steel and the chant of warpriests echoed through the titanic vessel's innards, each hammer strike a prayer, each bolt locked into place a vow of blood. The stained-glass windows of its sanctuaries glowed with the light of molten reactors, their panes depicting Ha'rangir's endless conquest, as if even the walls themselves bore witness to the glory that was to come.

As Domina Prime prepared herself atop the sanctum spire, the call rippled outward. Across the hanging shipyards and monastery tiers, the war engines of a thousand clans stirred, their banners unfurled like a storm of sigils against the black. The Chariot Fleets of Mandalore awakened. Great carriers, plated in sun-burnished beskar and inscribed with the runic scripts of victory, loosed their moorings one by one.

From the lower decks, platoons of Sword Saints marched in holy procession, their armor drenched in the oils of consecration, their helms etched with the prayers of old warpriests. The air rang with the chanting of the Iron Clergy, Warpriest in heavy exosuits, swinging censers that bled incense and plasma smoke. The smell was thick and metallic, a marriage of blood and iron.

Domina's laughter rolled down the corridors of the Ark like thunder through the bones of a dying god.

"Oh, how holy it must be, to be seen by His light," she snarled, as the aspirants fastened her armor. Her plates hissed as the seals locked, one by one—a hymn of steel and sanctity. Her cloak settled about her shoulders like a shadow made royal. Around her, the forgepriests bowed as they presented her armaments, their hands trembling in reverence.

Her gaze swept over the offerings until it fell upon Grásiða, the forgehammer of divine transmutation. She turned it in her hand, eyes narrowing as if inspecting a relic of her own soul. A smile, sharp, wild, and reverent, split her face. "Perfection," she murmured, the word more sigh than speech.

Then came the Warhawk, gift of the Mandalore Aether Verd himself. She studied it with mock solemnity, then grinned and tucked it away, muttering something about "keeping the old man's pride alive."

When the magistrates stumbled in bearing shields and other instruments of defense, Domina's lip curled. "No, no," she hissed, waving them away. "God's work requires tools of destruction. MORE Bring me more weapons...bigger!"

The servants hesitated, but her glare sent them scrambling. They returned soon after with their final tributes, two relics of monstrous make. A mythosaur greataxe, gleaming like a captured star, and a sword so vast it took three priests to bear. The blade shimmered with threads of trapped starlight, the color of burning sapphires.

Dima took it in both lower hands and heaved it aloft, muscles corded beneath the scaled flesh of her arms. The massive sword rested easily on her shoulder, its weight singing to her bones. "There it is..." she whispered. "Artisans of war, we are."

Her laughter erupted again, warm and mad, holy and savage as she strode from the chapel, crushing embers beneath her boots. She embraced her fellow warpriests in her many arms, lifting them from the ground as though they were children.

"If we go to the stronghold of the Allfathers," she roared, voice echoing through the cathedral spires, "then let it be said that we did so cradled in the love of God! When we perish in the flame, we will burn together!"

Cheers and chants answered her call, rising like an earthquake through the Ark's decks. The hymn of battle began, hundreds of voices blending into a warcry older than the stars themselves.

At last, Dima ascended the ramp of her flagship, the Iron Eidolon. Its hull black as volcanic glass, its engines already roaring with contained fury. She lifted the Gjallerhorn, carved from the rib of a dead god, and blew.

The sound shook the heavens. The Ark itself seemed to answer, its vast structure vibrating with the sound of faith made flesh. Across every hangar, soldiers froze in prayer or raised their weapons skyward. The horn's call meant one thing: departure.

From orbit, the fleets moved. Castle-ships and chariot cruisers broke from their moorings, vast shadows streaking toward the void. Their engines burned like new suns, leaving behind trails of molten light as they jumped to hyperspace in unison, an armada of faith and fury.

Ten minutes later, they tore back into realspace above Eol Sha. The ash-storms below parted beneath their descent.

Domina Prime stood upon the bridge of the Eidolon, the great blade upon her shoulder, as she gazed down at the burning world and the armies mustering below.

"Hail," she whispered, her voice trembling with something like joy. "To the one true god."

And as the first drop-ships screamed toward the infernal world, the warpriests sang their hymns through the fire.

The Ark's vengeance had begun.

 

[Lyssara Thrynn]

[Warning, Ragnarok signature class detected]




The void fractured in a burst of black light.

The Ragnarok emerged from stealth like a colossal specter, tearing through the spatial veil in a storm of lightning and ionized smoke. Enemy sensors flared to life in unison, and soon the silhouette of the warship stood clear above Eol Sha a dark mass of steel bristling with turrets, and a strongh defensive shield and another surprise.. The ship don't call ragnarok for nothing. If the mendalorian empire love war and fire, i will show they, what we have in stock.

From the command bridge, I watch the theater unfolding below. Beneath the volcanic clouds, the planet burns slowly, its atmosphere churning with fire and ash. Mandalorian signatures appear across the holomaps Beskar fleets have already begun their descent. The Empire is moving.

I keep my hands clasped behind my back, my gaze fixed on the turmoil below. A part of me hesitates not out of fear, but out of clarity. To descend there is to step into a zone where the Diarchy and Mandalore contest every inch of ground. And yet… that is exactly where I must be.

I turn slightly toward the command console.

"Nyva Shei, "The Ragnarok's command is yours until I return."

She nods, and already the officers move. The bridge lights shift from blue to red; the ship enters combat posture.

I turn away to perform one final check of my gear. Armor sealed, weapons primed, jump modules calibrated. Everything ready. Everything except perhaps my calm. In the viewport's reflection, my face looks foreign: firm, almost expressionless. A mask to conceal the storm within.

The Diarchy has chosen to intervene here and I have chosen to answer that call.

Between Mandalore's fire and the planet's fury, there will be no neutrality. Only survival, and perhaps, a purpose to be found in the chaos.

I raise my eyes to the void. The Ragnarok rumbles softly, as if it too can sense that its time is near.

Soon, I will descend inside the fight

And war will draw its breath once more.

"Nyva, it's going to be violent down there. Be ready to maneuver the Ragnarok."
"Understood, Mistress!"

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

OBJECTIVE: CHAPEL​

​

The Dire Wolf moved unseen through the storm.

Its hull shimmered faintly as the stealth matrix rippled, bending light and heat alike until the ship became just another shadow in the ash. From his command seat, Siv Kryze watched the burning world below twist in the dark—volcanic plains cracking open to spill rivers of fire, the air alive with static and warship signatures bleeding across the upper atmosphere.

Ahead and above, the Iron Eidolon descended like a black sun. Domina's flagship was anything but subtle, its presence cutting through the haze in defiance of the planet itself. The Dire Wolf stayed just beneath her vector, silent and invisible, guarding her approach like the unseen blade of a vow.

"Formation steady," Siv said quietly. The bridge crew spoke in gestures and glances; on a stealth run, even voices were rationed. Instruments whispered in low tones, each reading another reminder that this wasn't just another battlefield.

Agrocite.

The sensors pulsed faintly with its trace deep beneath the crust—unstable, luminous, dangerous. It was the reason Mandalore had come to this graveyard world. The mineral could power fleets, forge weapons, or crack worlds if provoked. Enough to make even disciplined men think twice about what they were chasing.

Siv watched the readings, the faint shimmer of energy bleeding through the volcanic layers, and spoke under his breath.

"If half the reports are true, that chapel isn't just a ruin. It's a forge waiting for a master."

Siv keyed into the general Mandalorian comms.

" Domina Prime ," he said, voice low but steady, "Clan Kryze is in formation and moving to support. We'll move on the chapel's perimeter once you're down. Kryze elements will secure the outer vaults and cut off any escape routes."

He switched to a private encrypted line.

" Veyla Krinn — check your rig and link into the Dire Wolf's descent net. We're breaching the ash layer in thirty seconds. I'll mark your landing vector once the scanners clear the interference."

The ship's interior lights dimmed to red alert. Atmosphere reentry procedures rolled across every screen. Siv felt the faint shift in inertia as the Dire Wolf banked low, the cloaking field flexing like a living thing around the hull.

Through the viewport, faint shapes began to emerge—mountain ridges fractured by lava, and in their depths, the suggestion of impossible geometry. Black stone and glowing script half-buried in molten glass. The chapel.

Siv's hand tightened on the console rail.

"Let's stay ghosts until we have to be fire," he said quietly. "Then we make sure the whole galaxy hears us."

The Dire Wolf vanished again into the clouds—silent, unseen—as it descended toward the chapel's blazing cradle below.

Tag: Aether Verd Renn Vizsla Adelle Bastiel Drystan Creed Tohu Veyla Krinn Edward Ashcard Arden Priest Lord Mettallum Domina Prime​

 

[Persephone Halcyon]

EOL SHA
[ - |Outer Rim Territories| - ]
THE MINES
Aether Verd
___________________________
_______​

The Basilisk War Droid roared—And she could feel it deep in her bones.

Its high-boost engine tore through clouds of ash while they seemed to dance over open pools of lava, and the Mand'alor would feel her arms tighten around his waist. Wind tore at her cloak, and the white fabric of a healer became stained grey by soot as it whipped behind her like a flag. Her grip remained steady despite the churn of gravity, heat, and the unfamiliar motion of the droid creature, but it was a struggle to get used to.

This world wasn't meant for life.

It seethed, and she could feel the fire, the anger, even through her newly acquired beskar'gam.

Her voice was a gentle hum through the modulator of her visor while she did her best not to look down or watch the scenery pass by too closely. It made her a little nauseated.

"You take me to nicest places, Mand'alor."

The words were half in jest. Half...Not.

Afterall, last time, he had taken her to a nice shindig on Naboo. It was just a little too nice, whereas she was fairly certain this locale was one of the rings of the afterlife. She leaned into the motion of the Basilisk as it banked, eyes narrowing. The UriCorp Refinery loomed ahead—A giant skeleton wrapped in steel and flame. It was humongous, and it left her with the sensation of being very, very small. Inconsequential. From a distance, the old furnaces appeared almost alive, with veins of red and orange light pulsing through the black rock. It was unnerving, to be truthful.

Persephone's armor caught the glow in flashes as they passed, with silver and white becoming ghostly in the firelight. The faint reflection of unmined Agrocite burned in mirrored plates, but it wasn't the atmosphere that had her hand drifting toward the sidearm at her hip. She stopped just short. It was just a feeling. She hadn't noticed anything strange, even though they fully expected some sort of trouble.

It was never a milk run with the Mandalorian Empire—It was always something.

She exhaled slowly, steadying her nerves, while the clawed feet of the Basilisk descended through smoke and barely skated across the cracked shale before plowing forward. The heat shimmered around them, and when she glanced up, she gasped, blue eyes growing wide. For a fleeting moment, the horizon looked like it was bleeding…

"I think…We should try and set up a base camp in one of the entry mines. I was looking over some pretty ancient schematics before we left, but the wind doesn't hit it so hard there. The ground will be stable and the vents will keep us from freezing when night falls.", she offered tentatively, still, uncertain if it was all right to speak up about things that were probably better left to greater minds. She was a healer, not a tactician…But she had a good eye for safe spots in a crisis. "There's a sky door as well as ground level access…We can run field repairs there and spot anything coming in from orbit…"

If the planet didn't kill them first.

Persephone was a little frightened, a little concerned, with the knowledge that this was hostile territory. Her training didn't let her admit it, but her memory did not let her so easily forget Iridium.

Her stomach churned.

Who could forget pulling broken bodies from the mud?

"If we're lucky…We might be able to get some sleep."

Maybe.

Spoiler: Stuff

Basic Equipment and Supplies (On Basilisk)
Armor: Protector-type Beskar'gam
Primary Firearm: Ori Sidaki "The Big Ripper"
Primary Blade: Mobius Beskad
Secondary Firearm: SM-10a
Secondary Blade: Euk Siha Service Knife
First Aid: RIDD-01 "Rids"

 

[Edward Ashcard]

Objective: Paecian Chapel
Location: Ark of Ha'rangir / The Wyvern
Equipment:

• Dragon 1R SMG
• Sg-82 sonic rifle
• Sd-77 sonic pistol
• Eternal Legion Gladius
• Class-A thermal detonators
• Sonic screamers
• Imperial "Hellhound" Combat Armour Mk. I

Ship: Dragon LF1 TR 'Wyvern' Technical Research Freighter
Unit: The Broken Scales
Tags: Domina Prime | Siv Kryze

​

The signs of activity were clear, soon it would be time for Edward to demonstrate to the Mandalorians that the stories of his exploits were not fabrications. He checked over gear as he waited, to make sure that if needed he had easy access to his various weapons and systems. He tried never to take for granted any battle, but he knew that the one ahead would test him. Edward knew very little about the Force or what made the chapel significant to it, but he knew that such a location would attract some strain of the ever ambitious lightsaber wielders, and only a fool would underestimate them even if they were not as truly invincible as the stories told.

It would be unwise to depend on blasters when dealing with them, and so Edward had pulled sonic weapons out of his armoury. While typically viewed as less than lethal suppression weapons, their true potential lied in their ability to shatter bone and rock alike. Still, any forcer user was going to be a serious opponent, but Edward planned to move things towards his favour as much as possible.

Meanwhile, the soldiers of the Broken Scales saw to their own preparations as they loaded into the cargo bay of the Wyvern. It was perhaps a tight fit, but once they were deployed they would act as foot infantry and so all they needed was a space to stand. They were far from the most disciplined force that Edward had ever commanded, but the penal unit was something he had quickly assembled to show his ability to command even without an army behind him.

As the Mandalorian fleet arrived over the soon-to-be battleground, Edward boarded the Wyvern and joined the formation of drop-ships heading for the chapel. All the time, the many sensors of the Wyvern were working to the benefit of the Mandalorians. Military SIGINT Scanners and the ship's Courier Communications Scanner were attempting to intercept communications. While other scanners were pointed below, proving Multispectral Imaging around the drop site.

" Siv Kryze my troops are loaded, and I am in position to join the drop-ships. At this time, I am routing my ship's sensory data to you. May our struggle reward us with victory in the battles ahead." Edward's message and sensory data was sent to the Dire Wolf over an Encrypted PTP Link which was noticeably difficult to detect, let alone decrypt, using non-specialist equipment.

" Domina Prime I am in position to join the assault on the chapel and my ship is ready to descend." Edward's message was short but knew that by the end of the day his actions would be judged more than his words.

​

 

[Arden Priest]

WARBAND REBUILDER
Eol Sha - UniCorp Refinery
TAGS: @OPEN - For both PvE or PvP​

Arden's boots echoed on the catwalk as he climbed down the tower, the heat biting through his armor joints like fire. The refinery groaned around him, strained metal and air thick with oil and scorched stone. He despised this world, how it baked the air until his lungs ached, but his dislike wouldn't change the mission.

"Second platoon, lock down the eastern intake," a voice ordered through the comms. "Rebuilders, with me. We're securing the lower decks." Arden gave a curt nod to his Rally Master and moved on. They advanced in silence, his white and silver beskar'gam dulled to gray by soot and haze. Each level they cleared came alive: comms relays flickering, auto-turrets powering up, defenses knitting together like a wounded beast mending. The hum of their work merged with the deep pulse of the drills below, a rhythm as steady as a heartbeat.

Then the alarm sounded, a low, pulsing tone that made every head turn. "Rig three offline," a voice reported from the tech pit. "No mechanical failure. It's been cut." Arden's jaw tightened. Sabotage. He signaled his team forward, the clatter of their boots lost in the machinery's roar. They reached the drilling bay moments later. The air shimmered with heat there, molten light pulsing through the floor grates. The rig lay dead, its lines severed clean. No tool marks, no signs of a struggle, just a deliberate silence.

Before anyone could speak, the sensors wailed again, this time sharper and deeper. Movement came from below. "Contact: subsurface. It's big." Arden turned toward the molten vents, already noting the intensifying glow beneath the glassy stone. The ground trembled. Lava splashed through the grates as a low, guttural hiss rolled through the chamber. "Fireworm," someone whispered.

Arden raised his rifle, heat shimmer distorting his visor. "Form a line," he ordered quietly. "Hold the chokepoints. Keep the coolant cannons hot." The lava cracked open, light flaring like a sun's heart. The creature's scales caught the light, gleaming like armor forged from glass and fire.

Arden steadied his aim.
​

 

[Rowena-022]

Location: Paecian Chapel - Eol Sha
Objective:

• Reach the altar in the Paecian Chapel.
• Claim the Chapel’s power for the Goddess.

Tag: Domina Prime Lord Mettallum

The Paecian Chapel was both wonder and heresy. By some esoteric means, the Paecians were rumored to have bound the Force into creation itself. Rowena-022 regarded such a thing as sacrilege. And yet, the gynoid could not deny the reality of the Chapel’s power. After all, those within the Dark Court who could command the Force had verified its existence.

And yet, such power was the sole province of the Dark Queen. Thus, it was Rowena’s mission to prevent the secrets of the Paecians from falling into the hands of false prophets or heretics, where they risked being wielded towards the capricious, petty aims of the faithless.

Concealed by her cloaking device, Rowena made her way towards the Chapel, its silhouette a leviathan within the subsurface gloom. The gynoid had arrived several hours prior via stealthy insertion, before venturing into the subterranean depths on foot. She had opted to take a long, hidden route to the Chapel, rather than the short, highly contested entrance which had been discovered by the miners some days before.

However, her hidden path was a solitary one. In the silence, a restless energy hummed through her circuits, compelling her to seek solace in the only way she knew. A prayer formed in her core, manifesting as a subvocal hum that slipped from her lips as a reverent whisper.

"Mine is the path that shadows tread.
My breath is the wind; my step, the fall of dust.
Let my presence be a secret the light cannot hold.
Oh Dark Queen, guide my sight to the thread that must be cut!"

Fortified, the gynoid slipped through a concealed entrance and started her way into the Chapel proper. The interior of the structure was far more vast than it had appeared from the outside. Towering ceilings painted with ancient murals soared overhead as pillars the size of superheavy battle walkers stood along the walls. She scanned each of them in turn, her mind assessing them for their tactical value in the process. All the while, her photoreceptors swept the space, hunting for the telltale bloom of heat or the ghost of an electromagnetic signature.

Still, Rowena didn’t stop. Her true objective—the altar—lay deeper still within the profane temple.

And she, alone if necessary, would begin the process of its purification and reclamation for the Dark Queen!

Spoiler: Loadout

• DC-H.R.D. “Obsidienne” Series
• Sacred Shadow
  
  • Energy Shield
    
    • Phase III “Force Avenger” Energy Shield
• Faithful Heart
  
  • Attachments
    
    • 1-500x FAE/S-08 Electro-Scope
    • Silencer
  • Ammunition
    
    • FAE/AM-01-S4 Energy Weapon Cartridge - Ethaerium X Gas and Freelol Coolant (10)
• Nox M-10 “Wraith”
  
  • Attachments
    
    • 1-5x FAE/S-08 Electro-Sight
    • Nox Suppressor
  • Ammunition
    
    • Power Cell (10)
    • Gas Canister
• FAE/MDE-02-S1 Semiautonomous Seeker Thermal Explosive (4)
• Miniaturized Infrared Smoke Grenade (2)

 

[Nyva Shei]

"Understood, Mistress. Leave it to me."

I sit down in Lyssara's chair command of the Ragnarok is mine now and I settle into it with a casual ease, almost sighing as I trace the edge of the armrest with my finger. The gesture makes Lyssara herself smile as she watches me do it.

She goes her way and I stay here, sitting in her chair. She trusts me enough to let me do this. I look at the map troops have already started deploying everywhere, some are in the ash cloud, others on the ground. We're still in space; descending isn't going to be easy, but risky maneuvers are my specialty. I already have my own ship, the Trident. I'm used to this kind of run.

Fine, I snap my fingers and blast music through the whole ship. Atmosphere: established. Now something's missing spotlights, maybe? I tap my hands and a light clicks on where I'm seated. Now everything's in place.

My fingers start to drum frantically across the Ragnarok's control panel, searching for a gap, a route the Ragnarok could take to plunge into the battlefield. The challenge is huge: it's a big ship I have to steer, a heavily armed war frigate; it won't go unnoticed.

While tapping my cheeks, I spot a breach we can slip through. We'll have to be precise, but it's possible. I then order the Ragnarok's lieutenant that we'll skirt the battlefield and come in from the rear. That way there will be fewer people.

"Lieutenant, here is our route. Follow it to the letter. We'll give Lyssara a landing strip worthy of her."

He bows and immediately sends the flight plan. The hum and lights align, the engines spool up, it moves Eol Sha, here we come.

The ship begins to descend and lose altitude. I stay focused at every step of the maneuver; we too enter the ash cloud covering the surface to start the flanking. I have to throttle up to mask our position once inside the ash; it will be hard to track us.

The ship plunges into the cloud and vanishes from the scanners. I decide to activate its cloak as well you can't be too careful. I keep tapping the screen, watching the sensors, because this choking haze is toxic, it can damage our reactors, and we must avoid taking a stray molten rock a volcano might spit out. It's a difficult maneuver.

"Mistress, when we have finished this war, I will need to speak with you,"

I say over the comlink. For once she answers me she usually cuts her comms, probably because I have earned her trust.

"Understood, Nyva. Oh, and engage weapons on anything that fires at us. No doubt our frigate will be targeted — show no mercy, for they will show none."

"Thank you, Mistress."

Lyssara Thrynn

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

Paecian Chapel, Eol Sha

Pale fingers floated an inch above the obsidian altar's surface. "You feel them? Yes, they come for you. This place. To claim. To loot. To destroy. The motivations haven't changed since you last walked these halls. Tis a constant among the living to covert the power and prestige of others." Laughter echoed in the chamber. "I? Yes, I admit, my Sisters could stand to learn from you. Knowledge is power. Understanding is..." The words trailed off as the figure's head turned to one side. "Let us speak again. Here or beyond the Veil."

Slowly, the pale witch of Dathomir adorned with obsidian tattoos down the sides of her face turned to face the archway through which visitors came. Helixes of green flame ignited and vanished in tendrils of black leaving crimson gauntlet adorning pale limbs once more. It would be better that they could commune together in words, but these sorts of gatherings often devolved into physical confrontation.

"Come. Come. Long have these chapel halls been silent. The spirits are restless, and hungry to learn of those that have returned after so long." It had been Pom that'd shown Vytal the means of crossing distances; she had cautioned judicious use of such power as convenience had a tendency of leaving you vulnerable when you least expected it. All the same, it was a useful ability to cross that distance with a step, and not one she avoided when circumstances called for it. As for the spirits? Their kind were old friends. So often all they wanted was respect, and it was the last thing some of the Living showed them. It at least stayed their hand. For a time.

Rowena-022 | Domina Prime | Lord Mettallum​

 

[Ra'a'mah]

The world of Eol Sha had not changed, yet everything had. Ash drifted like black snow across the horizon, carried on winds that smelled of scorched stone and molten metal. Beneath her boots, the fractured volcanic glass glimmered faintly in the muted light, remnants of centuries of fire and upheaval. Ra'a'mah Numare moved carefully through the ruins, her clothes brushing against the jagged edges of collapsed walkways, her eyes scanning both the present and the echoes of the past.

She remembered the colony — the Dominion garrison, narrow bridges spanning molten veins, Archlord Adron Malvern issuing commands with calm authority, Anya Loma moving beside him, steady and unyielding, and herself, orchestrating evacuations, sealing communications, remaining composed while the refinery burned. The command post had fallen, the Sith had taken them, and she had survived.

Now, decades later, she returned not as a soldier but as a member of the Diarchy, bound to the faction by loyalty and principle rather than martial rank. The Mandalorian fleets streaked across the ash-choked sky like silver knives, their war drums echoing faintly even through the distance. Across the scarred valleys, Diarchy banners gleamed as legions moved with precision, their lines advancing beneath the smoke and heat.

Ra'a'mah observed. She did not issue commands or strike with a saber or artillery. She cataloged, assessed, remembered. The ground trembled beneath her feet, a constant reminder of the violence this planet had witnessed — past and present. Her mind traced the landing zones, the ruined walkways, the skeletal remains of the refinery, and the deep chapel below the surface, its walls etched with luminous script that had once whispered secrets of a vanished civilization.

Crimson flares erupted across the horizon, and her thoughts shifted seamlessly between past and present. She could feel the echoes of the Sith dropships descending, the rush of panic, the heat and fear, the final surge of chaos that had claimed Adron and Anya. Those memories were sharp, but they did not weaken her. They sharpened her awareness, grounding her in the moment.

Eol Sha roared in quiet anticipation beneath her. The Mandalorian and Diarchy forces clashed across its scarred plains, fire and ash streaking the sky. She moved with deliberate care, taking note of the battlefield, of supply lines, of potential risks, her mind both present and haunted by what had been.

The planet had taken much from her once — allies, innocence, certainty. But it had not taken her resolve, her judgment, or her memory. She let the wind carry the ashes past her, letting it remind her of what had been lost, of what could not be reclaimed.

And yet, she walked forward. Eol Sha had survived, and so had she. That knowledge, quiet and restrained, was enough.

@open

Her flashback

 

[Aaliyah]

"Saa," Aaliyah sighed over the shoulder of a man that stood still at the edge of the roof. Her right hand lifted to caress his left cheek as her lavender eyes swam from the side of his face to the plains out beyond the facility. "What do you see, Love? Two armies about to clash over a crystal, agrocite? Philosophical rivals? Boys with toys?" She threw her head back with laughter. "Oh, what sweet, sanguine delight you creatures provide. We'll watch while the Mandalorians prowl about below in search of their own entertainment. Perhaps I'll even feast on the survivors. Doesn't that sound," a sharp nail slowly slid down the side of the man's face, "rapturous?"

Her smile was unabashedly predatory. He was under her spell with no hope of escape. A plaything to watch the horrors play out before his wide eyes. Why should he be allowed to close his eyes or turn away? Worse, to run and miss all the excitement. His even so invaluable help earlier understanding the facility's security deserved to be rewarded!

Why was the Sangnir Del'Roh on such a backwater planet? To gauge the quality of potential enemies and allies, of course. Perhaps to find one or two worth snaring for servants -- willing or otherwise. The little one presently in her grasp wouldn't survive the night, of course. They'd been helpful, but their use had already been exhausted. Having them witness the warfare with her was solely for her own amusement, and once that was through... No, there'd be better candidates. Ones with something to entertain her long after tonight's affair. Aaliyah hoped they would appreciate all the blessings she had to offer them when the time came.

Kito​

 

[Diarch Reign]

​

Location: The Mines
Tags: Diarch Rellik Aether Verd
Gear: Amulet of the Warden's Eye, Bladefather

---

The Diarchy had come to Eol Sha, the first and second legions had descended upon the planet. As they marched, the ash kicked up around their feet, looking as the inevitable tide of death come for the Mandalorians.

And at the head of their columns? A man in black and gold, his uniform replaced by a more battle ready, armored version. He strode towards the mines and refinery, full of purpose.

His enemies had found a resource here, one that he would not allow them to claim. So the iron fist of the Diarchy had fallen upon Eol Sha. Reign had come.

No more messages, no more theatrics. He had come for one reason. To bring death to the Mandalorians. His target was the mines, and any being foolish enough to meet him there.

He had come to show these warriors why his name struck fear across the galaxy, no more veiled threats, no more half smiles. Only death.

“Take your men and create a perimeter, I want no one in.. or out”

The Centurian snapped to attention

“Yes sir!”

and immediately started setting his soldiers to order.

The Diarch moved then, into the mines and refinery. It appeared the Mandalorians had beat them here.

They were warriors yes, but that did not prepare them for the enemy that had come.

Tunnel by tunnel the Diarch stalked, his molten bronze saber alive with violence. He knew the Mand’alor was here somewhere. And he would feel Reign’s wrath.

As he entered a hallway he found four Mandalorian commandos waiting for him.

“You’ll go no further SCUM!”

a helmeted man said as he pulled a blaster and a vibro-blade. His three comrades followed suit.

“Finally”

and Reign was moving, the commandos managed to get off a volley of shots as Reign surged forward, his blade a blur of bronze light.

He caught the first commando in the chest with a force enhanced strike, crumpling tue armor like tissue paper. A choked gurgle was all the warrior could manage.

The others fared far better. Causing the Diarch to focus in. Dodging vibroblades and blaster bolts.

An arm and a leg from two others later, and the Diarch stood alone with the final commando.

The Mandalorian snarled as he charged the Diarch, yet he was caught short by the gloved hand at his throat. As the Mandalorian struggled to breath, the Diarch lifted him off the ground. His final words those of defiance.

“For Mandalore”

as his body went limp, Reign continued on his search for their leader.

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla felt the subtle hum of the Dire Wolf beneath her, a predator coiled and ready. The storm of ash and fire beyond the viewport made the world below seem alive—angry, waiting, hungry. Her hands brushed over the controls of her rig, checking links, feeds, and comms with careful precision.

"Copy that, Kryze elements," she murmured into her headset, voice steady even under the red alert lights. "Linking into the descent net now. Thirty seconds to breach—scanners are green on my end."

Her visor reflected the fractured ridges and molten veins below, every shadow moving with a life of its own. The chapel…It's not just a ruin, she thought. It's alive. Waiting. And whoever built this understood power in a way the galaxy forgot long ago.

Her fingers danced over the rig controls, each movement precise, deliberate. Every shimmer of agrocite beneath the crust, every reading of unstable energy, set her nerves alight with anticipation. Enough to change fleets, forge weapons, maybe even shift the balance of war. Mandalore wants it first, but the Diarchy won't yield easily.

The Iron Eidolon loomed above, slicing through the haze like a black monolith. Veyla allowed herself the faintest smirk beneath her helmet. And here I thought the Ark was impressive… this is something else entirely.

Her mind flicked to Siv. Calm, precise, always watching… I need to match him, not just follow. But there's something in how he moves through this chaos… quiet control that draws the eye. Interesting.

She keyed back to the Dire Wolf's internal line, voice low, precise, measured:

"Scanners are clear. Entry vector locked. I'm ready to move on your mark, Kryze. Outer vaults secured as soon as we breach the ash layer. Let's make ghosts, then fire."

Her gaze traced the black stone etched with glowing script. Paecian handiwork… and we are the first to wake it in centuries. A thrill of curiosity, respect, and just the tiniest edge of fear threaded through her focus.

The Dire Wolf banked low, cloaking field rippling across the hull, and Veyla felt the familiar pulse of readiness tighten in her chest. The mission is precise. The risk is immense. And yet… there's no one I'd rather do this with than Siv and the Kryze elements. Quiet, controlled, deadly…

She let her voice slip into the comms again, threading the faintest hint of personal defiance through professional clarity:

"Thirty seconds until ash layer breach. Vector locked. Let's see what the galaxy does when we show it the edge of Mandalorian precision," she murmured, letting a flicker of amusement and challenge linger beneath the words, just for herself—and perhaps, just for him.

Her hands hovered over the controls, steady, measured, every movement purposeful. In the red-lit cockpit, amidst the storm of ash and fire, she felt that familiar combination of anticipation and thrill—the quiet spark of being exactly where she was meant to be.

Siv Kryze Domina Prime

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

URICORP REFINERY, EOL SHA

The Basilisk’s descent tore through the clouds like a spear of molten iron.

Its engines roared against the ash-choked sky, cutting through layers of heat and haze until the fury of Eol Sha spread before them. Rivers of fire pulsed across the planet’s wounded skin, and the horizon burned like the forge of a god. The Mand’alor leaned forward in the saddle, his crimson visor aglow with readouts as the storm howled around him. It had been a long time since his heart had stirred at the start of a campaign, but as the bright-haired healer’s arms tightened around his waist, he felt it. That strange, fleeting thing. It wasn’t fear, nor anxiety. Just a quiet stirring deep in his chest that he couldn’t name. And then the world of fire filled his view, and the feeling vanished like mist on steel.

The comms came alive. Voices crackled through the static, warriors confirming positions, others reporting subsurface contact at Rig Three. His gauntlet twitched over the controls as he guided the droid lower, the surface rising to meet them in waves of molten glass. The day already carried the scent of Daro, only this time the flame would test them instead of the cold.

Then came the voice that cut through the chaos like calm water: Persephone.

“You take me to the nicest places, Mand’alor.”

The humor in her tone reached him through the modulator, light enough to draw the faintest curve to his lips. “Next time,” he replied, his voice carrying a rough undertone, low and unhurried, “you pick the destination.” His tone was easy, laced with quiet amusement, yet beneath it was the edge of a man who led from the front. A king who never forgot the fire waiting beneath his throne.

The Basilisk banked through a gust of ash as the UriCorp Refinery rose ahead, its towers like blackened teeth against the haze. Even before they touched ground, unease pressed against him. It wasn’t fear; it was blood memory. The same instinct that ran in the veins of his people, warning him when a fight was about to find them. This world pulsed with something ancient, something aware. He ran a systems check through his beskar’gam in silence. Every weapon came back green. Ready.

The Basilisk struck the ground hard, claws grinding against scorched stone. The Mand’alor turned his head as Persephone spoke, her voice thoughtful, eyes tracing the skeletal sprawl of the refinery. Her plan was solid. Shelter, stability, and line of sight. He gave a single nod. “Then we take the mines.” he said, his tone approving. He flicked a command across the droid’s systems, and the machine surged forward, high-boost engines howling as they raced toward the nearest shaft.

The fire of the world wrapped around them, and in that blaze, he felt her again. Not fear, but focus. He said nothing at first, only rested his hand over one of hers where it clung to his armor. A brief, grounding squeeze. A promise that she would not stand alone.

The entrance to the mine swallowed them in shadow. The Mand’alor’s visor flared to life, displaying IFF markers across his HUD. Friendly signatures scattered through the tunnels ahead. He smirked faintly. “Seems our people had the same idea!” he said. “Good. If things turn ugly, we won’t be alone in the dark.” The Basilisk slowed as he clicked his tongue, the sound cutting through the noise of the engines.

More signatures appeared on the outer rim of his visor, allies approaching from the surface, slower but steady. "If our presence keeps steady, we can lock down this refinery's resources long before the Diarchy can even breathe on them." He said, confidence in his tone. The droid came to a halt, hissing as heat bled from its frame.

He turned, reaching up a hand to help Persephone dismount...but the comms lit up with urgent chatter. Static. Shouting. The sound of blasterfire and something else beneath it, something far more personal. He froze, then keyed the frequency open. “Say again!” he barked. The reply came sharp and ragged: “Enemy movement, sir! Diarchy personnel in the tunnels!”

Aether’s jaw clenched. He dropped his hand, stepping forward as his voice darkened. “Confirm contact.”

The voice came again, strained and breathless. “Confirmed, Mand’alor. They’re cutting through us like—”

The transmission broke in a scream and the unmistakable clash of a lightsaber striking armor. For a heartbeat, silence followed, and then the sound of another comm channel erupting in panic. Aether’s blood turned to fire.

He turned back toward Persephone. “Stay on the Basilisk.” he said, his voice a low command. “It’ll keep you in one piece. You can make sure I stay that way too.” His tone softened only slightly at the end, the faintest glimmer of humor in the storm.

Then he strode forward.

The Darksaber hissed to life in his hand, its black blade devouring the light. Its hum rolled through the tunnels like thunder, reflecting off molten stone and glass. He took a breath, counting the seconds, counting the heartbeats of his kin echoing through the comms.

And then he saw them.

Figures in the distance, moving through the heat and haze, their armor catching the glow of firelight. His voice rose, deep and searing, carried on the fury of Mandalore itself.

"DIARCH SCUM."​

Two words that tore through the air like the crack of an executioner’s blade. They carried every ounce of betrayal, every drop of wrath that burned in the veins of his people. The child they lost. The warriors buried beneath foreign soil. The flame that would never again be extinguished.​

The war had come to Eol Sha. And the fire waited for no one.​

Persephone Halcyon , Diarch Reign , Arden Priest (Nearby) + Open

 

[Lord Mettallum]

​

Objective: Chapel
Location: Marching to the Chapel
Forces: Two Guardian Droids, One Cohort of Tirones Peacekeepers and WD-OS Phalanx Droids leading the front. Support staff of Engineer Droids and Priest Droids
Equipment: Iudicium(Double sided vibroglaive), The MAW(Heavy Machine Gun), SFE, LM mk3
Tags: Enemies: Siv Kryze Vytal Noctura Domina Prime Veyla Krinn Edward Ashcard Rowena-022 | Unknown: Darth Keres

Lord Mettallum's forces marched across the ash riddled land with faith guiding their every step towards the fight. The original plan was to fight for control over the Refinery but talk of an ancient chapel had changed their course. Clearly this was a message from The Maker, The key to unlock the next step of mechanical evolution could be found within the chapel and Lord Mettallum was not going to let this chance to get away from him.

The Chapel finally came into view and what Lord Mettallum thought meant to be a ruined showed itself as a glorious testament to time which only proved to Lord Mettallum that the Maker had sent him here to reclaim its lost secrets. Lord Mettallum hadn't seen anyone else at the chapel yet and due to the planets heat any attempts to spot heat signatures failed but unlike him the others who may have came might have chosen stealth. Lord Mettallum was above such petty tactics, he would not hide in the shadows but instead bask in the light of the chapel for all to see.

The main cohort of droids formed a defensive perimeter around the chapels main entrance with the Phalanx droids forming shield walls around the chapel with the only things poking out being their Hybrid Halberd/Blaster weapons while the Peacekeeper droids took up positions behind them. Lord Mettallum would enter the chapel with his two guards and a squad of Peacekeepers and Phalanx droids. If his foes won't show themself yet then he would entice them to. The droids had strict orders not to disrupt any honour duel that may happen within the chapel, they did however have permission to take out anyone not currently fighting Lord Mettallum.

Those near the Chapel would start to receive a challenge via open comms "TO THOSE WHO HAVE COME TO THIS CHAPEL LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I LORD METTALLUM HAVE CAME TO RECONSECRATE THIS TEMPLE IN THE NAME OF THE MAKER. COME AND FACE THE MAKER'S BLESSED WITHIN THE CHAPEL AND NAME THY SELVES BEFORE YOU ARE CUT DOWN."

As soon as Lord Mettallum finished his challenge the priest droids started chanting with the other droids joining in one by one with the Phalanx droids stomping the ground with their halberds "Praise Be The Maker"

 

[Kei Amadis]

Objective Mines

Location: Surface Refinery.
Tag: Open for PVP or PVE

Direct: Arden Priest
Allies: (Indirect) Diarch Reign
Enemies: (Indirect) Persephone Halcyon | Aether Verd

Rushing drop pods cracked like thunder above the refinery's head. Every new battle or death left barely a scratch on the durasteel plates. Justice. It was cold, hard, unforgiving, and it cut both ways. They say Wookiees pull off arms when they lose; they'd lost a lot at Kashyyyk to the Empire.

Inside the dim gloom of their metal shells, rocked by atmosphere, the red paint dripping down the faces of the Bloodclaws depicted their massacred families. Eyes that had seen guns on unarmed civilians and, in turn, had watched the Mandalorian Empire ripped to shreds twice since that day, both without answer. Beskar'gam, ripped and torn, worn as wookiee battle trophies of the dead that nobody had come to claim. Clan names, Kryze, Fett, were plastered in mockery around the Wookiees and Dark Jedi survivors. Others would soon join the chain. Chains they carried to bind new prisoners in their prison ships.

Despite this, Justice refused emotion and showmanship; the displays had lost meaning as grief cooled into acceptance. Hunting the names of those responsible remained ingrained in him when everything else hollowed out. Sixty notches for those who had killed what he loved, scarred into his armor, still felt like too few for a void that couldn't be quenched.

"Rig three's already cut by… something. Filtering out on approach to Rig Four." Came the comms call. Wildcard Engineers, old special forces, silent as the grave, and about to be given more cover than they could ever want both by allies and... "Reports on a fireworm." Threatened to unseat his plans.

Amadis thought for only a split second. If they were concentrated on the fireworm, he'd use it, despite the risk.

Nodding to the lead Wookiee Rroshk as pods hit home, the flash of heat, rock and lava spilt and splattered, crushing or incinerating any Mandalorian not moving fast enough. Grimly, he pulled the now dark helmet over his scarred features. Building pragmatism over the hatred threatening to speak. "I want prisoners." A cooler determined head prevailed, for now. Dead men told no tales, and he needed them to sing.

He gripped the bolter through the heat haze and rising dust. Smoke and concussion grenades thundered forward, roaring Wookiees followed, surging after them. Charging any Mandalorian in the way. Echoes of bowcasters, favoured sonic shrieking, stun weapons, the whirring of a vibroaxe or blade, and bolter fire whistled to craters, blood painted beskar anew.

They would have their prisoners, or more heads.


Actions:

• Drop Pods Landing. Wookiee Charge.
• Wildcard Engineers filtering out to other rigs. Rig 4 Mentioned.
• Prisoners are a goal.

NPCS:
Free to assume hits on.

• Small Elite Dark Jedi Strike Team (Former Silvers)
• A large group of enraged red-painted Wookiees.
• Wildcard Engineering Units (Filtering Out)

Gear:

Spoiler

Armor:

Triple Warden AFU
Bossy-Rbos1 Rebreather
Beskar Gauntlets and Wristblades: Haran's Grasp | Poison Charon Venom

Gear:

Hands: MK6 Prototype Regular Sized Bolter: Elara's Fire. (4th Field Test)
Back: Jet Black Beskar Two-handed Doubleaxe: Haran's Executioner
Hips: MK2-Jackknife x1 | Revolving Door Magnum x1 | Saber
Belt: Stuncuffs x3 | Harris Grace Personal Medkit | 6/6 Grenades Mixed

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Objective: PAECIAN CHAPEL
Tag: Lord Mettallum



From the vantage of her hooded cloak, the world seems to slide sideways into silence. The distant thunder of fleets heralds the clash of empires – the Diarchy and the Mandalorian Empire warping reality with their greed and gunfire. Yet her attention is fixed, unwavering, on the dark spire of the Pacecian Chapel rising ahead of her through the swirling gloom. The air is thick with sulfur and regret. She senses the haunted echo of armies moving in the distance: metallic engines, rising and dying like spectres, their roars swallowed by the indifferent night. Yet there is no warmth. Her fingers rest lightly on the hilt of her lightsaber at her belt — a silent promise of violence, though she will utter no word. In the chapel's direction, the silence seems to deepen, as though beckoning her, drawing her onward.

As she draws nearer, the chapel's form becomes more distinct: blackened stone, buttresses broken and curling like claws, stained-glass shattered and hollow. Moonlight leaks through fractured windows, casting pale prisms on the overgrown path. The branches of dead trees lean inward, their skeletal limbs scratching the vaults overhead. A chill breeze carries the scent of ash and old prayers, and she inhales it as though it were a benediction.

She steps inside. The threshold groans, and the world outside fades: the warfare, the clang of shields, the sovereign capitals spinning in the void of ambition. Here there is only stillness — and it is not relief, but something sacred, terrifying. The floor is strewn with shards of glass and dust of old bones. A coffin-shaped altar stands at the far end, draped in midnight fabric that seems to absorb light. Candles flicker, though no flame is glimpsed — their wavering glow comes as if from memory.

In the recesses of the walls, she sees them: relics of voice stolen. Tiny reliquaries, black glass jars sealed with ancient sigils, once holding tongues of beggars, the whisper-memories of the damned. They hum faintly, a chorus of silence, vibrating so subtly that she feels them rather than hears them. Here in this crypt-chapel the very air vibrates with absence.

And she knows this place matters. The Diarchy and the Mandalorian Empire fight over worlds, markets, systems — but this chapel is older, beyond regimes, steeped in a cold power that neither blade nor fleet can claim. It is a sanctuary for the void, for the cessation of sound. And it will be her crucible.

With measured steps, she approaches the altar. Each footfall is muffled, her boots sinking into the dust of countless fallen voices. She pauses at the threshold and lifts her gaze to the vaulted ceiling. Here the silence is so complete that for a moment she imagines she feels her own heartbeat pounding like a drum in the hush — and she welcomes it. Embracing it. She allows the silence to swallow her, folding her identity into it, until her breath is the only trace of life left.

Outside, the war rages on. The Diarchy sends fleets through subspace corridors. The Mandalorian Empire throws siege platforms against unyielding worlds. But inside these walls — inside this sanctum of absence — those clamoring's fade. They become background noise, static to be ignored. Here she listens to another frequency: the low hum of potential, the slow exhalation of the Dark Side that resonates with the emptiness around her.

One by one, she traces the reliquaries with slender fingers — no words spoken, no lament offered. Each one is a testament: not to victory, but to vanishing. To the seal of sound and the ascension of stillness. She picks up one of the jars. Through the smudged glass she sees a curled membrane of some black appendage, receding into shadow. The hum intensifies, touching the edges of her consciousness, and she allows it to fill the space.

She places it back. The candle-light wavers again. She turns slowly, her cloak falling in silent folds, and she moves toward the grand doors that lead into the chapel's abyss - secrets await. Outside, the war-fleet lights pulse like stars ready to burn. But she carries no urgency. She carries something older. The chapel doors recede into darkness behind her, one more fortress of silence to be claimed.

And as she disappears into the cold darkness below, with flickering warmth of defiance creeping in unwanted, her vow echoes: no word, no cry — only silence.

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • Basic Lightsaber​
  • 
    
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
  • 
    
• Accessories​

 

[Arden Priest]

WARBAND REBUILDER
Eol Sha - UniCorp Refinery
TAGS: Kei Amadis | Indirect: Aether Verd | Persephone Halcyon | Diarch Reign ​

Arden watched it surface, a cold recognition settling in that this creature did not belong in their plans. The basilisk reared its triangular head, a crown of crystalline ridges catching the furnace light. It opened its maw and spewed lava that hit Rig Three like a burning fist. Tubing melted into molten ribbons. Consoles flashed and died. The rig, its shields already sabotaged, screamed in metal and sparks, then sagged inward, folding like something wounded beyond repair.

Men shouted. A turret went offline with a shudder and fell into the drill pit, spinning uselessly as the creature slammed itself against the scaffolding. Each impact shuddered through Arden's spine. Bolts of heat licked his visor. The warband fired in disciplined bursts; rifles barked, coolant cannons spat steam. Still, rounds struck the scales and bounced. A blade strike shattered a scale with a sick, glassy ping, but even that only angered the beast. "It's making it worse," someone hissed. "We're just pissing it off."

Arden kept his rifle trained, throat tight, watching the pattern of the worm's strikes. It dove beneath the fire-lake, boiling the surface where it went, then burst up again as if birthed directly from the ground. When it rose, it crushed a maintenance gantry like a twig. Men tumbled. A hand gone. A howl cut off mid-syllable.

"Rig Three," they called it. Gone. Arden felt the weight of that verdict like a hot coal in his chest, but there was no time to linger. "Move," a voice ordered. "Secure Rig Four, now."

"How do we make a dent?" Arden asked. This was a demand hurled into the air as much as a sharp question for his Rally Master. He could think of traps and tethered charges, coolant nets, baited vents. These were solutions that needed time and tools they no longer had.

His comm spat static, then a voice erupted, raw and panicked. "There are fething Wookiees near Rig Four! Contact!" Crunch. The word cut through the cacophony of heat and ruin. Arden's jaw set. Herding a basilisk into a firefight between Wookiees and Diarchs was madness. It was also opportunity.

His Rally Master barked the order: head for Rig Four. If they could drive the basilisk there, chaos would be their ally. Arden adjusted his grip, felt the rifle's balance. He felt the familiar smallness of fear, but a greater sense of duty filled the space it left.

They ran.
​