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

[Aurelian Veruna]

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

Aurelian opened his mouth to correct Cora. "Our priority is not..." The building convulsed. Then the wall in front of them exploded inward in a roar of dust and flying stone. Masonry tore apart as something massive tore through it.

Aurelian stared. "What the feth is that?" The word monster would have been polite.

It landed in the wreckage with a manic smile and the presence of something that did not fear kings or titles. Stone clattered across the floor. The air filled with dust and heat. Cora moved instantly.

"Gavin, get Aurelian out of here." For once, he did not argue. He pushed himself up, brushing debris from his coat out of reflex. Priorities. Always priorities.

"After you," he told Gavin, already moving. He did not need to be asked twice. Cora could handle herself. She had before. Even now. Especially now. Still, a flicker of doubt cut through him. She just had a child. He crushed the thought. She would not forgive him for underestimating her.

They ran towards the door. For half a second, he allowed himself to believe they might actually make it out of the guild hall without further theatrics.

Then the door vaporized. A high whine split the air before a chunk of it simply ceased to exist in a flash of superheated light. Aurelian barely had time to register the shape moving through the smoke.

Fast. Too fast. A blur. A leg. Impact. The kick caught him clean across the side of the head. The world snapped sideways. Sound collapsed into a dull ringing. His body lifted off his feet and struck the floor with a sickening finality.

His last thought was wildly indignant. This is going to be another lecture.

Then everything went dark.

​

 

[Jairdain Ismet-Thio]

Jairdain felt Jax arrive before she heard him, long before the crash of glass and metal reached her ears, before the surge of displaced air rippled through the corridor like a warning. His presence in the Force flared sharply, blooming into her awareness like a sudden starburst of familiar warmth and fierce determination. It cut through the oppressive gravity that had dominated the space for so long, and the first thing that struck her was relief, sharp, overwhelming, almost painful in its intensity. But fear followed immediately, cold and precise, because his arrival meant he was now standing directly in the shadow of a power that had already proven itself capable of annihilating lives without hesitation.

She did not turn toward him.

She did not need to.

Every contour of his emotional state, every surge of adrenaline, every tightly reined thread of anger, every flicker of protective instinct radiating from him, reached her through the Force with absolute clarity. She felt his resolve harden as Carnifex moved. She felt the old wounds and unresolved history rising beneath his controlled exterior. She felt the dangerous edge of pride and defiance sharpening inside him as he faced the man who had once been his father.

And she knew, with quiet certainty, that if he carried that weight into the coming clash, it would cost him dearly.

Her barriers trembled as the Dark Lord launched himself forward, the corridor shuddering beneath the sheer violence of his momentum. The air itself seemed to recoil as crimson light carved toward Jax with lethal precision.

Jairdain did not shout. She did not cry out nor reach for her blade. Instead, she reached inward.

Past exhaustion that dragged at her bones. Past pain that pulsed through her with every breath. Past fear that whispered of everything she stood to lose. Past the ache in her body and the constant reminder of the life she carried.

She drew upon the deepest well of discipline she possessed and shaped the Force with careful, deliberate intent, not as a weapon, not as a shield, but as a lifeline directed toward the one person who needed it most. Jax.

Her presence wrapped around him like an unseen mantle, subtle yet powerful, reinforcing both his body and his mind. Strength flowed into his muscles, sharpening reflexes already honed by years of combat. Clarity settled into his thoughts, smoothing the turbulence of anger and grief into something focused and resilient. Courage deepened into steadiness. Resolve hardened into an unshakable balance.

Force Valor surged through him, not as an overwhelming flood that might distort him, but as a precisely calibrated reinforcement that enhanced what was already there, amplifying without altering.

You are not alone, she sent quietly along their bond, her mental voice steady despite the strain burning through her. Breathe. Stay with me. Stay centered. Do not let him pull you into his shadow.

She felt the shift almost immediately.

His stance adjusted instinctively rather than by conscious thought. His footing stabilized. His focus narrowed into something sharp and disciplined. The turbulence in his presence softened into controlled, grounded strength, with purpose replacing provocation.

Even as she maintained that connection, even as she continued to sustain her barriers and shield the remaining delegates from Balaya's prowling violence, the effort began to weigh heavily upon her. Her breathing tightened. Her concentration demanded constant reinforcement. Each passing second required more than the last.

Still, she did not withdraw, nor did she falter.

Her hand pressed briefly against her abdomen, not in weakness, but in quiet reassurance, grounding herself in the reality of why she was still standing, why she was still fighting, why she would not allow this moment to break her.

Through the Force, she remained beside Jax even as he faced Carnifex alone, lending him strength without overshadowing him, support without control, trust without hesitation.

Whatever happened next, he would meet it as himself.

Not as a frightened son haunted by old wounds. Not as a provoked warrior driven by pride. But as the Jedi she knew him to be, steady, resolute, and unshaken. And as long as she had breath left in her body and light left in her spirit, she would hold that space for him.

Darth Carnifex Jax Thio Balaya Praelior Zambrano Balun Arenais-Dashiell Darth Nefaron Syreeta Ming Connel Vanagor Veradun Sharr Helix

 

[Kasir Dorran]

Feng Huang​

As if a shroud was pulled over the city, darkness soon settled upon it like an eclipse. Alarms frantically chittered along with cries from nothing but irrelevant insects choosing to drown in their own panic. But amidst the chaos, one thing caught Kasir's attention.. a single Thread pulsing brightly, near the tower; it beckoned to him, drawing him closer.

Shadows twisted and lengthened in his wake like eager scouts, heralding the arrival of the Sangnir. Approaching the doors, his gait was graceful, feline, and promising ruin. Two chalk white digits traced the seam, anointing the threshold. Heightened senses were honed to predation, and so they cut through the clamor. Beneath it all, he heard something more.. delicate. A voice whispering a mantra. To him, it was Light trembling in the Dark.

He eased back a pace, lids lowering, savoring the moment before unveiling. A hand found the edge of his cloak, curling into the carved ridges of his saberstaff. So many ways to announce himself. A whisper, a blade, the dagger he almost always favored these days. But like a serpent stirring beneath stone, he would exist in that space before violence found its first shape.

The doors shuddered, and twin crimson blades unfurled like burning wings.

 

[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

Moorja – Negotiation Complex Perimeter
Overwatch

From the rooftop, Connel saw the glass explode. Saw the speeder arc. Saw Jax enter like a meteor. Good. Then he felt it. Not Carnifex. Not Jax. Not even Jairdain’s lattice straining like wire drawn too tight. Something heavier.

Primal.

Balaya, and the beast. The Force shifted in a way that had nothing to do with philosophy and everything to do with hunger. Connel adjusted the foraged Sith rifle against his shoulder and fired twice. Two acolytes flanking Jairdain dropped before they understood they’d been targeted.

He cycled the bolt.

Another shot. A trooper attempting to flank Syreeta collapsed mid-stride. He didn’t linger on the duel inside. That wasn’t his lane. His HUD flickered from scavenged optics. Ammunition count low. Then the ground shook.
Gorgo.

The creature emerged like a siege engine made of sinew and malice, tearing through a support wall as though architecture were suggestion. Civilians screamed from a lower corridor. That was enough. Connel stood. No hesitation. He dropped the rifle.

… and leapt.

Wind tore at him as he folded tight mid-fall, limbs tucked close to reduce drag. Muscle memory. Reaper drop without the chute. He didn’t reach for a ledge. He didn’t try to slow gradually. At the last possible second—

He extended one arm.

Energy coiled through the cybernetics in his frame, through bone, through nerve. He drove his fist into the durasteel plaza. Force pushed into the ground to slow impact. Then repulsed outward on contact. The resulting shockwave erupted in a circular blast, and old trick he learned from his father. Glass shattered outward.

Troopers were hurled off their feet.

Acolytes stumbled mid-cast.

Gorgo reeled as the pavement fractured beneath it.

The Force wave from Connel’s landing hadn’t even fully dissipated when he felt it. Not the microflashbang coming from Balaya. Not the barbs either. Those he put himself in front of someone who might not be able to handle them. Not even the illerium discharge. That was something that would be dealt with

It was the intent. Balaya wasn’t just striking at Jairdain. She was striking at the people, like a hovertrain. At their will. At their moral center. Offering survival through betrayal. That was the line. Connel moved before the flash detonated. He didn’t leap toward Balaya. He pivoted toward the civilians.

“Dawn’s Light” flared to life in a sweeping arc, intercepting the repulsed barbs mid-flight. One vaporized. The other deflected into the ceiling in a shower of sparks.

The microflashbang detonated—and Connel’s free hand was already out.

Force Crush, more Force compression.

Not outward. Inward.

He collapsed the concussive wave into a tight sphere and redirected it down the corridor, detonating harmlessly against a reinforced bulkhead. It took a LOT of focus, but it worked.

Balaya’s saber slash would have reached Jairdain’s flank—except “Windu’s Guile” caught it mid-strike. Violet met red in a violent hiss. Connel didn’t push. He didn’t posture.

He stepped into her momentum and angled the lock sideways, diverting the strike away from Jairdain’s lattice instead of contesting strength. She.hit.HARD. The thing is?

He’s not exactly a weakling.

Not her,” he said calmly. No anger. No threat. Just a statement. Behind him, the delegate she had carved runes into trembled, knife still in hand. Connel didn’t look back. But the Force moved through him toward them.
Not a command.

A grounding. A steadying presence.

You don’t have to choose that.

Balaya’s artifact pulsed. Trying to bend weaker wills. Trying to amplify fear. Connel shifted slightly. Just enough that his body blocked the direct line between her headband artifact and the civilians. He wasn’t shielding them with a barrier. He was interrupting the vector.

Consequences.

An assassin surged, muscles bulking under Sith augmentation. Faster. Stronger. Almost like he expected him to meet that power with power.

He didn’t.

He dropped low under the assassin accelerated slash and drove a short, brutal elbow into his rib line, targeting the junction where augmentation met flesh.

Precise.

Disruptive.

“Windu’s Guile” snapped upward, not to kill—to shear the mechanism that housed one of the knee-barb launchers on Balaya’s. Sparks erupted. The weapon didn’t go dead, but the barbs failed, at least this time. He didn’t stop. He extinguished his shortsaber for half a second and drew the lightblaster instead.

Two shots. Not center mass. Not head.

One aimed at the choker crystal.

One aimed at the headband artifact.

Ion-charged.

He wasn’t trying to destroy her.

He was trying to depower her.

If the corridor would with static interference as if the artifact flickered violently, he would know he succeeded, if not, he would not stop. Either way, the subjugation pressure would ease, at least for the moment. Behind him, the delegate dropped the blade. Connel re-ignited his own.

You don’t get to offer them mercy, he said evenly. You’re not capable of it. He knew that while he may not be winning this, there was some success. Because the civilians had not turned. Because Jairdain still stood. Because Syreeta still fought.
And because Connel had made himself the fulcrum.

Behind him: Light holding.

In front of him: Predatory escalation.

Above: Carnifex and Jax shaking the structure with titanic blows.

An Acolyte lunged, he would pivot through her guard, slamming his shoulder into her centerline and driving her backward through a shattered support column. The impact would crater the wall. Dust would rain. He would not pursue into the debris cloud. Either way He would turn. Look at the civilians.

Move!

They moved. Only then did he step back into the smoke. If Balaya was in the wreckage, she would escalate. So would he. Not louder. Not angrier. Just… sharper… brutal… efficient

Darkness would feel him.

The potential.

The refusal.

The discipline.

That made Connel more dangerous than raw power ever could. Because Balaya had tried to turn the innocent against the Light—And Connel had answered not with spectacle— But with consequence. “Windu’s Guile” ignited in his left hand. Violet crackling in tight arcs. He wouldn’t look at Carnifex. He wouldn’t look at Jax.

He would look at the civilians. Run.

One word. Command, not suggestion. They moved. Behind him, Jairdain’s lattice pulsed, stabilizing as civilians cleared her radius. Good. He turned. Evil in front of him. Balaya with her wicked maniacal smile seeing him.
Recognition. Interest. Gorgo charged. Connel didn’t meet it head-on.

He sidestepped, firing controlled bursts from the scavenged rifle into its forelimb joints. Ion bursts disrupted the creature’s augmentations. The rifle clicked empty. He discarded it without thought. This monster was not an automoton, not a simpleton... but wasn't him.

The monster swung a hand that would have crushed a transport speeder. Connel ducked under it, violet blade carving across tendon. Not killing. Slowing. The beast roared. He vaulted onto its back, drove Windu’s Guile into a shoulder and twisted.
The creature bucked violently, smashing him into a pillar, grabbing and throwing him, without his shortsaber. The weapon? Gorgo crushed it in one powerful fist. Connel got up from the blast into the pillar, his armor absorbed most of it.

He landed hard.

Rolled.

Came up on one knee.

No “Windu’s Guile”? Fine. “Dawn’s Light”, ignited in his right hand now, replacing the discarded rifle. Blue arced before him. An Assassin unleashed a torrent of dark augmentation at his position. Connel met it. Not with counter-hate. With precision.
He split the energy at an angle, redirecting part into the fractured pavement and part into Gorgo itself. The beast convulsed angrily. Not dead. Maybe hurt. Disrupted. Angered.

He advanced.


Each step deliberate.
If he had been efficient before— Now he was surgical inevitability. Another acolyte lunged from his blind spot. He didn’t turn. Lightknife backward throw. The blade pinned the acolyte to a wall mid-stride. No flourish.

No roar.

Just consequence.

The Assassin retreated a step. She felt it. This wasn’t fury. This wasn’t a Jedi losing himself. This was a man who had already accepted death once and therefore did not fear proximity to it.

Behind him, Jax and Carnifex clashed in titanic arcs of blue and red. The building trembled with each collision. Connel didn’t look.

Trust.

But verify.

He positioned himself between Gorgo, Balaya, and the civilians’ escape route. A dark presence brushed against him then. Curious. Testing. Potential. Connel didn’t respond. Didn’t acknowledge. Didn’t rise to it. Didn’t need to do so. He stepped forward instead. Blade low. Shoulders squared.

Voice calm.
If you want through, he said to Balaya to all of them, you go through me. No theatrics. No sermon. Just fact.
... and you won’t.

Behind him: Light. Life. Fragile breath.

In front of him: Monsters.

And for the first time tonight— The Sith would realize something subtle but dangerous.
The Vanagor line does not seek duels.

It establishes consequences.

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

 

[Balun Arenais-Dashiell]

STORM CHASERS
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel | Lightsaber | K-16 Bryar Pistol
ALLIES: Ala Quin | Jax Thio | Connel Vanagor
OPPOSITION: Darth Nefaron | Darth Carnifex | Veradun Sharr

​

Balun had never been one to hide his name from others, a habit of being honest with those he fought so that they could see he envisioned the ideology of the Jedi, despite his refusing to be called one for so many years. Only recently had he taken up the moniker of Jedi, under the training and guidance of Ala Quin . It would appear that perhaps his name had been taken notice of by the Sith, perhaps partly due to Falentra's past actions and the relationship they had once shared.

Darth Nefaron was, however, much like Strossius and Malum, a force to be reckoned with. His speed was blinding when combined with such ferocity in his use of the crimson blade; the Sith Lord's offensive placed Balun on the backfoot from the beginning. By comparison, Balun had to prioritise his use of parries and evasive movements to avoid being run through.

Contrary to many Jedi, Balun had spent the majority of his life as a Force-User on his own, learning through surviving. He did not cling so religiously to the forms of sabre combat but used what he learned from each in order to shape his own style. His stance of Djem So, common much like the centre of being, yet springing into action, he moved with agility while desperately trying to fend off the Sith Lord's powerful strikes.

Deferring to a single-handed use of his lightsaber, he reached out with his left hand and tore the table within the centre of the room from its feet, launching it at the Darth Nefaron in a bid to put some space between them. The table was large, not built out of wood but made of a light metal and likely used for strategic meetings or some such purpose; but it was the size and weight of the table that Balun hoped would offer some respite from the fury of the Sith Lord, while he continued to double back, moving around the room and trying to keep pace with the walking corpse lord.

"My Master is better off without my presence as a distraction; she is better served to bring an end to your people's hold of Moorja", Balun finally responded while stepping backwards, his gaze sweeping back and forth from his opponent to the room around him in search of any obstacle that might slow his evasion. "The Republic, too, remains strong and won't back down to the Sith. Even more so since the Alliance has fallen. We are the representation of justice and democracy in this Galaxy, which so requires moral leadership!" he argued, and as though finding courage in his own words, drove himself forward with a direct thrust of his blade seeking to run Nefaron through the chest.

Jedi Master: Ala Quin
Major Faction: The High Republic
Sub-Faction: Jhaessa Prime
Conglomerate: Dashiell Incorporated™
Subsidiary Company: Dashiell Retrofit™​

"Speech"
'Thought'​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The declaration hung in the storm lashed air between them. Even yours. For a moment the Dark Lord just stood. Amber light burned between them, casting long fractured shadows across the ruined street. The ion winds howled. Lightning split the heavens above Moorja's broken skyline. Yet Darth Prazutis remained utterly still, the towering silhouette of black armor untouched by the Jedi's defiance. Then...He stepped forward. The weight of that single motion seemed to press against the world itself. The Force recoiled outward from him in a silent pressure wave, the pavement beneath His feet groaning faintly as unseen power gathered like a collapsing horizon.

"Then let this be the last lesson you carry from this world, Master San Tekka." His left hand rose. The weapon that appeared within it was not drawn so much as it was revealed to the world. Xûl Qarnak. A colossal hilt of abyssal alloy and bleeding runes settled into the Dark Lord's grasp, its immense weight meaningless in His hand. For an instant the storm itself seemed to falter, the air growing heavy with suffocating presence as the bound kyber within the weapon stirred. Then? Then, the blade ignited. A roar like a distant war drum tore through the street. Blackened bloodfire erupted outward in a towering column of seething plasma, its core pulsing like a dying star, its crimson-edged darkness devouring the surrounding light. The weapon did not hum, it howled, a living resonance that vibrated through bone and steel alike. Shadows bent toward it and the Force itself seemed to dim in its presence.

The battlefield changed then as all distance seemed to warp, perception fractured as the very space around the warblade became uncertain. The Shadow Hand lowered the immense weapon into guard with terrifying economy of motion. No flourish. No wasted movement accompanied this simple act. Only perfect alignment of purpose and execution, the stance of something that had never known defeat. When He advanced, the duel began before a single strike was thrown. The Dark Lord seized him. A subtle telekinetic pulse rippled through the ground beneath Zark's stance, not to throw Him, but to shift His balance by a fraction, to claim the rhythm of the engagement before it formed. The follow through came instantly. A measured diagonal strike descending with catastrophic force, the warblade's reach and momentum engineered to dismantle guard rather than overwhelm it. Every single movement was calculated, every angle chosen and each possibility carefully closed. Shii-Cho's brutal certainty merged seamlessly with Makashi's surgical precision, the colossal blade moving with impossible control as the Dark Lord pressed forward step by deliberate step. His presence suffocated space itself, forcing retreat, denying footing, stripping the battlefield of neutrality.

There was no outward fury in him. No rage of a simple Sith Juggernaut. No his rage, his anger was bore deeper. Only the cold, absolute emptiness of annihilation. Within that silence, His will unfolded, the doctrine of the Hollow Maelstrom made manifest. Each strike seemed simple, inevitable, yet carried crushing finality. Feints blurred into reality. Distances shifted. The blade arrived where it shouldn't yet be, the Voidshards within its hilt distorting perception with subtle, relentless cruelty.

Hope wasn't shattered. It was eroded in his very presence, bleeding away like an open wound. Between strikes, His voice emerged, calm as the grave. "Empires fall, orders burn and yet we remain. The Sith Order as they exist now are in accordance to our design. They maneuver of their own, thinking fate belongs to them, when we have been its guiding hand before most have taken their first breath." Another controlled advance. Another perfectly measured blow. The storm roared overhead as the Shadow Hand moved to press the aging Jedi backward through the ruined avenue.

Zark San Tekka​

 

[Balaya Praelior Zambrano]

Allies: Darth Carnifex
Enemies: Connel Vanagor

Gorgo roared, the sound raw and guttural as a shockwave came from someone slamming down. The firebird commander holding her tremor sword for the moment. Her eyes tracking as it alerted Balaya towards the one coming at her. A black armored figure whose blade caught her saber while she was charging forward. Eyes looking down at him and he spoke more to amuse her as he seemed tobe following much more. The wendol there with her as they were moving more. There was something out the corner of her eye. The sith warlord was surprised when the jedi didn't just ignore all she seemed to actively become invincible to everything except Kaine being in the room. The presence of another coming in as Connel fired shots was interesting to her perceptions. The ion-charged rounds from the scavenged rifle finding their marks, but they did not find a machine.

As the blue static danced across the aurodium headband and the choker's golden crystal, the darkside fetishes didn't simply shutdown. They remained intact while the discharge along her skin crackled energy. The air around having the smell of ozone mixing with the metallic tang of the delegates' blood and scream. The rune carved on his arm a ritual rune as he shared the pain. The electrical discharge dancing across his body like he was a battlelord commanding soldiers. His nervous system in complete shock and screams ripped through while electrical burns appeared. The runes weren't for control they were for connection and pain. Make it so hurting her hurt them as she looked with bemusement in her eyes. The small uncertainty that she might have marked others on the way here. The potential of dozens, hundreds of innocents suddenly writhing out in pain and agony before being suddenly silenced.

The sounds of combat as her momentum was stopped short. Focused and precise, she wasn't needing to recalculate, her armor was still preforming at its height and better. The darkside fetishes within its gleamed in combined power. Choker, armlets, manacles, anklets and even at her thigh and belt like a garter. It amplified the darkside within her keeping it from leaking out which denied many modern jedi their vaunted vaapad or juyo. She didn't bleed the darkness into them she looped it into herself to refresh and strengthen her own form. The momentary fight between Gorgo and Connel could be heard as she smashed and slammed into a pillar. Her hand holding his saber as she crushed it before tossing it aside. Another siths attack being redirected into her form as the firebirds commander snarled and her tattoos were much darker against her pale skin.

She took a step forward as he held his lightsaber at the ready between her and the other civilians. The delegate convulsing still from the wounds on him but she allowed the blade in her hand to as she held it at the ready. She shifted her taloned grip into a firm, deliberate Djem So low guard, her stance tightening as she centered her weight over her hips. She planted her rear foot at a slight angle, giving her a stable base to drive power forward without overextending. Her saber angled downward in the classic Form V presentation, the blade held one‑handed but with full control, ready to transition into either a rising strike or a direct counter. She advanced a single step, measured and grounded, closing distance without rushing. Her posture remained compact, shoulders squared, elbows close enough to protect her centerline while still allowing for explosive movement.

Every adjustment she made served a tactical purpose: minimizing openings, maximizing leverage, and preparing to convert any incoming attack into a counterstrike. She kept her attention forward, tracking the space between them and the angles available. Nothing about her movement was decorative; it was the efficient setup of someone preparing to impose pressure through strength, timing, and controlled aggression. Once she had the distance she wanted, Balaya initiated the first action of her sequence. She drove upward in a rising arc, the standard Djem So opening meant to seize initiative and test the opponent's guard. The strike was powered from her legs and hips rather than her arm alone, giving it a sharp, upward momentum that could force a reaction or create an opening.

She did not commit her full weight to it, leaving herself the ability to redirect or transition depending on how the moment developed. As soon as the swing reached its apex, she stepped forward again, maintaining pressure and preventing the space from widening. Her saber rotated into a diagonal angle, prepared for a follow‑up cut or a bind if the opportunity presented itself. Her movements stayed tight and efficient, each one designed to keep her in control of the engagement's tempo. She kept her centerline protected, her free hand positioned to assist with balance or grappling if the fight shifted into close quarters. Balaya continued advancing, maintaining steady forward pressure without overcommitting. She adjusted her wrist and shoulder to prepare for a potential overhead hammer strike, one of Djem So's signature power attacks.

She held the motion coiled rather than fully raised, ensuring she could deliver it quickly if an opening appeared but without exposing her guard in the process. Her footwork remained consistent: short, controlled steps that kept her base solid and her momentum directed forward. She monitored the angles, ready to convert her prepared strike into a downward cut, a lateral redirection, or a defensive block depending on how the exchange unfolded. Her posture communicated intent clearly she was not waiting, she was pressing, shaping the engagement by occupying space and forcing decisions. She remained there while letting the energies hand in the air. Her armor showing more power as her free hand released two aspects. The small disc shield of the vambrace design to deflect sabers and another microgrenade.

She continued to watch him, her movements focused as the crystal of her choker glowed more. The crystal absorbing death, trace force energies from the ones he had killed were collected. She could see COnnel as the darkened area around the pair of them was illuminated by the saber blades. Her smile remained when she finally spoke. Still with velvety alto in her voice but she didn't need to take her eyes off of Connel to know where the people were. "I don't know who you are jedi and well I doubt I will remember you five minutes after this is over." There was a small shrug but she was less about making a threat, that was implied with the saber... and the violence... and the writhing person on the ground the jedi had hurt while her skin remained unmarred. "But they have the same offer for freedom, just have to stab you a few dozen times."

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Where I have passed, grass will never grow again.

​

She stalked forward and put a hand on Gerra's arm and murmured, soft enough that it did not carry over the din. "She wants the boy alive, Champion. Flout Her will at your peril."

A soundless snarl came in answer and he shrugged free of her grip. The Qhan's blood still trickled from his forehead where the rock had struck and his veins burned bright with the fever of battle. Wroth gripped him, sure and true, and he would not kowtow to the demands of any.

No petty Core warlords.

No other Khans.

Not even the Avatar of Vahl herself.

For who could stand against him, breaker of thrones and empires, and hope to live?

Using a chunk of rubble for leverage, he planted a foot and launched himself upward toward the towering man, driving both blades forward, aiming straight for his chest.

In that instant, the foe assailed him and Gerra saw for a moment as the blades flashed toward him that his opponent was not a warrior but a mere boy. How then did he burn so brightly with resolve? Gerra faltered for a brief second. Long enough that the blades found purchase, striking him full in his golden breastplate of Sith alchemized alloy. The blows turned aside, points skittering away, though Gerra felt the force of their impact on his chest and knew he might have a bruise on the morrow.

"Foolish boy," he bellowed, his voice deeper than the roots of a mountain.

He took a step back and pointed a finger at the boy, coalescing the Dark Side in a surge of sudden destructive energy around one of the boy's arms. Then he unleashed the technique, known as combustion to some and flamusfracta to others. A deafening explosion split the air as he sought to implode the offending arm of the boy who had struck him.

"Break and burn."
​

Elian Abrantes Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Hasuras Na-Gerra Vatrës Dhalis
​

For the smallest fraction of a second, Elian believed he had done something meaningful.

The daggers struck square against Gerra's chest. He felt the impact all the way through his shoulders, through bone and sinew, a jarring shock that rattled his teeth. Sparks snapped violently between steel and gilded Sith alloy, the shriek of metal on alchemized armor tearing through the chaos around them.

But they did not pierce. Not flesh, nor bone. Not even past the monstrous plating that wrapped his torso like a second skin. The blades skittered uselessly aside. The force of the failed strike twisted Elian's wrists painfully as he dropped back to the ground. He staggered a half step, rotating his hands instinctively. Nothing broken, but sprained badly. His grip would be weaker now.

And suddenly that did not matter at all.

"Foolish boy."

The words seemed to settle over him like a sentence. Elian saw the finger lift. He saw the faint coiling distortion in the air around it.

He did not understand what was about to happen until it was already happening. The Force seized his arm just below the shoulder. It was not heat at first. It was pressure. Crushing, imploding.... As though something invisible had wrapped around his bicep and was trying to fold it inward. The pain followed a heartbeat later. Blinding, total and it tore a rough and loud groan of pain from his throat that he did not even hear over the roar in his ears.

Then came the explosion.

Light and sound swallowed him whole. He felt himself lifted and hurled sideways, the world spinning violently as he crashed across shattered pavement and debris. He struck hard and rolled, momentum finally bleeding away into stillness.

For a moment there was only ringing silence. Smoke drifted overhead, Elian blinked and his arm felt wrong, not numb, not simply injured....just wrong. He forced his gaze downward. Where his arm should have been was charred ruin. Blackened flesh, bone exposed and smoking. Blood seeped down his side, hot and slick. He stared at it, then he looked several feet away and saw the rest of it lying there on the broken street.

His severed arm.

"Oh…" His voice came out thin and distant, as though someone else had spoken. "…you have got to be chitting me…"

Shock tried to claim him, darkness creeping inward at the edges of his vision. His body trembled uncontrollably, adrenaline battling his catastrophic wound.

He sat himself up and then absurdly, he laughed. A small, cracked chuckle. Not because it was funny. Because if he did not laugh, he might disappear into the void clawing at him. He sat up, and his remaining hand trembled as he lifted a finger toward Gerra.

"You…" he rasped, breath hitching. "You are a jerk."

His eyes shifted, swimming, until they found the white haired woman.

"And you… I—I…"

His lashes fluttered, struggling to focus on her face through the haze of smoke and agony.

"I hope you get hit by a speeder."

It was weak, petty, entirely beneath the gravity of the moment. Honestly he didn't care in the least. The world tilted sharply. Strength fled his limbs in waves. The cold was setting in now, chasing the heat of pain away with something far more dangerous.

Elian's body sagged to the side. His eyes slipped closed as his body sagged to the side, onto the street. Blood slowly spreading dark beneath him while the battle roared on.

Cassian.....Sibylla.....

I'm sorry.....

Exit Thread​

 

[Syreeta Ming]

The acolytes regained their footing, brandishing cursed daggers. As they hissed and spat in their dead language, spells poured from Syreeta's lips, calling upon the Ashla to purify the Dark.

Carnifex may not have cared about her, but she added her strength to the fight nonetheless.

"Brave little plaything you are, one would've thought you'd know your place. What was once broken can be remade."

"Speak for yourself, dark lord," she replied. An idea sprung to mind, and a smile crossed her lips as she uttered a new and powerful rhyme. "'Redeem the heart of Carnifex, they say no one can; Ashla, I defy them - cleanse the soul of this man!'"

This was no ordinary purification ritual. The spell was intended not just to banish the Dark Side, but to force a conscience upon one of the most evil beings in the galaxy. To make Carnifex think about his actions and feel guilty for his wrongdoing - and worst of all, to give him a desire to make amends!

Jairdain Ismet-Thio Darth Carnifex Jax Thio Balaya Praelior Zambrano Connel Vanagor​

 

[Lina Ovmar]

Allies: Darth Strosius
Enemies: Lily Decoria Sven Halestorm
​

Lina chuckled at his outrage as he scrambled up to seize his datapad, she slid out of the server room after him as he plummeted the entire spaceport into darkness, running a hand along his arm as she stepped forward taking a deep breath, relishing in the fear that made the air tremble.

“You know, it is possible to mix business and pleasure. You just have to be more flexible.” She tiptoed to place a kiss on the cheek of his mask before detaching and reaching into the shadows, a command thrumming to her pets through the force.

Feast.

Panic screams erupted throughout the spaceport as something stirred at the back of her mind, a call that demanded her attention, she shifted from her own eyes to those of another, watching the Jedi carve their way into the tower, climbing towards them.

“We have company. Two of them.”

She blinked herself back into the room moving across the room to lean against one of the control panels. Arms folded across her chest watching the stairwell door.

"Let them say their peace, I do like to hear their bleating.”

​

​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Equipment: The eye of the Dragon, Black Blade of Chandrila, Heavy Mace, Heavy plated Phrik Armor​

“ROACH!”

He yelled as she slipped by his blade, a yell of frustration sounding off from his voice as he attempted to crush her into the duracrete behind them. But she used momentum and trajectory like a weapon of science and lethality as equals. Predicting his momentum and movement and just barely being able to get out of the way.

When she slid off his back his head began to pound, a familiar pain pushing from his brow. His hand dropped his mace as a yell of pain tore through his throat, his now free hand covering over the left side of his helm. A pulsing throb of searing pain traveled down his face.

His hand gripped his helm and in one aggressive tearing motion he ripped the piece of armor from his head, revealing a trail of blood running from the left side of his brow down his temple.

His breathing was quick, erratic. Much different than it was before. Another massive pulse of pain ripped through his skull as he screamed in pain slamming his fist into the duracrete rubble beside him, shattering the stone beneath the force of the blow. His good eye that was colored like a blazing inferno turned blood red as a singular flaming horn started to pierce through the left side of his forehead, slowly arching into an upwards curve to the back of his head.

His voice deepened, changed as the flames that erupted from his back started to cover his body in a whipping inferno. Wings slowly formed and flexed, made of flame. The tips to his armored gloves tore away as claws pierced through them. This next set of eyes looked at her with a predatory sense of hunger and blood lust.

He brought up his blade pointing it to her, and with another yell swung it in a horizontal arch, the blade would not reach her, but the air behind the strike would sharpen like a blade itself flying straight towards her, as she would move the flames in his back burst flinging him forward with explosive momentum as he brought his blade to bear towards her.

Shade​

 

[Helix]

Objective: Dispatch the interloper
Equipment: Himself
Tags: Eloise Dinn ​

Helix switched gears, focusing more on the grand-scale larceny and surveillance at hand. If they were looking for him, they'd find him easily enough, and likely come looking.

What they'd find was a little more dangerous than a simple malicious hacker or opportunistic plunderer. The bait was set, and now it was just a matter of waiting for the quarry to appear. Helix wasn't kept waiting long. Less than a minute after he detected the intrusion to begin with, he got the visit he was expecting.

As the door flew open, Helix's reaction was an immediate one. He stood and hurled his chair aside with one smooth motion, reorienting his body to face the intruder with a smooth ripple of flowing nanites. The interloper's glowing blade smashed the console he'd been using first, before turning its focus on him. Unfortunate, but there were other ways of resuming contact.

A portion of himself was still inside the city's network infrastructure, but that was also a problem for later. The problem for now was the Jedi doing their very best to remove his head.

Helix twisted under the humming plasma sword, practically bending his body in half in a fashion that would have been impossible for a traditionally-structured, solid droid. His left arm melted, then reformed into the shape of a gigantic axeblade.

Putting the entirety of his weight behind it, the gleaming weapon came arcing downwards in a wide, reckless sweep, intending to create some distance between himself and his enemy.

"What a day. Dinner and a show." Remarked the towering mechanical horror as he did his best to cleave the Jedi in half.

 

[Mercy]

Location: Agriculture Guild Hall
Tags: Gavin Restur Corazona von Ascania Glissara Aurelian Veruna

Glissara decided to attack from a different angle.

Probably wise.

Mercy was like a freight train once she started up. She went through straight lines. While she took all the attention, the soldier would be able to take those in the other room unaware. By the time the dust had settled, Mercy was face-to-face with her favorite Jedi. If such a thing existed, then Cora certainly took the title.

Even without knowing that she was Lady Velvet. If Mercy had known that, she would have stopped the fight to ask for an autograph.

She was about to make a quippy one-liner when-

"You are bad luck. Away with you.” Flicking both hands, she would make the gesture of shooing Mercy back.

Mercy straightened out there, blinking slightly. "Does that actually..." She gestured herself, towards Cora's hands. "Work on anyone? Like I can't imagine any Sith Lord worth their salt actually being shoo'ed away like a dog."

Her hands settled on her hips.

The newly-minted Empress surveyed the scene with satisfaction. She had caused quite some property damage. Even the ceiling had several cracks, along with the floor and the opposite walls. Aurelian was curled up on the floor, Glissara had somehow managed to get into the room in record time from another angle just as she had promised, and was now tackling Gavin.

Her attention returned to Cora.

"Tell me, darling, why is it that every time I encounter you, you are fussing over some manling? Do you really have nothing better to do than be an eternal wet nurse for this man or that?"

She was entirely open for an attack.

Almost telegraphed.

 

[Lily Rhodes]

Tags: Zaiya Ceti Gerwald Lechner Rik Perris​

Lily practically jumped out of the pilot's chair when an answer came back. If truth be told she hadn’t expected anyone to take her up on it and now they had she suddenly realised she had no real plan. She took a breath, to calm her nerves and looked over the city map again. This was just another job, she was just stealing people instead of an item.

Somehow, that did not make her feel better.

“Zaiya, I’m in the western space port. I don’t know how much trouble there is between you and me, but I can make my way to you and we can meet in the middle. Two pairs of hands are better than one, right?”

As she spoke, she scrambled around the cockpit, grabbing a comm earpiece that would keep her looped in and securing the phrik quarterstaff on her back. She snagged a datapad, transferring the city plans to it. She wasn’t going to be able to plan escape routes on the way in this time, but at least she could figure them out with a map if she needed them.

She made for the landing ramp, nerves evaporating. This was just another job, and if she succeeded, well it would be a poke in the eye of an Order she’d been trying to escape for too long.

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

The Avatara of Vhal watched the horror unfold, close enough that when the lad's arm combusted, a fine mist of vaporized viscera sprayed across her fine-boned features, some bit of super-heated muscle splattering to her cheek as she cringed away, dragging a smear of blood down to her jaw before dropping unceremoniously onto her reinforced leather armor. Vatrës frowned, an irritated black eyes going sidelong to Gerra before a gloved hand rose and flicked the bits of Elian Abrantes off her armor.

She wiped her face with the back of her gloved hands.

"Fains I be you when the goddess discovers you flouted Her commands," Vatrës muttered to Hasuras Na-Gerra as she leaned over the now-shattered duracrete barrier, peering down at the blood as it spread. "He may not survive. In any case he is useless for Our Lady's purposes now. Perhaps I can cauterize the wounds, preserve his life for Vahl -- "

"And you… I—I…"

His lashes fluttered, struggling to focus on her face through the haze of smoke and agony.

"I hope you get hit by a speeder."

Leave him, leave him, fools! came the rough whisper of Vahl in Vatrës' mind, and the Avatara felt the stinging, mind-filling pain of the goddess' rage. Thwarted at every turn. Incompetence in an Avatar -- willfulness in a Champion -- has any god been so badly served as I? Feel my wrath, thou fruitless, feckless, fool!

Vatrës made a half-formed word before her jaw went slack, and she swayed, staggering against Gerra before slumping to the duracrete. She was still, panting for a few moments but making no other movement, and then her body twisted and arched unnaturally, and when her eyes opened they were opened wide, and one could almost see the embers of flames in the unfathomable blackness.

The scream that erupted from within her was of a wounded animal as whatever punishment the dark goddess meted out tormented her servant, weak smoke accompanying the tortured sound.

 

[Valaine Valentine]

Tags - Kito Reina Daival

Valaine's reasonings for being present on the planet when knowing a trap would be sprung were perhaps her own, or perhaps even acted on in part of her Master's distaste for the plan as a whole... Whether it was official or not she found herself in the midst of the chaos. But she had keenly felt a presence through the Force, one that she was deeply connected to. It had led her to Kito.

It wasn't uncommon for the two to find each other in situations like this but it always muddied intent depending on why either was present. In this case however the Sangnir was blessed to be more in alignment with the Shaper's own agenda than not, and so she soon found herself being led through the crowd of panicked citizens.

The Sangnir could be rather cold and callous when it came to strangers and so in the moment she didn't particularly care for the faceless people around them, or the sight of escape shuttles being shot down. She was selfish with her sympathies; they only truly extended to people she knew and cared for, perhaps that was her most distasteful flaw when it came to who she was as a person.

She kept pace with Kito easily, her enhanced stamina having made it seem like she had only taken a relatively brisk walk by the time they had come to a halt. A light smirk appeared upon her face as the Shaper asked her if she was alright despite being the one that was already fatigued. "I'm more than fine, Firefly, you should take a moment to catch your breath though. I doubt I'd even need my enhanced hearing to notice that thumping heart of yours..." she commented with a light reassuring pat to the other woman's back.

Her stormy gaze was then drawn to follow Kito's towards that flash of red hair. "Oh, Reina's here...? I guess I shouldn't be surprised..." she hummed gently. Though it seemed the two had likewise been spotted, or at least just Kito had been, as the Ersansyr approached. Valaine greeted her with an inappropriately casual wave of a hand considering the current state of unrest in general. "Hey Reina. You seem to have picked a really bad time to visit..." she spoke as she glanced skyward towards the shuttles attempting to flee once more.

She wasn't aware of Reina's shift in allegiance yet, they hadn't spoken in some time after all, and likewise she was unaware of their mutual connection through the Sith Order via a certain Echani.

​

​

 

[Shade]

Shade did not retreat when the transformation took hold; instead, she anchored herself against the oncoming storm.

She felt the shift before she fully witnessed it, a sudden, violent surge of warped presence that made the air itself seem to recoil as his pain and rage collapsed inward before exploding outward in a terrifying display of power. The manifestation of the flames, the jagged horn, the obsidian wings, and the predatory hunger burning in his gaze did not surprise her, for they only served to confirm the grim reality she had already accepted. This was no longer a man engaged in a struggle of skill and will. This was an elemental force attempting to drown the entire battlefield in the sheer weight of its own existence.

The sharpened air tore through the space she had occupied a heartbeat earlier, slicing through drifting dust and fragments of stone with a high-pitched shriek that sounded like metal being torn apart by bare hands. She twisted aside with fluid grace, her coat snapping violently in the wake of the pressure as the intense heat grazed her skin close enough to leave a stinging burn.

Then, he launched his assault.

Fire detonated behind him with the force of a siege engine, hurling his massive frame forward like a living projectile. With his blade raised and momentum stacked upon momentum, he moved with a speed that was far too fast to outrun and a power that was far too immense to meet head-on. Understanding the futility of a direct clash, Shade did not even attempt to intercept his strength with her own.

Instead, Shade planted her feet firmly into the fractured earth. For the first time since the duel had commenced, she ceased her outward movement and turned her focus entirely inward. She drew no visible light to her side and summoned no radiant power to shield her. She did not reach out with the intent to dominate or crush his spirit through force.

She chose to suppress.

The technique unfolded in a heavy, weighted silence, a precise and disciplined collapse of her own presence that radiated outward like a vacuum rather than a crashing wave. Where his power burned and lashed out at the world, her will pressed down with absolute authority, denying his energy fuel, denying it space, and denying it the resonance it needed to sustain its form. It was not a conventional attack, but rather an absence made into a weapon.

Under the weight of her resolve, the inferno surrounding him began to shudder. The flames were not immediately extinguished, but they became catastrophically destabilized, their rhythm faltering as though something essential had been stripped away from their core. The fires along his back guttered unevenly, and the air around his charge warped and stuttered as the sharpened edge of his kinetic force lost its cohesion. His momentum did not vanish entirely, but it became fundamentally wrong, misaligned, unbalanced, and erratic.

She felt the shift in his presence, the falter for a fraction of a second, the surge that should have carried him cleanly forward fracturing against the invisible suppression field she had imposed. That tiny fraction of a moment was all she required. Shade moved into the opening, sliding laterally across the broken stone with boots finding purchase where there should have been none. She angled her body perfectly to let his disrupted charge tear past her rather than through her, the tip of his massive blade screaming by close enough to drag searing heat across her ribs, yet failing to find purchase in her flesh.

Stone exploded in a spray of grit behind her as he slammed through the position where she had just stood. She turned with him instantly, never letting him slip from her awareness as her suppression remained anchored and relentlessly pressing against his spirit. Her breathing was becoming tight and labored, and her wounded shoulder burned with every movement, making the act of maintaining such a high-level technique feel like holding a collapsing structure upright with her bare hands.

Yet, despite the strain, she held. Her blade came up again, steady and unwavering in her grip despite the chaos of the environment.

"This ends now," Shade said calmly, her voice remaining low and unshaken as it carried through the deafening roar of the surrounding flames. "It ends not because you have proven yourself to be the stronger combatant," she continued, "but because you are rapidly losing yourself to the very power you sought to wield."

She shifted her stance once more, centering her weight and grounding her spirit against the trembling earth.

"And I will not let you drown this field in your descent," she declared.

The suppression deepened, focusing not in width, but in piercing depth. She directed her will toward the very core of his presence, targeting the unstable nexus of rage and power that he was desperately feeding. The flames around him continued to burn, but they did so without harmony, without certainty, and without any semblance of control.

For the first time since his transformation had begun, Shade was no longer merely reacting to his movements.

She was dictating the very rhythm of the fight.

Varin Mortifer

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The last Moorjan rifle struck the deck and skidded away in a shriek of metal.

Smoke drifted in slow, suffocating layers across the landing platform, curling around Bastila’s boots and clinging to her form. She left them, and climbed the same ladder that Dominic had made his way up not long before, emerging into the opening where the Republic shuttle was still sat hot. The ramp lowered fully before her, engines already pushing heat in violent waves that pressed against her skin and rattled the durasteel beneath her feet. Behind her, the corridor she had just sealed was a graveyard of scorched plating and fallen soldiers. Some groaned. Some did not. She had held them back long enough. She had bought him time.

She took a step toward the ramp and paused, turning back towards where the ladder had ejected her away from the threat. If she hadn’t done so she would have missed the vibration as her bracer pinged sharp enough to cut through the roar of engines and the ringing of the steam still lodged in her ears. She lifted her wrist without thinking, breath already tightening in her chest.

The signal burned across her display in unmistakable code. It was not a casual ping. It was not a request for contact. It was a distress beacon running on emergency priority, and its strength was already fluctuating. For a moment, the world around Bastila seemed to recede. The smoke thinned into something unreal and the sound of the shuttle dimmed to a distant hum that she could not truly comprehend. All that existed suddenly was the pulsing red light on her wrist and the weight of what it meant.

The beacon pulsed again, weaker this time.

“My Lady, we have to lift!” the pilot called from the cockpit hatch, his voice tight with urgency. Snapping Bastila’s attention back to the Republic ship and the whirlwind of noise that it was creating. “We cannot stay here.”

Bastila did not answer instead she looked up into the shuttle.

She knew that Dominic lay inside, he was slumped against the bulkhead where they had placed him. His chest rose and it fell. His face was oh so pale beneath the grime and dried blood at his temple. She knew that he would have been conscious when he ordered them to wait. It was him who had insisted that they could not leave without her. The pilot’s words echoed faintly in her mind: He wouldn’t let us go.

Her throat tightened as if something unseen had wrapped around it.

For years, it had been the same argument between them dressed in different words. He had chosen politics. He had chosen obligation. He had told her he would marry another for the Republic because it was necessary. She had told him that duty was a shield he hid behind when it suited him. At the Lightspire, she had wielded that blame like a blade and carved into him with it until there was nothing left to salvage.

And in some twist of fate, the choice now stood before her.

Her bracer pulsed again, a soft vibration and sound that reminded her that she was a Jedi of the Order, that she was one of the Handmaiden’s of Naboo. She could feel fear of someone, or something through the Force, not as a scream but as a thinning thread straining against distance.

Bastila took one step onto the ramp and let the heat from the engines wash over her. She could see Dominic clearly now. If she boarded, the ramp would seal behind her. The shuttle would break atmosphere and she would sit across from him while medics worked waiting for him to wake. She could tell him that it was okay and that the Republic would survive long enough for someone else to answer. She could allow herself, just once, to choose the person instead of the principle.

The thought was not noble. She knew it was selfish, and in that moment she felt just how much it was intoxicating her mind. She imagined it with painful clarity: hyperspace swallowing the stars, Dominic waking to find her there, the silence between them heavy but unbroken. She imagined not being the one who left.

Her hand curled into a fist at her side and almost like it had been written in the stars Dominic’s voice rose in her memory, clear and strong as if from his mouth itself.

Always duty.

He had thrown it at her once as an accusation. Right before she had thrown it at him as condemnation. Now however it sounded like a mirror being placed in front of her to observe and judge herself.

The bracer vibrated again, the signal stuttering.

If she boarded this shuttle, she would still be Bastila, but she would be Bastila who had heard the call and chosen not to answer. That realization hollowed her out and for just a moment she hesitated.

She stepped back off the ramp, the very motion felt like ripping something free from her own chest.

“Depart,” she said firmly towards the shuttle crew. Several of the cloned faces of the security detail looked uneasily at each other.

The pilot stared at her. “My Lady, we can spare…”

“That is an order. Take him back and do not stop for anything.” Her voice did not crack, but it did slightly tremble behind the calm authority of someone who had already accepted the cost.

The ramp began to rise.

For a single suspended moment, before it sealed, she allowed herself to look at Dominic one last time. She memorized the way his hand lay slack against the deck. She memorized the stubborn line of his mouth even in unconsciousness. She memorized the fact that he had chosen to wait for her when leaving would have been easier.

“Always Duty,” she whispered, though he could not hear her and with a soft hiss of exhaust steam the ramp sealed shut.

The shuttle lifted, engines screaming as it tore upward into the stained sky. The force of its ascent whipped her hair loose and sent it lashing across her face. She did not move to fix it. She stood there until the ship became a shrinking shape against the clouds and then vanished entirely. Only then did the ache settle fully into her chest, she couldn’t watch any longer.

Her bracer pulsed again, its lack of strength meant the signal was degrading.

Bastila turned away from the empty sky and reignited her saber. Violet light flooded the smoke-filled platform, casting long shadows that stretched behind her like fractures in the ground. “This is Bastila,” she said into her comm, her voice steady despite the quiet devastation beneath it. “Send me coordinates.”

There was no one left on the platform who mattered. The war had not waited for them just like it had not paused for her heartbreak.

As the shuttle disappeared into the sky above her she made sure that she did not look back.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Dominic Praxon | Cue Sibylla Abrantes if needed EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

As he burst forward she did not move, his head tilted until his momentum seemed to slow as he drew nearer. The flames around his body sputtered and flicked off sync. His body shook like an enormous amount of weight was hoisted upon his shoulders. He dropped to one knee as a clawed hand dug into the stone beneath him. A roar as he slowly pushed himself up, bellowed from his chest as he slowly began to fight through the suppression.

Slowly, step by step he began to draw nearer. His breathing was still erratic, still uneven.

He had moved past her as she slipped just beyond him crashing into the building just on the other side with a loud burst of energy and enough force to shake the ground. The weight of the suppression pushed him back down to a knee again. His eye glanced behind him at the mace that he had dropped before.

He glared back at her with his monstrous eye.

“I know exactly who I am!”

His hand shot into the wall by him ripping off a section of stone in his hand. He turned to face her and threw the stone towards her with all of his might in hopes for her to move and break concentration, just for even a split second.

As soon as she would move, or shift any bit of her suppression, his Eye would pulse a molten reddish orange as another yell ripped from his throat, the heat that flowed forth from his eye would be strong enough to melt the duracrete behind her, and cook flesh.

Already he could feel his body tiring out from the strain and the heat. But he held his gaze, the intensity of the prosthetic beginning to burn the flesh around his eye as a scream of pain ripped from him as he yelled.

“DIE!”

His wings flexed, the duracrete below him melted from his proximity, the structural integrity of the nearby building were becoming compromised as the violence and the battle swept over them.

Shade​