Public Sagrona Teema (Raid on Occupied Chandrila)

[Arris Windrun]

Direct Tag: Casi Braste
Equipment: Down & Out

It happened in an instant; Arris heard the lightsaber roll away and then felt hands upon her cyberleg.

She acted quickly, rolling towards her and attempting to pin one of the woman's arms to the ground with the grabbed leg and climb on top of her. The cyborg was heavier than she looked, and her legs were designed for raw power, capable of crushing bone with their hydraulic force.

Arris stared at her with those unnatural eyes. Her metal hands reached to wrap around the near-human's throat, sacrificing any opportunity to block jabs from the woman's free hand in an effort to see her strangled right then and there. With that same dead expression, she looked something like a serial killer straight out of a holothriller.

 

[Orvak Kresh]

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

​

Kresh felt the heat before the saber got close enough to singe the air. He didn't wait for it to get any worse. The moment the armored Sith closed the distance, Kresh stepped back, slow and deliberate, boots crunching over glass and rubble. Staying within reach of that blade was suicide. Staying anywhere near him probably was, but distance was still leverage.

"Easy," Kresh said, rifle never wavering. "I'm not that kind of stupid."

He kept retreating, angling sideways, eyes flicking to broken cover points as he moved. The Sith filled too much of the street, too solid, like the environment had decided to grow teeth. Kresh swallowed once and kept his voice even.

"Who says I don't have backup?" he asked. "Who says there aren't half a dozen rifles on nearby rooftops, all waiting for your helmet to stop moving?"

It was a clean lie. Confident. The kind that only worked if you believed it yourself. Kresh didn't blink.

"I won't fire first," he added, tone almost casual. "But you should think real hard about what direction you're walking me in. Could be I'm leading you into a very ugly fire tunnel. Blasters, munitions, maybe something heavier if today's gone especially bad."

He took another step back, careful not to trip, iron sights glued to the glowing visor. His finger stayed loose on the trigger. Ready. Waiting.

Kresh shrugged, a small motion that barely shifted the rifle. "Just saying. I'd feel better about my conscience if I warned you."

He stopped retreating then, planting his feet, posture steady despite the heat rolling off the saber. The monster wanted a shot. Wanted proof.

Kresh held his ground and let the silence stretch, betting on the one thing that sometimes worked against predators.

Patience.

​

 

[Meliant]

CHANDRILA
HANNA CITY - STREETS

Attn: Lysander von Ascania Acier Moonbound Hasuras Na-Gerra
CC: St. Thomas Barran

Lysander came charging towards him, eager to fight as any Sith dog would be. Meliant saw the arc of his strike before it unfolded and brought up his blades to catch it. Child's play. He would lock that sword in place, then he would simply…​

​

Both of his lightsabers shorted out - one after the other - as Nightstar cleaved through them.​

​

No way.​

​

The tip of the blade sliced through his armor and left a nasty gash just where Meliant's collarbone should have been. They could see now: the armor was empty. Or at least, it wasn't occupied by anything living. Thin tendrils of a nasty, jet-black smoke came curling out of the wound.​

​

Acier came into the fray before Meliant had time to worry about a potential backswing. Meliant may have been surprised, but he wasn't feckless - not yet. ​

​

He stepped back and yielded ground, letting the blue blade miss him by mere centimeters and forcing Acier to get in closer to reach him again - it lined him up right in front of Lysander.​

​

Meliant whirled around the acolyte's second cut with uncanny dexterity, lunging to get within the acolyte's guard while he was still overextended. Meliant's fist lashed out like a viper, striking for the Acier's solar plexus. ​

​

That alone wouldn't feel great. Many sensitive meat-sack nerve-fibers resided there. What would feel astronomically worse was the force that succeeded it: a ripping wave of kinetic energy that would blast him into his friend and send the both of them sprawling.​

​

Meliant needed some space.​

​

His brother was here.​

-----​

Once he had a spare moment, Meliant tossed aside his lightsabers like two dead things of no worth. The emitters still guttered uselessly. It would be more than a few minutes before the power cycled and they were operable again.​

​

Duels don't typically last that long. Not if the people fighting them are any good.​

​

Gerra thundered some bastard taunt at Meliant. Great. Now he was the one being condescended to. Where the hell was Barran? All that screaming he had done over comms and Gerra still had a full run of the city! What a joke! Meliant might have burst a blood vessel if he had any.​

​

"Shut up and let me focus!" he snapped, and thrust one hand out towards his brother.​

​

The Sith sword Gerra kept at his side rattled in its scabbard before coming loose. It soared through the air in a neat line and snapped readily into Meliant's hand. He hated these things. Slow, heavy, and crude as they were... But these were crude times ruled by crude people. No point in holding himself distinct from them. ​

​

Meliant went walking towards his twin foes again. He dragged the blade behind him as he went, tip scraping against the pavement and making an ugly sound. Perhaps that was to intimidate them, but more likely it was just to spite his brother by scuffing the finish.​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He gazed at the nearby buildings, weighing his words of possible extra rifles on him. His eyes fell back to the lone sniper.

“It would seem that if you did have backup, then they have waited too long to intervene for you.”

He watched him step back and stop, the rifle still pinned on him.

"You're going to need some heavy hitters for me."

He brought his saber up to point it towards the rifleman. He looked as if he were about to say something, before more blaster fire flew towards him. In an act of instinct he shifted his body, using his saber to deflect blaster bolts as another small squadron of troopers assaulted the area. Their voices calling out call signs, one rolled a small round object towards Varin.

His brow furrowed as he reached his hand towards the object. A loud explosion rang out as Varin let out a deep yell. His fingers clutched the air as the fiery ball seemed to be isolated. He let out a deep growl as he began to condense the energy that was trying to escape, before he released it towards the squadron, knocking the closest few over, setting one on fire. His screams rang out as Varin ran towards the rest of the group his saber at the ready.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"[He] drinks the blood of the first man he overthrows in battle. Whatever number he slays, he cuts off all their heads, and carries them to the king; since he is thus entitled to a share of the booty, whereto he forfeits all claim if he does not produce a head."
​

"Shut up and let me focus!" he snapped, and thrust one hand out towards his brother.

Gerra's brow rose as his brother didst with use of the Force seize the Sith sword Gerra had himself forged by his own two hands many years ago. His younger brother wielded it and it seemed perhaps ungainly in his hands, so used to the weightlessness of lightsabers.

But the Sith sword was more than mere weapon. It was a conduit. A minor nexus in the Force. It would see Meliant 's strength in the Force amplified twofold, if he saw to its use properly. And it could cage and redirect the lightning of other Sith, as well as more spells of destruction, for it had been quenched in blood as was the way of these blades.

"See that you do," Gerra rumbled, briefly turning his attention to one of his own warriors who came to stand alongside him.

"Qhan Gerra, we have investigated the nearby camp."

"Yes?"

"All vanquished, it seems. The Mawites are no match for our great guns. Behold, your spoils," then he held out the standard in his hand, some Mawite banner from Camp Mongrel, scorched and tattered, an insignia on it that Gerra did not recognize. A wonder it escaped the bombardment.

"Good. Take it to the Slayer. What else?"

The warrior handed him a skull, blackened and charred. "Of your vanquished enemy, oh Greatest of Qhans."

Gerra accepted the skull, examining it thoughtfully. Human. Hmm. He could make use of this.

"Saw the top off and make of it a drinking cup to add to the rest."

He waved the corsair away and returned his attention to his brother.

 

[UNDEAD Aron Gowrie]

TAGS
Meliant Darth Keres Damien Zannen Casi Braste

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

SAGRONA TEEMA
PROLOGUE

​

Aboard the IMV: Banner of Exegol,
Orbiting Chandrila, Deep Core Territories (903 ABY)

Solid ground is needed.
Heed not the living, heed not the souls who block your path.
'Await me on the surface.'
​

As it was becoming apparent after their most-recent jump through Hyperspace, the ship that served as their container was falling apart, and with its fate likely headed for the surface in a blaze of glory, it seemed that this turn of events aligned well with the wishes of the Voice Within the Tar. Thus the Corps would have an easier time aligning than usual, moving as one in the attempt to accord to the Harbinger's commands, and this time, all it would take is one coordinated rotation toward the glowing orb itself, caring little for the unfamiliar ships still halted in their path. Only one thing to do, and though this was only until they landed on the surface, the complexity they would find in Hanna's streets was all too familiar to drop out of alignment.

Purpose (as all would learn that day) was there for the dead to grasp, and in turn, every part as much as it was for the living, as such things had been proven eternal already; and when the Banner of Exegol began it's descent, all the Harbinger's Corpsmen silently made for the escape-pods, making use of this eternal purpose on a plan that required no utterance of instruction. The first of which, cargo differing to that which was about to fall en-masse, had already embarked on it's plummet, representing the only element operating beyond the Harbinger's control. None would notice it's passing, none would note it's presence on Holographic displays, as it just so happened, (and just like the ship from whence it ejected) that both ship and pod alike had long-since been consigned to memory.

It would not be until the ghost ship scraped along the hull of a blockading ship when someone finally noticed their presence, but by then, it was much too late to scan the Corps' floating metal casket. The pace with which the Banner of Exegol plummeted, and much to the consternation of those who wished to lash out in response, also presented unseen troubles for the blockading flotilla, made all the worse for the besieging perimeter by the angle of approach. Maddening as this would seem, the mood would soon change when they realised their placement of approach made the ghost ship untouchable, as it would mean risking friendly-fire in the attempt to land hits on the Banner, a risk upon which no naval commander ever wished to gamble.

Or at least, none who lived to see the 10th Century ABY, none who would leave something ravenous in their scraping, metal-chewing wake.

The undead would walk solid ground once more, and when the ghost ship dropped in through the planet's nearest shielding-array panels, she spewed out her little multitude of drop-pods, assuring the needs of the Harbinger's walking cadavers. Almost as if the Banner's one true purpose was to die in the act of casting her eggs across the Hennan backdrop, and with the Harbinger sent out among the last of which, the symbolism of the chosen son would be seen in clarity more crystalline than that of staying aboard; such things would be lost on other Corpsman, seeking only singular, unshifting focus on solid ground - but not on the sentient husk of Aron Gowrie.

SAGRONA TEEMA
I

​

Hennan Battlefront,
Chandrila, Deep Core Territories (903 ABY)

[THUD]
[THUD - THUD]
[THUD]

[THUD]
[CLAAAAAAAAANNNNGGG....]
​

As the Banner of Exegol gradually burned out on it's way down, hurtling toward the rainsoaked wilderness beyond the city, the Harbinger (along with all of his Tethers) had finally landed in the city, completely unaware how close they were to the bloodiest sector in the fight. Another epicenter, another crucible from which they could raise the dead on the grandest scale possible, lending more credence to the merit of certain speculation on their methods working better where death reeked most intensely. Commencing just moments after the door of the Harbinger's drop-pod flew off, clattering across the gravel beyond with aid from air-pressure propulsion, and when then undead Goidel landed face-first on the cold, war-disturbed ground, not even his limp, unmoving prone state could hide the ominous nature of his arrival.

'Where - are you?'

The strife-loving warriors nearby, as much as their ears had been filled with the crescendos of suffering by then, would not be so deafened that their heightened senses missed the hoarse raspy rattle of the new arrival. Not that such straining would be needed for much longer, as the lifeless man on the ground would soon inhale with such ungodly intensity that it sounded almost like a scream, and with the warriors' interest already piqued, it would not be long before their peripheries caught him twitching spasmodically on the ground. Writhing around as the black tar pooled up around him, the others would soon see the tar spilling out from his eyelids as the erratic flailing soon lifted his posture, raising him from the sodden ground to reach something resembling a standing posture, and only then did the other drop-pods open up to release their contents.

All the Corpsmen had finally made it, and with one, seemingly neck-cracking extreme of head-cocking instruction, the Harbinger sent his own warriors scattering in all directions, trusting they all knew what they were there do. Leaving the undead Goidel alone to gaze upon the situation into which he had careened, seeing masters standing shoulder to shoulder with their students, seeing bodies from both sides of the struggle strewn across the ground as he drawled,'The voice within me, he - picks the strangest places.', still half-conscious in the process of trying to focus. The tears of black tar would make it difficult to discern facial features, but even in this state, he could see the bleeding-red sun of the Sith'ari sewn into the cloaks of the younger warriors, choosing then to gaze upon the unfamiliar counterpart with brows furrowed.

'The strangest moments.'

​

Without breaking eye-contact, the Harbinger's neck would twitch and crack in clear view of the living, shuddering as his head posture shifted uncomfortably from one rest to the other, almost as if he had lost some control over his nervous system since his soul departed for Sedes Aurea. The undead Goidel knew how unsettling such,"Mannerisms", were to the living, not that he could do anything to change that, or at least, not until great violence was required of him. Not that the others would need to suffer their unwanted fixations for much longer, as their attention would soon be diverted to the ground and the surrounding area, darting back and forth as Imperial troopers began to rise from the very nooks and crannies where they had died, just moments or minutes before.

This would spread across the city, springing up around the Harbinger's landing-zone, and around all the roving locations of every Tether he brought with him; Gowrie's shell, however, would not stop there, but his next act of reanimation would take time, and time enough to strengthen an ever-expanding alignment web throughout the city. Even stranger was the fact the dead he could raise were actively ignoring the living warriors around him, like they already knew what they wanted, seemingly set on particular, conventional soft-targets, and to compound this uncanny development further, they had also picked up the blasters they were holding when they died.

 

[Mercy]

Location: Hanna City, Institute of Antiquities

Hanna City was a mess this stage of the game.

Corsairs swarmed over it like ants on a hill. Imperials doing their best to ward them off. It was much like Meliant had told her during their little fireside chat so many weeks ago.

Anything that wasn't a Fortress World was ripe for the picking.

She hadn't been skeptical, perse, but it was nice to get some verification on the ground.

The Institute loomed over her and its sheer size just seemed to offer her bounties aplenty. The Graspborn were already inside, the smashed open doors in front of her and the caved-in windows were a hallmark to that. Every once in a while some poor attendant or other employee was thrown out of one of the openings.

Her people were not kind to soft vulnerable things. Perhaps because it reminded them too much of their own past. A sort of piercing through the haze that had inflicted them from the moment they heard the calling.

Nobody wanted to wake up and her people would sooner kill than allow it to happen.

"I hope you guys are having fun." Mercy said over the comms to Arris Windrun and Vestra Tane . "I am about to open up some history and get myself a souvenir or two." She stepped inside, stepping over a whimpering man clutching his now-broken shoulder. Inside the Graspborn were already busy pilfering and looting.

It was nice to see them in their element.

"Do you want anything, Arris?" Mercy was unaware that the cyborg was currently going through It and having a psychopathic break-down while trying to choke her opponent. Mercy truly called her on the most inopportune moments.

"I think I see a floppy disk over there. You could put it on your wall or something."

She snickered.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.”
​

Imperial troopers began to rise from the very nooks and crannies where they had died, just moments or minutes before.

The Great Qhan’s head tilted to one side. Something in the Force felt… amiss.

His brow furrowed and he stretched out his mind, probing and feeling out the shape of this new complication.

What he found was intriguing. His brow lowered further still. He thought he would recognize the handiwork of any of the great Sith sorcerers of that age. Gerra began to grasp the threads of the Dark Side, preparing to seize what had been remade with Tsaiwinnoka Hoyakut. But… perhaps he should…

Across the distance of space and time, Gerra’s mind found that of Mercy .

“Can you feel this in the city? The walking corpses. Is this your doing, Star Arm?”

UNDEAD Aron Gowrie

 

[Mercy]

Within the Institute Mercy felt nothing amiss at all.

She was like an earthquake or a tsunami, a great mass that could not discern the difference between a wave or a rock slide, too focused on the greater movement.

Only when a familiar voice entered her mind did Mercy pause her walk. She looked out the window and saw several guardsman the Graspborn had cut down begin to rise again, forcing her cultists to once again fight.

They'd have to chop them up into smaller bits.

"No, Fire-Mane." She said outloud to the ceiling, drawing a few weird looks from her people around her.

Oh, right, mentalism.

No, Fire-Mane. She thought in the direction of the Voice, trying to visualize it. Mercy sighed. She was so piss poor when it came to these sort of things.

My men are cutting them down. If you want to have your fun with them, feel free.

Hasuras Na-Gerra

 

[Orvak Kresh]

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

​

Kresh huffed a short, humorless breath as the Sith sized him up.

"Don't know if I qualify as a heavy hitter," he called back. "But nobody's ever accused me of being soft."

The red blade came up, leveled at him. Kresh raised his rifle in response, mirroring the threat. His finger hovered near the trigger, dancing just shy of commitment. He could feel the moment stretching thin.

Then the street exploded into motion.

Blasterfire tore in from the flank as another stormtrooper squad barreled into the mess, shouting over one another. Kresh didn't wait to see who they were aiming at. He dropped flat as bolts screamed overhead, carving molten scars through stone and metal. The Sith surged forward, turning the chaos into something worse, fire and force ripping through the troopers in a brutal display that Kresh only half-watched from the ground.

Opportunity.

He rolled behind a slab of broken duracrete and tore open his pack. Charges came out fast, small and ugly, slapped into place beneath rubble and twisted rebar. He worked by feel, hands steady, counting under his breath. If he was leaving Chandrila, he wanted to leave something behind. Preferably a crater where this monster had been standing.

The noise shifted. Screams cut short. Silence fell too fast.

Kresh peeked up just in time to see bodies twitch.

Then rise. ( via UNDEAD Aron Gowrie )

Stormtroopers pushed themselves upright from the street, armor cracked, twitching movements. Heads tilted at bad angles. Blasters still clutched in dead hands. One of them staggered right next to him, visor shattered, something dark and wet leaking down its chest.

"Aw, feth," Kresh muttered.

He came up on one knee and fired twice. The corpse dropped again, harder this time, skidding across the pavement. Kresh scanned the street, pulse finally spiking as more of them pulled themselves together, ignoring the living entirely as if they had somewhere else to be.

That wasn't Imperial doctrine. That wasn't Sith doctrine either. At least, not the kind he knew.

Kresh looked up toward the red-bladed figure, smoke and fire framing him like some kind of myth gone wrong.

"Is this you?" he shouted, rifle tracking between the Sith and the rising dead. "Because if it is, I'm officially filing this under 'above my pay grade.'"

His hand tightened around the detonator in his pocket, eyes flicking between targets, already planning his exit.

​

 

[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 woman's iron grip was around her throat, cold, dead eyes looming over her, staring into her soul, piercing through her. Was this woman a Human Replica Droid? She wondered. Could they use the Force? She wasn't sure. But one thing she became cognizant of as she pummelled her fists into the woman's side to seemingly no avail, was that only one of them had a lightsaber.

Casi reached out into the street, pulling her blade towards her, the blue plasma coming to life as the hilt spun through the air towards Arris, forcing the woman to choose where she wanted to be as the blade careened towards the hand of it's owner...

 

[Arris Windrun]

Direct Tag: Casi Braste
Equipment: Down & Out

The cyborg's grip tightened around the woman's throat, undeterred by the desperate pounding of fists against her rigid frame. She was unaware of the lightsaber spinning towards her until precognition warned her in the final seconds. Even then, Arris hesitated as the plasmic blade came for her head like an executioner's promise.

It sliced first through the outer shell of her right arm, then across her collar as she leaned back to avoid decapitation, releasing the imperial's throat. Sparks flew from where melted metal hissed, and there was a hint of exposed deep tissue where the lightsaber had cut, revealing a truth the Dark Jedi sought: she was no droid.

Her cybernetic thighs gripped tight against the woman's waist for stability.

Then, there was an ear-splitting bang.

In the motion of her lean, Arris had gripped her revolver - still in its holster - and fired a dense metal slug straight down at her stomach.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound Meliant UNDEAD Aron Gowrie Hasuras Na-Gerra
Armor | Helm of the Twin Suns | Nightstar
​

The resistance he’d come to expect.. wasn’t there. Of course, Cortosis explained the failure.. but not the ease of it. It didn't make things any less strange, even if Nightstar was forged as a Jedi killer. One after the other, Lysander registered it in his arms from the swing alone; the feedback was wrong. So, it slid on, and no heat bloomed. No spray of blood. In his peripheral vision, he also caught Acier coming in to capitalize.

But an impact hit him before there was ever a chance to brace for it. More than a shove, it was air folding inward and deciding to take him right along with it. The blast threw him backward, boots losing purchase, dust and stone flying out from under him. Breath was knocked from his lungs upon impact as a shoulder struck the ground first.. then landing on his back. Sparks were flickering at the edges of his vision as the longsword clattered several feet away. By instinct alone he pulled it back into his grasp with a telekinetic pull. Knees drawing under him, he rose in the same motion, his stance angling.. not angry, just irritated that he’d taken the bait.

A laugh reached him, another strangeness to the moment, how it cut in ways that blaster fire could not. He followed the sound, settling on a massive figure amid wreckage. Naturally, he took it for reinforcement.. but there was something else there too.. like a presence he knew he should place. It alluded him entirely. His attention fell back to the other Sith once more. Another answer in hand now. A sword dragged into view.. obvious even from afar. Had his foe been able to see beneath the helm, he would’ve caught the pull at the corner of Lysander's mouth.

There was nothing quite like old fashioned violence.

It always promised blood.

Then, another arrival. The Force began warping around it, a familiar pressure that registered immediately as a warning. The Dark was spreading. As if the war-torn streets couldn’t feel anymore crowded.. something was claiming space without sound. Lysander had experienced encounters of the like on a couple occasions; whatever it was, they were here to harvest.

As with all things, he accepted another challenge ahead.

Lysander didn’t need to reach for it as one might when conjuring a spell; the Dark here was already layered thick with fear and rage. The animal certainty of men who knew they were going to die. Hatred, anger.. the source no longer held any importance.

All emotion became fuel.

A putrid miasma that coated every inch of his being.

His grip on Nightstar tightened like iron, every sinew coiling as he drove off his back foot and launched forward, legs pumping out a furious pace that was far beyond his natural ability. As the distance closed, his shoulders roled as his torso twisted just enough to suggest commitment.. one he had no intention of keeping. An attempt at selling a feint. Then he slipped off the centerline with a sidestep. The sword whipped upward, before being carved down and across in a cruel diagonal arc.. an executioner's blow meant to kill.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Chandrila

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace felt the failure of resistance almost immediately. Not through knowledge or theory, but through the absence of it. Lysander's blade slid where it should have bitten, the lack of heat, the lack of blood. Smoke instead. Empty armor. Whatever stood inside that shell was not alive in any way that mattered. The realization barely had time to settle before the air folded inward and took him with it.

The kinetic blast hit like a wall snapping shut. Ace's feet left the ground, his shoulder clipping stone hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs as he went down alongside Lysander. He rolled with it, letting momentum carry him rather than fighting it, coming up into a low crouch as dust and debris settled around them. Pain registered, sharp and useful, then slid into the background as his focus snapped back to the center of the street.

Meliant had already yielded ground, he wasn't retreating, he was resetting. Ace tracked it in real time. And then came the sound: metal dragged deliberately across stone. The scrape raised sparks and something heavier beneath it, pressure coiling through the Force in a way the lightsabers hadn't carried.

When the sword came fully into view, Ace felt the difference immediately. Slower. Cruder. But anchored. The Dark clung to it, amplified and redirected through something old and intentional.

As if that weren't enough, the street itself began to shift against them. Ace felt it at the edges first: a cold, purpose-driven pull threading through the Force that lacked hunger, lacked ambition. Bodies that had been obstacles became variables. He didn't look long, he didn't need to.

His attention snapped back as Lysander surged forward again, drawing on the thickened Dark and committing to a brutal diagonal arc. Ace moved with him, slipping off the centerline as the executioner's blow carved through space. He watched the follow-through. The weight shift. The moment where commitment narrowed options.

That was the opening Ace chose. He stepped in hard on the flank, blue blade coming up to threaten space rather than clash. His first strike was compact, angled to force the sword to answer rather than finish; testing how the heavier weapon recovered under pressure. He followed immediately with a second cut from the opposite line, not lingering long enough to be pinned, but hopefully forcing Meliant to account for him without giving up ground.

Ace rotated out a half-step as he reset. He didn't rush to overextend. Not again. Instead, he shifted position once more, subtly herding the fight away from the rising dead and back into a narrower corridor of control.

Then he moved again, closing distance with intent this time - ready to see what the Elite would do when pressure came from more than one direction and space was no longer something he could afford to waste.

Lysander von Ascania | Meliant | UNDEAD Aron Gowrie | Hasuras Na-Gerra​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"There is neither water nor air here, its depth is unfathomable, it is as dark as the darkest night, and men wander about here helplessly"
​

Gerra’s eyes watched his brother’s fight. His mind was elsewhere.

“Very well, Star Arm.”

Reaching out in the Force, he began to weave powerful sorcery, pulling at the fabric of reality and the nature of life and death. He saw the edges of this Unlife pervading through the city. And he quite liked the shape of it. Wished to give it over more fully. Why keep such an unnatural force caged up and controlled?

He began to chant, the words leaving his lips in a low and guttural hum as the Sith magic stretched out from him to blanket the city.

This would take time.

But when complete, the effects of the spell Tsaiwinnoka Hoyakut would fall across the whole city and ravage it afresh.

Behind him, more corsairs made off with loot, taking to shuttles. The raid of the city drew to a close. Smoke rose in pillars all around them.

Meliant Acier Moonbound Lysander von Ascania UNDEAD Aron Gowrie Mercy

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin stood still amongst the dead around him, they laid broken beneath his might. Every heart beat snuffed away by his hand.

He turned to face the sniper again, stopping mid step when he heard a wet cracking sound, like bones rearranging and snapping back together.

His gaze slowly turned back to see the squads pick themselves up, their weapons hung loosely in their hands. Cracked helmets revealing lifeless eyes of undead servitude. One being knocked back down after taking two blaster bolts.

Varin glared in silence as they began to shamble.

“No, I prefer the dead to stay in the ground when I crush them.”

He took his stance to face the horde before them.

“Whether its above your pay grade or not, you are here now, and your life depends on you for survival.”

The smoke tendrils curled around his back once more, before snaking along the ground towards the undead, wrapping some of them in superheated smoke.

Varin finally moved. Like the earth beneath his feet bowed to his momentum, the air clung around him as heat rose from his armor. He dashed towards the small group in front of him, his ignited saber cutting through the walking cadavers and incinerating any flesh that met his blade. They would then crawl.

A growl left his throat as he disengaged his saber and holstered the hilt, extending his hand.

“The grave calls you all back home.”

His voice was quiet, the only sound filling the air was the groaning of the undead. Before flames erupted from his fingers, wrapping around the corpses. Their screams filled the air as the flames of dark side energy began to break them down to nothing but coal and ash. Happening so fast the smell of burnt flesh did not even linger.

His other hand extended as more flames rocketed out of his fingers towards another group. The entire alleyway started to engulf in violent flame as the screams of the burning undead sung into the air, a symphony of agony and infernal chaos.

Orvak Kresh​

 

[UNDEAD Aron Gowrie]

TAGS
Meliant Darth Keres Damien Zannen Casi Braste

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

SAGRONA TEEMA
II

​

Hennan Battlefront,
Chandrila, Deep Core Territories (903 ABY)

'No - point.... Nothing left - here.'
​

Resting a cursory grip on the pauldron of the flame-haired warrior, slowly shaking his head with no animosity implied, the Harbinger's expression remained blank as he admitted,'The tar is - enough. An' time.... Does the rest.', letting the pauldron go as he turned his attention to the battlefront beyond. The gesture would have left a lasting impression, but with mounting infection-rates considered, the damage had seemingly been done already, and if not, then time, as the undead host had admitted, would certainly make sure of that. Whoever was marionetting Gowrie's corpse, unnamed though he remained, had rightly been treating his puppet as a bioweapon, showcasing just one offering from the realm's arsenal of last-option, eleventh-hour terrors.

'See for yourself.'

The moment has come.
CONSIGN THE TAR TO THE SURFACE!!!!
​

As much as the Harbinger wished to watch the burning horizon with the others, the sudden growl from within left no such illusions behind, and with it, a rising bile of burning-hot tar would rise up from his gut before he could get around to warning the others. Then after a few moments of serene silence, the shuddering spasms soon decided to made a second appearance, though this time the undead Goidel would remain upright until his nervous system forced his extremities to curl inward, unleashing the burning, viscous tar from mouth, tearducts and ears as soon as his shoulder clashed with the ground beneath.

The retching was especially violent, made all the worse when Gowrie's Tethers returned to their conduit, amplifying the tar-output until it started to pool around his entire body, a suffering of which a majority of living souls could not endure. Pitiful though it was, and despite the lack of autonomy that doomed him to endure it every time, the Harbinger was much too dead within to comprehend a need to complain, to roil and rage against his puppeteer. His soul was still in it's eternal resting-place, far from the strings of wicked, devious entities, thus the corpse was resigned to obey the commands of a hidden power, and for as long as the puppeteer continued to enjoy his favourite marionette.

'If you - live.... Then leave.'

​

One last moment of clarity, one brief window of tarless opportunity on his larynx, this was all that Aron could afford the warriors standing on both sides of the fight, that one, laconic warning before the undead mob began to disobey the Harbinger's commands. With living, uninfected meat still walking the surface, there was only so much a conduit could do to hold back the swarm of walking cadavers, and for as long as both sides remained, it only made sense to caution those who wished to live. Yet for all that could be elaborated by functional, living voices, Gowrie could only manage so much, but something happened when he reached that eventual limit; just when it seemed that the tarry pool would continue expanding, every drop would suddenly scatter across the ground in every direction, inadvertently illustrating the Harbinger's point as he made to stand once more.

Rising with the undead Goidel, the very last bodies to rise, and rise with him, would coincidentally be the elements who perished in the early clashes between raider contingents, giving renewed purpose to the dead from Khanate and Qhanate alike. Some would look past this small gathering, some would look to the Harbinger, and some would even snarl in the general direction of the living, but all would walk past in search of that which they were permitted to infect. The last of whom (moving as a serf to his puppeteer's nature) was Gowrie himself, though he stopped in his tracks, and just long enough to groan,'Go.... Home.', gargling the swansong of his vocal capabilities.

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

[EXIT THREAD]

 

[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 lightsaber hit its mark well enough for the desperate attempt that flinging towards Arris was. The saber clattered again onto the duracrete, this time on the other side of the two women. Casi tried to squirm free, but heard the bang and instantly felt the pain punching through her abdomen. She screamed out in agony.

Her Jedi training told her to breathe, to focus past the pain on the task at hand, at the greater good. A shot to the gun was no reason to deter her from her goal of protecting Hanna City. But her Sith training, it told her to rage. Her vision filled with red, her mouth filled with blood. The pain pulsed through her entire nervous system, and in that moment, she let go of rationale. She let the Force flow through her hate, letting it be her weapon against this women who seemed to be her better. Casi reached out a hand, unable to grasp Arris' throat physically, but able to bend the Force around her neck in a Force Choke fueled by her pain.

 

[Orvak Kresh]

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

​

Kresh watched the Sith wade into the dead like it was a problem meant for him alone. Fire poured from his hands, clean and vicious, reducing bodies to ash before they could finish standing. The alley became an oven. Screams rose and vanished just as fast.

"Well," Kresh muttered, pushing himself up, "guess that answers that."

Another corpse lurched toward him. He shot it through the chest and kept moving, angling closer to the Sith despite every instinct screaming against it. Staying put meant getting boxed in. Staying alone meant getting eaten. He slid in behind Varin's wake, using the scorched ground and falling bodies as cover, picking off anything that slipped past the flames.

"Left," Kresh called once, sharp and quick.

He didn't wait for acknowledgment. He fired, dropped one, then another. The heat made his eyes water, skin itching under borrowed features. This was temporary. Tactical. He told himself that twice.

The undead kept coming, shambling through fire like they had nothing left to lose. Kresh adjusted, backing up as he shot, counting steps, measuring space. He could feel the charges under the rubble behind him, the escape route forming in his head. The Sith was effective, terrifyingly so, but Kresh had no intention of sticking around to see how that story ended.

"Hey," he shouted over the noise, voice tight, "you're doing great work."

He shoved outward with his shoulder, creating space, breaking contact. The moment the pressure eased, he pivoted and snapped the grenade launcher into position. The under-barrel thumped against his shoulder as he aimed past Varin, into the densest knot of burning dead closing in around him.

"Try not to take this personal," Kresh said.

He fired.

​