Dominion Operation: Creedfall || Mandalorian Empire Dominion of Ketaris

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ketaris, Outer Rim Territories
| Objective | I - Eliminate the Firebreathers

The Firebreather Alpha died with a shriek that carried across the city, a whipcrack of pain and agony from a beast that knew no other purpose than to ravage and ruin all that it surveyed.

From his vantage point high above, Itzhal surveyed the weary survivors he had painstakingly led through the chaotic streets of the burning city. He let out a slow breath, gradually easing the tension that had coiled tightly in his shoulders, weighed down by the immense burden of countless lives resting in his hands, a responsibility that grew with every fortunate soul they passed, another added to a desperate exodus that had at points seemed endless. A sense of relief washed over him; they were safe now, at least for the moment.

"Understood, the assistance is appreciated," Itzhal acknowledged, his voice warm despite the exhaustion that clung to his body.

It was a welcome relief to let his weary body finally relax. With a slow descent, carefully choosing a position to sit, Itzhal stretched his legs over the edge of the roof, the sickly warmth of the Firebreather's assault gradually fading under the cool evening breeze that brushed against his skin, almost painfully gentle even with the protection of his bodysuit. Tiredly, the New Mandalorian's gaze swept across the vast horizon, scanning for the first glimmer of the approaching transport, the promise of safety and the end to the fighting in sight.

Tags: Aether Verd Kirae Orade Lyra Scarlet Alora Vizsla Hanna Ze'bast Verd​

 

[Malachi Vokat]

OBJECTIVE III
Adean Castor , Varuun Droskaar , Cordelia Malkavian

Malachi’s gaze lingered on the woman beneath the rubble.

She was bloodied, shaken, wrapped in armor not her own—but breathing. Alive. And for now, that was enough.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening as he knelt beside her again. His voice came through the comms, lower now—less command, more comfort.

< “We don’t leave ours behind.” >

Not in this war. Not in this wreckage. Not ever.

As Cordelia spoke, sharp and pointed in her inquiry, Malachi didn’t interrupt. He simply unfastened the canteen from his belt and offered it to the downed survivor, his movement slow and deliberate. No demands. No pressure.

< “Here. Drink.” >

He gave her a beat. Then, quietly:

< “Start from the beginning. What happened here?” >

His tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was weight behind it—he needed the timeline. The mission might depend on it.

As she answered, Malachi’s hand rose to his helmet, activating his comms.

< “Rekaal—target’s yours. We’ve got wounded down here. Can’t abandon survivors. If you call for backup, we’ll answer.” >

The line closed with a subtle click. Malachi returned his full attention to the survivor in front of him.

Whatever storm had buried her, she wasn’t alone in it anymore.​

 

[Adean Castor]

TAG: Varuun Droskaar | Cordelia Malkavian | Malachi Vokat

< “We don’t leave ours behind.” >

Whatever comfort was meant to be found in those words sounded more like a threat in Adean's ears.

She blinked once, twice. It was also a mentality practically unknown to the circles she often found herself in, which was also horribly inconvenient at this particular moment. She found herself torn between being touched by the sentiment and refraining from responding back with a 'Well, I'm not one of yours, so...'

But no, letting them think she was one of theirs was perhaps the only thing still keeping her alive. Or perhaps they'd already pulled that inkling of truth from the wreckage and were waiting for the right moment to exact vengeance. A muted terror had seeped into her being, dictating her every move.

<"What happened?"> Delia found herself asking before she could make herself keep quiet. <"For you to have stayed put and still been here to get yourself nearly crushed?">

So there was a second person present, at least. Her hunch (or perhaps more than a hunch) had been accurate. Her questions were expected, though nevertheless dreaded. Adean's head spun between the residual ringing in her ears and trying to determine the best way to spin her predicament. She could explain she'd been deep under cover and had been in the process of armoring up when everything went down, or spin a tale that the helmet had been given to her shortly before their cohort had expired. She could also simply tell the truth.

That idea was forgotten just as soon as it'd crossed her mind.

Adean accepted the canteen before she thought better of it. Really, a poor move to further draw attention to her unarmored limbs any more than necessary. Her pale hands, currently marred by dust and grime, remained comparatively soft, strategically manicured. Hands meant to appear as if they'd never seen a day of hard labor.

She didn't dare remove the helmet - anonymity was her only saving grace as far as she knew (that, and she didn't want to risk seeing whatever moisture that now clung to her face was anything other than sweat, not yet.). The canteen served more as a grounding measure, something cool and weighted to focus on as she parsed through the maze of events and what was safe to weave into an account.

"The Doctor was preparing for an operation - something big, I think, like he was on the verge of a breakthrough - or maybe he knew he was about to be interrupted? I don't know. They were finalizing prep when the tremors below started. I was backtracking when it became more than tremors and well..." she gestured vaguely at the surrounding wreckage. "Came to shortly before you were on the comms, uh, Vokat."

There was no need to explain how she'd gotten here in the first place, or how accidentally running into one of their companions had left both of them in the wrong place at the wrong time, or how she was wearing the helmet of a dead-- no, there was no need to linger on it.

"It all happened so fast, exact details are a bit hazy."

 

[Alora Vizsla]

The Gambit was a compact, midnight-black transport that was practically invisible on sensors, though never optically invisible -- its chief weakness especially in atmosphere where objects can actually be seen visually. Its engines weren't loud, but they gave off the customary warble or firing of thrusters like most other vessels.

With the Alpha down and the rest... disoriented, the Gambit was able to quickly draw near Itzhal Volkihar 's location without incident. Even with Alora still in the air elsewhere aiding Hanna with cleanup, the ship showed signs of cornering obstacles and evading the spurting throes of hostiles still in the area. From the outside it might seem piloted by a skilled operator; only once anyone got on board and poked around would they find it devoid of organic life.

The ship slowed its approach mindful of the organic life below, especially of their guardian that gave watch over them. "Excuse me," the synthesized voice asked politely, "would you be the one that request assistance relocating civilians?" Its forward loading ramp would lower to reveal the hollow Mechanic's Bay in its belly with ample room that didn't even include the rest of the ship. "I am ready to assist."

There were only two chambers on the Gambit sealed from anyone accessing them. One was the sanitized cybernetics lab where Alora installed or serviced cybernetics, and the other was a private area she'd not shown anyone. The Gambit didn't have any weapon turrets inside of itself -- it was not a warship, after all. What it did have, however, was the fact anyone trying to break into either of those two chambers would be standing in the Mechanic's Bay when they did so... which left them at the mercy of being tossed out of the ship or sucked out the airlock on the ventral side of the ship when in space. Gambit did not like violence, but it would defend itself.​

 

[Malachi Vokat]

OBJECTIVE III

Malachi said nothing at first.

He listened.

To the stammering cadence behind her words. To the pauses, calculated and careful. To the way her fingers wrapped around the canteen—not to drink, not really—but to anchor herself. He’d seen enough interrogations to know when someone was walking a mental tightrope.

But he also knew when someone was scared.

And the woman before him was scared.

Her story was neat. A little too neat. But it wasn’t the holes he focused on—it was the exhaustion behind it. The telltale signs of someone not just wounded, but unmoored. She hadn’t taken off the helmet. She hadn’t drunk the water. She hadn’t run.

That said something.

Malachi nodded once, slow.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” He kept his voice low, steady. “You’re still breathing. That’s enough right now.”

He reached down, carefully adjusting the rubble around her shoulder. The pressure wasn’t fully pinning her—thank the Manda—but her leg was wedged tight beneath a metal girder. With a grunt, he braced his arms underneath it.

“On three. Try to pull free if you can. One... two…"

He heaved.

The metal screeched as it shifted just enough. Dust poured down around them. Space was made for Adean to scrape herself free. And if she did?

Malachi would catch her under the arms and steady her upright.

A distant whump-whump-whump reached their ears—the sound of engines cutting through the Ketaris wind. Malachi turned, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the dust kicking up through the ruined atrium. Overhead, a Vevut-class dropship was descending fast, bearing the black and crimson crest of the Mandalorian Empire.

"Evac’s here.”

He activated his comms again, voice clear:

“Rekaal, Malkavian—we’ve got one injured and mobile. Gonna load up.”

He looked back at Adean, gaze unreadable behind the visor.

“C’mon,” he said simply. “You’re not dying here We got you.”

Together, they could start towards the landing zone. And whatever had happened in the lab, whatever truth she was holding back—it could wait.

For now, she was one of theirs. And no one walked alone.​

Cordelia Malkavian , Adean Castor , Varuun Droskaar​