Dominion Over and Over | Second Battle of Borosk | NIO

[Inactive Account]

Cmdr. Haleth "Hailie" Garro
Borosk Orbit
Perform force reconaissance for the 908th prior to their assault.
Tags: Solo

Hailie watched the last troopers' of her platoons' boots meet Borosk's surface. "Missle!" The pilot's voice cried his panic palpable, Hailie lept for the rope yet still dangling from its' purchase. Her limbs wrapped around it desperately clinging with the vestigial instincts when her body was given to frailty, Hailie's gaze is drawn towards the tell-tale roar of a rocket engine and spotted and a shining projectile following by a coiled smoky contrail heading straight towards the Dropship.

"Damn it" The Dropship went into a nose-dive as its' engines failed after the cockpit swallowed the high-explosive projectile. Hailie still clinging to the rope is dragged momentarily along the ground before releasing that anchor from her grip, her breastplate slid along the soil, grass and pebbles scraping away parts of its' camouflaged surface. From the edges of the clearing in the safety of the thick foliage and canopy, Sergeant Llane watched Commander Garro slam against the ground, bounce off its face and slide unceremoniously across its' surface cleaving a path through Borosk's grasslands. She eventually came to a stop, unmoving.

Sergeant Llane's eyes were cast down to his crouching Corporal, watching the dancing fires on their dropships' hull and the lone camouflaged armoured figure, she lay unmoving. Still. Sergeant Llane placed a supportive grip on Corporal Gulani's shoulder. "Note down we lost the Captain and Commander". His thoughts and gaze on the Corporal were broken by one of his Troopers.

"Sergeant, look!" The woman cried, holding a pair of binocs in her right hand and shooting an index finger forwards toward the crash site, Llane's eyes followed the woman's gesture. They examined what should have been a corpse steadily rise from the debris field, cinders simmering against their silhouette.

 

[Noel Strasza]

R U N
Major "Bridgebreaker" Strasza
& The 16th Doom Division Corps

OBJECTIVE :// BANEFUL
LOCATION :// THE_SURFACE, BOROSK
6/6 ALIVE
2/6 INJURED
1/6 MIA

​

Three klicks out of the HMS Baneful...​

It had gone to shit in a matter of minutes and the major's consciousness was still caught in the past moments ago. Now, she was running on pure instinct and reflex, barking orders across their scrambled communications array into muffled, ringing ears. She couldn't hear anything out of her left side, only the sharp, irritating whine the explosion popping off so close to her had earned. Keep moving, she urged herself on despite the pain in her left leg, keep moving. Muffled shouts of surprise echoed through her right ear, reaching with enough potency to break through and stab into her awareness:​

"Major! Where's Brix and Patters!?!"​

And that was a great question, where were Brix and Patters? The woman slammed herself down against the craggy carapace they had scaled up, narrowly avoiding the hail of fire from the lone speeder streaking by. Her helmet twisted, grinding its painted edges against the rock face as she searched through the contained chaos for her squad members. Where was everyone?​

"He's uh... he's with me." Patters croaked across the link, voice rasping and strained.​

"Are you two in cover? What the hell is going on over there?" Strasza asked through her haze, glowering at the roaming vehicle as it squealed by them again, searching to make another pass. The trooper on the back was reloading.​

"D-didn't seem 'em coming in. Didn't hear 'em 'til it was too late. We're holdin' on over here, but we need that speeder taken care of... Brix is in bad shape." The medic hurriedly shared, obviously preoccupied with his strain to divulge much more than that.​

Shit.​

The woman ground her teeth beneath her guise, tracking the erratic motions of the damaged speeder in its patrolling skirt around them. Of course, each member of The 16th had activated their cloaking devices, masking themselves from typical sight- and given that their physical cloaks smothered their thermal signatures, they were all damn near invisible to even aided sight. It was enough to buy them time, as wasteful as it felt to spend power cells simply to hide from legionnaires they should have seen coming. Why hadn't they seen them coming?​

The initial panic and shock of coming under attack had left her, evolving into white-hot focus and blistering anger as she allowed herself to seethe there on the rocks, boiling within her armor beneath the protective span of her cloak. The squad was silent, choosing then to spend the passing seconds in recovery and waiting for the orders they had long learned to anticipate. If ever a word could wrap up their commanding officer, it was vindictive.​

"Check-in. Bridge."​

"Patters with Brix."​

"Mel."​

"Ross."​

There was a long pause as the squadron seemed to hold their breath.​

"Raz?" Major cast out, suddenly feeling like she was shouting into the void.​

No response. ​

"Okay, Raz is MIA. We'll find him after we handle this shit-" Bridgebreaker decided, casting her thoughts out to the others.​

"Affirm, what do you want us to do?"​

Quickly, the woman wove together a plan. They had mere seconds until their cloaking devices had to be powered down to cool and that was all the time they had to operate in. Attacking a roamer head-on was asking to get rammed and shot full of tibanna. They would really have to do what it was they did best, but how could they manage such a thing on mostly flat, open ground? Besides, the shark circling them was far too close for any of them to put their rifles to work.​

"Don't damage the speeder, we're gonna need that to get Brix back to the transport." Bridgebreaker managed over the comms, shaking her rattled head inside of its bucket. "I'm gonna pull them away and draw their fire. One of you pick them off as soon as you get a bead, the others get to Patters and Brix." She wasn't sure at all where her squadmates were, or if any of them were in any condition to take pot-shots at a rushing speeder team, but... as far as she could tell, they were on their own to solve this issue. "And I swear, if any of you fuckers shoot me, you're gonna wish you fell off the wall earlier because I'm gonna throw you over myself."​

"Godspeed Maj. I'll take care of 'em." Ross's voice brought her some sort of comfort. At least he was one of the better shots on the team.​

A deep breath bolstered her boldness and the major dropped her pack and rifle, lightening the burden of her gear and leaving herself armed with only her sidearm. The M9 found its way into her shaky hands and at once, the woman launched herself out from behind her cover- giving herself absolutely no time to reconsider. A dull drone ushered the powering down of her cloaking device and at once, her colorless blur rushing against the rocky background was revealed.​

"There!"​

The woman sucked down a coppery breath and urged herself forward, speed bolstered by the white tides of fear-surfing adrenaline unleashed through her veins. A long time ago she had learned it better to let yourself feel fear. To understand that it was a tool and a weapon, not something to hold a soldier back. No. It could be her greatest ally when she needed to be faster. Stronger. Smarter. And with it burning her belly, stoking the flames to fuel her sprint, she was off.​

Blaster bolts wailed by her head in a rushing spiral and she took to a jagged stride, grimacing beneath her helmet at the pain in her bloody leg. Still, she hadn't addressed that, though she suspected running on it like this wasn't going to miraculously heal it. Another crimson hail zipped by her, narrowly missing the edges of her ribcage and threading between her arm and torso. "Anytime now Ross!" She panted, skidding to a halt and changing directions abruptly.​

A second passed.​

Then two.​

"I've got him." The breathy murmur crackled in her helmet.​

And then the miraculous thunder of high caliber round bursting onto the field echoed from somewhere on her high right. Crimson heat splashed against her cloak, devouring the material to the armor beneath in a matter of seconds with its molten hunger. Whatever it was, instinct or reflex, that compelled Strasza to glare over her shoulder in that instant was certainly a force working with her for a change. Stormy eyes gaped at the sight of betaplast splitting beneath high impact and the spurt of blood and sludge from the other side of the driver's head. The throttle of the speeder ramped, roaring down on her and it was all she could do to hurl herself to the left, rolling onto the ground and out of the way. Both hands raised to tuck behind her helmeted head, shielding it reflexively.​

But rather than smash into the rocks as she had expected it to, the hover speeder rocketed over them, flipping backward and throwing the gunner from its rear once it had met an angle too steep for its climb. Stras quickly uncurled herself, heaving and panting against the ground still, and took a shaky shot at the reeling legionnaire. A miss. "Fuck-" She breathed as the trooper crawled away from the wreck, seeming to have forgotten about her in their daze. The shot pierced through the ground by the soldier's hand, causing an instinctive leap back. Strasza squeezed the trigger again, sending another shot towards them, finally doming them with the unceremonious spray of crimson against the rocks.​

Out of danger for the moment, the major doubled over, panting and retching on her hands and knees with the overwhelming struggle to catch her breath.​

"Major?"​

"You good?!"​

"Stras!?"​

Her chest was on fire. Her stomach, in knots. Finally, her green-tinted visor angled down, searching for the source of the nasty feeling in her left leg. A piece of slug shrapnel the size of her pinky was sticking out of the armor strapped to the outside of her thigh. But it wasn't bleeding too bad. Not enough for her to be concerned. "Y-yeah, I'm... good..." She rasped her response, wheezing after air yet still, "That was... a good... shot Ross. You guys okay?"​

"Yeah."​

"Yes ma'am. How's the speeder? In one piece still?"​

Strasza turned her head, looking at the overturned vehicle. "It's fine. No damage besides a few scratches and dings. Should ride just fine. I'll bring it around." Shakily, Noel rose to her feet, holstering her sidearm, and dragged herself forward to grasp the handlebars of the speeder, hauling it backward with a grunt. A quick shove opened up the blood-misted driver's seat. "Everyone rally up where we nested. Patters will take Brix back to the transport to get to the Opulence. We're moving fast to find Raz and get back on OBJ."​

 

[Halketh]

I N T R I G U E
The Vulture

OPULENCE
[ the very casual drip ]

Strolling through the edges of the corridors with a hand on the wall for guidance, Halketh counted his steps in the silent sliver of his mind whilst the majority was occupied with the tune he had chosen to sing softly under his breath. He pushed off the wall with the flat of a palm, crossing the narrow intersection to approach the elevator doors, and it was there he brushed his fingers along the panel, searching for the key to his descent. At least, he assumed it was his descent, right? Down?

'row?' the cat riding shotgun on his shoulders meowed in some question towards the squeaking brakes of the lift slowing its climb to their floor.

"I haven't the slightest idea darling, I do not know why you ask me." The Vulture sighed, tapping his left toe as he waited patiently for the 'ding!' that told him to board the elevator. And once those metal doors had rolled out of his way so courteously, he strode forward, tucking hands in the small of his back after smashing a random button in his arrogance. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. He knew what he was doing. It was so obvious.

As the elevator doors slowly wheeled to a sealed shut, The Vulture felt a horrific nag in the back of his mind. He knew well what such a thing meant, yet, he wrestled with the notion it spurred up within him. A disturbance. A call, reaching out to a man capable of perhaps intervening to spare the unwary from a fate most cruel. His lawful nature rallied for the war then, riding into battle upon the steed of his morality- and waging a battle against his indifference.

He could do something.

Lips pursed.

He could also go find dinner like he was intending to.

Damn, what a toss-up.

"Sol. What do you think?" The miraluka asked his company.

The cat stretched himself out, hearing his name, and brushed his nose and shoulder against the side of Halketh's face, purring as he shed all over the place.

"A good answer." He agreed, nodding slowly. "I can always find something to eat after. But then there is a matter of finding someone to look after you." The cloth wound tightly around his eyesockets creased with the furrow of his brows. "Well, yes, you're right actually. You don't need a babysitter." It seemed Sol agreed with him, and when the Warlord lowered himself down, the cat bounced down to land on the floor of the elevator. "Okay now I'll ju-"

A wracking pain tore through Halketh's psyche then, ushered in by the sudden rise of The Force flowing through his being. He gasped, forced to pitch against the wall, and cupped his hands around his head. Nameless colors tore through his mind's eye, painting rushing pictures he could not quite process at the moment, given his pain. A dark, hooded figure. A beaker. A dark, droning lightsaber. Screams of panic. The smell of fried, fizzling flesh. A choked whimper slipped from Halketh's lips despite his protest, clawing its way free to echo into the empty space. The colors blended together in his mind, warping the blurred, flashing spans to fill in the details of the figure he witnessed.

Recognition dawned on him.

The man who was as much a rumor as he once had been.

The Black Paladin.

The blackened sun symbols, painted in running trails of blood over an arranged pile of New Imperial Stormtroopers. The 501st. Dark, dark sorcery at play. The sickly sweet chill of death weighed the air. But before he could glean more from the fleeting images, they slipped between his clawing fingers, leaving him behind in question.

"My, my-" Lord Halketh scooped up the cat as he righted himself, "I'm sorry Sol... we gotta go." And at once, he compressed the space around them, forming an impossible vacuum that sucked them out of reality and spat them out elsewhere with a hiss of inky smoke- namely his still-smoky quarters. Hurriedly, he scrambled to ready himself for impulsive departure to the planet's surface, ripping clothes off of hangers and haphazardly stripping himself down to change.

MEXICAN_STAND_OFF
The Vulture

BYOO:// PROPHECY
[ x ]
Gatlin | Anton Cassel

​

A handful of his forces already lay down below and for a brief moment, the miraluka considered joining them. But, this was no typical summons to the front he had experienced; oh no, this had been prophesized. Not many were afforded such a thing. A rare treat for the man who wandered the ways the same way The Vulture himself once had in his silent amassing of power. And it seemed The Black Paladin had done the very same, only in the far more physical sense. Master Kezec had hoarded knowledge and expanded his skills.

He wondered what it was The Black Paladin had hoarded. Zealots? A strong marketing campaign? A cool graphic designer for the bloody symbol he had seen in his vision? How curious. The Vulture found it nearly drool-worthy to consider; there were so many delicious possibilities. Was that his appetite making metaphors again? He cleared his throat, surveying the active war efforts he could hear below, and doing what he could to imagine them.

Stormtroopers crashing together- two armies held by hands of children, smashed together like action figures until one of them broke.

It was probably something like that. Probably.

"This is close enough, thank you." Halketh twisted his hooded head around, casting his voice from behind his mask towards the pilot of the transport craft, and without waiting for any protest or response, he threw himself forward. The air embraced him, coiling around in acceptance to his offering and for nearly a second, The Vulture was free falling.

Of course, gloved hands gestured in their splay at his sides, and he was swallowed by the same dark, inky smoke which had left him in the elevator.

The Force spat him back out violently on the ground, causing him to stumble forward with the lingering momentum, rattling it off as he surveyed his immediate surroundings. Looming before him, in all its crashed glory, rose the HMS Baneful, and from within, he heard the sounds of conflict- and even more crucial to him, he saw the red and black blaze of a corrupted Force wielder. It pulsed purple at its edges, flickering with near ultraviolence in its churn and sweep, assumedly ripping through NIO forces.

Much like any battlefield he had graced, the cries of the departed gravitated towards the miraluka, wailing in his senses and tainting his perception of the grounds. He could feel the death around him in his veins. Feel the slipping of living essence from those who had been slain. Hear their spirits, almost, shrieking out in disbelief. And coming from the direction of that corrupted flame, it was powerful.

The Vulture flexed his hands by his sides, curling fingers into claws angled at the tumultuous ground as he reaped the energy which had watered the soil. The bodies of the fallen writhed in their earthen beds, twitching with the spiritual stir of his arrival.

An agent of chaos had entered the battle.

And an agent of death had come to meet him.

The Force wrapped around The Vulture's cloaked frame, swallowing him and masking his approach within a few dozen meters of the ship, and much like those who had come before him, he entered through the side. Simply following the sounds of the chaos, The Vulture navigated the corridors, Force Sight lending him the trail of the darkness he chased.

When, at last, he had reached the same chaotic chamber in the bowels of the ship, his voice extended out from him- projected towards the energy ebbing from Gatlin and he spoke in a maddening whisper on the fringes of the supposed man's mind, voice a disjointed, warbled harmony of many voices in the choir: "Such things are not reserved for squabbling children, I'm afraid."

It was true Halketh could feel the raw power dripping from The Black Paladin, but it was also true that one could never question his ability to talk shit; he had a reputation to maintain.

The concealed form of The Vulture slithered to join the 501st, standing by them with some casual resolution. Where they felt fear, he rose to the occasion, passively airing his calm to bolster their nerves. At last, he was revealed, with his fabulously excessive robes offering a stark contrast to the dirtied troopers he sided with. "What a rare treat-" Halketh sighed in wistful, goading mockery towards the Sith Knight as he tucked hands into the opposite sleeves of his cloak, "Though I would have much preferred your interference come when I was not sorting out my dinner situation. So, I beseech you now, without the slightest hint of passive aggression-" Oh he was absolutely laying it on thick, his tone was anything but kind and understanding, "-to go somewhere else. We're a little busy at the moment, we'll get around to dealing with you later."

The brutality of his vision flickered across the front of his mind in passive reminder. There were no guarantees.

Those troopers closest to The Vulture as he spoke may have felt the sway of The Force pass through them, creeping insidiously with his distracting, inflammatory remarks to build an unseen wall between them and the Sith Knight. In fact, this wall was being slowly extended around Gatlin specifically- woven by the hidden hands gesturing incantations against forearms. It was an attempt to box The Black Paladin in. Trap him in a narrow space so the plan Halketh created to weave an intricate Odojinya around him could be brought to fruition.

One step at a time.

 

[Gideon Saigo]

45th Assault-CF Volunteer Combat Group "Oathsworn"
C O M P N O R​

Stuck in a perpetual fire fight with no ground taken or given over the last day had infuriated the Major of the CompForce combat unit to a point he'd considered sending the Oathsworn all in to the slaughter; hardly a loss with the volunteers SAGroup were pumping out every day.

Only Harrsk having his head stopped him.

Maj. Grunger Zsinj had already not followed procedure when he had not offered the entrenched Legionnaires the offer of surrender and desertion. They all had to be exterminated for all the wrongs against him. How long, how long had he waited for a promotion only for a Sith to reign him in and his men. How long, how long had he been outcast and imprisoned from the system. Petty some called him, just is what he called himself.

A few more men were lost to another exchange of fire and Zsinj gave the order:

"Gas!"

Without hesitation the Oathsworn loaded up their AGLs and rained upon the Legionaries. A firestorm.

A minute later the Legionnaires like rats shuffled out of their hiding holes with a white flag in their midst. The firing cease instinctively.

"Sir, they are surrendering."

"Are they?"

Silence.

"Yes, Sir."

"They look like they are charging, Lieutenant."

They weren't.

"Copy that, Sir; to all units - open fire!"

Unarmed, fleeing for dear life the Legionnaires seeking redemption found none.

The 45th gunned them down to the last man. Zsinj hovered over their bodies, giving a double tap to each corpse he found with his favorite executioner's pistol.

"Rot in hell, scum."

 

[Inactive Account]

Cmdr. Haleth "Hailie" Garro
Borosk Orbit
Perform force reconaissance for the 908th prior to their assault.
Tags: Solo

On unsteady feet against the certain purchase of Borosk's earth, Hailie swayed she could feel the tell-tale cool presence of blood sluggishly dropping from her nostrils, burst capillaries bodies from the sheer force of impact. Behind the greenish visor set into their faceplate, Hailie looked sadly towards the dropship's wreckage for a moment before jogging towards it passed sprites of flame that made kindling of the foliage.

Rounding the port side of what had been a New Imperial Dropship she inspects the tangled mess of wires and melting Durasteel where the pilot should have been and found no sign of him. Not even blood spatter patterns, the poor man had been utterly vaporized by the missile's impact. Hailie placed an open left palm against her breastplate and made a slow deliberate waving motion towards the wreckage with a bowed head. "May you be one with the force, Lieutenant."

Sergeant Llane emerged from the treeline into the clearing. "Commander!" His astonishment couldn't be hidden by the annunciator. Llane watched Garro finish what appeared to be a brief prayer and then lazily turn to face him expectantly. "We've got other birds down, I recommend we send a section to Captain Ryte's downed bird." The distant tell-tale wail of approaching repulsor engines was increasing in pitch at an alarming pace, no doubt some Sith-Imperial Hunter-Killer teams were being sent out on their own aircraft to finish the job. They couldn't linger for any longer.

"Sergeant Llane" Hailie began jogging towards the treeline in his the Sergeant's direction, getting closer to the man she continued. "Get one and two section to return to Captain Ryte's bird and casevac any survivors out of the operation by foot if necessary. You and three section are coming with me." Sergeant Llane blinked, they were still going ahead?

"We're continuing the operation Ma'am?" He sought to clarify, Llane's cocked eyebrow could be heard in his voice a sound leader would have called the whole thing off. Commander Garro was either bold or reckless he thought.

"Correct Sergeant, if we maintain radio silence the Sithies will have no reason to believe that our bodies weren't incinerated during the crash." Hailie paused, the next instruction was a difficult one for her to swallow. "Don't answer the com for any messages regardless of their distress" Sergeant Llane breathed out a sigh as he realized why they were taking this course of action 'Smart' he didn't mouth or speak the word but it did enter his mind as a wordless response. Instead, Llane simply nodded his head.

 

[Gatlin]

OBJECTIVE | BANEFUL

Anton Cassel IO-21 Halketh ​

They were nothing less than slaughter, carrion for his blade.

A saber rended through betaplast before being slung across the expanse of the room, booming through the center mass of the Legionarie it was aimed for. Instead of simply imbeding itself into the solider, it slammed clean through his chest and sent him stumbling out his last breaths. A fist formed at the Paladin’s side, the trooper’s head instantly froze. A second later, with a horrific splaying of flesh and armor, the weight of the top of the head smashed down against the make up of the spine. Sending explosions of bone through flesh and firecracker like pops as the neck was mashed into the deeper recesses of the plate. The trooper collapsed instantly. This all, of course, was to embed in the deepest drink that Gatlin could deem possible. Step by step, he approached the last survivor of the squadron that he had went about reaping. His saber fluttered off and reattached itself to his belt. A blaster bolt was sent his way, a wave of his hand would have it stop moments after it left the barrel, again, and again, before the bolts were sent screaming back, scotching the feet of the trooper, one clacking through his knee armor, and dropping him. He was looming over the poor form now, as the Legionarie scuttled against the floor, despratly trying to hold together the charred mess of meat that his leg had become from the onslaught. It poured off of him as water from the stream, as natural as it as well. Gatlin drank deeply, the low hum of his armor systems coming between every plated step onto the durasteel flooring.

"Such things are not reserved for squabbling children, I'm afraid."

It was then that the low hum of someone else gifted with the knowledge of the other side of reality had come to him. Just outside of what he deemed worthy to take in. The skirting voices that bounded around his skull, the whispers of the lost and damned, the convergences of ages past and soon to be stopped. A single voice rang true. It was not one that he knew.

Footfalls, closing in. The heartbeats of a squadron at the very least, and one of them brimming with same wisps of truth that had drug Gatlin to the darkest depths. The very home he now claimed. Someone with the damnation of the Dark held close to their soul. Perhaps, something could be gained from this meeting.

Looking down at the fretful Legionarie, who now was gibbering incoherently, Gatlin simply nodded his head in the man’s direction. He fell into himself, just in the same manner that Gatlin had originally arrived to this room. While he was thinking of simply dropping the poor man somewhere in the depths of real space, he assumed that his companions could use some… meat as it were. Somewhere, the bastard would drop directly in the middle of a Qo’krataa cell holdout. If Gatlin was lucky with his guess, they would be more on the monstrous side of his followers. Along with the Legionarie, would follow one of the containers of the dreadful Omega Red.

He turned, just to witness a carnival of would be assailants enter the room. Blasters raised between many of them, though, one in particular stood out to the Sith. Shadow given form, standing tall and proud, boisterous. Clad in no only appearance attire but appearance physical of someone who desired the mortal vices still. No, compared to Gatlin, this Lost Sith was nothing more than a show piece, one of the many pawns in the NIOs holdouts. Could he not see that these Imperials were wishing damnation and hellfire upon his kith and kin? Could he not read the same waves in the ocean front that Gatlin could? The writing was as clear on the wall as the splattered hope of the defenders that used to occupy the space Gatlin now stood in.

"What a rare treat-" Halketh sighed in wistful, goading mockery towards the Sith Knight as he tucked hands into the opposite sleeves of his cloak, "Though I would have much preferred your interference come when I was not sorting out my dinner situation. So, I beseech you now, without the slightest hint of passive aggression-" Oh he was absolutely laying it on thick, his tone was anything but kind and understanding, "-to go somewhere else. We're a little busy at the moment, we'll get around to dealing with you later."

Halketh, came a murmur, from the depths of his mind, iching at the back, before becoming a scream overwhelming all other senses. Halketh. Halketh. H A L K E T H. He was much more real now, holding purpose in the physical space in front of him. For what reason? Gatlin still couldn’t discern. Did he not struggle as Gatlin did? To stay on this level of reality. Was him standing there, moments away, not devastating his allies in uncontrollable power as easy as it appeared?

“Lord Halketh,” Came Gatlin’s voice, then another, another, pounding into one another. The overlapping tones and demands of the dark past, names and words that were uttered at the first, and would be demanded at the last.

“The Vulture.” Waves of the ages, crashing over the rocks. “Stood there at the end, the omega. The Empire bled us dry, the New Imperials tanned the corpse.” One after another rolled the voices. Each new, each demanding the others stand down for their turn.

“Child of Abron, still fighting the war your people /lost/. Your ancestors rage through you, your embodiment of the Force, death. Wasted. As the Reaper you hold none of their fear.” Came the call of one who defied.

No saber would be egnited to engage this foe, as for whatever exertion the Archon was pushing his mental strains on, Gatlin was certain in his own will again that of his.

Should he withstand the tide, perhaps Halketh would be the rock that parts the sea.

Should he falter at the onslaught, Gatlin would be vindicated.

He held a hand out to the man, the Force bent to his whim, begging for the forgotten of the Netherworld to leave their mark.

Thus spoke Nihilus.

There was no grand litany of blaster fire that roared over the world of Katarr during it’s last hours, there was no grand battle plans nor cruisers bombing civilian populations or administrative capitals.

Instead, there was a single figure, cloaked in the bleakest night.

Thus spoke Nihilus, and every last life was slipped from the surface of the world. The living blackness birthed from his mouth drug it’s scythe across the fields, cities, and bays of the humble planet, cleaving through to the bare soul. Wrenching the true essence from the simple flesh forms that inhabited the poppets of Katarr. Screeching the entire way as they fled into the endless, forever black that his gluttonous appetite demanded. With a single flick of his tongue, of the most horrendous phonemes falling from his mouth, he sealed the fate of an uncountable billion lives. Vanished in a whisper.

Thus spoke Nihilus, and thus was this pain brought manifest, once again, emanate through living Force, in a stare and a pointed finger at the approaching squadron.

All of the gathered troopers, and Lord Halketh himself, would have the past weaponized against them.

Thus spoke Nihilus.

 

[Volgin Alto]

V I D A G E
501st STORMTROOPER LEGION
Armor | Repeater | Pistol
OBJECTIVE | BANEFUL
FOCUS | IO-21 | Gatlin | Halketh

Heavy, shallow breathes filled the dead air in each passing moment as he continued near the storage area. It got colder with each passing moment, with each weary pace toward the objective. While his eyes were fixated down the sights of his repeator he could hear the steps of his comrades waver more and more to a grueling pace as the shroud of reluctance was wrought over all of them. Anton held himself back with the pack, he'd be lying if he thought to himself he wasn't afraid, that he thought he was the valiant reclaimer here to undo the woes of his past.

No. He, like the New Imperial troopers and Sons of Mandalore who strode these halls months prior were confident in no return, an ensuing death. The corner turned and the Black Paladin stood to await them.

His eyes narrowed after only a moment of hesitation, his gaze glancing over the horrid slaughter around them before he leaned into the repeater, squeezed down on the trigger and fired. Whatever whirlwind he'd reap as consequence, he'd accept it willingly or not with his finger on the trigger and the bruising recoil of the heavy repeater beating against his shoulder.

 

[Sola Ordes]

DIPLOMACY_BY_FORCE
Commander Sola Ordes
3rd Squadron, Beskar Division
-OBJECTIVE :// SEIZE_THE_BANEFUL-
Naier Rambeigh / Noel Strasza / Anton Cassel

Sola scowled and fingers flexed as she half-reached under her coat for her smokes.

Watching the marker of the NIV Dastardly slinking away from the fight, she finally pulled the pack from her coat and the lighter followed, "Comms! Tell Quickfoot and Nevergone that I want them jumping down there and fixing this mess, now."

The comms officer shot her a quizical look, "Ma'am, jump? In - in atmo?"

She snapped, "Did I karking stutter, shipmate? I said jump! We have troops on the ground getting shot to ribbons and a corvette bleeding out in a valley, planet-side. Or would you like to get on the horn with them and tell them to stop dying for the thirty minutes it will take those cruisers to burn down to their position?" She stared eye to eye with the junior officer.

A beat passed and he swallowed, nodding, "Aye-aye, ma'am. Hailing the Quickfoot and the Nevergone, now."

The NIV Dastardly cut low and fast. While that hit had positively ruined her shields and her bow, it had left her engines mostly unscathed, and so it was surprisingly little effort to put distance - and more critically, hard terrain - between herself and the Baneful's still-functioning main battery.

There was a box canyon relatively far from the main fighting where she could hover low and try to set damage control teams to work while resting under and away from the Baneful's firing arcs for the main battery.

As the Ode to Greed's away party approached, those engineers and flight personnel very nearly saw themselves made a blue-on-blue casualty. The gunnery personnel of the Dastardly wouldn't have been surprised if the Baneful had shown herself to have boarding parties at the ready and had brought to bare on the incoming shuttles.

They didn't relax until they received a somewhat panicked verbal authentication of the IFF signals they saw.

"Ode to Greed, Dastardly. We have your engineers dropping in now. You have our thanks, we'll take good care of them till we can send 'em home."

 

[Halketh]

YOUR_ROAD_TO_RUIN
The Vulture

BYOO:// PROPHECY
[ x ]
Gatlin | Anton Cassel

“Lord Halketh,” Came Gatlin’s voice, then another, another, pounding into one another. The overlapping tones and demands of the dark past, names and words that were uttered at the first, and would be demanded at the last. “The Vulture.” Waves of the ages, crashing over the rocks. “Stood there at the end, the omega. The Empire bled us dry, the New Imperials tanned the corpse.” One after another rolled the voices. Each new, each demanding the others stand down for their turn. “Child of Abron, still fighting the war your people /lost/. Your ancestors rage through you, your embodiment of the Force, death. Wasted. As the Reaper you hold none of their fear.” Came the call of one who defied.

​

Each utterance echoed into the prison a death knell, carrying with it the weight of one who knew too much and not at all what to do with it. Such things niggled pity in the back of The Vulture's mind. Ambition was something he admired, and to see it so tragically misguided tugged at his heartstrings. He stood proud in the face of the announcement, fingers still twitching and weaving against tattooed forearms of the opposite, honing the collecting energy he reaped from the slaughter party thrown in his welcome. "Hm." He hummed a singular note of indifferent acknowledgment- revealing neither lie nor truth to the words Gatlin threw at him- eyeless mask fixated on Gatlin with the expected stoicism such a visage provided. ​

He had exchanged all he cared for at the time and found himself sated by the inflammatory words fired off upon their first interaction. Such was the method to gain an advantage in these situations. Never strike first. One should always play the defensive, force a vulnerability, and enforce a will of his own. That was the nature of thriving off scraps. And where his foe had buried himself in the Darkness to fester and seethe, Halketh had done much the same to discipline himself. He was unbothered- at least on the surface- by the words he was afforded. And when the hand extended towards him, his own locked-in a vice grip around his cloaked forearms, crushing against the scarred, mangled flesh harshly enough to bruise. Invocation. Nostrils flared beneath his sealed mask, drawing a filtered breath of anticipation and steady.​

The barricades shielding his mental resistance were bolstered in taxing effort fed by the very same tragedy which was weaponized against him; The Harvest. Every life Gatlin had intercepted with the edge of his blistering blade had only served to make Halketh stronger. The very spirits trapped in the room around him roared for vengeance, deafening the approach of desolation and the pain it would undoubtedly rake through his body. 'Ja'ak.' The phrase cut through the chaos abruptly, silencing the wails of the departed as he sealed a pact unspoken.​

And as the memory of his people's ruination was brought to bear, he faced it as he had everything before; without fear.​

The walls he had established held fast against the tide, manifesting visibly now that two sides pressed against each. Beneath his sleeves, gloved fingers dug into his flesh, raking at it with the straining efforts to hold the tsunami back. So much of an effort this was, that he twisted his lagging leg, digging heel against the bloody floor in an attempt to hold himself in place. But purchase was not his to wield. Fate had not deemed it so. The Vulture slid backwards against the strain, torquing his upper-half forward as his heels dug into the floor to maintain his balance. He kept his hands locked around his arms, refusing to release the grip which held the Darkness at bay until it was his whim to do so. Teeth bared beneath the pale mask he donned, and at last, he righted his posture and drew heated breath through his teeth; struggling to shake off the raking torment assailing the fringes of his psyche. ​

The momentum had collected. The will manifested.​

This was his flow.​

The Vulture released his grasp on his arms and thrust his hands outwardly, redirecting the manipulative effort right back towards The Black Paladin.​

"You sought to torture me with the annihilation of my people at the hands of The Hungerer?" The breathy question came with the slightest snort to punctuate, "To make me suffer as you have, perhaps? I understand you now, darling." The sorcerer remarked curiously, voice reflecting the agreement he had just made with the fallen soldiers in how theirs echoed beside it, "You see yourself a victim in the face of tragedy. The least complex emotion of men to have, and the most pitiful truly." He paused for a moment, tongue snaking beyond his lips to lap the trickle of blood that had accosted them from his nostril.​

Perhaps more straining than he had realized. ​

Once more, his hands resigned to his sleeves, and almost immediately he continued his efforts to conjure up his own assail to press with. "You said 'us' as if you see that you and I are anything close to the same breed," he sighed with disappointment dripping from the tails of his words, "I've a terrible reality to unveil for you-" ​

“This life... it follows you, it clings to you, poisoning anyone who dares come close to you. Kezec, please... just stop this insanity and come home...”

A fleeting memory fluttered across the back of his mind, uttered between the lips of one he once held most dear. He swatted it back, slamming the brakes on that spiral before he descended into the collective madness he meticulously concealed.​

The hatred the spirits he had feasted upon spurred the Darkness within him and he shaped it through his will. A quick snap of his right hand back unveiled the coalescence of blackened night trailing from his sleeve. ​

"My people are still with me. Can you say the same?" With his invocation of Sutta Chwituskak finalized, Halketh hurled the raw hatred and fury of those slain by The Black Paladin towards the man himself. The spell shrieked wailing, furious cry, seeking to pierce straight to the heart of the matter and gnash against the man's physical form.​