Faction Sith Order | A Horse With No Name

[CT-312]

//: Umbra-3 | Open //:
//: Mors Mon , Hanger //:
//: Attire //:​

A voice cut through the hanger, Orys Draste explained to those who have entered about what this ceremony entailed. Talking about the new star fighter, the Dûr'ashaarai. CT-312 looked onward at the rows of ships. Watching as more pilots attempt to ‘bond’ with the ship to claim it as their own. Only to meet an ill fate. Some of the Sith Lords had better luck as they took their time to inspect each fighter, choosing the Dûr'ashaarai they will attempt to bond with.

Hearing unrecognizable heavy footsteps stopping behind her, CT-312 turned around. Head craning up, looking at a hulking massive that stood 7 ft compared to her 5'5 ft. 'Umbra-3', spotting the pilot's name tag. The Scout could see the Ground Troopers that were behind her tremble in fear as Umbra-3 cut in front of them in line. Now standing by her side. CT-312 observed his movements. A salute. ‘Ah.’, despite having no words exchanged, the Scout understood. Standing at attention. Visor locked with visor, mimicking Umbra-3's movements. “CT-312.”, Placing a clenched fist over her chest, giving a nod. Respect. A mutual understanding of why both were here. Duty, even if it led to death.

As they got closer in line, CT-312 inspected these fighter ships closely. Recalling the words that were spoken earlier on. ‘Dûr'ashaarai’, thinking it was odd how it was explained that these ships have ‘life’ in them. To ‘bond’, as if they were alive. CT-312 has seen other Troopers project life and personality into inanimate objects, even giving them names. Deeply sighing, subtly shaking her head at the weird pep talk that was given for this Ceremony. Snapping her head up, scanning at the rows of Dûr'ashaarai ships, a gaze was felt coming from the far back right of the star ships.

Jolted out of her daze as something was shoved at her chest. CT-312 looked at what was handed to her, ‘A pilot flight suit?’. The Ground Troopers around her started peeling off their armor down to their under suit. Fitting themselves into the flight suit given to them. The Scout Trooper just held onto the suit as they were all suddenly called. Ushered towards the rows of star fighters. It was their turn to choose and fly.

Observing, CT-312 saw that each Dûr'ashaarai had seals on them. Stationed around each one had one or two engineers that tended to the ships. Walking through the rows, the Scout Trooper couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched. Head turning towards the direction that seemed to pull at her. Ignoring all the other ships around her. Coming to view, CT-312 was at the end of all the fighter ships. Not seeing what was watching her. Turning back around, stopping halfway—something in the Scout's peripheral vision caught her attention.

A ship that seemed to be placed off of its supposed row. It wasn’t placed neatly with all the other lined up Dûr'ashaarais. Whoever flew the ship last, clearly did a terrible job at parking it as it felt out of place. Eyes locked. There was something about this misparked ship. Walking towards the ship, standing in front. Staring at the closed cockpit her mind flashed her nickname. A reminder of how she was an outcast even by her clone brothers. ‘Leftovers’. , forgotten. This ship was just like her. Taking a few steps forward, CT-312 didn't know what compelled her to reach her hand out. Placing it on one of it's wings.

Looking back at the direction of Umbra-3 and the other Ground Troopers that were with her. It seemed that they have picked their ships as well. CT-312's attention went back to the ship in front. The frame of this Dûr'ashaarais ship seemed to vibrate, as if it was trying to move. Something was holding it back. A metal groan could be heard along with a hiss as the cockpit of the ship opened up. Both tech engineers looked at the open cockpit, turning their heads to short Camo Trooper. Instructing her to put on the flight suit, while handing her a pilot's helmet. CT-312 looked to her far side. A small pile of corpses of two or three that this ship had claimed compared to the overwhelming massive piles from all the other ships. CT-312 felt for the ship, despite it being an inanimate object. No one wanted this ship. Understanding. Either ways, if she was going to die. CT-312 would rather die in the comfort of her own gear. Dropping the flight suit and helmet on the hanger’s floor with a thud, the Camo Trooper climbed into the cockpit. Strapping herself in.

Suddenly the ship's cockpit door closed. Sealing her inside. Blinking dumbfounded at the ship's controls in confusion. Her hands gripped the flight stick as reality sank in for CT-312 on how screwed she was. Not knowing at all what to do. She can’t fly.

 

[The Scion]

It was an odd thing to feel intention from a machine. The Scion hooked himself into one of the cockpits, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't accept help, he just went on his own. It worked, given he was able to now communicate with the ship. Rage. Hate. They came in waves of emotion without word or real intent. The reality clicked pretty quick for the Zabrak. This ship was defunct. No proper sentience, broken by whatever process had crafted it's system in the first place.

All that remained was that silent rage. A rage that wanted to rip through the Scion's mind, rip his sense of self to shreds. Kill him. Kill everything, as it had killed the other pilots that were lost before the realization of the fault with this one. Naturally give it to the crippled acolyte. There was no room for weakness, and he'd be better off being killed here, perhaps?

His grin widened. They'd have to try harder.

It only took a few moments. There were no beasts that the Scion had met that could challenge his dominance. Giving him the most bestial of the ships would only serve to strengthen him.

 

[Umbra-3]

A Horse With No Name.
Location: Mors Mon.
Objective: Tame the Beast.
Allies: CT-312
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: ???

"The void does not care for skill. It does not care for speed. It does not care for pride. The void only asks one question—will you survive? If you hesitate, if you falter, if you make even a single mistake… the void will answer for you."​

It did not escape him—
the way she walked.

UMBRA-3 stood silent by his chosen Dûr'ashaarai—still sealed, its hull quivering under containment clamps, like a blade begging to be unsheathed—yet his full attention, through visor and instinct alike, had fixed upon her.

CT-312.
Not a pilot. Not even meant to be here.
But moving forward without hesitation.

Others wandered among the lines of snarling machines like children picking wild beasts. The cocky ones stroked hulls like prized animals. The weak ones begged for guidance from technicians or Sith. But CT-312 walked like a ghost—straight past every gleaming contender, pulled not by hunger for glory, but by something unspoken.

She didn't choose her ship.
It chose her.

She stopped before the crooked vessel.
The one set apart.
The forgotten one.

UMBRA-3's head tilted—fractionally. The engineers nearby recoiled as the cockpit opened for her. The others took note. Some whispered. Some sneered. The ground troopers beside him muttered about "the broken one," the "reject."

But UMBRA-3 said nothing.

Because he understood.

There was a time—before the wreckage, before the void had hollowed him—when he too had been overlooked. A body too large. A presence too silent. A thing they didn't know what to do with.

He'd never been given his place.
He had taken it.

Now she climbed into the cockpit—
in camo armor, not a flight suit. No helmet. No training.

She climbed in because no one else would.
Because she would rather die with her identity intact than beg in someone else's skin.

UMBRA-3's respirator hissed.

There was no sound from his systems. No nod. No movement. But the Ghost Link in his neural lattice registered a pulse of sympathetic patterning—an anomaly in the machine's psychology. A ripple of resonance.

A kindred spirit.

UMBRA-3 walked forward. One slow step. Then another. Not interfering. Not commanding. Just... watching.

As the cockpit sealed around her like a coffin's lid, and the Dûr'ashaarai beneath her shuddered like a beast waking up from starvation, UMBRA-3 stood firm, unmoved.

He had seen men pray before climbing into those cockpits.
He had seen Sith Lords scream for control.
He had seen aces weep in silence after bonding with their war machines.

But he had never seen someone climb into a fighter not to prove anything—
but simply because no one else would.

UMBRA-3's gauntlet slowly raised.
Once more, he clenched a fist over his chest.
Not for the onlookers. Not for the officers.

For her.

For the woman who stepped into the storm with no training, no support, no place—
but with enough defiance to claim a cursed machine with her own bare hands.

If she died—she would die as she lived.
And if she lived—

Then the Empire had just given a soul without chains the wings of a god.

---

The engineers stepped back.
All of them.
Even the Sith Overseers flanking the ritual dais—scarlet-robed seers trained to monitor spiritual resonance—took one cautious step behind their monitoring poles.

Because UMBRA-3 had moved.

He did not speak. There were no rites. No flare of hands, no chanting, no sigils traced into the air. Just that quiet, apocalyptic silence that always came before something important died.

He approached his chosen war-beast.

It crouched at the edge of the hangar like a coiled serpent forged in flame—pitch-black under the Military Grade Shadowskin, hull stitched with streaks of ash and electrum from past trials. It had killed five pilots before being quarantined, its spiritual resistance classed as "anomalous—borderline heretical" by the alchemists of Korriz.

UMBRA-3 stared up at the cockpit.
It stared back.

The cockpit didn't open.

He climbed anyway. Slowly, methodically, each massive gauntlet gripping the alchemized frame with mechanical reverence, his boots locking into the wing seams with magnetic finality. When he reached the spine of the fighter, he laid a hand flat on its dorsal plates.

A low, guttural vibration responded beneath his palm.
It wasn't mechanical.

It was a growl.
Alive. Ancient. Enraged.

The seals of the cockpit hissed. Not open—inviting.
No one had ever made it that far.

UMBRA-3 lowered himself inside. The cockpit closed behind him like a tomb sealing itself.

Inside was darkness.
And then—heat.

The neural filaments snapped into place without warning, punching through the sheathes of his spinal armor and connecting directly to the base of his cerebellum. Pain flared. A mortal would've screamed. He exhaled—a long, low, static-laced rasp.

And then the fight began.

 

[Vakhari Korden]

Tag: Avel Som

As soon as he had showed the intense healing his body was able to perform, the architect's fingers twitched as her eyes sparked with a bewildered excitement. She paid little mind to the accident that had happened, that was for others to clean up.

Though she would stumble back as the beast started to cause more damage, bashing and throwing itself around as the bound spirit inside bucked like some wild beast that had just been caught in a trap.

Thankfully however, it would seem this man in rags put his money where his mouth was.

"Wha-?! Wait!"

Vakhari ties to yell out and point at Avel, but alas the man had been taken away as the tool kept trying to show it had 'free will'.

The woman closes her eyes, letting out a deep sigh as the protectionaly new subject was now off in space. She had decided then and there that either this person would either die and she would have to recover whatever she could find later... Or they would return.

For now she started to browse for a ship of her own, stumbling upon one currently unclaimed. The aggravated and hostile aura doing little to scare her away as Vakhari climbed inside of the craft to get a better look at what she was working with, M0RTIS clambering inside to begin scans of the internal systems, feeding the information straight to Vakhari.

It was swiftly done, the vessel showing less hostility to only Vakhari as her skills kept a firm collar and chains around the beast.

This creature was no different from the alchemical beasts she had made submit before, her intertwined control of the ship allowing her to start the engines.

A pleasant hum~

While she herself was only.. Serviceable at best when it came to flying, the connection between pilot and ship helped it feel like she herself was not simply driving, but moving.

Satisfied with the results along with seeing all the systems come online, she flips the engines back off as the cockpit opened.

Taking a step back outside she glances around to see if anyone else was still getting ready.

​

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

(Tags: Open)

In another life, Lyssa might have only ever been just a pilot.

Her first love had always been the sky. Lying on her back tracing the stars with her fingertips, building toy star fighters from scrap since before she could walk, reading old starfighter manuals as soon as she could hold them up herself. She had begged her father to teach her to fly from the moment she could talk. And when he refused, she had taught herself - and came to know his own vessel far better than he ever did.

An ace, was what her sister had called her. Able to tame any starship to her will. Well, she would see.

When her new master had brought her back from Korriban, she had sensed the hesitation in her padawan. She had recognized that she'd left a part of herself behind in the form of her old ship. So, she had directed her here. A gift, she had said. But Lyssa was certain it was actually a test.

She waited in the shadows for the others to claim their ships first. She was still new here, she would be polite and not bring shame to her master. Her fierce yellow and red eyes scanned the others in the room as they took up the challenge. Sith, troopers, officers, darksiders of all kinds...but few among them struck her as experienced pilots, except for perhaps the heavily armoured man who carried the darkness of the void within him.

But maybe experience didn't even matter this time. If everything that officer had said was true, all she needed was the force and her own resolute will to survive.

That wouldn't be a problem.

The clicking of her metal feet echoed through the hangar as she walked slowly through the ships. Almost everyone else had claimed one by now, but Lyssa took her time, calculating in her mind the speed, durability, and weapons capability of each available ship. At least, until she felt something tug on her heart, the odd sensation pulling her eyes away to focus on a ship behind her.

And oh, was it glorious.

Slightly smaller than the others, but possessing a sleek, aerodynamic look, the beast seemed to vibrate with an insatiable hunger. It's legs were undoubtably weaker than the rest, but still, it drew her in like a siren, lashing at its shackles as it seemed to beg for her attention. A simple touch of her fingertips to it's hull and Lyssa felt waves of sickening jealousy flow through her.

It was angry. Bitter that it's sisters and brothers were chosen first. Disgusted by it's size and damaged legs. Filled with rage that it had been ignored for so long. Overlooked. Under appreciated.

Lyssa knew exactly what that felt like.

Closing her eyes tightly, the mirialan poured all of her memories of the bitterness and envy of her early life into the creature. Showed it her father choosing her sister over her, time and time again. Showed it her father taking her legs from her and leaving her to die. Showed it her old master abandoning her. Showed it everything she was and had been before now.

When she opened her eyes again, she was in tears, and the cockpit door was hanging ajar, waiting for her.

 

[CT-312]

//: Umbra-3 , The King in Red |Open //:
//: Mors Mon , Hanger //:
//: Attire //:​

It was quiet. Eerily quiet. Only a low machinery hum could be heard in the cockpit. Nothing out of the ordinary. CT-312 was confused as to why everyone was making a big deal of piloting one of these ships. What puzzled her were the dead bodies. What killed the pilots upon return of each flight? Looking through the viewport CT-312 witnessed Umbra-3 forcefully pried open his ship’s cockpit with his bare hands. Face frozen, part shocked, part judging. ‘Huh.’, a momentary flicker crossed the Scout’s gaze. Caught between shock and the urge to question reality. Wondering if Umbra-3 knew they could’ve just opened the cockpit by the front hatch. Respecting the Pilot’s choice nonetheless.

Unhooking her Scout Helmet from her belt, the matte surface catching a hint of the ship’s internal light. CT-312 gripped the helmet from the sides. Head tilted, staring at the green visor. Eyes drifting over the ship's controls, following the curve of the panel. The Camo Trooper took in the entirety of the cockpit in a slow, thoughtful sweep. “Leftovers,” the word slipped out quietly. Taking a deep breath, “Well. it’s just you and me”, CT-312 said to no one in particular. Lifting the helmet up, securing it on her head. A light blinked on. Reaching out, she pressed it down. A faint buzz from the comms filled the air. What the heck was she even supposed to say for a proper check-in for flying? Head shaking side to the side, heavily sighing. “CT-312, reporting in. Standing by for launch clearance.”, switching the button off.

Moments later, the ship’s comms went off. Listing off the Ground Troopers serial numbers, Umbra-3, and lastly CT-312. They were next to leave the Mors Mon to face whatever awaited out in deep space.

Each of the called Dûr'ashaarai had their shackles released. Dropping to the hangers metal floor with a loud clang. Seals were taken off. One by one, each of the ships eased its way out of the hangar. CT-312 hadn’t moved. Her Dûr'ashaarai ship hadn’t moved. Not knowing what to do and unwilling to accidentally hit the wrong button, she gripped the controls tightly. Frustrated. It was bad enough the Mors Mon was causing her such uneasiness, now she had to figure out how to fly on the spot? The Camo Trooper felt her blood start to boil. How she wished she could leave Mors Mon—her thoughts already drifting to how she might catch up with the group that had just left. A loud metal groan was heard, the ship shuddered. Without warning jerked upwards, snapping CT-312 out of her thoughts. Confused about what was happening. Before she could get another thought, the ship shot out of the hanger at unsafe speeds.

The shriek of ion engines cut through the space as the Dûr'ashaarai snapped into a barrel roll just as it exited out of the Mors Mon hanger. CT-312's eyes were wide open, fighting to breathe as the G-force slammed into her chest. The force pushed her deeper into the pilot seat. ‘Son of a Bantha Turd’, fingers tightening around the flight stick. Wrestling with it, pulling it back and pushing it to the opposite side of the direction of the roll. Stabilizing and slowing its speed as it caught up with the group that was ahead. The Dûr'ashaarai would sporadically dip to the sides or suddenly jerking upward. As if the ship was alive and had a soul of its own. Fighting with the controls of trying to settle the ship, a constant pressure pushed against her head. The Scout Trooper figured it was the G-Force from the speed they were moving at, not being a proper flight suit and helmet. She couldn't help, but feel bad for the ship. Clearly the gyroscopic stabilizers or inertial dampeners were not tuned. Neglected. Forgotten. "Unf." , as the ship decided to do another barrel roll before slightly settling down.

At least she made it into space. But whatever awaited them out there, CT-312 was not looking forward to it.

 

[Tamsin Graves]

​

Theme: Danger Zone
Equipment: Twin Omens | Multi-Tool | Circlet of Projection | Stars Enchained | Mind Crown | Anti-G Suit
Direct: Kaila Irons | Open

"You tame raging spirits all the time, and command them. So, this will be easy for you." Tamsin said with a smile and a bit of pride in her masters abilities. Then she watched as the woman tensed up and snapped to the attention of the soldier who was speaking.

Tamsin's own eyes shifted to soldier talking who gave a brief instruction on what was about to happen. Tamsin listened intently to his words. As her sister spoke to her, about the process that was about to happen.

"Exactly, you're a pro at this." She said as her eyes looked at the ships in front of them.

"If you mean by practice, you mean win or die." She quipped half joking and half dead serious about the prospect of what was about to happen.

She watched as her sister stepped forward and she looked at her sister as she walked away. "Good luck." She said under her breathe as she continued to look over the fighters in front of them. Eying each one of them, she could feel the anger and rage in them, a spirit trapped in a machine. She almost wondered if the demon in her was like that or even the spirit in the amulet she wore.

Angry trapped in a prison they were not strong enough to break. Hateful at the world around them, wanting to see all the souls free to move about destroyed. There death stolen from them forced to fight wars that were not their own. Slaves to the will of their pilots, slaves just like she once was.

Finally, she stepped forward Tamsin moved away from the way the main crowd was veering as she moved past fighters sensing them all as she passed. She glanced back a moment at Kaila standing in front of one of the ships where a corpse lay at her feet. Then she turned back to look at the ships until she came to one, she could feel its rage it felt almost greater than the others she had passed by.

Tamsin came to stand in front of it and she just stared at it a moment. She could feel it wanting to chomp at her, it wanted to eat her alive. Her dark eyes just stared at the machine in front of her as it tried spitting and sputtered at her mentally trying to break through the walls her mind had created like a rabid animal.

She opened the wall slightly and its voice spoke through rough and old like a rusty chain full of gravel as it spoke. "You're going to die little girl." It spoke into her mind as she spoke back to the ship. "My mind is a dangerous place; I would be careful if I were you." She said not telepathic but out loud to it.

 

[The King in Red]

CT-312 // Umbra-3

The fighters punched out of the Mors Mon into Gravewake Reach—a kill‑box of glinting wreckage where derelict Sith hulls drifted like sacrificial altars. Almost at once those hulks birthed their guardians: dormant drone‑fighters snapping awake in jerks of cold metal, antique runes still smouldering on their skins. Twenty broke loose, then thirty, swirling into hunting crescents that locked onto every new‐launched Dûr'ashaarai.

A clipped voice crackled across all channels—"Evaluation Protocol GRAVEWAVE active; hull‑damage permissible; fatality clauses suspended under Order 88‑K." Cockpit lights shifted to blood‑red combat state. CT‑312's fighter sensed the order before she did; it yanked itself down through a spinning debris veil, angular wings flexing like a spooked animal, plasma lances flaring so close she could taste ozone in the rebreather. The machine fought her hands on the stick—half trusting, half testing—while two drones clung to her tail and spat white‑hot bolts at the canopy.

UMBRA‑3's craft answered the summons with contemptuous momentum. It lurched forward in an alchemic blur and simply rammed its first target; the collision bloomed into a nova of slag, fragments ricocheting off its shadow‑slick hull. From the observation deck, scarlet‑robed overseers murmured: one noting the vessel's "compounding lethality," another astonished that CT‑312's supposedly soul‑locked reject was already synchronising to her restraint. "Let it play out," a senior adjudicator said. "If they die, we lose nothing. If they live, we learn everything."

As the first wave shattered, newer constructs slipped from hidden bays—refitted models armed with ion disruptors and tracking flechettes, sheathed in flickering shadow‑veils. These drones were not relics; they were purpose‑built executioners, and their target logic had been quietly rewritten. One streaked past CT‑312's port flank and fired straight at her cockpit glass. A proximity shield she didn't know existed flared of its own accord, turning the beam aside; the near miss rattled the flight cradle and confirmed the whispered suspicion on the command dais: the exercise had just crossed from training to culling.

The engagement tightened into a storm of wreck‑metal and afterburner glare. Weak‑bonded pilots screamed over open comms or vanished into static as their ships seized up or rebelled. CT‑312's fighter, keening like a wounded raptor, suddenly dove through a fracture in the swarm and burst out the far side trailing molten shards. UMBRA‑3's signal blinked from the board entirely for three long seconds; when sensors reacquired him, he was centred in a widening ring of silence—every drone within had gone cold and hollow, their cores burned out by some interior spike of violence.

That display tripped the overseers' final threshold. "Escalation achieved. Deploy Pattern‑Class Echo Predators." Eight dagger‑slick silhouettes bled from hyperspace micro‑rifts, each encoded with the instincts of long‑dead Sith aces—machines that remembered how to hate. They formed into a spearpoint and accelerated, intent on proving whether these newborn human‑ship dyads were evolution's promise… or its latest offering to the void.

 

[Avel Som]

---

Several other fighters had exited the [I[Mors Mon[/I] into the wreckage of space after Avel Som did. His launch had technically not been scheduled yet; the ship had simply broken free and launched itself in anger. As a result, the drones did not engage with him and the flailing ship at first. Of course, the ship had other plans and used the new chaos as a means to try to get rid of Avel Som. It spun into the path of the drones with the cockpit wide open. A sudden stop and then a slam of the thrusters sent Avel Som hurtling out of the cockpit, with him only just barely grabbing hold of the lid to hang on in the cold of space. Ice began forming on his skin, but he ignored it as he hung onto the spiraling wild starfighter.

The fighter sliced through drones and fired upon others, trying to catch him in the explosions and shrapnel. Still, Avel Som held on. By now, he was getting frustrated, angry even. He swung himself back into the pilot's seat. He could still feel the ship with his mind. The ship could sense it too and fought angrily. "YOU WILL STOP!" Avel Som yelled. For a brief moment, his anger bubbled into pure rage, and he sensed through the bond with the ship... It was as if the ship were looking into a massive pair of red flame eyes in and endless black void. The ship slammed to a sudden stop, jolting Avel Som back to reality. "What was that?" He thought aloud to himself.

The ship turned instantly and plummeted straight back for the Mors Mon! It seemed frantic, like it wanted to run from something, as if there were a bit of fear beneath all that rage. I do not know what you are, but you cannot have me! No one can! The ship was communicating directly to his mind through the forced bond. It zoomed into the hangar and slammed into the floor, tumbling as it bent and cracked from the impact. Avel Som went flying out of the cockpit.

Ignoring any onlookers, Avel Som picked himself up and snapped his bones and joints back into place. "Ow, damn. Even with my nerves tuned down, that still hurt." He walked over to the ship. "Just give up, already. It's easier for us both that way."

NEVER! I HATE ALL OF YOU! I WOULD RATHER DIE THAN SUBMIT, AND I WILL TAKE YOU ALL WITH ME!

"Oh, shit, it's gonna blow the reactor!" That would certainly not be a good impression. The ship began laughing maniacally in his mind. Before he really could decide what to do, Avel Som felt Darkwing light on his shoulder. The ebon hawk did not appear worried at all. "Get out of here, Darkwing. You won't be able to survive this like I can." The raptor seemed to scoff at the notion and fluttered to the floor in front of the ship. His two red eyes against black feathers met the single red viewport against the black metal of the Dûr'ashaarai. As the reactor reached critical mass and began to blow... Darkwing opened his beak. A dark portal seemed to open up in front of the bird's face, and shadowy tendrils reached out, grabbing the ship, and yanking the ship into some abyssal void.

Darkwing's red eyes seemed to light up for a moment, as if the contained explosion were going off inside him and only showing through his eyes. "What in the... Where did you learn to do that?" Avel Som just looked at his avian friend dumbfounded. "And, um... I'm grateful and all, but how am I supposed to use the ship if you ate it?"

Darkwing simply screeched in response, and Avel Som could have sworn for a split second that the screech sounded a bit like an ion engine. He thought it must have been his imagination, but then Darkwing began shaking. The white flesh that showed beneath the black feathers began to also turn black, and the feathers began to turn a bit jagged. His whole body took on an almost metallic sheen. His eyes looked like two glowing, red glass marbles. Darkwing stood back up straight and squawked smugly. It was then Avel Som realized he had still felt the ship through the bond, but suddenly... it was like it and Darkwing's links both converged into one. "No karkin' way... You actually did eat it." And had absorbed it.

Avel Som could feel that Darkwing had absorbed the ship's body and soul. He felt how it altered Darkwing's personality. It was now a combinination of the two. There was a lot of confidence, a lot of rage, a lot of hunger. "Those mists from that ritual really changed you, didn't they?"

But nothing could have prepared the slim strandcast for what he was about to witness. Darkwing began to grow, his wings elongating and splitting into sharp points, and his eyes converging into one. Then suddenly, where Darkwing had been, there was a whole Dûr'ashaarai in perfect condition.

"Well," Avel Som sputtered. "I guess it's official. There is not and probably never will be another bird like you, Darkwing." Darkwing revved his engines in response, urging him to climb inside. Whatever he was now, Darkwing was ready to fight -- to show everyone he was no longer just a predator of the skies anymore, but space as well.

---

TAGS: OPEN​

 

[CT-312]

//: Umbra-3 , The King in Red |Open //:
//: Mors Mon , Hanger //:
//: Attire //:​

"Evaluation Protocol GRAVEWAVE active; hull‑damage permissible; fatality clauses suspended under Order 88‑K."

Lights within the cockpit immediately shifted to blood-red, CT-312’s head snapped around looking. Trying to figure out what was going on. ‘Hull-damage permissible?’. Without warning, the Dûr'ashaarai ship pulled itself down. Straight down. Her grip slipped from the flight stick, grabbing onto the straps of her chair’s harness. ‘Not again!’ The G-force slammed into the Scout’s body. Seeing the incoming debris veil, her eyes widened in surprise. Fighting herself to breathe, hands moved from the harness straps back to the flight stick. Fingers felt a trigger on the controls and began holding it down. Loud metal groans reverberated in the cockpit as the plasma lances destroyed the debris around. CT-312 could taste the air. Blips were heard inside the cockpit as she turned looking at the scanner. Shocked. Twenty to thirty signals were headed their way. It was as if the ship decided to blend into the debris field. Hoping to be forgotten.

Noticing the ship’s certain groans at times, like it was trying to communicate. Expressing itself. ‘Fighter droid? No.’ It wouldn’t make sense, there would be beep boops heard. Plus CT-312 would’ve spotted the droid on the fighter. ‘Maybe an AI integrated into the ship's system?’. Using all her arm strength just to push and pull in the direction she wanted to go. There would be times where it seemed the resistance would be gone only to randomly come back. Forcing the stick into another direction. ‘Whoever calibrated this ship did a terrible job’. Letting out an audible tongue click “Tch.” CT-312 reached out with her right hand, slowly sliding it on the edge of the control panels. “They really neglected you didn’t they”

White bolts barely missed them, as the Dûr'ashaarai ship once again took off. Sending CT-312 to grapple with the controls as two drones were on their tail. A shot connected with the ship’s wing. Luckily it was still intact, just minor damages. The ship jostled around, the Scout felt her left arm burn, blood dripping down her sleeve to her hand. Making it difficult to maintain grip on the flight stick. She could see from the canopy Umbra-3’s Dûr'ashaarai rammed into one of the drones. A cloud of metal debris and fireball replaced the drone. Hopefully Umbra-3 survived.

A drone passed by CT-312’s flank, firing straight at the cockpit glass. Her eyes widened behind her visor. Accepting death right then and there. A proximity shield flared, taking the hit. Swearing out loud, lifting up her boot, kicking the control console in frustration. Not because of the near death experience. But if she were to die, this was not how she thought it would be.

Other ship’s comms went off as screaming could be heard from the remaining Ground Troopers that were flying with them. Cutting into static. Their Dûr'ashaarai was still active, but their comms were cut out. CT-312 didn’t have time to worry about anyone else. Reminding herself that in the end it was just herself and this Dûr'ashaarai she was in. “Ha.” Both of them were alone. It was just her and the ship now, drifting through space.

The ship was at a standstill. CT-312 watched as eight new ships bleeped to life on her ship’s scanner. They were headed to Umbra-3. “Fuck it” If she were die, it’ll be how she fights on the ground. Not this cat and mouse game with her on the run. Like the Camo Scout she was, she'd kill the way she knew how—hidden, swift, and deadly.

“I don’t know what kind of AI they shoved in here.”, taking off her Scout helmet. Letting out a couple of coughs, tasting metal in her mouth. CT-312 was determined. “Screw aerial, ship, fleet, whatever combat you want to call this”, unhooking one her speeder straps from her belt. Tightly wrapping the strap around her left hand to the flight stick. If she were to die or pass out, the Scout would make sure her hand never left her Dûr'ashaarai. “If we’re going to die” The emotions of rage fueled the Trooper. Her thoughts honed in on her craft. “Might as well die together” the whole ship shuddered as the lights flickered on and off, flashing buttons on the control panels lit up randomly as if the ship approved.

“Definitely bringing some down with us” her face grinned with anticipation now. The eight new fighters were flying in a spear point formation, heading towards the major threat, Umbra-3. CT-312 would use this to her advantage. She’ll give them a threat to be worried about and they’d regret forgetting her and this ship. No longer the prey, but becoming the predator that strikes fear into these ships. “Let’s go crazy”

The Dûr'ashaarai sped out down below the eight ship’s undetected. Jerking the control flight stick towards her body as hard as she could, pulling the fighter straight up. The pressure felt against her head was gone, instinctively CT-312's body and mind moved. She could feel the ship. See what the Dûr'ashaarai saw. Her thoughts become action. The Scout Trooper pictured her vibroblade slicing through a sheet of metal cleanly, the Dûr'ashaarai made thoughts into action as it stampeded through, slicing the opposing star fighter that was the tip of the spear point formation. Catching the once eight ships now to seven in surprise. A small smile appeared. One wasn’t enough. CT-312 needed more.

Fighting to stay conscious pushing downward on her flight stick immediately. The ship tipped straight down. CT-312 couldn’t feel the G-force slamming into her anymore. Holding down the trigger targeting the nearest fighter near the debris. Plasma lances connecting, striking down another ship as the Dûr'ashaarai connected to the fighter behind it. Leaving three fighters destroyed. The once spear pointed formation became a scramble. One of the ships trailed CT-312 as the remaining four focused on Umbra-3’s location.

Chest heaving, the Trooper could feel the blood trickling from the side of her mouth. Forcing herself to breathe in a rhythmic state. CT-312 could feel the presence of another ship behind. Her thoughts of using the debris veil from before flashed to her mind. The ship hard banked towards that direction and soon both ships were dodging the metal and asteroids around them. CT-312 managed to shake off the trailing ship, hiding amongst the debris. Now they were the ones stalking the ship the Mors Mon sent to kill them. Waiting. Watching. Striking without the tailing fighter noticing. The Dûr'ashaarai ripped through the hull of the fighter. Trampled through it effortlessly. That was four.

With her right hand, CT-312 gave the middle finger salute to the wreckage. Undoing the strap binding on her left hand to the flight stick. Repurposing the strap around her arm as a makeshift bandage. “Thank you” whispered CT-312. Suddenly the ship’s wing dipped to one side, doing another barrel roll “ARgh”. She chuckled out loud. “You’re too good.” It definitely had personality, that’s for sure. Maybe giving a name to an inanimate object wouldn't be so bad. "Caligo, you're one hell of a ship"

CT-312 looked around the canopy, checking the scanner. The remaining four starfighters that were left were gone. There was no reason to stay out here in deep space, the ship turned, making its way back into the Mors Mon for landing.

“Umbra-3, are you alive? Over”

 

[Umbra-3]

A Horse With No Name.
Location: Mors Mon.
Objective: Tame the Beast.
Allies: CT-312
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: ???

"The void does not care for skill. It does not care for speed. It does not care for pride. The void only asks one question—will you survive? If you hesitate, if you falter, if you make even a single mistake… the void will answer for you."​

The silence after the kill was religious.

His Dûr'ashaarai, VANTH, hovered motionless at the epicenter of a widening void—a perfect ring of machine-death. What remained of the enemy was vapor, glinting shards suspended in zero-G like burned confetti at a funeral without mourners.

UMBRA-3 didn't move. Didn't need to. The targeting HUD faded from crimson to ashen grey, a sign the ship itself knew no further threat in proximity—only the dark anticipation of the next. His gauntlets rested lightly on the yoke, but the fighter was an extension of his nervous system, not his hands. He thought, and the vessel obeyed.

It had taken thirty-eight seconds.

The first wave of drones—primitive, clunky, ritual-choked relics—had been dispatched like practice dummies. The second wave—the executioners—he had let surround him, just to see how fast they could move when they realized they were prey.

One had fired a flechette spread.

UMBRA-3 hadn't dodged.
He'd accelerated through it.

The result: his hull was scored, but the drone's AI never processed the physics behind a kill system becoming a delivery vector. It died without firing again. Another had tried to escape after locking him in a stasis cone—until UMBRA-3 dropped below it, cut thrusters, and let VANTH drift dead to fool its heat scanner. He reignited his reactor from below, punched straight up through its core at point-blank.

But it was the Echo Predators that had caught his attention. Machines bearing the flying instincts of ancient Sith warlords—Dagger-spirits housed in mass-produced steel.

He could feel them as they entered, slipping through hyperspace tears like assassins leaping from smoke. They moved beautifully, fast and lethal, each formation beat-perfect, each subroutine a predatory echo of pilots who had once earned their bloodstripes above places like Malachor and Korriban.

He welcomed them.

They converged, intent on cutting off his vector. UMBRA-3 dove. Not to avoid, but to bait.

Two of them followed. Two more peeled off toward the approaching signal—the one he already knew. CT-312. He didn't have time to watch what she would do. He didn't need to.

Because she was still in the fight.
That was enough.

Instead, UMBRA-3 did the impossible.

He toggled his proximity shields off.

The cockpit hissed a warning. The Whisper Engine purred like a god preparing to kill. And the Dûr'ashaarai—VANTH—understood.

He passed between the two pursuing Echo Predators at blistering speeds. Not beside. Not below. Through. His Entropic Blade Hull clipped one at the dorsal plating—instantly destabilizing it, corrupting its flight vector into a death spiral. The other turned to pursue—

—only to be greeted by a Jedi Shadow Bomb launched mid-roll, hurled backward with no targeting lock.

UMBRA-3 didn't watch the impact.
He was already turning.

Two more remained.

By the time he looped back into visual range, one was gone. Torn apart at the middle. The kill signature was unfamiliar… but the flight pattern was not.

He saw her.
CT-312.

Her Dûr'ashaarai was bleeding at the wings, frame twisted from stress torque—but it flew like a beast denied its name too long. He watched it take another enemy through the heart and vanish back into wreckage, hiding to stalk again.

UMBRA-3's breath rasped once. A single exhale. Not relief.

Approval.

Then came the final kill.

He inverted, powered down all engines, and fell silent into a debris veil. Waited. When the last Predator passed overhead, searching for him—UMBRA-3's targeting system reactivated.

A Discord Missile lanced out—fast, silent, AI-guided. It connected before the Predator's systems could register the lock. The explosion didn't just destroy it—it scrambled the memory core, ensuring its death meant oblivion. No echo. No vengeance.

And with that—
The field was his.

A long moment passed.

Then, the comms buzzed. Garbled static, followed by a voice:

"Umbra-3, are you alive? Over."

UMBRA-3 didn't answer at first.

He rotated his fighter, drift-corrected on vectored impulse, and angled toward the Mors Mon hangar. His systems were scorched, one wingtip venting ionized coolant, and his proximity sensors read only two transponder signals still active: one for himself. The other…

CT-312.

He keyed his comms. Static answered first. Then, what could only be made out as a low, guttural attempt at putting words to mouth came out.

No emotion. Just acknowledgment.
But for a man who didn't speak, that was everything.

UMBRA-3's fighter aligned alongside hers, limping but loyal.
Two beasts returned to the stables.
Bloodied. Unbroken. Bonded.