Junction Storm Chasers || SO and HR Junction of Moorja and Terrijo

[Aspect of Defiance]

Long before diplomatic signals reached the High Republic, unmarked vessels began passing through the system under commercial registries that changed often enough to avoid scrutiny. Cargo manifests listed relief supplies, industrial equipment, and contracted security personnel, all of which blended easily into the traffic of a frontier world accustomed to private operators. Moorja had always relied on hired forces to supplement its defenses, and no one questioned the presence of additional specialists as borders elsewhere began to weaken.

The Sith did not land as conquerors. They arrived as advisors, technicians, and discreet partners embedded within local authority. Their operatives occupied secured levels beneath transit hubs, established quiet access to orbital traffic control, and attached themselves to planetary defense offices under the pretense of consultation. By the time the High Republic delegation accepted Moorja’s invitation to talks, much of the planet’s security infrastructure already answered to a different chain of command.

The invitation itself had been carried through respectable channels. Ulysses Renoux , a minor noble with longstanding ties to both Moorjan leadership and High Republic diplomatic circles, served as the intermediary. He framed the talks as a cautious attempt at reassurance, a former Alliance world seeking clarity in a galaxy that no longer rewarded indecision. His reputation as a careful broker, more facilitator than power, lent credibility to Moorja’s overtures and softened concerns that might otherwise have delayed the meeting.

The delegation arrived in a city that appeared unchanged. Councillors spoke carefully about neutrality and concern for their people, often deferring to Renoux when conversations drifted toward commitments or timelines. Jedi sensed tension, but nothing that suggested immediate hostility. The meeting complex overlooking the capital’s transit spires was selected for its openness and visibility, reinforcing the impression that Moorja remained undecided and that the talks were meant to be seen.

Behind that appearance, systems were already shifting.

Control over the planetary defense grid transferred in measured increments under the guise of routine maintenance. Docking permissions tightened without explanation. Transit corridors adjusted according to revised safety protocols approved by officials who no longer acted independently. By the time the delegation recognized the pattern, their exits no longer matched the routes by which they had arrived.

The signal to act originated on the surface rather than from orbit.

Sith forces emerged from positions they had occupied for days and struck control nodes with deliberate precision. Transit routes collapsed as access points were sealed, and the meeting site was isolated within minutes. The illusion of diplomacy failed under sudden violence as local security fractured and alarms activated too late to alter the outcome.

The High Republic delegation abandoned negotiation and focused on survival as they attempted to withdraw from a world that had never intended to release them without consequence. Sith pressure followed them through streets and launch facilities, turning retreat into a contested escape. Moorja became the moment when observation ended and direct engagement began, and the Sith Order revealed itself not as a distant influence along the border but as a presence already woven into the ground beneath it.

The trap had been set long before the first words of diplomacy were spoken.

Spoiler: OOC NOTE

We opted for a sandbox approach to this one. Let's have fun and see what everyone comes up with!

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Vigfjall
TAG: Rik Perris | Lily Rhodes

Gerwald did not stand at the center of the command chamber because he had no interest in spectacle.

The secured level beneath Moorja’s primary transit complex hummed with controlled efficiency as officers relayed confirmations and control nodes shifted from civilian oversight into the hands of those who understood what power required. He stood apart from the holotables, one hand resting behind his back, his gold gaze fixed on the steady cascade of data confirming what he had already anticipated.

The High Republic had arrived exactly as expected.

He felt them before the reports confirmed their presence. The disciplined awareness of Jedi minds moved across the surface of the planet, curious and watchful, threading through a world that still believed itself neutral. In recent cycles they had grown bold. They had tested the Blackwall as though it were a boundary open to interpretation. They had sent scouts and inquiries toward Sith territory as if proximity alone entitled them to understanding.

Moorja would correct that assumption.

His jaw tightened slightly as the memory of Naboo surfaced. He did not think of it as the High Republic’s capital but as it had once been, when the Confederacy of Independent Systems governed from its marble halls and he had served as Lord Commander of the Knights Obsidian. He remembered strategic councils held beneath vaulted ceilings and decisions that shaped sectors delivered without theatrics. Naboo had once trusted him with authority. Now it stood as the centerpiece of a government that believed it represented renewal.

Naedira Darcrath had been born there. That fact carried a weight he rarely voiced. Naboo had given him loyalty and loss in equal measure. It had also given him the woman who now stood beside him in every meaningful sense. The High Republic displayed that world as proof of its legitimacy, yet legitimacy was not inherited by occupation. It was secured by strength, and kept with a firm hand.

An officer approached and bowed his head, reporting that the planetary defense grid had completed its final transition. Docking restrictions were active and transit corridors had been sealed according to revised protocols approved by officials who no longer acted independently.

Gerwald inclined his head once in acknowledgment. The process had been measured and patient, composed of increments too subtle to resist and too disciplined to detect. The trap had not been sprung in haste. It had been carefully cultivated and triggered at just the right moment.

His thoughts turned briefly to Briana Sal-Soren . He had saved her life once when it would have been simpler to allow events to take their course. She had gone on to help shape the High Republic and establish a Jedi Order that prided itself on distinction from the failures of the past. He respected the discipline required to build something new. He did not respect the presumption that followed the expansion.

She of all people should have understood that the boundaries enforced by Sith hands were not symbolic.

The signal to initiate came from the surface, precisely as it had been designed. He had refused to let this moment be blamed on some distant fleet commander or orbital miscalculation. Moorja would demonstrate that the Sith Order was not an abstraction beyond the horizon but a presence embedded within the worlds it touched.

Reports shifted in tone as control nodes were secured and the meeting complex overlooking the transit spires was isolated. The High Republic delegation abandoned negotiation and attempted to withdraw along corridors that no longer matched the routes by which they had arrived. Resistance formed along predictable vectors.

Gerwald drew a slow breath and felt the pressure settle into focus rather than agitation. He knew many of the minds now scrambling for exit. Some had trained under traditions that once intersected with his own history. Some carried philosophies that had grown from seeds planted during the era of the Confederacy. Conflict was rarely simple when history intertwined so tightly.

However, restraint had already been offered in the form of distance, and distance had been tested.

He stepped closer to the holotable, gold projections reflecting in his eyes as Sith forces advanced with deliberate precision. His expression remained composed, yet the waiting that had stretched across months of planning finally resolved into action.

“Their retreat corridors will narrow toward the eastern launch facilities,” he said, his voice steady. “Apply pressure without overextension. Let them understand the cost of every meter.”

The order was relayed without hesitation.

Gerwald allowed his gaze to rest on the representation of the meeting complex as Sith forces advanced. He did not act from hatred, because hatred distorted judgment. What moved him was resolve shaped by experience and sharpened by memory.

The High Republic had mistaken proximity for permission. It had treated the Blackwall as a boundary open to inquiry rather than a line enforced by will. Moorja would clarify that misunderstanding in a language the Jedi could not ignore.

Encroachment carried consequences, and Gerwald Lechner intended that this world become the moment they learned the price that came with it.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

ALLIED TAGS: Veradun Sharr , Darth Carnifex
ENEMY TAGS: Balun Arenais-Dashiell , Ala Quin , Jax Thio

Moorja was doomed.
​

Let Carnifex and the rest enjoy the slaughter. Nefaron had come for the sole purpose of hunting Jedi. But the common Knight was worthless in his mind, for he had grand designs for one so unfortunate as to fall into his grasp. But there was more to this little hunt, for Nefaron had brought with him his Apprentice, the newly anointed Darth Vanitas, for yet another trial. Simply becoming a Darth meant nothing if one could not prove they earned it, and unfortunately for Nefaron's Apprentice, fighting a dead Sith Lord was hardly a feat the galaxy would shudder at.

The pair stood, watching a Republic shuttle stream across the sky, a furious bout of laser fire greeting it as it made its way toward the surface. Cloaked in black and flanked by a quartet of droid warriors armed with deadly lances, the two Sith had already spilled their fair share of blood, but they would not be sated until they were able to bring down a far greater prize.

"Lord Vanitas, I have asked much of you in our time together. Each test you have passed through your dedication to the Dark Side, and yet today may be the greatest challenge I have ever placed before you."

The Corpse Lord raised his sickly hand to point at the Republic shuttle, damaged and destined for a fiery demise.

"My agents tell me that we are to be graced by the Jedi Grandmaster herself. You are to face her and bring her back to me, alive if possible. Take the droids with you, but do not fool yourself into believing greater numbers will carry the day."

It was a stark warning from the Terror Lord, and one delivered with sufficient malice. Always, the boy was tested, always he looked for some weakness or flaw that would be his undoing. Nefaron was a cruel master, but he ensured perfection from those who would serve him, and Veradun was to be no exception if he was to carry forward Nefaron's banner into the greater galaxy. Should he triumph this day, should he truly defeat the Jedi Grandmaster, then perhaps it was time that the Corpse Lord stopped viewing him as a lesser being.

Instead, he would be a threat.
​

But he did not dare to think such a thing possible. Veradun was likely to fail and be forced to withdraw, but it was of little consequence, for he would have gained valuable experince in facing down the ancient foe of the Sith. Yet Nefaron did not intend to leave empty-handed, and so he would take on the task of securing a different prize.

If not the Grandmaster, then perhaps her Padawan would suffice?​

 

[Balaya Praelior Zambrano]

Darth Carnifex

The Morning Star had brought the information, Kaine rarely contacted her but she always offered to him the alchemical creations of the firebirds as a means to test and see how they held against and with his Blackblades. It was interesting as the sounds of screams came up from the depths of Morghulis. Spires of flame jetting into the air, the ones who were taken under the lashes of their brothers, their sisters, their mothers and fathers. The Firebirds had found breaking the person much easier when she had taken letting her baby know where she was going as the jaws of The Nightmare Child was upon a scout vessel searching the unknown regions.

The blast doors hissed open to reveal her silhouette that defied the natural proportions of her species, a titan of pink-hued flesh and black-veined malice. Standing at a staggering seven feet tall and a little extra, the Zeltron Sith Lord didn't merely enter the corridor; she claimed it, her presence thickening the air until the oxygen felt heavy and pressurized. Her skin, a vibrant, deep bubblegum-pink, seemed to pulse with darkside energies that stood in stark defiance of the ship's sterile, cold tones. With every heavy, rhythmic stride, her armored boots struck the deck plating with the force of a falling hammer, a physical manifestation of the sheer, unnatural mass she carried.

However she still moved with a deceptive, feline grace that belied her titanic stature, her mane of vivid fiery orange hair cascading behind her like a river of molten copper that trailed nearly to her ankles, billowing in the wake of her momentum. Her Warlord Armor was not merely protection; it was a statement of absolute dominion, forged from matte-black beskar-obsidian alloys that seemed to drink the ambient light of the hallway. The cuirass was a masterwork of forging, with sharp, tiered pauldrons that framed it as the exposed sections gleamed under the correct light showing the transparent armored sections in giving the illusion of gaps.

The breastplate was sculpted with brutal precision to follow the contours of her powerful, muscle-bound torso, reinforced by thick, heavy-duty plating that contained her. Each segment of the armor was joined by dark, flexible zoosha-weave that allowed for a lethal range of motion, ensuring that despite her size, her reach remained as fluid as it was devastating. Deeply etched into the gauntlets and greaves were jagged, Sith-runic engravings that glowed with a faint, malevolent crimson, as if the suit itself were bleeding from within. The gauntlets were particularly imposing, featuring reinforced knuckles and elongated, claw-like fingertips that looked capable of crushing a humanoid skull with a casual squeeze.

In her oversized grip, the hilt of her lightsaber gleamed in her hand as she was walking with the clawed tips of her armored glove wrapped around it. The others on her person and hidden. She had ensured everything was set in the armor on the off chance this casual engagement became something more as she knew a few ways meeting the Zambrano's went. Her expression remained one of detachment as she was moving forward and saw two figures. The Firebirds military commander and one of their newer experiments. Standing at a full seven feet tall, the military commander of the Firebirds cut a haunting, statuesque figure of ivory and scars.

Her pale skin was a roadmap of violent transformation, marked by jagged surgical seams where high-grade cybernetic implants had been grafted directly into her skeletal structure. Running across her limbs and torso were intricate Sith runes, etched into her flesh with caustic alchemical poisons a permanent, blackened record of the agonizing indoctrination and training methods of her society. Her black hair, cut to a functional mid-length, was slicked back with heavy oils and pungent perfumes harvested from the flora of distant, conquered worlds. She was encased in a specialized, bone-white variant of the original Firebird bodysuit, a high-tensile protective layer that clung to her augmented frame like a second skin.

The pristine white material served as a stark backdrop for the array of weaponry she carried, each piece maintained with lethal readiness. Slung across her back was a heavy huntress bow, its limbs reinforced for high-tension draws, while a standard-issue sidearm was holstered low on her thigh for rapid deployment. "Gorgo." Balaya spoke as she was moving and motioned for her and one other two come with her. She rarely left the seat of the Firebirds Society except for when it benefitted Kaine. The third who was there and came moving with her hand was a Wendol, a creature that presented a chilling, deceptive normalcy at first glance.

Standing at an average humanoid height, they possessed a frame that appeared unremarkable in its symmetry comprised of two arms, two legs, and a face featuring a mouth and ears. Their skin was notably pale, a bloodless ivory that seemed even more ghostly beneath a mess of long, dark hair that whipped in the turbulent air of the bay. The most striking and unnerving feature was the black sash tied firmly over their eyes; to an outside observer, they looked like a Miraluka, an assumption they leaned into with a terrifying, predatory stillness. Despite the blindfold, the Wendol's head moved with an eerie, rhythmic precision, tracking the presence of those in the room through the Force rather than sight.

There was no hesitation in their posture; instead, their movements were purely animalistic and focused, shifting with the coiled tension of a predator that had already scented its prey. This hunting instinct was visibly heightened by the proximity of the Zeltron Sith Lord, as the Wendol's connection to the Force flared and sharpened in response to such a potent font of dark energy. The firebirds experimented on all things and the Wendol like the warbringers showed what you could to with a more humanoid species. Underneath the deceptive calm of their humanoid appearance lay a terrifying biological aberration visible only when their gaze was fixed.

Where eyes should have been, the Wendol possessed twin sockets filled with rows of jagged, needle-like teeth, making their "sight" a literal hunger. This monstrous feature remained hidden beneath the sash, but their aura radiated a cold, unblinking ravenousness. They were a creature of the hunt, specifically designed to become more dangerous and more volatile the closer they moved toward a strong Force user, standing ready to act as the group's silent, sightless executioner. Balaya looked upon her and spoke with a grin. "Soon my pet, the jedi will be there and you can eat to your bottomless content." Her grin remained more sinister with a look though when she sent the message for Kaineof where he wanted her.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Is it in their nature to make us wait this long?" The Padawan idly played with the intricately woven braid that fell close to his right shoulder, a symbol of his status as a learner rather than a full-fledged knight.

"No," replied another, this one a true Jedi Knight. Her face was slightly scrunched in thought, "I sense an unusual amount of fear for something as simple as negotiations between like-minded neighbors." It was indeed strange, Moorja had contacted them requesting aid and a diplomatic envoy. Why were they so unnerved around the Jedi?

Was it the Sith? Their insidious Blackwall was seen with fear by many systems neighboring the impenetrable barrier, if the Moorjans were frightened of that then it would be understandable.

But something pulled at the Jedi's senses… Dark and elusive…

Sweat visibly beaded on the Moorjan attendants bare skin as they served drinks to the High Republic diplomats, false smiles and furtive glances present on all of them. The actual Moorjan delegates had yet to arrive, they'd sent word ahead that they would be delayed due to unforeseen circumstances but had failed to elaborate on what those might be. So the Republic and Jedi were left waiting in an inordinately stuffy conference room, filling the time with idle chatter.

Finally, the doors opened and the Moorjan delegation swept into the room. Two guards in brown dress uniforms moved to stand at attention on either side of the doorway, which hissed shut with a foreboding sound of finality. Both guards were armed, which wasn't all that strange except that they both were holding their weapons in a low ready position. The Jedi Knight narrowed her eyes at this breach of conduct, but had little time to think about it as the meeting started in earnest.

The Moorjan delegation spoke in circles about commitments and timetables, constantly falling back to earlier discussions as if they'd never taken place. Even when the New Republic diplomats began to vocalize their consternation, the Moorjans pressed forward without any consideration. The tension in the room was palpable, and the Jedi were on edge as those same tensions flared.

So enamored with the swirling emotions around them, the cold intent beyond the meeting room doors almost went by unnoticed.

Almost.

The Jedi Knight spun around, lightsaber slipping into her outstretched hands as the doors burst open with a loud pop and bang. Laserbolts cut through the smoke as more brown-clothed guards pushed into the room. The Moorjan delegation immediately fell to the floor, too fast to be a simple reaction. They knew it'd been coming.

"Kill the Jedi," one of the guards cried and another answered, "For the Alliance!"

Amidst all the chaos, an opening presented itself for the Jedi Knight to make a break for it. She was followed by the Padawan learner and several members of the delegation, all of whom were unarmed save for the Jedi. They were vehemently pursued through the complex, guards chasing after them with weapons drawn and firing in controlled volleys. She redirected most of those blasterbolts into the floor and walls, but some careening back into the guards themselves.

It was kill or be killed, no time to think things through.

They rounded a corner, rushing towards the lift doors. The console showed one lift was ascending to their level. At their back, the Jedi Knight continued to defend the delegates from the guards, even as they boxed them in. But as the lift rumbled to a stop, the guards suddenly began to back away and disappear back down the corridor. The Jedi Knight looked on, confused, but her confusion was quickly rectified as the lift doors opened.

And a long, slender scarlet blade snapped through the air and pierced one of the delegates through the chest. The blade was yanked free, and the delegate fell face-first to the floor with a smoking hole where their heart had once been.

A hand gripped the side of the lift as a large, towering figure draped in a black cloak emerged. He towered over all of them, well exceeding the threshold of eight feet tall. A mane of thick black hair cascaded down along His back and shoulders, while His eyes, bright and molten, pierced them deep with a steely, hateful glare.

"No use running," rumbled Darth Carnifex, Dark Lord of the Sith. "You died the moment you stepped foot on this world, death is just now catching up." His blade slashed out and the dying continued.

Balaya Praelior Zambrano | Darth Nefaron | Veradun Sharr
Ala Quin | Balun Arenais-Dashiell | Jax Thio
Jairdain Ismet-Thio ​

 

[Ala Quin]

Deception, by its definition, was always unexpected. Ala rued every vision and dream she had misread — or perhaps the Force was simply screaming so loudly now that she could no longer find the right threads to pull. Understanding, and warning, seemed to be clouded by warning for something unrelated. Almost as if something was purposefully obscuring her ability to sense the right path.

They had been in transit, and she nursed a healing wound, when the signal hit. Sith infiltration on Moorja. They had dropped from hyperspace immediately, altered course for a new hyperspace jump, and within hours of the revelation they were burning toward the planet's surface.

Now, the loaned Republic shuttle shuddered under turret fire. Through the transparasteel, the "spire" of Moorja's capital loomed — a jagged, metallic imitation of a tree. Uneven branches clawed at the sky, each ending in a spherical node that housed the world's data and defence grids.

"We're hit!" the pilot yelled.

Ala felt the vibration in her teeth. She looked with concern toward her Padawan, Balun, the Jedi Master Jax Thio and her "nephew" Connel. She noted the grim determination in the pilot's eyes. He knew this was a one-way trip.

"Prepare yourselves," Ala said, "this ship won't be here for the exit."

The ramp hissed open. She leaped, tugging at both Jedi's sleeves to follow her, into the chaos of the landing pad. Moments after the shuttle cleared the deck to pull away, a heavy bolt found its mark. The ship vanished in a roar of plasma and falling debris.

Ala didn't look back. She turned to the others, her voice steady against the wind.

"Balun, take the turrets. Jax...Connel, find a way to kill the power to this entire tower. I'm heading for the comms array to rally the people. Let them know the Republic is here." She paused, her hand hovering near one of her sabers, "just give me enough time to get the message out before you pull the plug."

"May the Force be with you."

| Tag: Darth Nefaron Darth Carnifex Veradun Sharr Jax Thio Balun Arenais-Dashiell Connel Vanagor |​

 

[Cerys Dyn]

Something had felt off about Moorja from the start. Eyes seemed to track her every move, though she never found the source.

It was a familiar burden. A Jedi’s presence often drew the gaze of the Sith, or worse, the simmering resentment of a world looking for an excuse to strike. In the weeks leading up to this day, that resentment had become a palpable weight.

Cerys had spent those weeks hunting for an Oathwarden. These itinerant Jedi were shadows — rarely seen and nearly impossible to track. While her search on Moorja had yielded nothing but dead ends, a nagging intuition kept her there. Either an Oathwarden was truly hiding in the local smog, or someone very dangerous wanted her to believe they were.

When the violence finally erupted, Cerys was catching a few hours of sleep on a cramped cot behind Marl’s Fishmarket. She’d spent the shift hauling the day’s catch from refrigerated speeders to the walk-in chiller, her muscles still aching from the labor.

The shift in the Force hit her like a physical blow. Her stomach plummeted with the sickening lurch of an amusement ride drop. Bolting from her hammock, she slipped into the narrow gap between the chiller and the durasteel wall. Hidden behind a loose panel were her lightsabers. The Force didn't just suggest she take them. It screamed it.

Now, Cerys stood in the lower boulevard of a wet market alley. Above, on the upper tiers, the wealthy panicked in their shops. Below, the usual maritime bustle had vanished, replaced by the frantic scramble of a populace "getting what they could" before the end came.

A tide of sentients surged toward the spaceports and shelters, desperate to escape the coming storm. Cerys was the only one moving against the current, walking steadily toward the very thing everyone else feared.

That...was the path of a Jedi.

Eira Dyn​

 

[Jairdain Ismet-Thio]

Jairdain had felt the imbalance long before the doors opened, long before anyone else in the room seemed to notice the subtle wrongness threading through the air.

The room had been wrong in quiet, insistent ways from the moment they entered. The air was too heavy with restraint, conversation looped in careful circles, and emotions were pressed down rather than absent. To those who relied on sight, the meeting might have appeared tense but still within the bounds of diplomacy. To her, the Force had been vibrating with suppressed inevitability, like a storm held behind a thin atmospheric barrier that could rupture at any moment.

When the Padawan asked whether delays of this length were customary, she inclined her head slightly in his direction, her awareness never withdrawing from the wider room, her senses stretched thin across every shifting thread of intent.

"No," she answered quietly, her voice composed and unhurried, carrying the weight of someone who had lived through too many moments like this. "This is not hesitation. This is preparation."

She did not elaborate because the explanation was already unfolding in real time, each second tightening the tension in the Force.

The Moorjan attendants radiated a fear that had already passed the point of decision. It was not the fear of uncertainty or confusion. It was the fear of complicity, the kind that settled into the bones long before action was taken. Their emotions did not spike when the guards shifted their weight near the door. They had been braced for that shift long before it happened.

Jairdain felt the moment the choice was made, and it rippled outward like a fault line giving way. Not visually. Not through sound. Through intent, sharp, decisive, and cold. It moved through the Force like a blade sliding free of its sheath, the kind of motion that carried no hesitation and no room for reversal.

When the doors detonated inward and blasterfire tore through the chamber, she did not startle. Her body moved with the quiet efficiency of long practice, not scrambling or flinching, but stepping into the exact position where her presence would matter most, where she could shape the outcome rather than merely react to it.

She did not reach for her lightsaber, though the instinct to do so flickered at the edge of her awareness. To ignite it would have been to declare herself and to draw attention she could not afford to claim.

Instead, she drew inward and outward simultaneously, gathering the Force around her like a second skin, weaving layered barriers that curved and folded with precise geometry. Blaster energy struck those unseen fields and bled away into controlled dispersal, its heat absorbed, redirected, or flattened before it could reach the diplomats pressed behind her.

The Force screamed with sudden violence as bodies fell, and she absorbed that too. Not the physical damage, but the shock, the panic, and the collapse of expectation that threatened to fracture those she shielded. She held that emotional shrapnel with practiced steadiness, refusing to let it spread.

"Stay low," she instructed, her tone steady and unyielding, projecting calm into the minds nearest her with gentle but deliberate pressure and anchoring them before fear could take hold.

She did not attempt to fight the guards directly. That was not her strength, nor her purpose in this moment. Instead, she reinforced the Knight who advanced, lending subtle structural stability to his movements, smoothing hesitation from his thoughts, ensuring his reactions remained clean rather than reactive. It was quiet support that made his strikes land with clarity rather than desperation.

When the opportunity to retreat presented itself, she moved with the group, maintaining contact through the Force rather than by touch, mapping their positions as points of light against a spreading field of hostility. She felt pursuit behind them, disciplined, coordinated, and unwavering. This had not been an impulsive uprising.

It had been designed and planned with precision and intent.

As they neared the lift and the guards withdrew, the shift was so abrupt it created a vacuum in the Force, a sudden absence that felt more dangerous than the aggression that had preceded it. The hostility did not dissipate. It condensed and tightened like a fist.

The lift descended, each floor passing with a sense of inevitability. The doors opened. And something ancient stepped into the corridor, its presence arriving before its form.

The death that followed was immediate and overwhelming, a life extinguished with such certainty that the Force recoiled around the wound it left behind. Jairdain felt the rupture like a physical impact, though her expression did not change, her discipline holding her steady.

Then she felt him fully. Not as a figure. Not as a towering shape framed in black armor and shadow. As gravity, inescapable, crushing, and absolute. As depth without bottom, a void that swallowed light and intention alike. As a presence so vast and malignant that the air itself seemed to distort around him, bending under the weight of his existence. Darth Carnifex.

She had felt his echo before in distant conflicts and in the residual scars he left across worlds. But proximity was something else entirely. His presence did not merely press against her defenses. It dwarfed them, vast and patient, like a tidal force unconcerned with individual resistance.

She did not entertain the illusion of challenge, not even for a heartbeat.

She did not mistake resolve for parity, nor courage for capability.

She knew instantly, with the clarity of long experience, that she could not defeat him. She could not outmatch him. She could not even meaningfully delay him in direct confrontation.

What she could do, and what she chose to do, was contain.

Her focus sharpened into absolute stillness as she expanded her barriers, not outward in defiance, but inward in compression, creating a tight lattice of protection around the remaining delegates. Energy lashed through the corridor, crimson arcs of destruction tearing through space, and she met them not with aggression but with controlled absorption, drawing the excess into carefully managed channels and bleeding it off into the floor and surrounding structure.

The strain was immediate and immense.

The scale of his power was beyond her ability to neutralize. It was something she could only deflect in fractions, each fraction bought with effort that burned through her reserves.

"Behind me," she said softly, not loudly enough to challenge him, but firmly enough that the survivors obeyed without question, their trust instinctive and absolute.

She did not ignite her blade. To do so would be to announce herself as a target worth singular attention, a declaration she could not afford to make.

Instead, she lowered her presence, folding her signature inward even as she reinforced her defenses, presenting herself not as a duelist and not as a challenger, but as a shield, quiet, deliberate, and unyielding.

If his attention settled fully upon her, the outcome would be brief. If she could remain a quiet obstruction rather than an overt threat, she might buy seconds. And seconds were lives.

The corridor trembled with his power as he advanced, and she anchored herself deeper, drawing on decades of discipline and on every lesson learned about restraint, about containment, and about surviving storms one cannot disperse.

She did not attempt to be the hero of this moment. She chose instead to be its barrier, the line that held long enough for others to escape. And in the presence of a being who could unmake her without effort, that choice required more strength than drawing a blade ever would.

Darth Carnifex Balaya Praelior Zambrano Darth Nefaron Ala Quin Veradun Sharr Jax Thio Connel Vanagor Balun Arenais-Dashiell

 

[Helix]

Objective: Prevent the easy escape of the HR delegation/assist Sith forces
Equipment: Himself
Tags: OPEN​

Helix, for his part, opted to do as he always did: make a bad situation worse.

There were no shortages of opportunities to do so, either. The colony had made his intentions clear after the Order had dropped their ruse. Helix was surprised that such a transparent lie had worked as well as it had.

Sometimes it was surprising (and refreshing) to know that this level of naïveté still existed in the galaxy. Helix supposed he'd gotten too used to existing within the Sith's society, where every word had a double meaning, and every overture was just a chance for a future betrayal. Outside of their borders, in saner societies, there was still some expectation of honoring a deal.

That, Helix ruminated, would cost the High Republic very dearly indeed.

Were it up to him, they'd just butcher the lot and be done with it, afterwards sending them back to their masters in increasingly-creative states of dissolution. Unfortunately, it was not up to him, so instead, he focused on tightening the cordon.

By all accounts, their prey had done the wise thing: attempt escape. Anything less was tantamount to suicide, and one did not rule a swathe of the galaxy as wide as the Republic's by being suicidal.

Perhaps that was why the delegation hadn't come unarmed and unprotected. Overly trusting they may well have been, but there appeared to be at least some good sense in those involved.

Helix spun cheerfully in the control chair of the diplomatic hall's security room, watching the entire debacle through the cameras wired all over the city. Well, "watching" was perhaps a gross oversimplification. By this point, in a very real way, Helix was the city.

Strands of his corruptive consciousness had infiltrated everything down to the automated sewage control systems, in furtherance of the Sith's goal to run the planet. Tempting as it would be to send those haywire, he had no doubt he'd receive an earful about it later.

Instead, he flexed a modicum of his control over the technology in the city. Electronic doors slammed shut all over the area, at least when their quarries tried to use them. Sith forces experienced no such problems. The mechanoid let out an unpleasantly-resonant laugh as one exterior door slid shut with a crunch of shattered bone, taking off the leg of a diplomatic guard at the shin.

Whistling with uncharacteristic cheer, Helix sighed contentedly over the Sith's command channel.

"War Marshal Helix reporting. The eye in the sky is open. Please don't hesitate to ask if you need an elevator dropped or a door closed. Extra points if I get to close it on a Jedi."

Helix was usually at the field in the front, where he could put his limitless bloodthirst and horrifying protean form to use, but this sort of string-pulling was a new and highly entertaining novelty, an application of his techno-corruptive abilities at a far larger scale than before. At least unless someone arrived to stop it, at any rate.

Helix would do his best to ensure that didn't happen, peering out at the entire mess with countless pairs of eyes.

Outside, the signs of his presence within the grid were manifesting. Holo-screens of advertisements were replaced with gargantuan images of electronic eyes and grinning metal teeth. Utility droids went haywire, turning repurposed tools into weapons to hamper the escape of the Republic's personnel.

Through it all, Helix was having the time of his life.

 

[Zark San Tekka]

Darth Prazutis

​

Zark San Tekka was missing.

No one had seen him since the battle that devastated Atrisia. There were unconfirmed reports of a sighting on Corellia but in all the confusion no trace left behind. Those who survived the grim fate of the Core and made it to Naboo likely feared him dead. Somehow the Force had not yet seen fit to let an old man rest.

"Zambrano."

Identity concealed behind a strange looking mask the mysterious Jedi gazed down upon city streets erupting into chaos and violence. Without armies at his back war against the darkside had transformed into something fought in shadows. Emperors and warlords burned entire systems to demonstrate their power, yet one family ranked among the vilest benefactors to this galaxy's suffering.

He would try to keep as many of the Republic delegates alive as he could. They were innocent victims of a destiny far greater than any of them. Trusting in the Force to guide him had kept the Jedi alive and one step ahead of Sith surveillance so far but the time for subterfuge was past. Now he must put his lightsaber to good use.

Somewhere on Moorja lurked a presence he had not felt in a long time. It was a presence that Zark San Tekka intended to bring to justice. He could still fight but his best years were behind him. Walking out with a laser sword and facing down the entire Sith Empire was suicide but when he saw the Republic dropships coming in under fire he knew the Force would provide him with just enough Jedi to stand a chance.

If any of them survived then Master Zark might have to at last face the consequences of his many failures.

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Dominique had attended plenty of corporate negotiations, board room meetings, and Corporate Sector Executive Board meetings in her time. Being a Chancellor was hardly any different. The players and stakes were different, but largely people remain people. They wanted the same things. Expected the same results -- enriching themselves. And generally avoided unnecessary risk. The fact Moorja was on the board of Sith Order space didn't much affect her decisions regarding the invitation to talk with its government. An opportunity was an opportunity -- only squandered if you didn't take it.

Despite the Jedi Order not being an official part of the Republic hierarchy, they were invited to attend because it was so near the Sith Order. Just because Dominique wasn't allergic to interacting with Sith didn't mean she blindly trusted them either. Who better to detect their influence or presence than their philosophic opposite? And to ward off attack should anything happen.

Thus, with a little planning and orchestration, the High Republic set off to speak with one of their neighbors and prospective members. If nothing else, Dominique expected they could establish some sort of trade agreement to help demonstrate the Republic's value. Anything that kept the door open to further conversation.

Once they'd arrived, however, Dominique found the circumstances increasingly... unusual. Talk of neutrality hardly sounded like a resounding interest in furthering a relationship. Their deferral to Ulyssses Renoux regarding commitments was disturbing -- if she had to put a word to it. And then there were the reports.

No, not economic forecasts. Not any broadcasted alarm by the humble enough fleet in orbit. The reports that scrolled on the interior of Dominique's glareshades while she sat in the meeting room with Moorja's leadership. Bulletins and ever so brief notices selected by analysts of on-going planetary activity. Nothing alarming, but again there was this sense of strangeness about all of it. The timing was difficult to ignore. Ordinarily when you had high value guests visiting you ensured any such 'maintenance' was long since finished and posed no risk whatsoever of disturbing on-going talks. You put on your best face, so to speak, even if it was all a glorious lie. Especially if it was all a glorious lie.

An uncharacteristic scowl followed the emergence of the Sith forces throughout the city. It was clear that the people they'd come to meet were somehow involved in the affair. How. Why. Didn't really matter at that juncture. Instead, Dominique found herself being bustled out of the room under fire with the scant security permitted and other delegates. She managed to pass a location along to a few members of the delegation with her in case they were separated. A location where an exfiltration team would be waiting. It was, however, not precisely 'nearby.' Defense perimeters got thicker the closer to the core one got; a team could punch their way in, but getting out again would be difficult, so a location further out had been needed.

Dominique's golden eyes peered through the throng of people at one point to find the sight of Darth Carnifex there with a red lightsaber. Some formed a line, like Jairdain Ismet-Thio, and bid the delegates to hasten from there. The Chancellor's eyes snapped to the side before she gave the woman a sharp nod. This was why the Jedi were there. They were capable of facing this foe. Dominique, personally, was not; she would be nothing but a hindrance to their ability to respond, and so she would remove herself as a factor.

If they'd had any chatter this was going to happen there would have been an overwhelming reserve force that could have flattened Moorja's security. As things were it was capable of defending itself and its person, but hadn't thought the planet had already aligned itself so thoroughly with the Sith.

So, this was the Sith Order's response to her desire for diplomatic discussions was it?

High Republic armed forces and Dominique's own CTRLd operatives would strive to recreate a safety corridor to extract the delegation. It would take time. Not to mention the need for them to relocate somewhere the pick up could occur. Dominique did her best to guide the team in that direction, but Sith forces forced them to alter their course through the building and through the streets radically. There was no straight line for them to make it to the rendezvous.

After the Black Sun invaded Naboo, Dominique had gotten a crash course in blaster weaponry. This time, she picked up a weapon from a fallen Moorja security guard ready to take up arms once more. There was no cover out here -- unlike the barricade in the hallway -- but they would have to force their way through the gauntlet. The only other choice was death, or perhaps torture and then death. Both unacceptable outcomes and counter to Dominique's personal plans.

Meanwhile, the outfit Ayumi had given her -- albeit its appearance customized to that of the Chancellor's Uniform Dominique had chosen -- would provide some measure of protection against the stray weapons fire. Her 'toolkit' of makeup might come in use as well, but Dominique hoped to be long from this world before anything so delicate were needed.

"Chancellor Vexx to any High Republic personnel or citizen that can hear me," Dominique broadcast using her glareshades commlink, "evacuate Moorja at once. Planetary security and governance have been compromised. Sith Order forces are in the streets. I say again, evacuate if you can -- find shelter if you must." It would be much to ask people to flee such chaos, but now they would hopefully know the truth. Whatever they might have heard or felt and brushed it off as some sort of environmental or localized trouble was in fact an invasion. They would have to decide how best to respond knowing such.

No doubt orbital assets were in the process of calling in the reserve forces. The Sith Order might think the Republic well and truly trapped. Time would tell. The Sith had the unfortunate bad timing of having tried this after Corellia; and despite what the Sith might think, the High Republic learned its lessons well.

OPEN

FYI Jairdain Ismet-Thio | Darth Carnifex | Balaya Praelior Zambrano | Darth Nefaron | Ala Quin | Veradun Sharr | Jax Thio | Connel Vanagor | Balun Arenais-Dashiell | Aurelian Veruna | Sibylla Abrantes​

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Location: Agriculture Guild Hall
Tags: Gavin Restur | Corazona von Ascania | Glissara | Mercy

Aurelian stood very still while the Agriculture Guild Leader pressed a knife to his throat. He kept his chin lifted, eyes forward on Cora and Gavin. He refused to give the Guild Leader the satisfaction of fear. Inside, his thoughts moved quickly.

So this is the tour.

When they had separated from the main delegation, he had only been irritated. A guild hall visit in the middle of delicate negotiations. Of course they would send Cora with him, as if he might say the wrong thing. He had protested. Gavin was more than enough. They insisted. Now he was almost grateful.

The room had felt eerie the moment they entered. Too many polite smiles. Too many guards who did not look like farmers. He had noticed the tension in their shoulders, the way hands hovered near concealed weapons. Then the Chancellor's voice cut through the air over comms. Evacuate Moorja at once. Sith Order forces are in the streets.

Outside, the city had changed. Through the high windows he could hear it. Blaster fire cracked in uneven bursts. Not random. Coordinated. A distant explosion rattled the transparisteel. Sirens rose and then cut off mid-wail. Boots pounded in disciplined rhythm, heavier than local security. Orders barked in a language sharpened by command.

The Guild Leader leaned close enough that Aurelian could feel his breath. "You will make an excellent tribute."

The blade pressed harder. A thin line of warmth traced his skin. He ignored it. Another explosion boomed outside, closer this time. The building shuddered. Somewhere in the hall beyond, someone screamed. Then a short burst of blaster fire cut it off. The Guild Leader flinched at the sound.

There. Fear.

Aurelian's voice lowered. "Do you really think they will spare you when this is done?"

A flicker in the man's eyes. Loyalty born of convenience rarely survives contact with reality.

The pounding of boots grew nearer. Doors slammed. Orders echoed through the corridor. The trap was closing.

​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Allies: None
Enemies: Hasuras Na-Gerra Vatrës Dhalis
​

Elian slammed his back against the cold exterior of a transit tower, breath ragged, smoke curling past his shoulders. The street behind him was a corridor of chaos. Blaster fire snapped overhead. Sirens wailed and then cut abruptly.

This was easily the worst decision he had made today. Possibly this year. He had come as part of a diplomatic entourage. He was supposed to observe, to learn, to represent House Abrantes with measured intelligence and quiet charm. Instead he was pinned in an active ambush, clutching a blaster rifle he had only ever handled in controlled academy ranges.

For a fleeting second, doubt pressed in hard. Was this bravery or stupidity dressed up as usefulness?

Another volley scorched the wall inches from his head.

He exhaled sharply and leaned out just enough to sight down the street. Sith forces advanced with clinical precision, tightening their net.

"Come on, you Sith chits," he muttered under his breath.

Elian lifted the rifle and fired, controlled bursts rather than panic shots. He aimed to suppres for the Republic Soldiers nearby to gain the momentum. He hoped to force the Sith to slow their push. If he could buy even a few seconds for those fleeing to reposition, it would matter.

He ducked back behind cover, heart hammering, hands steadying through sheer will. He was here, questioning it would not change that. So he made himself useful.

 

[Veradun Sharr]

SO Ally Tags: Darth Nefaron // Darth Carnifex
Brother Tag: Kasir Dorran
THR Enemy Tags: Ala Quin // Balun Arenais-Dashiell // Jax Thio
Gear: Armor, Lightsaber

​

The trap laid had been flawless in its planning and its execution.

None of them truly suspected what awaited them all - until it was too late.

Veradun, newly anointed as Darth Vanitas, relished the fear, the pain, the despair, and the death that poured into the fabric of the Force as the Sith sprung their trap. But while others were doing their duty to the Sith Order, Darth Vanitas and his Master, Darth Nefaron, had come with their own purposes. Well - Nefaron had come with his own purpose and design; Veradun was the obedient and dutiful Apprentice, serving his Master’s wishes and whims in exchange for valuable lessons that grew his experience, his power, and his knowledge. At least until he could rip the Corpse's head off his shoulders. Oh that would be a glorious day indeed.

They were not here to truly aid the Sith Order. No, it was to support whatever scheme Darth Nefaron was currently working on in the shadows. He had brought Veradun with him, though he had withheld the exact reason why - until now.

Pale, slightly luminous and icy blue eyes shifted towards his Master, who stood several inches shorter than he, and tilted his head slightly as he followed the direction those horrid fingers pointed - and watched a wounded Republic shuttle blaze its way towards the surface, and certain demise.

Aboard that vessel, was the Sangnir’s “greatest challenge yet.”

A Jedi Grandmaster.

Much like how Nefaron had once instructed his young Apprentice to capture a Seer from Ukatis - so too did he instruct Darth Vanitas to capture the Jedi, and bring her back to Darth Nefaron - alive, if possible. He was to take the droids that were there with him - but the Corpse Lord of Anoat gave a clear warning to his Apprentice. The Pale Death almost rolled his eyes, but he resisted the urge.

“And just who is this Jedi Grandmaster…?” The tall, still statue finally asked, his voice soft but cold as ice, the slightest hint of venom laced into his words. Pale eyes drifted from the crashing vessel and back to the robed Sith Lord beside him, awaiting his answer. For as soon as he had that vital information, Darth Vanitas would slip away to begin his Hunt. ​

 

[Feng Huang]

Feng was with the others in the delegation when everything went wrong. It was confusing, as battles always were. At first Feng didn't know what was happening. The delegates were taking an unusually long time to respond, but Feng felt secure. She was surrounded by some of the finest Jedi in the High Republic. Balun Arenais-Dashiell Jax Thio and Connel Vanagor not to mention the Grandmaster herself Ala Quin .

Then the next thing she knew Feng was being thrown about. It took her a moment to realise what had happened they must have been hit. She didn't know what to do. She figured the best thing to do was stay out of the way until she was needed.

Feng closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Extending her senses with the force even as she settled her mind for the conflict ahead. The trick she had learned was not in fighting down the passions, the fear, the anger nor giving into them. The trick was acknowledging them without fighting or giving in to them.

Feng was already sure her path to Jedi knighthood was of the purple, of the line balancing light and dark. She represented it in everything she did. The colour of her lightsaber, her ship, even her hair. It was never more apparent then in the heat of battle, where her passions threatened to overwhelm her. It was crucial therefore even amidst the chaos of battle that she take a few moments to centre herself. Even as she braced herself. Even as the Shuttle hurtled towards a crash.

On the edges of her force senses, she felt the now familiar presence of the dark side. The slimy, oily, rage filled, wrath, pain and suffering that consumed it, like a coiling mist of writhing energy, barbed snakes striking at her senses. Feng's eyes snapped open as the shuttle made its uncontrolled descent. Whatever may come she would be ready.

Feng recited her favourite piece of the Jedi Code. The one that applied to her the most.

"Passion yet Peace."

As the shuttle made it's emergency landing. Feng disembarked onto the landing pad.

The Grandmaster started shouting orders. Feng wasn't in them, she thought she knew where her duty lay however, she was going with the Grandmaster, to guard her back, do what she could to help anyone on the way. Just a short while ago Feng would have chafed at not being given a mission of significance. Now she knew that in battle all roles were important. Feng didn't have time to be petulant or needy, she would be an asset not a liability, she would control her passions not give into them.

With this conviction Feng followed the Grandmaster headed to the comms array. If they could rally the people maybe they could save as many as possible. Show the Sith, that the High Republic was a force for good, a force to be reckoned with. Through all of this Feng couldn't help but feel a thrill, a thrill of fear, a thrill of excitement, a thrill of adventure. Feng almost smirked fiercely. This was what she lived for.

Kasir Dorran Darth Nefaron Veradun Sharr Darth Carnifex

 

[Jax Thio]

Location: Moorja
Equipment: Jedi Robes, Jax's Prosthetic Arm, Jax's Third Lightsaber, Marriage Ring to Jairdain
Tag: Jairdain Ismet-Thio , Connel Vanagor , Darth Carnifex , Ala Quin , Balun Arenais-Dashiell


Jax dreamt that same dream again.

He found himself wandering in the realm of darkness. The corrupted spirts of the Sith floating by him imparting their "wisdom" and encouraging Jax to embrace the gift he was given to by his father: Carnifex. Jax tried to ignore them reciting the Jedi Code, but when he spoke the words there was passion behind them. Doubt started to fill his mind. All of the sacrifices he gave to the Jedi Order, but when he started to recite the code, he couldn't feel anything. No sense of peace, harmony, nothing. The New Jedi Order was destroyed, the organization that stood for almost a thousand years was a burning crater. Jax lay witness to it: Everything was gone and his father was taking advantage of his despair.

Yet he knew that the NJO was one of many orders who fell in history. As long as there are Jedi still alive, there is still hope for the Galaxy. Jax remained in that realm clinging onto that hope. The Jedi still clung onto the old ways and were paralyzed with infighting and indecision. They needed to be something new, something greater. One that took a more proactive role in helping others. Over the years, Jax took on a more: Whatever it takes mentality. Something that concerned Jair, he knew that she would disagree but Jax did not want to suffer seeing the Jedi Temple on Coruscant burn to the ground.

"I'm sorry Jair, Connell, Dreidi Xeraic ," Jax said dispelling the Sith spirits with a wave of his hand. "I'm not going to let our new home die. I know the gift that my Dad gave to me and I will use it."

The Darkness in front of Jax suddenly sprouted yellow eyes. A roar was followed and Jax closed his eyes and allowed the darkness to surround him, but it did not go through him.


Just then Jax awoke to blaring alarms, the Jedi Master sprung into action hearing Grandmaster Ala ordering he and Connel to disable the tower. "Took a massive hit!" Jax yelled. "This has to be the first time I've slept through crash!"

Jax motioned to Connel as soon as the ramp opened. "You heard the Grandmaster," Jax said. "Let's take out the power! I'll race ya to it!"

 

[Connel Vanagor]

Deceptive Deception
Shuttle
Moorja

Omega Squad Every Day Gear Locations

• Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
  [Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
• 
  Rides
  
  • "Enterprise" Station Ship
  • The Starlight Sentinel
  • "Jedi Defender" Corvette
  • Null Vector
  • X-wing
  • Speeder
  • Speederbike
  • Iron Psalm
  Gear/Armor
  
  
  • Mask
  • Right Gauntlet
  • Left Gauntlet
  • Nano-Tech Armor (For Emergencies)
  • Headset Microphone Comm-Link
  • Mobile "Bodycam" Datapad
  • Lightblaster
  • Shortsabers (“Night” and “Day”)
  • Throwing Lightknives
  • Force Blinding Flashbangs
  SURGICAL - CRYBERNETIC IMPLANTS
  
  • Repli Implants that would be for the limbs
  • Bonemer enhancements to strengthen structure of the body
  • Muscle enhancements.
  • Hemo enhancements for blood flow
  • Hawkeye implants for eyes
  • Advanced Medical Implant
  • Scentzy
  • Injected Nanotech upgrades
  
  
  
• Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise

The shuttle shook like it was chewing on shrapnel.

Connel sat forward, elbows on his knees, gauntlets resting against the deck plates. The hum of atmosphere strain and distant impacts blended into a steady rhythm. He matched his breathing to it. Inhale on the rattle. Exhale on the shudder.

Focus.

He rolled his right shoulder once, testing the armor seals beneath the Ariel mantle. HUD flickered across his mask interior. Power levels nominal. Morning Light seated across his back. Shortsaber locked low. Blaster magnetized on his right leg. Force Blinding Flashbangs seated across his chest, and Throwing Lightknives sheathed left leg. A Omega Squad Rifle slung and hung in front of him. Between his feet a small sling bag full of shaped Ion charges and detonators. More (MUCH more) than he normally carried. That is because this was not for destruction, but distraction.

He ran through it all without touching any of it.

Touching is hesitation. He wasn’t here to duel. He wasn’t here to win. He was here to create space.

Jax would need it.

Across from him, Jax Thio was silent. Still. Too still. The kind of still that comes from a storm waiting for permission to break. Carnifex wasn’t just a Sith Lord. He was gravity… and gravity tries to pull you back into what you were born from.

Connel understood that more than most. That is why he answered the Maverick’s call.

He felt Ala’s gaze on him.

She wanted to speak. He could feel it. Threads of concern. Unfinished conversation. Questions about visions and bloodlines and choices.

Not now. They both knew it. There would be a time for philosophy. For prophecy. For whatever the Force was trying to whisper through static. The shuttle shook like it was chewing on shrapnel, its hull rattling under the strain of atmospheric entry. Right now, the math was simple.

Jax confronts his father.

Carnifex cannot be allowed to control the terrain anymore, not like this. The tower must go dark. The city must fracture into uncertainty. Chaos is cover.

He closed his eyes briefly and visualized the structure Ala had described. Spire like a metallic tree. Defense nodes at each branch. Comms hub high. Power grid centralized.

He wasn’t going to slice cables. He was going to make the tower panic. Trigger overloads. Drop lighting. Jam internal sensors. Collapse elevators. Set alarms in three quadrants at once. Force Carnifex to divide attention.

Not a duel.

A destabilization.

The shuttle lurched violently.

Impact proximity warning.

The pilot’s voice cracked over the comm: “Brace!”

Connel stood before the words finished.

Ala moved first. Of course she did.

The ramp blew open into wind and screaming metal.

He leaped with them.

Air ripped at his cloak the instant his boots hit durasteel. It was going to hold him back, so he ditched the excess cloth. Heat from the engines blistered across his armor as the shuttle clawed upward to draw fire.

Connel turned just in time to see the heavy bolt strike.

The explosion swallowed the ship in a bloom of white plasma and falling debris. The shockwave hit a second later, rattling through his ribs. He did not look away from it.

One more ledger mark. One more cost. Ala’s voice cut through the wind, issuing orders with the clarity of someone who had already accepted the outcome.

Balun to turrets.

Jax and Connel to the tower’s power.

She would rally the people.

Of course she would.

That was who she was.

Connel’s visor shifted tactical overlays across the skyline. Defense arrays already pivoting. Movement in the lower branches. Brown-uniform patrols repositioning.

The trap was still active.

Good.

He stepped closer to Ala.

For a second, it almost looked like he might say something more.

He didn’t.

Don’t die. Not dramatic. Not affectionate outwardly, but she would know what he meant. He turned to Balun, whose knuckles were white around his saber hilt, and Feng Huang who was trying to find her center. Stay moving. If you stop, you’re predictable.

If Balun was Ala’s student, he was well trained, so he would know what Connel said already, but every little bit helps. Feng was resourceful and would be okay.

Then he faced Jax.

No speeches.

No reassurances.

Just a single nod. He knew what Jax needed. Then looked between the two Masters.

I’ll buy you time. Use all of it.

There was no bravado in it.

Only intent. And then he was gone.

Not running wildly.

Not charging.

He moved like someone who had already chosen his path before the ramp ever opened. Down the pad’s edge, off the main access route, toward a maintenance spine that fed into the tower’s lower infrastructure.

Within seconds, the city swallowed him. The first alarms began to scream somewhere below. Not from battle.

From interference.

Connel Vanagor had entered the system.

And Moorja was about to learn what asymmetry felt like.

Jax Thio • Balun Arenais-Dashiell • Ala Quin • Jairdain Ismet-Thio • Darth Carnifex • Darth Nefaron • Veradun Sharr
Personal Effects - Omega Squad Loadouts​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The storm that consumed Moorja hadn't been born of chance.

It had been cultivated. Beneath the capital's great transit spires, far below the corridors where diplomats once spoke of neutrality and compromise, a chamber older than the modern city pulsed with unnatural silence. Systems once built to regulate planetary infrastructure now served a different master, their circuits threaded with foreign command protocols, their signal routes bent toward a singular will. Right at the center of that quiet dominion stood an architect of the world's unraveling. Darth Prazutis didn't remain in orbit. He stood upon the ground. Encased within the dreadful majesty of Qâzjiin'vraal, the Dark Lord appeared less a man than a monument carved from living night. Obsidian black armor drank the chamber's light, its surfaces etched with ancient runic script that smoldered with restrained crimson fire. Veins of dim radiance pulsed beneath the plating like a slow, patient heartbeat. The helm of Xûl-Karzaan crowned the giant in horror, a visage of silent judgment whose presence alone bent the air into suffocating tension.

Around Him, the planetary defense network obeyed. Hololithic projections hovered in vast concentric arrays, displaying collapsing transit routes, sealed corridors, and shifting tactical positions across the surface. Orbital lanes constricted. Communications fractured. Escape vectors vanished one by one. The world's systems did not resist their new master, they yielded as He imposed His will upon them. He didn't speak commands. Not as the Kainite technicians carefully worked the terminals. The Shadow Hand carefully observed, information flowing at a pace that'd stun most normal mortals. But he not only read but understood everything. The Dark Lord's presence spread outward like a pressure front, an invisible gravity settling upon Moorja. A black tide of darkness that drew the shadows deeper, brought them alive. Across the city, civilians faltered without understanding why. Security forces hesitated at critical moments. Machines stalled, recalibrated, then answered to altered authority. The Force itself seemed to recoil from the wound His existence carved into reality.

A faint tilt of His helm followed the battle's distant rhythms, the collapse of transit networks, the fracture of local command, the ignition of open conflict. Each development unfolded precisely as foreseen, each motion reinforcing a design vast enough to reshape the sector's balance of power, and then...a disturbance. Subtle. Familiar. Memory stirred within the Dark Lord's perception, a presence like an echo carried across decades of war. Not the blind panic of lesser Jedi, nor the scattered resistance of defenders, but something deliberate. Something persistent. A survivor moving through the chaos with purpose. Recognition came not with surprise, but with cold inevitability. The Lord of Lies would never forget anyone, or anything, ever. The helm of Xûl-Karzaan turned slightly toward the surface above, as though gazing through layers of stone and steel toward the city streets where the Jedi moved.

A long moment passed. Then the Dark Lord stepped forward. The chamber itself seemed to recoil from the motion. Shadow gathered in His wake, drawn inward by the gravity of His will. Systems reconfigured instantly to accommodate His advance, corridors unlocking, security fields parting like supplicants before a sovereign. The trap had closed. Everything was proceeding as they had foreseen, and now the Tyrant would walk the world personally. A curiosity had drawn His attention and pulled Him away from the nerve center that let Him watch everything. The Mortarch soon emerged from the shadows, stepping out right into a busy street. Ka'ra'nazat pulsed at His neck, raw power flowing as fear drowned the streets in waves. Xûl Qarnak sat clasped to His side while His cloak flowed freely, taking on a life of its own.

Zark San Tekka​