Public Sagrona Teema (Raid on Occupied Chandrila)

[Vestra Tane]

Tag: Open to literally anyone!

EDGE OF IMPERIAL SPACE - CHALLON SYSTEM
COMMAND DECK OF THE STORMHOUND​

Slumped over in a chair that was slightly too ornate for her tastes, surrounded by an array of controls that she only vaguely understood (capital ships were never her specialty), Vestra Tane allowed herself a rare moment to brood. It felt like the Sith-ly thing to do at the time.

Chandrila's nobility was vapid, shallow, performative, and obsessed with pointless tradition - if anything, they probably welcomed the Empire with open arms.

And its people? There were exceptions, but by and large they were passive. Docile. They wouldn't accept glorified serfdom if they weren't.

But it was her world.

She knew the planet's history better than any of its ruling class - current or former - could ever hope to. She could look at a map of the planet and point out, down to the valley, where she first kissed a girl, and where she first killed a man. She remembered the heat in the fields and the color of fertilizer staining her hands and the smell of machine-oil stuck to her father's skin and the sting of the rocks cutting up her fingers and -

The Sith took a long, deep breath, to quell the small storm that had begun to dance along her skin.

Chandrila was her world. And the Imps, aided by Alliance incompetence, had taken it from her. She didn't begrudge the violence or the terror of the initial invasion, but the Empire put down roots. It infected the societies it conquered, sunk its fangs in and turned whole planets into lumps of lifeless gray duracrete. The Empire was a disease, as virulent as any Jedi Order. Maybe worse. At least the Jedi didn't pretend to be Sith.

Vestra sighed, again, and from her chair on the command deck she flicked a switch and began broadcasting - wide frequency, long range, to make sure she reached every ship in her fleet. She hadn't been very discerning, when she'd put out the call, and she wasn't taking down names, either. Hey, do you wanna feth with the Empire? Show up at these coordinates. For all Vestra knew or cared, there could've been jedi among this motley pirate's fleet she'd assembled. Or Imp sympathizers.

"Alright, so here's what's gonna happen," Vestra smiled to herself, letting a little bit of her Chandrilan accent - normally hidden under layers of artifice - bleed through into her voice. "In a few minutes this ship is gonna rip a hole in space and shunt us all into the Netherworld. If you wanna make it to the other side, you'll stick close. It'll spit us out near Chandrila, and then we're all gonna kick the Empire's teeth in, yeah? Kill whoever you want. Steal whatever isn't nailed down. Burn down fields, bomb admin centers, I don't care - just make 'em hurt."

There was a pause, and then a final message.

"Sagrona fuckin' Teema, everyone."

The Sith made a gesture to one of the adjutants nearby, and after a few relayed messages, space warped a meager few hundred meters beyond the battlecruiser's prow.

It began as a small point of sickly orange-red light, which grew and stretched into a scar, a thin line splitting reality open.

And then, all of a sudden, it burst, spilling the phantasmal gore and whisper-screams of the Netherworld into the empty vacuum of realspace.

The path was open. A straight shot, beneath the skin of reality, beneath the Empire's border defenses and into the Deep Core.

​

A Coordination thread can be found HERE

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Location: Chandrila
Tag: Vestra Tane


In the waning hush between stars, the Taciturnitas descended upon Chandrila like a funereal omen, its hull a cathedral of shadow cutting through the planet's serenity. Darth Keres stood at the prow of the command deck, her presence bending the cold air around her as though even the ship feared to touch her. Moonlit clouds coiled around the descending vessel, whispering against the metal as if warning the world below of the visitor carving through their peaceful skies.

She had come not as conqueror, though conquest of another kind was the natural language of her soul, but as a broker of dark necessity. Within the vaults of her mind, she carried the outlines of a forbidden construction, a project so veiled in secrecy that even her Silencers dared not question her motives.

When the Taciturnitas settled upon the landing dais, its landing struts hissing like serpents exhaling their final breaths, the air itself seemed to recoil. Chandrila's pastoral beauty, normally bright with dawn-washed fields and gentle breezes, grew dim in her shadow, as though the planet sensed it was being asked to participate in a sin. Cloaked in layers of black and orange fabric that rustled like mourning shrouds, Darth Keres strode down the ramp with the slow, deliberate grace of a specter attending a funeral.

She came to secure building materials, rare alloys, ancient stone, and untraceable shipments of structural matter, but the negotiations would be merely the surface. For beneath her calm, in the cold well of her intent, lay the shaping of a monument the galaxy would one day fear yet not understand, forged from Chandrila's unwilling generosity and the dark will that guided her hand.

Darth Keres moved through Chandrila's sun-washed streets like a shard of midnight cutting across a pleasant dream, her Silencers walking slowly behind her with the weight of old graves. Though the citizens bustled with the gentle routines of their peaceful world, their minds were anything but tranquil to her attuned senses. With each step she inhaled the air, not for breath, but for the tremors of the Force coursing through the people around her, thin veins of fear, irritation, envy, and suppressed grief. These darker notes rose to her like the scent of damp soil after a burial, subtle yet unmistakable. Children fell silent as she passed, pets shrank back, and adults felt sudden chills with no breeze to blame. She drank it all in, savoring the contrast between outward harmony and the roiling truths hidden beneath.

As she advanced toward the heart of the city, the emotions thickened, stirred by whispers of her presence. Merchants paused mid-sentence, subconsciously clutching their coin pouches; lovers felt flickers of doubt worm between their clasped hands; elderly eyes drifted toward her with the uneasy recognition of someone who has outlived too many horrors. These darker currents coiled around her like affectionate phantoms, revealing private shadows each citizen thought buried.

She let them brush her awareness, feeding her calm with their heaviness, sharpening her focus for the negotiation to come. By the time she reached the building where her business awaited, the very street behind her seemed dimmed and unsettled, as though a storm had passed without rain; only the lingering sense that something had quietly, irrevocably changed.

Lindom Malko met her at the threshold of his modest but impeccably ordered office, his posture rigid with practiced professionalism, as though bracing himself against a winter wind. "Lady Keres," he said, offering a curt nod that carried neither warmth nor challenge, only the clipped efficiency of a man who dealt in numbers, contracts, and risks weighed carefully. She returned the nod with a colder precision, her presence tightening the air like a closing fist.

"Mr. Malko," she replied, her voice low, smooth, and utterly devoid of pleasantries, each syllable a deliberate measure of control. Their gazes locked: his calculating, hers unreadable, while the shadows in the corners of the room shivered faintly, as if reacting to her nearness. No handshake was exchanged, no wasted breath on courtesy; they simply acknowledged one another as two sharpened instruments, here not to converse but to carve an agreement from the marrow of necessity.

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

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

 

[Arris Windrun]

Vestra Tane

The mighty vessel rocked as it tore the fabric between real-space and the Netherworld beyond, diving headlong with a swarm of raiders into the realm of darkness. A dark aura washed over the mothership, projecting grief and madness on all within... the Talusian had the sorcerers describe it before, some consequence of how the nether engine worked.

Already, it claimed the minds of those not strong enough to resist, even with the presence of battle meditation projected by those within the qabbrat. A pair of possessed acolytes tussled in the hall between Arris and the bridge to the command deck, fighting like creatures rather than Sith. They had taken leave of their lightsabers and resorted to tooth and nail.

The cyborg paused as the scene unfolded, with those same dark impulses tearing at her mind, begging her to join them as animals. Her field of view narrowed, and the hall appeared to grow long, until the bloodied and feral acolytes were all her eyes could see.

She drew a revolver and fired two rounds in quick succession, one for each of their heads, then stumbled over their corpses into the elevator.

The elevator door slid open. "Is someone gonna tell me what the hell's going on?!" Arris barked at the apprentice of Mercy and shoved another wayward Sith out of her way.

"I don't like being kept in the dark these days."

 

[Vritra]

Location: Indeterminate, The Netherworld

Since she'd ascended to the refuse level of existence in search of amusements and torments for those that knew her or her kind, Vritra had always been the one to manifest herself unbidden somewhere. This time, however, she felt a strange pull as something sought to tear a hole open between the mortal and immortal realms. That in itself was not novel. Rare as it might be. No, this one had the inclination to tear a hole and escape back into the mortal realm yet again, but elsewhere. An audacious display of power and ability. A revolting use of the a realm that could grant so much more than a pedestrian means of travel.

Tearing a hole in reality. It was all rather quaint. Yet, seeing as how they thought to came to the highest level of the Nether, Vritra felt inclined to see just who they were. They couldn't possibly be as dreary as the Mandalorians in their stoic, lifeless way of spend their short time among the living. Any relation to the Nightsisters? Nothing one of their allies deserved more than a little torment for their trouble.


Location: Outside the Command Deck, The Stormhound

Such a large ship had an equally sizeable crew to staff it. Countless little tasks needed carried out just to ensure it didn't start falling apart. So many souls to claim, so little time. But she'd start with one just outside the command center of the ship that'd intruded her domain. And the Nether -- all of it -- was hers. The rest of the Lords of Gehenna were tolerated at best.

Two nearly weightless hands slowly wrapped themselves about a man's shoulders from behind. Vritra leaned near so that her soft, warm lips nearly brushed the flesh of his ear. The little air danced beneath the caress of her honeyed breath. He might even think he heard the faintest of moans on that breath as the world fell away and all that was and ever would be were them, there, in that moment. "Where am I?" the voice sighed softly.

"The... Stormhound." Tension fled from his body the moment her voice had registered. That someone had appeared behind him suddenly without warning no longer mattered. In fact, the panel in front of him no longer mattered. It felt nice just to stand there with those hands on his shoulders as waves of warmth ebbed and flowed through him as gentle waves upon the shore.

Delightfully named ship, but hardly an answer. "And who commands The Stormhound?"

"Captain... Tane." Their eyelids began to droop as if they were receiving a mind-melting massage. "Vestra Tane."

"Why don't you tell me all about her?" Vritra's red eyes' glow intensified as her smile broadened.


Location: Command Deck, The Stormhound

Concealing one's presence from the weak minded was as easy as breathing. Someone of her station didn't have time to deal with those whose heart stopped just by gazing upon her magnificence. Vritra, for her part, didn't try to garner the Captain's attention either as she slipped into the woman's center of authority. She lingered at the back, content to watch for now.

The power and command that wrapped itself about the woman was pleasant. Someone that would understand the need to indulge. To seize opportunity when it was presented, surely. It wouldn't hurt to observe her a little longer though. To glean what she wanted long before the question ever left the fiend's lips.

Arris, on the other hand, was not as discrete. Vritra didn't overlook her despite the cybernetics. A little metal did nothing to diminish the soul. Actually, it was quite pleasing to see Vestra in such... lively company. That meant what they intended was should to entertain. These were people of ambition, power, and passion; and those sorts of people could always use more.

Vestra Tane | Arris Windrun | Open​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"There, where I have passed, the grass will never grow again"
​

The Great Horde of the Vahla emerged from the Netherworld shunt and into real space near Chandrila.

The nomadic pirates of the Firefist, fresh off their victories against the Empire at Atrisia, hungered for more.

In the lead sailed their mighty Qhan, Hasuras na-Gerra, commanding the captured Star Destroyer formerly known as the Sovereign’s Pride, now renamed the Slayer of Sovereigns.

And upon its superstructure, welded behind the bridge, rose the stolen Throne Room Spire of the obliterated Death Star.

 

[Vestra Tane]

Tag: Arris Windrun | Vritra | Darth Keres | Open to literally anyone!

THE NETHERWORLD OF THE FORCE - THE REALLY AWFUL PARTS
COMMAND DECK OF THE STORMHOUND
​

"I don't like being kept in the dark these days."

Vestra stood in front of her chair, foot on the back of some poor, foaming-at-the-mouth adjutant, eyes wild and hands bloodied, disruptor pistol aimed squarely at the back of his head and free hand binding both of his wrists. Her cheek was bloodied, and, if one looked closely enough, had a little piece of fingernail stuck in the wound.

"Oh, Arris, hi. Just let me,"

Click.

Boom.

Vestra let the corpse slump to the floor, and then unceremoniously rolled it away from her seat with the toe of her boot. Then, she leaned on the railing by her chair, and in a loud, clear, slightly irritated voice:

"Everyone stay. Fething. Calm. Alright? We're all gonna be fine if you just. Stay. Calm. You," She pointed a synthflesh hand towards her communications officer, who had only just stopped weeping, "Make sure the other ships are handling the trip alright, and send out a broadcast to stay. Calm."

The encouragement to maintain a cool head felt strange, even to her, coming from her mouth. She was normally the one encouraging wanton violence.

The Sith turned away from her crew to Arris, with a familiar, rakish, slightly oily smile on her face.

"Right, we've punched a hole into hell. Or the Netherworld. Or whatever you call it wherever you're from. We're where all the people like us go when we die. And," the Sith paused, and her eyes unfocused slightly, as she expanded her other, more mystical senses.

Something was in the room with them. Something slippery, slimy; it dripped with the very essence of used-speeder-salesman. Something her eyes couldn't see, whether it was invisible or forcing her not to notice it.

"Pretty sure there's a ghost in here, too."

​

 

[Arris Windrun]

Immediate: Vestra Tane | Vritra
Others: Hasuras Na-Gerra | Darth Keres

Everything drowned in Arris's mind, for her senses were more occupied by what was out there than on the command deck. She didn't even flinch or toss a glance when Vestra wasted a weak-minded adjutant, which was likely a scene unfolding all across their hell-ripping behemoth.

All she could take in was the unreality beyond the transparisteel. She placed a metal hand on the glass as Vestra barked orders at the comms officer, words that were out of focus until they turned to explanation: Hell. Yes, that was the word she used - hell and the Netherworld, Arris knew them both to mean the same thing. To think not only was such a place real, but that they were in it...

"Am I still alive?"

The thought that haunted her since Ruusan; Arris wondered if she'd find herself somewhere out there, proof to the question that plagued her like the sum of all fear. Would coming face-to-face with her own ghost finally put her turmoil to rest?

She stared at her own reflection.

"Pretty sure there's a ghost in here, too."

Poor timing, Vestra.

Arris swung around and walked across the ash of the poor adjutant's corpse and stood face-to-face with Vestra, with less than an arm's length between them.

"Reassuring that we're in the right place then." She said nigh a whisper, then more loudly. "Just tell me where I'm needed."

She bumped past Vestra's shoulder on her way to the back. Ghosts were not the cyborg's concern for now, not while she had their destination on the mind.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound Vestra Tane Arris Windrun Vritra Hasuras Na-Gerra
Darth Keres

Armor | Helm of the Twin Suns | Nightstar
​

Lysander took up a place on one of the lower decks, close enough to the hangar that, when it broke open, he’d be among the first in. He didn’t question the Covenant’s motives; asking wouldn’t change anything. If Chandrila was the target, then that was where they were headed. Dive straight in, no frills. And in some small poisonous part of him.. he liked it that way too. The fact the world was occupied by Imperials? Even better. One empire or the next.. it didn’t matter. After Brosi, the distinction had thinned.

Everyone played their part. His part, here with the Covenant, involved leading fresh acolytes through hell’s baptism and seeing who emerged from the ashes. Most of them were young or hungry or foolish enough to think the three were the same thing. One.. wasn’t an acolyte at all though, one who had followed them from the Mid Rim, someone Lysander was keeping a close eye on. If that made him responsible for the young man, or merely wary of him, he was still undecided..

The humming started without the blonde noticing, a tune he carried into every battle these days; it wasn’t loud.. but threaded through the air just enough that anyone nearby would hear it. Between one verse and the next, in the shadow of his mind, there were violet hues and blue clarity, a vision to cradle rather than chase away.

The ritual lasted until Vestra’s broadcast snapped through the battlecruiser, and the last note was cut from his throat. He’d never crossed into the Nether before, but as the Stormhound tore through, the shift hit immediately.. tightening in the lungs, compression behind the Sith’s gaze.

Standing alongside a bolted table where his helm rested, Nightstar lay across his palm, a whetstone sliding along the blade's length. He pivoted, green orbs sweeping until they alighted upon Acier. There they lingered, studying him for a long second, the way a poet might study a new verse, the way a killer might assess a new weapon.

“Think you’re ready for this one?”

The whetstone paused. No intent to shame or flex; they barely knew each other, and that wasn’t his way. Just a nudge from one warrior to the next while waiting for the gates to open.

“If you weren’t meant to be here.. you wouldn’t be.”

A spark with just enough heat to catch.

 

[Vritra]

It truly was something to behold creatures so easily swayed by the infinite depths of the Nether. Enter a realm where their precious physical laws and sane, rational, predictable nature no longer apply and they broke down. Like puppets with their strings cut. Utterly hopeless.

Then there were the ones like Vestra and Arris. Two that shrugged it off, consumed by their own desires. Driven. They wouldn't simply sudden, which made the pursuit all the more enjoyable. And their status as a trophy worthy of attention by other Lords, naturally. Provided she could snare them.

"This?" Vritra's voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere even while she stood in the back of the command center. "This is merely the beginning of 'Hell.' The gate through which daring and foolish alike pass before their time. Tell me what brings you here. Tell me, and perhaps -- perhaps -- you can have it."

They hadn't come here intending to delve into the deepest reaches had they? They wouldn't have been the first to try. Mortals never appreciated just how cruel and viscous the road was to the Throne of damnation. Only the worthy sat in it. They hadn't lived nearly long enough to amass enough power to lay their eyes upon it... but that didn't mean a fiend like Vritra wouldn't suggest otherwise. After all, her kind never lied. They just never told the whole truth.

Vestra Tane | Arris Windrun
Hasuras Na-Eleos | Darth Keres | Lysander von Ascania | Open​

 

[Damien Zannen]

A fist raised into the air and the crowds packed into the streets fell into a progressive silence. A strange tug of the force influencing the masses to anticipate the next coming announcements. Apon a elevated stage, far higher than the crowds below, a Imperial Knight smiled and presented medals for various individuals of the stormtrooper corps, scout trooper corps and beyond. Imperial officers, technicians and on and one it went.

The recognition of those deemed most productive under the watchful eye of the Galactic Empire! The day was ripe with upcoming festivities and propaganda in the name of their, undoubtably living emperor, Darth Solipsis . One by one names were called off aloud from a data pad in Damian's hands.

His voice projecting on metaphysical currents that carried for miles for all to hear. " Thank you! Why thank you all! I do my due diligence to serve our most beloved Emperor and the Galactic Empire at large. But, Its you who are the true heroes of the empire! Each and everyone of you!" He smiled a devilish grin masked with a superficial charm that could of fooled a droid.

Eat it up. All of it. You ungrateful little rodents.

" Let get another round of applause for..." A stormtroopers designation code was called. Over and over it continued and bodies moved, were adorned with a medal, sometimes a promotion, then a salute by Damian and the process repeated over and over.

Over and over.

And over and over.

Time itself seemed to blur together and lose all meaning for the Imperial Knights perception. The flashing of the holo-cams evoking a slight twitch of the eye lid.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Netherworld - Stormhound

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace immediately felt it when Vestra tore reality open. No amount of hyperspace travel prepared him for the Netherworld. It wasn't a tunnel so much as a… wound. Threads of the Force, usually quiet and steady, suddenly felt stretched thin, pulled in several directions at once.

His breath stuttered. Just once. Then he locked it down. When the storm of phantom whispers spilled across the viewport, something in Ace recoiled. Not out of fear, out of recognition. Like the Nether was sniffing for him, curious, searching the seams of him for a familiar pattern.

And then Vestra said the target. Chandrila. Chandrila was… people. Civilians. Farms. Cities. History. A whole culture that had nothing to do with Sith vendettas or Covenant temper tantrums. His instinct screamed to object, to stop this, but he swallowed that reflex like poison.

Imperial world, he told himself, clinging to the thin justification. Occupied. Militarized. Not innocent. It wasn't enough to make him feel okay. But it made him feel functional. And that was what mattered if he was going to stay alive in the middle of a Sith warband.

The deck shivered again. Reality buckled. And Ace forced himself to straighten, like this was just another day in the life of someone who absolutely belonged here.

Lysander's humming cut off, his attention sharpening like a blade. Ace felt his stare before he lifted his eyes. He glanced at the man's armor, it looked like a mural of war. The exact opposite of Ace's own stripped-down, utilitarian silhouette.

Lysander's question followed. It was simple, direct, carrying that warrior's read beneath the words. Ace met that green gaze, unwavering.

"My blood's Mandalorian." He said, voice low but steady. "Trust me. I'm ready."

His gaze flicked to the Nether outside, then back, Ace pushed off the bulkhead. His posture shifted into something sharper, the Force's thread inside him shivered again... because something in the Netherworld was still watching him.

"Question is, is Desevro's Golden Boy ready?" He said, a ghost of a smirk forming.

Lysander von Ascania | Vestra Tane | Arris Windrun | Vritra | Hasuras Na-Gerra | Darth Keres​

 

[Vestra Tane]

IMMEDIATE TAGS: Arris Windrun | Vritra
OTHER: Darth Keres | Lysander von Ascania | Damien Zannen | Acier Moonbound | Hasuras Na-Gerra |

THE NETHERWORLD OF THE FORCE - EDGE OF REALSPACE, CHANDRILA SYSTEM
COMMAND DECK OF THE STORMHOUND​

Operating procedure for a ship running a Netheric Gate Engine was simple; because the tears in reality closed after the engine passed through them, Hellmouth cruisers were last-in, last-out among a fleet traveling through the Netherworld. This minimized losses among accompanying ships, primarily, but it was also practical - if there was a giant fleet waiting on the other side, then some other poor sap took fire first.

Vestra, begrudgingly, accepted that this was sound logic, if a bit slow for her tastes.

As she barked commands, she watched the prow of the Stormhound peek across the wound in reality it had torn; back into realspace, with the shining gem that was Chandrila visible in the void. She was about to start getting sentimental, even, until Arris bumped into her.

"Reassuring that we're in the right place then." She said nigh a whisper, then more loudly. "Just tell me where I'm needed."

She blinked once, twice, and wheeled around to face the cyborg with a flicker of concern. She wasn't the sentimental type, not about people, anyway, but it occurred to her that now might be the time to give her...friend? Work buddy? Some encouragement.

"Arris,-"

"This?" Vritra's voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere even while she stood in the back of the command center. "This is merely the beginning of 'Hell.' The gate through which daring and foolish alike pass before their time. Tell me what brings you here. Tell me, and perhaps -- perhaps -- you can have it."

The Sith sighed. Loudly, dramatically. Perfect. Just fething perfect. She took some solace in knowing she was right; this ghost, or whatever it was, was definitely trying to sell them something.

"We don't want anything from you. We're just leaving, see? Gonna be planetside soon." Curt, blunt, to-the-point. Vestra had little practical experience dealing with nether-beings, but she was well-acquainted with con artists, and if you gave them an inch...

"You ever been to Hanna City, Arris? Great this time of year. Walk with me." and then, turning her attention back to her crew one final time as she vaulted over a railing, "Try not to die."

​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

“My prancing steeds harnessed for my riding plunged into the streams of their blood as into a river.”
​

The thunder of the long guns roared in the depths of space as row after row of turbo laser batteries loosed upon the Chandrilan defenses.

Star fighters and landing vessels disgorged from the Horde fleet in waves, holds full of nomadic Vahlans and Hapan pirates thirsty for the plunder of the Core.

At the flanks of the Horde fleet, small corvettes laid gravity mines that would rip any ships who sought to jump atop them from hyperspace and leave them in disarray.

The mighty Qhan Gerra stalked toward his boarding shuttle, girded for war.

Blood would flow this day. Blood and treasure.

 

[Agent Vigilant]

ISB War Room, Coruscant

"You seeing this, Blackwood?" one of the operators asked, shocked, pointing to his holofeed. Agent Vigilant, presiding over an otherwise quiet shift in the central operations chamber, walked over, eyes glued to the screen.

"Sitrep? What am I looking at." Vigilant demanded, unsure of the nature of the breach through the grainy satellite footage.

"Chandrila. Unknown enemy battlefleet just dropped out of hyperspace and started shooting."

Chandrila... figures, he thought. The world was a high alert zone for the ISB, between the Chandrilan partisans of the GA, and the resident rogue Sith Lord Darth Virelia , the extent of her influence unknown, but worrisome. And now an external attack being perpetrated. He wondered if it all tied together, or if it was just fateful unluckiness.

"Send out a signal to the Grand Vizier and the navy. Its the least we can do. Put our agents on the surface on standby, and high alert. Was there anything intercepted regarding this attack?"

"Not a peep."

"Enhance the vidfeed. We need a better look at what we're dealing with." Vigilant leaned over the operator to get a better look, as the video feed was enhanced, zooming in on the flagship of the attacking fleet.

"It can't be..." he looked on, stunned at the sight of the Imperial Star Destroyer with the great black spire rising from its bridge.

"How garish." he mused, but really there was no light to be made of the situation. The flagship made it abundantly clear who they were dealing with. Heretical Sith.

Continuing the story as Casi Braste

 

[Casi Braste]

ALLIES: Darth Keres | St. Thomas Barran | Meliant | Damien Zannen | GE/DSE
OPS: Hasuras Na-Gerra | Arris Windrun | Vestra Tane | Acier Moonbound | Vritra | Lysander von Ascania | SC
​

Battlecruiser Sepulchre, hyperspace on route to Chandrila.

Atrisia and the destruction of the Death Star had been a point of great embarrassment for the Emperor's Chosen. So much so that they had tried to kill one another as accusations of blame were laid out. Casi had not been assigned to the defense of the Emperor's throne room on that day. She wasn't sure if that made her more or less culpable to the defeat. Regardless, the Dark Side Elite were practically frothing at the mouth upon hearing the stolen throne room had returned, being paraded by attackers who had the gall to strike directly at the Empire. Not only was it their right to take this challenge, but their solemn duty as the Emperor's blades. The Sepulchre rocketed through hyperspace, designed as it was with a Path Engine, allowing the Elite to strike rapidly, wherever they were needed, flying along hyperlanes known only to their expert crew.

When the monstrous battlecruiser dropped into orbit of the planet, the desolation had already begun. The entire ship rumbled as it entered directly into the minefield, hitting the first just moments after stabilizing to realspace, the powerful shielding of the ship straining as it diffused the explosive damage.

Standing on the bridge, Casi watched it all unfold as the disciplined Imperial servicemen stoically engaged all battle measures. They were up against nothing short of a horde, maintaining that stiff upper lip. The captain calmly ordered a full manning of the guns, and indiscriminate fire. The enemy fleet was non-uniform, and already they had torn up orbital platform, military and civil. The Sepulchre could take no chances until more Imperial ships arrived, if that would even come to pass, with the navy spread thin defending the edges of the new Empire.

Leaving the bridge to the hands of the more capable, the fallen Jedi knight turned and made her way to the hangar...

 

[Orvak Kresh]

Tags: @OPEN
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

​

Kresh was stretched out on the repurposed table that had been pushed near the window. His whole body lay flat as his rifle pointed out of the open window. The window rattled whenever a shuttle screamed by, but he didn't flinch. He just chewed lazily on the toothpick between his teeth and hummed a half-forgotten Nabooan tune that felt out of place in a city under Imperial control.

The rifle was sleek, matte, and tuned for extreme distance. Its scope looked out over Hanna City's central district, cutting cleanly through the smog, banners, and holo-light. Through the scope, Kresh watched a Dark Jedi on the stage below ( Damien Zannen ), arm raised, voice booming, the theatrics thick enough to choke on. The crowd was completely buying the performance. Kresh noted the rhythm of the speech, the security lines, the staging layout, and the rotation of stormtrooper squads boxing in the plaza. All of it went into the datapad resting against rifle.

He'd only been in this city for seventy-two hours and he already knew its heartbeat. Patrol times, supply runs, the way the shadows moved near the garrison wall. It was enough to map either an evacuation route or an assassination path. Naboo's people would call this thorough. The Republic would call it dutiful. Kresh just called it Tuesday.

The comm in his ear clicked and then exploded with noise. "...unknown fleet.... coordinates unstable.... repeat, hostile incursion... Chandrila is under attack..."

Kresh stopped humming. He blinked once, slowly. The rifle stayed exactly where it was on the sill. Well, that certainly wasn't in the briefing. He exhaled through his nose, long and unimpressed, and tapped a quick code to keep the channel open. The security frequencies spiraled into total panic. Operators were tripping over each other. Someone shouted about hyperspace anomalies. Someone else was screaming to lock down the city. The signatures were not Republic, or any faction he recognized, and definitely weren't friendly.

"Oh," he muttered around the toothpick, "this is going to be a mess."

If chaos was coming, then nobody would notice a few missing officers in the resulting confusion. Surely the Republic wouldn't mind a few high profile targets KIA when the fighting started. He thumbed a quick note into the datapad with the side of his fist: Unidentified fleet inbound. Ceremony compromised. Possible opportunity.

Through the scope, he watched the Dark Jedi's expression shift, only barely. Kresh tracked the man's chest, steady and unarmored beneath his ceremonial robes. It was an easy shot, a tempting shot. "Let's see how this plays out," he whispered, settling the rifle against his shoulder as the first sirens began to wail across Hanna City.

​

 

[Arris Windrun]

Immediate: Vestra Tane | Vritra
Others: Hasuras Na-Gerra | Lysander von Ascania | Acier Moonbound | Darth Keres | St. Thomas Barran | Meliant | Damien Zannen

Arris drew her weapon in search of the mystery voice.

"Anyone else hear that?" She hoped for a resounding yes from Vestra and the others.

Well, Vestra decided to argue with it instead, which seemed as fitting an answer. The cyborg reholstered her weapon and crossed her arms, happy to resign the ghost hunt to Tane.

"You ever been to Hanna City, Arris? Great this time of year. Walk with me." and then, turning her attention back to her crew one final time as she vaulted over a railing, "Try not to die."

She talked as they moved, "No - I actually try to stay away from the Core." Once for good reason. Now? Habit, she supposed.

"I'd prefer to go in fast... something small, like a pod, I don't trust anything we have against planetary defenses."

Arris wasn't a battle strategist, but it was common knowledge that old worlds like these were defended like almost nowhere else in the galaxy.

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: will figure out specifics soon

Foe:

SAGRONA TEEMA
PROLOGUE

​

CAMP: MONGREL, HANNA CITY OUTSKIRTS,
CHANDRILA, CORE WORLD TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

'Been a while since our last raiding party, Shriven.'
'Eh, not too long. But yeah, last raid was to gain funds for the Coruscant op, was it not?'
'Correct. The pleasure-corvette. almost a year ago.... Time takes the wind, hm?'
​

After obeying the OIT's commands, Barran was passed orders from the OIT to endeavour mobilisation on Chandrilla, an alternative that would keep all parties happy to some, varying degree; on the part of Fenris' new masters, this removed the Mawites from the equation of mining rights in the system, and the Khanate themselves could be moved a little closer to a long-intended salient. However, as much as Barran's Marauders were over the moon with this sudden helpful streak of the Ruling Council, this still complicated (and in many sectors, even slowed-) the mobilisation process, and also put a brief halt to his son's mechanical pet-project, though the lad was understanding enough when informed that enough resources of the sort could be found on a rich world like Chandrila.

'Indeed it does, my old friend.'

Alas, this also meant another use of resources to relocate the horde, and with the little they were left to mount an offensive, it became apparent (even prior to arrival on the surface of their intended destination) that the Marauders would need to raid unclaimed space again, and it was for that which the Khanate were preparing at the time. But like with everything in the Galaxy of late, not even that could be straightforward, as it would soon turn out that the serenity of mobilisation would soon be broken by external factors. 'Father! You in here?!', the young Sharptooth called out downstairs, having needed to leave Camp Mongrel to find the Darkhans' meeting with the Khan, only to discover they were all lounging in the upper-floors of the nearest cantina.

'We're up here, ya wee chite!'
'Father, we need you to lead! We're needed to fight for Chandrilla!'

​

As the slide door opened between them, the young sharptooth wound find the old Marauders feasting to heart's content, a gamey variety of filling stews and local wild rice, but in seeing them all rising to their feet, it was obvious by then that even the realm's strongest commanders could understand the urgency of the lad's report. Granted, one or two of the others in the Khan's entourage would take a few last chunks of sustenance as they straightened their postures, but no more merriment could be found in the last-second intakes, and when the one-eyed Woad eventually responded,'Call it in to the Sepulchre, perhaps the Elites can have a say about it.... I'll handle deployments for planetary-defence, so you can focus on getting word out afore they cut our comm-signal.', eventual relief struck the expressions into something more relaxed.

Sprinting came as no trouble for legs in their running prime, and on ankles and feet of young Arriochus' sort, the lad would prove to be no exception to the rule.

Without so much as another word said, the young sharptooth would smile as he turned to run back toward the latest of garrison-quartering locations, leaping out into the street as father and mentors alike silently marvelled at such effortless enthusiasm, struck by the life-affirming strength it brought to their souls. The Khan's firstborn son, especially in the eyes of the Darkhans under Barran's command, was seen as a perfect example of the generational permeation for which every Mawite tribe had hoped in years bygone; and for as long as the knowledge and instincts were being passed down by living nomads, none of the Khanate's strongest traditions would be forgotten, all but assured by the time their sons began raising sons of their own.

'So, when d'you believe Batu will be ready for command?'
'Give him another couple years, Great Khan. There's more I want to pass down.'
'I like that sentiment.... Consider it approved, but for now - prepare for war!'

SAGRONA TEEMA
I

​

CAMP: MONGREL, HANNA CITY OUTSKIRTS,
CHANDRILA, CORE WORLD TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

'As soon as they get close enough, hit the switch. The message should repeat when our signals reach them.'
'Shriven, you forget this is, like, the third time I've done this. Relax.'
'I'll take this as my cue to ready up with Batu. Good luck, lads.'
​

After watching the feed from the telescope on the moon of Chandrakant, the Mawsworn had been able to pick up their enemies' use of the Rift as their deployment-point, likely using it to cut distance and visibility in their advance on Chandrila's orbit. To the others, this was a most-unexpected use of outer space as a tactical resource, but to the Khan, this presented problems of near-innumerable extreme. If it had been by other extra-dimensional means, then nearly all of the previous concerns would have evaporated like clouds in the mind, but when every fiber of his being sensed the screams of endless departed souls, he knew it was a traversing commute through a realm they could neither comprehend nor use in any stable manner.

An affront to the very work the Heathen Saints had devoted to mapping and making sense of all things beyond mortal comprehension, carefully delegating the Rift between Realspace and the Netherworld itself, working diligently so as not to undo all the progress they were making at the time. Appalling enough to the one-eyed Woad that he could not cease with teeth-gritted glares at the Holographic displays, even when he was conversing with his Darkhans, occasional, snarling glances would still be afforded in clear distraction from the work of organising defensive procedures, making it little wonder as to how much this sudden attack was aggravating his pettier, more-superficial leanings.

Dreamer knew they had everything they needed to respond to the threat, regardless of their opponent's preferred battlefront for the impending clash, leaving just one thing of which the rogue Chiss needed to proceed, the last, final, verbal permission from the Khan to endeavour on his own initiative. Fortunately for every active Imperial element on Chandrila at the time, this was often the easiest thing to obtain in such endeavours, as it was usually the case that the Khan himself was usually of a similar mind, according on just about any suchlike matter of warfighting importance. But the Darkhan knew he needed to act, and act fact if he was to bring every last resource he needed for the impending clash, regardless of the likelihood it would further-irritate his leader, it was apparent that snappy, baulking responses were the least of his worries.

'They're lucky their ship wasn't devoured by an Ancient One, the fethwits!'
'Great Khan! They'll get theirs, but we need to decide how best to approach battlefront movements.'
'If they land planetside, feign retreat here.... If they toy about at the edge of Chandrila's orbit, board them.'

​

Easier than expected, which initially came as a surprise, but Dreamer was quick to snap out of it; awakening his own need for that final confirmation, and though the intention was usually enough, the Darkhan, one of two longest-served guardians of Bloodhound, knew he needed more than the mere implications of verbalised, notional attempts to skip the conversation. It was then that the rogue Chiss chose his moment to have it confirmed once and for all, and while he still had the Great Khan's attention, feigned acquiescence to demand,'Alright, but if anyone's going mobile out there, its the 2nd - agreed?', fully aware of the fact he was pushing his luck in the face of absolute authority.

'Agreed, I won't deny nomads a chance to gallop.... Hit the switch, let us see if I'm joining you or not.'
'Copy that-'

[Eeee-]
[KSSSSHHH]
Attention, invaders!
Attention, invaders!​

This is as far as you will be permitted to advance unchallenged.

There is no warning system, no countdown for naughty-naughty, no I swear's, an' no I'll do it's. You know you have approached quickly, intentionally tresspassing beyond frontier borders, an' judging by your markings, you have done so with opportunistic intent. Thus no excuse can stand to aid you, not even in the unlikely event you retreat before you proceed further, we have no such illusions of amiable outcomes.

Your intent, murderous though it may be, means nothing to people who want to feast on your bloodied, disembodied hearts.

To each a Marauder serving as my subordinates, all would honour your souls with eternal servitude to ours; all would eat that which once kept you alive, screaming and fighting, standing to tell your tales. There is no greater honour for your kind, not in this Galaxy, so you can imagine our desire, then, to see the whites of your eyes when we slaughter you.

There are no cautionary tales in your culture for my people, or at least, not currently. But mark my words, when your survivors escape into the Rift today, you'll be howling about us forevermore. Whether we fight on the ground, or in orbit, it matters not, we fight not in search of victory, nor for means to survive.... WE FIGHT, SO WE CAN CUT THE HEARTS FROM YOUR CHESTS!!!!

WE HUNGER, SO LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!!!

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

“As for man, his days are numbered, whatever he might do, it is but wind.”
​

See now the might of the Vahlan Horde as it bends its will upon the seat of Chandrila. The drop ships and the shuttles swarm down into orbit as a flock of carrion, shielded by the manifold star fighters who wing alongside.

The thunder of the warships’ cannons rolls on unbroken, turbolasers hurling great lances of viridian flame.

The opposition is slow and fat with feasting upon the bloated corpse of the Alliance. No match before the hungry wolves of Vahl, nor the vixens of Hapes.

Hear how in reply to the haranguing gibberish streaming through the communications line there comes but one line from the Great Qhan Gerra and it rolls out like the quaking of the earth before volcanic cataclysm.

“The dogs yap while their master has fled. . .

I will nail your bodies to my ships facing the fore, so you can watch your empire burn.”
​

St. Thomas Barran

 

[Vritra]

"How many ships do you suppose you could lose, Captain Tane?" a soft voice asked. "How many before your ambitions die on the vine before your very eyes?"

Console readings would begin to show external hull pressure was rising across every vessel in her makeshift fleet. It was evenly coming from every direction. An impossibility for something in space not somehow victim to a wild spatial phenomena or absurd enemy weapon. The numbers that began to climb slowly to give time by her crew to notice rose rapidly in a matter of seconds. Groans from the Stormhound's quadanium steel hull could be heard throughout the ship. Sharp pings of the very braces that held it together as they popped began to count the seconds. Structural integrity limits were nearly their limit. No, had passed their limit. The ship was nearing implosion!

And then it simply stopped.

No more groans. No more pressure. Not even a single, solitary micro-fracture to account for everything they'd just experienced.

"Don't worry, Captain. I'll keep watch over you and your crew. Some day, when you need me, I'll be there."

Vestra Tane | Arris Windrun | Open​