Faction [NJO] The Shattered Acord | Kindling

[Drystan Creed]

VICONDOR

"I think the enclave already gave them that choice. We just happen to be playing the part of the consequences for making the wrong one," Drystan muttered in response to Caelan's question.

He watched as the trespassers sprang their ambush. Six blasters, maybe more hidden — the enclave riddled with their presence. They would be cleansed, one way or another. Drystan made it a solemn promise.

The sound of blaster fire was permission. Sure, he would have followed standard Jedi protocol and refrained from striking first — but with them shooting first, what he had to do became all the easier.

From his cloaked position, Drystan revealed himself — golden sparks of lightning arcing across his form as he charged toward the mercenaries firing at them.

His prosthetic hand snapped into a spear shape, fingers rigid and outstretched. He thrust it into a duracrete barricade, piercing through it like chalk despite its intended sturdiness. Reaching through, he seized a mercenary and yanked him forward, the barricade eroding under the force.

Behind the helmet's visor, Drystan could see the shift — defiance flashing into fear. The rapid, uneven heartbeat. The mist of sweat beading beneath the armor. Pure and absolute terror.

A Jedi should refrain from instilling such emotions in his enemies, and Drystan ensured it was brief. He brought his head down hard against the mercenary's helmet — crack — crushing it, shards of visor glass spraying outward. The merc slumped unconscious, and Drystan tossed the limp body aside like discarded trash.

On to the next one.

Valery Noble Kahlil Noble Caelan Valoren The Rewrite

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Combat Jumpsuit | Wedding Ring
Weapons: Blasters | Lightsabers

The crack of blaster fire shattered the silence, and Valery moved. One instant, she was shadow — cloaked, invisible, a silent presence stalking the ruins with Drystan. The next, she was flame. The Force burst around her as she surged forward, reappearing behind the mercenaries like lightning arcing through the mist. Her violet saber snapped to life with a searing hiss, cutting through fog and fear in a single fluid motion.

She struck low — not to kill, but to disarm.

The first mercenary spun as her blade swept his weapon cleanly from his hands, sending it skittering across the stone floor. Before he could recover, Valery's boot collided with his chest, knocking him flat. Another turned, aiming hastily — but she was already inside his guard. Her saber sliced upward in a blur, searing through his rifle's barrel, the weapon falling in two smoldering pieces.

Valery stopped moving, her saber held defensively at her side, stance ready but still. Her breath was calm. Her eyes, burning bright in the swirling mist, locked onto the group, "You've made your play," she said, her voice cutting through the air with the weight of command.

"Surrender, or we will take you down."

Kahlil Noble Caelan Valoren Drystan Creed ​

 

[Anthony Gray Sun]

Sunrider: Phoebe Winsloe Tel Ahren Jo'Han Felcado
Ground Team: Reina Daival Mykel Dawson Jin Kimura Dezorath Barcu
Opposition: The Rewrite
Current Ship: "Moore"​

"Sunrider One, hostile group confirmed, starting my first run, strafing run only, I'm saving the good stuff in case something big comes up. So feel free to use yours and have a little fun."

"Copy Two, we're going in."

Anthony lined up, waiting for the right moment. Flicking a switch, the twin chainlasers of the fighter switched to ion, as Anthony lined up his shot. His engined roared as he dove lower and lower...

"Tel, get those bombs ready. Firing Cannons in 3...2...1..."

A pull of the trigger, and Anthony felt the whole fighter stall at once, as both nose mounted cannons opened up with the sound of fabric being ripped in half, as a solid beam of thousands of ion bolts rained down on the column of speeders, scoring the ground like a twister on the plains, before he suddenly pulled up with a sudden roar of the R200s, giving Tel the perfect shot to drop his bombs.

Disable their bikes, then leave them to the ground crew.

 

[Kahlil Noble]

"They came here to kill Jedi, and have by how this place feels. Sending another group of Jedi to talk when such talks ended their lives is why we're here now." It was one thing to strike first against a group who's intentions were unknown. Another when they had already killed Jedi who sought peace. It was why Valery and he were there now, why they had asked the pair of Knights with them. If they were going to find a path to peace, it wasn't going to be sending more Jedi to die.

"I won't be letting anymore Jedi be killed by those clearly skilled enough to kill us."

He didn't act immediately as Valery had. Caelen had crafted his own defenses for the blaster fire. Different angles, different sides. There was experience in Jedi hunting here, but just blasters alone weren't going to be enough. So he kept his attention elsewhere, eyes narrowed in focus. The trap that was coming, he'd be ready for.

Valery Noble | Caelan Valoren | Drystan Creed | The Rewrite

 

[Caelan Valoren]

Honestly, he still thought it was wrong to go forward without giving them the chance to surrender. Whether they were responsible for whatever had happened here or not, that chance should, in his mind, be offered prior to engagement. They didn't, after all, know that these people were responsible for what happened. They could have been opportunists.

And then one of them spoke and he sighed. Well, there went that notion.

And just as quickly, the weapons fire erupted, pouring down upon him, the supposedly defenseless Jedi. But he wasn't defenseless and had been prepared for this the whole time. The weapons impacted on the barrier that surrounded him, doing nothing to him but dissipating. Given that it was his only focus, it was quite easy to maintain, and so he allowed himself to be an easy target for them as they tried to blast their way through his defenses. It kept them occupied while the others did whatever they needed to do.

Which, honestly, he sort of wished he hadn't seen. Drystan was literally smashing his arm through things to rip enemies through them and then manhandling them into unconsciousness. To be fair, it wouldn't have been all that different if he was attacking them himself. He'd have been more... delicate, but the end result would have been the same. Valery, on the other hand, cleanly sliced through the blade of a weapon and... actually gave them the chance to surrender, which made him happy.

"Take her offer," he said to them as he reached for the blade on his hip. "We aren't the Jedi that were here before. You won't like the results of this battle if you fail to surrender now."

---

ATTIRE: Link | WEAPON: Lightsaber | COMPANION: BD-F8 | OTHER: Sigil Bead (Necklace), Prosthetic Left Arm

TAGS: Drystan Creed | Valery Noble | Kahlil Noble | The Rewrite ​

 

[The Rewrite]

[NJO] The Shattered Acord | Kindling
"Peace is a fragile flame. When war returns, the Jedi walk the fireline."​

Strike Team Orders — North
Valery Noble Kahlil Noble Caelan Valoren Drystan Creed

The mist erupted with violence.

Where once there was silence, now there was the shriek of blaster fire, the crash of stone, and the hiss of igniting sabers. The trap the mercenaries had lain for the Jedi had snapped shut—only to find its prey was far sharper than expected.

Drystan hit like a storm front.

The first mercenary barely had time to scream before he was pulled bodily through the barricade, the duracrete wall crumbling like ash around the Shadow's cybernetic hand. The others turned in panic, swinging rifles toward the wrong threat—the visible one. They never saw him coming.

By the time Drystan discarded the unconscious mercenary, another had already turned tail and fled behind the nearest column, stumbling over his own weapon as he tried to make sense of what he'd just seen.

Valery struck next, her violet blade cleaving through fog and metal alike with terrifying grace. Weapons shattered. Limbs fell limp. But not lives—not yet. Her precision was absolute. Her authority rang clear in the chill air as she issued her warning.

There was hesitation. Always, there was hesitation.

The two mercenaries nearest her backed away, breathing hard. One of them, his helmet cracked from a glancing blow, looked toward the others, uncertain. But then—

"Don't listen to her!" shouted the squad leader from deeper in the yard. His voice came from behind a heavier barricade near the training yard's archway. "Jedi don't take prisoners. They just talk you to death before they gut you. Kill 'em or die—those are your choices!"

Kahlil's presence surged behind the words, steady and unmoving. His shield shimmered faintly against the blasts raining down on Caelan's position, repelling fire with calm mastery. It was an invisible wall of will—a quiet defiance to the chaos erupting around them.

Caelan's blade, still at his hip, remained unignited. His words carried the same weight as Valery's—measured, clear, not without mercy. His words worked their way into the ears of the mercenaries.

Another pause. Another breath.

Then—

"Grenade!"

A concussive burst tore through the far barricade as one of the mercenaries lobbed a fragmentation sphere toward Caelan's position, clearly hoping to shatter his shield or break his focus. It was an act of desperation more than strategy, and it cost them.

The moment the explosion rang out, one of the hesitant mercs near Valery panicked—he dropped his rifle and bolted across the yard, full sprint. A second tried to follow but was yanked backward by his squad leader, barked orders now turning into screams.

"Hold the yard! Hold the damn line! The Jedi are just people—bleed 'em out!"

The remaining mercenaries took new positions, spreading into cover. Two with long rifles scrambled up the outer edge of the courtyard ruins, taking high ground above the team. Another dropped into a half-sunken trench where an old dueling circle once stood—trying to force the Jedi into close-range chaos. The leader stayed behind the largest barricade at the far archway, reaching down to a comm unit clipped to his vambrace.

And from deeper inside the ruins, only Kahlil, detached from the battle more so than the rest, could feel it.
The hum returned.

Low. Rumbling. Rhythmic.

A sound like chanting—not voices, but something deeper. A resonance. A vibration that moved through the bones.

None of the mercenaries seemed to hear it.
But Kahlil did.
Something pulsing. Drawing power.

 

[Drystan Creed]

VICONDOR

While the discarded mercenary lay crumpled, Drystan was far from finished.

He gave chase—silent, relentless—like black on midnight.

One mercenary, in full retreat, never stood a chance. Drystan cut into his escape path like a blade through mist, planting himself squarely in front of the man. He raised a closed fist slowly—almost lazily—until it hovered just beneath the merc's chin. A hair's width of distance. Nothing more.

And then it happened.

A twitch. A convulsion of controlled chaos.

His fist surged forward no more than a fraction of an inch—but the result was catastrophic.

The helmet shattered. A bloom of sparks. A sudden twist in the mercenary's spine before he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.

This was no trick. This was explosive force.

In the traditions of martial arts, there is the concept of explosive internal power. It is not about winding up. It is not about momentum. It is the instantaneous conversion of coiled tension into raw kinetic force. A whipcrack of energy, delivered not through distance, but through perfect sequencing of muscle, bone, and will.

Drystan's application was textbook. No—it was a masterclass.

From his heel, torque built. Through his hips, it spiraled. His shoulder snapped forward, his arm extended, and in that blink-of-an-eye, everything collapsed into the final joint. The wrist.

Movement measured in millimeters—but the energy released was enough to knock a man unconscious through full-body armor.

When wielded by an experienced fighter—amplified by the Force—any blow becomes a potential finishing strike. From any distance. From any angle.

A flicker becomes a thunderclap.

As that mercenary joined his comrades in unconscious silence, Drystan pressed on—his fury restrained now to clinical precision. The disdain was still there. But buried. Sharpened. Focused. The rest would follow.

One by one.

Valery Noble Kahlil Noble Caelan Valoren The Rewrite

 

[Tel Ahren]

Tag: Anthony Gray Sun Phoebe Winsloe
Not-So-Spooky Ghost: Jo'Han Felcado
Below: Reina Daival Mykel Dawson Jin Kimura Dezorath Barcu
Current ship: "Moore"
Astromech: M8-E3

​

Tel didn't even need to tell the astromech to ping the swoops as hostile; M8 and Diva, communicating faster than their organic compatriots could, had already identified the attack formation and marked them on the fighters' displays. He flipped a few switches, leaving the gun sights on, opening up the bomb bay, and disengaging the locks on the payload of ion bombs that they'd brought along. The blasts from Phoebe and Anthony had taken out a few of the screaming repulsorcraft, whose pilots were—luckily for themselves—good enough not to go spiraling out of control and crash in a ball of fire despite their attempts to be less-than-lethal.

It made him feel a little better about dropping the ion bombs on them.

"Copy," he muttered into his helmet mic at Anthony, moments before the knight pulled their craft's nose sharply upwards. The targeting computer immediately went into overdrive trying to calculate the trajectory on the bomb sight, and as soon as the reticle showed that the greater part of the swoops would be hit, he hit the release, and a pair of ion bombs tumbled out at high speed to land to either side of the middle of the swoops.

A blast of low-temperature plasma filled the air at the epicenter of the blast as the bombs detonated on impact, a flood of energy and charged particles released that disabled the greater part of the raiders' formation in one fell swoop.

Don't laugh at me for that one, Jo'han.

The Moore's ventral shields glowed for a moment as they absorbed the attenuated edge of the blast; not enough to make much of a measurable drain at all, but enough still that the astromech was gibbering angrily at him. "Look, look, I knew we would be fine," he grumbled back. "We were too far and too fast for those to do anything to us, we didn't bring capital ship-grade ordnance today!" He craned his neck, looking out the viewport back towards the raiders.

"Bombing run successful," he reported dutifully. "We going to look back the way they came from, see if there's more of them holding back?"

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Combat Jumpsuit | Wedding Ring
Weapons: Blasters | Lightsabers

Valery's eyes flicked toward the fleeing merc, then to the one dragged back by his commander. Her jaw tightened. The moment to surrender had passed. Their fear was palpable now — but fear in men like this rarely gave way to reason. Only desperation.

The snap of a grenade detonating near Caelan's position lit up the courtyard in a concussive flash. Shrapnel rang off ancient stone. Smoke curled. She didn't flinch. Her saber rose with one hand, but her other was already moving.

Then the air itself buckled.

Valery's outstretched hand slammed forward, and with it came a wave — not of fire, but of raw telekinetic force. It tore through the mist and smoke like a pressure front from a crashing starfighter. It wasn't meant to kill. But it was meant to end this. The two riflemen scrambling for higher ground were ripped from their perches like leaves in a storm, hurled back against the ruins with a brutal crack of armor on stone. Another never made it to cover — the wave caught him mid-vault, flinging him sideways into a sunken wall. The remaining mercs, caught in the open, went flying in a heap of tangled limbs, weapons skidding across the ground like toys kicked by a giant.

Silence fell again, save for the faint hiss of her saber and the groan of wounded men too dazed to rise.

Valery lowered her hand, breath even. She looked across the field, past Drystan's brutal precision, past Caelan's barrier still holding strong, and toward Kahlil.

He had felt something.

Kahlil Noble Caelan Valoren Drystan Creed ​

 

[The Rewrite]

[NJO] The Shattered Acord | Kindling
"Peace is a fragile flame. When war returns, the Jedi walk the fireline."​

Main Jedi Group Orders — South
Anthony Gray Sun Phoebe Winsloe Reina Daival Mykel Dawson Jin Kimura Tel Ahren Dezorath Barcu [OPEN]


The swoop column never stood a chance.

The first wave of raiders had stormed in with the arrogance of men who had never faced Jedi. Their engines screamed across the plains, blasters raised in wild anticipation, thinking a handful of old speeders and refugees would be easy prey.

They hadn't planned on hell descending from above.

Phoebe's X-Wing came in low and sharp, laser cannons stuttering with precision fire. She didn't strafe to kill—she herded, sliced through the edge of the formation like a scalpel through gauze, sending a ripple of panic through the ranks. Swoops veered away, smoking and spinning out, drivers dismounting in a rush to escape the precision of a true Corellian pilot behind the stick.

Before the dust could settle, the Moore roared into its run.

Anthony's ion cannons stitched arcs of blue fury across the column. Swoops sparked, shuddered, and died—riders thrown from their seats as the repulsors buckled beneath them. The formation broke into chaos.

Then came the payload.

Tel's ion bombs landed clean. Not elegant, but devastating. Blue-white plasma expanded in overlapping rings across the valley floor. The blast shorted out a wide cluster of the bikes, dropping them in an instant. Half the enemy formation collapsed before they ever got in range of the convoy.

And still, no one died.

That was the Jedi way. Not weakness. Restraint with teeth.

On the ground, Dezorath's shout had galvanized the convoy's flanks. Armed scouts began rushing refugees toward cover. Mykel's sweeper bike came to a halt just before the bomb blast rolled over the dirt, the technopath shielding his mind instinctively as a surge of terror and confusion burst from the raiders. Reina, perched like a storm-sentinel on her convoy vehicle, watched the riders scatter—some stunned, some wounded, most now in retreat.

But Dezorath wasn't moving.

He was listening.

And the rumble he heard next wasn't swoops.

It came low and steady—not from the wreckage of the strike, but from the broken ridgeline beyond the valley's eastern mouth. A slow, mechanical thunder.

Then the hills shifted.

Tracks. Treads.

Two squat, heavily-armored tankettes rolled into view. They weren't military-grade walkers—too old, too cobbled-together—but they were real armor. Light turrets spun atop their frames, mounted with twin heavy repeaters and what looked like plasma lance projectors rigged into the side chassis. One even had what looked like a repurposed flamethrower nozzle bolted where a viewport used to be.

They had been waiting. Hidden in reserve. Positioned not to break the convoy, but to break the Jedi.

The leading tankette rolled into firing range, its turret adjusting by the second. It wasn't moving fast—its crew likely afraid of mines—but it didn't need to be.

Then the comms cracked.

A voice—filtered through distortion—rang out in a mocking tone.

"You thought that was the attack? That was just the starter course."

A pause. Then:

"You Jedi want to die on the moral high ground? Fine by us. You should've aimed to kill."

With a shriek, the turret opened fire—twin heavy cannons spitting red plasma into the edge of the caravan's left flank. A scout transport took a direct hit to the repulsorlift array and flipped sideways in a spray of sparks and flame, crashing into the mud. Screams followed—at least two civilians inside, maybe more.

Then the second tankette angled forward, raising its flamethrower assembly.

The air lit with orange fury.

A wash of flame rolled across the outer perimeter of the convoy—burning up the edge of a defensive position where a militia unit had been setting up shields. The troops scattered, one screaming as his armor ignited before he dropped and rolled hard into the mud to extinguish it.

The convoy was no longer under threat.

It was under siege.

From above, Phoebe and Anthony would see the armored signatures clearly now—two tankettes positioned at range, spreading firepower across the valley mouth like a slow-moving scythe. The swoops were either down or gone, but these machines were designed to push through a static defense. With time, they would roll right through the refugees unless stopped.

The Moore had the firepower. But not much left in its ion payload. Tel's bombs had been expertly spent—but they weren't carrying warheads designed for armor. Phoebe had her shadow bombs. But if these things were shielded or reinforced? It would take coordination to bring them down before they reached the convoy's heart.

On the ground, Dezorath could feel the rumble now, clear through his bones. This wasn't battle anymore.

This was execution.