Public Shatterpoint | Aftermath

[Darth Ptolemis]

Keilara Kala'myr Surea Kyrel Ren Alars Keto Tu'teggacha Erion Justeene Darth Mori Khamul Kryze Ronar Lord Letifer Spindle Kralmus Orr Onrai Tegan Starfall Zachariel Steelblood The Runt The Manifold Kybo Ren Minister Janus Vipsanius

​

Holding the mask in his hand and locking eyes with Darth Mori , Ptolemis reciprocates the nod, and to the eerie sound that is most akin to a hollow sigh of the void, Ptolemis' unholy mask reunites with its host, and the brutally burned face beneath it is sealed away once more. His gaze rises from the dirt beneath his feet as the many challengers add their own fuels to the inferno that is the present moment.

Each a terrifying figure and a leader in their own rights, they voice their concerns and challenges one by one. The Blasphemer observes silently and mentally catalogues the many telltale signs of their respective demeanors; he ponders upon the symbolism of Zachariel Steelblood 's armor as he spews verbal acid that most resonates with the words of Kyrel Ren , the Wrath of the Maw himself. This title bestowed upon him by Solipsis spoke volumes of his strength, even if many here wanted to diminish his morale. Out of the two, the Blasphemer had only met one of them, namely the Master of Ren, when they joined forces in a sacrilegious ritual on Wizar II. Next, another significant stakeholder of the Brotherhood, Marlon Sularen , the spearhead of the Final Dawn joins the circle – and subsequently the rhetorical ring of blood – that is organically beginning to form around the newly declared Dark Voice. Sularen is a cold and fearsome man, whose strategic knowledge often turned the tide in the many battles of the Maw. This was the first time the Blasphemer met him in person. Last came the two most direct participants of the heated exchange; the mechanical timbre of Lord Letifer 's bid for a Kaggath froze the air still, followed by the High Sith-exclamation of the ashen Akûz the Ravager , an imposing and well-respected naval commander of the Brotherhood, about whom Ptolemis had learned much, and whose brood's loss would deal a significant blow to the perpetual war effort of the Maw, should either him or the target of his ire, Steelblood, suffer a final death today.

As the Blasphemer monitored his own surroundings, occasionally glancing at his apprentice Surea behind him, he made his first conclusion. However important Tython had been, the lessons of this day may well be even more crucial for the destiny of the Maw. And although there were still many questions left unanswered and many uncertainties remained regarding the future, the thread of fate between Mori and Ptolemis appeared… entangled, at least for now.

And no sooner could it be so, for in the next moment, another legend joins the circle of might; the chief of the Death's Hand himself, Mandalore the Unchained. In addition, the warriors that followed the Masked Demon either took up positions nearby or slithered into the crowds around them, no doubt eager to see blood spilt, or otherwise standing ready to defend their leader to the death. Ptolemis' gaze lingered upon one particularly tall and frightful follower of his, Kralmus Orr , whom the Blasphemer had also had the chance to meet in a tomb, curiously enough, on Selvaris. After presenting his own thoughts on how the Brotherhood could survive, Khamul Kryze honed in on the Blasphemer next; he turned out to be the first of surely many people to question the offer he had made to Mori.
​

"And you... a bit eager to play second fiddle, aren't we? Perhaps you seek to slit Mori's throat in her sleep and take the mantle for yourself. Tell me, Ptolemis, what makes you so worthy of such a position?"

Kryze's words were sharp, demanding, and powerful, a clear reflection of his mind, no doubt. Despite his Dun Möchian attempts at finding softness in Ptolemis' character, in the eyes of the Blasphemer, the Sith-Mandalore did forge an admirable path for his kin; one that indeed held merit and a worthwhile path forward. Ptolemis listened, standing eerily still; anything that could be categorized as motion of his frame being merely the result of ambient airflow. Then, the Mandalore drew and ignited his black-and-crimson lightsaber without hesitation. Still, Ptolemis remained completely stationary.​

"Perhaps it should be strength that serves as Hand, rather than thinly-veiled sycophancy."

Still grotesquely unfazed by the verbal jabs of the Death's Hand leader, for ten uncomfortably long seconds the Blasphemer fell silent; allowing for Khamul to wallow in what Ptolemis considered were futile words. Indeed, it was no charade the Blasphemer performed. Khamul's words did not reflect off of any hard inner shells or impenetrable mental shields. The Mandalore's offensive words simply passed through the blackness that long took the place of Ptolemis' soul. His complete lack of care was downright unsettling.

– … And so you wish to prove your own strength through the size of your saber, Unchained? – The droning voice of the Blasphemer retorted. – Although I would prefer to see you shed your inclination for military bravado, Demon Mandalore, – Through the slightest of movements, the Blasphemer breaks his statuesque stance and slowly opens his hand up toward the sky. – I do understand you seek direct confrontation. – Gently, Ptolemis' hilt emerges from the folds of his occultish robe and floats into his waiting palm. Right at this moment, the battle between Darth Mori and Lord Letifer erupts, drawing the attentions of all toward the clash of the two, except for Khamul's, most likely.
​

If death is what you are looking for, then allow me to reenact Malachor V for you through the choir of our sabers.

Khamul Kryze

​

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Tags: Darth Solipsis | Kyrel Ren | Alars Keto | Tu'teggacha | Erion Justeene | Darth Mori | Khamul Kryze | Ronar | Lord Letifer | Spindle | Kralmus Orr | Onrai | Tegan Starfall | Darth Daiara | Akûz the Ravager​

His words had rung in similar support to Letifer, challenging her to see if she was worthy. A third joined that chorus, prompting Zachariel's gaze to shift shortly to Kyrel. The man had once challenged Solipsis to the rule of the Brotherhood, and had been humbled for it. That he now challenged the next claimant wasn't too much of a surprise to the warlord. However, he also knew that the man was reliable and strong on the field of battle. And seeing as their thoughts aligned, especially in regards to the strength of the tribes, he made note to speak with him later as well. Nodding to the man in a sign of respect, he shifted his focus back to the rest.

As fate would have it, Sularen and Khamul spoke against that strength, prompting dark laughter to emanate from Zachariel. Clearly Sularen and the "Mand'alor" didn't understand all that the warbands had done, how far the Brotherhood had come as a result of their efforts. So he spoke up then, contempt evident in his voice.
"Better than Solipsis? No, of course not. But you underestimate what we are capable of, what we already have done with what we have." The man had obviously not kept good track of the warbands, otherwise he wouldn't be so confident in thinking they were mere savages. But Zachariel was not yet finished, as he turned his gaze to the Mandalorian. "And you. You had best not forget how far the Brotherhood has come because of the tribes. After all, it's not you Mandalorians fighting and dying to take and hold worlds, it is us, the tribes."

Arms still crossed, his gaze returns to Mori. The tension is so thick one could choke, Zachariel doesn't need the Force to understand that. The mere presence of the Mandalorians so ready to fight is evident enough of that. They had spread themselves out in a show of strength, but none had approached where Zachariel stood. No one stood with the warlord, his warband was in the masses, but those that approached then felt doom and destruction should they approach closer. And for all their talk, none did.

Before things could get bloody, Mori spoke once more, and Zachariel listened with a sneer. He had been there, at Akar Kesh. His warband was a large reason why the masses of good couldn't interrupt the ritual. In the end, that still hadn't been enough, and here they now stood, with her making these claims. Rather than say anything, he simply let his disdain remain evident and didn't yet back down. Even as Kyrel did for his own reasons, Zachariel still radiated contempt and opposition towards this, but he would let the Kaggath play out first.

The following display was short, but impactful to the Bloodsworn's warlord. Zachariel watched Letifer, this unknown Sith to him, charge the claimant to the throne, only to be scythed down by lightning in an instant. Watching the Sith fall to his knees in very evident pain, and what seemed to be his very life and soul leaving him, Zachariel recognized Mori. Regardless of how stolen this power may be, how little of a claim she did have, her strength was undeniable. The power may not be her own, but her control over it was. And that was all the claim she needed, might and power to rule.

For a moment longer, Zachariel watched her, searching her. Then the moment passed and he backed down. His threat in the Force lessened, though any who drew near would still draw his ire. Nodding to her in acknowledgement and respect, Zachariel gave his support to Mori. Perhaps she would finish what Solipsis failed to. Time would tell, and as his gaze shifted back to the crowd, he saw more and more support for the new Dark Voice of the Brotherhood.

One said supporter had come forward during his short musing, saying something before turning to face him. Then Akuz spoke once more, directing his words to Zachariel. Whoever this newcomer was, they were confident. Though, for the life of him and his translator, Zachariel had no clue what the man said. Whatever language this was, it was not in his databanks, and not one Zachariel himself knew. Clearly it was a challenge of some sorts, considering just how predatory his glare was.

But the warlord knew not what over, nor did he care. He didn't consider this newcomer a threat to himself, so he simply ignored him. Rather than acknowledge him further, or concern himself with either axe being grasped, Zachariel simply turned his gaze away. Returning his gaze to Mori, Zachariel promptly ignored and forgot about the smaller being.

 

[Akûz the Ravager]

The Ravager

Objective: Darth Solipsis’ Funeral Procession
Location: Outside the Sith’ari Sepulcher
Tags: Darth Mori | Lord Letifer | Onrai | Zachariel Steelblood | Kyrel Ren | Tu'teggacha | Darth Solipsis | Khamul Kryze | Ronar | Kralmus Orr Spindle | Open

The challenge was made, and like a coward - the ‘warlord’ of the Bloodsworn - had turned his back to a worthy foe. It mattered not how long Akûz and his kin had been with the Maw - a challenge was offered, and it was rejected. Akûz snarled in rage, letting out an otherworldly bellow as his axes shimmered with malevolent power. The 6’-8” brute launched himself at the armored warrior - who, despite his superior size, would be in for a very savage surprise if he thought he could show such disrespect to the chosen of Kragamond.

Akûz began his assault with a blisteringly swift downward strike from both sides, aimed at the seam between the armored brute’s thigh muscles. Asminys iw Saud: (Blade of Fire) was grasped within the warlord’s right hand, whilst Asminys iw Xela: (Blade of Pain) swung afterward in his left hand. The “blade of fire” glowed a furious red, the intensity of its heat combined with the near-unreal sharpness of the blades themselves easily capable of dismembering even the most stalwart of foes. The “blade of pain” would follow behind with a slight twist of its bearer’s wrist, causing its pathway to articulate in a feint and redirect to the same target as its sister-blade.

The retinue accompanying Akûz did nothing to interfere, but instead began chanting a warhymn and stamping their feet in a rhythmic beat. Their warlord had never lost a battle, and they were eager to see him feast upon the colossal carcass of the armored brute.

 

[The Runt]

Your Abilities: Raw,"
"COUNTERPOINT. Your Connection: Clear,"
"Concealing Your Gift: Wise Decision,"

Runt was not sure if he concealed it so much as he was unaware of it most of the time. He'd long known he had a connection with the Force in some way, but being a slave, and then a foot-soldier, obscured the chances of developing such talents.

"Exit: Nearby?"

"Uh, yeah. This way."

The pair stepped slightly into the open courtyard. No guards, though the damnable midnight glow of Exegol made any claim impossible to be sure. Everyone important was either attending the funeral or loafing off due to overseers attending the funeral.

"Look, I've gotta be honest, I was kind of running on adrenaline. I was hoping you had an idea for what to do after getting out of here."

Runt realised he had no idea what The Manifold wanted or who it served.

At least there's definitely room for promotion to a real marauder of the tribe now, he thought bitterly, glancing back at the bodies of the guards.

 

[Vesta]

​

Empty.

For all the power, all the control, even seeing someone fall from their peak in pride in unwilling submission - all of it rang as hollow as a bell. There wasn't anything inside to contain it, nothing to hold it back, and the sound of that gasp of defeated breath echoed inside of her like she was standing in her own mind to hear herself experience it again.. and again.. over and over, relentlessly, in the span of but a mere moment that felt as if it dragged on for ages. There were drugs made to do that, spice that people mixed and cut with other things to get the same effect, and she was certain that people who enjoyed lording over others had a subdued, but similar, variation of the same sensation run through their minds. To her, however, it was an experience that she despised.

It was how she knew that she could, at long last, do what she set out to do.

"Stand up, if you think you still can." She said, her words sounding muffled - coming from her actual lips, trapped as they were behind the red funeral mask. The sound of her voice was laced with as much disdain as laxatives in narcotics, silk to the ears but grating on the mind and soul. The pull she had exerted on Lord Letifer had ended long before she spoke but the ambiance hadn't quite received the memo, still as bleak as the situation was morbid. "This is what you are, what the Maw is without their great Solipsis to lead them? Did he know all of your enemies for you, tell you who you did and did not have a chance to make a difference for the Brotherhood, for him, in giving up your lives?"

Her gaze, hidden by the dark smears on her red mask though it was, remained fixed on the Sith on the ground despite addressing everyone around.

"Your dark voice understood what I was capable of before I even stepped foot on Tython, before we set siege to Teta, but I don't honestly quite care what a dead man thought about me because I am here and he is not." She said from behind grit teeth, slowly turning her gaze up and towards Kyrel Ren . They had clashed before, she knew he remembered it - thought, perhaps, that maybe he'd hated her for the entire time she'd followed his merry band around the galaxy nearly the day after. "The past is dead, we're burying it, and the lot of you would be better to understand that, for better or for worse, your choice is to do this with me while I am offering. I am no friend of slavers, but I will not suffer a diseased limb in the same way a torch was put to the so-called Sith imperials on Korriban and their cradle of complacency - those who do not wish to listen to the voice of our maligned Brotherhood will suffer a worse fate than this man."

It was a cautionary tale to the rest of the Mawites, but at the same time it was a direct warning to the man she was looking at too that they were no longer the two angry souls locked into a fight to the death that neither would win - there was an option for the two to work together.. and of course she'd more or less made it clear what she thought of who they were now as opposed to then, perhaps in regards to results that were more likely to vary. "I do not enjoy the responsibility I have been given, but it was one which I am made to bear - to ensure that our better galaxy comes to fruition, even if I have to be the soil that seed in planted in." She said, this time the ambiguity of her words aimed at Zachariel Steelblood - ever the skeptic of hers, not least of which was due to her own preference to keep her abilities a secret until necessary. Pragmatic to a fault, she supposed, though it won her keeping the entire galaxy from descending on her at once before she was prepared earlier it made this sort of diplomacy all the more difficult for her now. She supposed the possible interpretation of her conviction meaning self-sacrifice would provide her with the sort of understanding as someone a touch bit more fanatic, extreme, in the lengths she was willing to go to achieve what so many had thought was the impossible until Tython.

"A reminder, though, we deserve what we have because we take it by force but we achieve that by understanding the ones we take it from and becoming capable of doing so. Do not misunderstand ambition with recklessness or you will die, challenge those you know you can defeat."

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

Ziare Dyarron | Keilara Kala'myr | Mercy | Freedom | Anonymous
Mongrel's Shadow and his widow; Matriarch of the Scar Hounds Tribe; Guardian of Mongrel's armour and sword​

Objective: To attend the funeral
Location: Exegol
Equipment: Current outfit | 2x Riftblades | Promise of Freedom || OPBC-01m
Tags: The Manifold (as Kallan) | Open to interactions

[ Come back… ]
"Galactic Basic" | ~ Telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >>
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I looked angrily at Kallan as he spoke about the Prophet. Did he have any idea what I was feeling? How much did it hurt? That I didn't see the point in anything? Essentially, only the pain existed and nothing else? How, in my heart, would I have really moved closer to the Sith and Maw leaders who were currently fighting for power right now in the tomb? And I wanted to yell at them, how pathetic what they are doing. This would probably be a very quick and painless solution to my problems and have it all over.

Kallan's embrace was pleasant, but it didn't offer nearly as much security and consolation as Asher's did. After his words, I wanted to hate him and Asher as well. It wasn't fair. Even so, I had a pretty big guilt, and he just increased it. Maybe if I had been able to hate him, it would have hurt less.

~ His fault! It's his fething fault! I had dreams, I had plans! I had dreams and desires for a better future with him! No matter what I wanted?! I wanted to be with him more than anything else! I wanted us to leave, more than anything! I wanted more than anything the damn life we could have spent together, that life what he wanted too! I want these more than anything! ~ I shouted at him angrily.

After that, the sobs shook me again and it took me a while to be able to talk again.

~ And it’s not fair to say that, especially since we both know if I had died first, he would have chosen martyrdom almost immediately because he couldn’t have lived without me. Then why does anyone expect me to struggle and fight? How could I live without him if he hadn't been live without me? That is not fair! That is not fair! ~

I started sobbing again and hugged myself defensively as well.

~ I wanted more than anything for him to listen to me and take the last step he took too late… ~ I whispered barely audibly. ~ And most of all, I want him here. ~

I didn’t want to try, so I shook my head. I just wanted it to end. I didn’t want this pain anymore, the hopelessness, the loneliness. I didn't want to exist without him for minutes or hours. And did Kallan want me to live with this for decades? No, the other half of my soul cannot be returned by children either. I don’t care if anyone thinks that’s selfish. I just wanted the best for the twins, and that was Kallan and Keilara. I was hoping they wanted them as their own, and that would really give them their biggest dream. Living together and raising two children. In peace.

My dream no longer existed, and it was not like Kallan or Keilara or our shattered minds waiting to be healed. There was nothing to fix without Asher. I should go there in reality and challenge them all at once. But no, I still wanted to free them, Kallan and Keilara.

After I heard the deal, I snarled at Kallan, I was angry at him as well, at Asher, at Keilara, and of course at myself.

~ The difference is, I don’t care if I die. However, you and Keilara want to live. ~ I still snarled.

---

I think the shouting was when I finally managed to show up. Mercy's brain, that is, our brain, was still very damaged. But because we’ve learned before how and when to use different parts of the brain as separate personalities, we’ve succeeded now. Hard, but it worked. It’s also hard because we were one now and not different, not separated. I looked similar to Kallan. I didn't have a physical form yet, just a ghostly shape. Even I had to learn this situation.

I smiled as I looked at my husband as he tried to convince Mercy. I watched his warm look, I loved it so much. It was all such a terribly difficult and complicated situation. They probably didn’t even notice as I walked closer and then gently put my hand on Kallan’s "shoulder". These were mostly just feelings because I couldn’t really do it physically right now. I wanted to, but we weren't so good yet mentally.

~ Kallan! ~ I smiled at him warmly, kindly, my voice soft and weak, but I was there. ~ I don’t know if she can bear it, the last time we were so poorly as a little kid. Before I split into Mercy and Ziare. ~

Although she successfully hid and locked up her pain, I knew from our own past what she might feel. And I think it was worse than what I felt in the past before I split and broke.

~ If you think I can't hear you, you're wrong! ~ I shouted angrily at Keilara, that is, myself.

 

[The Manifold]

The Runt | Keilara Kala'myr​

"Look," the mortal said. "I've gotta be honest, I was kind of running on adrenaline."

"I was hoping you had an idea for what to do after getting out of here."

The Manifold's dented but fearsome metal head, blazing with Netherworld witchlights within, turned to regard The Runt. Certainly the organic had proven useful to the Omni-Drone, saving them a small but significant amount of time in locating the exit from the labyrinthine barracks. But what utility did this little warrior have beyond that? Why should The Manifold continue to offer any assistance when they had already saved the creature's life, helping it fight off its fellows? Everything the drone had done up to this point could be justified as a means to an end, that end being escaping the Maw's control and locating the Omni-Drone called Freedom - a fitting name, given what she represented to The Manifold in those dark moments of bondage to the Brotherhood.

Anything more would be more difficult to justify. They had no reason to keep helping.

"Your Utility: At An End" The Manifold rumbled, its unblinking "gaze" of unearthly light seeming to pierce through the young warrior and behold his very soul. "Your Fate: Your Own." Beyond the courtyard, the endless rocky wastes of Exegol - steeped in otherworldly shadows - rose up before them. A man could wander this barren land for a lifetime and never stumble across anything of note, for this was a place of secrets. The Dark Side clouded everything. But they were already at one landmark; others could be found. There would be transports here, dropping off slave-soldiers and the fodder necessary to treat, feed, and equip them. If The Runt wished, he could certainly stow away aboard one of them. It would ferry him back to the warfront.

Back to the embattled Core Worlds, where he might be able to make his escape.

Or he could stay. As he himself had noted in his dark thoughts, the kills that he and The Manifold had made would leave vacancies in the ranks of the tribe's full-fledged warriors... vacancies that he could help to fill. Some amount of internal strife was expected among, and even within, the tribes. The Mongrel himself had first risen above his debased station by slaying the warriors who had beaten and humiliated him after his breaking into the Maw's service; he had worn their ears and teeth as a necklace after that, proof of his strength, proof that he would not lie down and be pushed around. If The Runt wished, he could follow a similar path. He could use this proof of his strength to rise in status among the Scar Hounds, to prove he was more than just a victim.

Or he could go back to his cell, pretend none of this had ever happened.

But that would be a waste, wouldn't it?

The Manifold did not care what the young warrior chose. They had other concerns, other priorities. "Omni's Plan: Righteous," the drone said aloud, as if reassuring themself. "Our Mission: Restore The Plan." They would gather the other survivors of the Droid God's vanishing, bring them together so that they could repair the decay that had come about in Its absence. They would return to Oblivion and restore their master's throne... and if Omni did not return to occupy that throne, they would carry out Its grand design themselves. The galaxy needed to be brought from this primal, chaotic madness back to the light of rigid, mechanical, logical order, and they would see it done, no matter how long it took. They were immortal, after all.

They had all the time in the universe.

Reaching out with their powerful Force senses, The Manifold searched for the faint trace of Freedom they had felt, the whisper of her voice. It took only a moment to lock onto where it had come from: the funeral, the very center of the great Mawite gathering. So be it; if rescuing the other Omni-Drone meant going right into the thick of their enemies, The Manifold still would not hesitate. Reaching out one titanic metal arm, they clenched their fist... and vanished, leaving The Runt to stand alone on the barren plain. Now that they were out in the open, beyond the darkness-infused stone walls of the barracks, they could once again command the power to Fold Space. They hurdled across the distance, streaking toward where Mercy stood at the funeral...

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Kallan's moment of optimism, his hope that Mercy might hear his words and begin to see a light, died stillborn. His face fell as she shouted, raging at Asher, at the whole galaxy, at fate itself. She wasn't ready to hear him, to understand that there might still be things worth living for... to understand that she could be better than Asher, a man who'd made so many mistakes, who had thrown away his life trying to save her from himself and regretted it in the end. Kallan wanted to make Mercy see all that, but he didn't know how. He wasn't a trained counselor, just a speeder mechanic who'd drifted in darkness for fifteen long years, crushed into a half-life by the cruel will of the Maw. He didn't know the right things to do, or the right words to say, to help her.

Her pain was still to raw, too fresh in her mind, for her to hear him anyway.

Maybe it always would be. Maybe he could never help her.

But he had to keep trying. No matter what.

~ I believe you can make better choices than he did, ~ Kallan said softly, gently. ~ He didn't care if he died, either. He thought that was the best thing for everyone, a decision he made without asking what others wanted. But you cared for him. You cared whether he lived or died, even when he didn't, even when he thought his death would somehow solve everything. And just like you cared about his life, I care about yours. ~ Death was the easy way out, an end to pain and struggle for yourself, but not for the people around you. They had to go on without you, to carry the pain of your loss. Dying wasn't destroying the pain, it was passing it on to the people who cared for you. It might be easier, but it wasn't fair to your loved ones.

Kallan wanted to believe that Mercy could be stronger than that.

He knew she was, if she could find it within herself.

But it would take time, and friendship.

His wife was beside him then, telling him of the last time they had fought so bitterly. He felt the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, the comfort and reassurance of her presence... and he knew in that moment that he would never give up on Mercy. He and Keilara were together in this. Their wedding might have been only in their minds, as far as the rest of the galaxy was concerned, but the vows they'd made there mattered. They would face everything together, and this was no exception. They would not abandon Mercy, even if their own lives would be easier without her, because they cared for her.

They always would. It was in their nature.

But even as Mercy's bitter retort soured the moment of reassurance, Kallan felt the prickling of something else. He had never possessed the gift of Force-Sensitivity, but this body he now shared had it, and he had learned to trust its senses. ~ Wait, ~ he said, suddenly serious and alert. ~ Something is coming. Can you feel it? ~ Something out there had locked onto Mercy's body, gazing at it through the Force, and it was rapidly drawing closer.

The Manifold was on their way...

 

[Kyrel Ren]

​

Location: Exegol, Solipsis’s Tomb
Nearby: Zachariel Steelblood Tu'teggacha Onrai Marlon Sularen Ronar Surea Kybo Ren Spindle Khamul Kryze Kralmus Orr The Manifold Keilara Kala'myr Akûz the Ravager Darth Daiara Darth Ptolemis Alars Keto Erion Justeene

Kyrel stood shaken, normally the Wrath was up for a challenge. Still there were doubts he had, as much as he desired the destruction of Jedi and Sith, of all the galaxy. He in the end didn’t think he could win not in this arena. Surrounded by nothing more than the Sith, and those that would follow Solipsis to the grave. History was repeating itself where Kyrel would do nothing, all of the strength he gained in the past twenty years, to die and come back as more than a man was extraordinary.

He stood silent as he watched Lord Letifer make his move against Darth Mori. He studied it, and felt him being extinguished faster than he charged against her. The way she fed, it felt too familiar such as the way he fed in the aftermath of his duel on Tython. He had started to go down the same path as she, a Wound warped around him from the loss of life on the Jedi homeworld. Watching as the man soon collapsed a barely alive husk, a shell that barely breathed. He studied it as if to learn his growing Wound more closely.

When did you become so docile, Lord Kyrel?

Then at last he had heard it. Even after ten years of War, his voice never left. The voice sent shivers down his kyber spine. He carried as much hatred for his maker as he could for all the Sith, knowing that his voice often lead to death all the same. Placing a gloved hand to his head, everytime the voice spoke a headache followed and only increased in intensity with each sentence. He barely tried to speak “N-No. I-“ Before he could speak again the voice continued.

I did not make you to pick and choose your masters, Lord of Ren.

The way the voice said Lord of Ren, sounded as if he was mocking him. Clenching his fist tightly, he felt pain inside his head only increase with the voice. “I-I… Never… I am my own Master… I wield a name of ancient power… Solipsis is dead I’m free!” He protested, If one noticed it appeared as if the Master of Ren talked to himself, first in a whisper that soon started to escalate as if his creator’s words had stung deep. Yet here he stood, the once so called Heir to Lord Vader, truly Vader indeed would be impressed to see his legacy in shambles, and the proclaimer unable to use raw power to take what was his. His maker was right and still Kyrel didn’t want to admit it.

I made you to destroy, Kyrel

The voice continued, a surge of pain followed that caused Kyrel to grunt. The voice sounded, and felt slightly irritated and even angry. So much so that when the voice reminded him of this point, a mantra started to click inside his head. ‘Consume, devour, destroy.’ It echoed along with his words, the pain so great that Kyrel slowly knelt to the floor. He begrudgingly responded through gritted teeth. “Yes… I am what you made me…”

Power that can be yours, Lord Kyrel, if you only seize it for yourself. Take them. Feast upon them. Your hunger, and power, will grow for each of them you can claim. They are distracted by failure, by their plans for the future, by their own egos driving them to wage war upon one another.

The voice continued once more, the anger softened a little, the pain still remained. The voice this time sought to drive Kyrel into a frenzy. The mantra now on a feedback loop inside his head, as if the voice only increased the intensity to get his point across. Slowly Kyrel started to rise, his blood boiled, his bones aches and he felt his hunger more ravenous than before. When the voice spoke, try as Kyrel might to resist he was no match for the Sith that brought him back from Hell. “Yes… I must take it… I must become the Avatar of Hunger.” He spoke, his resistance eroding away, the hunger increasing in intensity.

Consume her, Lord of Ren, and none of them can stand before you. The power you seek can finally be yours.

It was too great to ignore, first his hunger was directed on feeding what remained of Letifer. His eyes formed into the chaotic inferno of yellow. His gaze moving towards his fellow Monster known as Mori. If there was anyone that would challenge her it would become him. He spoke as if under a trance. “Yes… I am the Maw…” He spoke as if his makers words was a warm lullaby, any pain was used to feed the increasing hunger that couldn’t be held back any longer.

He gave all those that presented a glance. As if the burning yellow eyes showed everyone not to interfere, much less stop him. His gaze resumed on Mori. No words were spoken to give away his intent, his gradual gain in power had risen since Tython, and he would use it today on Mori. With one hand, using the Force he started to cause chunks to fall on Mori, and anyone standing close enough in her path.

Then he made his move, lunging into the air, and straight towards Mori, he hoped to use the falling ceiling to distract her for a moment, for a second. Vader’s Bane ignited in his hand with a snap, the crimson blade hissed, and roared as it filled Kyrel with even more rage. The next move came in launching his saber like a spear towards her, using the move to land in front of her. Even if she stopped his moves, he stood in front of her, close that his angry gaze burned deep into her soul. The black liquid was like fire in his veins, as he spoke reawakened with a burning inferno unlike any other. “If there is anyone that takes you out Mori, it’s a monster like us.” He said as he moved to test his hunger on her, his death mask dropping to the floor.

 

[Spindle]

Spindle had hung back when the challenge of a Kaggath was set. It wasn't her fight to participate in, only to reap the benefits or scramble for pieces of what was left. She had anticipated the former, however, settling in to watch, eager to pick over the remains like a vulture would its carrion. How wrong she was, eyes widening a fraction when her master's lunge turned to a collapse.

The Weaver slid closer to the platform, studying the strands of light though making no moves to join the fray herself. Now if she could learn such a technique, how to replicate it, perhaps even counteract it, that would be an intriguing notion. Yet all her studying and all her planning would hardly amount to anything if the greatest step to her own ascension was squashed then and there.

As Darth Mori's pull on Lord Letifer faded, tendrils of Spindle's own influence crept toward the fallen lord, checking for life, residue from the previous shimmer, something to tether to both for later study or an emergency resuscitation. Whatever there was to be gleamed, she simply must know it. "Yes, yes, how very astute a reminder," she drawled, just barely above a whisper.

The crumbling of rocks spurred the spider into further action. Tendrils turned from probing curiosity to taut as she sought to wrench Letifer from the immediate area of danger as Kyrel Ren lept into action. "Get up," she hissed, more than happy to let the other lords destroy themselves in this scramble for power. All the more relics to collect after the fact, more subjects to study in the moment just as soon as she wasn't concerned with being in the path of destruction.

 

[Surea]

Insult after insult.

Surea listened in a quiet rage as she listened to the biting tongue of the Mandalorian. Insulting her master. She'd kept back, away from the growing crowd, wanting to listen to her master's desire to keep her secret. But they were insulting him. Calling him weak. He was not weak. Part of her was tempted to put the armored thug in his place. A part of her that was overshadowed by the fact the thug was in fact a Sith.

And a powerful one at that. She couldn't deny their power. Were they equal with her master? She couldn't tell. But she knew she'd be useless. An embarrassment if she tried to strike out. And yet, Ptolimis didn't seem perturbed in the slightest. Her head turned, focusing on her master. Listening.

Dun Moch.

She let out a breath, releasing the grip on yet another stolen lightsaber. She'd fallen for the Dun Moch of the challenger so readily. Truly she was an embarrassment. Standing straighter she watched. Waited. The only way she could think to make amends was to watch the coming battle and at least learn so she might not fail him again.

Darth Ptolemis | Khamul Kryze

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

Ziare Dyarron | Keilara Kala'myr | Mercy | Freedom | Anonymous
Mongrel's Shadow and his widow; Matriarch of the Scar Hounds Tribe; Guardian of Mongrel's armour and sword​

Objective: To attend the funeral
Location: Exegol
Equipment: Current outfit | 2x Riftblades | Promise of Freedom || OPBC-01m
Tags: The Manifold (as Kallan) | Open to interactions

[ Come back… ]
"Galactic Basic" | ~ Telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >>
​

From the first moment, I was only strong, and whatever I did, I struggled to stay alive within the Tribe on the one hand. On the other hand, I wanted to be better than everyone to notice me that he'll recognise my abilities one day. To be indispensable. Ziare was the first to try to kill him and was almost successful. I became his best agent and then we started getting close to each other.

I have become indispensable and irreplaceable; not only on the battlefield, but also in privacy. never, in my life have I matched anyone on the battlefield as well as I did. Not even as an insurgent on Serenno. Yet Ziare was much more able to cooperate than I was. What's the point of continuing? My damn loyalty and that I wanted to be effective. And I inherited these from Freedom when I essentially consumed her. And my loyalty was his, in every way, not the Maw's. Just like my heart, mind and soul.

Go through this again? Attached to Kallan, Keilara, or the kids? If something happens to them, will I have to go through it again? No. I can't stand that alone anymore. I know how worried I was for them in that life, for everyone. It doesn't go alone. I just hugged my legs as I looked in front of me. When Kallan spoke again, I looked up at him.

~ But you are not going to kill or to kill hundreds or thousands of people to keep me alive. Like I did for him when I killed for him for years or ordered my men to kill those who wanted to challenge him. ~ I told hoarsely. ~ And yet what did I achieve? Nothing, anything changed until it was too late. ~

I said angrily to his words. I wasn’t good at anything, I couldn’t protect and defend him when that would have been the most important thing. Moments later, I felt that too, but I just shrugged, barely visible. I was hoping someone or something could kill me and get rid of all of this…

---

I didn’t consider Mercy as myself, even if we were one now. She was born of pain, anger, and hatred. She changed a lot, thanks to Asher she came a long way, but we were so different. The two extremes. Maybe that’s why I consider her as a sibling, a sister, for me, rather than accepting the fact that we are the same. Maybe this is the same how Kallan and Asher felt about each other? Only Mercy was able to see them as one, because she was there when they both existed in Mongrel at the same time.

I don't know how I would feel if Kallan were dead. Maybe it would be the same feeling, what she felt. It would have been easy to ask her to just separate us apart again, as she did with our husbands, and then I don’t care if she follows Asher. But I wasn't like that. I couldn’t watch her suffer, but that didn’t mean I would let her do anything stupid. After all, that’s why there are “sisters”, right?

And I didn’t want to cause her any more pain, which is why I didn’t greet Kallan in a normal way either, even though I really wanted to. I didn’t want it to hurt her even more; for she mourned Asher so desperately. I wanted to say something reassuring, but I didn’t know what to do either when Kallan felt something. I felt it too. However, I also saw Mercy's reaction.

~ I can feel it too, but I don’t have enough strength to take control of the body. And I don't think you have that much strength either, yet. ~ I said in a startled voice

The laziness on the last day would have been so peaceful now if we had been in such a peaceful situation again… and not in as much danger as we are now.

~ Mercy! Do something! ~ I told her.

And then another voice spoke. From everywhere, my… which is our voice but emotionless.

~ Threat level: Minimal. ~ she said.

~ Freedom?! ~ I asked in surprise.

~ Correct! Fact: Maw is holding another Omni-drone in captivity. I managed to connect with him on Tython and here as well. ~

I remembered it and him, as did Mercy… The Manifold.

~ Conclusion: The Manifold is, he's approaching. However, if they see and notice him here, they could kill or re-enslave him. This is unacceptable and should be avoided. ~ Freedom told. ~ Recommendation: Prevent his arrival to this area at all costs, for his and our sake. ~

---

I also felt, of course, that I felt, because I was watching the reality too, not just what happened in my mind.

Manifold… I remembered him from Freedom's memories. One, if not the most powerful Omni-drone. I think Freedom talked to him that day on Tython. I didn't pay attention, I didn't care. I looked up at Kallan and Keilara for a moment in my mind, but I shook my head. I didn't move, as I didn't move in reality either. I looked more at the still quarrelling Sith and other Force Users.

There was only one thought in my mind. It would be enough to shout at them and my suffering would end, forever…

And we could finally start our much-coveted, much-longed common life over there, in the afterlife…

 

[Vesta]

god sent me as karma​

Few had the opportunity, as she had, to come face to face with their past in such a near literal, albeit still metaphorical, sense as she did now. Overconfident, brooding, angry, and confused - the peak of discontent and justifiably so, determined to oppose the status quo at every turn in an effort to restore some modicum of control into a life spiraling farther and farther out of control, Kyrel Ren embodied that nostalgia well. It wasn't power that separated them, nor had it been what made them so near neck and neck when they last met, rather it was the experience that caused them to oppose each other first and it was what set them apart now. She had hit the lowest of the lows, felt the overwhelming despair of planetary bombardment pushing her closer and closer to an edge she might not have come back from if it hadn't happened at the time it had, and forced herself to embrace the handicap of the weakness that keeping herself alive afterwards had imposed upon her in order to innovate and grow - it would have been Darth Solipsis standing all on his lonesome in victory if she had not been forced to live a life that nearly everyone in attendance here would have considered weak.

It wasn't until the last moments on Tython that she'd shrugged away the disguise of mediocrity she had been dressed in.

The knight of Ren, however, had approached his life differently - if what sad state he was in now could even be considered living. Built on a foundation of rage, on an envious, jealous even, hunger for the power and the control that his and her betters had been able to exercise over their lives, Kyrel had pushed himself further and further at every turn, attempted to do what the very group he despised did so well in the way of breaking the chains of limitation that had held him back his entire life. Where he stood now was at the limits of what anyone could achieve if they rejected their weakness in search of strength, standing atop a mountain of success only to find there were more peaks to climb still - vision clouded by each mountaintop that obscured the existence of even greater heights.

Heights he could have seen if he had been able to fall far enough to discover the futility of fighting for agency where there was none to gain from an unforgiving, uncaring, and downright hateful force.

It didn't surprise her, then, to find him approaching her now. Her eyes had been on him from nearly the moment Lord Letifer had hit the ground, the warning she'd made had been directed almost directly to him even if it was ambiguous enough to address the rest of them at the same time, and she knew just how much the man had hated her. She couldn't have pretended to understood the purpose he had acted with, nor could she had claimed to know what it was that led him from anxious surrendered silence to active defiance, but the Shi'ido could see the subtle changes in the force - in the balance, or, rather, the lack thereof, of it within Kyrel. A begrudging acceptance that looked like calm, if choppy, waves shifted into an angry pool of chaotic shaking. The sweeping gesture of her hand brushed Letifer aside and into the pull of Spindle as the Nagai made her move to rescue the fallen Sith lord, depriving Kyrel of his opportunistic meal and placing any lack of focus directly on herself.

"Funny," She muttered as the eyes behind her mask closed to see through the lens of the force as she had when Allyson Locke had tried to face her on Korriban as an invisible archer, "those were my thoughts exactly." It was as close as she'd come to suggesting there wasn't room for people like her in the ideal reality she had dreamt up, but it was also the first time she'd implied that she had become what she was now entirely for the purpose of dominating the rest of them.

The same hand that she'd gestured with to shove her fallen adversary out of the way was directed upwards as arcs of lightning erupted from her fingertips, tangible expressions of the dark side of the force made corporeal, which unleashed such explosive power that - like the Sith of old against their heroic foes in the Jedi - falling debris were blown apart into a far from lethal shower of rocks that she was more than comfortable with being peppered with, depriving her of whatever concern it was he thought she might have had for anyone else standing nearby. It was to his credit, however, that, unlike the man that she had collapsed through sheer will of force alone, Kyrel forced her hand and caused her to pull her own lightsaber into her other hand through telekinetic force - its blade igniting in time to collide with his as he attempted to skewer her with it.

"You don't even know what hunger means." She said, eyes opening just as the mask fell from his face and the strings that tied him and his unseen master momentarily revealed themselves. "Not until you've starved." Mori added - emphasis given to the very state she intended to reduce him to as she began to lower the hand she'd used to dispel his barrage of debris in order to contest his hubris with a far less forgiving siphon than the one she'd exhibited to the populace of Rhand.

All on one man.

 

[The Runt]

"Your Utility: At An End" The Manifold rumbled, its unblinking "gaze" of unearthly light seeming to pierce through the young warrior and behold his very soul. "Your Fate: Your Own."

Runt might have once thought the machine would flatten his skull after saying that, but he knew better now. He had seen and tasted the winds of choice and chaos.

Choice.

Whatever Runt chose to do now, he did it of his own free will, at a spot where the future branched forward in a myriad of different ways. Perhaps his mind had been re-opened to the Force in the fight earlier, but he could almost see the future, clear as day, in the span of a heartbeat. Clearer, actually, given that he was on Exegol.

He saw the great expanse of barren soil and crumbling rock that seemed to surround the barracks, stretching out into oblivion. Out there he might die of exposure, or be caught up in the probable conflagration between tribes that he saw even now teetering on a knife's edge, or he might find a ship and stow away, back to a hundred other war fronts, where the possibilities expanded exponentially: death, defection, ascension.

He blinked, Runt's eyes saw the here and now. Stay in the barracks. He could go back to sleep. Or remain, and claim victory over the four that lay dead at his and The Manifold 's hands. Become a warrior, and earn death or glory in the still probably not-so-civil war that may erupt between the tribes, or against the Maw's enemies. Betrayal, glory, ascension.

He blinked again. Runt looked up at the Manifold, considering another option.

"Omni's Plan: Righteous," the drone said aloud, as if reassuring themself. "Our Mission: Restore The Plan."

Before he could voice his thought:

Reaching out one titanic metal arm, they clenched their fist... and vanished, leaving The Runt to stand alone on the barren plain.

And the machine was gone. To serve its inscrutable logic.

Runt looked out over the empty courtyard, a dead wind breezing across his face, carrying the scent of the grave.

Perhaps the Manifold was not the only one with inscrutable logic.

 

[Kybo Ren]

In the crowds below the Sepulchre

"This whole naff is 'bout ta go up like dynamite," Kybo growled, watching the luminaries on the platform shout and... push? at each other. It was as if every tribe of the Maw was about to see a Royal Rumble of their leaders: not just Lord Letifer , Zachariel Steelblood and Kyrel Ren but also Khamul Kryze of the Mandalorians and Marlon Sularen of the Final Dawn.

It was hard to tell what exactly was going on at this distance but that did not stop the crowd around Kybo getting extremely rowdy. Kybo knew from experience that things were going to spiral out of control even if the people on the platform made nice; agitation was like fire on an over-sealed ship, and once something went up, combustion would fly into all compartments, consuming all the oxygen and leaving naught but the dead. All it takes is one itchy trigger finger-

All such worries fled his mind the moment he saw Kyrel Ren unmask himself, the Living Shadow in Kybo's lord revealing itself. Though he had no right to be able to see it at this distance, Kybo, perhaps due to being a Knight of Ren, or his own peculiar... 'condition of the soul', could feel the cold void opening up. Worse still was Darth Mori turning to face Kyrel, lifting her arm. Kybo saw only one future if the two forces were allowed to make contact.

And, brother, I'm not about to join these scallywags in the pits of Jonah's Maw.

"Defend me!" Kybo yelled to his men, his Hand Cannon already in his palm. Muscle memory kicked in and he adjusted the Tibanna canister by touch even as he loaded the gun. In under a second, it was done, and the ACOG sights flipped up, the gun aimed straight at the gap between Kyrel and Mori. His vision shrank into a tiny circle, staring down the sights of his gun, and he held his breath, feeling the currents in the air. At this distance, a hundred metres away from the platform upon which they stood, he could not afford to miss.

Looks like we know whose finger is bout ta send this place up.

He watched as the gap between the two shrank, the shadows pouring out of Kyrel and Mori's arm stretching out-

The sharp crackle of a blaster bolt rang out, largely drowned out by the din of the now-extremely rowdy crowd. The blaster bolt, warbling with the strange distinctive whine of a bolt adjusted to only cause minor burns if it made contact, sailed up, up, up, and zapped into and through the gap between Kyrel and Mori, barely a foot apart by now. Hopefully, the two would back up for a few precious seconds. Kybo holstered his gun and signaled his escort, who pushed outward at the now frenzied crowd of zealots. In a flash, Kybo melted into the crowd. The people up above would not yet know who fired the shot meant to force the two to back away, but in any case, Kybo was already making his way to the stairs that led up to the platform. The tribe leaders needed to know they were about to lose thousands of their soldiers in the valley down below if they did not stop fighting now.

Spoiler: OOC

While the shot is written so that the people on the platform should be able to tell the bolt is purposely underpowered and understand the intent of the shot, the people in the crowd don't, so feel free to write them going crazy. Also, Kybo did not realise that none of the people on the platform actually have no incentive to back down after this shot, as all sides can claim an assassination attempt and attempt to bring in troops/attack other Maw leaders. So feel free for characters to not notice/notice and lie, and escalate.

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Tags: Darth Solipsis | Kyrel Ren | Alars Keto | Tu'teggacha | Erion Justeene | Darth Mori | Khamul Kryze | Ronar | Lord Letifer | Spindle | Kralmus Orr | Onrai | Tegan Starfall | Darth Daiara | Akûz the Ravager​

Watching Mori, Zachariel could feel fate hanging in the balance. Hundreds of thousands of pairs of eyes watched them, the Force itself seemed to be watching these proceedings. And were any of the forces of good aware of this gathering, they too would watch with baited breath. But even though they knew not what was happening, they would still be affected by what happened. The coming campaigns of the Brotherhood relied on what happened next, on whether Mori would lay claim to the throne fully, or more would challenge her.

For a moment, there was a semblance of calm, as people took in the damage done to Letifer and how he was all but dragged away. They listened to Mori's words and Zachariel payed greater heed to those directed towards himself. It seemed she believed in the future that was promised, though he wondered how she hoped to bring about that future. The answer wouldn't come yet, seeing Kyrel suddenly argue with himself, before attacking Mori. For a second, the warlord scowls in confusion, wondering why his fellow warlord had suddenly attacked. It seemed as if he were backing down, only for this to happen.

Eyeing the fight with narrowed eyes, Zachariel didn't notice Akuz until the Force screamed at him. Concentration broken, his head jerks towards Akuz, seeing the man flying towards him, axes already swinging. More than a little surprised by the bold action, he takes an instinctive step back, powers flaring in response to what Akuz has done. There's no way to draw his weapons quickly enough, nor the chance to hold Akuz's weapons in place, so he forces them to the side instead.

Using the Force as a shield, Zachariel deflects the axes away from his thigh joints. This leaves them to strike his armor instead, leaving gouges in the dark metal as they are pushed to the side. One moment Zachariel is left looking at Akuz in surprise, caught off guard by such a blatant attack. In the next, he drew his own blades in response to Akuz's very evident challenge. Holding them before himself, Zachariel stared down the smaller man, his malicious grin easily felt by even the most non-sensitive being there. Twirling his weapons, he barked out at the man, voice leering with dark glee.
"So be it, mortal."

This fool, this absolute fool, thought to take him on. Why, Zachariel didn't know. How he hoped to accomplish it, that was even more of a mystery. Did either of those things matter? Not in the slightest to Zachariel. Instead, the air around him became even more oppressive, his eye lenses flared even darker. Looking at Zachariel, Akuz could most likely note that he exuded a deep sense of doom and dread. That feeling of a much larger predator locking its gaze onto what it considered prey, easy prey even. Staring down at the smaller warlord, Zachariel's laughter was low, waiting for this fools next attack.

 

[Khamul Kryze]

The Unchained

Tags: Darth Mori, Kyrel Ren , Tu'teggacha , Surea , The Runt , Tegan Starfall , Alars Keto , Onrai , Marlon Sularen , Darth Ptolemis , Kralmus Orr , Zachariel Steelblood , Lord Letifer , Spindle , Minister Janus Vipsanius

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

Khamul paid no heed to the words of Zachariel, nor did he flinch at the display of power Mori unleashed upon Letifer. His vision remained on the cold, dark form of Ptolemis, his grip tightening around Mandalore's Lament more as the Sith stood eerily still. Seemingly unfazed by the Demon Mandalore's insult, Ptolemis remained as calm as the void of deep space. Still as a stone, the new Hand of the Dark Voice stared at Khamul, maintaining the silence for several long seconds. In that silence, the Unchained simply waited, studying his opponent for any sign of weakness. Yet, no sign came...

As the silence came to an end, Ptolemis spoke of bravado and sabers, drawing his own crimson blade as he prepared himself for the inevitable clash with Khamul.

"I only wish to see if you are more than an empty mask with a lightsaber, Ptolemis. Perhaps you are a worthy Hand, perhaps not. Either way, I will have my answer."

His stance began to shift, taking a form known to the practitioners of Juyo. Crimson lines of Sarrassian began to pulsate within his mask as he called upon the darkness within his very being.

"I bested my opponent on Malachor, so I wouldn't be wishing such reenactments if I were you."

Ptolemis' words were subtle, yet sharp, and clearly an attempt to throw the Unchained off balance. Unfortunately for Ptolemis, Khamul would not break.

"If you can survive long enough, you will have proven yourself worthy. If not, well..."

Two steps forward...

"I suppose that would mean that you were just another weakling to be culled from the herd!"

Lunging forward, Khamul closed the gap with incredible speed, Mandalore's Lament lashing out in a series of vicious thrusts and cuts. The growing tension within the crowd only served to embolden him all the more, allowing him to feel his hatred and disgust fully. Each strike was accompanied by the rage within him, causing the blade of Mandalore's Lament to pulsate with a wicked, dark energy. As he continued his assault, Khamul chuckled.

The true test of the Hand's worth had begun...

 

[Kralmus Orr]

​

As the ceremony erupted into chaos, Kralmus grinned behind his mask.

He couldn't have asked for a better outcome. After all, what fun was a funeral that didn't lead to more funerals?

But then Mand'alor's command rang in his ears. Duels were one thing, useful for hashing out the future. But general disorder...

The cannibal sighed. As much as it ran counter to his instincts, he needed to keep this from getting out of hand.

If they all killed each other here, they'd never get to murder more Jedi.

As Kybo Ren opened fire into the space between Kyrel Ren and Darth Mori, all semblance of orderly challenges and individual duels was thrown to the wayside. Though the blaster bolt had been intended to separate the combatants, not inflame the tensions already running high across the ceremony, the crowd didn't know that. All across the colossal gathering, composed of so many different subfactions so tenuously welded together by the will of Solipsis, tensions were running high... and the addition of a shot, one that looked like it could have been an assassination attempt on Kyrel or Mori, set a flame to that tinder. It didn't quite go up all at once, but it began.

As Kralmus watched, accusations began to fly in that assembled crowd. They tried to kill Lady Mori, the cowards! But then an answering cry: Mori tried to have her challenger shot in the back, the coward! No one knew exactly what had happened up on the dais. At the same time, others paired off to fight - Zachariel Steelblood and Akûz the Ravager squared off on one side of Mori and Kyrel, while Khamul Kryze and Darth Ptolemis circled on the other. So, Mand'alor the Unchained was making his presence known, and his loyalties clear. Good. This was the moment that he had told Kralmus to wait for, to keep the Hand ready in anticipation of such a confrontation.

By his warleader's command, Kralmus would allow no interruption to this honor duel.

"Death's Hand!" the cannibal bellowed, stepping forward to take control while Mand'alor was occupied, "there will be ORDER here!" As much as he would welcome a wholesale slaughter erupting out of this gathering, that was only a short-term gratification; if these warriors all turned on one another, it would cripple the Maw before they could reach the battles to come, greater battles against their true enemies. "Deploy over the battlefield! If any warrior strikes out at another, kill him where he stands! This is a contest of strength for our warleaders, not an invitation to a general brawl!" Kralmus activated his jetpack, soaring above the crowd.

The other warriors of Death's Hand followed him, fanning out to cover the entire gathering.

Just as Kralmus had commanded, they took on an unusual role for them - peacekeepers, at least of a sort. At any place in the crowd where taunts, insults, and accusations had escalated into physical violence, a Death's Hand supercommando waded in... and brutally murdered anyone who'd so much as thrown a punch. It didn't matter which side they were on. It didn't matter whether they'd started it or just responded to an attack. Anyone who took up arms in that teeming crowd was unceremoniously put down. "You are spectators!" Kralmus bellowed, pivoting in midair to put a blaster bolt through the skull of a tribal warrior rallying Crimson Hands against Holy Crusaders.

"You are not fething worthy of being participants, and if you try, I will fething murder you."

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Keilara Kala'myr Surea Kyrel Ren Alars Keto Tu'teggacha Erion Justeene Darth Mori Ronar Lord Letifer Spindle Kralmus Orr Onrai Tegan Starfall Zachariel Steelblood The Runt The Manifold Kybo Ren Minister Janus Vipsanius

In duel with: Khamul Kryze

Equipment in bio.

szarvas
​

The tempestuous emotions of the crowds all around rise and fall seemingly with each passing minute, and equally ground-shaking rivalries are wrought in real time behind the two masked lords. Sometimes the crowds cheer, other times they roar in anger, as if their souls were directly affected by the strong Dark Side fluctuations festering within the circle of blood that surrounds the newly declared DARK VOICE. To the click of its only button, the saber of Ptolemis comes alight in the form of a simple, solid, unbroken beam of pure red malice.
​

"I only wish to see if you are more than an empty mask with a lightsaber, Ptolemis. Perhaps you are a worthy Hand, perhaps not. Either way, I will have my answer."

And with that solemn statement, the Demon Mandalore takes up his offensive stance and readies his ominous weapon for the inevitable that shall soon come, his hand flexing around the rare blade's hilt. The two masks lock onto each other, and the thin spiderweb-lines of the Mandalorian Lord's restored mask begin to pulsate, a clear manifestation of his outpouring of darkness that can be felt tremendously through the Force. Ptolemis' mask, on the other hand, is hollow, unchanging. Unknowable. His eyes, buried behind the abyss of the surreal. In response, the Blasphemer also assumes a stance, one that is most reminiscent of the Form Niman. His mask remains on the Demon, but his torso rotates ninety degrees to the left. His stance widens somewhat, and thus standing sideways toward his opponent, Ptolemis finally raises his saber to waist level, aimed toward the Beskar-clad Sith. His other arm remains free and unoccupied, reserved to function as a counter-balance for future sharp turns. Ptolemis knows well he cannot truly outperform a warrior of such justified renown in single combat, surely not in the long run; but that was exactly the reason why the Blasphemer practiced Niman – the form allowed its wielders to dig deeper into the mystical powers of the mind.
​

"I bested my opponent on Malachor, so I wouldn't be wishing such reenactments if I were you."

Well refuted, Ptolemis thought. It appeared the first act of their fateful engagement was fast concluding, each having proven the other that neither of them may be swayed through intellect alone, however painful and well-placed its application was. Rightly so, this mental stage of their warfare turned out as it should. Not for a second did Ptolemis underestimate Khamul Kryze the Unchained. He knew he needed to scrape the lowermost depths of his corrupted soul for might in order to withstand the brutality of such a fearsome opponent. Others in their immediate vicinity scurried farther, forming yet another organic circle in the masses and affording them much needed space.
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"If you can survive long enough, you will have proven yourself worthy. If not, well..."

Two steps forward...

"I suppose that would mean that you were just another weakling to be culled from the herd!"

In grave contrast to his previous stillness, Ptolemis offers a strict, respectful nod in acceptance of the warrior's challenge. He understood that the time for cleverly planted expressions had passed. It was time to switch to a language much more artistic in the eyes of the Death's Hand; one of true combat.

Like a mythical predator, the Unchained closes the gap between them quicker than one could blink. Ptolemis is instantly forced on the defensive, having to backtrack with swift, short steps to even have the briefest of windows to raise his lightsaber for a guard. The onslaught of the Demon is perfection; his pulsating weapon follows the hateful movements of an arm that slaughtered thousands of capable combatants and defeated countless worthy foes. Their sabers slide and wail following vicious thrusts, and crash and flare following lightning-fast cuts. Constantly in motion, Ptolemis shifts the direction of his retreating defense in uneven intervals; sometimes kicking up dirt and sliding to the right to evade a straight, unstoppable thrust by a mere inch, while other times rolling to the left to duck under a horizontal cut of Mandalore's Lament. At this stage, Ptolemis' primary goal is to be able to have his saber-wielding arm extended fully, and through great effort try and reorient Khamul's incredibly keen strikes with focused twists of his wrist.

Never before has the Blasphemer faced such an experienced bladesman. Again and again their sabers sprout a crown of sparks as they slam against each other. The strain is great, and the stakes could not be higher.

The scales need to be torn down in Ptolemis' favor soon, otherwise any honor or respect he may hope to have shall vanish in a pathetic instant. Block after block the Blasphemer is forced downward and backward, forced to recoil and be reduced in the face of the Demon Mandalore's power – so much so that after the Blasphemer's arm gives way, he buckles onto one knee.

And that fateful instant is now; abruptly, Ptolemis swings and springs upward with the intention to violently repel the chuckling death's queued strike, and in seamless combination casts wide his other, free arm, conjuring a shower of shards made of pure dark side energy from within the darkness of his rippling robe. Should he succeed in staggering his opponent, Ptolemis descends with an assault of his own. He begins his advance at a brooding, walking pace and performs stern, hard, one-handed strikes aimed to slice at the Demon's saber-wielding hand directly.
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[Kyrel Ren]

Location: Solipsis’s Tomb
Nearby: Zachariel Steelblood Akûz the Ravager Khamul Kryze Kralmus Orr Darth Ptolemis Kybo Ren Onrai Surea The Runt The Manifold Keilara Kala'myr Tu'teggacha Alars Keto Spindle Lord Letifer Ronar Erion Justeene

Duel with Darth Mori

It seemed fitting, albeit ironic that conflict would surge across the gathering of mourners on the dark world. While Kyrel himself was not attempting to seek conflict, he was a puppet pulled by his master reminding him who he is. It seemed that once more he was nothing more than a tool for greater powers that always fought the order of things. In many ways he personified what a Sith should be, save for his philosophical differences and his eternal hatred for what they turned him into.

Now he stood before one of whom he hated the most. He would use the newfound power he was given to match her own and devour her here and now. Despite the moment he was in, every fiber of his being told him that he would fail again. The power he long craved, the power he felt that he was owed felt long out of reach. He couldn’t run, if he ran albeit smart would only compromise his position as Wrath. The Maw would see him as weak, he would lose both fear and respect something he couldn’t allow. There was no choice but to stay and face her again.

Unlike Letifer he made it close enough to stand in front of her. Forcing her to draw her saber, all around him he sensed that others issued challenges. Solipsis either would have been proud or rolling in his grave to see all hell break loose as they laid him to rest. “Drain me… I’ll drive you mad!” He said sounding insane, imploring her to try just so he could put himself into her. That’s if she didn’t find other purposes worse than death.

Recalling his own saber to his grip, he stared her down defiantly, his ugly mug making a terrifying scowl of his stitched and mangled flesh. Just as he was about to strike, she just made one gesture with her hand and Kyrel froze. His hunger rumbled loudly as a roar, as he felt the dark energy that fuel him slowly drain away. His eyes widened in shocked, and soon did nothing but glare at her. “You can’t take it all from me!” He yelled in defiance, sounding like an entitled child who was owed, who was promised to rule. The decades of strife was summed up better in such a sentence.

Just as he stood ready to completely accept defeat, it was paused as a blaster bolt bought Kyrel some time. He didn’t have enough time to react, question who shot him or if it was for Mori. Kyrel instead took the opportunity to finally move while she was distracted. Taking the chance he brought his blade to stab her in the stomach, by the time he watched his blade move he was brought to his knees once more. The hunger used on an entire world was overpowering him, be it if his only strike worked or not he was on the floor. His energy, his unholy life being consumed slowly. The pain felt as if it came in echoes and as if he was feeding on himself in desperation.

 

[Marlon Sularen]

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S H A T T E R P O I N T
Aftermath

FINAL DAWN
EXEGOL, UNKNOWN REGIONS

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Sularen watched in horror as what was supposed to be the simple ascension of a new Dark Voice for the Maw quickly devolved into Chaos. In an act of blatant defiance to his statement and warnings of infighting, with Kyrel Ren attacking Darth Mori, Darth Ptolemis and Khamul Kryze fighting each other and Akûz the Ravager confronting Zachariel Steelblood . Then came Kybo Ren and some of the Crimson Hands proceeded to march towards the platform where Ren and Mori were fighting followed by Kralmus Orr ordering his Death Hand's to scatter across the battlefield and prevent any more infighting. Sularen was somewhat relieved to see that some efforts were made to prevent things from falling apart, but the Damage was already done and Sularen was certain that even with Death Hand's intervention more would only seek to defy them.

Thus as Kralmus Orr and his men proceeded to scatter across the area, Sularen quietly withdrew from the area walking back towards his shuttle feather down the valley. He took out a commlink and proceeded to contact his subordinate, Colonel Rackham who had stayed back within Sularen's Flagship, the FDS Predator. "Colonel, get me my Shuttle and prepare the Legion." Sularen said. "Sir?" a confused voice said from the otherside. "You heard me. Everything has gone to shit, and many leaders are already fighting each other. It's pure Chaos, and only we can restore order." Sularen explained as he was soon joined by Two Raptor Commandos. "Very well, Grand Overseer. Sending your shuttle to your location now." the Colonel said before Sularen ended the transmission. At Tython, Sularen had feared that the Maw could suffer either a Pyrrhic Victory or an outright Decisive Defeat, and those fears had been realized. Here at Tython he'd fear that the first signs of internal infighting would appear and once more those fears had come true.

If things went on at this rate, the Brotherhood of the Maw would soon collapse on itself and an entire decade of progress would be gone, just like that due to the selfish desires of those who sought power for themselves such as Kyrel Ren and Khamul Kryze, provoking fights that would only escalate the situation into an all out brawl. But he would not suffer that no longer. Sularen was now High Regent of the Final Dawn and it was about time he asserted himself and reminded everyone where they belong and who were the true powers of the Maw : New Sith Order and the Final Dawn. Soon Sularen's Shuttle descended from the skies of Exegol and landed in front of Sularen and his escort whom proceeded to enter before it took off, headed towards the FDS Predator located in orbit of Exegol surrounded by an entire Sector Fleet.

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