Annihilation Shatterpoint | BotM Annihilation of GA Held Tython

[Kahlil Noble]

"Been a long time since I last did. Though, that armor was made to hide who I was." Back in his younger days, back in the Empire. Not that it really counted as armor. His frail body couldn't carry anything that could actually protect him. It seemed like a whole different life then. The boy trying to prove he could be enough of his own person to be something more than a vessel for his father. Kahlil's silver eyes stared into the reflective white of his armor. The reflection of a hateful yellow, the echo of his past.

How scared we were. No longer.

He clipped on the last piece on his forearm, slowly flexing the mechanical hand. Cybernetics were still something to get used to. The sensation of touch was muted, to say the least. Kahlil glanced back to Valery Noble , offering a grin.

"Yeah. Let's do that."

 

[Rurik Fel]

E M P E R O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
THE IRONCLAD
Halketh

TYTHON
876 ABY

THE WIND​

The cold caress of steel touched his tortured skin again as the epidermis of iron was laid over the marred flesh again. It was a painful ritual as much as it was comforting. For sixteen years now he had lived in this state of perpetual strife and suffering. It was an existence drowned out of any respite, of any of its human fruits in joy, love, laughter equally as sadness and suffering. There was no singular person who tethered him to humanity any longer. Such was the blessing and the curse of being a man unapproachable, unrelatable and ultimately immune to the attachments that others relied upon for their strength and vindication.

He did not look to any neophytes of the Empire any longer, just as he had no mentor to look to, friends or lover to confide in. There was no true indication as to what he truly felt if it was anything at all. In truth, not even Rurik Fel knew anymore. All of which belong to the materia within which he'd attached any sentiment, had seen its meaning iconoclast by truest death or willful and invigorated exile from his life. Those to which he was bound by blood, reviled him. Those whom he'd taught, were personally apathetic to him. There was no personal attachment for which he'd held personally. Were it not for the select few who were at the end of his path of vengeance, there would be well and truly nothing beneath the steel.

Even so, there hardly was. Without that iron visage and skin grasping his tortured body- he was a man deprived of purpose, identity, and attachment. He'd always felt this way since the coming of the twilight irreparably destroyed his body. But now, the constant suppression of pain and emotion made for a withered husk of a man separate from the sense of individuality. The Empire was the last tether he held to any true and righteous purpose. Without it, he would've walked past the brink of existence ever to be seen again. But that was not the reality.

This reality, he was the Iron Emperor. In that title, that burden of obligation and solemn vow of sacrifice, he donned his truest purpose.

The winds of purpose would ultimately carry the Emperor and his host to Tython. He remembered this world well, one of the many worlds in which he was tutored in the Jedi Code by his once mentor Vyrin Karis. A presence that abandoned him years ago now.

He knew as soon as he gave the command to his host to venture forth to the world of Ashla that it would be a pivotal, decisive moment. For himself, yes, but above all, for the Empire, for the fate of the Galaxy. There was a sensation that fell over him in that electric blue starstream in transit, of which he knew what was to come, what was to be expected of him in the coming strife.

He accepted that obligation as he had every single one before.

On Tython, he would graze closer than ever with that final destiny. And he accepted that.

He stood aboard the bridge of the NIV Ferrata, standing at the side of Wilhuff Krieg as his still mortal eyes gazed past the iron visage in line with Krieg's crimson photoreceptors- installed in the sockets of boiled eyes lost during the defeat over Dantooine over a decade ago.

"Any minute now...we know they'll be there...but do we know what else we can expect, my Emperor? Our intelligence is...rather sparse."

"Hell." Rurik replies.

"The Galaxy will be watching, the beast emerges to make its final cry of defiance, to subjugate all that is known to its chaos...and in this maelstrom, Admiral Krieg...we shall have our vengeance. I shall prepare the Legion, inform me when we are to emerge from Hyperspace." He remarked to the Admiral before nodding once and taking leave from the bridge.

TWILIGHT OF THE GODS​

A few moments later, he was in the hangar bay of the NIV Ferrata, ironclad footfalls treading into echoing silence as a brigade of the 501st was formed and assembled before Fel. The Emperor's Chosen. They were the old guard, the first formation to defect with Irveric Tavlar and march with him into Harnaidan, Dubrillion, Bastion, they'd been there since the Iron Sun's dawning. Once more they'd be one of the first through the breach on Tython and while Fel was a far cry from the mortal man they'd followed from the start, he'd gained their respect in spades in his time of command.

Though perhaps a letter grade behind Tavlar in true leadership and charisma, he was a capable tactician as any other, a man who'd led from the front and possessed an inhuman unyielding in the face of danger. Nothing could be put before the mission to Fel. He would take risks most any other human commander would not and while it always bared a cost, the 501st, ever unwavering in their confidence in their ability to best any adversary, respected the doctrine held by the Iron Emperor and followed him as they did the Sovereign Imperator before.

As he stood on the podium before them, the clap in unison of closed fists slamming over their hearts in salute sounded out through the bay as Rurik returned the gesture, bringing his hand down at ease to signal to each of them to do the same.

"Sons and daughters of the Empire. Our enemies come together once more...the Maw has pried open the jaws of hell and seeks to bring the Galaxy down into it...but no matter how hot the flames, the iron will endure...the Empire will endure. This era of strife has been long and unforgiving...but I ask of you this once- to follow me into the fires so that we might seize our final victory and bring order. Our will be done."

"Our will be done! Ave Rurik! Ave Empire!" The Stormtroopers sounded off before slamming their fists to their chests once more in salute to their Emperor.

While all hell raged in the smiting skies and broken earth of Tython, the shrieking cry of darkness was far too loud and far too punishing to ignore. He knew exactly where the enemy lie here. In all the light of Ashla that this world emitted, it still cast the deepest shadow. The 501st were dispersed largely where they were needed, with a small unit, task unit 'Enigma', assigned to be Rurik's personal tactical command- the very same old guard who'd followed Irveric Tavlar into the streets of Harnaidan and Ravelin, the beaches of Dubrillion and Vjun followed Fel all the same.

Distinct from the cobalt skull motifs that were painted across the right half of their helmets- supposedly mirroring the marred half of Tavlar's face, they followed him. The scions of darkness and their presence were heavy here- but nothing that could not be put down by the will of the blade.

However, before he could set himself squarely in the encounter of the enemy of all that was mortal, the god of chaos Solipsis himself...he had to enact his vengeance. Not merely to his own behest, but to that of the Empire. If they were to have their final victory, their reign of order over the Galaxy- Rurik needed to slay the very man who put him in this horrid, incalculable burden.

On the climb of Akar Kesh, in the shadow of Solipsis's pursuit, another followed.

The Traitor.

An obligation which he would finally seize the opportunity to fulfill and bring the death to the traitor.

"Caelitus." He spoke, his voice echoing through the fabrics of the Force itself to make certain that the traitor would hear him and know where he was. He was not hiding, he was yearning for that encounter, to make due that it would be one of them that would remain among the mortal, the living.

 

[Halketh]

THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
C A E L I T U S
The Aegis of Woe | Lightsaber

magnanimous | 876 ABY
Rurik Fel
​

The galaxy turned, its swansongs churning in perpetual overture until the closing acts when all would fizzle out, the final cries would be heard, and at last, credits would roll. He often pondered what would become of such deeds, these barbarous villains, these tokens of sacrificial heroism. If anything would remain when it was finished if none were left alive to recall them. Gilded chaos was chaos still, haunting words were phantoms still, and without depravity, heroism would ring hollow in the echelons of time. It mattered little, as so very much did, which marionettes danced upon which strings by whose hand- a puppet master was but a man with worthless toys when the audience had faded away.

Forthwith he had ushered his heart to a desolate shell, weighing it with the burden of his cross, and left it to wither in the weeping winds of change. He could kill what was left by the time the ruination had come, the die cast across the field, the puppet master dethroned. But there was little comfort to be found in the lonesome walk with the carrion birds, and far less in the whispering murmurs of hollow bones. A ruined king was little more than a child in a sandbox when his people had turned to ash. What more was there to do? What more was left in the waking world that was not as tormenting as the dreaming one?

Empty words had become his favored, each passing utterance to those looking to him for guidance, for command had whittled him to a vessel barely capable of recognition. Cotan Sar'andor, Ezra Dune, Darth Solipsis . Each had known him as a different man. Different faces amongst the many he had worn in a period of masks, a time when he burrowed into the heart he clung to, shielding himself from the horrors made by his own hands. And now, looking beyond that, he searched for the man who had stolen away with the remnants of his humanity clutched tightly to his breast.

It was empty, as were all the accursed things he had touched.

It had rotted away when his gaze was elsewhere, naught left but bleak bones and the lingering ghosts of memories. Kezec was gone, punished by the burden of his crimes, and with his death throes, he had destroyed everything that could have been. That boy, betrayed by the Jedi, cursed by the Darkness, had collapsed beneath his own despair and died silently where none could reach him. The Dark Lord's wicked grasp had not crushed the life from him as he had so viciously tried. There had been no grand contest of wills nor cunning dance between them. The boy had died silently in the night, and wasted away into the grey.

And with no fetter binding his motive, the Dark Lord claimed his empty victory, disparaged by the bitterness it left in the wake of his celebratory breath. Acolytes had come and gone, passing before his Sight in an indistinguishable blur, disturbing his commanding silence to seek his aide. Days had elapsed since Caelitus had returned to The Prophet, unceremoniously arriving from the fringes he had flown away to. He had returned to his throne, resting upon the bleak seat unmoving, caged by the aegis of his woe.

The spoiled recipient of everything he could have possibly desired, yet no more full than when he began his insidious conquest. This world, Tython, would do nothing to refill his spirit. Crushing the sacred home of Ashla, to seize the throat of this futile resistance and steal their breaths for his own... it did not excite him as it would have once. His Sight shifted, the focus of his unnatural gaze fixated on the orb clutched between his gauntleted hands, its tempestuous powers had served him little, for it only rekindled the distant dreams that slipped through his fingertips.

The dreams which saw him to his end.

starkiller | Tython

​

The skies screamed in terror, the shadow of his ship swallowing the surface below in a veil of Darkness unyielding. From below he felt its chill against his back, insulating his tarnished flesh with its biting cold. His acolytes had dispersed, moving elsewhere to tend to their assignments, leaving the Dark Lord to traipse across the growing hellscape as but one blotch of ink on the chaotic canvas. A voice had rung through the composition, singling him out amongst the countless scions of Darkness ravaging the world. And it was one he was eager to answer.

Rurik Fel, the man a stranger yet so familiar, a figure who had plagued the echelons of the galaxy for ages. He was the specter creeping in the back of every mind around the table, a bulwark of steadiness who possessed the strength of will alone to dismantle and crush everything The Mercurial Saint had sought to unleash. No longer did Kezec's voice cry from the crushing vantablack of his core, calling out in desperation for the Man of Iron to hear him, to rescue him from the damnation which saw him drowning perpetually. Regardless of the insidious answers given back to that desperation, the reminder that the same man had failed him, had failed to see the signs, to pull him from the depths, it cried out. Hesitation had stayed his hand before, the former Warlord holding him back from unleashing his malice in full, yet that governance held no further sway.

Kezec was dead.

It was not the treasonous Warlord who would greet Rurik by blade and carnage, it was the Dark Lord of the Sith; as fate always orchestrated.

Scarred lips parted beneath the cage guarding them, his voice cast back upon empyrean winds as a howling choir, his sinister laughter made to echo into the soul of the Man of Iron: "Come then Fel, where the heavens touch the land the mortal and Divine shall dance." The scion of apathy fixed his ethereal Sight upon the jagged peak, the same which had once housed a Temple, and beyond, the seeing stone.

Among the ruin he stood, the bursts of color in the skies streaking above him, a clash of wills in the clouds. Dark claws untethered from his side, a hand rising to stretch skyward in welcome. Crimson lance flashed, bathing the mountaintop with its spectacular light. The earth heaved far below, resonating with the thunder clap above. There was no better place for justice than before the thrones of the very gods.

 

[Rurik Fel]

E M P E R O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
THE IRONCLAD
Halketh

TYTHON
876 ABY
IN THE WAY​

The man of mortal flesh ripped asunder from an internal struggle, a war waged between union with self and chaos, unfettered, brutalist, and unforgiving chaos stood before the Man of Iron. He who faced the greatest scourges of hell and devastation and stood unchanged, unfettered. Iron unbent, unmovable, unchanged opposite a man who had lost a war within himself.

In truth, they who once peered upon the other with human, mortal eyes- had long perished and they looked with one another who another visage equipped with a vitriolic bloodlust in one and a solemn duty in the other. With all the heavens, all the Galaxy to witness in the clutches of Ashla, judgement would be struck.

Two approach, one leaves. That reality sunk into Rurik's mind in all immediacy as he made his slow, foreboding step toward Caelitus, a pace which sank the stomachs of many but likely made indifference of his fateful opponent.

Uncharacteristically, he was without his cloak and cowl, the bare head showing the extent of the infliction upon his flesh which was not concealed by the metal visage, lightning-like scars, and old wounds dancing across the scorched pale surface of his flesh. A mechanical hand reached down to his waist to clutch ahold of the ornate and simple hilt of his blade. The same he'd carried for decades. Through his time as a Jedi, through the years of war on behalf of the order. Much like the man himself, it was one of few items perpetual.

"And it shall be your last, Sith." He muttered before the argent blade ignited with its soft hiss, not too far akin from a metal running across the inside of a sword's scabbard. The Knight's weapon held by no one no truer in its virtues than Fel. In him, the defiant spirit and blood of his ancestors who stood eye to eye to face down the Sith that had come to vanquish them.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, a voice reached out to him, piercing his thoughts. Feminine in tone, nothing he'd ever heard in his mortal senses...but eerily familiar.

"You have the strength...the will...to do what must be done. You need only act, Rurik." The voice said, jarring his senses as an embrace of reassurance flowed over him. A soft clutch of humanity rejuvenating his mind as another voice spoke, masculine and patriarchal.

"We are with you, now, and always." The voice said.

"I will do what must be done." ​

Rurik said before his piercing steely gaze beneath the metal visage burned a brazen argent and he thrust himself into the fray against his nemesis, a violent clash of argent meeting crimson before his left hand curled its fingers in a talon and sent a violent burst of the force toward Caelitus's abdomen in the aim of gaining an early initiative in this fateful encounter.

 

[Halketh]

THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
C A E L I T U S
The Aegis of Woe | Lightsaber

starkiller | Tython
Rurik Fel
​

The appearance of the Knight was announced by the rolling clap of thunder, its strength felt in the quivering stone beneath their feet. The icon of depravity stood with his back to Fel, his eyeless Sight gazing wistfully into the throes of conflict above, marveling at the threads of carnage woven with but a single exertion of his will. Armored digits creaked, snapping into jagged talons, the storm blackened as though ink had saturated its clouds. Again, the drumroll of crashing thunder. Red streaked the bleak heavens, flashing dangerously close to the broken peak holding the two children of fate, briefly staining them with the bloodshed to come.

"And it shall be your last, Sith." Never had he wanted to believe words more than those. Some twisted coil within his clouded haze writhed at the thought, stirred into excitement simply at the prospect of dying. What torture would await him at Rurik's hands? What cruel and horrific justice was to be done? His body crushed in a vice grip? His head severed from his shoulders to plummet and crash below? There were many possibilities, many what-ifs, and each fared far better than the last.

The snap-hiss prompted him to turn, the apathy of his guise veiling the rioting excitement lurking beneath its surface. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" He called through the chasm of ideals between them, the hand clutching the stars made to fall back to his side with a metallic clang. "Look how they slaughter one another for no reason other than obedience. Your soldiers, my acolytes, would they stop if we commanded them to, I wonder?" The Saint's considerations were sullied, disturbed, by the interruption cast his way, the declaration of intention, as Rurik was so known for.

"How many times have you uttered those words and choked upon your own blood after?" He questioned venomously, his tongue a dagger in his mouth, "You're nothing more than a piteous dog following blindly an idea you've lost the meaning of ages ago." His left boot dragged back, his hands brought to chest height as the Emperor charged, and with an overturn of his flexing digits, ruin lofted from the broken earth with scattering dust, barring the path. "No better than the Jedi you yourself declare to despise." The stony rubble launched forward, colliding with the urgent attack, disrupting it.

Caelitus glided across the grounds, the dust settling, and thrust his right hand forth, unleashing a lattice of blistering torment, scorching the stone in its wake. The blaze warped unnaturally, coiling with serpentine intention to strangle the Man of Iron. "Pray your justice will strike me down swiftly, for mine will show you no such kindness!" He twisted his heels, fighting against the pressure of the pyromantic conjuring to shove him backward.

 

[Rurik Fel]

E M P E R O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
THE IRONCLAD
Halketh

TYTHON
876 ABY
KNEEL​

The way of the Sith was to twist and manipulation the emotions of its adversary. To invade ones mind before ever tarnishing their body. But to pierce through to Fel was a nigh-impossible task. The words and machinations of Caelitus aloud did nothing to rattle the man of iron. Just as Rurik was ever predictable, so too was the rhetoric of Sith, ever repetitive and ever tired in its nauseating attempts to relinquish itself of delusion, guilt and restraint.

The words came from a husk. Once, beneath the steely veil that Caelitus drew over himself- there was no longer the man who cared in genuine love for the people he'd taken as his own. There was only a beast that reviled the very world around him. Tormented and hateful with every fiber of his being.

In many ways, Rurik saw a great deal of himself in Caelitus. A man shrouded in metal to conceal to the universe the torment that lay beneath.

"I am much more than you ever were or ever will be, demon. And today...with all to witness, you will see your just demise. Far too long overdue." He spoke with no hatred, no vengeful reckoning in his tone, only the ever frigid shackles of obligation.

Shards of earth rose to block his advance and he vaulted himself to meet the expulsion of the ground, padding his boots across the surface in careful steps as he sought to close the gap once more with the Sith- a tormenting, necrotic flame embraced his form for a moment, the lashing coils of infernal torment caressing the steel enclosing his tortured form in tempered agony.

The sear against his flesh was immediately a jarring, blistering sensation- crucified immediately. An art long learned and long mastered - to control and annihilate the mortal pain.

He clenched his left fist once more before spreading his palm out to create an immediately expanding and exploding burst of force power in the air around him to veer the fire from his flesh before he closed the gap once more to meet blade with blade and jar Caelitus's focus.

"Today...it ends." He said, an uncharacteristic venom bleeding into his strained and painful voice, another audible vow of certainty from the Emperor before he heaved a heavy handed blow towards the Sith with the blade clutched in his right hand.

"You...Solipsis...The Sith...I will suffer the darkness no longer. The Galaxy will suffer the darkness no longer. By my will, I will end it all!" Each word echoed with another punishing, heavy-handed strike of his saber toward the man as his steely eyes bled with conviction from beneath the iron visage. He struck and followed through with the stance of the Vornskr, waiting for Caelitus to unfurl his hatred only for Rurik to spit it back at him, for the ouroboros to feast upon its own serpentine body in aimless fury.

 

[Halketh]

THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
C A E L I T U S
The Aegis of Woe | Lightsaber

ascension | Tython
Rurik Fel
​

The flames cried their howling defiance, but were scattered away from the collision of wills by precisely that. Lingering coals burned in the periphery, each crackling pop snuffed out by the winds of fate. And through the dancing air writhing by the heat, came the Emperor. Argent light first, the blade split the veil of tempest, and the Saint locked onto it. A clawed hand clad in cortosis snapped forth, swiping it aside in guard first, the collision of energy coalesced across his palm, dispersed by his armor and absorbed. Yet it drew an arc, a continuous line of flowing punishment he could not deflect again and again by his hand alone.

Another clawed guard. And another. Haste meeting haste, the righteous fury battering the jagged shores of resolution. He could have so easily stopped, ceased his motions, allowed Rurik to plunge the blade through his guts and twist. To swipe high and relieve him of his crown. There was something so appealing about the thought, the notion of bringing it to end- coming to a final rest his tortured soul cried for so desperately with every dreadful day. But the fire burning through his veins, the exhilaration, the adrenaline, it stoked his desires far greater than the depressive shroud could smother, and his hedonism burned true.

This was the most alive he had felt since Nirauan.

Righteous silver crashed down again, this time countered by a screaming flash of woeful orange, the accursed, once-Jedi lightsaber howling against the warbling edge of the Knight Commander's. "Yes! Tear down the heavens, if you must," Caelitus' graven voice called over the strobing plasma, "rip them all down and rebuild your dying kingdom upon the ashes!" His blade whirled, deflecting another heavy blow, staggering him back. He knew he couldn't beat Rurik in a test of physical strength, The Emperor had always surpassed The Magician in that regard. Yet he was left with little option, Rurik forced him into the engagement with a noose around his neck, every bruising crash tightening the knot closer to his throat.

Overcome by emotion thought long dead, The Mercurial Saint laughed freely.

Malice burned beneath his bruising flesh and pooled into his physical strength as he reflected upon the very path walked that carried him to this end. The grief. The loneliness. The despair. All forced upon him from his awakening, callously ripping everything he could have had from his grip. Depriving him of what he could have been, of what greatness he could have achieved had he only been granted a say in the matter. And he struck back, twisting his guard open to cut low, weaving around the man to the left, delivering a thrust toward the outside of his leg.

"You could have saved him, Fel. Halketh needed you, he needed all of you, and every single one of you left him to be swallowed by the Darkness. Tavlar would still draw breath if only you had listened!" The blow aimed for the Emperor's leg was followed by a pirouette, the Saint unleashing a devastating web of crimson bolts from his free hand as he opened distance.

 

[Rurik Fel]

E M P E R O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
THE IRONCLAD
Halketh

TYTHON
876 ABY
NO QUARTER​

While Rurik kept in flow with the devil's dance in a dervish of argent and inferno. No matter what clawed talon or force imbued sway the Sith put between him and the Iron Emperor in a futile attempt to stem the tide- his assault was relentless and unbroken. Each movement was disciplined, well trained and tempered as his steel eyes kept a frigid contact with the Sith's own marred gaze.

The two tormented souls draped in metal continued their dance of death as they fruitlessly expended the extent of their power at one another- marring the fruits of Ashla into a quickly devastated arena around them.

That seething breath of anger and rage bled through the metal, exuding in primal rage contained only by the false visage that Caelitus equipped. The taunting sentiment from the Sith left his lips and went awash over the Iron Emperor as a tide of nothingness. Or at the very least, what he'd ever let the Sith see from him.

Each movement drawn from the Emperor's saber and body continually grew less discipline and more frantic, urgent and desperate. As if the weight of this moment bared down upon him. The longer he was entrenched in battle with this demon- more and more time was drawn from him in this decisive moment. This moment of time, for the Empire, on Tython by which he could truly seize the reins of the Galaxy was fleeting and before he could ever face down Solipsis again and plungeh is blade into the darkest heart of evil- Caelitus would expend every fiber to bring Rurik to his death.

That frantic desperate drew a fault in his guard and a ghastly swipe of the blade bit into his leg with a blistering bite of plasma into metal, armor weave and eventually cauterizing the tortured flesh beneath.

Gutwrenching pain poured into his senses for a moment before the feeling was calcified in an instant. He showed no pain, no relent.

"Halketh will soon find his rest...but for now, I cast my judgment, my retribution unto the demon that wears his corpse." He said, his voice even more strained, each word bleeding out more mortal pain than the last as the web of crimson spears sought his metallic form. They went awash across his iron skin for a moment, drawing another flow of agony through his tortured body before he caught the oncoming flow of lightning in his argent blade. The crimson spears of moment coiled around his weapon before he swept his blade forward with the aim of severing one of the hands bringing his torment down unto the Emperor before he sent another burst of Force energy toward Caelitus's skull in order to jostle his focus away from the attack.

 

[Halketh]

THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
C A E L I T U S
The Aegis of Woe | Lightsaber

ascension | Tython
Rurik Fel
​

The haunt was brought to bear, the phantoms of regrets long passed manifesting in the twisting writhes of their lengthening shadows, painted by the crimson rave shattering the skies above them. It was deafening, the storm, but louder still were the howls of the fates, their marred voices piercing the heavens in rising overture. The pain of the enemy, he felt it, tasted it upon the salt on his tongue. It ground between his teeth, puncturing his gums, whetting his appetite for only more. He pressed his assault, pouring more spirit into the conjured lightning, the scent of burning flesh serving as the sole guidance for what he did.

He despised Rurik's heart, the bulwark fueling the man in his ever onward press, where naught could stop him but the finality of death itself. A spirit unbroken would remain so until it was bent far beyond its designs. He had conquered the mortal bonds anchoring his feet to the ground, he had crushed Halketh, and so too, would he destroy Rurik Fel.

Revelation swept him asunder, the Dark Lord delighting in the ecstatic suffering he caused. Blinded by this, the sudden reanimation of his soul, he faltered in the face of the sweeping blade. Haphazardly he whirled his own, intent to guard, but out of time- plasmatic fury tasted his flesh. It carved through a weakness in his armor, severing into mangled hide, cauterizing as quickly as it cut. Before his heart tolled another cadence, it was over, his saber clattering to the ground, the hand clutching it as cushion. The Saint recoiled, his malicious assault interrupted by the shatter of his focus, and reflexively, he grasped his smoldering forearm with the hand opposite.

Tortured, hissing breaths recounted his pain, sputtered through clenched teeth hidden beyond the cage surrounding him. Pain. What he hadn't felt in eons. Pain. Peril. Torment. Maddened laughter bubbled through whimpered gasps, his shoulders left to heave and shudder as he bathed in it, breathing in the extent of his own pain. "It's easier to see it that way, isn't it?" He spat back, clutching his wasted limb to his chest, his frame trembling with white-hot shock, the other forced his mail hood back and pried the masque from his face, discarding it to the ruin beside him.

Caelitus turned his face, vestigial sockets draped in crimson silk, and split his scarred lips with an ivory spite. Carried by the chaos above, his silvering strands whipped wildly around his face, finding little peace on this world of anything but. "A pity it came to this." Sinister light illuminated his features, his hand flexed toward the one on the ground, yet the dormant saber clutched in the severed was still. Unresponsive. Ebon brows decried his composure, the confusion becoming evident on his features in the crease of his blindfold.

 

[Rurik Fel]

E M P E R O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
THE IRONCLAD
Halketh

TYTHON
876 ABY
NO QUARTER

"A pity..." ​

Rurik remarked with a hushed tone as he disengaged the smoldering kyber ignition of his argent blade and stepped toward the Sith in his last moment of defiance, woefully clawing the air to try and reclaim the weapon in the fallen limb as Rurik closed the distance between them unfettered save for the weakened step and faint limp in each pace caused by the brutal incision in his leg.

He crouched down to take up the hilt from the mangled, rigid grip, holding both of the blades in his hands disengaged before he looked into the shrouded gaze of the husk of a man beneath the metal shell. Though no eyes looked back at him, he could feel eerie reliability in that mournful stare of the darkened wretch before him. Drained his will to live, to fight.

He inspected the ornate blade in all its characteristic electrum plating nestled beneath the crossguard from which the blade was sourced. He grazed his thumb over the small inscription etched into the metal.

Keep Faith.

A remnant of what once was a mortal, soulful man now driving the husk of a scion of darkness, delusion and evil that was now Caelitus. That reality was bare and open now to Rurik- an engine of mania driving a man of once noble intentions to sickening, chaotic depravity.

And now- he was looking toward the end.

At the hand of he whom Caelitus reviled more than any other. While Caelitus was a slave to emotion- Rurik was absolved of its burden or at the very least- projected such despite being men who hid behind metal both.

"A pity that I let you give yourself to the darkness. It corrupted you...and warped you in the monster you have become." He remarks before attaching Caelitus's saber to the belt clasped around his waist, the hilt dangling where his own blade would otherwise be.

"I am sorry that I failed you...as I have many others before you..." Rurik said, stepping closer to Caelitus, his left hand clutching the man's shoulder as he shifts his steely gaze to peer into the empty blindfold of the Sith and his right hand slowly shifts the hilt of his saber down toward the man's abdomen, pressing the disengaged socket of the weapon against a gap in his armor.

"But today..." He ignited the blade into Caelitus's chest- the shard of argent cutting through flesh in the motionless pass of judgement from the Sith's executioner.

"We will have our vengeance." And the argent blade was snuffed, Rurik moving his right hand to catch the descent of Caelitus.

 

[Halketh]

The Aegis of Woe

apotheosis | Tython
Rurik Fel
​

He watched, his otherworldly Sight trained not on the man who stooped to collect his blade, but on the hilt itself- his hand still outstretched in grope after it. "Don't-" he hissed through his teeth, a pointless, defensive cry issued in warning. The sole tether binding him to this galaxy, the solitary consistency within his chaotic world, clutched firmly in the hand of the man who was to usher him to the end. "Please-" it passed from him as a whisper. His voice trembled and shook, wrought not with rage, it lacked the venom he espoused previous.

Caelitus kept his focus there, even as the blade was clipped to the Emperor's belt- a prize. A trophy, the sole lingering testament to the very life he had lived. It was all he had. The waters of grief rose around him, swallowing him with paralyzing cold, muffling the words he was afforded by the Man of Iron. "You've waited for this, haven't you?" Another voice. A gasp seized his lungs, swelling his chest, that chorus, the melody of a woman scorned. "You've been waiting, all this time. Child, why resist it now?" A familiar shade rippled across his Sight, drawing his gaze over Rurik's shoulder as the metal hand weighed heavy on his shoulder. "You've held on for so long, just let go, now. Rest." Shrouded in jade robes washed in empyrean light, she watched with hands tucked into her sleeves. "You're still in there, I know it, Halketh. Let this torment come to an end."

He forced himself to swallow, the gasp finally released from his throat as a choking, mournful breath. Caelitus' expression tensed, the cords of his jaw tightening with confusion, his gaze locked on the woman behind the Emperor. Heat burned in his ears, the manic throb of his heart rising into his throat fully, choking whatever words he could have offered in response to Rurik's eulogy. Pressure against his diaphragm. Sweat tickled his temple.

"But today..."

Pain ruptured him, shocking through his body in colors he had never glimpsed before. Metal claws grasped the white cloak draped over Rurik's shoulder, clutching onto him for stability. Crimson flooded his tongue, carried by the forceful wheeze earned in one press of a button. It crept from between his teeth, trickling down the far corner of his gaped mouth. At last, he turned his head, his focus weighing squarely onto the Knight. "Tell... her..." he rasped roughly, tightening his hold until his fist shook, his words disturbed by the retraction of the blade and the release of tension.

The phantom approached, her Presence carrying tranquility with it. She loomed just over Rurik's shoulder, watching his sentence with tender grief.

He managed to stay upright for mere seconds longer, the white-hot surge of adrenaline still coursing through his veins saw him finish his thought, "...I'm sorry." Weakness conquered him, the Dark Lord collapsing into the arms fixed to support him, and slowly, he found the ground. "P-please..." he wheezed, still clutching the coil of cloth claimed in his fist, "Please... look after her... f-" Fitful coughing silenced whatever else he could give, his wailing lungs unable to offer anything more. His form trembled, the shock settling in full, he could do little more than lie there and gasp fruitlessly for air.

Beside him, the phantom crouched, saying nothing, yet her somber expression quivered, phantasmal tears welling along the silvers of her once emerald eyes. The mirialan looked to the Man of Iron, then beyond him, fixing her gaze upon the havoc and carnage that sprawled as far as the horizon. She peered far, pondering what lay in store, not just for herself, but her once student, as well.

The Dark Lord knocked the side of his curled fist against Rurik's chest with dying resolve, a final tribute for whatever brotherhood the two could have had, until at last his hand slipped, clattering to the broken earth; the dull knell of finality.

 

[Surea]

"It will be done, my Master."

Tython, a world so full of life. Balanced between Light and Dark. She'd heard of the Maw's plan to blow the world apart. It was a holy place to the Jedi. Would it cripple them to loose such a place? Surea had her questions, her doubts, but the order had been given. She would not hesitate to serve her Master's desires. It was through his freedom that she could make that choice to serve. The Acolyte shut off her com, tucking it away on her belt.

Away from the battlefield she walked through a grassland, her rotted hand trailing over the greenery. When was the last time she'd seen such life? The frozen world she'd been enslaved on, the broken world she'd been born on where this rot first began to fester inside her, had she ever seen life like this? It was hard to say, or remember. Perhaps the rot had already taken those memories in the desecration of her flesh.

Green slowly turned to red under her touch. Spreading like fire through the plants around her. The stronger she'd gotten, the more her rot had changed. What was once an incurable curse had become a tool, used to harm her Master's enemies. Now, it was a weapon. A blessing. A soft smile took over the Miraluka's features as she felt her rot spread further. Grass, now blood red, wilted. Like her, they would be reborn.

Like her, Tython would be reborn. If the Maw failed to destroy this world, she would see it rot. All to better serve Darth Ptolemis 's desires.


Arlo Renard | Amani Serys

 

[Vector Monk]

Jacen Nimdok

KALETH TEMPLE OUTSKIRTS
TYTHON
​

Captain Vector Monk relished the exhilaration of his stealth shuttle's descent through atmosphere. This world had long been forbidden to acolytes of the dark arts. Soon enough the Maw's hordes would cast down false Jedi idols and reduce their holy sites to dust. So many valuable clues to Tython's true history forever lost. His small team couldn't hope to seize everything of value but just perhaps it would be enough.

"Isn't this exciting, Creature?"

"Not really, master."

"Oh, come now," Vector scoffed, "Cheer up, lad. I took you to see your homeworld, didn't I?"

"I wish you hadn't," his wretched xa fel assistant quailed at such a horrific memory.

Avoiding local sensor nets, the shuttle touched down in Kaleth's shadow. Vector descended its boarding ramp wearing a glorious white director's cape, flanked by one miserable slave and an elite squad of Final Dawn storm commandos. He glanced around the woodland clearing with disdain before marching towards the temple heedless of a massive Jedi dreadnought floating overhead.

 

[Chassella]

Location: Akar Kesh - Tython
Objective: Protect the Ritual
Allies: BotM ( Darth Solipsis Zachariel Steelblood Dodhorn Harert Darth Vinaze )
Enemies: GA ( Judah Lesan ) │ Eternal Empire ( Ingrid L'lerim ) │ AC( Eina L'lerim-Vandiir Geiseric ) │ SJC ( Caltin Vanagor )
Direct Engagement: Kimiko Taiyou

There was no greater stage in the galaxy.

The diminutive Church disciple gazed down from the towering pillar of Akar Kesh, her mismatched eyes taking in the simmering clouds below, which concealed a growing battle that could very well decide the fate of the galaxy. She had not known it at the time, but all of the training she had done with the Eight Arrows Sect—the trials, tests, and examinations—had ultimately led her here. The currents of the Dark Side were volatile, but Chassella had come to believe that if she followed them and served those beings gifted with the ability to manipulate them, that they would soon move in her favor.

Perhaps they already were.

"The Ritual begins!"

The voice of the Sith’ari echoed across the elevated landscape, reaching Chassella’s ears and calling her away from the edge. From there, the assassin moved back towards the Temple of Balance, where the massive Tho Yor floated overhead. Already, she could see the Dark Side energies gathering around the site of the ritual, surrounded by chanting cultists, Sith, and other members of the retinue, each contributing a piece of their own essence to the spell.

All the while, Chassella watched the scene with a cautious gaze, fearful, yet fascinated at the potency of the energies being harnessed not far from where she stood. The Elzeri was blind to the Force, but at so close a distance, its roiling currents made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

This was true power.

And yet, pulling herself from an enraptured stupor, Chassella reset her senses, knowing that she hadn’t been allowed here just to gawk. She was an assassin, skilled in the art and practice of death. It was a pursuit that the Elzeri had dedicated herself to since she began the grueling Initiation Trials to join the Eight Arrows Sect. As such, it went without saying that her duty was to protect the ritual and to fend off any intruders who might attempt to interrupt it.

So long as she stood, the Great Correction would manifest itself upon the galaxy.

Spoiler: Loadout

• Disciple Bodysuit Mk. II
  
  • Gauntlets
    
    • Wide-Beam Sonic Stunner (2) - L/R
  • Energy Shield
    
    • Phase III “Force Avenger” Energy Shield
• Chassella’s Chakrams
• XA-4 ‘Silverslash’ Galvanic Whipblade - Thunderous Configuration (2)
  
  • Voidmetal Coating
• Chassella’s Twin Lightsaber Shotos

 

[Laoth]

Equipment: Laoth's Cybernetic Body
Post Tags: Ishida Ashina | Bernard of Arca
Location: Tython

Dark Deeds of the Light​

---

Why did the morning rise to break so great, so pure a spell, And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek, Where your cool radiance fell?​

It had been nightfall on Empress Teta, some hours following the disaster at the skyscraper. The fires had kept the darkness from taking over the sky. It was sun bright, smokey, and suffocating. What had happened? Had he…won? No, but he didn't lose either. The memories flash through his mind as another needle is stuck into his flesh.

Over ninety floors of stone and metal had collapsed from the friction of the contest throughout the capital city of the planet. An entire construct of millions of credits to build, reduced to rubble and gory debris. Laoth, the cybernetic freak of the Brotherhood and beast of Devaron, had barely survived the event. Even when he had undisputedly won his fight against Rhys Halcyon and the defenders of the city, he had barely survived. Fallen with the building's collapse and crushed under the weight of tons of metal, stone, and body parts. His own limits pushed from the unknown reaches of his reforged body.

Another needle. Was that the end? No. Despite every sense screaming at him to wait for rescue - having lived through the collapse - the Devaronian monster broke free of his would-be entombment and reengaged in the slaughter of innocence and light. Dozens more had fallen to him as he ripped limbs from bodies and drank blood by the gallons or chewed flesh by the pounds. It was as if the old ways of his people - the hunters driven by a maddened lust for the chase of dangerous beasts through the jungles - had been awoken inside of him. Or perhaps even something more personal that no one but himself could understand.

In either case, the man was eventually caught. Through the darkness he radiated like a nuclear core, Jedi came upon him in swathes of brilliance and subdued him with great skill and efficiency. He was injected with compounds designed to weaken his connection to the Force, strapped with devices to dull his faculties, and incapacitated by brutal telekinetic power before, finally, being put in chains. And through the chaos, racing against the clock of the encroaching annihilation, these brave Jedi whisked their captive away into imprisonment upon the very world destined for destruction.

Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight, His fierce beams struck my brow; the soul of Nature sprang elate, But mine sank sad and low!​

Tython, home of the Jedi Order.

While it seemed fortuitous to the outside viewer, the events that transpired in the night were not an accident of luck. Though he would remain unaware of it for nearly the entirety of his capture, Laoth had in fact not been set upon by happenstance. He was the target of a foe most foul yet encountered only once. Michael Sardun , a Warden of the Jedi and Master of the Devaronian’s Archfoe, Ishida Ashina. How the mystic warrior came to know of Laoth’s position on Empress Teta despite the war would remain unknown until the man himself revealed his secrets. As it was, his goal had been completed to an extent, having imprisoned the enemy of his Padawan. Now, he sought to rid the galaxy of a man refusing to die, yet did not trust entirely in the methods usually applied in the prison he held him. Rather than send the man through the rift of whatever horrific burning Nexus of the Light powered this prison, Sardun had elected to keep him within the bastion proper and do away with him in the material plane where they could be sure that he was dead.

Thusly, as the system of Tython began to darken, and the moon of Bogan began to shudder and shake with reinvigorated energies, Laoth was being tortured and experimented upon. Scalpels and needles cut and poked through the linings of his plating or into what flesh of his original body remained. Tubes pumping some sort of viscous blue liquid had been attached to either side of his neck, their injectors coiled in a way so as to flood his esophagus and force it into his stomach. He was unable to move, barely able to breathe, barely conscious enough to scream as the pain filled his synthflesh organs and cybernetic pain-reactors - not that he would be able to regardless given the muzzle clamping his jaws shut.

He could do nothing. Nothing at all. The Force was absent inside him. Batted away by whatever horrors these bastards were doing to him. His body had never felt so useless, so heavy. Even his dissolved corpse of himself on Ponemah was more useful than this. This hunk of metal was as heavy as the stones that buried him on Empress Teta. Emotions of pain and rage that filled him gave him no strength. They felt…empty and pointless. His very soul, his essence, was being destroyed by the second. Needle by needle, scalpel by scalpel, cut by cut, pump after pump of that horrible liquid. And he could do nothing at all but hiss through his teeth and close his eyes to make it all go away.

My lids closed down—yet through their veil, I saw him blazing still; And bathe in gold the misty dale, And flash upon the hill.​

 

[Scylla AI]

Status: Standby
Objective: Standby | Be an Optional Side Boss for your posts.
Enemies: ? Please tag if Referenced
Allies: ? Please tag if Referenced

Ever Directive Deployment Status: Directive 18 Pending Activation.

Amidst the chaos and confusion, lone Sithwatch civilians dressed in plain clothes, with whatever uniforms these makeshift cultists could get their hands on, had been moving around various locations. Engineers, and technicians, all seemed normal unless you checked for their identifying tattoos under their clothing. All were from the planet, or neighboring ones and knew their way around. A bit over a hundred in all perhaps spread out into small teams of ten or so. The Galactic Alliance might remember them, or they might not at their own peril.

All over the combat zone in differing locations, the small teams of ten unloaded their crates and sat down. In caves, in basements, in foliage, wherever it was concealed enough to go unnoticed, knowing the terrain they knew where to go. None knew of the other team's locations. Potentially some were stopped, shot, or perhaps even detained, who knows. If they were captured, chances are being zealots they tried to shoot themselves.

In those crates were a few simple things Relay Towers, Master Relay Terminals, Directional Transceivers, OS Fixed Position Shields, and small arms. That's it. If any were confiscated, they were simple pieces of tech. The captured or injured sithwatch would probably give people a blank stare, if broken under interrogation later they might learn of Directive 18, or their small part in it. To pick up the gear and drop it at a certain location, but that's all these poor schmucks knew.

That was all for now. Nothing to see here or be concerned about. It's like nothing was going on, nothing at all.

Standby.

Scylla AI Loadout, and Foreground NPCs:

Spoiler

180 x One Sith Sithwatch Cultists
18 X Relay Towers
18 X Master Relay Terminals
18 X Directional Transceivers
18 x OS Fixed Position Shields

Main Scylla hub with defending NPCs entering next post or when RP warrants it. Expect plenty of daves.

 

[Asmundr Varobalder]

THE WARDEN
THE NEW JEDI ORDER | TYTHON | THE SEEING STONE
BATTLEMELD ACTIVE FOR ALL JEDI ON OBJECTIVE III

Prosperity loomed above, just out of naked sight. But ever-connected to the golden Warden, and ready to respond at a moment’s notice.

But for the strength of those who needed it — and if he were being honest with — himself too, he sat stoically alongside Knight Denko-Durren and Master Sarratt. That was the only part of him that held a likeness about him, his mountainous shape posed amidst the triad.

Everything else was so deeply immersed in the mystical world unseen that he was a man, a being, a sentient, unmade.No longer a collection of flesh, blood and bones, but instead a thin mist of atoms, midichlorians, and cells. Infinite as a landscape, as dynamic as Tython itself, to be remade however the galactic connector sought fit.

A connector — The Force — that reached, and reached, and reached. The Force recognized The Warden. It saw him. It did not welcome him. It did not reject him. It only saw, acknowledged, and continued with its search. It reached for all the Jedi as they gathered on the planet days earlier, and watched as node after brilliant white node intersected the lattices of the planet. Reaching, reaching, reaching, unfathomably quick increments per galactic second flashed and snapped, connected and shattered, all at once, isolated and independent. The Force had been calm, then, and balanced.
He saw it darken before it actually did, and he’d girded himself for the tempest that brewed within Tython.

The great connector was wild now, thrashing about. Bright, white-hot lights colliding with dark currents and swirling about in typhonic whirls. The clean intersections he’d mapped out earlier, belonging to Knights, Padawans and Masters, threatened to become obfuscated.

Words took shape at the base of his throat. The time it took for them to harden and find volume was somewhere between years and seconds for The Warden.

“It begins. Steady your minds.”

He shifted then, the way he perceived.

The wild thrashing, collision and anxious thrumming were manipulated into the view like a tapestry. Made up of thousands and thousands and thousands of little threads. They were taut, some as thick as knots, others thinner. Tension ran along their seams, winding tighter and tighter.

Distantly, like a glimmering fray, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time crept its way to the inner workings of his sensitivities. A sword to cut through the darkness. The version of Asmundr that acknowledged relationships and emotions like hope drew from that sensation, and parsed it through the connections, borrowing from that long-time-ago Knight he recognized and bleeding it through the network of his influence. Hope.

Gently, he lifted a metaphysical hand as though methodically finding rhythm through an intergalactic loom, through each weft and warp. His motions were precise, nothing wasted. Through each thread, those touched by Ashla on Tython would feel a resounding sense of centre and clarity. Focus.

---

SEERS | Henna Ashina | Auteme
ALLIES | NJO | GA | Judah Lesan | Bernard of Arca | Ishida Ashina | Valery Noble | Caltin Vanagor | Eina L'lerim-Vandiir | Geiseric | Zark San Tekka | Ryv
FOES | THE DARKSIDE | BOTM | Darth Solipsis | Laoth | Chassella | Zachariel Steelblood | Dodhorn Harert | Darth Vinaze

 

[Madison Starr]

​

Ruins of the Jedi Temple

Obj 1 - p1 - Silver Jedi Defender​

Nearby Zark San Tekka The Mongrel Asanté Tsilor​

tldr - On overwatch​

​

​

Madison Starr stood in a broken nook in crumbling temple battlements. Leaning on a twin-mounted heavy repeating blaster and applying lip gloss with a mild sigh.​

​

"So, this is the end of the world eh?"​

​

She shrugged.​

​

"Well. At least they picked a dapper spot to host it. Ha. Nice!"​

​

She smiled as the dozen of so Tython Pact Engineers around her laughed. At least the troops along the wall were happy. Moral was high. Especially after watching that giant enemy dreadnought crash down along the northern mountains. Oh man. What a spectacle that had been. Damn.​

​

Madison Starr stood in her new Outlaw Armor. A heavy blaster pistol and twin EP wands on her belt. A bandolier of 40mm plasma grenades over her shoulder and their accompanying grenade launcher leaning on the mossy Tython bricks nearby. Her hands remained on the massive repeater cannon that the good guys and mounted into the nook in the wall. A superb vantage point, overlooking the northern valley advance, and more. Oh, and two huge crates of power cells for the gun. Lots, of ammo. Ha!​

​

Anyway. Word was, some Maw boys were coming their way. Good,​

​

She had plenty of lip gloss to spare.​

 

[Caltin Vanagor]

” You have to take risks on policy. You can't be a politician, wringing your hands, worried about what the public opinion polls are saying, or worried about the negative attacks. If you believe in something, go fight for it..”- Scott Pelley​

Everything was pointing to the ruined Jedi Temple near Kaleth. Everything he felt, all of the rumor, all of the speculation. He wondered why such focus could be there and not the mountains of Akar Kesh, it was more accessible and more damage could be done with the right device. Devices and rituals were very important to these monsters. They loved using their sorcery to turn serenity into chaos. There was no viable way to prevent this, so it would have to be stopped one way or another. Perhaps this was where his end would come, perhaps not. He thought, and actually “foresaw” his end come over Rhen Var 860 years ago, and look how that turned out. This all was a thought pattern and soliloquy to expand on at another time. Right now he had a sea of wanton destruction to cross…

… and he was a good swimmer.

There were Sith, Sith’ari, and Final Dawn all over. Those who were not directly engaging Coalition Forces and Jedi were setting up weaponry and springing traps. Scanning the battlefield, he noticed that there were some openings, so the big man to centering his focus on those in order to choose which would be the more apropos attack. There were three very green assassins moving in on a Ranger contingent, but they could hold their own, there was a Dark Knight cutting down a cannon, or about to.

He never had the chance.

Reaching out (a little symbolically as he need only think it to do it now), Caltin engulfed the Dark Warrior, or at least his arms, in stasis. Trying his hardest to fight out of this constriction, the killer tried his hardest to pull and pull only to look around in a mixture of anger, confusion, and desperation. The Dark Knight knew that he was in trouble, the problem is from where? In a rare moment of arrogance, the big man threw the Dark Warrior into the air through the Force and into an oncoming TIE fighter. The impact crumpled the viewport and the scream of the pilot’s terror could be heard over the infamous whine of the TIE’s ion engines.

The crash sprawled across an empty field and into the mountain. It would have been perfect if the wreckage plugged up the entrance to the cave that the big man just came out of, but tse les guerre. There was no point in allowing what he was seeing get to him, he could go into a blind rage and just tear into everything and everyone not of the coalition, but the massive Jedi Master was not going to let this happen. He was not going to allow himself to turn into something that was no different than who he was going after. More and more ships dropped out of hyperspace overhead, it was happening. They were going to do something more than “big” this was going to be something along the lines of Csilla.
This. Was. Not. Going. To, Happen.

Closing his eyes momentarily and taking a few deep breaths, there was no way to keep a completely clear mind about this. So the massive Jedi Master would do the next best thing. He would be a Reek poked too many times with an electro staff, Caltin would be a Ronto that did not want to carry the load being put on his back. He would be a mistreated Bantha. “Conservator” went to work, cutting, slashing, and impaling Sith, Sith’ari, Final Dawn, anyone that was not Coalition. The big man let himself go in the heat of battle, let his instincts take over, and let his mind focus on keeping the ethical control to keep from doing something that would destroy any mirror he dared peer into. Then the Flesh Raiders struck.

“It looks like business is about to pick up.”

The beasts tore through the hillside like white blood cells attacking a virus. They were defending their land as well, but they considered the Jedi “attackers”. This was an obstacle he was going to attack his own. They would not hold back, so neither would he. They left him with no choice so he would do what he will and protect the Padawans who were being targeted by what looked to be a Bonemaster and his followers. They were brutes, but experts in what they did and could take their share of hits. This was going to get brutal.

TAG Allies:
Cotan Sar'andor Zark San Tekka Celeste Rigel Romi Jade Coren Starchaser

 

[Teresa Pelles | Darth Pellax]

Allies: Darth Carnifex , SF-3335
Enemies: Koda Fett | Fen
Equipment: Silens cursor, Revans Lightsaber

No matter where she went with Kaine Zambrano, the power that lingered and radiated from him could be felt from a far distance. A sense of dread most feared or learned to love as the darkness was oh so intoxicating with what felt like each breath. A being that knew only to destroy was a strange good luck charm if one believed in such trinkets. As she walked the corridors built with simplistic design with no worry of low bearing beams or ceilings Teresa watched crew hard at work. There was no rituals or routines of preparation that set up to leaping into a brewing bloodbath that where soon to begin.

Dipping off into a private room she had been assigned to during the voyage to Tython she moved over to a chest locker. A light kick on the button and the lid flung open bouncing on its hinges. Making a simple gestures the contents of the box lifted and orderly dropped onto the bed. Pulling open the robes and undoing the knot at the back of the neck she let them drop to the floor in a crumpled mess. Her pale skin would be covered in skin tight alchemized Terentatek leather and Spider silk as she dressed into her armor followed by the chest plate and pauldron that hung from one arm, then the final piece was an aurodium band with six colourful crystals imbedded into the metal.

Turning for the door her saber glided to her palms. Exiting the room she made her way in long strides towards the hanger.

As the double doors opened Kaine began his speech. While others kneeled she did not. Rather she walked past each and every solider or pilot on her way through to the back before turning to look up to the man on the upper levels. His words, straight to the point. Today a world would burn till nothing left existed to fuel the fires. Least that was the message she took from it. Really she could care less about what was about to happen. Today was a chance to test herself in the new form.

Something about no longer being human was satisfying.

As those around her began to rise her black and orange eyes snapped to several. "You are with me, we will be the Shadow. The task is to provide cover for the transports and get me safely to atmosphere, from there I will disembark. Once I have left, you are to return to the Eternal Rule. Be ready to drop with Kaine."

Teresa sat in one of the passenger seats of the VCX-100 light freighter. As landing craft lifted from the hanger so did the shadow. She would be met with a view of colossal ships filling the sky. Never had she witnessed so many warships in one place. Soon that view would be changed as the nose of the Shadow dived down along with the other crafts. The first few moments seemed quiet, till the top turret began shooting towards enemy craft.

Descending into the atmosphere, she rose up from her seat. Placing a minuscule amount of trust in fools that was in her ship, there was a hope they would not fail in their task and she would have a ship to return to. The cockpit door whooshed open as the woman strode down the narrow hall towards the cargo bay, when the next door opened she vaulted over the railing then stood over to the side by the bay doors in the floor.

Sliding open a panel on the wall her hand reached in and pulled the lever inside down. The floor began opening up with a blue ray shield stopping the room from turning into a wind tunnel. Peering out Teresa waited for her moment when the VCX began to angle. "BE READY TO CLOSE THIS UP IN FIFTEEN SECONDS, THEN RETURN TO THE ETERNAL RULE!" She shouted and moved around to the edge. Crouching down she counted in her head to ten before falling forwards.

Getting taken back by the sudden force of the air, both wings closed around her body as she angled into the slipstream of Darth Carnifex 's Landing craft. Once securely behind the transport Teresa opened her wings back up once more almost angled backwards with small movements to stay inline. Sounds of explosions snapped around her, each time the shock wave pulsed through her body. From where she was her black and orange eyes could witness the destruction of ships struck by flak and missiles.

It was then Carnifex's was hit. With quick thinking her wings angled harshly allowing distance between her and the craft. Moving side to side sheets of razor sharp shrapnel and other pieces flew past her. Still it was the best cover she had right this second.

Yet, as the woman weaved and dodged her eyes never left the craft ahead of her. She could feel him still alive, nothing more beyond a feeling. The door of the back of the craft flung towards her, reaching out with a hand the chunk of metal would be pushed out to the side. Teresa's eyes met with his, the gaze not returned as the man stood at the edge and leaped.

Angling more she picked up the speed to zoom past the man. The ground was close and her wings flapped hard to slow enough to land. With no second to spare her saber came to her hand ignited with a purple beam of plasma. Teresa swung deflecting the blaster bolts aimed at her directing them into random directions away from her. Her skills with the weapon was crude, untrained but she was still proficient with the weapon that she could kill with it. A leap forward, wing helping her get the extra distance her saber pierced into the chest of on of her attackers.

With so much happening around them, there was not the moment to exchange words. Every thought went into the next target and avoid being hit. Between the two they made short work of the first group they'd have to contend with. Teresa admitted to herself she was jealous of how effortlessly Carnifex moved and killed. The last time she was no where close to him, but now was her first time in which she was able to witness him in action. It was awe inspiring. "I take it you desperately wanted the climactic entrance." She said ingest watching the anti-air turn and fire upon it's own. Her steps made no sound as Teresa moved to stand by the not so giant man.

"If that was the case, then you achieved it." Looking up to the hill of foe's fighting allies she walked besides her one of many mentors. Teresa still questioned why she was bought along, battles on this scale was not her strong suit. Her skills surely lacked, no matter at how perfected her form was she still felt like a liability, an easy target to pick off.