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

[Connel Vanagor]

DECEPTION
Moorja
Spire

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 durasteel door fell inward with a scream of tortured metal. Heat rolled out. Smoke followed. Jax stepped through first. Of course he did.

Connel followed half a step behind, rifle already shouldered. The Omega Squad weapon hummed softly as its capacitors cycled. He adjusted to low-yield ion and kinetic pulse mix. Disable first. End if necessary.

Inside, the spire was vertical chaos.

Multi-level maintenance bridges. Power conduits like metallic vines. A central reactor shaft descending into blue-white light. And Sith Troopers everywhere. Blasterfire erupted immediately. Connel moved left. Two shots. Precise. Kneecap. Shoulder joint.

Trooper down. Weapon skittering away. A third turned to flank Jax.

Connel fired before the saber completed its arc.

The bolt struck the trooper’s wrist assembly, weapon detonating in his own grip. Screams. Smoke. Jax did not slow. The Jedi Master’s saber became a silver blur. He moved through the troopers like a storm given form. Controlled. Efficient.

But fast.

Very fast.

Five lifted with a wave of his hand. Five cut midair before gravity reclaimed them. There was precision in it. But there was also something else. Momentum. The kind that feeds itself. More troopers surged from a side corridor.

Connel stepped into their lane, rifle barking sharp disciplined pulses. Chest plate. Thigh. Elbow joint. He moved forward while shooting, forcing them back without killing unless the shot demanded it. An Acolyte leapt from the upper bridge, crimson blade snapping to life.

Connel dropped the rifle to sling and his shield tore “Dawn’s Light” from his back in one smooth motion.

The first strike hit the permafrost blade and sparked like lightning on stone. Connel did not counter immediately.

He judged.

Second strike.

High. Third— He shifted.

The blade edge caught the Acolyte’s wrist and twisted. A short burst from the slung rifle fired blind from his hip. Ion burst to the chest. The Acolyte spasmed and fell from the bridge.

Alive.

For now.

Behind him, he could not hear if Jax had laughed. It felt like he did though. Hard to explain Not like he did maniacally. But it, the feeling of it, was there. A sharp exhale as he drove through another pair of troopers, sabers moving in twin crescents.

Something though… Jax… he was enjoying this… and that was a problem.

Jax fought like someone proving something. Connel fought like someone solving something. More troopers poured in from the upper access ramps. Connel snapped a flashbang off his belt and hurled it upward. White detonation. Sound collapsed. In the disorientation, he moved. Two rifle bursts. One saber strike to disable a blaster turret node.

A Lightknife throw that clipped a trooper’s helmet and dropped him cold.

He caught it on recall without looking. The corridor cleared. For the moment. Jax stood at the edge of the central shaft, chest rising hard, eyes burning. He looked powerful. Too powerful. There was a thinness to the air around him.

A hunger.

Connel yelled out.

We’re not here for just him, he said poignantly.

Not a rebuke.

A calibration.

Another wave of Sith Acolytes entered from the lower maintenance ring, moving with more discipline than the troopers. This was escalation.Good. Draw them. When Connel unslung the pack.

Three ion shaped charges. Compact. Magnetic clamps already primed. He sprinted toward the reactor control nexus while Jax engaged the Acolytes, moving like a living flame now. Blades carving arcs of light through crimson and smoke.

Too aggressive.

Connel saw it.

Saw the shift.

Connel reached the nexus.

Three critical power regulators fed into the central defense grid. He slapped the first charge onto the primary relay. Second to the failsafe bypass. Third to the distribution choke point.

Timed detonation. Simultaneous pulse. He armed them. Ninety seconds. More troopers surged. Now heavier. Black armor. Red visors. The air felt thicker.

He could feel the darkness approaching.

Jax cut through another attacker, breathing heavier now. Connel stepped back into his lane, rifle up again.

Disable.

Disable.

Disable.

One trooper raised a launcher. No choice. Connel fired center mass. The trooper dropped. No hesitation. He moved back toward Jax.

Thirty seconds.

There was something else in the Force though. Focused downward. A presence waiting. The spire shook as more forces tried to breach from below.

Connel grabbed Jax’s shoulder briefly.

Firm.

Grounding.

Use the time, he said. Not permission. Instruction. The charges detonated. The entire spire convulsed.

Blue light flared white.

Then darkness. Not total blackout. Emergency systems flickered on in sickly amber.

Defense grid offline.

Comms scrambling.

Elevators stalled mid-shaft. And across Moorja’s capital, the illusion of control shattered. Connel exhaled once. One and a half days minimum before full restoration.

Mission parameter achieved.

Below them, something ancient and furious roared in the Force. They had to address this in a way unexpected. All but immediately, Connel vanished again, moving with purpose.

Ala Quin • Jairdain Ismet-Thio • Jax Thio • Feng Huang • Darth Carnifex • Balun Arenais-Dashiell • TAGS • ARE • OPEN
Personal Effects - Omega Squad Loadouts​

 

[Zark San Tekka]

Darth Prazutis

​

Dark clouds began gathering on the horizon. Moorja was known for its ion storms and apparently a sense of melodrama. Such events wreaked havoc upon electronic systems. Even this far out lights were beginning to flicker. An unusual surge plunged the entire city street into momentary darkness. When illumination returned the masked Jedi was just standing there as if he'd simply gone unnoticed before.

"Hello, Braxus."

Time had been kinder to the Sith Lord. He remained a proud sorcerer king while the luster on San Tekka's duraplast armor faded long ago. It was scorched so badly by old blaster wounds none of the original markings even remained. The helm concealing his aged visage was some kind of unremarkable Atrisian relic.

He'd been a prisoner of the Zambranos once on Korriban and long before even those dark memories Zark crossed blades with Darth Carnifex's brother on Pantora. There was a history between them. Despite all the reasons he had to hate this man the Jedi training within him could not justify such a useless feeling.

"The Force keeps bringing us together," he saluted Darth Prazutis with his lightsaber, "What should we make of that old friend?"

Zark controlled his breathing and used ancient Jedi techniques to slow down the pounding heartbeat in his chest. Absolute focus. Flawless discipline. These were the tools of a Jedi. He tried to let go of all the guilt and doubt that haunted each step since the great temple burned.

"This was a clever trap. I wish I could have warned the Republic in time to stop it."

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The storm answered first.

Lightning crawled across the distant clouds in slow, branching veins of blue-white fire, their thunder rolling through the city like the distant echo of a great heart. Winds howled between the transit spires, scattering debris in restless spirals as Moorja itself seemed to recoil from the meeting about to unfold.

Then the Shadow Hand turned. The towering form of Darth Prazutis emerged fully into the fractured streetlight, obsidian armor drinking the world's illumination until only the faint glow of etched runes defined his silhouette. The dreadful mask of Xûl-Karzaan regarded the lone Jedi with the stillness of a monument, ancient, patient, eternal. He had sensed the approach long before the greeting. A presence that defied death. A memory that endured. Confirmed when the Jedi Master spoke His name clearly into the open air. There were many names and titles He carried over the centuries, but few opponents would ever dare say his true name. "Zark." The name drifted from the Dark Lord in recognition, spoken like a relic unearthed from a forgotten age.

For several seconds He didn't move. The air between them tightened, heavy with pressure, the Force itself bending beneath the weight of His presence. Streetlights flickered again, dimming in uneven rhythm as if struggling beneath an unseen gravity. When He spoke, His voice carried neither anger nor warmth. Only certainty.

"You persist, Master San Tekka." A measured step forward. Duracrete whispered beneath armored weight. "Empires fall. Orders burn. Generations fade into dust…and still you remain." Lightning split the sky above them, thunder rolling like the slow turning of some vast and ancient engine. "How many times have we stood opposed beneath different skies, on different worlds, believing the next battle would be the last?"

The Dark Lord regarded the aged Jedi not with hatred, but with the detached fascination of a sovereign studying a phenomenon that refused conclusion. "We are relics, you and I, survivors of an age the galaxy itself has outgrown." A slight tilt of the helm. "But where you endure through faith, I endure through inevitability." His gaze shifted briefly toward the burning city, toward collapsing defenses, dying signals, and the Republic's desperation. "You call this a trap."

A pause. "I call it revelation." The crimson sigils along His armor pulsed once, their glow reflecting faintly across the fractured street. "The Force does not bring us together, Master Jedi. It reveals what was always destined to converge. You perceive coincidence where there is only design. You name the fall of weakness a tragedy because you cannot accept its necessity." His attention returned fully to Zark. The weight of that focus pressed against the space between them like a gathering stormfront. "You speak of warning the Republic…as though the galaxy has not been warned for generations. As though collapse has not announced itself in every failing institution, every broken order, every hollow promise of peace." Another step forward. Measured. Unhurried. The distance between them narrowed, though no weapon was drawn yet.

"And yet here you stand. You endure beyond age. Beyond defeat. Beyond reason itself. You persist in a war long decided. When so many of your allies have long since left you." A long silence followed as the storm howled and distant sirens cried across the dying city. Then, quieter: "Time has not been kind to you, Zark." The words carried no kindness, only truth. "Perhaps that is why the Force preserves you. Not to save this galaxy…but to bear witness to its transformation. To the inevitability of Sith ascension." The Dark Lord finished. "Or perhaps." He continued, voice lowering to a near whisper. beneath the storm's roar,

"It has preserved you for this moment alone. To live out your last day before me." The air seemed to still as the world held its breath.

Zark San Tekka​

 

[Mykel Dawson]

___________________________________________________________________

BYOO - Black Harvest #2
​

Background: Hundreds of kilometers away from the main action, shadowing the official Republic delegation to Moorja was a smaller private commerce mission led by a benevolent investment group known as the Frontier Cooperative. After the successfully initiating development projects on Ukatis and Denon, they now seek to expand further within Republic space, courting a local agricultural enterprise called Gromark to obtain a sizeable stake with the hopes of building out a new food distribution hub in the Outer Rim.

Suit

"Then it's settled. I can't wait to share with you all the delectable bounties Moorja has to offer."

Thumus was all smiles, elated. Why shouldn't he be when the blind fools marched to their own funeral?

The Frontier team obediently filtered down to the cafeteria for a prepared lunch, naturally laced with sedatives. Fast acting poisons, odorless and invisible to nearly all forms of detection, the product of clever alchemical engineering. By the time they realized what was happening, they would already be limp meat sacks.

That just left the android and the Jedi among their cohort. The former would be immune to the poisons and had no need for such sustenance, but she appeared harmless, the protocol android a derivative of a well known pleasure model. Completely unimpressive. One crack of Lightning or ion grenade would do it in. The Jedi was the real issue; even a mediocre one able to resist intoxication, but that would require a great effort on its own. All while also fending against an ambush while his poisoned comrades floundered. He should be easily overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed. Imprisoned. Flayed. All that lovely supple skin to be his after the Jedi was hollowed out and their beating heart offered up to his Master for ritual. Thumus - Gourmet - grew tired of his current husk of paunchy elderly flesh. Something fresh and exquisite was now on the menu, and a friendly face to be later twisted against his fellow Jedi in torment.

He nearly salivated when the Jedi isolated himself, diverting to the cafeteria restrooms before settling down with the others to enjoy the compromised catering. Feigning a coincidental need to refresh himself, Gourmet followed closely behind.

As Thumus, he was his normal jovial bumbling self in the restroom, though he was quietly deliberate to take his time so that he ended up at the sink next to the Jedi at the same time.

"It's quite impressive, what your group is doing," Gourmet complimented through those fat jowls, drying his hands. The Jedi offered a small smile, following suit at the adjacent hand blower.

"Thank you," the Jedi replied. "We see the potential here for growth. The Republic is going to open several doors for Moorja and Gromark to prosper. More importantly, we're aiming to bring food security to the Outer Rim for good."

"Such a...noble prospect." It was a struggle not to roll his eyes. "We're eager to see where we can go with Frontier. It's been a pleasure, Master Jedi."

He extended a hand to shake. All it would take was one little glancing blow of contact. One nick of an artery with a embedded razor and it would be lights out even for a Jedi. He could already imagine the crimson spray across the pearly white tiles.

The idiot, now beaming so wide that his eyes nearly disappeared while holding out his hand. So easily trusting that he could scarcely believe it.

He shouldn't have.

Too late, only just catching the Jedi's top two fingers of his outstretched hand curling before Thumus' head was smashed sidelong into a mirror with force of a cannon shot.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

Blades clashed, but it was hardly a contest.

The Jedi Knight spun and the Dark Lord's blade found her leg. It sliced through the meaty flesh of her thigh, just above the knee. Then it continued on and cut through the other leg, this time straight through the knee. She tumbled back as she suddenly found she no longer had any legs to stand on, her lightsaber tumbling from her grasp and bouncing across the floor. The Padawan learner, scared but unwavering, scrambling to seize it and add its blade to his own.

Darth Carnifex regarded him only for a brief second, before a concentrated pillar of telekinetic force drove the air from the boy's lungs. Winded and knocked off-balance, he couldn't even muster the barest measure of a defense as the Dark Lord snipped his head off with a flick of his blade. The boy's headless body fell backwards to its knees and then toppled over awkwardly before falling on its side.

His head had rolled like a misshapen ball over near Carnifex's feet. The Dark Lord casually reached down and yanked the padawan braid free from the scalp, holding it up for a moment as if admiring it before He hid it away on His person.

Another to the collection.

By then, another Sith had joined. The Dark Lord's former apprentice. Her towering, buxom form stood near a foot shorter than He, her exposed purple skin rippling with toned muscle. He reached out to gently pat the top of her head, tousling her fiery orange hair in the process. "Jedi, dear Balaya. Our ancient foe." His gaze then turned to another in their midst, one who had moved to protect the surviving delegates of the group. Their eyes met, and in that instant she could sense the indescribable cruelty that lurked behind them.

And also a measure of recognition.

"That one," He rumbled, "Bring that one to me."

Then all the lights were extinguished, and the glow of their lightsabers illuminated the hall. The Alliance soldiers further back switched on their glowrods, bathing their surroundings in overlapping beams of sterile white light. Blaster bolts added to the mix as both sides continued to brawl within the spire, the darkness now adding to the intensity and desperation. Amidst this chaos, assassins who thrived in deepest darkness stirred. Armed with shimmering vibro-weapons edged with plasma filaments, they descended from their hiding places to prey upon any foe of the Sith who fell into their clutches.

Jax Thio | Jairdain Ismet-Thio | Balaya Praelior Zambrano
Ala Quin | Connel Vanagor | Balun Arenais-Dashiell
Feng Huang | Vulpesen | Darth Nefaron
Veradun Sharr ​

 

[Jairdain Ismet-Thio]

Jairdain did not flinch when the lights across the corridor failed, and the last traces of artificial illumination vanished into darkness.

For many around her, the sudden absence of light became another layer of terror on top of an already collapsing situation, stripping away what little sense of orientation they had left. For her, it altered nothing. Vision had never been the foundation of her awareness. The Force continued to surge around her in dense, overlapping currents, carrying with it every spike of fear, every surge of violence, every subtle shift in hostile intent. Where others were suddenly blind, she remained surrounded by information.

And in that information, she felt the corridor constrict into a carefully constructed killing ground.

The darkness had not come from panic or malfunction. It carried intent. It had been imposed with purpose, integrated seamlessly into the unfolding ambush as another instrument meant to disorient, isolate, and overwhelm. It was one more layer in a trap that had been planned long before any of them had set foot on this world.

She drew a slow, steady breath and let it settle deep within her, anchoring her thoughts before the next wave of chaos could fracture her focus.

Almost immediately, she felt two familiar presences collapse in rapid succession.

The first was torn away with violent finality, its connection to the Force severed so completely that it left behind a raw, aching absence. The second followed shortly after, fading with unfinished momentum and unresolved uncertainty still clinging to it. Their disappearance registered in her awareness not as abstract loss, but as ruptures in a living network she had been unconsciously tracking since their arrival.

Grief rose instinctively. She contained it. There would be time later, if time remained. For now, she returned her attention to those who still depended on her.

The surviving delegates had drawn closer without realizing it, clustering toward her presence as though guided by instinct rather than conscious choice. Their fear radiated outward in erratic waves, threatening to fragment into panic that would scatter them and leave them vulnerable. She met that fear with deliberate composure, shaping her own emotional state into something stable and dependable, something they could lean against even without understanding why.

Extending her awareness outward, she began to construct her defenses in earnest.

Rather than erecting crude walls of brute force, she wove layered frameworks of energy that curved and interlocked with precise geometry. Each barrier overlapped the next, forming depth rather than rigidity, resilience rather than brittleness. They were designed to redirect and disperse incoming power, to bleed away destructive force through controlled channels instead of attempting to stop it outright.

This was not about dominance.

It was about endurance.

Crimson energy tore through the corridor again, each surge carrying immense destructive potential. She intercepted what she could, drawing excess heat and momentum into carefully regulated pathways and grounding it into the surrounding structure. The floor, the walls, the support struts of the spire itself became part of her defensive network, absorbing fragments of violence that would otherwise have reached those behind her.

The strain accumulated immediately.

Maintaining such complex, adaptive barriers under sustained assault demanded constant recalibration, constant focus. Each redirection burned through her reserves, each successful deflection exacting a quiet but escalating cost.

Beneath it all, she felt the vast pressure of the Dark Lord's presence moving through the battlefield, not as footsteps or sound, but as a distortion within the Force itself. It was like standing beneath an immense gravitational field, one that threatened to crush her concentration if she allowed herself to acknowledge it too directly.

She did not allow herself that indulgence.

Instead, she folded her presence inward, compressing her signature as tightly as discipline would allow. Even as she reinforced her defenses, she diminished her perceptible profile, making herself less distinct, less prominent within the shifting currents of power. She presented herself not as a challenger, not as a focal point of resistance, but as something quieter and harder to isolate.

A shield. A structure. An obstacle.

At the edges of her awareness, new patterns began to emerge.

The assassins moved with markedly different intent than the soldiers and guards. Their minds were narrower in focus, their emotions stripped down to functional efficiency. They did not rush. They tested. They probed. They searched for weaknesses through repetition and patience, advancing in measured increments while remaining partially submerged within shadow.

She responded in kind.

Subtle recalibrations followed each probing advance. Minor redistributions of energy. Slight alterations in barrier curvature. Micro-adjustments in density and flow that closed gaps before they could widen into vulnerabilities.

When one attacker slipped too close, she redirected his momentum laterally, sending him crashing into debris rather than allowing his strike to complete its arc. Another found his weapon's energy partially absorbed and diffused, leaving his blow misaligned and ineffective. Each intervention was small, precise, and costly.

Each one drew further upon her dwindling reserves.

"Stay with me," she said quietly.

Her voice carried no urgency, no panic. Instead, she reinforced it through the Force itself, threading calm and steadiness into her words so that they resonated beyond sound alone. The effect was immediate. Those nearest her steadied, their breathing slowed, their movements became more deliberate.

They obeyed without hesitation.

She felt their terror, their disbelief, their desperate need for something solid in a collapsing reality, and she held those emotions in careful balance. Her presence became an anchor, a constant amid disorder, something reliable in a space that had lost all predictability.

Another assassin faltered. Another was diverted. Another failed to land a decisive strike. Each small success eroded her strength further, but she did not retreat. Not while even one life remained under her protection.

Beneath the thunder of battle, beneath the crushing pressure saturating the corridor, beneath the quiet grief she carried for two fallen Jedi whose names she would remember long after this ended, Jairdain remained where she was.

There was no hunger for glory in her actions, no desire for dramatic heroics, no illusion that sheer willpower could rewrite the course of what was unfolding around them. This was not a moment for grand gestures or defiant stands. It was a moment for endurance, for adaptation, for remaining upright beneath a weight that could not be pushed aside.

Every choice was measured. Every movement was calculated. Every fragment of strength was spent with purpose.

Moments were stretched to a narrow margin of safety. Those margins were shaped into chances for survival. And survival, fragile and hard-won, became the only victory that truly mattered.

Darth Carnifex Balaya Praelior Zambrano Jax Thio Connel Vanagor Ala Quin Balun Arenais-Dashiell Feng Huang Vulpesen Darth Nefaron Veradun Sharr (sorry if I missed anybody)

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Interacting with: Quinn Varanin
Items: x | x | x | x | x | x | x | x | x

"Do not move," It was the blaster pointed at Sibylla's head that made her freeze and sent her heart plummeting.

She and another dignitary had split from the main delegation to tour the enhanced hydroponics sector, a decision made casually enough. Aurelian had gone with Corazona, which Sibylla had encouraged, hoping the two would deepen their friendship with time spent together.

The story of how Aurelian had delivered Lucy had grown more dramatic with every retelling, as such stories always did. But Sibylla knew the truth of it. The holocall afterward had revealed the strain beneath the heroics. She had heard the edge of awe in his voice when he spoke of holding Lucy and how small she was.

And that was how Sibylla found out that Aurelian had an unexpectedly adorable side.

She simply had not anticipated that, so soon after surviving the attack on Corellia, she would once again find herself staring down the barrel of a weapon.

What was this? A rogue element, perhaps? A heist or kidnapping attempt?

"Seize the delegates," the Moorjaian delegation escort barked out, prompting the widening of Sibylla's eyes.

No, this was something else entirely.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sibylla cried out, alarm causing her to tug at the scar tissue, the pink marks that carved across the left side of her eye and cheek prickled in growing apprehension and dread.

"Is it not obvious, your Excellency?" The Moorjan delegate called out, her smile faint but cold.

"You are being detained, you will make an excellent tribute to the Sith Empire for the betterment of Moorja."

Sibylla's face immediately blanched, her scars stark across her pale skin.

What?! There was no time to question whether Duke Ulysses Renoux was involved. What mattered was survival.

"Stand down!" a Republic voice barked from behind her, prompting her to duck down as the first shot cracked through the greenhouse dome like a lightning strike.

Two Republic Diplomatic guards burst in from the adjoining corridor, shields flaring to life in a brilliant blue arc. One guard lunged between Sibylla and the barrel of the weapon just as it discharged. The blast ricocheted off a hastily raised shield, scattering sparks into the misted air of the hydroponics chamber as another guard seized Sibylla by the elbow.

"Your Excellency -- move!"

She was shoved forward, stumbling as her guard dragged her down an unfamiliar corridor. The other remained behind, firing in controlled bursts to cover their retreat. There was little time to think, save to think of Aurelian, Corazona, Dominique, and Elian.

Where were they, and were they okay?

"Go! Move up ahead-- gah!" The cry of her other Republic Guard falling drew Sibylla's wide-eyed stare, his own blaster pistol clattering to her feet. She didn't hesitate, intending to pick it up.

A boot struck it first.

The Moorjan delegate kicked the weapon aside and surged forward, slamming into Sibylla with brutal force, driving her backward as she attempted to pin her to the ground, drawing a painful grunt from Sibylla's lips as she went down hard, the white flare of her personal shield igniting even as she began to try and fight the grapple to reach for the blaster.

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Steam hissed in long, weary breaths through the maintenance arteries of Moorjay.

Dominic had just pressed himself flatter against a bank of plasma conduits when the lighting in the corridor ahead flickered once then twice, his breath catching as he realised he was being followed. Above him the footsteps rushed and scarpered and then stopped. Not paused, simply stopped. A bang, one that sounded like a speeder crashing through metal, then another before all the noise also stopped leaving nothing but the sound of hissing steam.

The lighting flickered again. Then steadied.

A silhouette stood where there had been nothing. Having come down the stairwell as silently as it had appeared.

Boots first.
Then the dark line of a fitted cuirass catching the emergency glow.
Then the unmistakable stillness of someone entirely unafraid.

“You always did prefer the scenic route.”

Her voice carried lightly through the steam, dry as ever.

Bastila Sal-Soren stepped fully into view from a cross-junction Dominic would have sworn had been empty a heartbeat prior. Dark hair pulled back in her sleek low ponytail, damp strands clinging faintly to her temple from whatever route she’d taken to get here. Her expression was composed, almost with a touch of amusement; though her eyes tracked every shadow beyond him with sharp calculation.

She glanced past him, toward the direction he had been about to head in.

“Moorjan maintenance,” she observed, tilting her head slightly. “Charming. Industrial and such a very you place to meet Dominic.”

Another hiss of steam. A clatter somewhere deeper in the ducts.

Her gaze returned to him, and the faint curve of teasing disappeared.

“You look concussed?”

She stepped closer without waiting for permission, crouching just enough to inspect the side of his head where he’d struck the wall. Her fingers hovered, not quite touching.

“Hold still.” A subtle exhale and the warmth of a quiet brush of the Force touched him from her outstretched hand, the worst of the dizziness eased, like a pressure valve releasing.

When she withdrew, there was something more guarded in her expression.

“I was tracking the flare from the causeway,” she said, voice lowering. “It’s all turned to Chit out there.”

Her eyes met his properly now, and she caught herself from showing the emotion she wanted to show. There was no steam between them to hide it, no jest possible to soften it.

“And before you say anything,” she added, the words coming more deliberate than her earlier quips, “I owe you an apology.”

The corridor felt narrower for a moment.

“For the last time we spoke.” Her jaw tightened faintly, it was frustration, not at him, but at herself. “I was…sharper than I intended to be.”

That was putting it lightly.

“I shouldn’t have left it like that.”

Voices had started to echo again from the stairwell entrance, closer this time. These sounded dangerous, more coordinated, like they were actively searching.

Bastila rose fluidly, hand resting near her belt but not yet drawing her saber.

“You can reprimand me later,” she murmured, composure snapping back into place like armour locking shut. “Right now, we have approximately thirty seconds before your admirers find you.”

Her eyes flicked down the corridor behind her. She was getting concerned that she hadn't heard anything from Sibylla Abrantes yet either. She had to focus though, the Voice had other handmaiden's in duty at this time. None of them were Bastila though.

“There’s a service tunnel that runs parallel to the shuttle bay. I’ve already discouraged two patrols from using it.” A faint lift of brow. “Politely of course.”

She extended a hand toward him, it wasn’t delicate, just pure steady intent.

“I need you to keep up, Dominic.” She gave a breath and allowed a pause just enough for the edge of something unspoken to pass between them.

“I’d prefer not to lose you twice in one afternoon.”

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Dominic Praxon EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Jax Thio]

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



When Jax and Connel entered the tower, they were greeted by Sith Troopers who immediately opened fire. Jax swung his blade in a defensive weave redirecting blaster bolts towards the hapless troopers. One by one, the soldiers crumpled to the floor. While continuing to bat away the blaster bolts, Jax detected a thermal detonator on the belt of one of the troopers. With a wave of his hand, Jax activated the grenade and it set off rapid beeps before blowing up taking the trooper and 5 others with him.

The Jedi Master turned his gaze to Connel but he was far ahead of him hacking and slashing his way towards the objective more machine than man. The ruthless efficiency, it was something that worried Jax. It felt like Connel lost a piece of himself since they've last saw each other. Jax wondered if Connel skirted near the edge of the Dark Side like he was doing. To use the Dark Side without falling to it took a lot of the mental discipline and while Jax did not doubt Connel's mental fortitude, he still worried.

Though it looked like Connel was more worried for Jax's well being too.

"Wasn't even focusing on him," Jax responded. "But I can't help but feel that my Dad is planning something big. We are connected by the way."

And Carnifex can cloud Jax's visions making them even more ambiguous. They kept fighting through the spire with Jax ripping through the troopers like they were pieces of cardboard and Connel's team eventually and destroyed the comms channel. Before Jax could speak to Connel he was already gone. "At least save some of the action for me," Jax chuckled looking over the now destroyed tower. "I need to rendezvous with the Grandmaster then."

 

[Eira Dyn]

Armour Mode: ASSASSIN
Equipment: Marwolaeth Ddu, Lethal Pursuers, Vibrosword, Blaster Pistol
Allies: TSO
Opposition: Cerys Dyn

Of course. Of course her holier-than-thou sister would be surprised to see Eira still around. Crackling of Force Lightning descended down Eira's arms as the hatred was boiling untethered around her body. There was no joy, no happiness in seeing Cerys here. The red eyes burned angrier than they ever did in life as Cerys came up with more excuses. Statements of believing that Eira was dead. That this was done in the honour of her memory. That stopped the young Sith's steps as she stared at her sister.

"You truly think me so weak?!" Outrage blinded Eira, the fact that her sister assumed death was the most likely outcome for what happened to Eira. There was no other explanation for the absence that Eira had. That stunned Eira far more since it demonstrated how low and weak that she must have seemed to Cerys.

Which only burned the hatred even further within Eira.

Force Lightning shot from Eira's arm, "DOES THIS LOOK WEAK TO YOU?!" Eira roared as she felt the emotions burning hard inside her. The desire to tear up from the intense feelings was kept down by the fact that Eira needed to win, she needed to demonstrate that nothing about Eira was weak anymore. The Sith acolyte was far beyond the glass ceiling that others attempted to keep her below.

"I am a warrior! I am going to conquer this galaxy! How dare you assume I would do something as weak as die without making my name etched into history forever!" Cerys had made the assumption that Eira had faced the fate that Eira believed to be the worst that a person to face. Dying while making no impact on the galaxy. To be as ordinary as the civilians around them. That was a fate Eira would never allow herself to face. Even if she found ways to avert death for centuries to ensure she made a permanent scar on the galaxy, then she would.

Cerys needed to suffer for assuming Eira would be less than mediocre.

"So you assume I died, and then you became a Jedi. Pah! So karking weak. A disgrace to our family name as always!" Eira growled loudly, twirling the daggers in her hands as she prepared herself to fight.

 

[Lily Decoria]

Location: Moorja
Outfit: Jedi Attire
Equipment: Arwr Da, Hydrangea Moonblade (concealed)
Ally: Sven Halestorm
Opposition: Darth Strosius | Lina Ovmar

Today was not a good day it seemed.

Lily did feel there was going to be tension and a high degree of risk with the meetings taking place on Moorja. The distrust did not come from her lack of trust or feeling that the High Republic couldn't sway the hearts of the people. It stemmed from the fact that the Sith were notorious for laying traps and keen on making others look the fool. It was something she had faced before now and it was something that Lily was sure would happen in the future as well.

Also, her routine was all shades of messed up from a difficult night of sleep so Lily felt extra sure that something bad would happen this day.

Walking around the city, Lily breathed in deeply but she could not avoid the signs of tension around her. Others might have missed the signs since they were subtle and not expressed in the conventional manner but it was how the people moved around. It was in the way that they looked towards Lily and her companion in Sven. Lily knew something was not correct but she wasn't sure what could have been the issue with their surroundings. Something underhanded perhaps but with the lack of clear Sith presence, Lily wasn't sure that the Sith could do much without the Jedi and the High Republic reacting strongly in advance.

"I don't like this..." Lily trailed off as she looked around them. Her hand was holding onto her Lightsaber hilt in preparations for whatever was going to come next. "No, this isn't right." Looking at the ways that the control tower were not operating in a manner that allowed the shuttles and ships move around the planet. It was movement that looked with intention to trap people on the world.

Not a good sign.

Nodding her head to Sven, "we need to get..." Lily paused in her movements as a broadcast from the high chancellor came over the comms.

"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."

"Chit! I knew something was not right about the way things were!" Lily rushed over to Sven, "Sith! It has to be Sith trying to stop us evacuating people from here. We need to either get control in tower or at least stop the Sith from taking it while people flee." Lily stated firmly as her experience in what to do in situations revealed itself. She had fought many frontlines and Lily was always going to push forward against the darkness.

"I knew today was not going to be a good day." Lily grumbled to herself as she rushed towards the tower, they needed to get to the controls asap in order to prevent the Sith from completely preventing an evacuation. Especially of people who were not wanting a Sith Order rule. No matter how many they forcibly turned on Moorja, there were always others who did not stand with the evils of the Sith. Igniting Arwr Da, Lily let the inspiring Light Side energy of the Lightsaber fill her body and soul. Determination and precision were key here in making sure this retreat did not go too poorly.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Sibylla Abrantes //:

Her silent refuge fractured.

Quinn tried to ignore it, clinging to the thin thread of calm she'd managed to carve out for herself. Being on this forsaken planet was punishment enough. Duty had begun to feel like erosion. She shut her eyes tighter, willing the blaster fire and shouting to fade into something distant. If she could fix her mind on one thing — one anchor — she could withstand the terror bleeding into the Force.

The shouting moved closer.

She could make out their words. Each and every one sounded more distinct than the other. It shouldn't surprise her; the Republic delegates were often nobility, but even the nobility did more than just delegate. Her next breath nearly suffocated her as her throat tightened.

Words lingered as warnings, ones that Quinn often found herself thinking about when she was alone. They were etched deeply into her mind, burning a brand in her heart. Frowning, she had a sickening feeling, one that forced her to turn tightly on the heel of her boot. There were plans to not interfere; she had too much on the line — too many eyes to draw too many conclusions.

But the weight against her chest was enough to act.

In moments, Quinn was already moving before any other thought fully formed, boots striking the floor as she turned into the corridor. Smoke hung in the air as she drew closer to the source of the blaster fire.

She told herself not to hope.

But, she still did.

Rounding the corner, she caught the shrill voice of the Moorjan delegate — the same woman who never quite concealed her disdain when speaking to Quinn. The same woman who tried to posture in council chambers, trying to show how obedient the Moorjan would be. It disgusted her and had become an annoyance to the Princess as she watched her equals enjoy the show.

Under the woman, amid a struggle, Quinn's gaze caught a flash of something too familiar.

Quinn's eyes focused for a moment on the crown of dark chestnut hair. There was no second thought, no further doubt in her mind. Anger rose quickly, and as it did, the dark side feasted — answering the woman without hesitation.

The miasma slipped free from its cage, focused and hungry. It moved like something ancient, tendrils of dread sliding along the walls and floor. For once, they bypassed the Republic officials entirely, their minds protected by the Echani's own will.

They were not the prey of the monstrosity…

The Moorjan delegate felt it first — the cold tightening in the lungs, the pressure behind the eyes. By the time the woman realized what was happening, the space between belonged to the Princess.

Tendrils lashed forward and wrenched her off of Sibylla with brutal precision. The Dark Side constricted, bones ground under invisible pressure. Something cracked — once, then again, and again — echoing down the hall. A sound only born of nightmares.

Quinn stepped forward; she watched without satisfaction or pleasure. She was unlike her fellows — she did not revel in the destruction of life.

The Moorjan's struggle ceased, and the dread receded as life slipped away. Her anger cooled, only out of realization that she was wrong.
The length of brunette didn't belong to whom she had thought.

Despite the intervention, Quinn knew the Republic would not see mercy in her actions. Slowly, the Echani lifted her hands, palms visible and maintaining distance from Sibylla. They all knew in the room that if Quinn wanted to, she could kill them all — her previous actions only being a start.

It would be easy, but pointless.

With a small motion of the Force, she nudged the fallen blaster across the floor towards the woman.

"I think you'll need this…" her voice stripped of its usual teasing lilt.
Her eyes searched, not for her safety, but for theirs. Then, after a moment, emeralds flickered to the woman.

"Are you alright?"

It was a foolish question.

But Quinn asked it anyway.