Public Sagrona Teema (Raid on Occupied Chandrila)

[Orvak Kresh]

Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Clawdite Male

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Kresh felt the first tremor roll through the building. A low, teeth-rattling hum that told him the orbital guns had finally committed. Windows shivered in their frames. Plaster dust shook loose from the ceiling. Staying this high up was stupid. Impressively stupid. But he held his position, eye pressed to the scope as streaks of fire cut through the sky and turned whole city blocks into orange scars.

A drop pod screamed past his window and smashed into the avenue below. Durasteel buckled. Civilians scattered. Kresh tracked the impact site and caught sight of the figure forcing her way out ( Vestra Tane ). Tall, coat sweeping behind her, lightsaber igniting in a vicious red arc. She didn't hesitate. She didn't even orient herself. She just started moving, charged with so much Dark Side energy Kresh felt the hairs on his arms rise through the glass. Interesting didn't quite cover it.

Another thump hit closer. Too close. He shifted the scope in time to watch a second pod crack open, this one disgorging a different kind of nightmare ( Arris Windrun ). Lean, fast, almost feral in motion as she tore through a squad of troopers. Her revolver flashed in sharp bursts of white heat, smoke rising around her as she cut a path toward the chaos peeling open in the streets. Not like the first one at all. Same mission, maybe. Same allegiance, probably. But everything about her screamed improvisation and bloodlust.

Kresh logged it with a few clipped keystrokes, then swung back to the first Sith. She moved with purpose. She had direction.

He settled into the rifle, breath evening out despite the thunder growing around him. Crosshairs slid over burning rooftops and smoke columns until they found her again. He adjusted for distance. For wind dragged sideways by rising heat. For the fact that the building under him groaned whenever a blast landed nearby.

One clean inhale. One steady squeeze.

The rifle kicked back into his shoulder.

A blast tore through a building down the street, sending a shockwave that rattled his teeth and set alarms screaming in his head. Time to go. He ripped the datapad from its clamp, detached the rifle, and swept everything he cared about into his pack in a handful of practiced motions.

Another impact hit closer. Too close.

Kresh didn't look back as he vanished from the window.

​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

“What is it then to me if impious war,
Arrayed in flames like to the prince of fiends,
Do with his smirched complexion all fell feats
Enlinked to waste and desolation?”
​

The guns of the Vahlan ships poured on the fire and the flame.

In their wake came yet another series of landing parties. They targeted the wealthy manors of the Chandrilans in Hanna City and as well as the seats of government.

Thousands of Vahlan and Hapan warriors went rampaging through the streets, seeking to stuff all the loot and captives into their shuttle holds before they departed.

Still Gerra waited, overseeing the sacking from the depths of space until worthy adversary should arise.

A Hapan captain by name of Tyria found her way to him and stood before him in the shuttle, incensed.

“We did not sign on to this band to be used as cannon fodder, Gerra,” she spat.

The Qhan remained seated, cross-legged, “They were glorious deaths.”

“They died like animals in a forest fire. That’s no way to go. We aren’t your fire cultists. Swear to me you won’t use as cannon fodder again or I will take our Battle Dragons and leave. Swear it.”

For a long moment the Qhan simply looked at her, then he nodded slowly, solemnly.

“I swear it.”

“Good. Then I’ll see to the continued shelling of the planet.”

And with that she stormed off.

 

[Casi Braste]

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

The shuttle's descent was rocky, at best, but the pilots that ported the Dark Side Elite around were the best, as were their escort fighters. It was immediately clear however that not all of the Empire's forces on Chandrila were having it so easy. She didn't bother to indulge Meliant's snide comments, knowing there was more where that came from. As soon as the shuttle door opened, both of them lept out into the fight.

Hanna City was burning, screaming for order, praying to the Emperor that the carnage would end and they would be spared. In just minutes one of the most peaceful and wealthy cities in the Empire, if not the entire galaxy, was scorched by orbital bombardment and bloodied by indiscriminate killing.

As she sped through the streets, the Force carrying her footsteps faster than natural, she ignited her blue lightsaber. She was certain that enemies who saw it would be distracted and drawn to her. There were days when it felt like something that chained her to the past, and her fellows Elites made it clear they thought the same way, but right now, in the heat of battle, it was her anchor, and her cunning move. No one expected a Jedi in the fray, and no one expected such a Jedi would be trained by the Emperor's strongest warriors.

Casi dashed towards the suspected landing site of the enemy raiders, who they had tailed down to the surface. Arriving in what she could only assume was the worst of the battle, she saw a woman surrounded by dead stormtroopers.

Casi stopped and levelled her lightsaber at the intruder from a distance, one she wasn't quite ready to close until she got a better idea of who she was dealing with. Smoke swirled around the street between them, masking the raider.

"Anarchist!" Casi called out, "You have committed crimes against the Empire and its people. We aren't going to forget this!"

 

[Darth Keres]

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[]

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Location: Chandrila
Tag: Vestra Tane

Darth Keres moved through the crowded and chaotic streets, her cloak billowing and her lightsaber casting flickering ghostly shadows across the crumbling facades. A group of so-called pirates, or mercenaries, or whatever shallow title they clung to fanned out in chaotic lines, weapons drawn and trembling in the night air, but she struck with a precision that was both beautiful and horrifying. With each life she ended, Darth Keres felt the Force whisper more insistently, threads of fear and aggression intertwining, yet the true meaning of their pointless intrusion remained stubbornly opaque.

She wondered: Why come at all? What hand guided them here, and for whose amusement? Yet no single hand revealed itself, no face emerged from the fog of malice and incompetence, only the faint, elusive trace of a puppet master hidden in the layers beneath, laughing or testing, or both.

As she pressed forward, the streets darkened and twisted around her, those crimson red eyes scanning the carnage, drinking in the panic as though it were a fine, bitter wine. Shadows leapt and writhed with the echoes of dying screams, and Darth Keres' mind probed each fallen intruder, unraveling the scattered fragments of intention and command like threads in a corrupted tapestry before their death. Still. Nothing.

With every step, her contempt deepened, and a slow, cold smile spread across her lips, savoring not only the destruction but the certainty that this intrusion, however meaningless it seemed, was a message, a puzzle, and perhaps a warning to the Galactic Empire.

Under the fractured glow of the city's flickering lights, two Silencers returned to Darth Keres. Their movements were silent, meticulous, as if the shadows themselves carried them back into her presence. They knelt briefly before her, and through the Force, their thoughts spilled like dark water into her consciousness: images of fire and smoke, of desperate combat and shattered steel. She absorbed the information with cold, surgical precision, letting the Force untangle the whispers and glimpses into a clear vision of the battlefield to the west.

Darth Keres' lips curved into a faint, sinister smile, her eyes alight with cruel amusement. The chaos pleased her, yet the question of why these forces had moved with such coordination, who had dared provoke this struggle, gnawed at the edges of her thought.

"Return to the Hunt and ensure no thread of this chaos escapes our notice," Darth Keres commanded, her gaze slicing through the gloom. As she pivoted westward, each step measured and predatory, she felt the thrill of the approaching confrontation coil in her chest like a living thing. Do I end this insolent intruder, or do I extend a hand in dark amusement for making my day infinitely less dull? she mused, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

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

 

[Kasir Dorran]

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Allies: Hasuras Na-Gerra Vestra Tane Acier Moonbound Arris Windrun Vritra
Foe: Darth Keres St. Thomas Barran Meliant Damien Zannen Sarah Vulke
Leidimas Sith Plate

Target: Camp Mongrel

Upon the Stormhound, solitude was a welcome silence for the Sith, an ache that never truly departed. For a time, he stood, hands folded behind his back, fingers interlaced, while the battlecruiser pulsed with a life beyond the physical, breathing through the Nether and into the void. In the absence of voices, his senses delved inward, attuned to the distortions in the Force that whispered of a world already hurting, and lying to itself about it. For the Sangnir, there were no images, but taste left on his tongue. And there, in the depths of his mind it would settle, preparing for the horrors that surely lay ahead.

When the moment presented itself at last, he disappeared into the yawning maw of the waiting drop pod, an enigma enveloped in darkness that felt like a suffocating coffin. The pod descended, hurtling through the void, before finally colliding with a street below. While the hatch might have opened for others, under the influence of a malevolent touch, for him it was violently blown out by the dark energy radiating from an outstretched hand. Footsteps changed direction before he was seen.

The Darkseeker, for that is what he was known as, wore no helm, baring his porcelain skin to the sun’s cruel glare; yet those seemingly abyssal orbs drank in the surrounding scene with eerie pleasure. The light touched him without warming anything it reached.

His judgement, stripped of all divinity, was infused with red hunger, sharpened like a living weapon. This was no battle to him; this was harvest. When he moved, it was with blistering speed that collapsed distance in ways that mortals could only fathom, reappearing down the streets in a blur, shadows trailing like torn cloaks.

Through alleys and intersections, he threaded, ascending surfaces where most would find no purchase. A trooper turned, albeit too late, weapon raised, and Kasir was already upon him, the kill finished before another thought could register, leaving only blood to mark his passing, something neither admired nor lingered over.

The pressure in the streets began to pull outward, so he followed it without hesitation. The outskirts came into view as Camp Mongrel announced its presence too loudly to be mistaken for anything other than another target.

Kasir adjusted his course. The path ahead gave way to fire and screaming, and he ran straight for hell itself, because that was where the work remained.

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Of course he was running late to a raid. It had to be a raid. Always on time for classes, workouts, outings with the badawans. The one time he is late and it is a mission that called for chaos.

His ship exited light speed as it coasted towards the new planet he would be setting foot on. He received his coordinates as he began to strap on his armor.

CC-14 helped him with his straps as the droid began to speak.

“Master Varin, you are aware that there is nowhere proper to land within those coordinates.”

Varin looked at him with a knowing look in his eyes.

“I am very much aware, CC. Maybe if you had us go through the damned nether portal we would be there boots on the ground by now.”

CC blinked in disbelief.

“Master Varin, are you implying you would go through hell just to be on time for raiding and that this is my fault?”

The genuine shock caused Varin's brow to furrow.

“Yes. I do.”

CC sighed grumbling something under his breath as he flipped switches and pressed buttons.

“CC, prep the drop pod.”

The droid paused what he was doing and stood straight up.

“You can't be serious. Master Varin that is for emergency situations.”

Varin's voice dropped.

“Prep the drop pod or I will plug you to the wall in Sentinel mode for one week.”

The droid blinked and was silent for a moment.

“Well we don't need to be hasty here.”

CC-14 initiated the drop pod as Varin stepped in taking his seat and strapping in.

The countdown initiated, upon reaching the zero mark the pod was jettisoned towards the planet. Winds buffered the pod causing it to lurch as Varin remained calm, placing his helm over his head, the visor lighting to life.

A hard impact embedded part of the pod into the ground in front of some incoming security force. They reached for their blasters aiming right for the door.

“Get that door open now! It could be supplies for the raiders!”

As they crept closer the doors hissed and opened as smoke poured from the inside, their lights unable to penetrate it. One curious security member began to get closer. A snap of an instant later a tendrils of superheated smoke vacuumed itself through his mouth. His screams echoed as the smoke traveled to his lungs. More tendrils leapt out of the pod burning and suffocating the other soldiers as a heavily armored boot stepped out of the drop pod. His saber ignited in a roar as he drew his mace.

With a primal yell he leapt into the fray with reckless abandon.

Tags: Open​

 

[Orvak Kresh]

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

​

The lift groaned as it descended, lights flickering in time with the distant thunder of orbital fire. Kresh stood braced in the corner, rifle held close, every jolt translated through the soles of his boots. The building felt wounded. Each impact above sent dust drifting down like dirty snow. He counted floors by feel, not by the blinking numbers overhead.

When the doors finally screeched open, sound rushed in. Sirens. Shouting. The heavy, overlapping rhythm of boots on pavement. Hanna City had lost its composure. Chandrilans ran in tight knots, dragging children and bags and whatever could be carried. Stormtroopers pushed the flow with practiced violence, barking orders that no one had time to hear.

Kresh slipped through a side corridor and eased toward a back entrance. He leaned just enough to peer around the corner.

Another drop pod sat half-buried in the street, smoke boiling out of it in thick, unnatural curls. Troopers were already converging, weapons raised, moving like they still believed procedure mattered. Then the smoke moved.

A man stepped out of it clad in heavy armor, big motherfether, presence immediate and ugly. Heat shimmered around him. A saber ignited with a sound like tearing metal. Kresh remembered what he could about lightsabers, green is good, red is bad. Kresh watched for half a second longer than he should have.

"Another one," he muttered.

He moved. Fast, low, slipping into the street as troopers rushed past him toward the pod. Rubble gave him cover. He dropped to a knee behind a shattered speeder, settled the rifle into the crook of debris, and brought the scope up in one smooth motion.

The helmed Sith filled his sight picture. Chaotic. Violent. A problem that would not stay local.

Kresh didn't bother isolating the shot. Didn't care if it found white plastoid or black armor. He exhaled and squeezed.

The rifle cracked, sharp and clean, swallowed almost immediately by the roar of the city. He cycled the action by instinct, already shifting position as return fire began to snap overhead.

Hit or miss, it didn't matter. Both raiders and occupants were enemies of the Republic.

​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"Begin by seizing something which your opponent holds dear; then, he will be amenable to your will."
​

Behold, o watcher, as the sacking of Hanna City continues apace.

Corsairs stream from manor houses, jewels on their necks and hands and diadems askew on their brows, a captive in each hand. They clash with stormtroopers and Mawite warriors in the streets, where blood now flows in rivers as the spreading fires from bombardment consume buildings around.

Hapans fire their guns of command and drag the stunned and paralyzed aboard their ships, where they make a speedy departure for their battle dragons in orbit.

Now at last, Gerra descends to look upon the work of his people. He comes down in a shuttle, as Death himself, and from atmosphere admires the pillars of smoke rising from the city which choke the clouds black.

His shuttle touched down near the chaos, but nearer still to a presence he had not felt since that day above Atrisia.

Gerra exited his shuttle and looked around, feet crunching on the ash strewn street.

“Brøther… I can sense you.”

Somewhere in the city was Meliant

 

[Meliant]

CHANDRILA
HANNA CITY - STREETS

Attn: Lysander von Ascania Acier Moonbound

Meliant must have hit terminal velocity, but when he landed in the streets he touched down softly - only a thin cloud of dust rolled out from around his feet. And where else would he land but only a short distance away from two plucky Sith acolytes? They were already busy converting a couple fireteams of stormtroopers into corpses. ​

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Both were pitifully young - one had a big, stupid helmet and a hunk of metal instead of a lightsaber. The other was more typical, unarmored except for some trim and tidy acolyte robes. And for a moment, they fought back-to-back. ​

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Meliant reflected that if he tried that with another member of the Dark Side Elite, he'd be liable to find a few knives planted there when they were finished. He waited patiently while they killed off the last of the fodder, observing their techniques. ​

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Then he slow-clapped for the valiant warriors.​

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"Great work, children," twin lightsabers snapped into Meliant's hands, and the crimson blades ignited with an awful hiss. "Keep practicing, and you might land a spot with the Dark Side Elite someday."​

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He cackled and slid into a ready-stance, both blades held aloft. ​

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"Oh, don't fret. If either of you live, I'll put in a good word with the Emperor."​

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A foul hunger was radiating within Meliant, warping the living Force around him and braying to be unleashed. But for now it was held in abeyance, only simmering within the dark heart of his armor.​

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What was he waiting for?​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound | Meliant​

When his back found the Covenant’s newest shadow, there was no hesitation. Different tools, but the rhythm of violence understood both. Another trooper rushed in, and so Nightstar answered with a direct thrust that plunged until resistance could yield no longer. Plastoid gave way to the truth. The withdrawal was sharp, one more body sliding off the phrik blade.

Somehow, the sound of clapping threaded through the cacophony of chaos in a way that should’ve been irritating. A shift in the air followed, and so he angled his helm toward the figure. Emerald lenses fixed on the Sith.

When the twin blades hissed, they made a statement he actually understood.. ambition bleeding outward. His body finally pivoted as the man spoke. Encounters with Jedi had grown rather tedious of late, even if killing brought satisfaction and the confirmation of superiority. Whatever words were spat in his direction mattered little.

Though still an apprentice, he had faced death too many times to imagine this ending any differently.

“Threats and mentorship,” the vocoder carried no emotion, “How thoughtful. I’ll try not to disappoint."

Then, he launched himself forward, boots scraping the stone as his weight began to transition.. The gap between him and this new foe closed rapidly while his weapon was carried close to his frame. The strike bloomed, arriving in an arc to probe the Sith’s guard. It was just enough pressure to demand an answer, to prevent overextending, and a chance to see how he might respond when pressed. The real violence would come next.

 

[Arris Windrun]

Direct Tag: Casi Braste
Equipment: Down & Out

"Anarchist!"

Her head turned immediately as if she were addressed by name, one smoking revolver still in hand.

She noticed the blue lightsaber belonging to the voice's hazy silhouette. A Jedi? But then why would a Jedi proclaim crimes against the Empire, followed by a "we" statement? Maybe it was a trophy taken from the dead. Yes, that was the brief conclusion Arris had arrived at.

Arris stepped out from the smoke, revealing herself fully to the dark-haired woman. She holstered her weapon for now.

"I hope you know how to use that thing." She pointed at the lightsaber.

The cyborg had done little except fight Jedi and Sith as of late; so be it if this day would play out like so many others, Arris was perhaps the least picky about her fights among the Covenant's raiders.

She broke into a sprint, using cybernetics and Force both to achieve great speed, and launched herself into a sliding tackle. Normally, the Dark Horse liked to play around before committing, but with turbolaser fire laying waste to the city around them, she didn't much care to stretch things out. Still, she was well aware that her lightsaber-wielding opponent had a lethal advantage, even if she wasn't expecting Arris to commit to an unarmed attack.

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Troopers ran in squads towards him as Varin held one with ease by the throat, dragging him behind him. His screams choking out in gasps of desperation and bile. The trooper formed a firing line in front of him, shouting commands that Varin did not care to listen for. When it was evident that his compliance was negligible the commanding officer ordered them all to fire.

Varin pulled the trooper up in front of him blocking the blaster fire as he walked closer to them, he could feel their fear and desperation. He soaked it in. He soaked it in a little too much, not noticing a stray blaster bolt fire precisely between the trooper’s arm and midsection. A small space that none of these blaster happy soldiers could take.

The impact was hard into his midsection causing Varin to stumble back, the phrik armor leaving minimal damage to him.

Some of the other troopers quickly turned around to respond with suppressive fire, but Varin watched. Smoke tendrils reached out in multiple directions, feeling, sensing. They snaked between the troopers and into different buildings.

Finally, a heartbeat. Slow, calm, collected. Nothing like the panic that surrounded him. Varin tossed the trooper to the side and pulled his mace from his back holster, his saber deflecting stray blaster fire back to the troopers.

“Insects…”

His hand outstretched to them and a second later the troopers bodies folded and cracked into crumpled masses of armor and flesh, not so much as a scream leaving them it happened so quickly. He dashed towards the officer and swung his mace across his chest with a wet crack, sending the officer into a nearby vehicle, the force was enough to nearly fold the frame.

The last few troopers looked at him, fear taking hold, unable to shoot. Varin took a few quick swipes with his saber, cutting the last of the troopers down. He then looked towards the building where the calm heart rate was. His sight pierced into the walls, as if looking through him. Through the visor his eyes reflected blood lust and war.

He waited for the next move.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Chandrila

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace felt the impact before he heard it. Not the landing itself, that was almost polite, but the absence it left behind. The air shifted, the living Force warping inward as something dense and predatory settled into the street nearby. Hunger, carefully leashed. Old. Deliberate.

The clapping grated less than it should have. Ace didn't bristle at the insult, didn't rise to the bait. "Children" was a word meant to provoke movement, to make someone rush in angry, eager to prove otherwise. At this point, Ace had learned that being underestimated was his advantage.

He finished his cut and let the body fall before he turned. The newcomer stood with the casual confidence of someone who had never needed to hurry. Twin crimson blades followed a heartbeat later. Elite. No mistaking it. He'd never faced one before and he had to be honest, the idea excited him.

He watched the stance instead. Confidence bordering on invitation, a duelist who wanted you to show your hand first. Lysander answered in turn. When Lysander launched, it wasn't reckless. It was measured. A question asked with steel.

Ace moved as that question was posed. Not toward the Elite. Around the space Lysander left behind. His lightsaber came up close, body angling just enough to keep both figures in view as the first exchange rang out: arc to guard, pressure applied. Ace read it in real time. This wasn't the real fight yet. Just calibration.

A trooper panicked at the sudden escalation and broke formation, trying to rush the opening behind them. Ace cut him down without thought: a short deflection, a clean follow-through. He was already resetting by the time the body hit the ground.

His attention returned to the duel immediately. Ace stepped in without ceremony, timing his entry after Lysander's pressure landed and the Elite responded in turn.

The blue lightsaber angled low as he closed on the flank rather than the center. His opening strike wasn't meant to finish, just to force guard and weight shift. He followed with a second cut from the opposite line that denied an easy turn. He didn't linger, rotating out a fraction, blade steady, stance settled, letting the Elite feel him there without handing over momentum.

Lysander von Ascania | Meliant​