Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!
She could hear them. The voices of the Jedi, both fallen and living. They called to her and even in the pit she now found herself in as black as it was she could see the light. Thalia Senn placed a hand against the cold surface of her prison and as Tython's reality was shaken and the walls between the living and dead were taken apart brick by brick she felt it. Her shatterpoint.
"Alright, you useless karking sithspit of a screw up...Its time to grab the mhara by the horn. I am one with the Force and the Force is with me."
The Padawan Iris was troublesome. Was it really her skill in the blade that had increased or was it that something inside her was twisting and cutting its way out? Somewhere in the distant sea of her mind she could hear the Black Drake screeching in pain. It fled from her mind and left her vulnerable.
'No! Don't Leave! Without you she will return! I don't want to be weak again!'
But it was the end. Her master required every bit of strength and power. He could not afford to express his will or fortitude defending a weak young girl's heart from herself. She could feel her coming, rising like an angry tide before a Weeping season storm. Tempest screamed as she felt herself being peeled away.
"Speyr Balley take you Thalia!" She shrieked. Her lightsabers clattered to the ground. Something in her told her to run. Run away from Thalia. Run away from Iris. Run away from this planet. She tried but her body wouldn't move. Her fear had tricked her, and now it was too late.
"That's right you schutta, run. Don't worry I'll kee this thank you very much!" She could feel Tempest peeling from her. It was like tar being pulled from her skin. It hurt so much. So storming much. Was that...Her? The inky black outline of a body was nearly a foot away from her now as the last vestiges of Darth Solipsis
and his influence snapped away from her skin.
"Disgusting."
The creature, beak mouthed and roughly the same height as Thalia shuddered, its glowing red eyes like coals at the bottom of a deep well. It stank of the Dark Side. The Wraith screeched. A Tempest roared from within the walking stormcloud. Thalia looked tiredly and bewilderingly up at Iris.
"Who...Where are we?" Did she really have time to think about that? She could feel it in the Force. Something had torn this world's balance into sunders, its 'waves' were more like tsunamis and they were crashing against the planet with the might of the ten seas behind them. This world was not a safe place to be. Not to mention the smell of ozone from so many blasters, the hanging dark clouds, the burning rocks still falling from the sky, and last but certainly not least the Sith Wraith that she had just expunged from her body.
But she was delirious, and, she noted with disdain, the wratih was still connected to her via a long, thick cord black as night and wrapped around her ankle. Something told her that wasn't getting severed by a lightsaber.
"R-run. You n-need to r-run." She was shivering now. Shock? Didn't matter. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly parched and her lips dry as summer stones but she struggled to her feet and looked at Iris again. "Run," she croaked.
This was the battle of the lifetime. He thought Coruscant was, during the Endgame, but he never cared for the world. Coren Starchaser was a Jedi Master, the Sentinel of Sullust. He had a very specific focus in his life, he was a Jedi, he defended the Light, and here he was, on the world where it may have all begun, depending on which school of thought you saw as the truth, due to Ahch-To, but Tython was no less important. And here he was facing down the Maw with the Knights that followed him, and staring a Sith in the face, all while pushing energy to his brothers and sisters in arms.
His focus was waivering, prepping to intercept a lightsaber, when there was a sword, but with all that was going on, with the meld, he was not certain when he made a move. His shoto lit up, the gold-white blade cracking to life as he moved it, intent to keep the other weapon, the sword away from his body. He was pulling back from what he was able to send towards Thurion Heavenshield
as he moved to defend himself.
Focusing inwardly, he was pulling on the Force, for valor and to increase his mental state, to increase his reflexes as the Sith Sword was pushing him back. Feeling the others, Celeste Rigel
as readily as ever, Caltin Vanagor
off on his quest, he was starting to pull away from even them, from Zark San Tekka
and the other Jed. That was, until he felt what the Seers were doing.
All the Jedi live on in us.
He could feel her, the student he failed, the one he loved as a daughter… They had contacted the others. With the Force flowing off Mishel
, Coren grinned. The boost was what he needed, to get his real arm straight as he pulled hard on the battery that was the lives of the Jedi around him. Looking up towards Darth Libertas
, the Corellian could not help but grin. Despite what was going on with the Lion King, he couldn't focus on that. Caltin and Celeste and Romi could, and would assist. He found himself engaged currently.
He would find the Jedi. But what he did was call his blade, the one with the mighty Starchaser's Light at its core, from where it lay and back to him. With a second blade ignited in his hands, he looked to Libertas. "Lets try this my way." He said, a step forward as he adjusted his grip.
Lightsabers were never his forte, but two? In a form of Shien, after training with other Jedi, was a way that he could fight. It felt more akin to brawling, which he could do. And adding the Force to his weapons and his body? That was his main skill.
"We halt this fight, we push the Maw from this site, and we get off this world." Blades were moving in an attempt to deflect the Sith sword, while providing an out. Something was not feeling proper here and this was a world that needed saving.
The Jedi and Irregulars were working together, doing what they could to take pot shots at the incoming Mawite forces. They were fighting the fight they knew how, strike, and fade, not be found in any one place for too long. Jedi providing barrier and healing support while the Irregulars were the tip of the spear. A lightsaber could be good to bring down one foe, but in this situation? There were more than one, and while a well placed Force throw could pull the guard down of a lightsabered being, a blaster could fight more at once.
With the call coming from San Tekka, the lead Jedi, a High Knight of the Silver Order looked to the teams. "Fall back! Outflanked by NIO! Move Irregulars! For the Galaxy's sake!" He said in his teams. "We cannot fail this world or others will follow!" The Irregulars under his command were already moving, Jedi closing ranks to deflect foes, while the High Knight saw the meteorite of Ashla and threw a well placed shatterpoint-inspired blast into it, setting it to erupt in a brilliant white light to give them some more cover.
The roar of excitement from the Irregulars continued as the men and women of the Rim fired into the fray, moving to greet the Imperial Order.
Tython was chaos incarnate. The hordes of Maw cultists never seemed to end. At this point he was knee-deep in the corpses of beings who at one point or another had been loved but had chosen to hate. Chosen to murder and pillage and destroy. And so his duty as a Knight of the New Imperial Order was to cut out this cancer. Lightsabers that once took life at the hands of a Sith now defended it with blades changed from red to white. He would purify these souls too, and send them back to the Force.
Stormtroopers died around him. Knights died around him. But he pushed on, and on and on.
He didn't know how long it had been. He had forgotten when he'd returned to the Imperial FOB and he had no idea how he had landed in the field hospital. A Knight Cleric stood over him, her hand glowing faintly with the power of the Force. He could see it, though he knew others without the ability could likely not. The woman sucked her teeth.
"Battle Shock or Battle Fatigue. One or both." She got to one knee and proffered a nutrient pack and pressed it against his forehead. It was cool, so cool to the touch that it sent a chill up his spine.
"Knight Regent," she said, her green eyes watching his carefully, likely for any signs of intelligent life left behind the fatigue. "You fought well. Eat this. Rest. Your fight is done."
Melvain nodded absently. The Cleric sighed and stood, moving on to her next patient. The cool, nutrient-rich paste was meiloorun flavored. He hated meiloorun. He shuddered and groaned as the tears finally came.
All at once everything changed. Reality had splintered and broke, and with it the shade around Thalia seemed to.. Leave. The darkness from before, that had enhanced her power the first time she and Kai fought her. Sweat dripped down the Padawan's face as she kept her distance. Whatever was happening, she didn't dare try and strike out. She'd been barely keeping up at this point. Everything she'd learned was just enough to help her survive.
Not enough to win against the Dark infused Padawan.
Then two were one. Literally shedding the dark, Thalia emerged. The echo she'd seen, the colors she'd been trying so desperately to tug at. They'd finally emerged. Iris didn't pretend to understand what had happened. Nothing made sense.
Then another. Not away, towards. No, not after getting this far. Not after Thalia finally broke free. Iris reached out, tugging on those colors. Pulling Thalia's mind to her own. "You don't need to shoulder that alone anymore! Let us in!" Not just her. Domxite, too. The light that remained in her friend, she tugged at them. Pulled with all her might.
The Lonely Isle, Lake Kaleth, Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876 ABY)
TLDR:
The fight resumes
Both warriors understand this is the last play
Erskine evades in pivot and spins backhand into his counter
Killing the Mongrel instantly
Seemingly killing his partner through shock and the loss of her loved one alone
Erskine closes Mercy's eyelids and leaves her alone
Tries to raise comms with Rurik
No answer
'AGAIN!!!!'
The old Woad was expecting a more advanced play this time, though he wouldn't know what it was until the giant cyborg began to make his next move, and though they were trapped in a short moment of tension, it was feeling like an age was passing as they circled and circled again with perfect poise. This was the moment they had both been waiting for, and though Erskine could feel it in himself without being able to see the same anticipation in his rival of eleven wondrous years, he felt he could still sense it emanating from Asher as the final moment of conscious rivalry between them passed.
It felt like they were both trapped in the beauty of the moment as time seemingly stopped completely for them, allowing both warriors to savour and cherish the calm before their last storm together, blocking out time's cruel embrace a little longer lest they'd be cursed to yearn for this memory in the future; and though it hurt the Lord-General to embrace it, the last part of the epic tale that was their rivalry, through every last moment of tension, was drawing to it's natural conclusion. Giving rise to a strange but beautiful truth in this silence between them, Barran would find himself feeling something he never thought he would towards the end, heartache, and of the sort that informed Erskine that no other swordsman would come close to matching the drive, the skill and aggressiveness of his greatest rival by then. However, enlightening though it was, this revelation brought the old Woad nothing but pain, unleashing heartache in a revelation so depressingly profound it gave real contextual meaning to the definition of hurt.
If that cruel wench they call,"Fate", would have it that I survive - I will remember him. And The Mongrel's enemies shall revere him forevermore.
A hurt that cut deep, but a hurt that somehow reaffirmed all that Lord Erskine had endured to reach that point, a hurt that would cut deep into the heart of the select few who survived the dread that was Asher's supreme sense of determination. Such drive always spurred the Mongrel on to achieve feats that would surprise even the Stormchaser, and especially after hearing the retellings and seeing footage from more than the fair share of fights the Mawite had endured since they first met, but something else had been found in his foe since, with that something being a trait akin to gracefulness. And as strange as the concept seemed in attributing it to a cyborg of such great and brutish strength and aggression, Barran felt he could understand it somehow, though the recognition of the fact he was on the verge of snuffing out such a glorious flame of light and growth in swordsmanship (in all it's progressing, growing beauty) would bring that emotional lump to his throat once more.
'Hail the inevitable,'
Three words, three words that changed everything, even the air that swirled with the cold, late-autumn bite against the skin, and it was then that Erskine realised how cursed he truly was. Fated to exist, to live through all the horror, the grief and all the rage of a man doomed to die in a manner far less dignified than that of the Mongrel's passing. And in the moment Asher's cybernetic knees started dropping with a dramatically-high pressurized hiss, the old Woad's reflexes would achieve what his Tuath friend's could not, but Barran didn't want that - not for the Mongrel.
Why, Mongrel?
He wanted a true great to rise, ascending as the Imperial would in different circumstances.
Knowing he could evade, counter and achieve what Aron Gowrie could not, the Korriban dread of the inescapable would be replaced with the dread of wishing it would have ended differently, knowing that the greatly-respected adversary had made a grave mistake; and in believing him not long enough in the tooth to consider it, the gracefulness of the old Woad would teach the Mawite his last lesson, a lesson with an outcome that Asher had seemingly made his peace with already. Trusting in the speed and dynamics of his own anatomy, Erskine dropped his parrying-dagger as he span towards the outward flat of the greatsword's tip, body-checking the wondrous Beskar invention inward to continue spinning in full-pivot unchallenged, with his own sword singing through the air in spinning-backfist motion towards the armour protecting the Mongrel's brain - hurling violent momentum into the last remaining shred of humanity that kept Asher tied to corporeal existence.
'See you in the Nether-'
Then, with a screeching metallic scrape, cutting through the thick plating with a jaw-clenched grunt of exertion, Lord Erskine slashed Asher's brain in a clean slice, severing the Mongrel's ties to the living realms with a finality that seemed to take a part of the Stormchaser with him. All semblance of vigour and glowing vitality, evaporating like the last of the warm air around Asher's hulking suit of arms, and with nothing more than deft manoeuvring, willpower and insight. Barran had just cast all sense of warmth in himself to the winds, leaving nothing but self-hatred in it's wake.
'-Friend.'
Tearfully sheathing the sword as the Mongrel's limp suit of armour dropped lifelessly to the ground, Erskine's knees would buckle under the weight of his circumstances next, hanging head low in the loss of both a great rival and the glory days he enjoyed as the Mongrel's perfect duelling opposite. But the sound of another body hitting the ground snapped him out of his wallowing state of grief, putting the longing for more golden years to one side as his eyes drew upward to find those of Asher's soulmate, apparently dying also. Her nose was bleeding, with face set in a jaw-clenched grimace of it's own as her eyes revealed the true pain she was feeling, one such that pained the soul far more than any physical wound ever could. Such agonies, even in the aftermath of prevailing against his most difficult opponent in life, Erskine could understand completely, but in seeing the raw, unbridled loathing in the woman's tear-filled eyes, Barran knew there would be nothing he could say that would come anywhere near close enough to consoling her by then.
She won't hear any of it from you, ol' boy.
But you'll stay until she dies - you owe this woman that much at least.
Not that the old Woad would be waiting for long, as in the following moments of their silent, conflicting acceptance of each other's presence, the Mongrel's wife would lose consciousness, closing her eyes to life itself as her heart seemed to stop beating entirely. With heart and soul sinking even deeper, the Stormchaser politely closed the woman's eyelids and recited a quiet prayer for the safe passage of her soul, only to remove his hand from her brow to find she reminded the Lord-General of his wife, seeing such peacefulness only in the hours he was lucky enough to watch his darling sleep. Erskine would rise moments later in rage at himself for killing true love, the woman who loved Asher, and in the same way his own doom would've been the death of Lady Carla in turn; luck, as much as it was on Barran's side, seemed to bear a double-edged curse of it's own, one such that would instil a sourness in him for the rest of his days.
Dia forsakes me more now than I forsake myself. And I deserve it.
But please, don't forsake me twice in one day - let alone a lifetime.
And then, the Lord-General's thoughts began to drift, all of a sudden beginning to dwell on the Emperor, his fight with Darth Solipsis, and the will to ascertain the outcome of that fight. Bringing his comm-device out of his inner coat pocket, Barran pressed it against his head in the vainglorious hope his desire for a near-miss success wasn't just a dream, muttering,'If ever you've been strong enough to prevail -I need you to prevail now, brother. Please, Rurik.... Please answer! Please, if you have a heart to heal the aching soul of an old man in his darkest hour, you'll answer.', with despair forcing his voice into gruff, growling spoken tones before he could even finish what he was saying. This possibility was especially difficult for the old Woad to accept, especially in remembering his life had been saved by not only one Imperial leader, but Rurik had made that number into Two in the act of saving Lord Erskine's and Willan Tal's lives on Coruscant, making the old Woad realise that he didn't want to outlive both saviours in his lifetime.
It was difficult enough that he had to live on and fight for the legacy of Irveric, but in consideration of the possibility he would need to live on and fight for the legacy of Irveric's successor, the thought of losing Rurik became a dread he couldn't shake, no mattered how likely (or otherwise) it was that Fel could have slain Solipsis on any other occasion. Deep down, the old Woad knew what the outcome was, and without so much as a need for Rurik to patch through to assuage the creeping, gnawing fear of seeing his own worst nightmares come into fruition like the worst, most galling of poetries. The Emperor had been formidable in life, and to extents that Erskine could do nothing but marvel at his power, seeing the man Sidious never had the spinal-fortitude, the vision or the virtue to dream of becoming, seeing the true Imperial legend who forged all that Barran would cunningly work to protect for the rest of his life.
<"Rurik, if you can hear me - patch through an' put my dread to rest.... You showed me your true face, the one that no mask can hide. A face too humble to die here of all places!
In the beginning, it would be a stout, stubborn breakaway order punching their way out from the Hand of Thrawn fortress on Nirauan under Irveric Tavlar's banner, inspiring Galidraan's exiles to fight for something greater once more, memories Erskine Barran still cherished with a warm heart despite all of whom he had lost in those days as well. But it wasn't until Rurik Fel handed Erskine his black and gold Lord-General's baton, the promotion that would change the old Woad's life forevermore, ascending him to heights he never dreamed were possible before. Once more changing Barran's life when Rurik visited Galidraan III to assure Erksine's lasting loyalty to the cause, there would be much recalled in a vast amount of life-affirming memories they shared together, tethering the Stormchaser to his need for a near-miss at the last second - though it tethered the old Woad to a near-miss that would never materialise.
For the Emperor, despite all he had achieved in life, had already been slain by the will and hand of Darth Solipsis. But Erskine had not been informed of this yet, he had no way of knowing, making it all much worse for Barran in his clear, anguished erraticism.
<"Please, patch through for me if not for the others. I only want to know that you're still breathing, the Medical Corps can handle the rest.... Even if it's only one word, ">
COMETS COLLIDE: ORDER VS. CHAOS - PART 21
Colrinal Crook, Southern Kalesh Plains, Temple Valley, Tython(Late-Autumn of 876 ABY)
TLDR:
Third wave approaches
Sabretooths are flagging and showing signs of fear
Wyll finally patches through to McGechin to throw in the Hobilars
The troopers are given much-needed courage from Wyll's speech
All finally charge downhill to meet the threat head-on
'THIRD WAVE IN SIGHT, RETURN TO YOUR POSTS AND LOAD YOUR LAST POWER-PACKS!!!!'
Ivy had acquitted herself a cut above the others in the first two waves of Mawite assaults on their half-built FOB, proving herself every part as worthy as all the other 501st troopers to bear the armour-markings and insignia of the 501st, even going so far as to match Rosk'Aiar kill-for-kill until the last of the second-wave's raiders had retreated before them. But the same couldn't be said for Sir Martin, struggling and incurring cuts, bruises and abrasions along with all the others, paining in his struggle alongside the troopers of Sabretooth Legion. And in that sorry state, Wyll couldn't help but wonder if he'd done anything at all to thin the lines a little for the Hobilars of Faslane, as it looked like there would be no end to the swarms of Burned-Legion Troopers and raiders from Mar'Zambuul, like a well that refused to run dry - even whilst bubbling within the scalding-hot crucible of apocalyptic warfare.
'ALRIGHT, WYLL!!!! ITS NOW OR NEVER - ARE YOU PATCHING THROUGH TO THE WOAD OR NOT?!?!'
The impending third wave sounded much louder than the previous two waves combined, with voices and aimless blaster fire in the full fervour of hubristic, premature celebration all across the foggy field beyond, leading the scar-faced officer to correctly assume this wave would contain much greater numbers this time. And with clear indication that this would be their last wave either way, Wyll replied,'LOOKS LIKE IT, LARRAS!!!! AS SOON AS THE BIKES ROAR PAST US, WE TURN THE SALLYING-ATTEMPT INTO A FULL OFFENSIVE ADVANCE!!!! SOUND LIKE A PLAN TO YOU?!?!?', roaring it from the pit of his stomach, and loud enough that all around Sir Martin could draw courage from his continued faith in the shock-and-awe strategy. Even though his scar had been reopened through blunt-force trauma, and even though he looked to be exhausted, breathing heavy through the nostrils as much as he could, it was still obvious to the Grave-Tusken and the trooper of the 501st that Knight-Captain Wyll was still very much a force to be reckoned with.
'SOUNDS GOOD TO ME, WYLL!!!! LETS GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!!!!'
<"Wyll to Lance Two! We're in deeeeep chit here now, my old friend. But if its any consolation at all, we managed to thin their right flank out in their attempts to overrun our elevated positions. Perhaps enough that Lord Ollis might be able to punch through.">
<"McGechin to Lance Three! I'm sure they had much worse odds on Archais, so no worries there - I'll get them ready, bai! Jus' listen out for the mass engine-roar! Yer gonna love it!">
<"I can hear them over comms already! Worth a shot at this stage anyways, and we will be making sure to join your attack from another angle too. So I'll hopefully be seeing you out there somewhere, hopefully I can hitch a ride! My arms and my legs are killing me here! Lance Three out!">
In a bid to keep the Imperials' from popping their heads up to fire, PLX-One rockets would screen the Mawite approach initially, not taking into account that sharpshooters were picking them off from the origin-points of smoky heat-signatures, trying to keep the hardest-hitting elements from becoming a factor but still struggling under the sheer weight of numbers as the others would. But this wouldn't stop the battered, bloodied and bruised Wyll from raising his sword aloft for the third and final time, hollering,'ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH, MY DEAR FRIENDS!!!! TYTHON IS OUR PERSONAL PLAYGROUND NOW - AND OUR VICTIMS APPROACH FOR THE LAST TIME EITHER WAY!!!!', beating the basket-hilt of his rapier against his left pectoral in expressing the heartfelt (unofficial) salute of the Third Imperial Civil War.
'IN THE WORDS OF IRVERIC TAVLAR,"WE MARCH TO VICTORY OR WE MARCH TO DEFEAT, BUT WE GO FORWARD - ONLY FORWARD!!!!"', AND TO THIS DAY, TRUER WORDS HAVE NEVER BEEN SPOKEN!!!! SO IF OUR FOUNDING FATHERS WOULD FIGHT THIS WAY - THEN I, MARTIN WYLL, HEREBY DECLARE ADHERENCE TO TAVLAR'S MAXIM!!!!'
Despite the rising, ghostlike crescendo of screaming, frothy-mouthed aggressors in the distance, the response to Sir Martin's words was loud enough that the 4th Battalion contingent's voices rang out in a surprisingly-loud crescendo of their own, serving to quicken the Ravelin-born officer's heart to adrenally vicious extremes, and just enough to tap into what Lord Carwood had been training him to endure for the Empire's final set-piece of the battle. The customary order to fire would be given from the non-coms on the last occasion though, as the circumstances were much too strenuous to give the third wave any ground in the need for concentrated pressure by then, but all were still listening out for the final order, waiting to see Sir Martin, Rosk'Aiar and Ivy charging out over the sandbags together as the scar-faced captain turned back to face the others once more.
'ADVAAAAAAAAAAAANCE!!!!'
COMETS COLLIDE: ORDER VS. CHAOS - PART 22
The Reach of Kalikori, Southern Kalesh Plains, Temple Valley, Tython (Late-Autumn of 876-ABY)
TLDR:
The Kandarans aren't happy with Hassan
Marić points out that anger will only make matters worse
Especially after the second Malek outburst
Marić urges Hassan to leave with him as he plots an escape
'Brother, I hope glories await, for if they do not - I will not forget this.'
'Bismillah, CALM YOURSELF OVER THERE!!!!', Samir responded with the snap of impatience adding bite to his words, especially in those he was shouting to a subordinate nearby, though he was cut short by a warning hand of order placed on his shoulder-pauldron. It was the gauntlet-wearing right hand of Marić, and when Hassan turned around to see what his friend wanted, all he would see was the Major's helmet-wearing head shaking slowly from side to side; concerned by the tone of the trooper's voice, and in the choice of wording to compound his worries, as there was much in the way of colourfully-coded language that Branko had learned from his time on Ord Mantel. Such that always carried similar tones when spoken from one individual to another, such he could recognise with ease, though Hassan would relent enough to continue,'Look, Malek! Its our only shot of turning the tide, as otherwise, I would've joined you in Forlon Hope.... I'm sorry, brother. Not today but soon - I promise.', relieving Marić's fears in a completely different tone to that from his first outburst.
'If we fail, then I also am sorry. Do not think less of us, brother.... We prepared for the end, so it had better be theirs as consolation.'
Dangerously close to mutiny, as there was no mistaking what the Sergeant was trying to say, and though it presented many dangers for the Sabretooth Officers in the moment, and in the event they licked their wounds in defeat on the way back to Bastion, there was every chance that Marić and Hassan wouldn't survive the journey home. Whether they liked their chances or not, it became obvious to both officers that their lives were in the hands of their subordinates, and for as long as it took to assure their own safety, Samir and Branko would have no other option but to stick to their original plan, highly debatable though it's efficacy had been at the time they brainstormed it together. Keeping his eye on Hassan's six, Marić leaned back and whispered,'Even if we prevail, your subordinates have already decided.... We - are - not - safe - here, Samir. Understand?', as he quietly unsheathed his combat-knife, looking for potential escape-routes in the event everything went awry all too soon.
'Trust me on this, Samir. Where I come from,"Do not think less of us.", means only one thing. No, seriously. Seeking forgiveness before the fact is always an indicator of a choice already made, a choice made behind your back.... Prepare to escape with me, this is not negotiable either.'
“STATEMENT: Master, your life signs are stabilizing, if you are aware enough to hear me, I am landing us on the hangar of the Prosperity.”
The loudspeaker was not needed in the slightest. The droid had a vocabulator that could reach across a Star Destroyer on the half level. He was still unconscious, in some level of a dream state, right? Somehow?
Yes, he was merely unconscious.
The massive Jedi Master did lie there quietly inside the cargo bay of his ship (well, one of them, the other was carrying other wayward Jedi, Rangers, and troopers up to “The Prosperity.” He was unaware that that assassin droid that unconvincingly posed as nothing more than an assistant droid would tell anyone who asked that the big man was resting comfortably. It was not a lie. Not really.
Much to Hilal's surprise and frustration, the missiles sputtered out breaking course to its unintended target hitting the cliffs below. Still, she had the aerial advantage. With the HUD targeting the enemy, Hilal fired 12 shots from her blaster cannon attempting to weave past the wave of machine gun fire unleashed by her opponent. An alert came onto Hilal's HUD. A salvo of six Hekler'Kok Polymer Cartridge Ammunition-Explosive slugs were also followed up by the enemy. Hilal braked and unleashed a torrent of concussion missiles about 12 of them to combat them yelling as she did so.
A few of the missiles hit penetrated half the slugs heading for the enemy however one of the missiles smashed against Hilal's right shoulder. The young woman screamed in pain not even hearing the alarms blaring from inside of her suit. A torrent of machine turrets penetrated her left knee and torso. She found herself falling entire body a washed with pain.
"Is.... this..... the.... end?" Hilal muttered to herself fading in and out of consciousness. To think all of her life dreaming, training, to become a Bounty Hunter. To do good by her people only to fall in her first year.
Her entire armor in a smoldering ruin, Hilal landed on the floor with loud thump. Her body rolled next to the pool of lava formed by the many explosions of a dying Tython. "No....." Hilal muttered spitting out blood obscuring her HUD.
"Critical condition." Hilal could hear her combat A.I say. "Critical condition."
Location: The Summit of Mt. Geran, Eastern Arros Range, Northern Temple Valley, Tython
Allies: BOTM/NSO, Thomas Barran
, Ardana Vorco
Enemies: NIO/Enclave/NJO
Objective: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Never before, never in his young life, had Ronar ever felt so alive.
It didn't matter that they had barely advanced, it didn't matter that the number of enemies seemed endless, it didn't matter he could no longer feel his arms; he was knee deep in the blood and gore of battle, exactly where he belonged. Miraculously, his four remaining Violet Wolves were still on their feet, and together the five warriors carved a canyon of death through the enemy ranks. Ronar may have been yelling, he wasn't really sure. Only the occasional scream of pain reached through his clouded mind. Every action was instinct now, no tactic or technique could be managed when a man was so deep in a murderous primal rage.
Then, suddenly, something cut through the fog like a knife through better. It wasn't another scream, another explosion, or any of the other extraneous sounds that made up the cacophony of battle. No, it was the only thing that was capable of pulling a bestial warrior out of his berserker rage. It was a roar of challenge.
"You!" roared the voice, "The one in bone with the sword!" Like rushing through a tunnel Ronar suddenly returned from his out of body experience, his senses slowly returning as he focused on the source of the voice. He shook blood from his eyes, only to be faced with a massive man, wielding a giant sword of similar design to his own, clad head to toe in battle armor. Ronar yanked his sword free of a mercenary's chest to face this new opponent.
"You're a capable warrior, Mawite scum," the warrior taunted, "But I think its time your run came to an end." Seemingly oblivious to the flying bolts and clashing swords, the warrior paced like a stalking panther. In that moment, Ronar felt a change in the air. It was like a ripple from a stone dropped in a pond, cascading across the subconscious of every soldier present. Though the battle raged on, the small portion of ground on which the two captains stood was changed. Everyone, no matter how enraged or desperate, knew that that ground was not to be touched. On that ground, two champions were about to face each other. Interference would not be tolerated. In the midst of a chaotic, tumultuous battle with no end in sight, that ground became sacred.
"I would say you disgust me," stated the opposing fighter, continuing to pace the hastily formed circle, "But in truth, I pity you. Its a shame that you have to die here, in front of your men, a rat drowning in the mud. I'll try to remember you; can't make any promises though."
Perhaps a monologue was in order. The warrior had taunted him; it was expected that he would respond. However, Ronar had little time or patience for such pleasantries today. There was still a battle going on, and though the enemy's challenge had cleared a spot for them for now, it would not last forever. Even as he followed the massive soldier's pacing, he could feel the tension in the muscles of his Violet Wolves, who themselves had paused in their fighting to watch their commander, along with several of the enemy captain's own cadre. So, Ronar kept things short.
"Keep your pity," he said, smiling, "And give me your blood."
Then he dropped his sword, drew Bloodreaver, and charged. For the entire battle, the weapon had remained sheathed on his back, for fear that in the midst of the melee he would face one of the dreaded laser swords, for which his precious heirloom was simply not designed. Here, however, he knew that he would need every advantage he could obtain. Bloodreaver fit in his hands perfectly, with the sense of balance and weight that only came with years of combat and training. In such a battle, it was as much a shield-brother as any man of flesh and blood. Ronar crossed the distance in a split second. With a roar he swung, vibroaxe meeting sword with a sound like thunder. The warrior, who had nearly a head of height and fifty pounds of weight on the bone-armored marauder, merely grunted, shoving the axe aside.
"Pitiful," he said. Moving much faster than should have been possible for a being of his size, the man struck Ronar across his face with an armored fist. The backhand lifted Ronar off his feet, sending him spinning away. He hit the ground, barely holding on to Bloodreaver as blood spurted into his mouth. He coughed, shaking the encroaching darkness from his vision, and clambered back to his feet, turning to again face his opponent, who he was sure was smiling beneath his visor.
"Surrender now, before you embarass yourself further," he said with a chuckle. Ronar's lips drew back from bloodstained teeth, and he answered the man with another feral charge. He attacked savagely, chopping in an erratic pattern with Bloodreaver's shimmering blade. The armored foe matched him blow for blow, only to strike out like a viper with a vicious headbutt. Ronar met the attack with one of his own, his bone-armor helm cracking under the force. Stars flashed in his eyes as he was sent to one knee, and he only barely regained his senses enough to dodge a decapitating strike. He rolled in the mud, coming again to his feet with lights dancing in his vision. The enemy was laughing now.
"This is your captain?!" he exclaimed, "This is the man you followed into battle?!" Ronar chanced a glance over to his Wolves, who were still tensed, waiting for any sign to come to their captain's rescue. However, he could see the doubt beginning to come into their eyes. He was failing. They believed that he was the strongest warrior, but their belief was being shaken. If he lost their respect now, it would never be regained. What's more, if he fell now, the morale of his Wolves, and possibly more of the surrounding troops, would be irrecoverably foundered. In that moment, the thought of failure, the thought of being defeated, the thought of his own men abandoning the field, all crashed down on him.
No, he would not fall. He would not fail. He would never be defeated.
His next attack was so fast, so savage, that he again left his body. The beast that had been his companion throughout his time on Tython came roaring back with a vengeance, snapping and growling and foaming at the mouth. He watched through another's eyes as he slashed and chopped, thrusted and punched. At first, the enemy warrior matched him, but he was no longer contending with a simple warrior. He was contending with Ronar, son of Thornar, warrior of the Scar Hounds. He was contending with a monster.
The cracks in the armor came subtly. The warrior missed a parry and Bloodreaver bit into the gap of his armor between thigh-plate and greave. Then he overextended and Bloodreaver bit again, this time into the gap between bicep and forearm. They were minor wounds, barely scratches, but to Ronar, it was like a predator smelling the blood of wounded prey. He chased down the cracks, striking harder and harder, beating on his enemies guard with reckless abandon. Mindless he was, yet at the same time as cunning as a serpent. Every time his enemy tried to exploit his wild swings, Ronar flowed into a perfectly timed dodge or block, weaving around his enemy in a dance of blade and blood.
Then it happened. His enemy, desperate, flashed out with an armored leg, catching Ronar at the perfect moment, right at the apex of a mad chop to his opponent's shoulder. Ronar's legs went out from under him and he crashed to the ground, Bloodreaver spinning from his hands. With a roar of triumph his opponent went for a finishing thrust, aiming straight for the bone-armored chest.
"DIE!" the man screamed. However, just as the blade came down, Ronar rolled aside. In a single fluid motion, he grabbed the fallen Bloodreaver and lashed out, reaching with one hand to extend his reach as far as he could manage. Before his enemy could recover from his finishing blow, the vibroblade cut into the sliver between greave and sabaton. The scream that came from the armored warrior resonated across the battlefield, the leg giving way. In seconds the blade flashed again, cutting into the opposite leg and sending the beast of a man straight to his knees. He tried to turn, tried to fight from the ground even as blood poured from beneath his armor, but it was useless. A third time the blade flashed, a third time the wolf bit, and the head and shoulders separated.
Blood-soaked and mud-smeared, Ronar raised the helmeted head in a fist and roared his victory. His Violet Wolves howled, and a chant began to encompass the field.
Ronar, Ronar, Ronar...
The captain of the Violet Wolves tossed his trophy to the ground, gripped Bloodreaver, and faced the remaining enemies, who's fear wafted to his nostrils like the sweetest perfume.
The Dark Lord of the Sith came crashing down with crimson fire. The hot plasma of the Sith lightsaber smashed against the alchemical blade of the Jed’aii Cotan Sar'andor
. The Kiffar parried up in a reverse grip, one fitting to the Form Shien, and redirected the first of the Sith’ari’s powerful blows.
The Jedi Master was fluid, flowing in tune with the Force like a river. With each swing he corrected the ‘flow’, dancing out of harm’s reach with grace like a dancer or orchestra conductor.
Another rage filled thrust of his blade and the Dark Voice lunged forward. Using the weight behind his lunge to help propel himself at high speed in hopes of skewering his opponent. The cloak of Rurik Fel
battered against the wind, the Sword of the Jedi following like a gust of leaves out to the side away from the life threatening blow meant to end the duel before it could truly begin.
Solipsis scoffed aloud, angrily raging at the top of his lungs.
"You wanted the Sword," Ryv said, his voice a deep well of complete and utter serenity. "And so he stands before you,"
A dark grin spread across his lips, a look of dark grimace and frustrating rage. Adjusting his stance to compensate for his opponent’s moves just as the Sword righted his grip on Cotan’s blade, Ryv blurred into motion. His body clearing the gap between them as he vaulted to the Sith’ari in the blink of an eye.
A flurry of blows was unleashed upon him, metallic justice meant to deliver the galaxy from the evil that was the Sith’ari, once and for all. His blade came down like a righteous axe, meant to cleave him in two before reversing his grip once more to shove the Dark Voice back from his charge.
The Dark Lord had seen such speed before yet struggled to keep up, always a fraction of a second too late or in the back end in his defense. As he was forced to take a few steps back, his opponent struck with an upward stab. His preternatural instincts and honed body reacted, shifting out of the trajectory of death’s embrace. More blows came, another moving in as the rage built within, eyes following like a cadaver focused on the moment.
A stab meant for the kidney, parried with a fluid motion. A kick to the knee connecting off its mark but enough to allow for Ryv’s elbow to land squarely in his jaw. His head shot back, facing away as the force connected powerfully. The Sword finished his bout with a deep thrust of the empyrean, placing his hand out to spirit the Dark Lord back.
Power courses through him as he was uplifted, spiraling away in a tumbling fall over the shattered temple grounds.
He rose slowly, muscles pumping out in visible fashion from the stain of it all. The Sith’ari raised himself to his feet and let the rage wash over him, each step crushing into the mirrored glass that was the shattered mountain top of Akar Kesh.
Burst of Speed.
The Dark Lord blurred, shoulder charging like a battering ram toward the body of the Jedi Master. He immediately followed up by dropping low, twisting his leg out to try and sweep the Sword’s legs out from under him.
Snap-Hiss
His crimson blade ignited anew, entering a Djem So stance to deliver a powerful rage filled two handed blow. He let the rage carry him, wash over him completely as he thrashed down upon him in deliverance of his vengeance.
“When I kill you, Hope dies with you.”
He squeezed his free hand, hoping to crush the life from his opponent’s bones.
"Finality is truth." Onrai said in response to the Mandalorian whose grasp on the tendril of darkness surprised her. "There are some things lost forever. They will never come back. You must accept this, or else attempt to live in the ever harshening illusion of your own making." As Runi lunged towards the avatar, a glistening beacon of the purity of the Light Side, Onrai merely stepped back, pressing her back against the wall of the room as the tendril of darkness from the Darkwhip dissipated.
"Gar kar'taylir Ni liser jorhaa'ir ibac sa pirusti.*" I can speak your language as well.
The avatar melted into the wall, the hilt of the Darkwhip clattering on the floor of the hallway as a great burst of yorik coral exploded out from the wall, seeking to meet Runi and entrap her within its confines. It would be a very painful experience for Onrai, but if it could take Runi out of the fight...
Location: Downed Star Destroyer on Tython's surface POV: Percival Io, Chaplain Neutralizer Tags: Laertia IoThe Mongrel
One moment Percival was engaged in glorious battle. In the next, an exploding rocket was showering shrapnel in his direction. The Parliament flung herself in front of him in order to save him.
Everything else ceased to exist. He didn't hear the screams, the clash of swords, or the hail of blaster fire around him. All he saw was the face of his Mother, contorted with pain.
He wrapped his arms around her, trying to prop the mortally wounded Parliament up.
"Percy... It's time... to trigger the ritual... your finger? It's taking the place of the circuits for the detonation mechanism... you have to trigger it remotely.
"It's still your flesh... take this...
"I'm going to send these things into the sky now. I'm the only one who can...but the effort will likely prove my end... I love you Percy... I... I did terrible things... terrible things... but I hope it works... maybe... maybe I can rest now. I'll rest in hell..."
On an intellectual level, Percival knew this wasn't his Creator. But she bore Mother's face, Mother's voice, Mother's DNA. His programming struggled to reconcile this, the subroutines governing his sense of loyalty fracturing under the pressure of the paradox. Real grief provoked genuine tears, clearing a clean path through the mud and blood that stained his cheeks.
He could not remember his Mother ever telling him that she loved him.
"It will be done," he said, taking the transmitter from her.
His Grandmother Vivian ran to his side, taking the Parliament's body from him. He relinquished his hold reluctantly, looking down at the lightsaber which had fallen from her slack grip. Crouching, he discreetly picked it up and stowed it away.
The rumble of a speeder bike grew louder as Scott pulled out in front of him. Staring into the face of his brother, Percival found a mirror to his own madness.
Wordlessly he climbed into the seat behind Scott, who took off across the Flooded Plains. Percival raised the transmitter, and flicked the switch. An explosion heralded the opening of yet another portal. He cast his clockwork eyes to the skies, where evac ships were beginning to arrive at last. Coming to bring them home...
Location: Reactor Room aboard the Avatar of War POV: Rebecca Hahn, Citizen-Soldier Tags: Esmeralda IoJoseph Torson
"We're both surviving. We just need to break out and create some distance. They won't be able to disarm everything, sister. There's more than explosives rigged to get the job done."
Force, she sounds like a programmed droid, Rebecca thought. Probably was barely a step above one, if her Siren armor was anything to go on. "Okay. Since you're determined to be the one who might have to sacrifice themselves, here." She handed Esmeralda the detonator, then looked around the room. Escaping via the vents was out of the question; they were already flooded with poisonous gas.
Yeah, no, they were fethed. Unless they both went into stealth mode, cloaking themselves and biding their time until they could escape...
The words almost sounded like an alien language. They were what she wanted to hear, there was still a chance. Deep within the swirling storm of darkness, an inkling of hope began to shine. She had begun to walk the path of which she hated - but maybe now the Master could understand the Apprentice. Allyson held on to the hope of seeing the boy again, but didn't allow it to distract her.
Not now, not when she was this close. Blood dripped down the bridge of her nose, underneath a throbbing pain from the headbutt. The blood wasn't her own, thankfully and Allyson reared her head back for another blow. If she knocked them both out it meant that the Maw had another player out of commission. As she pulled back, a sick feeling began to form a weight in the Corellians stomach. With it, came weakness that caused the woman to falter in her step.
Eyes fell on the weapon, remembering how the arrows dissipated when they had gotten near the cursed edge. Finally, it dawned on the Spy how the weapon worked and what it did, but there wasn't much time for more than reaction and thought. The crackling of lightning flashed and Allyson found a bolt from the tip of the weapon blasting into her. In an instant, the lightning began to fade falling inward on the fallen Jedi. Like the light arrows, it faded only to cycle through the brunette.
Grabbing the blade of the weapon, Allyson felt its sharpness slicing through her leather gloves and flesh, but she held on and allowed the energy from the force lightning to cycle through her and return to its master. Allyson empowered it further by manipulating the energy with her own force of will.
It was hard not to grin as the electricity consumed them both, "My fall, my belief in your false words, made you waste your time." Allyson pulled on the blade again, smelling her burnt flesh and blood, "You're distracted and you're weak. So desperate to prove something, you'll die here unfulfilled and Aradia and Zaavik will be free."
Not wanting to deal with this fething battle and already having lost enough forces, Draco made an executive decision. Having the brain demon deposit the nuclear device of the nutrient storage team with Percival Io
and Esmeralda Io
, she brought the remaining neutralizers who didn’t wish to stay for the battle anymore aboard her ship at the edge of the conflict, safe from harm and away from danger.
With each clash, the slight blue nimbus around Cotan's blade grew brighter still in Ryv's hands. Conjoined with the Force, made one with the Kyber crystals used to construct it, the sword knew what it was meant to do. The darkness around it was a perversion against that which it was made to serve and defend, and freely given to a new master, it would not do battle on two fronts. There was only one enemy for it, and with decades of experience on the field of war, it almost tried to guide itself in the Jedi's hands. Almost pulling iself along, as if to help offset the difference of it being a blade with actual weight and momentum, rather than the lightsaber he normally carried.
But there was more to it than carried experience—it was aware, in whatever sense it could be. With each parried blow, steel to plasma, it could sense the pained, crying crystal powering the other blade, and the twisted bond to he who wielded it.
On Coruscant, it had tasted the blood of Darth Caelitus—tasted the corruption of Halketh
as it bit into the flesh of the tortured one. Here, it could sense that corruption again, the source of it, so close at hand. It grew brighter still, the lattice of Kyber married into its steel shining out like cracks in the blade, a bright halo to push away the darkness as the Lord of the Sith spoke. The crystals raged in defiance of the Dark Lord, the Song of the Kyber ringing out in Ryv's ears in response to Solipsis's words; Pontite, pure and clean, to keep the Jedi's nerves cold and hard as steel knowing what he must do, and the Kasha crystal to carry his focus and banish any fear or doubt the Sith's words might bring.
Hope can never fail.
Cotan strained against the storm around them as Ryv clashed with Solipsis, though Heinrich's aid helped lessen the burden on his shoulders somewhat. Around them, reality still strained at the edges; shifting fields of possibility surrounded them out to the most violent inner edge of the storm, where everything tore apart at the seams and disappeared into an impenetrable maelstrom. His eyes shifted away from the duel, looking in some of the reflections that faced him—
Seeing himself cut down on Atrisia; in another, Mythos, dead at his feet. A successful defense of Coruscant against Carnifex and Prazutis. Facing down Coren, the latter having fallen to the call of battle rather than rising above it as he had; in another, he'd never left Naboo. In yet another his master had never even died. Close, so close, that he could nearly leap out and find himself in any number of alternate realities. The utter reconstruction that Solipsis had wished had come frightfully close to passing, but now it was without control. He turned again, back to Dagon and Corin, next to Jem's barely-living body.
"Heinrich!" He reached out towards the crusader, willing the distance between them to be gone. Bringing the Grand Marshal to his side in an instant, without any movement on either of their parts, the fluid space responding to him just as well as Solipsis himself now that the Sith had lost his full control over the ritual; dimly, he was aware as well of the call coming through the meld from Henna and Asmundr. Reality was in flux all around him and the rest, and even further out along Tython, though the break was strongest here at the core of Akar Kesh. He shifted his focus back to Dagon, Corin, Jem, and Rurik's body, willing them over as well, next to him and Heinrich.
He unclipped his belt with his lightsabers, holding it out to the Grand Marshal. With his other hand, he pulled out the crystal necklace from his pocket, holding it out as well. "Heinrich, if this collapses, everyone in it is going with. People need you. They need help out of here." He nodded at the others. "Take these. If you see a worried red-head on the other side of this storm, give them to her, and tell her I'll try to make it home for dinner. If not—get them to Auteme, or hang onto them for me. I'll try not to make you wait too long. Dagon!"
His sharp voice cracked through the air, as he reached both hands out to the edge of the storm around them, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight against the winds. He could sense every eddy, every current in the storm, both physically and in the Force around him, pure chaos beyond the capabilities of any mere man to control; but he still had Tython below him to draw upon, to try bring some semblance of order to the tear that had been made. "Soon, Tython," he whispered, pulling hard against its near-eternal spring of energy again. Forcing the storm to align, the currents to become regular—and then to part.
A hole grew slowly, a tunnel through the storm back to where reality was more stable. "Go, all of you! I can hold this open long enough for you to get out, get to Prosperity, get to the others while I help Ryv here. I'll see you on the other side—get up, now, go!"
As the spirits of the dead, summoned by his hand, ranged across the field of battle—Tsisaar's gaze was drawn to one point in particular. Not even sensing his hound upon the field could manage to sway his attention from that which drew him, now. The ghosts he had called forth continued their battle, aiding their fellow, wrestling the other dead away from the ritual, as the shadow of Tsisaar stepped forward into the shifting, nebulous mass he'd found himself upon—
—and back out, in the vicinity of the Lord Carnifex himself. Souls, sucking down beyond the real, and below all he could sense the presence of Voracitos. He sneered in disgust. "No, corpulent one, no, Carnifex, this abomination can not be," he growled. The souls that were sinking rose again, held aloft by a darkness that kept them separate from the belly of the beast that sought to consume all. The same darkness that had kept them from moving on to the underworld for so long, though it would be only a few more hours and they would be ushered off into their rest instead.
Like beasts, those that had their personal vendetta with Carnifex rose to meet his bubble of protection, clawing at it, gnawing at it, Force against Force in an onslaught that even the undying one could not maintain forever. Tsisaar's shadow reached out as well, constraining the crushing strength of the former Dark Lord's will. "You would join these mongrels, and toss aside millennia of advancement for nothing more than pride? Truly, we were all fools to follow you, Zambrano."
While he had no way to physically combat Carnifex in this instance, not given the state of his true body, he could at least see to it that others could deliver the retribution the former emperor was long since due.
Location: Alliance High Command, Naboo Timeline: One week prior to the Battle of Tython
Once again, Madam Chandra reminded the Alliance delegation of the grim outcome awaiting them should the Accords be left unsigned by the powers present on Naboo. Though this time, she left the conference-room-semantics behind in favor of a more… blunt means of expression. Kel respected that. Sometimes finesse wasn’t strong enough to shake the cage, and Chandra’s direct approach seemed to be exactly the kind of shove Chancellor Tithe needed to rethink the strict terms of the Accords.
Kel’s shrewd eyes were trained on the Chancellor, unblinking and astute. After a moment, Tithe conceded. Chandra left him little choice who would parlay with the Ashlans, though few other statesman could outmatch the former Chancellor’s experience with Force-aligned groups like the Crusade. Tithe was practically drooling at the opportunity to engage in ‘commercial diplomacy’ with the Mandalorians. All the better, Kel supposed, considering he’d been at odds with the Quartermaster and her anti-Jedi thesis.
That just left…
“Senator, implore the Empress to sign the Accords, whatever it takes.”
Funny how quickly being reminded of your own mortality can change a man’s tune. Kel offered a respectful nod to Tithe, and said:
“I’ll see what agreement the Empire can come to, Chancellor.”
The Bothan straightened his collar and adjusted his rank bar as he walked past the blue-clad Senate Guards. They remained unmoved as he passed them, and he let a chuckle escape into the hallway.
“You poor bastards,” Kel jested as his boots clacked on the mosaic stone floor. That distinctive echo could make anyone seem important.
It felt silly, but Kel welcomed any ounce of confidence considering the task ahead. Even before these dark times, the senator would’ve been apprehensive about meeting with the Empress and Baron Reinhardt. He felt envious of Chandra, but quickly shook those thoughts from his mind.
“You’re a Se’Taav! Get your nerves together!” he commanded himself.
Soon, Kel had reached one of the Royal Chambers that idyllic Theed was so well known for. It’s high vaulted ceilings, elaborate marble stonework, and serene paintings were starkly contrasted by the red and black leather oppressively accoutred by the Eternal retinue. The soldiers on guard at the chamber entrance sidestepped shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking Kel’s way.
“Gentlemen,” Kel said to the guards with a bow, “I am Senator Kel Se’Tavv of Abregado-Rae, on business of the Alliance delegation.”
He paused for a moment, but continued on, seeing his status alone wasn’t going to ‘open any doors,’ as they say.
“I seek counsel with the Esteemed Empress L’lerim and Baron Ström, on behalf of the Chancellor. It is a matter of utmost urgency regarding the Tython Accords.”
The Bothan’s political sagacity seemed to satisfy the Eternal guards, who stepped aside and allowed him to enter the chambers. He’d certainly found the right place: Several more Eternal soldiers stood motionless against the outer perimeter of the room, while the Empire’s formidable envoy - Empress Ingrid L’lerim, Baron Reinhardt Ström, and several others - stood around a heavy marble table in deep discussion.
Kel waited a moment before he respectfully cleared his throat and addressed the delegation.
“Pardon my intrusion, Empress, Baron,” he said as he nodded to each of them.
“After conferencing with the Chancellor and the rest of our delegation, it’s been decided that we will… reevaluate the Alliance’s terms of the Accords. I’d like to speak with you further on this matter, if you’d have me join you.”
“Evil is powerless if the good are unafraid” ”- Ronald Reagan [SIDE NOTE- Any communication inside of this style of brackets is to be looked on as COMMS traffic] I’m still here. Offering a “forearm bump”, much like a “fist bump” or a handshake, the massive Jedi Master that is Caltin Vanagor...
“Evil is powerless if the good are unafraid” ”- Ronald Reagan [SIDE NOTE- Any communication inside of this style of brackets is to be looked on as COMMS traffic] I’m still here. Offering a “forearm bump”, much like a “fist bump” or a handshake, the massive Jedi Master that is Caltin Vanagor...
It was an impossible choice. Darkness and light clashed around him as Kahlil pushed himself up. The world shook from such a powerful and hateful scream. The choice Valery had to make. He knew she couldn't make it. Even as the building began to crumble and fall the Jedi lifted his saber...
7th post OPERATION: SHATTERPOINT THE ANNIHILATION OF TYTHON Objective 1: ATTACK EVERYTHING!!!! Thomas Barran "The Bloodhound" ANOINTED ACOLYTE OF THE SCAR HOUNDS Allies (BOTM/NSO): Darth Solipsis The Mongrel Ziare Dyarron Shai Krayt Ardana Vorco Erion Justeene Darth Saevius Ronar Scylla...
Lady Ingrid L’lerim Ragal Terassi Vandiir Eternal Empress of the Eternal Empire, Lord Commander of the Wardens of the Shroud, Archon of the Primyn Group Empress of Terraris, Supreme Commander of the Terraris Command, Head of the House L’lerim, CEO of the HPI Consortium Objective: Try to...
Moving West of Akar Kesh Engaging: Caltin Vanagor | Open for any Heroes! Relevant Tag: Thurion Heavenshield | The Manifold | Romi Jade | Jace Khel Thurion made his choice to save the others from the water. A heartbreaking but understandable decision. "They leave you to your fate. But you...
8th post OPERATION: SHATTERPOINT THE ANNIHILATION OF TYTHON Objective 1: ATTACK EVERYTHING!!!! Thomas Barran "The Bloodhound" ANOINTED ACOLYTE OF THE SCAR HOUNDS Allies (BOTM/NSO): Darth Solipsis The Mongrel Keilara Kala'myr Shai Krayt Ardana Vorco Erion Justeene Darth Saevius Ronar...
fa-play fa-pause Enemies: Iris Arani She could hear them. The voices of the Jedi, both fallen and living. They called to her and even in the pit she now found herself in as black as it was she could see the light. Thalia Senn placed a hand against the cold surface of her prison and as...
www.starwarsrp.net
The fight continued; this part of the events was what Spindly understood. After all, the Heathen Priests made her for this; she was not really familiar with religious and mystical things. She had some memories from her previous life, of course, but not much. True, this has not changed the fact that the young woman felt quite blessed and lucky for what she saw through the rift. This was precisely the reason she threw herself into the fighting with the utmost enthusiasm.
She did not know how long she had continued; she gathered more and more minor or major injuries while slaughtering the Imperials among her companions. Spindly fought here when everything on the battlefield started to slow down again. At first, she thought it was another sign from the gods, the Avatars; but now something else has happened. Red lightnings in the sky became less and less rare, the rain subsided, and even the wind raged much less than before. In the sky she saw a ray of sunshine filter through the clouds, and then the clouds also disappeared.
It was then that the eye of the storm was formed in the sky and the surrounding area. Many imperials, but even the Mawites were looking up at the sky. And then came an event that was both scary and fascinating. Spindly remembered very faint childhood tales in which she was told about angels who accompany souls into the afterlife. And now she saw two angels in the sky as the light illuminated them. Ironically, she, too, felt the serenity caused by the couple’s appearance. The Dark Three had challengers now.
Spindly snarled; she definitely didn't like it all. Maybe, maybe if she hadn't seen the Avatars earlier, the twi'lek's faith would have shaken. but this is not the case now. She had seen them before, they had smiled at her at first, both figuratively and literally. So her faith was solid and remained, nothing could shake her in it. The thought in which the Dark Three was present jolted her back into reality while the enemy and others were still watching the angelic phenomena. However, the twi'lek took the opportunity.
She slammed down with her weapon to the imperial soldier in front of her.
"WAR! she shouted, then struck again, to the next opponent. "DEATH! another blow and cut. "REBIRTH!
In the wake of her cries nearby, those who were there in the area finally realised where they really were. The fight continued.
The Maw warrior’s attacks were successfully countered and evaded, even forcing the man down on the ground as his brothers in arms scrambled to protect him from his and Vulcan’s onslaught. Kaz couldn’t deny that it was a good feeling. Empowering, even. Between Vulcan and him, the guy didn’t stand a chance.
Kaz closed the distance, looking for action up close and personal, though that proved to be problematic in mere seconds when he ducked to the left to avoid several rounds hurled at him. An unsettling whine erupted right behind his head and he immediately released his jetpack as he ducked away to get away from the explosion. As if every type of explosive device in the hangar was drawn to him, the Zabrak had to scatter into cover as several thermal detonators came his way. ”Hey, HEY! Watch it!” He called out behind a crate.
His rifle was completely missing, his jetpack was out… things were getting a lot worse. ”Alright… smile for the camera.” He muttered as he drew his pistols and took aim at the group of enemy warriors, firing a volley of blaster bolts at the trio as he advanced towards them.
Jas’ initial attack proved to be quite effective as the Mawite stumbled back and crashed into a pile of bodies. With his successful attack, Jas quickly leapt back into a proper stance with his lightsaber held above his head with both hands. A very unfitting stance for the moment, wide open and vulnerable, but exactly what he needed as he waited for his foe to dig out of the bodies blanketing him.
”I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.” The Pureblood commented as his opponent came for him again. The man sprinted at him with speed much more akin to a force user than a normal person. Especially for a human. As weak a species as they were, it was always specimens like this one that highlighted their tenacity and surprising capability. His blade came down to meet with his opponent’s immediately driven down by the man’s strength as they stood mere inches apart, the Pureblood’s gaze drilling through the gas mask covering his opponent’s face.
'I'm glad. No, seriously! We can go all out here now, an' without anything holding us back either.... SO GIVE US YOUR WORST, JAS!!!! I'M HERE FOR EVERY LAST SECOND OF IT!!!!'
Jas didn’t wait for even a second to lurch his head forward and smash against the visor of the mask before driving his elbow up towards the man. ”My worst?” A blast through the Force erupted from his open palm as he stepped back. His arms stretched out as he motioned to the carnage around him.
”Look at your army, Mawite! The mountains of bodies behind you! You send malnourished slaves in rags against us, against our armour and guns! My launchers tore your lines apart, your soldiers hung on our bayonets like teddy bears! You send your boys into a meat grinder they could never hope to break, into grid coordinates that have been pre-sighted since yesterday! Now you want our worst?!” His voice boomed as he chastised the soldier before him, only realizing the emotion behind it and the severe lack of emotion from the Maw.
He cared about his men. The Maw didn’t. It was not just armies clashing against each other. It was not just slaves of religion fighting against slaves to the almighty Galactic Credit. It was ideologies embodied by two unlikely avatars. Jas was no Jedi, but even to him, the Maw was simply beyond what he expected from the beings waging war in the Galaxy. Even to a washed out Sith warrior, the soldiers behind and around him still held value. Even to mercenaries like him and his men, there was a line between selling their lives for a few credits more, and reckless abandon that would see them all set alight in a mass grave.
Perhaps there was something to learn from this human.
A growl erupted, more akin to a predatory animal than a person, as Jas charged forth with his crimson lightsaber humming in anticipation. Muscle and training, imbued with passion, rage and Force, drove his attacks as he swung and struck at the Mawite and his elegant blade. The irony of who they were and the contrast of their weapons was not lost on him.
-Revenant prepares for
their bombing run of the Eradicator
The agile starfighters of Revenant Squadron ducked and weaved as they closed the distance to the Eradicator. Flashes of light filled the space around them as the pursuing TIE fighters sought to bring down the Alliance pilots. Streaks of light lanced out from the massive Star Destroyer as its gunners turned their attention to the approaching starfighters. A blinding explosion in their midst signalled a successful hit - Revenant Four was atomised by a proton torpedo.
And yet despite the chaos around them, Revenant Squadron did not deviate from their mission.
The X-wings of Two Flight and the A-wings of Three flight streaked ahead to soften the shields of the Eradicator for the heavy anti-capital ships mounted on the B-wings of One Flight. Chaar took the opportunity to check the latest update from the surface - the Jedi were ordered a retreat amidst reports of… ghosts?
The Umbaran shook his head. It was safer up here in the sights of Brotherhood turbolaser gunner.
The TIE fighters behind him continued to pepper his shields with laser cannon and torpedo fire despite his relentless and unpredictable manoeuvres. His rear shield was slowly depleting, and from a quick calculation, he only had enough power for a single run. This one had to count.
A rare smirk of bemusement graced the stoic pilot's face as he heard Revenant Ten order her pilots to cut the chatter. Qellene was finally getting the hang of this. The smirk quickly disappeared as Revenant Three took a hit and spun out of control, her B-wing sought in the gravity of Tython below. He shook his head. Another rookie burned out.
A tap of a switch summoned his targeting computer, which telescoped out and presented a monocle lens. Chaar tilted his head and studied the scope, watching as the range finder ticked down. “I need those shields now,” he angrily reminded his pilots as the massive Eradicator continued to grow larger and larger before him.
Darth Solipsis
and his influence snapped away from her skin. 
