Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Rise of the Horde (The Horde Warband/Open)

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Tatooine, Beyond the Dune sea.

Night fall...

The camp-fires of the staging area were burning bright, illuminating the rock valleys in which they had fortified their position. Thousands of them had come, seeking the wisdom and knowledge of the Elder Warlock Grahl. Some even whispered that he was a prophet, sent from the very depths of the force to lead them to victory.

Jack grunted, moving silently through the edges of the camp, dodging wild Tusken raiders and their animal companions. He had recalled what was left of his Wolf Warriors from Clan Raxis. Force knew there was very few of them here.

At last he came to his own section of the camp. Planted beside the banners of the Tusken Tribes, and Gamorrean Clans was his own banner. A red wolf on a black background. Symbolizing the fury and tactics of his own Clan.

He pulled back the teepee flap, a crude construction of Bantha leather over bones and entered. At once his warriors rose, armor clinking and grinding with sand.

"Relax." It was a gruff command, made course by his vocabulator.

"How did it go?" Alleria asked.

She was his second, a fierce woman whom had proven herself time and time again. Blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and a face smeared in red war-paint on pale white skin.

"I think it went well. This Grahl character, he had the stones to hold this band together so far. There's something else about him too..."

"Good or bad?" asked another, chowing down on a bowl of what looked like mud water.

"That remains to be seen. I could sense the Force in him, but more of an earthy dark nature. Not like my own."

"I know a few of these guys were talking about the powers he held. How he shaped this valley with his magic or some such nonsense." Alleria chided, taking her seat again by the fire, palms out stretched.

Jack removed his helmet, revealing his brown eyes and sloppy mess of hair. With a groan and some creaking he squatted, extending his own hands to the fire, letting the crimson amber embers warm his bare calloused hands.

"Don't discount anything. If this goes off like I think it does, we might just have us some great oppurtunites in the future. Lands, treasures, glory. What remains to be seen is how many other Mercenaries and Clans fall in line. Only time will tell...."
 
[member="Jack Raxis"]

The banners of the Steeljaw's hung at several different poles around an encircled area. Their enclave in this gathering was marked by the stretched out hides of dead dessert beasts they had slain upon their landing, used to create makeshift walls to keep the sand out.

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Grim Steeljaw, Warboss of the Steeljaw clan marched into his enclave, his heavy armor rattling noisily as he walked. His axe was sharpened....and clean of blood, something that bothered him immensely.

"Too Much talking"

Grim growled to one of his personal bodyguard. He had come here for war, for fighting.

What he had found, was a strange little gathering of would be warriors, disillusioned soldiers, and pathetic scum.

Grim had seen this...Warlock....This prophet. He was a warrior at least....but Grim did not like the way he seemed to twist words to gather followers about him. Such was not the mark of a true warrior.

The Steeljaws were not happy, and many of the boys had fallen to infighting already....This peace, it grated on their nerves.

He had come hoping to find Blood Pits, arenas, and glory. What he had actually found, was crumbling sands forts and a tribal people.

He slammed his fists together, letting out an angered, gutteral growl. He wanted something to fight.

Disgusted with this peaceful gathering, he bashed aside one of the tables in his enclave, sending several smaller creatures in his clan skittering away.

"The Sooner this talking is done....the sooners we can gets to fightin"
 
[member="Grim Steeljaw"]

Dawn....

It was daybreak. The sun had just begun to rise as the Horde assembled. Jack and his small band of warriors were in the far left flank, mounted on speeders. The Tusken Tribes to their front, and the Steeljaw clan to their left. Sprinkled among the ranks were the warlocks, and the other Rogue Force users.

Drums beat in the sun, warriors howled. From atop banthas and wheeled vehicles they bellowed and beat their weapons into the ground. Watching from outside you could've sworn it was the apocalypse. A grim feeling clutched at his gut, making him perspire as the Warband whipped itself into a frenzy.

"I don't like the sound of this."

"Me neither. Where's the Warchief?"

"Sending us out to do his bidding."

Jack smirked under the helmet.

From the canyons a horn blew, and echoed eerily over and over against the rock walls. The ground shook under foot, as the banners of the clans and tribes tilted forwards. The order to march had been given. One hand checked each item one last time. Besk'ad, shotgun in it's leather sheath, and a string of grenades.

"Alright, on me, we'll ride left of the main force as soon as we move out."

"Catch the enemy on their flank if they're engaged by the main body. Good plan Jack."

"That's right, and if they miss us? They'll be hell to pay."

He kicked the throttle, revving the engines. The Horde rolled out!
 

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