Public Sagrona Teema (Raid on Occupied Chandrila)

[Darth Keres]

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[]

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Location: Chandrila
Tag: Vestra Tane


"The butterfly has only just emerged from its cocoon," Darth Keres said softly, almost tenderly, "and already it rushes headlong into another, one that rots instead of birthing beauty." Her smile was thin and knowing, a quiet lament wrapped in cruelty, as if decay itself were a lesson she delighted in teaching.

Darth Keres did not move as the Sith girl came screaming across the broken streets, her ignited blade shrieking with unstable hunger and casting violent light across the fog-choked ravine. She watched instead, observing the girl's footwork fracture under impatience, the predetermined overextended strikes, the way raw fury tried to masquerade as mastery.

Each motion betrayed fear poorly disguised as devotion, ambition strangled by the need to be seen. In the Force, the girl blazed bright and erratic, a spark flaring wildly against a night too vast for it to matter.

Only when the distance closed did Darth Keres finally lift her gaze, cold and precise, her expression untouched by threat or urgency. She tilted her head slightly, as one might regard a flawed specimen, and allowed the girl's fate to settle long before their blades met. "Another failed Sith prodigy," Darth Keres said quietly, the words heavy with disdain and weary inevitability, as though she had spoken the same epitaph a thousand times before; and would speak it a thousand times again.

Extending her hand, and without haste or reverence the Force answered her call, wrenching ignition from the hilt at her side. Her lightsaber bloomed into the night in a burst of ghostly white plasma, its radiance cold and funereal, spilling across the street like moonlight filtered through bone.

Within the blade, faint shapes writhed; impressions of the bound and the broken, while whispers rose into a chorus of muffled wails, as though the dead themselves were pressed against the glass of eternity, begging to be forgotten. The air thickened as the darkest currents of the Dark Side streamed toward her, folding around her presence with dreadful intimacy.

She welcomed that darkness as a mother cradles her dying child, neither hurried nor cruel, but possessed of a terrible, possessive tenderness. Darth Keres did not assume a guard; she merely waited, allowing the Sith girl the illusion of initiative, the courtesy of striking first. A soft chuckle slipped from her lips, barely audible beneath the blade's haunted song, savoring the pageantry of it all; the fear, the inevitability, the way every failed disciple believed this moment might end differently.

Tonight's performance, she decided, was already delightfully theatrical.

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • XIII​
• Armor​
  • Robe​
• Accessories​
  • k​
• Ship​
  • Taciturnitas​
• Personal Guards​
  • Silencers​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

The sniper followed close behind him during the chaos, firing at any strays that happened to either avoid the flame or waltz right through.

His gaze shot to the left as he engulfed that side with flame almost as quickly as the barked voice came and went.

He then felt the shove causing him to lurch forward slightly, and mess up his aim. He heard his words as he slowly turned his direction.

THOONK

The grenade was launched from the barrel just past Varin, his eyes trailed with it as he watched, unable to change its course. Instinctively he tried to swat it away, but it burst with an intense kinetic force that sent him flying back into the rubble with a heavy thud and a grunt leaving his chest.

Even in the armor, the force of the blast and the impact into the wall was enough to knock the wind out of him. Heavy duracrete fell around him as he slowly began to push himself up. Most of the shambling dead around them were taken out by the blast, but some were just far enough to be minimally affected.

Varin took a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs to avoid taking short quick breaths.

He could hear the shambling feet getting closer. Words echoed in his head.

“Try not to take this personal.”

His fist slammed into the street under him causing it to crack. His deep breaths soon gave way to animalistic grunts and growls as he began to pull himself up. He looked towards the undead and a roar erupted from his lungs as the pyroclastic tendrils formed into a massive superheated cloud that began to engulf the area, Varin as the center eye of this infernal hurricane that began to swirl around him. The heat eating away the undead's trooper armor and eventually their flesh.

Lightning surged through the clouds like a violent storm as the wind seemed to be sucked into the momentum of rotation, embers and sparks danced and fell like rain around him.

He took a step towards the undead once again, the street below him melting into tar.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Orvak Kresh]

Tags: Varin Mortifer
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

​

Kresh didn't wait to see how the Sith landed.

The blast had bought him space and he used every meter of it. He sprinted down the broken street, boots slipping on ash and melted stone, lungs burning as heat chased him like a living thing. He cut hard into an alley, vaulted a fallen barricade, then kept going until the roar behind him blurred into a constant, distant thunder.

He slowed only when the ground stopped glowing.

Kresh ducked behind a half-collapsed storefront and pressed his back to the wall, chest heaving. He risked a look.

The street he had left was gone. Fire twisted through it in a violent spiral, lightning cracking inside the smoke like the sky had dropped to ground level. Armor softened and sagged. Bodies vanished into the storm. At the center of it all stood the Sith, a blackened figure wrapped in fury, turning the alley into something evil.

"Yeah," Kresh breathed, wiping sweat from his eyes. "That tracks."

He didn't linger. He reached to his belt and pulled the detonator free, thumb flicking the safety cover up with a familiar click. He pictured the charges he'd tucked under rubble and cracked duracrete, remembered the spacing, the angles. Enough to finish the job. Or at least make the street unusable for anyone still standing.

"Nothing personal," he murmured. He pressed the button.

The ground jumped. Explosions rippled through the street in quick succession, sharp and violent, tearing through weakened stone and collapsing what little structure remained. Fire surged outward, feeding on the blast, swallowing everything in its reach. Kresh turned away before the echoes faded. He ran.

He cut through back alleys and service corridors, changed direction twice, then three more times for good measure. His features itched again, skin ready to shift if he needed it. He kept moving until the sounds of destruction were gone, replaced by distant sirens and confused blasterfire echoing from somewhere else entirely.

Only then did he slow, hands on his knees, breathing hard. Hanna City was done. Whatever extraction he'd planned was ash now. Sith didn't just complicate things. They erased them. Kresh straightened and checked his rifle, already thinking three steps ahead, eyes scanning for his next shadow to disappear into.

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[Meliant]

CHANDRILA
HANNA CITY - STREETS

Attn: Lysander von Ascania Acier Moonbound Hasuras Na-Gerra

The dead were on the march. Meliant was only dimly aware of what unfolded around him. That sort of pompous sorcery was fast becoming par the course within the Empire.​

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Meliant switched suddenly to a half-sword grip and brought his blade up to catch Nightstar while it was still high in its swing. He didn't wait long. Meliant pushed against Lysander and leveraged Nightstar down and to the right - steel shrieked against steel. ​

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It was to put him at an awkward angle for what happened next. Meliant followed the momentum through by suddenly snapping up into the air, spinning and driving his heel into the side of Lysander's helmet.​

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Another wave of kinetic force would succeed any impact: sufficient to rattle the gallant Sith's dome and send him on his way. Barely a moment after Meliant's feet hit the ground, the other acolyte fell upon him again - forcing him back on the defense.​

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He clumsily parried the first strike, barely swatted aside the second. It was clear he knew something of fighting with proper blades, but was out of practice. The extra weight made him unwieldy. Meliant managed to get by only by virtue of backpedaling, yielding yet more space to his dogged opponent.​

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When he finally ran out of ground, his luck followed, and Acier's lightsaber lanced him through the heart.​

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"Ah," he said. The sword slipped out of his hands and hit the pavement with an unceremonious clank.​

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He stood there like a man too stupid to realize he'd been killed... Then lunged at Acier anyway. The plasma crackled against duraplast and armorweave and sprang out through his back as he ran himself down the blade. More tendrils of smoke leaked out of the ruined armor. ​

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Meliant had no heart to pierce and no body to slay. Just a shell.​

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One hand went to fasten around Acier's wrist to hold him there and keep him from maneuvering his blade or from getting away. The other pulled back with an open palm, with a cloud of red energy beginning to pool there.​

+Force Conduit
Moonbound's natural connection to the Force runs deep and turbulent. His telekinetic power, empathy, and psychometric sensitivity remain prodigious, but his greatest strength lies in the way the Force flows through him, volatile yet responsive, capable of amplifying the light of others or unleashing destructive waves when emotion overtakes restraint.

Such strength in one so young. Far too tantalizing to ignore.​

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Virulent red tendrils shot out of Meliant's palm and attempted to lash Acier. It would scour the acolyte deep if it went on long enough: first draining him of energy, then of life.​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

The maelstrom of smoke and fire began to spread rapidly as he devoured any living or undead troopers that were foolish enough to stay in the area. He had no line of sight on anything. But he could sense things around him. He felt the sniper leave, felt him evade and felt him stop. As if he were safe.

Then he sensed another thing.

Danger

Varin at the last second tapped into his reserves digging deep. The explosion came fast. The radius was major. The buildings around him bowed and screamed from the heat and stress.

Varin held out his hands as the blast began to envelop him. The ground shook from its force. He held his ground as he developed a pocket of the force around him absorbing the brunt of the explosion. What undead was left was blown asunder around him. His body ached, it trembled and it screamed for him to release tension. But he held.

The flames around him absorbed into his body feeding him. The storm that he had unleashed began to die out as ruined buildings slowly tumbled around him. He paid attention to the rubble as it fell. Dodging and weaving through with a few close calls. Finally silence descended upon him as he stood there trying to catch his breath. He collapsed to one knee with a pained growl. The tension of his muscles slowly released and he finally realised the extent he had just put his body through.

Glancing around he remembered he had one more trick to get him back into the fight. He opened up the compartment of his bracer. A display of his body and its chemicals lit up the screen, tapping a few buttons he activated the spinal device in his armor, injecting large doses of pain eliminating and anger inducing drugs. His body convulsed as a scream ripped from his throat, echoing over the ruined portion of the city.

Orvak would just barely hear it during his brief respite.

Varin reached out with the force again, this time hunting. His speed propelled him through alleyways and streets. He was now out for blood.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Orvak Kresh]

Tags: Varin Mortifer
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

​

Kresh moved through the back streets, keeping to shadow and broken light, letting the city swallow him whole. Hanna City burned behind him, but ahead it was all confusion. Sirens. Shouting. Stormtroopers running in loose knots, weapons up and pointed at ghosts.

He put two of them down without slowing. Clean shots, center mass, bodies folding into doorways and rubble. He kept moving, never stopping long enough to admire the work. His ship was somewhere east, tucked into a forgotten maintenance cradle. If it was still there.

Then the scream tore through the city. It wasn't close, but it carried. Raw. Furious. Kresh slowed despite himself. He told his brain not to guess, told it that the city was full of monsters tonight. But his gut had already made the call.

"Feth," he whispered.

His pace quickened. His shoulders tightened. He could feel it now, that pressure in the air, like a storm choosing a direction. The Sith was coming. Hunting. Kresh knew enough about the Force to know shifting wouldn't help. Different skin, same presence. He was marked now. Running blind would get him cornered.

He skidded to a stop at the end of a long, narrow street and made a decision. A shop sat there, shutters half down, windows already cracked from shockwaves. Kresh smashed the glass with his shoulder and rolled inside, dragging debris with him. He overturned a display rack, kicked rubble into the doorway, and claimed the second floor with a fast climb.

One way in. One way out.

He set up fast. Rifle on the sill, scope peering down the street. Vibroblade came free and rested close at hand. If it got close, too close, he would make it pay.

Stormtroopers flooded past below, disorganized, shouting orders no one followed. Kresh picked them off one by one. Helmets snapped back. Armor sparked. Bodies hit pavement. He didn't hide it. Blasterfire echoed. Screams followed. He wanted noise. Wanted attention. Wanted the monster to come straight down the street instead of tearing the city apart looking for him.

Kresh steadied his breathing and kept firing, eyes locked downrange.

"All right," he muttered. "Come on then."

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[Varin Mortifer]

His breath was rapid and deep, animalistic as he tore through the streets. Any noise from troopers were met with swift slaughter, even tearing his hand through stone walls to grab one and bash his head into the wall, crushing his skull. He heard screams and blaster fire. Like a starving animal on trapped prey he followed the noise like a bee line, stopping just out of sight of the opening.

Trooper bodies dropped and he watched the bolts. He walked over towards a broken down vehicle and dug his fingers into the door, ripping it off the hinges with a grunt. He held it in front of him. He knew the door would not take the blaster bolts, they would chew right through.

His purpose was to cover any possible vital areas, make them difficult to hit.

He then charged into the opening, the blasters smacking into the door, tearing through but also hitting his armor underneath causing them to glance off. He kept coming. Bulldozing over any troopers in front or beneath him. Once he had gotten close enough to the building, he threw his weight right into the door, bursting through and rolling into the first room.

His breathing was deep, vision was red. He could sense him here.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound Meliant
Armor | Helm of the Twin Suns | Nightstar
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Naturally, Lysander expected the resistance.. except it came all wrong. Their blades met and the shudder crawled straight up into both arms. Teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw ached. Shifting instinctively, he began rolling his shoulders, trying to redirect the pressure, t open a new angle. Then his world detonated sideways.

Impact slammed into the right side of his helm.. like a hammer finding its mark. His head snapped to the side; a flash of white tore across his vision. After was a follow through, another wave of force that tore him loose from the ground. Stars swam at the edges of his vision, motor control lagging. He'd been tested countless times and was far from having a glass jaw.. but that one landed cleaner than most. Ebony plates rattled as sound dulled; it broke into fragments from the chaos on Chandrila, composed of distant screams and metal ringing.

Furthermore, the moment was already moving on without him.

By the time his breathing began to steady, he forced himself upright. Then he saw it, the Sith had Acier in a firm hold, even with a blade driven through what should have been the chest. Blue light buried deep.. and somehow, it didn't matter. Worse than that, something else was unfolding. The drain had begun.

The Dark still flowed through him in waves, pulled and redirected from earlier, surging in response. The planet itself, saturated with death, fed directly into his veins. Of course, it would have been easy to answer violence with violence. He knew that path all too well..

As he pressed a free hand outward, those emerald orbs narrowed with hatred. Conjuring telekinetic power, it was unleashed with malicious intent. Sound dulled once more; this time it was from concentration. The cost of this was immediate, with the Dark coiling tightly, and burning his muscles with rage that threatened to consume him entirely. Lysander held to the best of his ability, for he was determined to find the truth that would surely make escape impossible.

Pressure settled first at the base, grinding into pavement around boots and ankles, an invisible weight pressing down. The pressures opposed another, locking joints. From there, he pinned the hips, preventing any chance of collapse. The shoulders came last. Slowly, all leverage would vanish.

The Outer Rim had taught him dominance. The Covenant was teaching him leadership. Perhaps that was why the kill would remain in another's hands.

If Lysander swung the blade, the other remained the victim.. and a future liability. What they needed was future reliability.

"This ends now."

It mattered not whether Acier was struggling. If the desire to live was present, then he would know what this moment required.

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[Vestra Tane]

IMMEDIATE TAGS: Darth Keres
EQUIPMENT: Lightsaber | Lightfoil | Disruptor Pistol | Hex Grip (Right Arm) | Ashin's Glove (Left Hand) | Armorweave Coat

Perhaps the older Sith's senses were clouded. Perhaps, unconsciously, the younger Sith was deceiving her - using some obscure technique to make her movements appear sloppy, projecting fear to throw her opponent off. Because there was no fear in her heart, and her movements, while rapid, were trained and fluid. And consciously, what she was doing was observing, and harvesting. Hanna City was in flames. Its people were so used to peace, to politicking and negotiation, and now so used to the Empire's "protections" that such a sudden assault had sent them into a near frenzy.

And Vestra could use that. The mantle of Darkness surrounding her bloomed and swelled, such that the air darkened, barely perceptible, around her body. She could feel the shakes coming on; too much power now, gathered too quickly for her flesh to contain. She'd need to release it, soon, or it'd start eating her up from the inside. That was fine, though. She had a target right in front of her.

Approximately three meters before entering engagement distance with the older Sith, Vestra leapt, thrice her height and forward, and twisted through the air so that she kept her face towards her opponent.

Once past her apex and the descent began, the Sith extended her left hand, clad in red, down towards her enemy, pointing at her like a child might make a finger gun.

"Bang."

In an instant, the younger Sith's wreath of power collapsed, channeled and unleashed as a wave of raw, destructive energy.

It wouldn't kill. Vestra wasn't so cocky that she expected to vaporize a Sith Lord in a single blow.

But she couldn't imagine it wouldn't sting.

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[Orvak Kresh]

Tags: Varin Mortifer
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

​

Kresh saw him before he heard him.

The bolts changed. Angles shifted. Something big moved through the street like it owned the space. Kresh swore and leaned into the rifle, firing in tight bursts as the shape charged through the opening. The door came up as a shield, crude and clever. Shots punched through it anyway, sparks skittering, metal screaming. Not enough. Never enough.

"Feth, feth, feth."

He adjusted, aimed for gaps, joints, anything that might slow him. Troopers vanished under the charge like speed bumps. Then the door hit the building.

The impact rattled the floor beneath Kresh's boots. Plaster dust shook loose from the ceiling. The lower level collapsed into noise and violence as Varin smashed his way inside.

Kresh didn't hesitate.

He abandoned the window and moved, fast and quiet, pulling back from the sill as another crash rolled through the structure. The building groaned. He felt it in his teeth. He knew that sound. Something unstoppable had entered his space.

He slung the rifle and drew the vibroblade in one smooth motion, the hum low and familiar in his hand. Close quarters now. Ugly work. He checked the stairwell, overturned what little furniture remained, dragged a heavy cabinet across the top step. It wouldn't stop the Sith. It might slow him a heartbeat.

That was all Kresh ever asked for.

The floor below exploded upward as Varin tore through walls and supports, climbing by destruction alone. Each step closer tightened Kresh's chest. The pressure was real now, crushing, like gravity had decided he was optional.

Kresh planted his feet near the doorway, blade angled forward, breath controlled despite the pounding in his ears. He could hear the armor. The breathing. The promise of violence wrapped in heat.

"All right," he said quietly to the empty room, jaw set. "Up close it is."

Kresh raised the vibroblade and waited for the monster to come through.

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[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Chandrila

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace felt his lightsaber strike true. But the resistance was... wrong, it was neither flesh nor bone. His blade punched through where a heart should have been, blue light burying itself deep. For a fraction of a second, instinct told him it was over.

Then Meliant spoke. Smoke poured from the wound instead of blood again as the Elite closed the distance that should have killed him, and Ace understood all at once... no heart, no organs, nothing there to stop. Just a vessel.

A hand snapped around Ace's wrist, locking the lightsaber in place and denying him leverage. The sudden stop jolted up his arm, shoulder screaming as the blade was trapped mid-body. Ace drove his free fist forward on instinct, aiming for the helm, the neck, anything.

Red tendrils spawned from the Elite's hand, striking into Ace. The pain was indescribable. A horrific, soul-crushing emptiness tore through him as his life energy was ripped away, the Force scraped raw from the inside out. His breath hitched violently, muscles spasming as strength bled away in waves. The world hollowed, vision dimming as if something essential were being excavated from his core.

Was this was what dying felt like? Ace's knees buckled, body trembling as the drain intensified. But then the pressure changed. The Force... locked?

Telekinetic vectors slammed into place and the Elite, the shell, wrenched into immobility by sheer will. Lysander's hold was absolute, grinding the Elite into stillness and breaking the rhythm of the drain.

That moment was enough. The drain was still tearing through him, hollowing him out from the inside, and something sharp finally snapped loose in Ace's chest - a cold, focused anger at the sheer wrongness of it. At being held. At being fed on. At being reduced to fuel.

He let the anger surface, then twisted hard against the hold. His cybernetic forearm whined as servos surged, pistons locking with a brutal, mechanical certainty that flesh couldn't match. He killed the blade, lightsaber snapping dark in his left hand as he released it entirely, letting it drop just long enough for his right hand to catch the hilt mid-fall. In the same motion, he reignited it and cut across.

Blue light sheared cleanly through the Elite's wrist and the grip vanished instantly. The drain stuttered and broke. Not allowing to give the Elite time to adjust, Ace pivoted on his back foot as momentum carried him past the Elite's centerline. His lightsaber came around in a tight, efficient arc, aiming to cut through the neck in one clean sweep.

Lysander von Ascania | Meliant​

 

[Darth Keres]

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[]

Caracas - Scordalus
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Tag: Vestra Tane


Darth Keres smiled, not the warm crescent of mercy, but the thin, knowing curve of a blade being tested for balance. Around her opponent, the Force rippled and thickened, a funereal tide drawn from her opponent's intent, whispering of haste and miscalculation. The Sith Lord tasted it as one would taste iron on the tongue: the raw surge of power hurled without reverence, without patience.

The attack came like a shouted curse; all thunder and no cadence. Darth Keres did not meet it. She merely stepped aside, a single sidelong drift of silk and bone, letting the Force tear through the space she had just vacated, still feeling a spell of annoyance course through her bones from the blind assault. The ground screamed as it split, the stoned tiles bleeding dust and old prayers. Her robes whispered approval as the violence passed her by, and the echo of it rang hollow; proof that strength, when flung without center, devours only itself.

"Bang, indeed," she said softly, voice edged with murderous cruelty, as her gaze pinned the staggering figure airborne above her. "Your Master should have taught you never to attack a Sith by leaving your center of gravity. And you are just another failure of their flawed teachings."

The words sank deeper than any blade, a doctrinal wound delivered with ceremonial calm. In the silence that followed, the darkness leaned in close, eager and intimate, as Darth Keres advanced, already certain of the lesson's end.

Darth Keres lifted her hand, and the Force answered with a low, cathedral groan. From the ruin-strewn streets she tore free a massive shard of stone fused with twisted metal, its edges ancient and screaming as it broke the last bonds of gravity. She did not hurl it with rage; she guided it, dragging the debris into a slow, ominous arc: a calculated blasphemy meant not to kill, but to deceive. Its trajectory was chosen with priestly precision, timed to intersect the place where her opponent would land, faithlessly confident in their own false pretense momentum.

As the debris moved, her robes stirred and drank deep of the darkness she wore like a second skin. The enchantments woven into the fabric awakened and surged, humming with predatory anticipation, as if the garment itself remembered old massacres and longed to rehearse them again. Shadows thickened around her form, clinging and coiling, eager to witness another doctrine inscribed in pain. Darth Keres did not smile this time; her expression hardened into something colder, an instructor preparing a final, irrevocable correction.

In that instant, The Wraith of Erasure closed her fingers, and the Force snapped tight like a mausoleum gate. She reached not for the body alone, but for motion itself, seeking to seize the flying Sith in a vice of absolute stillness. Slowing her decent that she and debris would greet each other like two dying lovers embraced in a tomb of eternity. Darth Keres remained unmoved, already assured that ignorance, once exposed, never survives its unveiling.

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Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • XIII​
• Armor​
  • Robe​
• Accessories​
  • k​
• Ship​
  • Taciturnitas​
• Personal Guards​
  • Silencers​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"The greatest happiness is to scatter your enemy, to drive him before you, to see his cities reduced to ashes, to see those who love him shrouded in tears."
​

Then just like the tar itself, the undead would scatter in every direction, vanishing almost just as quickly.

Gerra finished his spell, accelerating the risen dead who now washed over the city to terrorize the living. Behold now as they swamp upon the citizens of Hanna, rending and tearing, feasting. The streets are naught but filled with the tottering dead, the remnant defenders, and the scampering corsairs who haul off their trophies into their shuttles.

The last series of shuttles begins departure from the city, to deliver the wealth of Chandrila to the Vahlan and Hapan fleets.

Even now, the Vahlans make good on Gerra's promise and the living shield blisters atop the throne room spire are crowded with prisoners of war, who now beheld the fate of Hanna.

Great plumes of smoke rose all across the city, bellowing out into the atmosphere until the sky darkened.

In these shadows, Gerra watched with crossed arms as his brother fought a desperate battle against two of the Covenant.

"Great Qhan, the skull as requested," said a Vahlan, bearing a newly gilded skull with the top sawn off.

"Good, give it to me," Gerra took the skull and held it aloft before him, then he spake unto his brother, "See now, brother, what has become of your Mawite warriors and the defenders of the city. A new chalice for mine own."

The Vahlan beside Gerra poured wine into the skull and Gerra lifted it to his lips and drank deeply, rivulets of scarlet trickling down his chin and cheeks.

Meliant Acier Moonbound Lysander von Ascania

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He picked himself up and grabbed a nearby cabinet, slinging it into the wall. He quieted down, his breathing echoed slightly in the empty first floor as he listened. The sound of scurrying and rush upstairs gave him his clear sign.

Slowly step by step be walked, the heavy metallic boot falls thudding up the halls getting closer and closer to the door. The steps groaned under his weight as he climbed. Then he stopped in front of the door that was barricaded. He glanced at the doorframe and slowly ran his hand over it.

The heat from his hand melted the paint as flames began to envelope the door, eating it away and feeding off the debris behind it. The door fell away revealing Varin standing just on the other side, looking right at the sniper brandishing a vibroblade.

He reached down and grabbed his saber hilt and twisted the handle, his crimson fiery blade roared to life bathing the room and hallway in a crimson dancing light. He stepped through the inferno.

Without words or banter he brought the blade overhead swinging hard and violently downward to his opponent. He was not just aiming to make contact with his body, he was aiming to push through his body and bisect the little man. A loud grunt left his throat as he struck, the room vibrated with the shock of his boot falls as he dashed towards him.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Orvak Kresh]

Tags: Varin Mortifer
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

​

The door vanished in fire.

Heat rolled into the room, paint blistering, air screaming as the Sith stepped through the burning frame. The red blade ignited and the space shrank to nothing but light and threat. Kresh's instincts took over before thought could catch up.

He moved.

The saber came down in a brutal arc, meant to end him outright. Kresh slipped sideways at the last second, boots skidding across scorched floor as the blade carved through the spot where his head had been. The impact shook the room. The cabinet behind him split apart, molten edges sagging as it collapsed.

Too slow meant dead. Too close meant worse.

Kresh rolled around Varin's flank, low and fast, vibroblade humming as he struck while the Sith was still committed to the swing. He slashed hard across the backplate, putting everything he had into it.

Clang.

The blade skidded off armor with a jarring vibration that ran up his arms. No give. No cut. Just raw mass and momentum. Kresh hissed and used the recoil to push away, creating space before the counter came.

He backed up, boots finding traction, blade held tight in both hands. His eyes tracked fast, cataloging plates, seams, the way the armor shifted when Varin turned. There. The joints. Under the arm. The neck. Small targets. One mistake.

The pressure in the room pressed down harder now, like the air itself wanted him on the floor. Kresh ignored it, breathing steady, shoulders loose, ready to move again.

He flashed a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"Come on," he said, voice sharp, inviting. "Is that all you've got?"

He shifted his stance, light on his feet, waiting for the next heavy swing.

​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

His opponent shifted, dodged and in a fluid swift motion struck the back of his armor. The blade glanced off, the plate doing its intended purpose. He liked to move, a lot. Made sense, Varin was bigger and stronger than him. Distance and quick feet were his best option. That is if he were fighting a normal opponent.

Varin’s head shot towards him and he pulled his arm back using the force to grip the sniper’s throat and pull him towards Varin.

Varin wrapped his fingers around his throat and with a primal yell flung the man into the wall of the room, sending him crashing through and into the hallway.

Varin pursued right behind him. He would not let him gain ground again. Varin flung a ball of fire towards the sniper as his bootfalls slammed into the floor, a running earthquake sprinting towards the sniper, the building groaned under him as if begging for mercy, Varin did not abide.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Orvak Kresh]

Tags: Varin Mortifer
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

​

The pressure hit him like a fist around his throat.

Kresh's boots left the floor as the Force yanked him forward. Fingers closed tight, crushing air and sound alike. For a split second his vision dimmed, stars bursting at the edges. Then the wall came rushing in.

He hit hard, shoulder first, the impact knocking what little breath he had left clean out of him. Plaster exploded. He punched through into the hallway and skidded across duracrete, ribs screaming in protest. Pain flared sharp and immediate. He rolled on instinct, coughing, dragging air back into his lungs in ragged pulls.

Heat surged.

Kresh twisted just as the fireball tore past where his head had been, scorching the wall and blooming into flame behind him. The heat licked at his back. He came up on one knee, vibroblade already in hand, eyes locked down the hallway as the heavy footfalls thundered closer.

Too fast. Too strong. Still predictable.

Varin charged like a battering ram, armor eating distance with every step. Kresh waited, counting the rhythm of those strides, watching the bend in the knee as the Sith committed his weight forward.

Now.

Kresh lunged low and slashed upward, aiming for the narrow seam behind the knee joint, the place where plates had to move.

​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

The crash of impact reverberated from the walls, his opponent hit the wall hard. Likely he was having a hard time breathing. But he still had enough energy to dodge the blast.

Varin crashed through the wall behind him, his saber coming up in a horizontal slash. The sniper dodged. He was a smart fighter, using the tight quarters to his advantage. His smaller frame had an easier time accommodating where Varin often had difficulty maneuvering. The sniper ducked below, whirling behind him in a fluid motion, Varin could not capitalize.

The sharp pain came next, then his knee collapsed with a pained yell. He quickly swiped his blade behind him in hopes to hit him but he was already out of range from his saber. Then the after effects of the drug pressed into him. Varin’s back seized as he let out another yell, his saber disengaging and dropping to the floor. He fell to his hands desperately trying to hold himself up.

He was out of time.

The drug had coursed and burned out of his system from his body heat. And his opponent was still alive. A paralysis came over his entire body as the muscle tremors began to set in. Muscles locking and tightening, flexing and loosening. The fire from his back began to die into a smoldering smoke as the temperature began to drop.

He could not move. His body refused. Spent of all its energy and beyond. He tried to push himself up only to collapse to his side.

His breathing was harsh and coarse. He was in bad shape.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Orvak Kresh]

Tags: Varin Mortifer
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

​

Kresh waited for the counter that never came. He stayed still, blade raised, breath tight in his chest as the seconds stretched. The hallway burned around them, flames crawling up walls and chewing through beams. Smoke rolled low, stinging his eyes. Somewhere nearby glass shattered as the building continued to give up on itself. But the Sith didn't rise.

Kresh took a cautious step forward. Then another. The Sith was down on the floor, armor scorched and smoking, one knee folded, his body locked in violent tremors that went nowhere. The saber lay dead at his side. The fire that had followed him like a shadow was fading into a weak, ugly smolder.

So that was it.

Kresh straightened slowly and brought the vibroblade up, angling the point toward the narrow gap between helmet and torso. Close enough now that he could see the heat scars, the rise and fall of Varin's chest. One clean push. One inch forward. The galaxy would be quieter for it.

His breathing slowed. In. Out. He thought of Chandrila burning. Of the troopers torn apart. Of the dead that had stood back up and kept walking. Monsters didn't get mercy. Monsters didn't get second chances.

But then the floor screamed. The sound barely registered before it gave way beneath him. Kresh dropped hard as the burning structure finally failed, tumbling through smoke and sparks into the level below. He hit in a mess of shattered beams and debris, the impact driving a grunt from his chest as pain flared through his back and shoulder.

"Feth," he gasped.

He shoved rubble aside and dragged himself free, coughing as smoke filled his lungs. Above him, the floor sagged and cracked again, fire spilling through the gaps. He was still up there, trapped on a collapsing island of flame and ruin.

Outside, blasterfire echoed. Boots. Shouting. Stormtroopers closing in from every direction. Kresh didn't look back again.

He staggered through a rear corridor and kicked open a service door, spilling out into an alley choked with ash and bodies. He moved fast despite the pain, keeping low, slipping between wrecked speeders and fallen walls. The city was a graveyard now, lit by fire and broken by noise. This wasn't victory. It was a warning.

Kresh melted into the chaos, heading away from the fight, away from the burning building, away from the Sith he hadn't finished. His ship felt farther away than ever, his plans in pieces, but he kept moving.

The Galaxy had spoken. Loud and clear. He was in over his head, and Chandrila was no place to learn that lesson twice.

​

 

[Meliant]

CHANDRILA
HANNA CITY - STREETS

Attn: Lysander von Ascania Acier Moonbound Hasuras Na-Gerra

Meliant was celebrating early, cackling like a madman as he drained the life out of Acier. He could hardly help himself. Indeed, he wasn't even aware of his own laughter. ​

​

Only a sudden invisible weight got him to shut up. It bore down on him as if someone had stapled a starfighter to his back. And slowly it intensified, spread, until Meliant felt he could hardly move a centimeter out of place. But he was strong enough to resist outright destruction - an untrained or unlucky trooper would have been pulped already. ​

​

"You fucking fleas," he snapped, "You really think that..."​

​

Meliant heard the lightsaber shut off. Oh. Oh no. This was perhaps the only time he considered being impaled to be a tactical necessity. ​

​

Acier's blade, suddenly free, flashed twice.​

​

The drain guttered and died almost immediately after the first blow was struck, severing his hand at the wrist. The sai cha follow-up was worse in that it was more insulting.​

​

Meliant might have lurched just out of reach or simply held himself together out of sheer spite in happier circumstances. But those had long passed. Now...​

​

His concentration broke.​

​

Within that same moment, the armor gave out, imploding inwards with the all the violent force the Dark Side could conjure up. Duraplast crumpled, armorweave shredded. It was only a pile of trash by the time it hit the ground.​

​

Just above - about ten feet up - the smog congealed into a vague, semi-transparent cloud. For a few moments it lingered, somehow radiating outrage, before floating gently towards a nearby alley. ​