Faction Race Against The Roots - [Dark Court]

[Darth Virelia]

Race Against The Roots

The jungle had not been tamed.

It breathed, it hunted, and it remembered. The clearing once marked for the Court's forward base now shuddered beneath a living canopy that refused to die. Every fire lit to clear the growth was snuffed out by thick, wet fog. Every chemical burn only fed stranger mutations. The air reeked of iron and rot; roots whispered beneath the soil like veins beneath the skin.

The Dark Court's banners still hung—torn, half-swallowed by vines—but they remained. The world itself wanted them gone, and yet here they stood. Barely.

Reports came in from every quarter of the perimeter: missing scouts, twisted carcasses dragged half into the underbrush, weapons jammed by spores that grew inside their barrels overnight. The engineers whispered that the soil itself was moving. The alchemists said the planet was healing its wounds faster than they could inflict them. And the commanders knew what that meant—failure.

The Court's delay had given Nathema time to fight back.

Now, the foothold teetered on the brink of annihilation. To stay above ground was suicide. Below, however, the sensors picked up faint hollows—ancient structures or tunnels, shifting faintly like a heartbeat under the crust. The readings were unstable, but they pulsed with energy unlike anything the Court's archives had recorded. Something alive, or something remembering what life once was.

And so the decision was made.

The surface would be abandoned to the jungle for now. The expedition would move beneath, into the wounds of the planet itself, to seek what could still be salvaged—and to find the power that Nathema hid so jealously beneath its skin. There would be no second retreat. No reinforcements. What remained of the Court would descend together, or perish separately.

At the edge of the sinkhole, the air hummed with unseen pressure. Roots swayed as if tasting the fear that hung on every breath.

A voice cut through the static of comms—measured, low, and cold.

"The jungle reclaims the hesitant. We do not hesitate. Move."

And with that, the descent began.

Objective One: The Shattered Sanctum

The first descent opens into the hollow bones of a forgotten temple, its ceiling fractured by roots and fungus that pulse like veins under thin skin. The walls hum faintly, vibrating with an energy too precise, too rhythmic, to be natural. At the center of the sanctum lies the prize—a crystalline engine, still intact, though cracked and thrumming with unstable resonance. It is a machine of impossible design: part conduit, part prison, and unmistakably alive. The air around it distorts as though the Force itself recoils.

The task is clear: recover the engine before the collapsing structure claims it, and before the planet finishes waking. But the engine resists removal. It sings in subsonic frequencies that burrow into bone and thought, summoning phantom voices to mislead, to delay, to tempt. Those who draw too near may glimpse the memories of the world it devoured—the moment Nathema died.

Extraction will require precision, coordination, and perhaps sacrifice. Disturb it clumsily, and the sanctum will shatter in full, taking the expedition with it. Handle it too gently, and the engine may slip deeper into the earth, lost again to time.

The Court must move fast. The jungle is already listening.

Objective Two: The Root of the Maw

The second descent is no ruin—it is alive. Vast caverns open into a tangled pit where the jungle's roots have grown downward to feed on something black and restless. Thick cords of flesh-like wood plunge into a fissure that bleeds ichor instead of sap, and the air is sweet with rot and pheromones that mock the scent of blood. The deeper one goes, the more the roots move—not in the wind, but in response to sound, heat, and fear.

Your task is destruction. Burn, sever, or corrupt the Maw's heart before it consumes the surface camp entirely. But what the alchemists call the "Maw" may not be mere vegetation. Shapes emerge from the walls, formed of bark, flesh, and armor scavenged from fallen Sith. They speak in your voices, finish your sentences, and bleed when cut.

The deeper you strike, the louder the planet screams. And somewhere beneath it all, something answers back.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Jungle Fever."

Objective 1: Tags -

The sanctum's breath was shallow.

Every sound seemed half-devoured by the walls—the soft rasp of boots through dust, the hiss of filtered air, the quiet pulse of the crystalline heart deeper within. Darth Virelia stood at the threshold where the descent ended and the forgotten temple began, the light from her gauntlet cutting a narrow path through the gloom. Behind her, the strike-team fanned out in disciplined silence, each step measured, each glance wary of the slow, rhythmic twitch of the roots that crawled along the stone.

The air was thick, charged, tasting faintly of ozone and decay. The ancient circuitry etched into the walls still glowed with a faint inner pulse, veins of cold light that traced the sigils of a civilization long erased. Virelia watched the patterns dance, eyes narrowing—not in wonder, but in calculation. Nathema remembered. The planet's memory was pain, and pain, properly harnessed, could be refined into power.

"Hold perimeter," she ordered, voice soft but absolute. "No weapons discharge unless provoked. This place listens."

A pair of operatives moved ahead, their lamps sweeping over the broken statues of figures whose faces had melted into blankness. The shadows shifted in strange synchrony, almost breathing. Beneath their feet, the ground vibrated with a slow, arrhythmic heartbeat that did not belong to any living thing.

Virelia stepped forward only once, boots brushing aside a carpet of pale moss. "Do you feel it?" she murmured to no one in particular. "It resists us—not out of malice, but out of memory. It fears being emptied again." Her gloved fingers brushed the air, tracing the invisible outline of the engine's distant pulse. "Fear makes things violent."

The first tremor rolled through the floor—distant, deliberate. Dust fell like ash. Somewhere below, the crystalline engine sang a single, trembling note, and the Force itself seemed to wince.

Virelia's violet eyes glimmered through her visor as she turned to the others. "We advance to the inner chamber. No one touches the core until I say. Map the entryways, watch the ceiling, and keep your breathing steady. If it begins to hum in your head—speak it aloud. Let the rest hear it."

Her voice lowered, a thread of command and promise.
"Nathema is awake. Let's remind it who walks its veins now."

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Pain and Corruption."

Objective 2: Tags -

Veyra crouched at the lip of the sinkhole like a predator taking measure of new territory—cold, patient, interested. The jungle above had proven itself a jealous thing: it swallowed banners, choked fires, and drank scouts whole. Below, the earth opened its throat and hummed. She tasted that hum in the back of her teeth, metallic and sweet, and felt it answer the hunger behind her ribs.

Around her the Queensguard moved with the quiet confidence of ritual — armor whispering, blades close to the palm. The strike team would arrive in moments; their boots heavy with the last of the surface, their voices rough from smoke and rot. Veyra welcomed the weight. She wanted the grind of it. She wanted the fight to bruise her.

Her gaze slid over the sinkhole: fang-like roots aglow with a sickly sheen, steam rising from fissures where sap had become something else. The Maw pulsed beneath, a heart beating through veins of wood and iron. It was obscene and gorgeous: half-plant, half-memory, feeding on the dead honor of Sith who had died here long before the Court arrived. The thought uncoiled something delighted inside her. To corrupt it for the Dark Lady would be a deed worth singers' lies.

She flexed her fingers, feeling calluses like maps. The haft of a vibroblade hummed in her hand. She imagined thrusting it into root and bone, into bark that healed like a wound with will. Imagine corrupting that healing—teaching it to clutch, to worship, to bleed for the Court. Imagine a forest that yielded obedience, not rot.

A smell crawled under her hood—pheromones and rot braided with the sharp tang of old blood. The roots shivered as if in answer. Somewhere below, shapes shifted in ways not fully human. They spoke, reports said, in voices like echoes of your own. Veyra grinned and felt a hot savoring rise; mirrors were useful when you wanted to teach a thing to love you.

She rose, hoisted the cloak over her shoulders, and stepped until the sinkhole's edge pressed at her boots. Many straightened, eyes catching the fever that made her pulse quicken. She did not fear the Maw. She wanted it to notice her.

"Let it remember why it kneels," she said, low and sharp, handing the Dark Lady's intent like a blade to the waiting earth. "We will make it sing our names."

For the Dark Court.

 

[Iskera Valest]

At the rim, Iskera crouched with one hand pressed flat to the soil, feeling how it breathed—slow, rhythmic, a pulse drawn from something buried far below. Heat radiated through her palm, faintly chemical, faintly hungry. The readings in her wrist-display skittered between biological and tectonic, as though the planet could not decide what kind of creature it wished to be.

Fine mist curled over the sinkhole, a cocktail of pheromones and decay that clung to her respirator filters like perfume. She took it in all the same, a controlled inhale through the mouthpiece. Data through scent, she reminded herself. Everything could be analyzed if you refused to flinch.

Around her, others muttered oaths or prayers. Iskera only unsealed a vial from her belt and tipped a drop into the dirt. It hissed, then bloomed outward in fractal frost, tracing how the roots moved beneath. It was neuronal. The jungle above had been a body; this was its mind.

Her voice over comms was calm, unhurried, the tone of someone dictating notes rather than giving orders.

"Samples confirm cellular mimicry. The Maw responds to stimulus. Suggest we test contamination potential before direct combustion—fire may only feed it."

She glanced toward the descent teams gathering, her eyes unreadable behind the glass. In the reflection, she saw the roots twitch toward heat signatures, drawn like predators or eager followers.

Perfect.

Iskera re-capped the vial and stood, cloak brushing her boots. She turned over to the Mandalorian.

"Don't burn it all down." she said simply. "If it thinks, it can be taught."

Their kind were known for their simple ways. Maybe a little pointer could help, enlighten them.

Tags - Veyra Kryze

 

[Evangel]

OBJECTIVE ONE

The Dark Mandalorian bound in red glyphs moved at her Lady's side in silence. The red visor panned across the thriving, decrepit landscape and long abandoned halls. Others of the Queensguard were tasked with securing the camp until their return, but Evangel had accompanied Darth Virelia; the woman was strong, but none would be allowed to touch her uninvited. Her Will was Law, but when Her word was not given Evangel guarded her jealously. A silent sentinel awaiting someone or something ignorant enough to think themselves worthy.

"As you command," the Mandalorian intoned. Anyone found straying from her guidance would answer to Evangel if the ruins didn't devour them first.

Nathema sung. Blue eyes veiled by her visor swept over the work that had been devoured by the plants time and time again. She could taste it. An eagerness to flourish. To strike. Echoes of those that had fled into the wilds so long ago. "They were here," she breathed to no one in particular. It hadn't even been a conscious obedience to speak it aloud as commanded. There wasn't anything Evangel could put to words except... hunger. Desire. A refusal to surrender. Its death? Evangel was awash in its rebirth set free from its desolation.

A dangerous place. Somewhere Evangel belonged. It would be interesting to witness the Core that held Virelia's attention so fervently.

Darth Virelia | OPEN​

 

[Darth Dreer]

Objective I
​

Dreer's boots crunched over the carpet of bones and dead vines that blanketed the ground, disturbing the occasional scuttling arthropod. The jungle was hungry, that much was clear. The evidence was plain for all to see; the very earth was composed of the packed remains of its victims. He was not intent on joining them.

He'd split off from the main group early on, scouting side passages and occasionally reporting back to Virelia. So far, he'd seen kark-all worth mentioning, save the slow tightening of the net around them.

His sword glittered green in the dim light cast by the conjured flame in his other hand. Occasionally, it lashed out, cutting a particularly intransigent vine from his path. Where the blade touched, life withered, turning ancient root and tree to dust as their essence was leeched away.

Dreer had probably wound up cutting more vines than people over the years, but they all withered the same in the end.

Foliage-clearing wasn't what he'd had in mind the day that Darth Virelia had found him on Kohlma, but he supposed it was business as usual. There was seldom a tomb worth plundering that lacked defenses.

Occasionally, he was forced to teleport up or around towering obstructions where the path had collapsed, vanishing in a brief burst of emerald sparks. It came as naturally as breathing, unlike most other talents of his these days.

His heart skipped suddenly, and he could have sworn he felt something tighten its grip around it. He staggered, caught himself against a wall, and pressed onward with a growl.

The artificial part of him, the part that surged through his blood and seeped into his bones, never liked teleporting, and seldom lost a chance to express its displeasure. He'd first experimented with the art in the hopes that it would be left behind, dropped to the ground while the rest of him moved. No such luck, of course. Nothing was ever that easy.

Still, it hadn't harmed him yet. Only let him know that it could, should it want to.

Two more static-snaps, as he briefly teleport-jumped up one crumbling wall, then another.

Simple. There wasn't a ruin in the galaxy hostile enough to keep him out, and he didn't intend to allow this one to ruin his perfect record. With luck, he'd get there soon, or find a shortcut and earn a few brownie points with his new employer.

"Employer" seemed a rough word for it, but it was the only one that came to mind. He was performing a service in exchange for room, board, and money. What else was one to call it?

He paused at the top, looking down at the crumbling path behind him. Briefly fascinated by the sight, he slipped his ragged leather notebook from his bag, etching out a brief sketch. The vines were already crawling back in, reclaiming his path like it had never happened. Getting back out might be difficult... if he had any intention of walking.

Dreer wasn't good for much, but he flattered himself that he was the best around at getting into (and out of) places where he wasn't wanted.

Dreer tapped an earpiece, wincing at the burst of static, and spoke, hoping Virelia could actually hear him when they were encased in so much signal-distorting stone. "Nothing so far. This might well be a waste of time. Do you want me to keep checking side passages, or rejoin the main force?" He asked, taking a seat at the edge of the edge of the artificial cliffside and digging some dried rations from his bag. "Plants are getting more aggressive." He added between bites of lunch. "We're definitely on a timetable. Whatever controls these is sluggish, but it's getting quicker. Smarter."

 

[Kasir Dorran]

Veradun Sharr | Darth Virelia | Darth Dreer | Evangel ​

The whispers of Nathema stirred, beckoning Kasir to come, and that was reason enough. Rumors, like wildfire, spread. Tales of a scout gone missing, banners of an outsider fluttering, all signs of someone else lurking in the shadows, something that sang like a song in the night.

Rumors were but another scent for the Sangnir.

This would also be his little brother's first foray beyond the fiery hell of Mustafar, a welcome respite from the suffocating heat, and its relentless ash. Here, there was a different kind of life, one that thrived in rot and decay. And whether the boy was hunting for sustenance, for blood alone, or both, it mattered not, for in the end, all creatures were slaves to their primal needs.

Hunger itself was the lesson.

Hunger was the blade.

To suffer was to learn.

Ache had a way of sharpening.

The cargo hold of his 578-R no longer bore any trace of the Wonosa doctrine, not even with his loyalty to The Prophet of Bogan. Once it had been used to ferry Jedi to the former Lord Inquisitor, but now it served a different purpose. It carried blood bags to be used, as the fledgling saw fit, their lives a tool for his hunger.

Kasir knew the boy’s thirst was nearly impossible to sate, a void that’d clawed the edges of even the most disciplined. Perhaps, that was why he purposely withheld the crimson nectar a little longer than necessary.

Sith fire was passion. But the fire of their kind was deprivation, one that burned slowly, which no indulgence could ever quench. In the hands of two Sith, that fire did not diminish.. it multiplied until it became lethal. He would not let Veradun escape it. He needed him to feel it, to carry it in his marrow, to understand what it meant to burn.

His transport shuttle sliced through the atmosphere without ceremony, a dark bird with a determined trajectory. Long before that descent, he compressed his Force signature, until he was nothing more than a stone dropping from the sky. But even concealment was not without flaws.. the glint of a hull, a ripple in the air, it didn't take much to be given away. Let them see, let them try, for a glimpse of him would be the last thing those who dared to face him would ever see.

Predators weren’t afraid of being noticed.

The ramp hissed open, and he stepped down alone. Like a specter, his obsidian armor glinted with malice in the dim light, a stark contrast against the pallid perfection of his features. Chiseled and cold, the visage of a forged weapon was intimately familiar with bringing death and ruin wherever he roamed.

With a twist of the neck, a satisfying pop echoed. Unforgiving orb, colored of charred wood, swept upon the land. The air stank of rot, and roots shifted beneath his boots.

Something in the distance was humming, making his fangs throb.

Nathema’s memory.. was pain.

He tasted it.

The extended hilt of his saberstaff clung to a utility belt. Beside it, the ritual dagger rested, a comfort no mortal could understand. More than a weapon, this one was a promise, a promise that was selfish as it was sick.

Shoulders drooping with nonchalance, head cocked slightly, he would simply listen to each breath through the currents. With time having no power over his existence, he simply waited for Veradun's appearance.

Then the hunt would begin.

 

[Veradun Sharr]

Tags: Kasir Dorran // Darth Virelia // Darth Dreer // Evangel ​

Veradun did not know how long he’d been on Mustafar with his blood brother. Time had almost ceased to exist deep within the enclave that was nestled into the black volcanic rock of the scorched planet, and now that the young man was a Sangnir, time truly no longer held sway over him like it had before he’d been Turned. He’d spent his time learning about his new existence, testing his limits, his skills…finding his new strengths and weaknesses. Kasir oversaw his growth every step of the way, a shadow within the shadows, a whispered voice that guided the fledgling into his new destiny.

Then, one day, Kasir beckoned Veradun to join him on a foray beyond the ash and suffocating heat of Mustafar. He did not indicate to Veradun what the journey would be for, but the fresh Lowblood followed along with his Sire anyway. Together they left the volcanic world behind and followed whispers that guided them both to Nathema.

It was not a friendly place, especially for mortals.

Like Kasir, Veradun concealed his presence; the act of doing so helped him take his mind off the incessant burn that scorched his veins, his constant reminder of the Red Thirst. Kasir was a cruel and ruthless teacher; he withheld the sweet decadence that was blood from his fledgling, drilling it into Veradun’s skull that hunger could sharpen and hone him and indeed it had.

Hunger had a way of making his senses far more sharp and heightened, than if he was satisfied and well fed. It made him far more dangerous than anyone could imagine.

Kasir was the first to step off the ship once it had landed, and the pale and handsome youth was only a few paces behind his elder brother. He stepped down off the ramp, his own black armor glinting as his dark cloak rustled softly around him, a lightsaber nestled against his side. He paused to take in the surroundings, scent the air and listen to the plethora of noises that assaulted his senses. Pale blue eyes snapped to Kasir when he heard the pop of his neck, the sound of it coming through Veradun’s heightened hearing like whip cracks. Silently, the former Nagai moved to step up beside his Sire, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they both surveyed the landscape around them. Finally, the pale youth tilted his head ever so slightly and flickered a side-long glance at Kasir, his expression seeming to ask: why are we here?

He didn’t need to speak aloud to his brother, for he knew that the other Sangnir would understand his silence perfectly.

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Iskera Valest Veyra Kryze

Objective 2​

Kharnaz marched, crushing plants under his boots. The others around him took samples and prattled on about the intelligence of this place.

Kharnaz disagreed. This was a weed, an infestation that needed to be cleared away. If it can think it can plot. Better to kill it now than have it rise up against them later.

His fingers brushed the trigger of his wrist mounted flamethrower. While he had yet to master pyrokinesis, he had found some success in controlling flames and the weapon provided plenty of material to work with. A vine twitched on the ground. It had no eyes but Kharnaz got the impression it was watching him.

Click.
Fwoosh.

Kharnaz smudged the ashes of the vine. He itched to burn it all down but he could not do it now. Not yet. He had to get to the heart. Only there would he kill it once and for all.

"Let it remember why it kneels," she said, low and sharp, handing the Dark Lady's intent like a blade to the waiting earth. "We will make it sing our names."

Kharnaz snarled. It was a plant. Such poetry was wasted on it, and served only to increase Kryze's ego.

"Don't burn it all down." she said simply. "If it thinks, it can be taught."

Kharnaz growled.

"Weeds cannot be taught. It does not serve us."

 

[Carisma Rostu]

Objective: The Shattered Sanctum
Gear: Basics
Tag: Darth Virelia

The sour taste of failure resonated deep, that caustic feeling swirling unchecked in Carisma's mouth; forcibly spitting the memory as she stepped back onto the soil of Nathema once more. This time, she had vowed with a staunch conviction, there will be no failures, least not from her part. This time it will be different.

Moving with a stride that represented both pride and arrogance through the ranks of engineers, laborers, and other contracted individuals toward the entrance, she could feel the cold and odd sensations humming like soft whispers underfoot. The planet was aware, it was ready. Ignoring those prickling sounds, she made her way to the sanctum, where her Master awaited. When Carisma entered the outer sanctum, a few yards from her Master and those gathered around her, she noticed quickly the air of urgency flittering about. Time was an enemy.

"Master," Carisma said, announcing her arrival, though she suspected her presence was long felt before she spoke, her eyes forward. The area was volatile; a primitive, yet living, construct with the ability to erupt on a whim, sending shockwaves in humming tones and not so delightful troves of vines: vines with miniscule razor-sharp teeth capable of tearing exposed flesh and a strength capable of crushing bone to dust. "I will take a team and see to it personally that the entrance ways are mapped, and everything encountered is recorded and categorized."

"There appears to be an abundance of plant life all around us, and quite possibly something of worthy to the Court." Foolish people look at plants or flowers and see only breathtaking beauty, a symbol of nature's love, a living embodiment of nourishment to most species. To Carisma, when she looked at the budding and blossoming plants, she didn't see beauty, she saw alternative purposes, nefarious in nature. And she wondered to herself, what other secrets down here could be captured and exploited?

​

 

[Drio'Vix Bacho]

Drio'Vix Bacho
Objective One

⸻
The air tasted like metal and rot.
Every breath scraped.

He stayed at the rear, behind the rest of the unit, standing near Eira Seren —listening, always on edge for threats. The temple wasn't shy about creeping ever closer. He heard the hunger in it. Roots grinding under the walls. A living thing looking for food.

He wanted to tear it open.

Thick cords of growth twitched along the ceiling. One brushed his shoulder. The Zabrak's hand shot up before thought, claws closing on the slick vine. He felt it pulse against his palm, almost warm. His other hand flexed around the haft at his belt, the weapon nearly drawn.

Then Virelia's earlier order echoed in his skull.

No noise. No fire. This place listens.

Drio wondered if the vines listened to more than words, if they could taste thought, feel emotion. Maybe they felt his tension. He exhaled through his nose and let the root drop. It slithered away, leaving slime on his glove. He wiped it on the wall, reminding himself that he needed to hide his emotions.
He hated doing that.
He hated everything.


Behind the visor of his helm, his eyes burned red in the dim light, a boiling pot with every step. An animal that needed taming, despite how he felt about being a slave.

Only one thing held his focus now Eira Seren . His work was to be her muscle.
So he watched.
And waited for the moment the world tried to eat her too.
Then, he'd speak up. Or act.

⸻

Darth Virelia Carisma Rostu Veradun Sharr Kasir Dorran Darth Dreer Evangel Eira Seren

 

[Eira Seren]

Eira was hungry; she craved knowledge, and that was why she followed Virelia. Their initial meeting had been cordial, and the two of them had figured out a working relationship. At this time, that was where they were—working together. She, along with her closest companion, followed behind the rest of the group.

Drio had agreed to be her guard, and she provided him with elixers or anything alchemical he might need. If it were something Eira didn't know, then she would learn about it. By working together, they made a formidable alliance. Here, that was all there were: alliances and those she could exploit.

One of them caught her attention, and her glowing eyes followed his movement. Sometime during this expedition, she would have to make sure to approach him. However, she would be patient, bide her time, and learn more about the company they were sharing.

"Do you think they'll all come out of this alive?"

Speaking calmly to a man who was nearly two feet taller than she was, Eira did not show any concern. None of these people scared the Sith, and she gazed at each of them equally. It lingered a moment longer on Veradun, and then she moved on again.

Intelligence and scheming showed in her eyes, and her smile never reached them. Except for Virelia and Drio, everybody else here was a pawn to be played with and placed.

Drio'Vix Bacho Carisma Rostu Darth Kharnaz Veradun Sharr Kasir Dorran Darth Dreer Evangel Iskera Valest Veyra Kryze Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Jungle Fever."

Objective 1: Tags - Eira Seren Drio'Vix Bacho Carisma Rostu Veradun Sharr Kasir Dorran Darth Dreer Evangel

The deeper they went, the quieter Nathema became.

At first, it had been the distant heartbeat of the planet that guided them—the slow, pulsing rhythm that vibrated through their boots and skulls alike. But now, even that was fading. The jungle's whisper had turned inward, like a creature holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

Virelia moved at the head of the formation, her stride unhurried, yet every motion deliberate. The faint magenta glow of her visor cut through the dimness, illuminating fragments of ancient stone—words that no tongue had spoken in ten thousand years. Her cloak brushed the living moss beneath her feet, leaving no mark. Every sense told her they were being watched, not by eyes, but by the memory of something vast.

Evangel's presence at her flank was as steady as always—silent, unwavering, a crimson shadow bound in glyphs and oaths. The Mandalorian's protective hunger radiated outward like static, the kind that made lesser hearts stutter when they came too close. It pleased Virelia, though she didn't show it. She preferred her guardians jealous. Fear made them cautious; jealousy made them loyal.

Dreer's voice crackled through comms, distorted by the depth and interference. His report bled through in fragments—roots, movement, aggression, impatience. The man was pragmatic, but perceptive. He was right about one thing: the jungle was learning. She could feel it pressing in, probing the edges of their collective will.

"Rejoin us," she said into the transmitter, her voice calm, even. "We're beneath the outer shell. It's… changing."

The signal died with a hiss, but she didn't need confirmation. He would hear.

The others followed close—Eira with her sharp, hungry gaze, that quiet intellect that weighed every word and turned it into a weapon; Drio, her brute of a shadow, simmering like a volcano waiting for permission to erupt; Carisma, precise and composed, her mind already cataloguing, dissecting, exploiting.

And then the newcomers.

Kasir and Veradun. One unknown, the other was Darth Nefaron 's apprentice, from what she recalled.

She... missed the old corpse.

They carried the scent of blood and restraint, two predators playing at civility. She had known many of their kind—immortality by parasitism, hunger turned to art. Virelia understood it. In them, she saw mirrors of herself: life extended through will, desire sharpened into purpose. Their arrival was no accident. Nathema had called to them the way it called to her.

As the path narrowed, Virelia lifted her hand, signaling silence. The air ahead had changed. Heavier. Wet.

Then they saw it.

A wide chamber opened before them, ringed by fractured pillars whose carvings still glowed faintly beneath a skin of fungus and creeping vines. The light pulsed in time with their heartbeats. The Force here was thick, wrong—like oil over water.

Three things caught the eye.

The first was the body.

A man, or the shape of one, slumped against the base of a cracked dais. A Jedi by the look of the robes—ancient, faded, but unrotted. His flesh was pale and whole, his features calm, his lightsaber still resting loosely in one lifeless hand. No stench of decay. No sign of time. It was as though he had fallen asleep moments ago and simply never awoke.

The second was the terminal.

It jutted from the far wall, half-swallowed by black roots that pulsed with faint, yellow light. The console itself still worked—or pretended to. Lines of script flickered across its cracked surface, indecipherable but purposeful, as though it still obeyed orders from a master long turned to dust. The vines coiled tighter the nearer they came, like muscles contracting in warning.

And then there was the third thing.

The plant.

It dominated the far end of the sanctum—a towering, obscene bloom of pale, fleshy petals, its surface veined with dark sap. It breathed. The movement was subtle but unmistakable, a slow dilation and contraction as though inhaling the stale air of the tomb. The Force around it bent inward, pooling like gravity.

It was beautiful. Terrifying. Almost human in the rhythm of its breath.

Virelia stepped closer, the faint hum of her armor's servos marking her approach. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Look around, find any clues you can as to where the engine may be, but keep your voices down and be careful."

The petals shuddered, as if hearing her. The air vibrated, low and resonant, like a voice just beneath hearing. Her visor flickered for a moment with interference—shapes moving behind her reflection.

Something was watching.

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Pain and Corruption."

Objective 2: Tags - Iskera Valest , Darth Kharnaz

The first step down was slick. Roots wept moisture that reeked of copper and musk, and the air itself seemed to push back—thick, humid, almost unwilling to let them through. Veyra's boots sank a fraction deeper with every movement, as though the ground tried to memorize her tread. The hum in the air wasn't only sound; it was pressure, vibrating in her chest cavity, resonating with every heartbeat.

Her vibrosword rested against her shoulder, its generator humming like a living thing. She'd kept it off so far; noise down here was invitation, and she had no intention of announcing herself to a world that already wanted them dead. Still, she traced a thumb along the weapon's guard and imagined the feel of it cutting through bark and tendon.

The descent wound through a vast shaft of intertwining wood and bone, pale sap bleeding in slow rivulets down its walls. The deeper they went, the more the colors shifted—green to ochre, ochre to rust, rust to black. Faint shapes pulsed behind the fibrous walls, silhouettes like things half-grown, half-buried. Once, the sound of something crawling inside the root made the line halt; another vibration answered from below, like a call and its echo.

Veyra looked down, then up, counting the dim red lamps of their helmets. The light barely reached twenty meters before it dissolved into mist. Above, the surface had already disappeared. They were inside the planet's throat now.

She turned her head slightly, visor catching the dim shimmer of Iskera's chemicals, the steady motion of Kharnaz's flame-unit, and the quiet anxiety of those behind them. The jungle wasn't waiting. It was listening.

"Tell me," Veyra said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the comms static. "If it thinks—if it dreams—what does it dream of?"

She let the question hang, knowing it wasn't really for them to answer. "Roots reach for what feeds them. We are not invaders to it; we are nutrients. It wants us."

The last words were half a whisper, half a challenge—to the Maw, to the others, perhaps to herself.

She pressed onward, blade in hand, feeling the pulse beneath her boots sync to her own. Whatever waited below, it would remember her tread—and either kneel, or choke on it.

 

[Iskera Valest]

"It metabolizes data," she murmured to herself. "Adaptive." She almost smiled beneath the respirator. Clever.

Kharnaz's flamethrower hissed nearby, the faint curl of heat licking at her sensors. He was restraint wrapped around impulse, an unpredictable variable. She catalogued him as one might a volatile reagent.

When Veyra spoke, the words carried through the comms like a liturgy. Iskera's gaze never left the walls; her gloved hand trailed along one, fingers pressing into fibrous flesh that quivered faintly beneath pressure. "Dreams," she said at last, voice soft but clear. "Ahh, replication... It consumes to imitate. You can tell by the cellular overlap—each pattern mirrors the last thing it touched."

The vines ahead shifted, drawing shapes from the mist—vague humanoid outlines, their movements almost curious. The air stank of pheromones and old copper.

"Cognition without ego," Iskera continued. "It dreams of us because it wants to be us. It's not rage. It's hunger dressed as memory."

She turned slightly, catching the faint red reflection of her lenses on Veyra's visor. "If we burn it, it will only learn to burn better. If we feed it…" A pause, deliberate. "It might learn to obey, although we will definitely need to do some, burning..."

Iskera raised a vial, silver light flickering through violet fluid. "Permission to teach, Commander?"

Tags - Veyra Kryze Darth Kharnaz

 

[Carisma Rostu]

Objective: The Shattered Sanctum
Gear: Basics
Tag: Darth Virelia / Eira Seren / Drio'Vix Bacho

The pulsating, that annoying humming, that insidious tone wrapped itself around Carisma's mind: invading, poking, molesting. She tried to ignore it, waging a war pitting her willpower against those haunting sounds by distracting herself with work, eyes always looking around at the creeping vines, with teeth and barbs: and those plants. Oddly, they illuminated with a blinking glow, here once, gone the next. But she found herself humming to those tones, dancing in macabre motions to the tune. Then it all abruptly stopped.

Silence!

An absent feeling ensued, and suddenly Carisma felt her connection to the Force limited. She turned toward her Master, and she saw those three things; staggered in a stage portrayed by unwilling actors. And her connection came back, smacking across her like raging waters, as if the dike holding back the tide went defunct, spilling its fluid secrets all across her farmlands; drowned, but flourished and nourished by substance.

The body. Cautiously she moved toward the freshly preserved body, not risking the same fate as her predecessor, and crouched down. Visionally, she examined the body but didn't touch it. The lightsaber hilt, powered down and just sitting there for the plucking was tempting; but refrain set in. She had not yet created her personal Sith tool, and stealing one seemed beneath her, so she left it to breakdown like its owner. The second was the terminal, which held no curiosity for Carisma, but the plants? Oh yes, those plants.

Drawn to it like carrion birds to dead, rotting morsels appealed to her. Safley, keeping a distance born of reality, she examined these in great detail. There was something admis about these plants, their veins flowing with what appeared as black ooze, blood perhaps, but not in the traditional color. Then from her peripheral vision, she saw one of her makeshift team members reach out and grip a vine. Instantly the man reared back, his mouth betraying him as he went to scream.

Acting quickly, Carisma placed both her hands over his mouth to muffle his screams, but the plants already began to shift, evaluate, and for one brief second, she swore they moved forward. And the vine, still wrapped around the member's arm, called for reinforcements as another vine engulfed around the man's left leg. Producing her hilt, she powered it up and swung twice, severing both arm and leg, not risking to further anger these slithering monsters by agitating them with touch, leaving the vines to retract back with their prizes. As she turned to the slumping man, now two appendages less, she saw something in his eyes: a white, milky film enveloping his peepers.

And it was the first time she felt the feeling of death through the Force; and she loved it.

​

 

[Darth Dreer]

Equipment: Sword-Lightsaber
Tags: Darth Virelia / Eira Dyn / Carisma Rostu / Drio'Vix Bacho / Veradun Sharr / Kasir Dorran / Evangel ​

Dreer didn't have to be told twice. He reached out for Virelia in the Force. As ever, the Force was loose in his grip. It was like trying to hold onto an eel or a worm. Slipping, sliding, always twisting out of his grasp.

Dreer clenched his jaw in frustration, but he lacked the innate, focused aggression needed to break the Force to his will, as most Sith did. He always had. There was too much of the wistful historian in him, too much melancholy drowning out all else until it had hollowed him completely. It was why his late master did what he did.

"You're a dismal apprentice." The man had said. "But you'll do fine for a slave."

"Yes, but you're dead." Dreer muttered to the empty air. "This dismal apprentice was craftier than you, if not mightier."

Dead he might be, but the dead man's legacy slithered through Dreer's veins, encircled his neurons, wrapped its tendrils around his beating heart. Who had really won, in the end?

That thought gave Dreer the tiny spark of real, incandescent hatred he needed to focus. He bent the totality of his power in his employer's direction, and pulled.

Space distorted around him, and he lurched across the distance between them, bypassing nearly a solid kilometer of rock.

Dreer burst into being with a quiet pop of displaced air, stumbling for a moment as he looked around.

The vertigo that nearly always accompanied hyperspace tunneling was there, but as ever, his senses quickly corrected themselves. He wondered if that was the serum's doing, or if he'd just gotten used to the sensation after doing it so often.

Swallowing down the last of the nausea, he dusted himself off and fell into step with the rest. He hadn't paid much mind to them before, but took this moment to do so. Virelia commanded a motley band indeed. Strange life forms from all walks of life. Dreer supposed he was no better. If not for his mastery of Force-based transportation, he was a C-lister on his best day. If worst came to worst, he could get them out safely.

Still, here he was, part of something more interesting than chowing down on ration bars inside a millennia-old ruin, so he was determined to express his fairly-genuine gratitude.

He stared at the enormous, corrupted plant-form ahead of them, digging his notebook out to scratch out a hasty drawing. "Well, you're no liar." He grunted quietly to Virelia. "First mission out, and I'm already having fun." He closed the book, drew his blade, and started towards the room's hideous centerpiece.

He approached the plant cautiously, studying it as closely as he dared get. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to chop through all sizes and shapes of foliage in his inglorious career so far, and though no expert, he could make a few educated guesses. "I suspect this is the heart of our problem." He mused, careful to keep his voice low. "Or if not the heart, then at least a node. Might be worth destroying, if the thing decides to become more wakeful."

The short, curved blade he carried hissed and spit, visibly churning the air around it. Part of him wanted to bury it in the plant's surface right now, to see how the botanical eyesore fared against the weapon's baleful enchantments. Dreer, however, was a good little soldier, and risking waking the thing up fully was just too big a risk to take. For now, he decided to simply keep an eye on the creature in case it moved or did anything else.

A thought struck him suddenly. "What if this thing grew over your engine?" He pointed out. "It reeks of the Force. Maybe the engine attracted the plant somehow."

 

[Kasir Dorran]

Veradun Sharr | Darth Virelia | Darth Dreer | Evangel Carisma Rostu Eira Dyn ​

Then he saw it; the woman’s eyes, falling upon his fledgling. The Sangnir’s head turned slowly as if it were on a hinge, the motion stripped of any urgency, stripped of feeling, his stare shifting from her to the boy and back again. It carried no warning in it, no threat.. only the acknowledgement of a predator accustomed to drawing attention without need for ceremony.

But for the rest, this was a gaze that weighed flesh, like a butcher deciding how best to carve it.

Kasir would not move as the others did; he lingered, a shadow cast in the passage. He savored the way this planet held its breath, waiting to see who would falter first, as if it were playing a twisted game. And he watched with keen eyes as the team advanced, their formations lit by a sickly magenta glow.

Seconds passed, and his boots began to whisper over the slick moss.

The hum of the chamber ahead continued to vibrate through his jaw, stirring that ache of hunger.

He noted how as Darth Virelia’s voice lowered, the sanctum itself bending to hear her. Kasir was never the type to bow, nor answer right away for that matter. As usual, he simply listened.. and in the listening, it was there he could taste the truth. Perhaps, Nathema feared emptiness.. and fear made things violent.

This was a lesson he knew well.

Another moved forward, and he watched carefully as the girl went on to sever limb from limb without an ounce of hesitation. Vines recoiled with their prize. In recognizing her, it wasn’t a rival or ally.. just another creature embracing death.

From the pale Jedi corpse, a sight that stirred joy, to the obscene flower that bloomed, he read the same truth in both..

Gaze lingering, unblinking, he fixed upon Carisma Rostu , before speaking. “Most cut to survive. You cut because you wanted to.. but appetite has a way of growing faster than discipline.” Not unkind, but as one predator to another.

Another stumbled into being; so, a low murmur, almost amused, graced the air. "Even servants have their place."

His tongue pressed briefly against a fang, a gesture so slight it might have been mistaken for contemplation. But this was a ritual.

Though he would not look at Darth Virelia, the words came late.. an answer all the same. “Fear.. hunger.. memory.. they are the same root.”

 

[Evangel]

OBJECTIVE ONE

"Do not let your appetites outpace your discipline," Evangel declared in a steady, resolved voice. The helmet slowly swung from Kasir Dorran to Carisma Rostu to take in their body language. She understood all to well what they spoke, but personal experience and training had proved out hunger alone was not enough. If it were then this place would be more than merely pregnant with promise, but already in search of other worlds to consume.

Darth Dreer meanwhile studied what seemed to be the promise in the chamber they'd found. Its heart? Its hand? A child of mournful destruction? The man seemed more than suited to study such things. Evangel, herself, was not. As prey certainly, but this place was more than a den of creatures for the slaughter. For now. Their Dark Lady desired something... more.

The terminal seemed of interest, but speaking of appetites Evangel couldn't help but feel drawn to the robed figure. An itch that only abated for a time had returned. Were they a Jedi? Were they alive? Unspoken desires of both questions to be true flared to life in the depths. How sweet it would be to leap in and simply crush the timeless man's head between her hands. But... as Captain... Evangel had to maintain her composure. Her discipline. Her fingers twitched ever so slightly, regardless.

A careful turn of the helm and Evangel silently looked to Darth Virelia . If the Dark Lady objected then there was nothing Evangel could do. As fortunate had it Virelia did not command her to stand fast.

With no particular haste, the Dark Mandalorian began to stride forward. Investigate, she told herself, not destroy. Slow, steady breaths tried to keep her heart rate under control as the urge for battle yearned for the seemingly lifeless, but untouched figure would return to life. How much would it take? How close would she need to get? Her hand would reach for the lightsaber uncaring of thoughts of whether she deserved to hold it. A closer inspection might yield information useful for Dark Vireli's purposes. Perhaps a unique attribute to its design, or a resonance in its kyber crystal. An identity for the possible Jedi -- if they were reknown enough -- might illuminate their efforts.

When she began to straighten up with the lightsaber in hand, Evangel couldn't help but clench her mount shut. No sound would be issued, but no peace would be found in what currents in the Force could be found in the chamber. Evangel knew how to wield such a weapon, but she did not ignite the blade. Its color was largely unimportant, and such a bright ignitation might be the sort of attention Virelia wanted them to avoid by minding the volume of their conversations.

Her eyes slid beyond the cylinder and to the man seemingly at rest there. Should she search his person?

"Could it drain someone of power, or does it feel... suppressed?" Evangel knew of the Force, but it was not an area of scholarly research on her part. Nuances such as its ebb and flow eluded her. Perhaps Dreer would know more of such things, or Virelia herself.

Darth Virelia | Eira Seren | Drio'Vix Bacho | Carisma Rostu | Veradun Sharr | Kasir Dorran | Darth Dreer​

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Iskera Valest Veyra Kryze

Objective 2​

"Roots reach for what feeds them. We are not invaders to it; we are nutrients. It wants us."

Kharnaz laughed, a deep roaring laugh that was not at all pleasant.

"Us? Food? Please. No overgrown pot plant could make a meal of me. I will show it what kind of "meal" I am!"

He drew out his lightsaber, ignited it and slashed into the nearest toot. He attacked it with fury, roaring as he tore into it. Sap sizzled and popped on the edge of his blade, and smoke trailed from burnt foliage. When he was done the nearest root was a smoking ruin.

Iskera raised a vial, silver light flickering through violet fluid. "Permission to teach, Commander?"

Kharnaz looked up from his destruction.

"I was unaware this was a teaching mission. Or that you would be my teacher," he growled. He extinguished his blade but held his saber still in his massive paw, ready to challenge.