Public Sagrona Teema (Raid on Occupied Chandrila)

[Meliant]

CHANDRILA ORBIT
THE SEPULCHRE - HANGAR BAY

Casi Braste Lord Creuat

Meliant was in the hangar bay already, pretending to stretch and limber up. The exercise was pointless, but it was good for fending off boredom. As Barran's mangled - an' 'eavily accented - speech filtered in over the intercom, Meliant actually stopped what he was doing to listen. He stared up at the intercom, apparently mesmerized.​

​

When it ended with feverish screaming (as most Mawite reflections tended to) he looked away again. Much to reflect on. He examined his hand, slowly closing it into a fist.​

​

"What a fucking blowhard," he said softly, to no one in particular, and without much enthusiasm.​

​

His brother was here. Already he could sense him. Hopefully the two warlords would rip each other to shreds and spare Meliant the prospect of hearing their speeches ever again. Wishful thinking, of course.​

​

Casi came strutting through like someone of importance. Meliant didn't feel like throwing out invectives, but he did tilt his head at her. "No Lord Creuat with you? I hope he won't leave all the credit to Barran."​

​

Meliant giggled evilly, as he often did when thinking treasonous thoughts. ​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound Arris Windrun Vestra Tane Vritra Hasuras Na-Gerra
Darth Keres St. Thomas Barran Meliant Damien Zannen Lord Creuat

Armor | Helm of the Twin Suns | Nightstar
​

Mandalorian. Lysander wouldn't stop working the blade just yet; he allowed the whetstone to complete one final arc before placing it down on the table with a tap. He held Acier's gaze as one might when weighing the truth of a claim. For years he carried resentment against their kind, the remembrance of his first true battle in Theed. Then came the Sith Order, and back to Theed once more… because for a time he had been a fool, and life had asked the galaxy to teach the same lesson twice. Fortunately, none of it held value.. nothing more than old armor left to rot, so useless it couldn't fuel anger, rage, hatred, or anything else worth harvesting as a Sith. A tumor excised from the mind.

So he wouldn't hold it against Acier. Why would he? The blonde gave a single nod; he was never one to mistake confidence for feigned readiness. The latter was a death sentence, guaranteed to become red mist on a battlefield. Would he survive? Well, there was never any way of telling, but he'd surely make it past the first volley.

There was a small tug at the corner of the Sith’s mouth. He’d grown better at acknowledging jabs without rising to them. “Always.“ Warmth threaded through the words. “Plenty worth living for these days.” Living because, somewhere far from this ship, his sister carried a future he wanted to help welcome into the galaxy. Becoming an uncle.. that one hit deeper than expected. There was another who pulled his thoughts homeward too, more than he ever intended.

A fresh tremor spread through the deck as the battlecruiser ripped out of the Nether’s throat. The broadcast which followed was like a primal roar pumping through the channels. The speaker may have thought it was a warning.. but Lysander accepted it as an invitation. The chase was always sweeter when other predators wanted you to run.

They’ll get blood. Just not mine.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, setting Nightstar aside for a moment. A look slid Acier’s way again. “I don’t need followers,” his crown swayed, “just those beside me who don't flinch. You qualify.” The sparring session between him and Varin spoke for itself. “Stay near me and I’ll show you why I don't lose. Anyone who stands before us dies. That's the long and short of it. The Covenant's not looking to drag any extra bodies back home."

His grip adjusted on the helm, preparing to don it at last as an amused exhale unfurled. “But if you’re hoping to test the Golden Boy..” Emerald flames narrowed, but they weren’t unkind. “..try to keep up.”

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: Darth Keres Damien Zannen Casi Braste
Meliant

Foe: Vestra Tane Hasuras Na-Gerra Arris Windrun
Vritra Lysander von Ascania Acier Moonbound Orvak Kresh

SAGRONA TEEMA
II

​

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

'They seem to be unshifting, seems like they want us to advance.'
'Alright, then lets take the fight to the skies.... Get on comms with the others, both brigades are going up.'
​

Shunting the Khan in the right direction, the rogue Chiss made to move the one-eyed Woad into action on the way out, even passing back his leader's sword and lightsaber in anticipation, both of the reach itself and of time-wasted reaching for items he knew the Bloodhoud would need anyway. They had fought together, surviving shoulder-to-shoulder for decades by then, thus no distractions could be permitted of those who valued coherence above zeal in combat, every second counted in the struggle to prevail. Threefold the case with Dreamer's warfighting doctrine considered, and with the 2nd Auxilia there to leave their mark on the intruders, the rising tempo of mobility would always make the difference as battles progressed, and the speed of their attacks would be no-less shocking this time around.

A glaring truth of which highlighted the Khan's need to be quick like his friend that day, as it seemed he would need to be quick if he was to have a hope of joining Dreamer counteroffensive either way, and his intent to join the attack was reason enough to decide on bringing the Maw's strongest warrior along for the adventure in the end. Nothing else seemed to matter to the Khan by then, making it seem senseless to leave him grumbling bored to himself on the surface, not while there was fighting into which Barran was required most-urgently to leap. The Empire would always find ways to despair a Mawite's aid, but for as long as the Bloodhound remained in play, his endeavours would always come as blessings to a realm that largely viewed him with suspicion, but it was for his love of fighting alone that many Imperial offensives succeeded against the odds.

Chandrila needed the one-eyed Woad, and by extension - so too did the rogue Chiss.

'Great Khan! A message filtered through from OPFOR's flagship.'
'Keep it on record for later, Keshig.... You should focus on staying on the line for our allies.'
'Copy that, Great Khan. Good luck up there.'

By the time the young Keshig-Leader had finished his reply, the Khan was already out the door, making for the ubiquitous MV: Heart of Mar'Zambul with no time to indulge in small-talk with his lower-ranked subordinates; that would need to wait, for no meritocracy would consider lower-rungs until they performed above and beyond their call of duty, though this coincidentally would be an occurrence for many in the mere, passing-by encounters. The armour, the markings and scars alike were often enough on their own to catch the eye of their Khan, making it matter even less whether they were stationed for mobilisation or on the frontlines, but with a strong, aggressive foe on their new doorstep, it would take feats of great valour to turn the Khan's gaze.

All allied commanders and personnel, this is the Bloodhound.
​

Now, before you groan with disappointment, jus' remember this; I might not be the commander you want, but I'm the best you've got for now.... Though lucky for you, it jus' so happens I'm good at what I do, an' if you help me here - I'll pay it back with victory.

My callsign is the same as my epithet, an' I'm easy to reach.

Good luck, Imperials. Bloodhound - out!

'Busy day.'

​

Fortunately for the communications supervisor, he would have visual reference for everything as the battle transpired, watching through clean holographic feeds in real-time as his people fought to keep Imperial borders intact. Not that the switchboard operators would have time to enjoy the show, as they had work of their own to wittle down, and there was much already to do by then, especially with approaching Imperial flotillas to think about; and just like their high-command had just moments before, the communications team would also nudge each other into activity, following by the same example of their leaders.

<"Sepulchre Crew, Sepulchre Crew - this is Hearth Leader, assigned with the Mawite comm-link array. Sending our faction's battleplan for allied appraisal, pending augmentation requests. Do you copy?">

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

“What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie? I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky.

The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing.”

​

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.

'They seem to be unshifting, seems like they want us to advance.'

Salvos of turbolasers and missiles and rail cannons rounds loosed upon Chandrila from the combined Vahlan and Hapan armada. They streaked through atmosphere like the trails of incendiary tears, targeting power plants almost exclusively to bring half the planet into the ravening dark.

The bombardment came swiftly now, softening up the surface ahead of the descending Vahlan landing parties.

“Greatest Qhan, there is a force of Mawites on planet. They rally for defense,” came the voice of one of the Vahlan Chieftains in Gerra’s ear.

“No true warriors. Feckless lapdogs to a twice-fallen emperor. Cleanse them from the surface.”

At the order, the great guns of the Slayer of Sovereigns turned upon Camp Mongrel on the Hanna City Outskirts and loosed such a barrage as to make the ground tremble as if from the impact of asteroids and all but the most powerful of shield generators to fail.

Sitting in his boarding shuttle, Gerra and a contingent of some several thousand warriors born aloft in a dozen other self same ships took to space only to disappear from all sensors a few moments later.

St. Thomas Barran

 

[Sarah Vulke]

It had been a long, quiet trip.

The transfer to Chandrila, approved with all the warmth of a stamped requisition form, made one thing clear to Sarah: she would be very alone here. The silent cargo holds of the Imperial transport reinforced the point. Every detail—boarding protocols, compartment assignments, even the way the lighting flickered at regulated intervals—carried the cold, crushing signature of Imperial bureaucracy. Nothing was hostile, exactly. Merely indifferent. As though the Core had perfected the art of not caring who walked its halls, so long as the paperwork was clean.

She found that oddly comforting.

Ambition, after all, grew best in places where no one paid attention. If the Empire wished to treat her as another interchangeable component in its vast machinery, then so be it. Components could still climb. Components could still take shape. The detachment of it all felt, in a strange way, like permission—permission to define herself without interference.

What is the greater lie: the one you know, or the one you choose to believe?

For Sarah, perception was the prime mover of all things. Hearts, minds, beasts, armies—they followed whatever truth someone could convince them of. In a galaxy built on institutional deception, on foundations already warped by centuries of convenient half-truths, she saw no contradiction in the idea that reality itself bent to persuasion.

And the Force, she knew, was no silent spectator in this shifting economy of meaning. It had intentions—vast, inscrutable, shaping the rise and ruin of entire worlds. She only needed to understand where those intentions aligned with her own.

Her dark heart would never let her forget the price of defiance.

So it came as no surprise when, only days after her arrival on Chandrila, an attack began. Just the sudden, brutal confirmation that the Force's lessons—those whispered punishments for ambition—would not be delayed. Sometimes its workings were subtle. Sometimes inscrutable. But today, its meaning was plain enough: Sarah had not yet lost enough. She was to watch her homeworld burn. She was to witness her people scattered, her legacy threatened, her family's name dragged once more toward ruin.

The moment the first alarms howled across the barracks, she broke from her assigned unit. Training told her to remain. Instinct told her to move. And instinct, to her, was simply the Force in disguise. She cut away through the panicked crowds and collapsing formations, making for the one place on Chandrila that still anchored her—a place older than the Empire and older, in some sense, than her own memory.

The tomb.

Ancient, silent, and severe, it rose from the hillside like a monument carved out of her bloodline's forgotten ambitions. She knew every stone. Every carved fresco. Every plaque etched with the deeds of kings, queens, and tyrants who had shaped Chandrila long before the galaxy lost its taste for remembering them. Their bones lay within—bones that tied her to a lineage both feared and erased, a heritage preserved only in the dark where no one dared look.

In some twisted mercy, she had once believed she would never have to wear this mask again. That chapter of her life—bloody, ruinous, merciless—was supposed to remain sealed away in the dark. She was meant to become someone gentler now. Sarah Vulke. A soldier. A name that could have belonged to anyone. She could have disappeared into the Empire's endless ranks, lived quietly, competently, even been appreciated in the small, dignified way ordinary people were appreciated.

She could have been loved again. That was the cruelest part of all.

No one had ever truly loved the Tyrant. They feared her, or they worshipped her, or they clung to her power as if proximity might grant them purpose. But love—real love, the kind that saw a person rather than a throne—had never belonged to her. It had been burned out of her long ago, sacrificed on the altar of ambition and the endless hunger of the Dark.

As Sarah Vulke, she might have found a different fate. Someone might have cared for her without demands, without expectations, without needing her to be more than a loyal soldier doing her quiet part in a vast, uncaring Empire.

For a fleeting moment, she had almost convinced herself she deserved such a life.

But the galaxy had never let her keep anything it did not intend to break.

She slipped into the concealed chamber beneath the tomb's heart, each step a little heavier than the last. When her hand pressed against the hidden stone slab, she felt the cold tremor of inevitability run through her. The wall shifted aside with the groan of ancient weight, revealing the thing she had tried so desperately to abandon.

The mask.

Six unblinking eyes, their violet lenses dull and empty as if mourning her return. The armor surrounding it—once a symbol of everything she fought for—stood like a hollow echo of a person she no longer was. In its stillness she saw her own reflection: a figure fading at the edges, a shadow thinning under its own exhaustion. Every time she looked upon it she felt the familiar ache, the quiet terror that one day the lenses would fall dark forever, sealing her inside them for good—no more return, no more rebirth, no more chances to pretend she was something else.

And yet… part of her longed for that ending.

But reality was crueler than longing. She could not fight what was coming. The Force—once her greatest certainty—had fallen silent, leaving her stranded in a world suddenly colorless. Her halberd was lost, a missing limb she still reached for in reflex. Her will, worn thin by weeks of strain and small humiliations, sagged under its own weight.

She stood before the armor feeling impossibly small, emptier than she dared admit, stripped not only of strength but of the illusions that once made strength possible.

And in the dim chamber, the mask waited with quiet indifference—like a grave that had always known she would return.

What is the greater lie?

Violet light consumed the chamber.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"For Home."

Tags - OPEN

The air was thick with smoke and blood, a choking haze that clung to the inside of her armor as if trying to drag her back into the grave she had crawled out of. Six violet eyes—dim yet burning with stubborn defiance—turned skyward to the fleet tearing Chandrila apart. Fire rolled across the fields she had once walked in another life, back when she still believed she might outrun the destiny that haunted her.

She felt nothing of the Force. She had not fought in a long time. Her halberd was gone. Her strength had been carved away piece by piece until only the memory of it remained.

But even stripped to the bone, even hollowed and diminished, she refused to surrender.

She would not go gently.

Not to fate. Not even to the future she had already lost.

If this was the end the galaxy demanded of her, then it would have to tear it from her hands.

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Location: Chandrila
Tag: Vestra Tane / Everyone you tagged me (Sorry...Flu)


In the stagnant hush between heartbeats, Darth Keres felt the disturbance coil through the Force like a serpent dragging poisoned scales across her mind. Her gaze slid to Lindom Malko, and in that moment every shadow in the room leaned toward him as though eager to confess his treachery. The Force whispered of betrayal, thin, sharp, undeniable.

Malko's breath hitched when he saw her expression shift, but the realization came too late. With a gesture as cold as a nun's final benediction, she unraveled him from within, the darkness collapsing his body like a marionette whose strings had been cut by something unseen and merciless. His corpse hit the floor in a ruin of wrong angles, the echo of it reverberating like a funeral bell.

Darth Keres inhaled deeply, savoring the coppery undertone that seeped into the air, a perfume the darkness offered only to its favored children. Her Silencers emerged from the edges of the shadowy corners, their armor drinking in the dim light as though preparing for a feast. She did not bother to mask her smile: thin, predatory, carved by shadows.

"Hunt," she commanded, her voice low and velvety, the Force curling around each syllable like black smoke. "Death is on me today." And with that, her assassins vanished into the shadows of the city, eager to carve secrets from intestines and blood into her waiting night.

Darth Keres stood over the ruin that had been Lindolm Malko, his body twisted like a broken sigil on the floor. With slow, deliberate contempt, she let a strand of spittle fall onto his slack face, the sound of it striking flesh sharp in the heavy silence. The darkness around her hummed in approval. She turned from him without haste, her cloak whispering across death tiles as she stepped into the outer office.

The secretary barely had time to gasp before the Sith Lady flicked two fingers, folding the woman inwards like parchment caught in flame. The guards surged forward, but the Force had already claimed them, bones cracking wetly, throats collapsing under invisible pressure, bodies hitting the floor in staggering, discordant rhythm.

By the time the last heartbeat faded, the office had become a mausoleum painted in fresh panic and ruin. Darth Keres moved through it with the serene grace of a queen touring her domain, the metallic scent of death following her like a loyal pet; her Silencers feasting on the death meat they carved, stripped, and satisfied. As she stepped out of the building, screams were blooming within, echoing down the hallways as more staff discovered the horror left in her wake.

Outside, citizens recoiled, their terror rising like incense. She inhaled it deeply, her lips curving into a slow, predatory smile. Chaos unfolded behind her like a dark flower opening to the sun, and she walked away as though strolling from a pleasant meeting, the night itself bending to escort her. Her eyes, cold and death-infused, looked upward: a smile of satisfaction painted the most delicate face of silence, tapping her hilt gently, saying, "Guests.....how sad I didn't invite them."

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

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

 

[Damien Zannen]

A developing headache had started to form. It was of metaphysical origin, causing his head to throb and hairs on the back of his neck to stand. Subtly Damien looked around the crowds but nothing particular stood out to his keen eyes.

Then his datapad screen transitioned to an immediate alert and incoming threat to the planet. St. Thomas Barran , Khan of the Mawite issuing a silent alarm. No sooner could a star destroyer be seen within the skies far above the heavens. A normal sight to those that had no fething clue what was going on. The troopers and officers at the ceremony already were taking notice, but internal comm chatter was already surging with orders to keep performances going to avoid panic.

Some part of the Ex-Imperial knight and Darkside Elite felt his brothers and sisters nearby. Which meant that the threat was serious enough to gain recognition of the Emperors enforcers. " Great. Fething great." He muttered to himself and blew out a raspberry. Removing a comm from his belt he issued the order.

<<" By order of the Emperor. Deploy the Garrison and get the planetary shields online. Now. Get these little piss ants off the streets before their all mush for sanitation to clean up. I dont care how you do it. Clear the streets and lockdown the planet. Do you copy?" >> He kept a smile on his face but veins in his forehead portruded slightly.

He was irritated.

<< " Copy sir! It will be done, but it-">> The officer on the other end was cut short.
<<" Great! Thank you for your service! I will hold you personally responsible then.">> He exclaimed and then waved to the crowds that were now looking at the skies with some concern. On another part of the planet orbital was underway but the tremors could be felt like a series of earthquakes.

Then the Empire started to do what it does best. Control and contain. Imperial forces were swarming. Like clock work they herded and beat the crowds into submission like cattle. Driving them away toward safety they needed. A safety they would all thank the Empire for later.

Meanwhile in the chaos Damien waved to the crowds with that same charm as before. Using force mind trick at mass to pacify the weak willed and influence the herd to clear the streets. He didnt need all of them to go. The many always followed the few.

Mid way through the "performance" the dark jedi felt his head ache go away and shift to a sinking feeling on his chest. He scratched at the spot briefly before looking around again. His danger sense still tingling but midst the chaos and the pull of his concentration in different places at once, he could not pinpoint what the cause was.

Or who it was.

Tags: St. Thomas Barran Meliant Casi Braste Lord Creuat Darth Keres Orvak Kresh

 

[Orvak Kresh]

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

​

Kresh tracked the commotion through his scope, the rifle steady even as Hanna City below lurched into controlled chaos. The raid hadn't started but the Empire didn't need noise to make itself loud. Garrison units poured into the plaza in uniform waves, their helmets gleaming like polished threats. Shock batons flashed as they forced civilians into retreat. This wasn't a disorganized rout; it was a funnel. Every Chandrilan was being shoved exactly where the Empire wanted them.

He knew he could break that order with one clean shot. The whole square would convulse, but the fallout would be instant and brutal. If the wrong body dropped, if the wrong civilian screamed, the Imperials wouldn't search for a ghost in a window. They would turn their guns outward, into the crowd, into the people he had been sent here to help. Kresh hated that calculation, hated that it was correct.

The scope drifted, almost on its own, back to the blonde central figure on the stage; Damien Zannen barking orders as if he owned the very air. That smug posture, that polished armor, that perfectly manicured superiority. Kresh tasted the urge to shoot before he even recognized it.

He breathed out through his teeth, the crosshairs centered on the man's brow. His finger rested on the trigger, pressure half-set. He only needed a heartbeat of justification. A future problem gone, a blow to Imperial morale, a personal favor to every poor soul crushed by this occupation. The thought slithered in, warm and easy.

Kresh swallowed hard. His pulse remained slow, but his jaw clenched around the toothpick until the wood creaked. Not yet. Not when the Empire could exploit the situation. Not when civilians would pay the price. Not when a phantom fleet he didn't recognize was about to descend on the planet and complicate everything.

"Feth me," he groaned, dragging the scope away from the officer as if the image physically burned him. He swept instead to the troops, mapping formations, noting gaps, and watching how fast the lockdown tightened. His datapad filled with clipped notes: shield grid priming, officer relay nodes, weak flank behind the stage scaffolding. Blondie lived for now, only because Kresh's mission demanded patience over satisfaction.

​

 

[Vestra Tane]

IMMEDIATE TAGS: Arris Windrun | Darth Keres
OTHER: Lysander von Ascania | Damien Zannen | Acier Moonbound | Hasuras Na-Gerra | Orvak Kresh
EQUIPMENT: Lightsaber | Lightfoil | Disruptor Pistol | Hex Grip (Right Arm) | Ashin's Glove (Left Hand) | Armorweave Coat

CHANDRILA SYSTEM
THE STORMHOUND​

It was fortunate for everyone - most of all the crew screaming in Vestra's ear that every ship in the fleet was about to collapse - that the ghost, or demon, or whatever it was, had been content with a warning.

Because Vestra wasn't sure she wouldn't have called the nether-thing's bluff.

But as it stood, they were lucky. And so the Stormhound - finally - breached realspace, and the gnawing wound in reality it created sputtered, and died, whimpering like so many damned souls.

From the command deck and a few other prow-ward positions, Chandrila was visible, and rapidly approaching - they'd dropped closer than would've been wise if using traditional hyperlane travel.

Unfortunately, neither Vestra nor Arris were in a position to see that, deep in the belly of the Stormhound and traveling by mag-rail.

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

This is as far as you will be permitted to advance-

"Can someone fethin' cut that, please?"

Apparently not, or at least not quickly, because the message completed itself at least once before someone in comms managed to silence it.

The Sith coughed, ahem, and continued, now grinning.

She'd been dying to show this off to someone, and she had a feeling Arris would appreciate it.

"Right. Fast."

The magtrain slowed to a crawl a few short moments later, then stopped, and Vestra swung the door open impatiently.

They'd stopped at the cruiser's missile silo, except...There weren't any actual missiles here, at second glance. Just escape pods. Rows upon rows, each up-armored, filled with crash--foam, and loaded in place of the warhead on a space to ground missile.

Vestra didn't bother to explain. Arris was a smart woman, after all, and a visual demonstration worked just as well.

HANNA CITY, CHANDRILA
A FEW MOMENTS LATER...​

A great, cataclysmic crash disrupted the already chaotic streets of Hanna City. A missile - maybe a dud? The unlucky civilians still on the street hoped it was a dud - had simply landed in the middle of the road, battered and pitted by turbolaser fire. It didn't seem to be exploding, so maybe -

Suddenly, a jet of red plasma pierced the missile's skin from the inside, cut a circle that just as suddenly collapsed, kicked out of the way by the gangly, tall, be-coated Sith that crawled from the hole, lightsaber in hand.

Vestra took a split second to admire the city. She hadn't been since university, but she remembered her favorite restaurants, the shops where, oh so briefly, she tried to chase fashion...

She had no more than that split second to reminisce, though.

Because there was that eerie, deathly stillness. She'd felt it on approach, as she'd breached the atmosphere, and now the source was almost on top of her - no more than a city block away.

Overwhelming. Suffocating.

Infuriating.

It crept, offering stillness and silence and peace. Anathema. Antithetical to everything that Vestra was, that she yearned to be.

It didn't matter that the presence was overwhelming, that whoever, whatever was at its center was more powerful than her.

She cloaked herself in the Dark Side, an aegis of mayhem and disharmony. She crackled with lightning, barely contained.

And she set off, fast as the Force could carry her, in pursuit of her prey.

​

 

[Casi Braste]

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

"I am not our lord's keeper. He's probably meeting with the Emperor. Telling him what a nuisance you've been." she chided Meliant. What were the odds she was stuck with him again.

She tapped at her commlink as they boarded a shuttle. "Captain," she called up to the bridge, "what does our approach look like?"

"The enemy fleet has sent landing craft planetside, Lady Braste, as well as beginning an orbital barrage. We have batteries allocated to covering your descent." the captain replied. An all clear, by the tone of his voice. The threshold of chaos to stop the Elite from deploying was high, nearly non-existent. They went to work rain or shine, orbital barrage or not.

"Come along, Meliant. We've got Sith to put back in line." she gave a quick hand signal to the shuttle pilot to initiate launch. She was actually excited to be facing Sith, once again. After all, it was in her training as a Jedi, and it was the mandate of the Elite not only to hunt enemies of the state, of which these raiders certainly were, but also to ensure that the Sith, be they of the new order or the old, bent to the will of the Emperor.

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: Darth Keres Damien Zannen Casi Braste
Meliant Sarah Vulke

Foe: Vestra Tane Hasuras Na-Gerra Arris Windrun
Vritra Lysander von Ascania Acier Moonbound Orvak Kresh

SAGRONA TEEMA
III

​

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

'BASTARDS!!!! WHO DO THESE SCUMBAGS THINK THEY ARE?!?!'
'SHRIVEN, GET ON THE FETHING OFF-RAMP!!!! WE HAVEN'T GOT TIME FOR THIS CHIT!!!!'
'IF THEY'VE KILLED MY FETHING SON, I'LL SLAUGHTER EVERY LAST FETHING ONE O' TH-'
​

Just as the bombardments began to rain down upon Camp Mongrel, the Khan was making his way to the fuelled-and-readied Heart of Mar'Zambul, and though the other main ships had been too damaged to take flight after that, the Bloodhound was still fully-intending to take to the skies despite their predicament. This would give the 2nd Auxilia no choice but to split their forces in two, leaving Ghoul (and his firstborn son) to fight whoever was quickest to land in the assault on the redoubt, though fortunately for the grounded 3rd Auxilia, comm-link activity began to surge once more, and finally, with life and vigor from the Imperials garrisoning the planet alongside the Mawsworn.

The Dark Side Elite had finally arrived, and with other figures of authority there to coordinate the planet's defence, the Bloodhound would be quick to relent to the shunting pressures of his subordinates, especially if Meliant's and Damien Zannen's ilk always knew how to exert the required extremes of authority. Two fronts were always better than one, and if the Elites could command even half as proficiently as the Khan assumed, this freed up responsibilities to give it their all, and all without a worry of one contingent over another. By then, full-tilt was the only way to respond to such an attack, both in strategic and personal requirements, and if his peers could fully-utilise the world's warfighting resources, nothing remained to hold back their counteroffensive push.

Fully committed to the boarding action they had planned before, in the heat of isolation.

'Good man, Capaq! Pull him on!'

<"By order of the Emperor. Deploy the Garrison and get the planetary shields online. Now. Get these little piss ants off the streets before their all mush for sanitation to clean up. I dont care how you do it. Clear the streets and lockdown the planet. Do you copy?">
​

'THATS ZANNEN!!!! FETHING YUUUUUSSSSS!!!! THE ELITES ARE HERE!!!! LETS FETHING GO!!!!'

​

That frothy-mouthed, feral abandon was already beginning to take precedence in Barran's mind, and though this usually was seen as a detriment to witness the onset effects so early on in the fight, Dreamer saw no issue in gearing up for a quick-approach to battle; not this time, as it would seem they would be fighting very soon, and likely taking the fight to their foes within minutes. Doubly fortunate then that the promising comm-link chatter was overheard in the boarding kerfuffle, drawing the Khan even deeper into his much-needed focus of energies, centering and saving it all for an outlet as they approached the bridge of the Maw's flagship.

If the young Sharptooth survived, then the Imperial counteroffensive would surely make that survival an absolute certainty, and apparently, this would be enough to keep the one-eyed Woad from beating on his own chest, even if only for a while. Everything was beginning to function like an Imperial operation, finally; and if the boy was anything like his father, he would be wily enough to find cover in the nick of time, and his heart of hearts was rightly assuring the Bloodhound his son was still alive. There was no way to know for sure, not until St. Thomas returned to the planet's surface, but he would learn eventually that gut and soul alike were right to assume the same thing, guiding the Bloodhound toward the one responsible for the assault.

'What's the plan, Shriven?'
'ONLY ONE PLAN REMAINS NOW!!!! The Elites are taking on our burden, lifting that weight off Mawsworn shoulders! The only obligation left for us is to TAKE OUR FIGHT TO THE SKIES!!!!'

​

'Kark me, man! I forget how intense you can be, Just like Kolene.', Fetters responded, shaking his head beneath the affixed helmet of his Hound armour, still trying his best to put his incarcerated servitude behind him at the time, though Barran would have appreciated his comments either way. Having experienced that hellish existence alongside Capaq's small clique, suffering at the hands of the Forgotten Sons every step of the way, there would be no more need to recall the quarries after that, approaching the bridge with eyes for the future instead. The escape itself was redemption enough, and for as long as the Khan continued on his path, Fetters would never have any trouble admitting,'It gets me fired up, though.... I can't fault that.', even smiling by the time they reached the bridge.

​

'You're here!'
'Finally!'
'Relax, lads. Lets get in the air, then we can think about giving these bastards a fething MIGRAINE!!!!'

<"Mawsworn, listen up! Every available warship and starfighter, every boarding ship that remains functional - we are taking the fight to the skies! Advancing, en-masse, on the opposing fleet together, an' mark my words, we will see the whites of their eyes before this day is done! After all, I promised you the hearts of your enemies, AND I INTEND TO MAKE GOOD ON THAT PROMISE!!!!">
​

With engines readied preemptively, all that remained was the take-off procedures, and with just a few switches set, the Heart of Mar'Zambul would ascend from it's suspension-clips. Lurching upward like a giant hand had lost it's grip on a balloon-string, humming as the thrusters were hurled on at a lower-paced setting, as the Heart (like other ships in the Mawsworn flotilla) did not need to travel very far this time, as much a convenience as it was a hindrance at the time. Alas, as far as hindrances went, greater examples of which were awaiting just moments away, and though the energy-shielding took the brunt of incoming bombardments in the sector, it sidetracked the Heart's ascent due to rocking motions, fumbling aft to fore, then port to starboard, and only when the flight-path corrected did the Khan see what was happening below.

Another wave of ground-targeted artillery had swept through Camp Mongrel, and judging by the ground it mulched up in it's wake, it left no room for many of the ascending ships to return, marking this development as a one-way trip for the flotilla's majority either way. None of it boded well for their main mobilisation timeline, putting back nearly all his original plans for the Ghost Nebula, but if it meant gaining a chance to meet the enemy commander, face to face, then not even Barran could deny himself a little thirst for revenge. It was soon after course-correction that the Bloodhound began to see the other ships and starfighters, scanning across the backdrop to count those that were successful in their attempts to take off, and much to the Khan's great wonder, he would find himself gleeful to see so many who welcomed yesteryear's audacity.

<"To all who made it this far, may the Avatars bless you, as the wind has in turn. So I'll take this opportunity to permit autonomy for open-formation opportunities. If you see your window, you take that opportunity. If you feel that moment approaching in your heart of hearts, reach out for glory as your fathers have before you.... In this life, there is nothing more Nomadic than that. Nothing more Mawite than the thrill you might feel up there - SO LET IT IN, LET IT AAAAAAALL IN!!!!">
​

'Punch it, Fetters!'
'Gladly.'

 

[Arris Windrun]

Direct tag: Casi Braste
Others: Meliant | Vestra Tane | Lysander von Ascania
Equipment: Down & Out

Vestra managed to drag Arris along into the belly of the ship, towards the missile silos. At first, the cyborg grew irritated. She knew the apprentice was up to something, but the fact that they were heading in the wrong direction from the pods (or where they normally were to be, anyway) wasn't promising.

That was until they actually arrived, and she saw firsthand what the younger woman had in store.

Arris feigned an annoyed sigh. "You've got to be joking, yeah?"

In reality, her artificial heart pounded with preemptive exhilaration. See, Arris was by definition a speedfreak (no, not in that way) and couldn't think of a better way to scratch that rare itch; jacking airspeeders wasn't as fun as it once was. She climbed into her pod and heard the chamber next door fire. Vestra was gone. Then so was she.

On the way down, the cyborg's implants flooded her bloodstream with a chemical cocktail designed to heighten her acuity and reaction speed. A helpful byproduct was that it also caused general irritability and poorer impulse control, both useful in their own right for battle, at least for those unbothered by ethical constraints.

Her pod crashed into the middle of Hanna City; battle well underway. Turbolaser fire decimated nearby structures, with a significant concentration around surface-to-space defenses. Even the planetary shields could only diminish the incoming fire, but not stop it entirely. The massive capital-grade bolts screamed across the atmosphere, ripping orange holes in the sky and turning an idyllic day into an image of hell.

Arris forced her way out of the pod's wreckage, backhanding a trooper closely inspecting the crash, and drew her revolver - firing successive shots at the rest of his squad. Smoke from the fires and steam from the cooling blast craters shrouded the cyborg's approach, revealed only by the deafening crack of her revolver.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

“All that we have is that shout into the wind—how we live. How we go. And how we stand before we fall.”
​

'IF THEY'VE KILLED MY FETHING SON, I'LL SLAUGHTER EVERY LAST FETHING ONE O' TH-'

leaving Ghoul (and his firstborn son) to fight whoever was quickest to land in the assault on the redoubt,

Another wave of ground-targeted artillery had swept through Camp Mongrel, and judging by the ground it mulched up in it's wake, it left no room for many of the ascending ships to return

Sing o muse of how the Vahlan war bands did descend through shell storm and laser fire to settle in the carnage wrought upon Camp Mongrel. Many fall, ships torn from the sky or exploding in fiery blossoms. Glorious deaths. Look to them now as the survivors leap from shuttle doors and stream from boarding ramps, armored in scant little but their bravery, wielding blaster and Sith sword alike as they plunge into the fray.

The barrage of the fleet hath made a wasteland of the camp, turning it all to craters as of an asteroid riddled moon.

Here the battle is joined upon the ground as Vahlans and Hapans in their terrifying glory fall upon the shell shocked Mawites of the Second Auxilia. Lightning flickers, cascading from Sith swords. Balls of fire tumble from fingertips or sear from hateful gazes. All is carnage and strife and the bodies pile up.

While in the air, the fleet turns its guns and missiles upon the Mawites seeking to take flight. Laser cannons chatter. Flak bursts pummel the air.

But the Greatest Qhan Gerra is not among the fray. Not yet.

He waits and he watches, patient for his opportunity.

Not so the chieftains on the ground. One whom they call Uthu-Nar has seized the severed head of a Mawite warrior and holds it aloft into a holofeed that carries out through the battlefield. The grizzly trophy swings to and fro from his grip, features crushed beyond recognition, and Uthu-Nar shrieks into the holofeed.

“IS THIS YOUR SANCTIFIED SON, SAINT?”

He tosses the head to the ground and stamps upon it.

“WHERE ARE YOUR WARRIORS OF RENOWN? WHERE IS YOUR EMPEROR?”

He spits on the projector and the feed cuts.

The raid rages on.

St. Thomas Barran

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Netherworld - Stormhound

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

The Stormhound lurched as it tore free of the Nether's throat, the pressure dropping out of the air like someone had pulled a plug. Chandrila filled half the viewport now, but Ace didn't stare long.

He watched Lysander instead, watched the helm settle onto the man's shoulders like a crown that actually meant something. "Always." Lysander had said. Plenty worth living for. A surprising answer for a Sith.

Ace didn't question it. He just gave a small nod, rolling his shoulders once beneath the black wrap layers of his gear. The ship lurched again. A siren howled. Somewhere, Vestra's presence ignited like a bolt of lightning streaking toward the surface... and something just as strong rose up to meet her. He felt both, but didn't comment.

He fell into step beside Lysander, surging toward the missile silo. The metal doors hissed open and... yeah. Drop missiles. Warhead casings, retrofitted into crash capsules.

Acolytes hesitated. Whispered. Swore. Ace didn't slow, in fact, he stepped forward first. Not because of bravado or recklessness. This was the shape of the mission, so this was the shape he stepped into. He swept a hand across the edge of the pod's hull, before hooking a boot onto the ledge and hauling himself inside.

Crash-foam hissed around his legs. The capsule whined as it powered up. He looked back at Lysander through the dim red lights.

"You said stay close." Ace said, that ghost of a smirk flickering again. "Figure that starts now."

The Force's thread inside him didn't tense. It settled. The dangerous clarity that always washed over him right before a fight, like the universe finally stopped yelling and let him breathe. Combat made sense. Everything else was noise.

He settled back in the pod, shoulders relaxed, jaw set.

"Let's get on with it, Golden Boy."

The hatch slammed shut, and as he started to finally feel right. The world dropped.

Lysander von Ascania | OPEN​

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: Darth Keres Damien Zannen Casi Braste
Meliant Sarah Vulke

Foe: Vestra Tane Hasuras Na-Gerra Arris Windrun
Vritra Lysander von Ascania Acier Moonbound Orvak Kresh

SAGRONA TEEMA
IV

​

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

​

Screeching out from the docking bays on the MV: Heart of Mar'Zambul, a Doomsayer fighter-bomber made for the surface with the Khan onboard, making a beeline for his opponent's whereabouts with the Heart providing firepower-cover from above, though the pilot was fortunate enough that he would not be touching base on the ground that day. The Bloodhound (opting for quick deployment) would instead make a jump for the rooftops of the nearest buildings to Camp Mongrel, and from there, the pilot was able to double back and Barran was able to jump down to ground-level, getting up-close and personal with those who dared to make a mockery of his people.

'Ready to die, scum?!'
'ITS HIM-'
'AaaaaaAAAAAATH - BREEEEEEEEEIIITH!!!!'

[CRASH]
[WOOOOOOOOOOSH]
​

Sending tendrils of autumnal lightning scattering in all directions, the Bloodhound's incantation left a stormy, tempestuous mark on all his surrounding foes, sending a message to his intended opponent as strongly as possible; and with all that pent up ferality at his disposal, all that Sith'ari-granted power replenished since he left Coruscant, this was just a taste of things to come. St. Thomas knew this was the only way, and with Chantress in his grip, he would savor every last second he spent carving his way toward Camp Mongrel's interior. Screaming,'DIE, SCUM!!!! DIIIIE!!!! DIIIIEEE!!!! DIIIIEEEE!!!!', as if from the deepest depths of his soul, the Khan's imbued Songsteel wonder, for all it's size and Greatsword bulk, was slicing through the air like a rapier.

Barely at the HESCO-bagging perimeter, only the first swathe of opposing warriors had been able to step up against him, left standing surrounded by scorched and bloodied corpses alike, but even Barran could hear the ruckus within the bombarded redoubt beyond. As much as he liked the occasonial moment of reprieve, not even the Khan could be pulled from his hunger for more, and when he looked to the perimeter, all the Bloodhound wished to do was cast it asunder. Looking then to Chantress, then back to the gravel-bag walls, St. Thomas would send a Force Wave into (and through-) the perimeter with a slicing motion, using the imbuement effects as the Avatars intended.

The way was open, and with more than a few opposing warriors sprawled amid the strewn rubble, all the others beyond would find a blood-soaked, one-eyed menace staring back at them; breathing in a slow, heavy pattern, growling as both sides remained unmoving, momentarily fixed with feet seemingly glued to the ground beneath. However, what the attackers did not know was that Barran, in his mind, was somewhere else entirely, completely unaware that unfettered abandon had finally left someone, some-thing else in his place. In this state, not even the Wraith within the Khan's soul could claim him as his marionette, nothing could, and for as long as he remained within this state, the Avatar of Rebirth would continue to feed power into Barran's feralised, conduit shell.

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGH!!!!!'

[CRASH]
[WOOOOOOOOOOSH]
​

Enough blood had been spilled, enough howling madness had been screamed at the skies, and enough death had been sent through the Rift that all the Bloodhound's preparations for single combat had well-and-truly been achieved. Reaching through battle that which could only be achieved under duress, none would know that this was all that Barran had wanted to attain, damning his own sanity, and even his own free-will to internment within the darkest corners of the mind, as nothing else seemed to matter to a man who assumed his son had been killed after all. The only thing that seemed to matter to Barran by then was blood, flesh, and the beating heart of his intended opponent, desiring more than ever to feast on flesh like he had long ago, on that frozen Rhigaran night, thirty years before the first shot was fired that day.

And just as things were back then, the need to feast on flesh would again be endeavoured to inflict divine punishment on his adversaries.

Not that it would matter by then either, as the need for bloodlust would have remained either way; fortunate then, however, that the one-eyed Woad was unaware of the deception, oblivious to the fact this was mere bait to bring the Khan away from his brazen endeavour, though he would doubtlessly kick himself for it later. Coincidentally, the young Sharptooth was already linking up with the Imperial static-line at the time, and for all of the Bloodhound's lack of awareness, he would not learn this truth until the smoke had cleared on Chandrila. But for all the complications that arose as results of the attack, all would eventually play second-fiddle to the new objective when the Khan's one-eyed gaze met with the eyes of his target.

'HRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-'

Leaping into the compound, lunging forward at a pace too quick for regular soldiers to perceive, and even for the quick reflexes of his adversary's subordinates, many were too late to escape the surging charge toward their leader, thus covering the Qhan in the blood of his underlings when their weapons eventually clashed. It was enough of an evenly-distributed clash that it sent a out shockwave on impact, casting a transluscent doom high and wide enough to be seen from orbit, sending survivors careening in all directions as both combatants heralded the commencement of their fight, beginning the most-destructive duel of the century so far.

'FLESH!!!!'

[CRASH]
[WOOOOOOOOOOSH]

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

I sing of Arms and a Man
​

Sitting in his boarding shuttle, Gerra and a contingent of some several thousand warriors born aloft in a dozen other self same ships took to space only to disappear from all sensors a few moments later.

But the Greatest Qhan Gerra is not among the fray. Not yet.

He waits and he watches, patient for his opportunity.

Leaping into the compound, lunging forward at a pace too quick for regular soldiers to perceive, and even for the quick reflexes of his adversary's subordinates, many were too late to escape the surging charge toward their leader, thus covering the Qhan in the blood of his underlings when their weapons eventually clashed.

One whom they call Uthu-Nar has seized the severed head of a Mawite warrior and holds it aloft into a holofeed that carries out through the battlefield.

Ah look and see, for Qhan Gerra hath not joined the battle. Hath not even landed. It is the chieftain Uthu-Nar who the Lapdog of the Emperor now faces.

The Greatest of Qhans sits in the depths of space, aboard his shuttle, hidden from sensors by the Sith magic he deployed earlier.

Watching.

Waiting.

Until now.

"Great Qhan, the leader of the Mawites has been drawn out. He has not assaulted our fleet as you expected, but doubled back to defend his camp."

"Truly?"

"Yes, Great Qhan."

"Ah, yes. I can sense him now. I misread the flames... so be it. We know the names of those who landed?"

"Yes, Great Qhan."

Gerra's features fell, then became stony and resolute. "Let their tribes know of their sacrifice. Cleanse it all in fire."

The great guns of the Vahlan Fleet in orbit belched forth such a targetted salvo of turbolasers, missiles, and rail cannons as to wipe the entirety of Camp Mongrel from the face of Chandrila. No glory. No honor. Just the brutal, ruthless sacrifice of their own to gain a tactical advantage.

This is the way of wolf, sacrificing whatever it takes to slake the hunger.

Have you forgotten, oh Maw?

Have you forgotten the way of the warrior?

Witness now thy doom.

St. Thomas Barran

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound Arris Windrun Vestra Tane Vritra Hasuras Na-Gerra
Darth Keres St. Thomas Barran Meliant Damien Zannen Lord Creuat

Armor | Helm of the Twin Suns | Nightstar
​

Chandrila's gravity was reaching; Lysander had felt this shift too many times before. A finger trailed along the edge of the helm, checking for a pulse. There never was one.. but it was one of those habits that never left. Inhaling a slow breath, it sat on his chestplate just a second longer, before finally lowering it into place. The seal locked with that familiar hiss. Just the world narrowing itself between him and whatever they decided to cut through today. Sound charged; the HUD flickered alive along the edge of his vision.

Nightstar was next. Fingers curled around the hilt, a weapon he trusted more than most back home.

Some people got loud before battle; Ace went quiet, in a way that reminded him of himself. Steps were taken to enter the same pod, turning just before the hatch closed. Red lights blinked, restraints barely secured.. then the floor dropped.

The descent was silent, a prelude to hell with its turbulence, until it slammed into the ground violently. Lysander’s voice passed through a roughened vocoder.

“First step out is always the messiest.”

A partial truth.. sometimes you never knew what waited in the abyss below.

Multiple threads of power began crawling along the edges the senses, a fingernail down the inside of his skull.. impossible to ignore. The Dark had a way of announcing itself long before faces came into view. There were, however, two distinct ones he’d come to recognize that easily rose above the rest; Vestra and Arris, not far at all.

The hatch opened and boots pressed into the street, troopers already in view, their rifles daring to rise. A lightsaber would’ve been almost merciful; no, this blade was forged to make wounds echo.

There was no humming when his wrist twirled it once to register its familiar weight. A trooper fired too early, allowing Lysander to slip past, pivoting inside the figure's line. Naturally, momentum followed, bringing the sword down in a menacing arc to meet plastoid first, bodyglove second. The cut opened a deep red fan, droplets striking his obsidian plates and beading along his helm's cheek.

 

[Meliant]

CHANDRILA
HANNA CITY - AIRSPACE

Casi Braste Lord Creuat

Meliant scoffed. A meeting with the Emperor, what a lark! Maybe He'd start telling people the same thing whenever he wanted to call in sick. He boarded the shuttle wordlessly and took one of the overhead grab-bars.​

"Come along, Meliant. We've got Sith to put back in line."

"Oh, goody," he replied. "Fighting Jedi was starting to get repetitive."​

​

The shuttle took off only a few moments later. Covered by the Sepulchre and a fighter escort, entering atmosphere was no issue. Meliant wormed his way into the cockpit so he could see what was going on.​

​

It was not a pretty sight. It looked like his brother had already scorched a chunk of the battlefield. Ugh. Barran's maw-dogs were the only graceless, illiterate savages he thought capable of handling his brother's graceless, illiterate savages. So what was the hold-up? Why all the craters?​

​

The indignation slipped from Meliant's mind for the time being. Victory or defeat, friend or foe, a miasma of death and misery was rising out from Hanna City and its environs. It wound its way through the Force and slaked Meliant's hunger. Oh, he'd been hungry for so long he'd started to not even notice. What did he care beyond that? ​

​

Before he glutted himself, he came winding back to the main deck.​

​

"It's a shitshow. They're not even successfully containing it," Meliant announced to Casi, sounding perhaps too delighted.​

​

Without waiting, he bounded a control panel with his fist. The shuttle doors slowly rumbled open, exposing them to howling winds and the meaningless chaos of battle: screams and explosions and gunfire, mostly. A stray blaster bolt pinged off the bulkhead. Glory awaited.​

​

Strange. He felt - almost - the desire to express something akin to camaraderie. A word of reassurance or well-wish. But Meliant couldn't find it in him. He lacked the vocabulary. He didn't know how. Worse still, he couldn't understand how sad that was.​

​

So all he said was, "You really should have brought a fucking helmet."​

​

And then he jumped out - vanishing into the swirling chaos below. ​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Chandrila

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

The impact came and went. Then there was only the street. Ace stepped out behind Lysander without a word, blaster fire stitched the air almost immediately. Troopers shouted. Explosions echoed.​

​

The ignition was soft, a controlled snap-hiss and his lightsaber flared to life close to his body, angled low. A trooper fired and he stepped inside the shot, blade snapping up just enough to shear the barrel clean off the rifle. The follow-through was immediate, a short, brutal cut across the torso that dropped the man instantly.​

​

Another trooper raised his weapon too slow. Ace rotated past Lysander's shoulder, lightsaber moving in tight arcs, each motion economical and deliberate. A parry, a step, then a downward cut that bit deep and ended the threat before the man could even scream.​

​

To anyone watching, it would look like comfort with violence - like someone who had already accepted what this was and embraced it. Sith composure. No hesitation. No mercy visible.​

​

Inside, Ace felt only that familiar quiet. Combat always did this. Everything unnecessary fell away.​

​

He shifted position instinctively, back-to-back with Lysander for half a second, blades working different philosophies in the same space: Nightstar tearing wounds meant to echo, Ace's lightsaber carving clean, final answers.​

​

"Street's thinning." Ace said calmly, blade angled as he tracked the chaos. Vibrating tremors in the Force's tethers. "Vestra's storm's ahead. Arris too."​

​

Lysander von Ascania​