Dominion Paradise Warfare | Dominion of Ketaris & Vinsoth | NIO

[IMPCOM]

E M P I R E _ R I S I N G​

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K E T A R I S
P A R A D I S E _ W A R F A R E

Ketaris. It was once a pillar of the post Galactic Empire's remnant, a Fortress World and bastion of the scattered New Order. But times change. That was a moment in history long past and Ketaris has changed, shedding down the white plasteel and jackboots in favor of a representative Republic offering its peaceful people a wealth of personal and economic liberties, making it a wealthy and powerful world both economically and militarily though it rested in dormant in peace for so long.

Then the New Imperial Order came and its influence began to seep into worlds beyond its growing borders.

Peace for Ketaris was winding down to an end.

OBJECTIVE I //: ANARCHY ROAD

Dilemma 862ABY. Referendum. With the New Imperial Order threatening to envelop and encroach on the world, the Republic-aligned government offered its people a referendum of whether Ketaris and the surrounding sector should petition to join the New Imperial Order on their own terms or a make a stand to be independent as the Imperials move to surround them.

The narrowly passed in favor of joining the New Imperial Order and the world of Ketaris would disband its Republic in favor of an interim council controlled by Ketaris's defense force as rising tensions following the dilemma drove the world into civil unrest and later instituted martial law, mandatory curfews and a media blackout.

The streets are on fire with chaos. The Ketaris ruling council has requested that the New Imperial Order send military support to tame the unrest that has now come in the forms of both riots and insurgent activities.

Return order to Ketaris.

OBJECTIVE II //: RAMPAGE

In the wake of the referendum of Ketaris's fate, the Admiral of the Ketaris Defense fleet, Gaier Harusse has begun to attempt a coup d'etat to take control of Ketaris's government and return the rightful Republic back to the planet. Left defenseless by the mass seizing of assets, the Ketaris ruling council has petitioned the New Imperial Order to intervene. The task of pacifying this attempt to seize control now tests in the hands of the New Imperial Armada.

Though with the Order's resources strained by the Third Imperial Civil War, rules of engagement iterate that ships and assets are preferably captured than destroyed...however, Admiral Harusse must be captured at all costs and this feeble attempt to disrupt the Order's control dismantled at all costs. These are military combatants, use any means deemed necessary to defeat this threat. Battle them in orbit, board their ships.

Aboard the Starhawk-class II Battleship, Liberator, Gaier Harusse leads the battle.

OBJECTIVE III //: VODE AN | SONS OF MANDALORE

Vinsoth. With an outpost and foothold established upon the world otherwise apathetic to New Imperial rule, Kestus Bralor has called a meeting of the Sons of Mandalore upon the world, in particular many of its more prominent members and commanders in order to lay the foundations for Crusade. Though the original core group which had escaped from 'The Beast' on Concordia was still aligned with the group, none of the others had taken the oath that bound them.

The oath of crusade, to rip Mandalore and all her sister worlds once the home to their creed from the clutches of the Sith once and for all.

OBJECTIVE //: BYOO

Whatever gets you to post, chief.

// SETPIECES //:
> Ketaris
> University of Ketaris
> Vinsoth

 

[Robogeber]

Objective: Rampage
Location: Ketaris' Orbit, NIV Raider
Post I

It was almost quaint to be back in this role. Memories flooded his circuitry as he remembered the old days. The golden era, if one would, of the Order. Not this one, but rather, the First one. Although now admittedly, these were different, auspicious circumstances. Carlyle Rausgeber gazed down at the crew pits aboard the NIV Raider with a certain nostalgia as he glided to the fore of the bridge. "Report." The Grand Admiral snapped in that cold tone, his voice layered with a synthetic husk.

There was a brief hustle between stations, before it was delivered. "Enemy vessels are moving into defensive position sir. Their fighters as of yet undeployed." The Sensor Officer reported. Not necessarily news to Rausgeber, it made sense. The coups partakers would attempt a defensive measure to lure the New Imperial fleet in, before crushing it. It reminded him a great deal of those tense in Dosuun after the First Order's arrival, and the pressure he and the other captains of the times had to either join them or die. Unfortunate, but that was life. Or death. Or whatever this was.

"We will hold position here." Rausgeber declared, "And coordinate our approach with our fellow Captains." Rausgeber drawled coldly, gliding away from the central gangplank and toward the comms table at the rear of the Cuirassier-Class Cruiser. The Grand Admiral took liberties to physically plug himself into the comms table. The result was to deliver himself in a faux veil of humanity to the others. This human version if one may, was draped in the taut white of an officers uniform, with vintage Grand Admiral rank plaque on his right breast. Hair was greying, but neatly combed, and complexion awfully nice for a dead man. "Gentlemen," Rausgeber began, looking over the other officers.

"It appears our enemy seeks to delay us with defensive formations. If I may be so bold," The officer added, "I dare say, we push a thrust into them, and focus our boarding parties on the primary vessel once we are at point blank range." Carlyle mused with a wry sense of pride. "We have elite shock troops at our disposal, and I believe that should we decapitate this Admiral Harusse, the entire coups will collapse around his corpse."

 

[Asharo Madar]

STUCK_IN_A_LOOP_FOR_ETERNITY
The Silver Savant
ANARCHY_ROAD
TAGS_OPEN
[ street_samurai ]

​

"Oh give me a break," Asharo muttered to himself as he thudded unceremoniously to the ground on the soles of his sneakers, groaning in casual protest to the impact- however mitigated by The Force it was- on his knees. He wasn't so used to operating without the kinetic absorption provided by his typical armor, though he had been briefed it was far better to go without for this mission. If he wanted to get in and hit the militia where it hurt, well, he was going to have to blend in. Casual attire concealing betaplast plating it was, then.​

A double tap series against the communication device tucked into his ear provided the crackling feedback of establishment, and that much was good enough for him. "This is SAVANT_1, I'm on the ground and starting my venture to flank the line." He offered to the ground forces he was to coordinate with, and glanced over his shoulder with steeled eyes to watch his transport roam off behind the skyline. A survey of his gaze forward revealed the chaotic wake of clash, with overturned fixtures and scattered flyers littering the bleeding streets. The smell of smoke and jeers of defiance reached him upon the breeze, accosting his senses with the idealogy of why it was they were here to begin with. Quell resistance.​

Perhaps, he considered as he stepped off to join the strangers in their riot, it was ironic. A man caught in a perpetual, inescapable loop and meant to wage war he often felt confliction towards was here to cut down freedom fighters. He wondered with each step if he was going to feel sympathy for any of them, or if maybe Bastion had warped his ability to feel such things towards those who had been deemed his enemies. The encounter with the Sith Apprentice had certainly left its mark upon him, the extent of which was still largely unexplored. "Whatever." He decided aloud, batting aside the pestering voice of his Other in his mind.​

"Ooh look at you feeling all conflicted. That's real cute, Ash." ​

"Is it possible for you to be silent for five minutes?" The Silver Savant groaned, glancing down momentarily to ensure the saber clipped to his hip was well concealed yet accessible when the time came for him to sing his song. ​

"I'm going to break all your shit while you're gone."​

"Go ahead." Hazel eyes rolled as The Guardian turned the corner, growing closer to the anarchy judging by the sound alone. He disregarded the visions of chaos bleeding across their forcibly tangled minds, and instead focused on what was unfolding before him. Deeply, he inhaled the smoky, tainted air, breathing in the clamor as he attempted to channel the mindset required to think as these people did. He had to get into character. A rattle at his toes caught his ear and he glanced down, catching sight of a gleaming spraypaint canister rolling away from him. A turn of his gaze to the broken building on the left of the sidewalk revealed dripping, glistening lines spelling defiance.​

He paused, peering at the haphazard New Imperial Order logo and the massive splinter drawn through its center, and reached out with his metal fingers to test the age of the paint. It was still fresh- smearing across the titanium in a crimson stain. A quick count of the inner rungs of the symbol revealed there were two too many, earning the faintest chuckle of bemusement from the man. Well, at least they had the spirit, he supposed, even if their application was sloppy. Footsteps drumming against the pathway caught his ear next, echoing over the sounds of clash around the corner close enough for his attention to snap to.​

A man rushing down the street carrying what looked to be a detonator close beneath his arm with a pale face and wide eyes. He darted by Asharo without offering the man a second glance, causing The Guardian to reflect on his guise after all as he continued his casual walk to "join the defiance".​

Maybe this could work after all.​

 

[Wilhuff Krieg]

G R A ' T U A _ C U U N
SONS OF MANDALORE
VODE AN
FOCUS | OPEN to SoM

​

The escape from 'The Beast' had long passed now, the Mandalorian prison labor death camp to which played host to the original founders of the Sons of Mandalore, headed by the wayward Crusader Jocko Horn. But that time had long passed and the Sons of Mandalore had evolved, gone into exile and made a pact of steel with the New Imperial Order. While the self determinant Mandalorians and authoritarian Imperial doctrines have often clashed through Galactic history in a battle of wills which has nearly resulted in the death of the Creed several times over.

Now, they were united against a common enemy. The Sith which had tained the Empire and betrayed and torched the Mandalorian people. In this pact, this alliance of iron wills would result in the despicable Sith being felled. But still these Mandalorians needed to be solely united, solely fixated on their cause. The liberation of Mandalore and her sister worlds from the very depraved creatures which had defiled it. Until then, there could be no sole ruler, no reformations of the creeds or any codices to which they held sacred. However much Mandalore really meant...this would be the symbolic resurrection of the Mandalorians from their current status as the sick and dying man of the Galaxy, left to wither and die from the profligates that betrayed them and shattered the Empire they'd built.

Within their quickly established, spartanist outpost on Vinsoth, the very gathering point for which they would begin to consolidate for crusade, Kestus called for an assembly of these wayward warriors, these Crusaders.

Surrounding a blazing hearth, Kestus began to speak to all of them, his gait wavering with step as his form was marred by fires long snuffed out from war. From Hammerfall.

<"Sons of Mandalore, I have called his gathering because we are soon to embark on our crusade. Our homeland has been sapped and tortured by the parasitic Sith and Graug. Our people...wounded and scattered. Now is our chance. We are the generation of revenge and we will make them know that Mandalore remembers. But I must know, we all must know why each of us are here. Why we have chosen to forsake our easy lives as wayward sons and daughters of the Galaxy in order to climb our holy mountains and avenge our people. A task so easily forsaken as we can see now with those who have clamored into hiding and those who have all but ignored their creed, their identity. So what brings you here?"> Kestus speaks aloud, his voice powerful yet strained from time and toil.

 

[Naier Rambeigh]

E M P I R E _ R I S I N G​

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R A M P A G E
M I L L E N I A L. .R A G E

Somewhere in the vast, diverse galaxy, the sun was rising to a brand new day that held exciting new opportunities, joys and sorrows. For the denizens of Ketaris, it was mostly sorrow, with a hint of anxiety as the collective massed fleet of the New Imperial Order loomed ever so menacingly on the horizon, a blurry mass of bodies working around the clock so as to not disappoint Senior Management.

Naier was of course, internally referencing to NAVHICOM, who unfortunately took the liberty to be present for the Ketaris Campaign. Why the Grand Admiral chose to be present himself, when he had other lackeys such as Naier or virtually thousands of faceless mooks to do the deed, was- not entirely beyond Naier's understanding. After all, if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself. That didn't mean he enjoyed it very much- there was a heavy burden of expectation for the successful pacification of Ketaris, they didn't need to have the gargantuan pressure that the Admiralty brought with them.

He stood at attention at his bridge, preoccupied with the holographic projection of their forces vs the enemy. Sensor stations had been slowly filtering reports, double checking readings and identifying names, accurate force assessments and fleet status. Admiral Harusse himself was aboard the Liberator, no doubt firmly patting himself on his back for his masterfully executed coup. With a man of his experience and fortitude, no doubt he must have felt that defending against a modest Imperial Navy response was doable.

It was everyone's job aboard his Task Force to show that his arrogance was misplaced. Naier unscrewed the cap of his flask and enjoyed a quick drink during the eve of battle. Lieutenant Simone quietly checked the briefings and the NIV Ode to Greed's station reports, the only visible sign of activity within Naier's eye sight. Though her quiet satisfactory aura was annoying to be around, it comforted him in the way that a radiator emitted warmth during the cold winter nights- or cold any time-of-the-day if you had the unfortunate circumstances of being born on a glacial world.

"Lieutenant, give me a report on the ship." he said gently.

She looked up and walked to his side and handed him a datapad, which he accepted with as much grace as an anxious, tightly wounded bundle of nerves could muster. As he read through the information, she started to list off the reports. "Gunnery crews are on station, but the chiefs are complaining that they haven't had time to give their crew additional training."

"Gunnery chiefs are notorious perfectionists, no time is enough time for them to train their crews."

"Flight commanders have been notified, all wings are being assembled as we speak."

"How's the new transfers working with the old guard? What were they, the 19th?"

"No disciplinary reports or outstanding incidents. Colonel Stratus made good on his word sir, no problems integrating with our crews."

The commander snorted, mildly impressed. "If it had been our boys, they'd be sent to the brig twice over by now. What about the rest?"

"Chief Hansen down in engineering reports that the ship's ready for an emergency jump if we need to, but we'll need to inform him ahead of time if we're going to do it. Apparently our engine's been under a lot of stress recently." Simone sounded concerned at the news, as though none of them had heard this before. The engines were always under stress, and Hansen had a way of exaggerating reports- not to mention a strong dislike for Naier himself. But the commander trusted the old geezer enough that he shook his head. "No emergency jumps. If the Admiral catches us fleeing, we might as well set off the reactor failsafes. "

She nodded nervously and continued her report. "Major Silas has his company assembled and ready for boarding on your go, sir. Flight crews are going to be complaining after this."

"Then we'll just have to make that shore leave a good one. How does a tropical planet sound to you, Lieutenant?" His monotone voice gave her a worried pause. "I think. . .that sounds good?" She answered, unsure. "So long as there's no bugs then." Naier responded, handing the datapad to her.

"Nav, keep us a good distance away their fleet, but chart an emergency course in case they look at us funny. Comms, inform the good Admiral Rausgeber that we'll be screening the advance with our fighter wings, but we'll be ready to support any boarding actions. Braggart to our rear, all fire on the Liberator. Miss Me and Bingo! on fighter interdiction duty, spread out and engage targets at will. Guns, spool up our ion cannons and prepare to knock out anyone that comes close."

 

[Sola Ordes]

DIPLOMACY_BY_FORCE
Commander Sola Ordes
3rd Squadron, Beskar Division
-OBJECTIVE :// SECURE_ORBITAL_DOMINANCE-
Robogeber / Naier Rambeigh

First it was Dastardly, her bow still sporting too-clean hull-work from Borosk. Then Nevergone came out of her jump, gliding to a relative smooth stop, with Quickfoot close behind. And finally - so much larger that her corvette escorts could all huddle close and hide under her if they wished - the New Jubilee arrived ready for war.

Sola almost crushed the rubber ball in her hand, "Guns, start plotting firing solutions: if its bigger than a corvette, I want a plan to kill it!" She swept a hand in the direction of the appropriate stations as she marched about the bridge, "Tell the flight line to prepare for interceptor operations, make sure the boarding parties aren't bothered by enemy fighters!"

Turning about to more properly 'center' herself amid the officers and enlisted sailors rushing about to prepare for short-stop combat operations, she had her back to the holographic display of the closing fleets, "You all heard the Grand Admiral. If Admiral Harusse wishes to play at naval combat, then we'll play." Snapping about, she reflexively tossed the ball with just that extra 'oomf' of a Force push, sending it to ricochet off a back wall and positively frighten a young yeoman who was midway through walking onto the bridge, "All stations, prepare for action!"

The NIV New Jubilee wasn't necessarily the most intimidating vessel at the disposal of the New Order's navy, but six triple-barreled heavy turbolasers were nothing to sneeze at. Certainly not as the gunnery crews brought them to live, slewing them on the fire direction center's orders to level on the largest, lead-most ship of Admiral Harusse's fleet, "Admiral: this is Commander Ordes. 3rd Squadron is standing by and ready to engage on your order."

 

[Fenn Stag]

Vode An
​

His father's hands were calloused and worn. He always remembered that, being held. His mother had callouses as well- his parents never had a truly 'soft' touch. But that was fine with him- it was a sign of their strength, as a child. And into his teenage years, he remembered how strong they truly were. He was not a rebellious child, he truly loved and honored his parents.

And then, they were killed and stripped away from him. No burials, no funerals. They told him to flee- and for their sacrifice, Fenn's life was spared.

And for their sacrifice, Fenn was able to grow.

To train. To learn.

And now, a young man- inexperienced, but willing-

He was ready to avenge his planet, his parents, and his people.

He had a bad habit of bouncing his knee when he was nervous. It was fine to feel nervous, he supposed. The ordeal they were undertaking was great. And it was truly his first 'ordeal'. He had not yet been scarred by battle or war, or found his glory in conquest or crusade. But this was not a crusade for pointless, unnecessary and lackluster glory for the sake of having it.

This was a fight for their people.

So when the elder Mandalorian, a hardened veteran that recently escaped some sort of vile prison, asked, Fenn glanced around, but was the first to respond. His voice was obviously that of a young man. Not a boy or a teenager, but a very young man- which he was. But every Mandalorian started out somewhere.

"<My mother and father.>"

It was not what Fenn said, but how he said it- the four words spoke more than he could've said at length. Sadness, with a twinge of anger at the end. They all had something, or someone taken from them- Fenn's presence and many others was a testament to that. But it was his drive, his reason for carrying on like he was going to.

He had a rendezvous with his planet, his people.

And to his pledged word, he would not fail that rendezvous.

l Kestus Bralor l

​

 

[Hans Rennagen]

ANARCHY ROAD
Tags Open
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​

Then: Bastion, 862 - Shortly after the battle aboard The Malevolence

Hans released a sigh of sweet relief as his boots touched the deck of the Imperial Knight's battle-cruiser he had been relocated to. He thanked the shuttle pilot as he left. Not many people could have pulled off an extraction like the one that just occurred, but the Imperial Knights could. They got stuff done.

The Sith dreadnought had been a mess, but it was soon to be over. Hans looked out of the magnetic shield to see the battle that waned, both sides reeling from the heavy losses in this most crucial of battles. Months ago he would never have seen himself here. Flying with gallant knights above the capital world of the people who took everything from him. Despite his blunder today, Hans had lived to finally taste the life of a knight that he had heard so much about. It felt glorious.

He barely left the hangar before he began hearing talk of what had transpired on the surface. The New Order had purged any and all Sith within their ranks. It felt like a solid piece of retribution to Hans. He took that feeling of victory with him to the barracks while he cleaned himself up and got a few minutes of rest before he was inevitably sent back into the field...

---------------​

Now: Ketaris, 862 - A makeshift refugee center

The streets were alive with the sound of chaos. The poor attempt at a refugee center in the downtown area of the capital city was were Hans had been assigned. People had lost their homes, businesses, and schools to the riots. Many people quickly realized there would be no peace until either the republic was restored or the New Imperials crushed the uprising with great force.

The hastily created refugee centers across the capital city were officially non-partisan and civilian run, but the New Imperials had quickly sent forces to "protect" them. It was in the hopes that they could sway more folks to support the legitimate government. Hans' official duty was keep pro-democracy fighters off the streets nearby, and so far it had been a breeze. The refugees couldn't complain about the presence of Imperial Knights, and the dissidents couldn't stand a chance against them in combat.

The truth of the situation was a little more muddled. Hans had been assigned to the refugee center for an ulterior motive: the search for force-sensitives. As with every planet the NIO came to, they sought to rescue those with abilities in the force from the oppression of the Sith and the lies of the Jedi. The likelihood of success was slim, but worth a shot. The propaganda was simple: if the Republic of Ketaris were to continue on its own, they would no doubt fall to the disastrous influence of the Sith Empire. It wasn't entirely a lie for the purpose of recruiting, but it didn't hurt to embellish the situation if it meant more people would come forward and fight alongside the Force Corps.

By now Hans had fully embraced his role in the Force Corps, and he couldn't have been more proud to join the detachment of knights on Ketaris. He took pity on the rioters. They were ignorant to the fact that the New Imperials had come to protect them from the same fate that had befallen Hans' homeworld of Raxis. The Ketarisian government had seen what was coming and done the right thing.

The rioters were growing louder and louder in the streets. Hans was nestled comfortably on an old couch eating a small package of crackers. It was all that had been given out to the displaced people who had come to this shelter. The good food had been the first to go when the riots began, with looters taking from the stores for their own stockpiles, knowing the times were about to get hard.

A blaring chant rung out from outside the building. Even in the back room where the survivors hid they could hear it loud and clear.

"NIO, GO HOME! NIO, GO HOME!"

Hans stood and placed his crackers on his seat. He made his way out front through the store that hosted the refugees. The windows where boarded up from the inside and the door was electronically barred. Hans unlocked the door and opened it to see who was outside.

Atop a crashed landspeeder on the other side of the street, a man in tattered black clothes stood with a megaphone to his mouth and his other hand by his side, holding a small blaster rifle.

"Shit!" the protester had noticed the Imperial Knight. He threw his megaphone down to the ground and raised his rifle high with both hands. Hans drew his sidearm with one hand and his lightsaber with the other. Both now had their weapons trained on each other.

"Get down from there, you fool. This is a safe haven for displaced residents."

"y.. yeah, but you people did this to them." the man visibly terrified.

"Sir," Hans was annoyed with the man. He'd had the audacity to protest alone, despite his clear lack of courage in the face of what was going to inevitably happen to him. "go home before I'm forced to arrest you for dissidence..." Hans looked down at the wrecked car the man stood on. ", and destruction of property." whether the guy had been the one to crash that speeder didn't matter. The threat of an Imperial Knight taking him into custody was enough to deter him. He dropped his gun, hopped down, and ran for his life. A wise decision.

Hans stood alone in the street. The sound of fighting and yelling drew closer with every passing second. A warning of what was to come. Hans kept guard outside for a few more minutes, surveying up and down the streets with his binoculars.

In the distance, approaching quickly, were a handful of dissidents. They appeared well armed, more so than the one that had just been dealt with. Hans ducked behind the landspeeder and began to devise his plan of attack for when they arrived...

 

[Seydou of Thyrsus]

VODE AN
​

"Reckoning."

On a crutch, limping, Amon Vizsla stepped closer to the flames. Its dance illuminated across his emerald T-visor. He glared long and in silence until in the flames he could see the Sith burning; there, along with the Pretender and Australis for all they had done to his sister.

Dust and ash.

What was done upon the Mandalorians would be done tenfold upon the Sith. Every Sith and every Sith boot licker like Mantis.

"Let it be known: anyone, Mandalorian or aruetii, dares collaborate with the Sith - the punishment is death. Anyone, Mandalorian, be it True, Crusader or Mercenary who have clamored into hiding or forgotten their creed - the punishment is death. Anyone, Mandalorian, be it True, Crusader or Mercenary betrays his kin to the Sith - the punishment is death and death again."

It was time for reckoning. For all.

Kestus Bralor Fenn Stag Meshla Detta​

 

[Rynn Vizsla]

OBJECTIVE III
| Our Vengeance - Brothers All |

Empires rose and fell. It was the way of things and seemingly woven into the very unchanging fabric of reality. Some Empires would last a day. Forged on the back of a dastardly coup that saw the many rise up and cast out the few. However, after taking the mantle - they would fall prey to infighting and tear themselves apart from the inside. Their Empire would then be mocked by those that survived. Relegated to the annals of history as nothing more than an inconsequential footnote. To be used in a Historian's treatise on how to lose everything in the blink of an eye. Others stretched on through several generations, driven forth by the strongest of wills, or the most brilliant manipulators. Those would be the Empires that the Galaxy remembered.

Civilizations that rose up from the darkness of the Plague and reconquered the Stars. The Sith, the Republic, and even the Jedi. People would remember those names, as their passion and prowess were etched into their minds for eternity. But, what of the Mandalorians, you ask? For their Empire was mighty too. It stretched across entire Sectors, spanning hundreds of Star Systems. Yet, why aren't they remembered in the fondest of terms? There were many answers, and all were true... in a fashion. However, to Rynn and his family? The Mandalorian Empire was weak, and it deserved its fate. When governed and ruled by weakness, the very foundations of the Empire began to wither and rot.

The Clans, already splintered by the divisive acts of the Hell Wolf's predecessor, fractured even more. They were scattered to the Solar Tides and found themselves latching onto the various Nation-states that populated the Stars. They suckled at the poisoned teat of others in the hopes of rebuilding their splintered Culture, rather than taking up arms and fighting for what was rightfully theirs. Weak. They were soft and undeserving of the armour they wore. What made matters worse was that entire Clans and Houses enlisted with the Sith and their Empire - the very ones that stabbed Mandalore the Unworthy in the back. They laid claimant to the title of Death Watch - believing themselves to be Mandalore's sole master, as well as the surrounding sectors.

It's no surprise that they've long since fallen silent. They were likely butchered by the Sith as they stripped Mandalore for everything that it's worth and infested the Planet with their foul abominations. ​

They believe that they won. That their Empire had done the impossible and shattered the Mandalorians once and for all. They were wrong. While their numbers were greatly diminished, this was true, the fiery soul of the Warrior still burned brightly. Now, more so than ever before. Vengeance would be their rallying cry. A Crusade would be founded; One whose like hasn't been seen for generations. By Beskad and Blaster, they would retake their ancestral home. Ousting the monsters that now lurked within the Planet's hollows. Rynn and his family might not have taken part in the Fall of Mandalore, nor the failed strike to liberate it that transpired after. But, they would've been fools to turn down this chance to stand beside their errant kin with Sword in hand and see justice's swift deliverance.

So, when his Cousin spoke of a Reckoning. Rynn nodded in agreement. He didn't care about Mandalore. It was nothing more than an insignificant world amongst an ocean of stars. With that being said, however, his personal code of honour demanded it to be liberated from the clutches of the Sith. While he didn't care about the Planet, the man couldn't very well let the Sith and their insidious Empire have it either.

"My reasons," Rynn began. "Are akin to that of my Cousin. I care not for the reasoning that led to the betrayal of Mandalore the Unworthy. Nor do I care that the Empire fell, for such is the way of things." He drew his visor's gaze towards the blazing hearth, letting the dancing flames flicker across his war-forged Helm's metallic cerulean. "We were betrayed, and have let that act go unanswered. A Reckoning is to be had, and I -" He said, clamping a clenched fist to his armoured chest, saluting the gathered coterie as a Warrior would. "I shall not be found wanting."

"The Sith, and those who stand with them must die. So too shall their Empire fall. Kad Ha'rangir wills it."​

| Kestus Bralor | Fenn Stag | Amon Vizsla |
| @Sons of Mandalore |​

 

[Rach'ta]

Objective: Founding

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Explosions rung out through the streets, scattering shouting followed by blaster fire sprouted up from all directions. Sounds of civil war cropped up in crescendos the faltered only to be lifted again. The ebb and flow of battle mirrored the tides of the Force. Peace and Passions. Stagnation versus innovation. Rach'ta walked mostly barefoot, save for some cloth wraps around the arches of his feet "Peace is a lie, there is only Passion. You live this truth now." he spoke aloud as he came up to a wounded partisan who in his daze, did not express fear "Who are you?" asked the man "I am Freedom." Rach'ta responded "And you are shackled-" Rach'ta lifted both of his hands as eerie green mist billowed in faint puffs from his finger tip "-no longer."

The man began to look increasingly fearful as the mist started to fall over him "Get away from me!" he shouted "A-ah!" he cried out in pain as his body contorted. Mist began to seep and push its way into his wounds, a searing noise like water hitting a hot pan, emanated from the wounds. Rach'ta began to swirl his hands over top the man as he struggled.

Wounds made from blaster bolts sealed as new flesh covered the holes, shrapnel was pushed aside and congealed blood with it. Soon the man's injuries had been remedied. The Twi'lek's shadow magic did not so much heal the person as much as it truly repaired them. Much like a mechanic and a machine more so than a doctor and patient. Panting and writhing in agony the partisan held his freshly mended body "W-what have you done to me?" he stammered "I have freed you from your bondage. Join me and we will bring the same to your compatriots, you are the first to have this opportunity." Rach'ta put out his open hand and waited.

After a paused the man clasped hands with Rach'ta and pulled himself up "Thank you, I... I don't understand but if you're here to help. I owe you that much. I know where we're held up, I'll bring you there." he offered "You're welcome, lead onward initiate." the man looked hesitantly at the obvious Force wielder "Uh, right, my name is Dennan."

After about ten minutes of silence walking through the battleworn streets Dennan asked "Is there a reason you don't wear shoes? Or.. much of anything really?" Rach'ta responded shortly "The trappings of those lacking." Dennan turned shrugged as they continued to walk "Well they're not lacking clothing if that is what you mean." the Twi'lek's face, what could be seen, seemed resolute and distant "I have seen the spark of many lives extinguished. A stone beneath my sole is no obstacle. They lack perspective." Dennan raised a hand to a few partisan fighters who sprang up from behind barricades, pointing their variety of blaster weaponry at them "Friendly, take it easy. Password Exogorth. My Twi'lek friend here wants to help us out. He's a uh- a healer or something." the partisans began to lower their weapons "Where did you find him?" asked one "Where is his shirt?" asked another Dennan made a calm down motion with his hands "We'll explain when we're inside, and shirts are uh ... lesser people or whatever stuff. Listen can we not do this here?"

 

[Trajan Fett]

G R A ' T U A _ C U U N
SONS OF MANDALORE
VODE AN
FOCUS | Fenn Stag | Amon Vizsla | Rynn Vizsla

​

<"And you'd think I'm ready? For the Crusade?"> Volker, the younger Kurze which had been an errant kin of Trajan taken under his wing only after his return to the Mandalorians proper following his self-imposed exile from his people after Operation Hammerfall.

<"Do you think you are? Are you scared?"> Trajan inquired to the younger Mandalorian, his Beskar'gam all but only the dull grey and rust red helmet clasped over his head to form the characteristic 'T-Visor' face of the Mandalorian.

<"I...I don't know.> Volker admitted.

<"Good."> Trajan said under his breath. That meant only one way to find out.

Then it was his turn to speak up.

<"Revenge."> There was no other way to put it. No other binding resolution which brought them here. They were a people laid on the rack and stretched of their strength and bled of their life blood for the carrions to pick and gouge at their shambled corpse.

This would be their last chance at a triumphant return before they were gnats on the cinder of an extinguished fire. The death of the Mandalorian people. Left scattered and warily turning the monotonous wheel of an existence relegated to the whims and woes of a Galaxy out to kill them, they'd choke of their final breathes soon enough. The Iron Sun offered a rare respite in Galactic governments, an unexpected yet somehow effective brotherhood.

<"They need to know. They need to know that Mandalore remembers. Mandalore remembers the defiling of our people, the betrayal, the great lie forced unto us. This is it...its now or never. It's time...time to put every one of those fucking parasites to the sword..."> A rare seeping of bitter hatred forms in the tone of the otherwise placid and seemingly indifferent Trajan.

<"So that no one will remember them. This will be our vengeance.">

 

[Asharo Madar]

U S E R S P A C E
The Silver Savant
ANARCHY_ROAD
| Hans Rennagen |
[ street_samurai ]

​

Calmly, Asharo coursed through the gathered crowds of people, cutting his way down the street and navigating towards the refugee center. He moved as quickly as his grace would allow him, choosing not to move at a pace faster than any of those around him for fear of branding himself a possible plant and target. Subtlety was an art, and his aptitude in such is why he had been chosen for this task rather than another. A quick tug of his outer layer pulled the thin, silken material of his kimono-like drape better over the exposed portions of his neck, hiding away the ritualistic tattoos his sorcerous once Masters had left upon him.​

Dark eyes swept the faces of those in the crowds, searching for anything at all. Fear. Anger. He found nothing of any indication he was moving in the right direction, that was until the stark visage of panic lashed out at him through the bobbing faces. A flash of vibrosteel glinted in the street with his quick reach out to catch the man by the shoulder. Anger flared in the man's eyes. "Hey! Don't touch me!"​

"What are you running from?" Asharo inquired, tilting his head curiously as he released his rather lax touch upon the man. By now, both The Guardian and the stranger were stopped, causing the moving crowds to cut around them and scowl in their direction.​

"There's some fuckin' crazy Knight up the street waving around his lightsaber! 'course I'm gonna be running. He threatened me." The man's nostrils flared and he shook his head, upper lip twitching all the while with his fruitless attempt to quell its quiver.​

"NIO?" The Guardian pressed him, gazing beyond the man's form to peer in the direction he had come from.​

"Yeah, NIO. At the refugee center. What? You gonna do something about him? Me and my boys will help you out. Fucker's just sittin' inside snacking on the refugee food and making threats to anybody who speaks out against him."​

Force Empathy was a powerful thing, not that the man was any good at lying, or believed what he was telling Ash to begin with. Regardless, the Carlaci did not speak against this, or point it out at all. "I have a mind to. Might be in your best interest-" He was doing his best to mimic the local dialect as he had picked it up, and even inflected his words as he had heard the many locals do in passing, "-to keep movin' though. Looks like bigger trouble's coming this way." A steep nod of his head forward indicated the rushing collective of rebellion honing from the horizon. ​

The dissident turned his head, twisting his gaze back down the street. He paled at the distinctive silhouettes against the blazing sun. "Ah shit-- yeah. Be careful man. Those Knights ain't nothing to mess around with. Good luck to ya." And with only that much offered, he swiveled around Asharo to bleed back into the crowd, joining the throngs as they moved away from the center.​

A slow sigh snaked from The Guardian's lips and he quickened his pace, weaving and bobbing through the crowd until it spat him out on the sidewalk in front of the refugee center. Hands cupped against the battered glass and he pressed his face into them, peering inside. No sign of this Knight. He looked around, squinting with a hand rising to shield his gaze from the sun. There. Behind the speeder. He took a moment to observe Hans, noting how the man ducked in preparation for the incoming threat. No doubt he was on edge and attempting to formulate his plan to either fight or evade the threat entirely.​

Looking much like any regular person save for The Force flaring off of him in soothing highlight to the sensitive, Asharo slipped across the street, moving quickly to join the Imperial Knight in his cover. Realizing he probably seemed far more like a threat initially, he offered a quick salute towards the man. "Waving your lightsaber around, hm?" He asked in some light-hearted attempt to ease the tension, "That is probably not the best way to do things... though-" His eyes zipped down Hans's form and then shot back up, "-wearing your uniform was rather bold, too. You weren't assigned back-up this deep in?"​

The Guardian crept forward in a crouch, peering around the other side of the speeder, narrowing his cutting glare towards those approaching. "There are six of them. I cannot tell if they wield blasters or slugthrowers from this distance. I would recommend we save drawing our lightsabers until we must, lest we be blindsided by those moving on our flanks- all wielding them is doing right now, is painting even larger targets on our back." He pivoted around on his heels, pressing his back to the wrecked speeder, and reached behind himself, curling organic fingers around the grip of the holstered pistol nestled there. His steeled eyes shifted back to Hans. "I have your back. I can tank their fire, so long as you can return it."​

 

[Kolson Vrask]

V A N D A L
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
ANARCHY ROAD
FOCUS | OPEN

All elysian has its end. Ketaris had its peace, its time in the sun to soak up the rays of a peaceful decadence. But the Galaxy will always have its due and that blissful gold would grow heavy with iron. The New Imperial Order had arrived. It had only the best intentions for its people however the pointed fragility of their false system. As much as they yoked the strings to demand the power over their own fate, as soon as they made it the seat of the Ketaris presidency was left vacant as chaos itself began its inauguration. The venue? Every street, every government building, ever mind and every body of the hopeful dissidents looking to reap the seeds of instability newly planted in the world.

Selectivists. Of course they'd pick now to come right on out of their caves, flashing that dreaded green, gold and red. It was a distorted ideology, abrasive to just about anyone with taste. The fact the Republic of yore had let them manage it openly was case enough against this way of life all its own.

That was Berik's objective, now nebulously attached to 'Vandal' or the Storm Commando corps at all, COMPNOR had seen him better fit as a scalpel, an individual tool within a greater arsenal of the New Order.

Blasters in their hands, bandoliers and thermals at their waists and across their chests. They foot the bill for the rules of engagement to justify 'lethal measures'. Taking up position on the third floor of a street side building, Berik picked his target, what was likely a liuetenant among this pack and fired the shot.

The hushed, invisible bolt of his sniper rifle ripped and cauterized through the man's throat, leaving him slumped on the ground as the rest of the formation of miliants began to fire aimlessly admidsts the riot of provacateurs.

Berik sucked in his breath to fire another round.

 

[Hans Rennagen]

ANARCHY ROAD
Tags: Asharo Madar ​

Hans was surprised to see Asharo. His salute and the lightsaber by his side assured Hans that this man wasn't an enemy, but he still couldn't quite gauge his new companion.

"Waving your lightsaber around, hm?" He asked in some light-hearted attempt to ease the tension, "That is probably not the best way to do things... though-" His eyes zipped down Hans's form and then shot back up, "-wearing your uniform was rather bold, too. You weren't assigned back-up this deep in?"​

"There a few others, but they left a little over an hour ago to drive off the insurgents down the street. I'm the most junior so they left me behind." Hans took note of the man's comments on his lightsaber. Hans figured Asharo was probably right, so he clipped his lightsaber back to his belt.

"What's your plan?" Hans asked with reserve. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the man's help, but the timing was awfully convenient and his lack of uniform played into Hans' suspicions.

"There are six of them. I cannot tell if they wield blasters or slugthrowers from this distance. I would recommend we save drawing our lightsabers until we must, lest we be blindsided by those moving on our flanks- all wielding them is doing right now, is painting even larger targets on our back. I have your back. I can tank their fire, so long as you can return it."​

"Okay," Hans said standing, ready to fight. The plan was good, even if Hans was skeptical about Asharo's arrival, and it didn't hurt to have backup in the absence of the other knights assigned to protect the refugees. "I'll go along with it."

Hans walked over to discarded blaster rifle of the protester from before. As much as Hans loved his pistol, this would serve far better against a pack of armed insurgents. He didn't recognize the weapon's make, only really being familiar with the standard issue of NIO firearms. He looked it over and raised it to look down the iron-sights. He only had moments to get a feel for the weapon before they were beset.

When the enemy arrived, Hans was ready to strike, having moved to cover near the door of the refugee center. As they had planned, Asharo would take the brunt of the fire. Hans still wasn't sure why, but Asharo seemed to know what he was doing. When the insurgents opened fire on them, Hans peeked out and began to lay down his covering fire so his ally could make his move...

 

[Fenn Stag]

The Sons of Mandalore
​

Fenn bounced his knee, glancing to and fro, observing the older Mandalorians. He had been yet a child when their wars, and the wars that took their planet and so many of them. Including his parents.

They all had their reasons, clearly laid out. But to Fenn, an orphan, a child robbed of a lifetime with his parents- who had not even lived long enough to see him complete the Verd'goten. The actions of Yasha Mantis- defying her father, leading her people to ruin, caused the downfall. And so burned a hatred in Fenn.

And the rhetoric spouted was useless to him, noise in the void.

So it was then Fenn asked a question- one that begged, no-

needed answering. The young man was angry. And he needed to do something.

<"Where do we begin?">

Amon Vizsla l Trajan Fett l Kestus Bralor​

 

[Jaeger Harrsk]

3rd Assault-CF Armor Combat Group "Wilhuff Tarkin"
A N A R C H Y
N O R M A L I Z A T I O N
Kolson Vrask | Open
1 9 5 6​

A top a Cataphract Lt. Col Jaeger Harrsk observed the cityscape before him through electrobinucolars. Smoke and fire dotted the urban scenery, hot zones of rioter activity. The arrhythmic sound of gun fire, screams and explosions. An erratic symphony of anarchy.

Lined up hundreds of cataphracts on the outskirts of the city observing the chaos erupting after the world had aligned itself with the New Order, the 3rd Assault-CF Armor Combat Group "Wilhuff Tarkin" had been deployed as antithesis to this pathetic attempt of mobocracy.

Normalization.

The natural step after a crisis. A crisis that had followed after years of naturally accumulated destabilization on this world, partially hastened by the efforts of COMPNOR operatives as part of the commission's active measures.

<"Colonel, Sir, friendly units have engaged hostile forces with small arms so far. Am I to give the order to enter the city, Sir?"> Major Loghain enquired through the comms.

Harrsk picked up the radio and replied, <"Negative, Major. Let hope enchant the anarchists further, let them believe they stand a chance and when the euphoria peaks - we will shatter them.">

<"Roger that, Sir.">

The commissioner had learned much during his tenure as an One Sith Intelligence officer about pacifications of riots and rebellions. One such lesson he would teach today and make an example of.

Order shall triumph.

The seeds of chaos shall be uprooted.

​

 

[Enedina Tal]

OBJECTIVE //: BYOO/hunt down the subversive element part I

​

​

Khalid Al-Masri, former Kandaran officer of the now gone core imperial confederation, 20 years of distinction in service to the ruling Imperial party of Kandara. Now a normal businessman trying to sell off-brand robotics parts to any spacer looking to make a quick transaction and repair to their ships robot. He may have tried to escape his past, go off the book and settle into obscurity. But the past was one that he couldn't easily escape, and his actions in the wake of the CICs collapse would come to haunt the man often. Rather than face possible death or eventual capture and imprisonment for whatever charges the Corellians might've put him down for. He squeaked. The soldier turned a rat. A few exchanges of files sensitive to the state of the Kandaran imperial paramilitaries and a few handshakes here and the rest was history. He was allowed his pathetic escape into obscurity.


But his old comrades never forgot. Masri's name drew top on the list of those marked for death. And with the chaos enveloping Khalid's choice of exile, the opportunity couldn't have been more suitable. The command was given under clandestine communication, and the unit was sent out. Backwater links to local law enforcement handed the unit Masri's address, place of work and uniforms to carry out the hit under relative anonymity as the planet descended into anarchy. And with the encroaching NIO fleet, no one was going to be paying attention to an emigres unfortunately timed death. ​

 

[Asharo Madar]

NO_DOUBT
The Silver Savant
ANARCHY_ROAD
| Hans Rennagen |
[ street_samurai ]

​

"Okay," Hans said standing, ready to fight. The plan was good, even if Hans was skeptical about Asharo's arrival, and it didn't hurt to have back-up in the absence of the other knights assigned to protect the refugees. "I'll go along with it."

Asharo offered the Knight a single nod of affirmation as the decision was made. And as the man moved to reposition, The Guardian took a moment to breathe, closing his eyes to gather his calm for the clash to come. Each rise and fall of his chest ushered in a new sense of collectedness, solidifying it within him as infallible and untouchable.​

"You're really going to kill those people? People, who fight against the same war machine you and I are enslaved to?" His thoughts were never his own, just as this moment was not his own. There would always be the cry for chaos in the back of his mind, challenging his conscience and the flow of what it was he felt was necessary.​

"If I must," He responded aloud to his Other, casting his voice through the settling haze in his mind, "it is my duty to do so."​

"You don't deserve anything you've been given." Sion snorted in retort, allowing his disproval to bleed across their connection in some attempt to disrupt the near meditative state Ash had quickly willed himself into.​

"No one deserves what he is given," The Guardian sighed lowly with the opening of his eyes and draw of his hand away from his holstered sidearm, "yet the galaxy turns regardless. Remember what becomes of you if I perish and consider the consequences of your intrusion." He reminded The Ruiner of their intertwined fates, as he brushed his hood down to rest behind his shoulders and settle about his neck. ​

The jeers of the approaching militia were too close for comfort by now, and with that much realized, Asharo stepped out from behind his cover. His approach towards them was slow and calculated, displaying the distinctive lack of fear he seemed to possess even as he faced a firing squad. Such things had been carved out of him long ago, leaving a hollow mark in his chest which could only be filled with a strength of resolve. If he was afraid, there was only one being in the galaxy who could tell, and strangely, Sion was quiet. Perhaps the revelation had angered him into silence, or maybe, just maybe, given him something to consider after all. That was a long shot, but Asharo was hopeful regardless.​

The insurgents seemed to disregard The Silver Savant as much as he had expected them to and instead squared themselves in arrangement to fire upon Hans. The screeching cries of compressed triggers filled the air, assaulting his senses with the smell of tibanna and plasma. And with bolstered valor to his aid, Ash flexed his metallic arm outwards, curling fingers towards his palm to strain against the effort of uprooting the speeder he had ducked behind previously to his flank. Shakily, at first, the crashed vehicle shuddered to motion, rising off the broken duracrete with the groan of aching metal. And that much was all it seemed to take to garner the attention he wished.​

"There's another one!"

With a soft grunt of exertion slipping from him through bared teeth, Ash hurled the broken speeder across the distance, scattering the dissidents from their arrangement with its incoming presence. And as soon as Hans started laying down fire, Ash gathered momentum in his rush, dropping low to position himself. Quickly his gaze snapped to with the grasp of attention through registered precognition and both hands were thrown into a gleaming, silver barrier willed to be in front of him. The heavy battery of blaster fire shrieked into it, fizzling against his will made manifest as The Guardian hunkered himself down, doing as he said he would, and tanking the fire. ​

He did not strain to hold this position or place, for now, despite the rhythmic rock of his frame against the inside of the shield he created to disperse the kinetic force of the blasts. Eyes flickered towards Hans and Ash offered him another nod, mouthing words where he knew shouting would get him nowhere given the sudden cacophony of their environment: 'Make it count.' ​

 

[Djorn Bline]

Location: Ketaris; University of Ketaris
Objective: R E F O R M

Chaos...chaos all around him.

What a disgusting thing to come across for a man of his standards. His life’s work on combating its agents, uprooting them and replace it with something more beautiful and sophisticated. The idea of order and a peaceful society, aligning with the ideals of Imperialism. A Galaxy cleanse of the Jedi and Sith, along with other dissidents that stenched of Rebels and Democracy. He, more than most, understood the consequences when systems selected to live under the delusions of Democracy. Corruption; greed; regression; so many nouns that could be applied.

And it was a disgrace to see a world with roots to Imperialism be tainted with the ideals of a Republic government.

And now?

“Look at them...fucking animals,” he commented aloud to himself, his men of the 71st able to hear the disgust and disappointment in his words. Djorn was released from “realignment” after his defection to the New Imperial Order, there wasn’t much to his interrogation as it was casual...more or less. Wasn’t tortured or anything, just questions with honest answers attached to them. It landed him a unit to command in the newly birthed CompForce and a position in the Coalition for Progress.

His eyes were trained on the grounds of the University of Ketaris, dressed in his newly acquired uniform with a beret on his head.

“Sir, I don’t understand. Why are we dressed in uniforms and not equipped a single firearm on us?”

A young lad, one of the first graduates to enter the ranks of the 71st. Trained to oblige and followed orders with a passionate zeal to it, but never failed to ask questions he didn’t understand.

“We’re not here to kill, Ruln. We’re here to take back this University through our fists. We’ll inspire students that fight for the ideals of the Order, and we’ll...recorrect those that have fallen low to the lies of Democracy. Everyone gets a chance to fix themselves, right?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Good. Make sure the men are ready, Corporal.”

They needed to perform some...re-education on these students.