Faction Race Against The Roots - [Dark Court]

[Iskera Valest]

Iskera straightened slowly from where she had crouched beside the fallen guardian, her gloves slick with residue that steamed faintly in the damp heat. Beneath the respirator, her breathing was calm. She treated the aftermath like a dissection. The carcass twitched once, a final reflex of dying nerves. She pressed a palm to its surface, feeling the last pulse fade beneath her fingers.

"Termination confirmed," she murmured, as if into a recorder.

Her eyes shifted to Veyra and the faint glow of the vial she held. The sample radiated a frequency that pricked at the edge of Iskera's senses—biochemical memory. She could almost see the pattern repeating through the chamber walls, whispering to every remaining root. "You caught its echo," she said quietly. "Good. That will keep it from forgetting us entirely."

When she stood, the motion was precise, fluid, not a speck of ash on her cloak. She watched the newcomer through the wavering haze—Zabrak, confident, her flames still licking the air as if reluctant to die. Iskera's gaze was analytical.

"You arrived at a fortunate moment," she said, tone clinical but edged with wry respect. "Your control is refined—rare among pyrotechnics." She stepped closer, tilting her head as she studied the patterns of heat distortion still clinging to Vharra's hands. "What fuels you?"

Tag - Darth Kharnaz Veyra Kryze Vharra Theskar

 

[Evangel]

Dreer murmured of a scratch, which Evangel spent no time examining. She trusted the man to be capable of judging if it was worthy of attention. The Dark Lady and her Court had not invited inexperienced people to this lethal quest. And Seren's affirmation of no injury was noted. The rest seemed content to remain silent, and so she took it to mean they were also unharmed.

Perhaps, later, if the Dark Lady willed it, Evangel might encourage the others to participate more when a command was given. The Captain was no fool; she knew what to expect of Sith and those that gravitated to them, but that was no excuse. Especially when the Dark Lady herself was in the field. Their silence could deprive them of vital information needed to ensure her safety, and the completion of the mission.

Now, in the field, however, was not the time to berate them for silence.

If anything, the silence gave lease to them hearing the change in their surround. Evangel took a stance as the ruins shook. Then, in a moment, the chamber was truly silent. The life in the plants had gone out, spores had yet to burst, and naught moved before their eyes.

The well-known deactivation of a lightsaber followed as Virelia declared the battle over for the moment.

"You heard the Dark Lady," Evangel added as she waited for Virelia to take the lead with a destination in mind. Evidently, their Mistress had been pleased; it would do well if everyone continued to meet her expectations. The Dark Mandalorian briefly checked on the group to ensure they were not wandering off with Virelia's back turned.

It would have been better to stand in front of Virelia, but she'd already taken the passage entryway. Just because she was strong did not mean she had to risk herself, but it was her prerogative as their Mistress. There might come a time Evangel would risk punishment to counter her order for her well-being, but this did not yet seem that time.

After they'd traversed the tunnels, Evangel stepped off to one side of Virelia once they'd arrived by the artifact. She turned her helm to watch the rest emerge and would signal for them to freeze if any looked in peril of violating the command not to cross the Dark Lady's placement. The 'Engine' certainly was dangerous. Though lacking a deep understanding of such things, Evangel had an instinctive understanding of what she could see in the Force -- and it was powerful.

Darth Virelia | Seren Gwyn | Drio'Vix Bacho | Darth Keres | Veradun Sharr | Kasir Dorran | Darth Dreer​

 

[Vharra Theskar]

"Exile didn't break me. It burned away what was weak."

Tags - Darth Kharnaz Iskera Valest Veyra Kryze

Vharra watched as the beast was slain, with nary a blinking eye. If anything, the only response Vharra had was a small wrinkle of disgust on her nose at the sight of the flamethrower. Fire made through technology. It disgusted her. Yet concerning herself with that was beneath her. Either way, with that threat dealt with and illumination from the others, she saw little need to keep her flame burning as she flicked her thumb along her fingers to dismiss it silently. An eyebrow raised at the query for her name. Names were power. They could state who you were. What your intentions were. They formed your identity as a whole. She did not wish to give her name out to those she did not know if she could trust...Nor did she want to give herself some kind of name that appeared as if she was some kind of child not taking life seriously. A mockery of things. That was not her.

"...Emberveil."

Simple. Curt. To the point. Referring herself as the Emberblade would be far too arrogant. Make her sound perhaps more aggressive than she intended. Plus it could link back to her House. Her planet. But Emberveil? It implied a subtly. A veil formed through the flames. She continued to rest her spare hand against the hilt of her blade, having found no need to wield it yet. There was more than enough fire burning within her to be used as a tool...Yet she found herself narrowing her eyes at the apparent intellectual of the group, the scientist, alchemist, whatever term you wanted to use.

"My control is refined, because the flame is an adaptation of myself. I am no mere pyrotechnic. A pyrotechnic makes a flame. I command the flames. I control it as one controls their own hand."

Of course, she could show off. Let a flame ripple along her arm, put on some form of lightshow as if she was trying to entertain a group of children...but that was a waste of her energy.

"And you ask of what fuels me? The same as any flame. The need to guide. Be that to rebirth or destruction."

And with that, she did not answer any further, simply brushing some soot off her shoulder.

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Pain and Corruption."

Objective 2: Tags - Iskera Valest , Darth Kharnaz Vharra Theskar

Veyra studied the woman through the shimmer of residual heat, visor still half-fogged by smoke. The Zabrak's voice was low and sure, her tone unhurried even in the aftermath of battle. It wasn't bravado—too measured for that. She carried herself like fire given flesh: destructive, yes, but knowing exactly what to consume and what to spare. Veyra felt the faintest curl of admiration flicker through the darker parts of her mind. Most flames were wasteful. This one was deliberate.

"Emberveil," Veyra repeated, letting the syllables roll over her tongue like she was testing a vintage spice. "A name with edges. I like it." The vibrosword rested against her shoulder now, still dripping molten sap in lazy threads. Her voice softened a little, that honeyed cadence that always seemed to imply affection and threat in the same breath. "Names are dangerous things to give. They make you real. But sometimes reality is a weapon worth wielding."

She moved closer, slow, circling half-around the newcomer in a way that felt both predatory and intimate. Her movements were almost graceful—an old duelist's rhythm, half-ritual. "I see the difference," Veyra murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "A pyrotechnic makes spectacle. You make art. And art demands obedience."

She tilted her head toward the scorched remains of the Maw's guardian, its once-colossal frame now a collapsing ruin of glassy tissue and charred sinew. "You command flame as I command flesh," she said quietly. "The act of control is… intoxicating, isn't it? Watching chaos fold itself into purpose."

Her glove brushed the vial at her belt—the last living sample pulsing faintly within its glass prison. "There's beauty in what dies," she continued, almost wistful. "This thing could have been reborn under our hands. It's a pity the others lack patience. But no matter." The faint hum of the vial filled the silence between her words. "I'll make something from what remains. Something that obeys."

She turned back to Emberveil. Beneath the soot and blood, the newcomer's confidence fascinated her. There was no groveling for approval, no forced submission—only the quiet certainty of a being who knew what she was. Veyra respected that more than any oath.

"You should come to Malachor," she said finally, stepping close enough that the faint static of her armor brushed against Emberveil's sleeve. "The Dark Lady rewards those who shape the galaxy rather than merely endure it. You would find purpose there." Her tone softened again, almost intimate. "And I would like to see your fire tested against the cold stones of the Spire."

She lingered a moment longer, violet eyes catching the dim light as her helm's mask retracted just enough to show a sliver of a smile—thin, dangerous, genuine. "Emberveil," she said again, as if claiming the word for memory. "You burn with discipline. Don't lose that."

 

[Darth Dreer]

Objective I
Equipment:
Equipment: Sword-

Lightsaber
Tags: Darth Virelia / Darth Keres / Seren Gwyn / Drio'Vix Bacho / Veradun Sharr / Kasir Dorran / Evangel ​

Dreer let out a low whistle as the sight of the plant's shuddering demise. "Didn't die easy." He murmured. As the order to cease fire came, he very literally ceased the fire with a snap of his fingers. The emerald flames that crawled over the room vanished, wafting away like mist.

Impermanent, illusory, but all too deadly nonetheless.

He didn't sheathe his weapon just yet. Dreer had long ago learned that nothing was ever that easy. The universe had a way of throwing a wrench into any victory, especially where the Sith were concerned. He'd seen one too many backstabs on the cusp of triumph to get complacent now.

He was also cognizant that he was a little light-headed. Breathing heavily. Over-exerted. That little display of sorcerous pyrotechnics had cost him more than he realized. It was one thing to pull an object together from one's own will: it was quite another to summon a sheet of fire capable of scouring the interior of so large a chamber.

It would perhaps be prudent to save what strength he retained for a quick getaway, should the worst happen.

He glanced down at his wounded leg. The line of thorny punctures already looked as though they'd happened weeks ago. By the time they left, there wouldn't even be a scar.

He'd always found that regrettable. It was just one more cost of playing host to the serum. Scars were marks of victory, the only authentic badge of a survivor. Every scar on one's skin was proof of an adversity overcome or an enemy broken. A badge now denied him.

As the cold stone turned to mirrored metal and wire, Dreer cast a baleful glare at the machine they'd come for. A fascinating object, and one he'd make a strong case for examining later. Granted, he was interested in it only insofar as it was something old, a remnant of a dead culture. Its actual function, and what use Virelia hoped to make of it, were of little interest to him.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Objective 2
​

Kharnaz scowled when he saw that despite his best efforts, part of the plant survived. Still, he had delayed its usage, and that satisfied him.

"My control is refined, because the flame is an adaptation of myself. I am no mere pyrotechnic. A pyrotechnic makes a flame. I command the flames. I control it as one controls their own hand."

Kharnaz listened as Emberveil explained. Her mastery of fire was just what he had been seeking. True pyromancy would grant him powers beyond what he had imagined. He made a note to call on her another time. Perhaps they could come to a deal.

He sheathed his weapons.

'What next?" he grumbled, already impatient for the next thing.


Veyra Kryze Iskera Valest Vharra Theskar

 

[Iskera Valest]

Iskera regarded the exchange in silence, visor reflecting the dim violet pulse of the Heart's remains. Smoke and ash curled around her like incense; she seemed untouched by it, a still figure amid entropy. Her gaze lingered first on the faintly trembling vial at Veyra's hip, then shifted to Emberveil—the Zabrak's poise, the precision in her control. It was not mere power that interested Iskera. It was discipline.

"You both misunderstand what survived," she said at last, tone even, cool as a scalpel. "But, I can prove as such in the coming clinical trials."

She knelt beside the scorched soil where the Heart had been tethered, her glove tracing through the ash until she found a glimmer of golden ichor that still pulsed faintly, desperate to live. "This is proof that destruction alone is insufficient. Fire burns; it teaches the body to harden. The next version will remember how to counter it now." She looked up, lenses glinting like insect eyes. "If you want dominion over such a thing, you must teach it obedience, not fear."

The Zabrak's earlier words echoed in her mind—I control it as one controls their own hand. Iskera found the phrasing elegant. Dangerous. She studied Emberveil like a specimen that might bloom into a weapon. "Control," she said softly, rising to her feet. "Then guide this world with us. Its roots crave direction as much as sustenance."

At Kharnaz's growl, she turned, unbothered. "What next? Good Question." she repeated. "See me in the future for an upgrade to your flamethrower. Now? We take the sample to the surface. I'll begin conditioning trials—teach it patterns of submission while it still remembers pain. If it grows, it will grow for us."

She glanced once more at the others. "That's right, I am going to become a full time gardener."

Tags - Veyra Kryze Darth Kharnaz Vharra Theskar

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Jungle Fever."

Objective 1: Tags - Seren Gwyn Drio'Vix Bacho Darth Keres Veradun Sharr Kasir Dorran Darth Dreer Evangel

The hum of the engine filled the chamber like a held breath.

It pulsed through the glassy walls, through armor, through bone. Every heartbeat of the crystalline core resonated with the same rhythm that had once belonged to the jungle above—the same will that had tried to devour them. Now that will was contained, silent, captured in a cage of its own making.

Darth Virelia stood before it, motionless for a moment that stretched too long to be comfortable. The violet sheen of her visor reflected the fractured light in prismatic ripples across her armor. Behind the mirrored glass, her expression was unreadable, but the air around her bent, thick with pressure. It was the stillness before indulgence, before victory was consumed.

"Begin extraction," she said at last, her voice soft but final.

The portable containment rig—an alchemical suspension frame of obsidian lattice and mag-locks—was carried forward and lowered in precise increments. The field generators activated with a hiss, halos of red energy circling the crystalline heart. Virelia extended her hand toward the machine, the faint glow of her gauntlet joining the halo as the Force interlaced with the rig's magnetic field.

The engine shuddered in protest, light flaring brighter for an instant as if struggling against the cage. Cracks along its surface spat ghostly vapor into the air—memories, perhaps, or the planet's dying dreams. Virelia didn't flinch. Her voice, low and measured, cut through the hum like silk drawn across a blade.

"Still your pulse. You belong to me now."

The engine obeyed. The light dimmed, its resonance falling into sync with her own heartbeat. The containment field snapped shut with a sound like a sigh.

"Secure it," she ordered. "Nothing touches it again until I do."

The rig sealed itself, levitating slightly off the floor, its surface rippling with faint static. The crimson glow cast them all in shades of blood and shadow. Virelia's gaze lingered on the artifact a moment longer before turning toward the corridor that led back to the surface.

"Nathema will close behind us soon. Move."

Their boots echoed through the tunnels, the rhythm of retreat sharp and disciplined. The deeper hum of the planet—muted but not dead—followed them like a heartbeat in the stone. The air grew colder as they climbed, drier, the taste of rot fading to metal and ozone.

At the first breach of daylight, the fog awaited—thin, grey, indifferent. The jungle above had stilled, stripped of its voice, the canopy hanging limp as though the world itself had exhaled in defeat. The banners of the Dark Court, half-consumed when they'd descended, now hung motionless in the faint wind.

Virelia emerged last. Her visor tilted toward the dim sun, its pale reflection running like liquid gold across the glass. Behind her, the containment rig hovered silently, its captive heart throbbing in time with her slow, deliberate steps.

At the edge of the clearing, she paused and looked back once at the hole yawning into the earth.

Then she turned away.

The transports lifted from the soil, engines screaming through the mist. Beneath them, the jungle began to close again—roots crawling to reclaim the wound—but slower now, hesitant, as though waiting for permission.

Nathema lived. But its heart now beat in the hands of the Dark Court.

 

[Vharra Theskar]

"Exile didn't break me. It burned away what was weak."

Tags - Darth Kharnaz Iskera Valest Veyra Kryze

She stayed silent as the group spoke. There were points she disagreed with. Quite substantially if she was honest. And Vharra was nothing if not honest at the end of the day. An eyebrow peaked as it felt as if she was some kind of prized animal on show, as the "Flesh Sculptor" examined Vharra, before the Zabrak gave a short shake of her head.

"...You misunderstand me. I don't make art. Art is ultimately useless in life. It will not feed anyone. I make life."

Those who loved art were the exact kind of people she despised. Those who would grow fat or lazy, whilst simply enjoying their form of art as opposed to contributing to life. There were those who desired statues of themselves, or portraits of perfection. Yet not her. What she desired was to instil the flames of life into whatever she could.

"...Chaos is a ladder. To bring purpose to it is to utterly change it's being. Chaos breeds change. Purpose breeds stagnation."

For a moment, she turned her gaze towards the decaying rot that was the Maw's guardian, raising her hand to set it aflame once more. Letting it burn to freshly made ash before Emberveil took a vial to take a sample of the ash, storing it within her cloak.

"It will still be reborn. Flames do not kill. They only help guide the process of rebirth."

Her gaze hardened for a moment as she felt the brush against her sleeve. The static. And in the blink of an eye, a rush of flames erupted against Vharra's arm. Igniting her sleeve, burning it away to leave the Zabrak's bare arm. Purifying herself from the taint of others. The Galaxy had a sickness that Vharra was swiftly starting to realise. She had thought the sickness had been focused on her own planet. But it was everywhere. Lust. Pride. Greed. Envy. They were everywhere...Though perhaps she could use that sickness to her advantage. Either way, it appeared her next trip was to Malachor.

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Pain and Corruption."

Objective 2: Tags - Iskera Valest , Darth Kharnaz Vharra Theskar

For a moment, Veyra said nothing. The flames reflected in the smooth obsidian of her visor, painting both women in a shifting lattice of gold and crimson. Emberveil's fire burned hot and pure, a declaration as much as a warning—a stripping of touch, a refusal to be owned.

Good.

The smoke rose between them like incense on an altar, sweet with burned cloth and charred oil. When Veyra finally spoke, her voice came soft through the vocoder—too soft for the words she carried.

"Life, then," she said, stepping closer, slow and unafraid. "You make life."

Her head tilted slightly, studying the Zabrak through the haze. "You sound like the Lady Herself when she first spoke of the Dark Court. To her, death was never an ending—only the moment before obedience. Life is the continuation of the will that refuses to die."

She let the silence breathe between them, the crackle of Emberveil's lingering fire echoing down the tunnel. Then Veyra's gauntlet rose—open, not in command, but invitation. A strange, careful gesture.

"You cleanse as you destroy. I corrupt as I create. Perhaps together, we could make something the galaxy's sickness has never seen before—life without mercy, rebirth without weakness."

The visor depolarized just enough for her eyes to show through—those cold violet orbs that shimmered with a faint, unnatural light. "You were right about chaos," she continued, voice dropping to a near whisper. "It breeds change. It births monsters, gods, empires. But chaos alone burns out. It needs someone to aim it."

Veyra turned her gaze back toward the corpse of the Maw's guardian, now little more than skeletal vines and embers. The planet's pulse beneath them had grown faint—dying, yet still whispering. She crouched and pressed a palm to the soil. It trembled beneath her touch. Not dead. Just waiting.

"Even now, it stirs," she murmured. "We took its heart, but we gave it a lesson instead. Pain is a kind of faith. It will grow back, and when it does…" Her voice sharpened, her grin audible through the mask. "…it will remember our names."

Standing, she secured the vial at her belt—the captured sliver of living flesh still pulsing faintly inside. The rhythm of it echoed her heartbeat, and she almost swore she could feel the Dark Lady's presence hum faintly through the stone.

She faced Emberveil once more, the authority returning to her stance, though not hostility. "Come to Malachor," she said again, this time less a command and more a promise. "The Spire has room for creators of life and architects of fire. You'll find no priests there—only those willing to build the next age with their hands."

A low, humorless chuckle escaped her as she turned toward the tunnel leading upward. "And if chaos truly is a ladder," she added, "then climb with me. The view from the top is exquisite."

Without waiting for a reply, Veyra strode into the smoke, the faint violet light of her visor the last thing to fade—like a dying star winking out, leaving only the echo of her voice behind.