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The exhaustion went both ways, the sheer resilience of the Jedi took Superious by surprise. Of all the fights he has been in, as the victor or the victory-less, he never worked as hard as this. His head was killing him and his vision was going white in the corners. Which made him realise he can still return to Thomas with his dignity intact and find victory in his misfortune. But was it though, Silas has proved time and time again that he was able to hold his own. Superious can respect that. He respects strong fighters and does know how to hold restraint, he's not that much of a monster. He is civilised, more than his own master was.
There is no victory in an easy kill, which meant that he will spare Silas, this is so that they can rematch later in the galaxy. They were in no shape to draw this out any more than they need to, he wasn't usually merciful, but he makes the exception here at least. With that, the Ubese let up his attack and widened the distance between them. He took a moment to fight a wave of nausea that threatened to empty his stomach of its contents. He is not running away, it was a once in a lifetime getaway with your life free card. Which Silas had earned today.
Killing someone who cannot fight back was not a sport he enjoys. Besides he needed to join Thomas again and deliver his answer once and for all. He never lets a decision go lightly and he needed his response to be final and unfungible. So he decided to leave Silas where he is. He only spared him not saved him.
Superious disappeared up the hole he made and out into the open once more.
Flying down and around through the broken-up surface of Tython, Valery had been able to spot Kahlil and Kyrel falling together. They were still entangled and fighting their way down, their bodies had collided with the cliffs, and she knew that it was going to be challenging to survive such a fall. But she had no intentions of letting him drop like that and brought her ship around for a risky rescue maneuver. After allowing another pilot to take over, she opened up the ramp in the back and while the ship drew closer, she used her bond with her husband to easily track him through the sky.
Hold still.
With an outstretched arm, Valery connected with the Force and extended her grip to slow down Kahlil's fall while Kyrel was left alone to plummet into the fiery pit below. Slowly but surely, Kahlil lost his downward momentum and with a careful touch, she levitated him closer to the ship. But as she did, another spark of danger lashed out at the woman through the Force — Kyrel had once again launched his tongue in an attempt to pull him back down, but she wasn't going to let that happen this time.
As Kahlil came to rest aboard the shuttle, Valery projected a barrier outwards and blocked Kyrel's tongue from being able to find anything to hold onto, whether that was their legs or even the ship itself, "Until next time, Kyrel... if you somehow survive this." She flashed him a grin as his fall took him far away from the shuttle, and finally, the doors of the ship closed to leave the couple alone inside the shuttle, which was turning its nose up to take them away from the battle.
"Ah. Guess I won't be late huh."
"You said we would leave together." Valery turned around and looked at him, a brief flash of anger in her eyes that faded as quickly as it came. Her eyes then filled with tears and with a few steps, she was closer and helping him to a sitting position with his back against the wall, "You said we were going to deal with him together, and get home to Vera... both of us," she continued with a few voice cracks as the sadness started getting to her. She knew that as Jedi, they would put their lives on the line for others and that he did what he did to protect her. But the fear that had struck her when she watched him jump down with that smile... it was too painful.
"I'm just glad you're okay," Valery said as she sat down beside him on the metal floor and leaned into him. She sniffed a few times and turned her eyes up to her husband's, "Just hold still and... be here with me for a moment." That's all she wanted right now, to be with him. "We're going to a medical facility somewhere and get you patched up."
“Everything will be okay in the end, if it is not okay, then it is not the end."- John Lennon
It was working…
Everything he was doing was working. Was this going to actually succeed? Would they hold the planet after all? Force be truth he hoped so, the implications… he couldn’t think about that now. Just the thought that Caltin Vanagor could honestly see what was looking to be the proverbial “light at the end of the tunnel” and there was a chance that the tide could indeed be stemmed. They could indeed hold some level of a victory here if they could just “turn the corner”.
The Phantasms were not ignored, they were tearing into him, but Caltin was not alone either. All of the fallen souls who shared his lineage, all of the Jedi lost over periods of time to carry the name “Vanagor” not assisting Jax were protecting him. They may not be completely turning away the barrage of vicious assaults, but they were giving the big man time to complete what he started. That was why they were there, and though the massive Jedi Master would never wish for another to fight his battles, they were doing this so that he had one less thing to worry about.
Again, Caltin ignored the jab at the possibility of his becoming one with the Force today, Vanagor had made his peace with that if it were come to pass. What gave him pause though was not that he could sense the survival of the Lion King, it was that he could see Thurion Heavenshield
in a bubble and rushes of water blasting around him.
Time was running out.
The entity was making the mistake of ignoring him, maybe it was not “ignoring”, and maybe Caltin was never on his level and only proved to be some level of entertainment until the winged demi-god Eina L'lerim-Vandiir above had appeared. The avatar seemed pleased and shot upwards to engage. Maybe this was what it was, a desperate act that would take the planet once and for all. Maybe it was just what Caltin needed to do something.
[“Roller” Bring “The Starlight Sentinel down on top of Coren Starchaser
, and @Celeste Rigel’s positions. They are going to need assistance in evacuations.]
It would work. They would be able to get off the planet, and if they already had a way to their own ship, then others could. He did not know if he was doing anything that mattered to anyone, but there was a renewed sense of what it meant to him the day he was Knighted, a new feeling of what it meant to be a Jedi all of the sudden. Somehow seeing those shining entities above were healing his spirit, just as the fallen souls around him were healing his will.
The feeling was just starting to hit him as his other ship “The Spectre” was on the Horizon, flying in low. He had to do something right here, and right now. He had to. If he failed then he failed, but Caltin had to make one last play if he was going to be able to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow morning, or any morning for that matter from here on out.
” I just wanted you… all of you to know that I will think fondly of each of you. I finally get it… thank you for allowing me to do it my way… I’ll never forget what you did for me. Only spend my life trying to live up to what you have done for me here.”
More pressure he put on himself? Maybe, but now Vanagor has something he could shoot for. Something he could hope to (no matter how naive he knew it to be) one day achieve. They were “Heroes” to him, and he could one day hope to one day be that for someone else.
As the entities clashed, it was what was behind them that gave the big man his idea. It was stupid, reckless, and could all too easily have backfired horribly, but “Fortune favors the bold…” The Toraynor-Henken on his left hand, the Sasori Tech Gauntlet that seemed to enhance his skills with its own distinct capabilities was glowing. It was time to utilize it completely. So, with a deep breath, and a closing of his eyes, he glimpsed one last time at the souls around him. They all seemed to understand as they stood prepared.
Reaching out, not symbolically this time, but practically the massive Jedi Master reached out and grabbed some of the largest remaining shards from the shattered moon of Ashla still in orbit. His intent was simple. Assisted by the combined force of so many ghosts, and entities there to help, a nudge, a push, a kick all to get them going in the right direction. Not just “down” but down towards the right spots. The wind-friction, the super-conducted heart of the upper atmosphere, all of it would reduce the overall size of them, but with luck…
Caltin will have brought down at least one of two pieces that could fill and plug the volcanoes.
Whether it would work or not was something of a mystery… but he did what he could… again… when the loading ramp of “The Spectre” lowered, he just fell onto it. HK-87, his “assistant droid” (yeah right), helped him on further.
Fly low, to the North. We have a Lion King to pick up.
Location: Between Kaleth/Jedi Temple Ruins/and Flooded Plains
Two more Final Dawn troopers fell with smoking holes in their armor but Monk paid them no mind. His monocle's targeting computer came online, all pretense of honor forgotten after Professor Nimdok's flagrant deception. Blaster rifles tracked toward the wandering scholar until Vector's remaining elite guard were torn apart by more transitory ripples in unreality.
"Be crushed under the weight of false history."
Vector opened fire not on the historian but a broken pillar nearby. It crumbled just like the monocle warned him it would, and the massive stone Jedi statue tumbled with it. Fragments were shorn away by currents of darkside energy while the bulk fell toward Nimdok.
The rifts in reality were getting worse. Nimdok watched in horror as the remaining Final Dawn soldiers were torn apart by a cracking universe.
Vector Monk’s shouts hardly reached him. His danger sense, already overwhelmed by everything else going on around him, failed to warn him of what was to come. The blaster went off and he ducked—only for the stone pillar to fall right on top of him.
Pain. His entire body ached from the impact. Nimdok reached for the Force, drawing strength from the energy field. The pain went away, replaced by a vague tingling sensation, but he couldn’t seem to get out from underneath the rubble…
The tingling had become a warmth that encompassed his entire body, like the heat produced by tired muscles after a strenuous workout. With it came a fatigue that cut to the core of his being, a weariness that mere sleep couldn’t relieve.
Restlessly, Nimdok realized what it all meant. He was out of time.
He felt himself not so much fading away as melting back into the Force. Instinctively he reached out to his loved ones, sending out a pulse in every direction, a hasty yet utterly sincere It’s time for me to go. I love you.
He sensed Miri’s grief from the other side of the battlefield, swiftly congealing into fury. Please don’t, he wanted to plead with her, but it was too late.
Blocked by debris, Nimdok couldn’t see Monk, the opponent who had bested him. His vision went darker still as he slipped away.
"Needlessly conflating the Many as a Singular will prove the undoing of what you seek to accomplish." Unity was not the galaxy's strong suit. Even at the height of the Republic the galaxy was only predominantly complacent with its development progress and distributed weather among its leaders -- which should not be mistaken as being unified by any means. Sadly, even the Mandalorian people that should know better were not as united in Will as they should be; there were those fighting along side the Maw against those opposed. Runi would have rather the Clans have met in peace prior to such a fundamental collapse in dialogue.
"Know your enemy." The Shaman's helm nodded once more. A sentiment that extended beyond talk of a great celestial calamity.
Speaking of such matters. "Were the Brotherhood taken with this matter -- as you profess to be -- I question its methods in preparing for this conflict." The wooden blade twirled idly at the Shaman's side. "Most prominently," she added for Onrai
, "in this moment, expecting its adversary to simply surrender before a collective far lesser than a celestial entity."
Yes, it was quite paradoxical that they should be trying to unite the galaxy by corrupting and destroying it. A misguided attempt to cow everyone into submission? To prove might was right? Even Mandalorians believed in strength, but balanced between its many forms in life, not sheer power or ability to destroy. Matters had seemingly progressed too far to expect it to end with a few words between only two members of either assembly, however. Yes, most unfortunate, but a warrior worked with what they had and not what they wished for.
Another presence decided to make itself apparent then. The Shaman's helm turned in Dodhorn Harert
's direction. Blood? Had Runi heard that right? How better to exemplify the great divide between the two Mandalorian factions. How better the wound to the spiritual well-being of those that desired blood or battle for its own sake. The End was for the Manda, not any personal hunger or addiction. There were so many souls in need of counseling and only so much time.
"Sarnr be solus cuyir sarnr at an." <Mando'a: The loss of one is the loss to all.>
But she was safe. Kahlil just smiled as he listened to half of what Valery was saying. Mostly, he just collapsed against her. Everything hurt. Eyes closed the Jedi rested against his wife with a half smile on his lips as he let the threat of sleep finally take over. "You're in one piece this time. Good." Then he was out. Despite all the war still raging all across Tython, he slept peacefully against the one thing he wanted to protect most of all.
"And yet the Many will become the Singular in the face of such a greater threat." Onrai responded to Runi's comments. "The Father of Shadows cares not who or what you are, only that you are to bow before him in complete and total submission, your spirit his servant for all eternity." There was no greater way for her to iterate this.
"The Brotherhood of the Maw knows not about these threats, nor do they care. Everyone within the Maw has their own personal agendas, some of which merely coincide with one another at a sort of nexus as you see today. I am asking you to surrender to me, not to the Maw." She said, slowly beginning the process of walking towards the Mandalorian.
The sudden arrival of the monstrous creature that had once been a Mandalorian made Onrai sigh. "Again, do so, and no harm will come to you."
She realized that in his current state, it was going to be difficult for him to listen and respond to her. But the few words that were able to escape his lips really said it all — jumping down that pit with Kyrel had been with the sole purpose to protect her. The people around the Master's retreat had already been long evacuated, after all, and there was nothing else left to save anymore.
"In one piece and doing fine, because of you," she whispered while she let him lean into her and fall asleep. He was a big guy so it took some effort to keep him up, but when his head was gently resting against her shoulder, she just sat there for a little while and traced over his hand with her thumb.
"I love you."
She smiled and pressed a gentle kiss against his cheek before she slowly got up whilst doing her best to keep him from falling over. The shuttle was going to a medical facility off-world, where staff would be ready to assist her. But until he was safely in a medical bed there, she was going to have to carry him around. Not that it bothered her though... she always did these things for him lovingly. Because as much as he felt that he had to protect her and keep her safe, Valery was always there for him, too.
“Oh. Okay.” Amani nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer in her altered state of mind. A gap of time passed where they both seemed to just be waiting for the evac. An ambience of crash fires and distant warfare filled in the silence.
Finally, a full few minutes later, she spoke again, “Sorry what?”
<I wanted to stop being a Sithspawn, so I asked a witch to transfer my essence into a new body. But she tricked me. She ripped me out of my old body, then left me to die. So I wandered around Coruscant until I found this body.> He slapped his scrawny chest. <Which had just died of a drug overdose, and possessed it.>
Given how obviously young he looked, this was a teen addict. Kai also conveniently didn't mention whether or not the kid had a family or friends who would be looking for him. Truth was, that was a potential problem he as yet had no solutions for.
Location: Tython’s Core
Objective: Climb to the top
Enemies: Valery NobleKahlil Noble
Allies: Maw
His tongue was so close to reaching its prey, so close and just like that it was stopped. His tongue instead crashing against felt like a wall, his tongue quickly retreated. His fall gaining speed, the flames getting brighter as the sight of a starship in seconds had filled his vision. While his descent only increased, Kahlil stopped and was slowly brought into the ship, by the time he had latched onto the unstable crust close to being burned to a crisp, he felt the rising heat along with his rage, he felt the dark side call to him once more when his gaze met the smug look of the Jedi witch.
That same look caused his eyes to burn brightly as he spoke. “Noble….” He let out a loud scream, that of a murdering madman who had been wronged. “NOBLE!!!” He let out a cry to the dark side watching her face disappear, soon the ship had too disappeared. Escape again, failure once again. Gritting his teeth so hard he could bite his tongue off, his grip tightened to both saber and crust as he slowly started to make the climb up.
The Shadow once felt so numb to him, now his failure and the last look burning into his memory had reignited the dark side once more. He cursed himself for letting her escape again, Bendak’s death unavenged. Now he was left to make the arduous return to the surface. Looking back down to the molten core, and with his senses returning he felt the darkness slowly consume this world. Even more so, he felt a stronger surge of dark energy rise, feeling a chill run up his spine he slowly started to plunge his blades upward.
His saber and blade went through the crust slowly, and for a moment Kyrel thought of plunging himself into the core, maybe his hatred fueled by his undying death would shatter Tython’s core in an explosion of dark energy. While it tempted him, his desire to kill Valery Noble with his bare hands outweighed his shame. His hatred as always has kept him going. Feeling the fire try to get him, burn his flesh to the very bone Kyrel now looked more grotesque than his more intimidating appearance.
Every minute the flames took more of him, revealing more of him, a body made of “materials” creatures, kyber crystals, people, truly the fire brought out the beast. One could even see his Kyber crystal infused bones that glowed as red hot as the flames. With each inch of ground he slowly covered through the rock and dirt was the painful groans of determination of a man doomed to go on living in hate, a wound in the force.
The Lonely Isle, Lake Kaleth, Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876 ABY)
TLDR:
The fight begins
The Mongrel strikes out heavy in his first attack
Shock goes up Erskine's arm and forces readjustment
Evasion succeeds in the process
Erskine unsheathes a parrying-blade
Resumes the fight
'BEGIN!!!!'
As it had in their first fight, both swordsmen would begin by circling, both stepping around the fire to kick out and flatten good ground for heel-purchase and as much traction as the grassy soil would allow, all the while Mongrel would exclaim,'Strike now, old man,', briefly trailing off from giving his last goading encouragements as the Beskar greatsword twirled singing through the air in anticipatory pre-poise. Then, with stance finally set, the Woad watched closely as the Mawite champion concluded,'and strike true!', leaping forth with a wide swiping slash to start the deadly dance of swords between them. Asher had thrown a sickening amount of weight behind the slash itself, much easier to achieve with both adherence to high-gravity settings and the overall weight of his hulking cybernetic form, but in the realisation of the force itself, Erskine very quickly remembered the physics and nuance needed to redirect the greatsword's opening attack.
'Gyah! Dia be-'
However, when both swords came into contact with each other, the shock of the impact ran up the Woad's right arm, forcing Barran to kneel, grasp his sword and make his lateral escape, practically vaulting underneath the reaching right arm of the Mongrel to find his safe footing. Not that it mattered, as the Mongrel had seen the escape coming at the point of impact, slashing back behind him as he wheeled around to face the Stormchaser, having to duck hard in his attempt to escape the full reach of the greatsword. All the while, Barran would struggle to get his fingers to grasp his hilt in a firm grip, raging at himself for the hubris shown in the ignorance of his own limitations, almost chiding himself for aging and deteriorating quicker with every waking day. But in this realisation, the Woad remembered that he hadn't brought his parrying-blade for mere show, understanding that he knew all too well that he would be needing it for his last fight against the Mongrel, almost subconsciously driven into Lord Erskine's mind and seemingly repressed until that moment.
A Fiorist, adopting Meyerite techniques.... So egregiously ironic, it actually stings a little.
Resetting stances, both fighters would begin to circle the campfire, or rather, whatever remained from the surging advances of the Mongrel's first and second attacks. But in seeing that the Stormchaser was drawing his parrying-dagger, curiosity would stay his hand, as just like the basket-hilted beauty only just gaining safe purchase within the palm of his right hand, the craftsmanship of Lord Bruce's well-protected heirloom was something of a wonder of it's own to behold. From the dyed grip to the decorative engraving on the knife's cross-guard hilt, faux-ricasso hoop and on the flat of the blade with every part as much care and devotion, there would be no doubt that the right accompanying blade had been chosen for the basket-hilted broadsword's struggle; and as much as it irked him, Lord Erskine would soon be grateful of his own subconscious foresight, though he was still quite unsure if it would work in the moments leading up to the next attack.
Aron's going to crack a mirthful rib when he hears o' this.... Damn Meyerites.
He wasn't wrong.
Win or lose, everyone living on the surface of Galidraan III would hear of it, as would all in the neighbouring Galidraani worlds. First to know would be the people of Faslane on Galidraan Station, then the news would filter out from Preston on Galidraan III, leaking out to the refined peoples of the Prime planet and the Carracks of Galidraan IV last of all. Barran wouldn't know this at the time though, as the old Woad was sure in his heart that all had turned their hopes away from his clan, having previously forsaken Galidraan in the acceptance of his promotion to the rank of Lord-General, not knowing that all at home were hanging their last hopes for a true Imperial victory - on none other than Lord Erskine himself.
'Alright, Mongrel. Been a while since I last said this word in your presence, eleven years to be precise. But here goes....'
'AGAIN!!!'
COMETS COLLIDE: ORDER VS. CHAOS - PART 18
Colrinal Crook, Southern Kalesh Plains, Temple Valley, Tython(Late-Autumn of 876 ABY)
TLDR:
Wyll, Rosk'Aiar and Larras prepare for a heavy Burned Legion attack
Expecting serious support from other Mawites supplementing their manpower advantage
First wave takes fire in the opening segment
More follow in the first wave's main contingent
Wyll orders the counterattack
The wind was finally beginning to blow against the northward Imperial push, though the makeshift IMPAF-Trio were fortunate enough to make use of fortified positions on the lower rise of the mountain to the north-west, and though there was much in the way of hostilities at the summit, the majority of the Sabretooth-Troopers from 4th Battalion who had survived would be safe under their command for the next phase of the battle. Or rather, in Wyll's honest self-assessment of the situation, they would be for a time at least. As there were some pressures that not even a trooper of the 313th could withstand, such pressures that even the strongest of Force-Users would struggle against, such that required the suppressive power of their concentrated rebuffs en-masse. Singular elements would be overpowered if isolated from the others, and it was the small haemorrhaging of manpower that would truly test them, and especially so for as long as the Imperials maintained their forward-operating contingent's defensive posture.
'Rosk'Aiar's saying-'
'I understood him, sir. Easy signage to decipher this time.', Ivy interjected, looking to the others in the hopes they couldn't, giving more reason to her interruption of Sir Martin's obvious agreement to the Grave-Tusken's rather grim assessment of the situation. There was no doubt that Rosk'Aiar had the best hearing of the three, and in hand-signalling,"We could be overrun here.", it had become painfully obvious to the other two that the Burned Legion would be bringing many reinforcements to the fight itself. Larras was very much willing to lay her life on the line for the Empire, but she knew there were still heavy-hitting cards to play, overhearing comm-chatter, banter and verbalised hopes that all pointed to such signs until that point, and Lord Carwood seemingly held the key to the window of opportunity that awaited in the fog of war beyond.
'I have an idea, though if I can be blatantly obvious, it will sound more like the Maw's idea when you hear what I have to suggest.... We need to draw the majority here, keep them distracted long enough for McGechin's plan to hit them when they least expect it.'
It wasn't much, but both Larras and Rosk'Aiar knew it was the best shot they had, with one acquiescing after the other in a demoralised domino-effect that served to satisfy Wyll's need for maintained competence; though it wouldn't take long for that need to become a factor for the others, as the charging approach of the first wave's infantry assault could be heard even louder by then, prompting all the non-coms to get the idled troopers active and readied at their defensive-positions to sally out at a moment's notice. Any mass charge could be cut down as a rabble, especially if a well organised counter could break the impetus and cast confusion enough to break wave after wave without losing too many comrades in the process, and if each counter surprised a hubristic advance every time, then hope would remain for a little while longer every time.
'THEY'VE TRIPPED THE DISTANCE SENSORS - POISE FOR THE FIRST COUNTER!!!! YOUR BAYONETS SHOULD STILL BE FIXED FROM BEFORE!!!! STAAAAND-TO, STAAAAAAAND-TO!!!!'
Cornered-animal tactics were always supremely risky in Galactic warfare, and for many factions that came and went with the ages, but for the new brand of Imperial, many of the biggest, most-aggressive of threats in the field would suddenly grow careful in the often-late realisation that fully committing played into the hands of the cornered ones. Wyll was counting on this from the moment he spotted the HASCO walls beforehand, though many of his subordinates would struggle to believe in their surroundings on arrival, soon to be rectified by their coordinated actions alone, galvanised by their own abilities.
'ALL UNITS, CLEAR TO ENGAGE ON MY MARK.... OPEN FIRE!!!!'
Just as stray disruptor shots began to kick up dirt and gravel all around them, the fastest runners of the Mawites' first wave were seen approaching from the smoky fog in the distance, giving the Imperials clear targets to take down when the order to fire was eventually given. Just enough disruptor, LMG and grenade-launcher pressure was there to hit deep into the ranks of the larger contingent following up the quicker runners close behind, though it was near-painfully obvious it would take much more than that to push the first wave back with any sense of lasting finality, giving Wyll more than enough reason to draw his sword once more, holding it aloft for all around him to see as he stepped up atop the sandbags in readiness to decide the first-wave's outcome once and for all. Unshakable, even in the face of the arrayed Mawites climbing uphill to get to them, Sir Martin would stare down the scene with a smile as he inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils in preparation.
'ALL UNITS, CLEAR TO MOVE ON MY MARK.... ADVAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE!!!!'
COMETS COLLIDE: ORDER VS. CHAOS - PART 19
The Reach of Kalikori, Southern Kalesh Plains, Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876-ABY)
TLDR:
The Imperial right flank is taking losses
The Sabretooth/Galidraani contingent are being pushed back by bolstered Mawite elements
Hassan almost commits to martyrdom
Marić shoots the idea down for something that could prove more useful in turning the tide
'That doesn't look good.... What now, Branko?'
3rd Battalion were suffering the hardest in what they were seeing, and though the retreat was orderly and obstinately combative in it's implementation, it was clear to both Marić and Hassan that the northward advance had met it's untimely conclusion, despite the best efforts of the Galidraani who had been providing weight and heavy-hitting support to the Imperial right flank from the offset. In seeing that the Burned Legion's galvanised state for the next phase of the battle had every chance of driving them back where they started and beyond, the young Captain grumbled,'I honestly don't know, Samir. We're running out of options, and the longer we fight on this planet, the more likely it is that we meet our doom on it before the end of the day.', in answer, visibly and psychologically exhausted from the day's traumatic events.
'Well, if this is the case, then you know what I'm going to suggest-'
Branko would have none of it, for such acts of mass-martyrdom would only suit in a battle befitting of it, or at least as far as the views of the Mantellian-born human were concerned, cutting Samir's suggestion off as he responded,'Not today, brother.... Not - today.', though it was delivered in the kindest possible tone for the sake of his only real friend in the legion. There would always be a way for the Sabretooths to turn the tide, especially in consideration of their ability to make set-pieces all the more effective with the use of whatever working environment they deployed to fight in, so all Marić really needed to do in that instant was start to think on what might either slow the Mawite advance or completely halt it completely, though his friend's deathly urges would need to be addressed properly first.
'We think our way out of this one, understand? We can still keep the right flank in the fight, but as for how.... Huh, well it looks like I'll be needing your Kandarans after all. Just not for- well, that anyway.'
What started as a clear demeanour of indignant disappointment then stopped instantly, giving way to curiosity enough to prompt Samir to inquire,'Alright then.... For what, brother? Do you intend on driving me into a fit of rage this time, hm?', whilst in the process of trying his utmost to keep from turning his gaze back to the bloodshed in the distance. A messy situation either way, but Samir could feel something different about his friend in that moment, from the tone of Branko's voice to the attitude of kindness in the face of abject horror, there was seemingly a drastic change occurring within the mind, heart and soul of the Mantellian-born human. Perhaps the man was going insane, or even accepting his fate without even saying it, but Hassan refused to believe that these first assumptions were true; refusing on the grounds that he thought his friend to be going through a rather timely phase of personal growth, a transformation of sorts, something the Kandaran promised himself he would never take for granted.
'Look around you, Samir.... Surrounded by sand, such sand we have used to our great benefit already. Such sand we need to utilise again.'
Without even so much as a word or syllable uttered in curiosity, Samir could tell already that he would like this plan, a first in all the two years they had known each other so far. And so, in seeing and hearing the evolved sense of earnest in Branko's body-language and tone of voice alike, the Kandaran would remain silent as his friend continued,'I need you to pull your Kandarans back, and set in a way they clash with the enemy vanguard in an ambush, but in order for it to work.... I need your subordinates to hide in the same sand that saved our hides enough times today that I've lost count.', listening intently as the explosions, blaster-trails and vocal outcries gradually grew louder with every passing second. Time was working against them, but without any need to give it a second thought, Hassan was more than willing to obey his friend's order, nodding approval as he reached for his comm-device whilst Marić's gaze drifted once more to the frontlines.
<"Delta Company, this is Hassan! You are being ordered to pull back for a counterattack plan we're cooking up. I repeat - you are being ordered to pull back for a counterattack plan we're cooking up. In this, you will be remembered for your skill instead of your sacrifice.... It is not this day that our statement is made, brothers. So be quick, and be quiet. Sabretooth Five out!">
Laoth’s laugh dragged through the air, sharp and piercing, the notes of incredulity like knives on her ears. Her body stiffened in response, shoulders taut, grip tight, and her eyes boring into him. Glaring her demand for an answer while her heart’s fear pumped quicker and quicker.
Silence suspended between them, even as his cackling waned. Was he finding mirth reliving the slaughter of Sardun? She felt the corners of her eyes pull, and she sharpened her glare.
He shared no answer with her, and her patience ran thin. The world around them erupted in electric white, and she used the burst of nature to conceal her movements. In a fluid motion, she lunged forward and broke their polite stalemate. Her swinging arc was incomplete, stopped by the screeching collision of his sword and her sabre. Pale plasma hissed against the sharpened, eerie metal, like the white moon on silver water, harmless and shimmering.
Twin suns glared at her through the ‘X’ that hissed and popped, sparking and glowing between them. His eyes were steady on hers. She felt him push against the hold, testing her strength as much as he’d tested her ability to react and meet his newfound speed. Her heels slipped in the mud, be she was firm and she forced her strength forward to meet him, not letting him move an inch.
Finally, he gave in and offered a response to the question that contaminated her concern.
His body was no longer the monstrous mass of muscle and bone she’d made bleed on Jedha, his voice no longer that resounding deep and orotund. This voice now was disembodied, almost mechanical, and as sinister as the sound was, the words were good.
The relief that whooshed through her drained in an instant, pouring out around her feet and she slipped again in the mud, faltering briefly and feeling the edge of his blade force forward, taking advantage of her distraction.
All that energy that had been trapped in anticipation, unknowing Sardun’s survival or not, was a gaping hole behind her heart, devoid of vitality: a tunnel burrowed into her chest cavity with dissolved, apoplectic speed and anger. Silence filled her mouth, and words struggled and failed on her lips.
Raindrops streaked down her face, glistening in the brilliant glow of her sabre like gems Little droplets ran and dripped from the peak of her nose and through the crack of her snarl. The salt on her tongue turned ashy and coppery, and the glittering diamonds that fell from the thunderous scar turned to ruby. The cold, gripping wet turned warm and sticky. What had been rain, harmless water, turned to blood.
And she was drenched in it.
Soaked in retribution for her lapse in judgment on Jedha. Pelting her with reminders of who’d already been killed because of him, and the threat — nay, the promise of all the more to come.
The chasm between what was real, and what was not, narrowed to nothing more than a sliver. Undulations of stretched, gaping faces, intermingled with the reddened skies. Strikes of lightning flashed details of her foe in short bursts. His wired neck, metal plates for a chest, lipless mouth, withered wisps of skin stretched over unnatural bones like a canvas.
She made a noise, like a shout or an angry screech. Or, thought she did. It shimmered and shattered through the air, rippling through the shreds of what was, and what was not.
“You won’t.” She counter promised. The ground around them cracked on either side, and small bits of rubble quivered and shook.
“You won’t get the chance. This is bigger than us. Than you or me.”
With a surge of the Force lent to her strength, she angled her sabre’s blade to slip from their lock, and come in toward his upper abdomen.
“And it has to be stopped.”
Her katana was freed from its holster slung across her back, and she jabbed it forward. Blood rained down, clung to her clothes and made her voice quiver. The words were unfathomable, but somehow managed to balance between a world of possibility and naught:
“Get out of my way or help me stop this.” ALLIES| NJO | GA | Bernard of Arca FOES | BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW| Laoth
Romul kicks Tor'r backwards with extra strength from power armor after being in deadlock for a couple seconds.
Mandalorian reinforcements from Ordo's fleet begin arriving, comprising mainly of Cernr-type droids and Mandalorian crew fleeing burning ships.
Assault shuttles fire their heavy laser cannons at the branchlurker while Mandalorian forces continue to assault it with heavy munitions.
Gallius rallies Mandalorian forces as they pinch the Maw from two angles.
Gallius fires a plasmag rifle at the head of the branchlurker, hoping to kill it.
As Romul brought down his war axe for a ferocious blow, the Death's Hand Mandalorian attempted to parry, scissoring their dual blades to catch Romul's own. Had the blood traitor tried to catch Romul's axe at the blade, they would've paid dearly with their own life; beskar was the only material that could cut through beskar. But as it was, the blades caught the axe's shaft, stopping Romul's progress mere inches from the helm of the Mawdalorian.
They held this locked position for several moments, the strain taxing both of the warriors. The servos within Romul's power armor kicked in, sending even more power into his downwards thrust in an attempt to drive Tor'r to the ground or give out from the pressure. But Romul's patience was taxing, too. "Die,"he commanded, kicking Tor'r squarely in the chest with a force that would cave in an unprotected chest to send the Death's Hand cultist backward, breaking the deadlock.
Despite its size, the war axe was surprisingly light, and Romul could comfortably wield it single-handedly without sacrificing handling or force. The extra strength that he drew from his power armor only helped in that regard. To that end, he drew his kal knife with his opposite hand; now he matched his opponent in number of weapons. He raised his blades in a dual-wielder's traditional Mandalorian stance, before the roar of starship engines from behind interrupted him. He did not allow himself to turn, to sacrifice his attention and give the Death's Hand an opportunity to strike. But then his comlink in his helm crackled to life.
"Oya,Akaan'alor."Reinforcements had arrived.
The hangar was moderately large, larger than any hangar aboard a Mandalorian ship -- save their massive star dreadnought -- but even then it could only fit roughly three assault dropships comfortably. They hovered a half-meter above the ground at the very edge of the hangar bay as their ramps lowered and their passengers disembarked. A large bulk of them were Cernr-type droids, little better than stock battle droid models but apt at overwhelming enemy forces with firepower. A minority of them were Mandalorians, crew that had escaped from the burning ships of Tyatr'alor Ikaan Ordo's fleet to find refuge -- ironically -- aboard the Maw superweapon.
Their arrival had changed the situation, opening a third front to hit the Maw forces from the side, pinching them between two advancing Mandalorian forces. The assault dropships did not leave silently, either; two strafed the Maw forces with their laser cannons while a third focused a salvo against the branchlurker, trying to do as much damage as they could; and with their heavy starship-grade weapons, said damage was quite considerable. The assault dropships didn't stay to chat for long though, withdrawing from the hangar only to be replaced by three more, who repeated the pattern of disembarking troops and strafing Maw forces. The tide of the assault had just turned very much in the Mandalorian's favor.
Romul smiled underneath his helmet as blasterfire echoed all around him, though the expression was obviously lost behind the helm that masked every emotion of his from his enemies. Then, wordlessly, he fired a concussive missile from his wrist launcher of the hand that held the small kal blade at Tor'r to at the very least stun the Death's Hand cultist; then he charged the blood traitor, swinging wide with his war ax to try and end the Death's Hand warrior once and for all.
Romul Saxon's second-in-command slowly came to, the noise of the pitched hangar battle echoing faintly in his helmet, as if he had been submerged underwater and were hearing the fighting from the depths below. The health indicators in his HUD rang in his ears, freaking out over the Mandalorian's unconsciousness. As he slowly became more aware of his surroundings, he perceived a Jikar medic bent over him, conducting intravenous fluids from their vambrace into a small access port below Saxon's shoulder, monitoring Gallius's life signs with a display on the opposite arm.
Under his helmet, Gallius managed a grim chuckle. Mandalorians do not die so easily.
The Jikar noticed that Gallius had returned to consciousness and disengaged the fluids, retracting the tubes into the medic vambraces. "Good to have you back," the medic grunted as he offered a hand to help Gallius back to his feet. Gallius took it, shakily drawing up from the metal surface. His vision spun from the sudden rush of blood to his head, and he had to brace himself to keep from falling until his vision straightened. "You haven't missed much, besides the Akaan'alor slicing off one of the limbs from the beast. And a duel between the Shaman and some Sith has been exciting to watch. Positions remain unchanged, though."
The Jikar's tone was nonchalant while he checked the levels of bacta and revitalization fluids stored in his armor as he updated Gallius on the situation. "The vod could use you. They need something, someone to rally to." A sudden ping interrupted the medic, and he stopped what he was doing. "I'm needed elsewhere. K'oyacyi, commander." And the medic set off, leaving Gallius and a couple other Saxon warriors to themselves admit the chaos.
"Alright vod," Gallius announced, composing himself. "Time to get to work." Just then, he was interrupted by the telltale roar of starship engines, and he turned to see what he had been waiting for: Mandalorian reinforcements. Waves of Cernr-type droid frames had been deployed with Mandalorian warriors to back them, and immediately began firing into the side of the Maw forces, catching them off-guard. The situation in the hangar had just drastically swung in the Mandalorians favor.
His own Mandalorian squad following him, Gallius began to push against the Maw forces, firing his blaster pistol before discarding it and picking up the weapon from the body of a fallen brother: it was a Plasmag Rifle, capable of incinerating lightly-armored troops and punching through the thickest of armors. He turned it on a Maw raider, vaporizing it as the signature thwack of the weapon firing echoed over the deafening noise of the clash in the hangar. He then aimed it towards the head of the rampaging branchlurker, slowing his breathing as he locked onto his target and fired.
Javik tried to keep up with kralmus as he dodged the rotary blaster fire. His muscles burned from the lightning gun unfortunately kralmus dodged his first barrage. Javik walked trying to chase him with the rotary blaster cannon his body begged him to stop and get medical attention but he pushed forward. That's when he heard explosions and saw the heavy crate falling towards him he forced his body to move dropping his rotary blaster cannon he barely got out of the way but his blaster cannon got crushed. He saw kralmus as he got into a fighting stance as he charged kralmus and began swinging at him with his fists.
He heard the dropships fly in and give firesupport to the other Mandalorians and give back up in the form of droids and other mandalorians. He didn't let up with his aggressive assault at kralmus swinging heavy blows towards kralmuses body and head.
She reminded him of a holofilm he had seen of a boxer that had refused to tap out despite being bloodied and broken. It would have been admirable if it wasn't so heartwrenching.
Yet the Spectre knew not to give the metallic Wardog half a chance. By the time she was back on her feet, so to speak, and hurling the detonators at them, the Greyhound had already flown away from his original position while shooting sonics at the detonator that would have impacted with him before Shai could detonate it.
The resulting premature boom lit empty air on fire and dissipated harmlessly. The shockwave rocked him only slightly, his jetpack stabilising him well enough while he holstered one pistol. "That's how you want to play it then, Pup?" he asked rhetorically before hurling a thermal of his own back at her. Not waiting to see what happens, he flew towards her almost at the same time, firing a burst-round of disruptor shots to keep her busy in the process, not caring what happened to the unknown Shistavanen that had closed the gap between himself and Shai. Either he was stupid to do that in a fire fight or he could actually take it. It didn't matter the the Spectre either way. He'd been conditioned by the Empire for far too long to truly care about happened to those that weren't an asset to the Imperial war machine.
Dipping low, he would end up dropping a primed EMP grenade. For good measure, he would flip around onto his back, shooting the repulsor in the vambrace at her while allowing the jetpack to carry him backwards.
Not expecting the heavily armoured corrupted Mando'ad to stay down, he gained altitude again, his eyes still on his old subordinate, hoping Kranak Vizsla
would capitalise on the amount of distractions as they happened and not let emotion get in the way.
The duel had continued on for what felt like an eternity, with blade crashing against blade as the defenders of Tython sought to put the Dark Voice down. As the planet broke and twisted around them, they found themselves at odds with even the very ground beneath their feet. Yet, through it all, Heinrich continued to press the attack. This would likely be their last chance to bring the Sith down, and should they fail... Heinrich didn't wish to think of the implications.
As he sought to cut down the Dark Voice, Heinrich found himself losing his footing, the ground beneath him beginning to give way as it twisted and warped into unbelievable shapes. Soon, the Grand Marshal found himself separated from the Emperor, having been forced back by the ground that cracked open beneath his feet. All he could do in those moments was watch as the Emperor valiantly stood his ground, fighting till he was brought down by the hand of Solipsis. As his corpse slumped to the ground, Heinrich could only say a prayer for him. A true hero... a true Imperial... defiant to the last.
As he attempted to find a path back to the fight, a sharp sense of dread flooded his senses, as if a piece of his very being had been ripped in two. He dropped to one knee, his mind racing as he sought out the source of the disturbance. His attention slowly moved from the fight with the Dark Voice, and over to the point of origin of the terrible pain...
His friends had been cut down.
His mind was caught in the throes of pandemonium as he tried to make sense of it all. How... why... there were a million unanswered questions, and a million moments he wished he could get back. In all of his focus on Solipsis, Heinrich had not thought to stand with his dear friends. Now, he feared that he would never have that chance...
Heinrich would not allow them to die in vain.
As Ryv squared off against the Dark Voice, Heinrich looked to Cotan, his mind reaching out to the man as he finally found solid ground.
I'll join my power to yours, Cotan. Perhaps together, we can give Ryv the strength to end this...
Grasping the montral pendent given to him by Oraada Laabre
, Heinrich began to chant the oath of the Ashlan knights, channeling his energy outward, adding his power to that of Cotan as he sought to strengthen the Sword of the Jedi. If he couldn't put down the Dark Voice himself, he could hopefully help Ryv put an end to this evil once and for all.
As he continued to channel his power, a strange thing happened. The clouds began to break, and the Light began to shine through... the Light of Ashla herself. Heinrich felt an overwhelming sense of calm within the chaos that continued to unfold around him. His connection to the Force felt all the stronger, and the energy he could send to Ryv had grown significantly. As he maintained his connection to the others, Heinrich called out to Ryv.
The Brambers came through, as they always had. As the Dunwall Irregulars hopped aboard the tanks provided by Tarring, Tyrell looked onward into the distance. The planet had begun to act in unnatural ways, and he could only assume it had something to do with the Sithies. After all, it was always a Sithie's doing...
<<Appreciate the assist, Tarring. We'll be back before you can say "Imperator". Till then, the rest of the lads will continue with you an' yers. Give 'em a good scrap.>>
The tanks began to move, pushing their way toward the position of their cut off comrades. The fires of battle and Sith sorcery raged all around, yet the Madman would not allow it to distract him from his goal. Today, he would save those that had proven brave in the wake of utter evil. Together, they would ensure that the Iron Lion continued to stand proud in the wind, and with enough luck... they would all make it out in one piece.
His hand quickly went for his comlink once again, sending a transmission to Aerys as the Tanks began their attack.
<<I 'ear ya. En route now. Keep an eye out for tanks on the horizon. Devil One out!>>
As the transmission ended, the tanks began their thunderous song, cutting a proper swath through the Maw lines as they sojourned forth. The scream of the cannons was music to the Madman's ears, for in that cacophonous roar, he found greater hope.
Eventually, one of the Irregulars tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to a distant Iron Lion in the distance.
"Sir! Iron Lion approaching!"
Soon, they would be able to relieve the others. Then, all that would be left for them to do would be to get out alive...
A crushgaunt blow from Javik breaks Kralmus's right arm
Kralmus uses his jetpack to retreat, dropping a sonic concussion grenade to cover his withdrawal
Kralmus calls for a fighting withdrawal from the hangar
He fires into the Enclave combat droids with his blaster as he retreats
The situation in the hangar was, from the Mawite perspective, rapidly going from bad to worse.
No sooner had Kralmus tipped over the crate in his desperate gambit to flatten Javik than the roar of engines filled the hangar, loud even amidst the din of pitched battle. The Enclave, it seemed, had managed to get even more boarders past the point defense grid... which did not bode well for the status of the fleet battle beyond the Avatar's walls. There was no way that Kralmus could know that the starboard flank was collapsing, the former flagship of the Brotherhood going down in flames, but it wouldn't have surprised him in the least. Given the odds they were up against here, almost literally the entire rest of the galaxy, it was a miracle they'd held out this long.
Maybe they'd overstretched themselves this time, flown too close to the sun, grown too proud in the wake of the prior victories that had seen them make such inroads into the Core. There had certainly never been any hope of a traditional military victory, but maybe there had never been any hope of any kind of victory at all. But none of that bothered Kralmus Orr. If this was his end, if the Mandalorians and their war droids overran them here and blew this superweapon sky high with him - or his corpse - aboard, he would face it with dignity and pride. He had joined Mand'alor the Unchained because Kryze promised a great crusade to pillage the galaxy, like the Mandalorians of old.
He'd gotten his crusade. If he died here, so be it; he would be written into the history books, remembered for millennia.
There was no time to turn and meet the Mandalorian reinforcements, because Javik - sadly unflattened - was upon him again. He'd lost his huge blaster, which was something, but he was coming in swinging... and he wore crushgaunts. Kralmus backpedaled as swiftly as he could, holding up his arms in front of his face; since he'd lost his helmet in his fight with Romul earlier, a single blow from one of those mighty gauntlets would go right through his head and splatter his brains. The veteran warrior dodged, ducked, dipped, dived, and dodged as he retreated, evading some swings, turning others into glancing blows, but he couldn't evade them all. He was tiring.
That's what they leave out of the holovids, of course; how tiring it is to fight. When some almighty hero wades into battle and slays two dozen foes, one after another, that's all fine and dandy on the screen... but it seldom plays out that way in reality. Swinging a weapon, or even just a fist, is work. It's why shockboxers are covered in sweat by the end of the first couple of rounds, and it's why that holovid hero would really get slower and slower, reactions dulled, swings less powerful, until he finally gets overwhelmed. Kralmus had been fighting nonstop since the boarding action had begun, and he'd sprinted the considerable distance to the hangar. His energy was falling fast.
And there were his cracked ribs to consider, stabbing him with needles of pain on every breath.
Whoosh. A blow whistled over his head as he ducked, close enough that he felt the wind of it ruffle his buzz cut. Clank. Another crushgaunt punch glanced off his left arm, just barely redirected before it would have smashed his cracked ribs to jelly. Snap. He tried to block again, this time with his right arm, but the timing was off; instead of pushing Javik's forearm past his body, his own forearm hit Javik's fist. Armor cracked; beneath it, bone snapped. "RAAAAARGH!" Kralmus howled, staggering back. His right arm, his main weapon hand, was fractured, a clean break through both radius and ulna. Without the ability to block with both arms, he was seconds from death.
Falling back on the same tactic that had saved him from Romul's axe swing, the cannibal activated his jetpack, whooshing backward and upward. With his uninjured left arm he pulled a sonic concussion grenade from his belt, dropping it toward Javik to cover his retreat. It wasn't a lethal weapon, but the sonic shockwave might stun his opponent, especially since Javik's eardrums had already taken a nasty pounding from Vorm's flash-bang earlier. He didn't doubt that the commando would be right back on him in a moment, though; the guy was certainly persistent. And in his present condition, there was no way that Kralmus could fight him and win.
Glancing around the hangar from his high vantage point, the cannibal could see that his comrades were in pretty bad situations, too. Vorm was once again being targeted by multiple elite foes, all of whom seemed all but immune to conventional attacks. Tor'r was still locked in combat with that arrogant Enclave warmaster. Both were likely to be overwhelmed if the enemy reinforcements moved up and overran their current positions; for all their talk of honor, these Mandalorians seemed to see no shame in interrupting individual duels to shoot their enemies in the back. The Maw had held the hangar as long as they could; perhaps it was time to find a fallback point, a place to make one last stand.
"We need to make a fighting withdrawal," Kralmus said over the encrypted comm channel. "We can't hold here."
Drawing his blaster with his left hand, he fired into the oncoming droids as he jetpacked away.
There was one good thing happening for the Maw, at least: the Enclave weren't the only ones getting reinforcements. From his high vantage, Kralmus could see that Dodhorn Harert
, the mysterious Mandalorian Sith he'd found in a stasis tomb in some faraway jungle, had just arrived... and in style, re-forming out of a cloud of blood-sucking creatures in the midst of the battle. Perhaps her presence would be enough to cover them as they found a place to bottleneck the oncoming boarding party, some corridor where the numbers of the Enclave warriors and droids would work against them. "Good timing," he rasped in her direction, grinning with blood-covered teeth.
His own blood, unfortunately. It seemed that some bone splinters had reached his lungs after all...
Silas Westgard
