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It was a good thing that Mercy was wearing sunglasses.
She pushed them up a touch on her nose and watched with interest as the light incinerated Imperials and Graspborn alike, reducing them to ashes. Some of the Graspborn, however... were more special than even they knew.
A tenth of a tenth kept moving. They refused to die, pushing through irrespective of the punishment heaped upon them. In that crucible of fire and pain, they truly embraced what it meant to follow Mercy and found enough strength to keep going.
"Huh, guess they had it in them after all." Mercy commented lightly before turning to face Da'Razel once more.
Right in time too, because the Prophet once more leaped towards her. Again trying to smash her to pieces with his hammer.
They had done this dance before and it hadn't done any good then. That was the way of the Imperial, she supposed. Try, try again, thinking the next time will be different.
This time Mercy didn't meet him in the air. She withdrew deeper into the palace, forcing him to operate in closer quarters where his reckless style could be turned against the palace itself.
Right before he hit her, Mercy exploded into action. She stepped to the side and inside of his strike. Not fast enough to avoid it entirely, but plenty to wreck the initial intent. Her body shifted within his guard, one hand snapping up towards his throat, the other crashing into his elbow to ruin his swing.
The hammer struck, but met her shoulder rather than her head.
Molten lava burned into her flesh. If Mercy had been a normal person... hell, even a normal Sith Lord, she would have lost half her body in that moment, as lava seared through flesh, muscle, and bone.
But Mercy was Mercy. Even as the pain flared, the flesh of her shoulder bubbled, she cackled in pure unadulterated joy.
"Just as your Master - nothing but a mongrel." Mercy hissed down at him, grinning wildly. In this proximity her strength was beyond parallel. Inevitable, some said. The pain only made her swell with the power of the Dark Side. She had long ago given up on mastering the external aspects of the Force. When Mercy waged war, she didn’t need it.
Over his shoulder she saw two things at once.
The first, most important, was Srina dealing with the reemergence of the reptile. Busy, busy, but it was nice to see her working towards getting her that pair of boots. “It’s hot here, darling,” She growled out to Srina. “Coolus down.”
Bolts of crimson and obsidian lightning slammed into the city, striking the palace spires and skittering across the dense, boiling plumes of the storm. Each impact sent ripples through the Force, the air thick with pressure and dread, as if Coruscant itself were being weighed and found wanting.
Then the second, bolts of crimson obsidian-flecked lightning slammed into the palace spires. Each impact sent ripples through the Force, the air thick with pressure and dread, as if Coruscant itself were being weighed and found wanting.
Mercy smiled as the bolts descended upon them, threatening to destroy them all.
"Someone is a bit sassy today, are we?" Tavi responded with a snort but was mollified by the slight nudge. He didn't like the plan however, didn't like her going first, didn't like the concept of having to 'avenge her with a detonator'. Vesper was a known quality by now, he liked her, the crew liked her too and it meant he didn't have to take the Captain's hat himself.
He liked that even more.
"But aye-aye, Captain. One avenging coming right up." Before she began to climb, his hand gently brushed her wrist. Even if it was through their hazmat suits. "No risks, no heroics, I am going to be right behind you. Two minutes, just as in the past."
The wait itself was excruciating when she disapppeared out on top.
A man of action, Tavi didn't like sitting on his hands, while wanting to do something... anything, really. Which was odd, usually the man didn't mind others putting their neck on the line for him.
This felt different.
He squeezed the handle of his revolver and was about to shift, when the signal come on by. Wait two minutes. Just as they agreed. That felt like even more of an eternity. Enough that after one minute, Tavi cursed, and began to climb upwards. He sped up halfway through the ladder when he suddenly began to hear gunfire, explosions.
Everything.
But the explosions sounded muted. As if they were coming from elsewhere. He didn't realize that this was the different clashes that were happening in front of the palace. Coming closer as Mercy and her band breached the fortification and moved the fight inwards. Luckily, blissfully, the pirates were far away from that danger at least.
Vesper was leaning against the wall on the opposite end of the room from the ladder entrance, the door cracked so she could peek out and listen. All she could hear, buried within layers and layers of palace walls and corridors and chambers, was distant and far away din. A storm approaching.
"Here," she called quietly. "Coast is clear so far. Something happening out there. Maybe keeping everyone in here busy. Call the men."
Vesper beckoned Tavi over and keyed the door shut. "Let's see the map again. Where are we?"
Her eyes flicked over the holographic map, her eyes glinting vivid cyan. "Looks like we're in the basement levels. Maybe -- used to be attendants' quarters? Who knows what it's for now that it's an Imperial Palace. Maybe leave a couple men down here to search. Maybe they keep the good stuff down here when it's not in use?"
She crossed the room, close to the ladder, and busied herself stripping out of her hazmat suit, trying to ignore the vaguely offensive smell that assaulted her the moment she unsealed her faceplate. "Ugh. Better get some good void-damned loot from this place. Going to take hundreds of credits to get my sinuses replaced. Yech." Vesper glanced at the map. "You ready to get moving, Tavi? Just keep climbing til we see anything expensive."
The lizard-man (Krasskorr the Maw
) absorbed her sonic attack meant for the Firedancer (Da'Razel
) as if it were nothing more than a troublesome breeze. Well, at the very least, a punchy, troublesome breeze. It was interesting because moments before, this Faithless, had been tossed around like a ragdoll by a very similar attack. Metallic eyes narrowed, and her head cocked to the side while he slid back a few inches, seeming increasingly perturbed by her presence.
He was a foolish thing that should have stayed down.
Had he gone deaf when Mercy
dropped from the Siegemother and into the Imperial Courtyard? It was filled with might provided by the Dark Side, and were she not who she was…The reptile would have been a sight to behold. She could imagine that the everyday civilian ran from him, that even trained Imperial Elite, respected him for fear of becoming lunch or a chew toy. He was likely used to weaklings, cowering.
Srina was the furthest thing from that.
So. Had he learned? Had he somehow adapted since he had witnessed her sonic attack before? That would have been a curious, interesting, turn of events. From barely being able to walk toward her to acting as her equal…It was one incredibly fortuitous biological imperative. Her attention snapped side just in time for the world to be swallowed by light, unholy, but blinding all the same. She could only assume that the burst of illumination came from the Firedancer (Da'Razel
) and it only took a split second to realize that the light…Wasn’t just for show.
She folded inward, and the Force locked around her core while a small, innocuous ring, flared to life. The pale woman could feel Darth Empyrean
when ice skated over her skin in a razor-thin sheath, crystalline, while it swept over her shoulders, ribs, and spine an instant before the heat hit. The semi-automatic protection was gone by the time the light receded, and she stood wreathed in leftover vapor while frost clung stubbornly to her hair and lashes.
It didn’t last. The heat was absolutely relentless and so many Graspborn were wiped out in the literal blink of an eye. Some found their footing but…She couldn’t help but notice their losses while Krasskorr the Maw
didn’t waste any time, charging at her, despite the glassed floor that was unstable from…Well. Everything. Her stance lowered, boots angling for traction that barely existed, the crimson of her lightsaber rising just in time to catch the first overhead cleave before it could take her head. The impact rang through her arms, and pressure from the attacks crashed down on her in heavy, grinding blows, one right after the other.
There didn’t seem to be much thought behind it other than the need to bury her as swiftly as possible. Each strike came with his full mass behind it. She let herself give ground, not back, but down with a half-step shift that had her saber angle just enough to bleed force sideways rather than meeting the lizard head on. Sparks and plasma fought as blade met blade, heat, from the lightsaber club roaring close enough to blister skin. One misjudged angle and he could have cut cleanly through her. Just one. Thankfully…
Her birthright made her more than formidable. She slipped inside his next swing using her smaller frame wisely, while his bulk, betrayed him. Srina twisted beneath the arc of his blade with her armored shoulder brushing heat as she turned his momentum past her. Her lightsaber snapped up in a tight counter, which would force him to back away, become a contortionist, or accept the drag of her weapon through his guard.
The first, most important, was Srina dealing with the reemergence of the reptile. Busy, busy, but it was nice to see her working towards getting her that pair of boots. “It’s hot here, darling,” She growled out to Srina. “Coolus down.”
Srina would have kept harassing the reptile, but the call from Mercy
was a rarity. It was not a request for assistance, but it was as close to it as the Warlord would likely ever get. Still...The ask had been made, which caused her to change gears and break contact immediately. She kicked off the unstable floor and flipped backward into an open space, away from Lord Reptile, body twisting, while her free hand came down and the ring answered her fully this time.
Sronias screamed. Not sonic, not deafening…But it was impossible to ignore.
Cold detonated outward in a violent surge, the temperature collapsing so fast that the foundation of the Imperial Palace gave an audible crack. Her feet touched the ground, and so did her hand…And from that touch, from the ring, bloomed jagged crystalline growths that surged into existence, where they didn’t belong, from nothing. As she poured her energy into it, she became aware of the sound of thunder in the distance…But she did not stop. Her attack did not form gently, even though her every move had seemed delicate. Ice impaled itself up and forward, spearing across the slagged floor toward Krasskorr the Maw
in a fan of pale crags, thick as speeders, sharp like broken glass.
Every edge that caught an enemy would seek to slow them, freeze, and or immobilize them.
It rode the corridor of heat that Da'Razel
had left behind, ice tearing through super-heated air, not merely an element, but imbued to be stronger than duracrete. She let the wave slam into the space where the Firedancer and Mercy
fought without thought. If it worked as intended and landed on the man the Warlord was trying to hold hostage…Mercy would not be spared. Most of her abilities were not so selective, violent, in the purest form. Chaotic.
Nothing would spare Mercy from this cold, this pain, unless she got the hell out of the way.
But…She’d asked for it.
Srina straightened up just in time to receive the intrusion from the being that was wrapped around her daughter like some twisted, ghostly symbiote. It showed her things that were likely meant to break her, somehow, meant to curb the strength that she had in herself. The Empress chanced a glance toward her surroundings, where telltale red lightning crashed down around them. She could smell the ozone—
Her response was firm, unshaken, while beyond the horror, she sensed the thread that had bound her to Quinn Varanin
from the moment she watched her learn to crawl. She would not be undone by a ghost. No. Her daughter—belonged to her.
Krasskorr felt the momentum of his Djem So Lightsaber Form meeting the stubborn resistance of her blade. Her movements were almost eerie, as the empress chose not to confront his strength directly but instead flowed around him, slipping inside his defenses to demonstrate that size didn't always equate to superiority in lightsaber duels.
The heat radiating from her crimson blade hissed mere inches from his snout as she executed a parry in a seamless motion. Krasskorr felt the sharp sting of her counterattack leave a shallow yet excruciating mark across his armored ribs, just below his arm-guard, It wasn't a killing blow, but it was excruciating, the scent of his own charred scales filling his nostrils as he was forced to fall back across the uneven terrain.
This moment of vulnerability allowed his opponent to leap backward to respond to Mercy
's call; he had no time to press forward as he sensed the temperature in the corridor drop significantly, only overshadowed in his thoughts by the sound of crimson streaks of lightning crashing through the palace from Quinn Varanin
's force storm above.
He saw the power of Sronias manifest as sharp, crystalline ice-cags burst forth from the ground, a strike clearly aimed at encasing him in ice and ending their brief confrontation before it could even start. Krasskorr slammed his armored foot into the already shattered marble. Chasing the Force into the floor, he tore a massive slab of duracrete and reinforced stone upward.
The ground groaned as a three-meter section of flooring rose like a jagged shield. The ice slammed into the improvised barrier with the sound of a thousand shattering windows, the force of the impact vibrating through Krasskorr's very bones.
Crouched in the shadow of the groaning stone shield, his breath coming in ragged, bloody breaths. The dull, throbbing ache of his punctured thigh and the searing burn on his flank seemed to dig even deeper. The ice wave subsided, leaving the air brittle.
Krasskorr braced his massive shoulder against the duracrete and kicked. The frozen multi-ton slab, propelled by his mass went hurtling through the haze toward Srina Talon
like a blunt-force projectile. He didn't wait to see it impact. Instead gathering the force around him and launched himself right behind the flying wreckage, his lightclub held low and hissing.
Summary: Krasskorr kicks a massive slab towards Srina Talon
.
Arris was brought into the control room. Eurydice, too, if she was not careful, would be seized and thrown in next.
Meliant, Hasuras-na Amoun, was waiting for them, seated on the holo-table he had previously been pouring over: marvelous ill-favored in his golden armor and red cloak, with an indifferent face sculpted into his ornate helmet. He was anything but indifferent, though. The Dark Side radiated faintly from him, tainted with bitter resolve and self-loathing.
"I understand the feeling of being homesick, believe me, I do." Mercy said with a measure of sympathy.
"However, in all of this, I have not heard you say it even once. I need the words, Mal, I need to hear that you are on my side. That you are my pal, my buddy. My... partner and eager to do your part."
She patted the crate next to her.
"My friends get presents, you know. One of them got a kingdom, another got an Empire. That's what I do for people who align with me."
"Rude of you to leave your friend, Arris," Amoun said faintly, indicating Eurydice with a slight lift of a golden finger. "No matter. Let's have a little chat, us three."
He sounded only a little defeated - a man who had lost a key battle in a war with himself. "Darth Solipsis shared his wisdom at that conclave of yours. Church chroniclers told us the important parts later. There's one quote I've been thinking about…"
Amoun cast his empty eyes upwards, to the dark ceiling, and intoned the words with mocking reverence.
He looked back at them, pausing as if to wait for laughter. "Ironic, isn't it? He shamed the old lords for their sick nostalgia… Then cultivated a following so sheepishly bound to his memory, they'd rather die than dare grow beyond it."
Even now one of them sat in the bowels of the palace, conjuring a phantom Emperor to whip up a final, desperate defense. It was puerile. Contempt could not even begin to describe Amoun's feelings on the matter.
Against all evidence of their senses, the powerbrokers of the Empire had assumed Amoun was as hopelessly enamored to memory as they were. They had let him into this sacred place...
And now, he would hollow them out. This was the way of the Sith.
It was nice, in a way, to get this all off his chest.
"Well. That's all I have to say. Here's to something new." Amoun sighed and looked out to his command staff. "Purge the palace of any assets not under my command. Have the hypervelocity cannons target the Mawite flagship. Fire when ready."
Did the staff in his command center have doubts? Of course. They were all nominally loyal Imperials. But what truly guided them was subservience to power. And power, real power, required presence. Proximity.
Amoun was here. His soldiers were here. And the Emperor was so very, very far away.
They did exactly as he bid them.
------
Shannic Wulf
The shock troopers of the 551st entered the Grand Vizier's command center suddenly. Two of them hefted up heavy repeating blasters and sprayed into her staff indiscriminately. They were eventually joined by a few more of their fellows, who lobbed thermal detonators at any pieces of cover that might have been found.
When the dust cleared, several of them would enter to finish off any survivors. No prisoners were desired - not even Shannic herself.
Remowa
The doors behind Remowa would slide open just long enough for a few thermal detonators to be flung inside. Amoun's shock troopers would then shut them again, waiting a few moments after the explosion before entering.
If any dust lingered, they would saturate the area with blaster bolts before moving in to confirm her death.
Indeed, reinforcements eventually came. When the last of the cultists and the royal guard, the sovereign protectors, had finally been winnowed to a manageable number… The soldiers of the 551st Legion appeared to brave the flames. Kept in reserve for so long, their armor was spotless, their resolve fresh.
But at the remote command of their Tribunes, it was the remaining forces of the Empire they opened fire upon. Every weapon the 551st had at their disposal was put to the task of snuffing out the Karsta Raka once and for all.
They did not bother to target the Saint of Fire himself. When titans clash with titans, it is better to let them sort it out.
Krasskorr, on the other hand, was only a beast. Amoun's soldiers dispensed for him a withering storm of high-powered blaster bolts.
------
Amoun rolled his neck around and stood slowly. "There. It's finished. Now all I have to do is let the battle run its course, and I'll have my prize."
The Fate of Coruscant The Chiss Woman vol. 1 |:|Issue #2: Defending the Capital w/Quinn Varanin
( Eventually )
The stone under Remowa's knees creaked as she attempted to grasp the Nexus; each time, the phobis core wrenched it from her grasp, leaving her nerves frayed and howling as she struggled to manage her own fear and channel the meditation necessary to triumph over the invaders attacking the Emperor's territory on Coruscant.
"I should have practiced my sorcery before coming down here," Remowa spat, the words emerging through the dark blood that now stained her chin. Her concentration resembled a fracturing mirror as she compelled the image of Darth Solipsis into the minds of the defenders, yet the backlash was excruciating. She wasn't just trying to project a shadow, she was holding back a hurricane of fear and madness with her own increasingly cold hands.
Then, the sky above Coruscant broke.
Even deep beneath the crust, Remowa felt the shift. The Force Storm summoned by Quinn Varanin
didn't just strike the surface, but tore through the rigid foundations of the palace. A jagged, red bolt of crimson lighting aced through the palace's conduits seeking the path of least resistance. It slammed into the shrine's vaulted ceilings, snaking down before striking the central altar with a deafening crack.
The dischrge threw Remowa backward. The discharge threw Remowa backward. Her body hit the stone floor, her blue skin crackling with static. For a heartbeat, the connection to the Battle Meditation severed. The silence in her mind was a vacuum, terrifying and absolute.
The doors to the shrine hissed open.
Remowa's head snapped toward the sound, her vision swimming. She expected the 551st to report their status, to stand as the wall between her and the invaders. Instead, two metallic spheres clattered across the floor, spinning toward her with a predatory hiss in the form of Thermal Detonators.
In that microsecond, the betrayal tasted more bitter than the blood in her mouth. Hasuras Na-Amoun
was the traitor within their midst, now validated through violence; however, no one had taken notice of his scheme but perhaps his role in the conflict would be rendered insignificance. Coruscant would not fall due to treachery within, certainly not from the likes of the man who couldn't defend Chandrila.
She didn't have time for a refined defense. Driven by a surge of pure, jagged survival instinct, Remowa didn't reach for the Force; she let the rampant, chaotic energy of the Storm still humming in her marrow explode outward. She threw her hand toward the grenades, not to push them, but to ignite them prematurely.
BOOM.
The explosion was a wall of fire and shrapnel. Remowa was shielded only by a frantic, shimmering bubble of Dark Side energy that she held with both hands, her teeth bared in a feral snarl. The blast threw her back against the altar, the stone cracking behind her head. Through the smoke, the shock troopers stepped in. Their blasters were raised, the muzzles glowing with the intent to saturate every inch of the room.
They weren't looking for a conversation; they were here to confirm a kill. Remowa pushed herself up, her movements no longer jerky, but fueled by a cold clarity. The betrayal had done what the nightmares could not, it had given her a focus point for her rage.
"If you wanted to kill a girl, you should have packed a bigger blaster." She hissed, channeling her fury into a single oppressive sphere of Crush Opposition, sapping their will power in an instant as their blasters were lowered then dropped. They were still alive but unable to oppose her any longer.
"Old Fool Meliant, how about I give you a taste of what I've been feeling down here." Her hands made contact with the fractured altar, albeit briefly. Channeling the power of the phobis core amassed within her being, she directed it towards Hasuras Na-Amoun
, manifesting as a blazing specter of the Galactic Emperor, the very Emperor he has now betrayed.
"Oh dear Meliant, the betrayal you have shown today will not result in the defeat of my Empire. Instead it brings me immense satisfaction to witness that you have emulated my path so perfectly. From my tenure as Senator of Epoch, to the Dark Voice of the Maw, and now as the Galactic Emperor. Everything you have accomplished, I have done it first and all that you will ever achieve, is merely a reiteration of another's existence. "
IMPERIAL BATTLE MEDITATION DEACTIVATED APPLIES TO ALL** PARTICIPANTS ON ALL OBJECTIVES - EFFECT AND REACH AMPLIFIED BY THE PALACE NEXUS
Arris stepped inside the Control Room, where Meliant greeted her. Her fingers slowly released their visegrip on the revolver. She glanced over her shoulder when Meliant mentioned their unexpected guest. The Talusian hadn't known who Eurydice was, but she came in with Mercy, so that alone was enough.
"Don't touch anything," she commanded softly. It felt silly, as that was the first time Arris ever treated an acolyte for what they were.
The cyborg circled the room, her eyes on the various readouts and displays. Meliant's mockery of Solipsis earned a sideglance. She thought back to Chandrila, her once and only experience fighting the Emperor's famed Dark Side Elite. She recalled crawling atop the poor woman and forcing her to use her lightsaber for its intended purpose.
"They're soldiers," Arris muttered - summarizing what she thought of them all so succinctly. Following orders eased their inability to see themselves as people.
Despite the calmness in her voice, Arris still radiated Hatred.
Arris had prepared for this moment. She studied recordings of the Emperor's speech from when his Empire took Corsucant. His words at the Conclave. Even on the Death Star, when he opened his doors. She believed she had the cadence, the tone, his curtness, and cold vanity down to the letter. It helped that her speech was entirely implant-controlled and could emulate others to near perfection.
BENEATH THE CITY {WARPOSTING/ISB COUNTER-INSURGENCY) IV
B L O O D H O U N D
G H O U L |K A R S E R E S| B R E A K E R
THE HIGH FLATS, SUB-DISTRICT4, IMPERIAL CENTER, CORUSCANT (904ABY)
'Indeed it is, Khamul.... Such a shame our foes can't see it yet, but they will.'
The rallying cry was working, and with the Mandalorians having met the Mawsworn heavy-hitters at the meeting-place of Barran's choosing, the only ones still yet to arrive were the Hellions; however, the growing agglomeration would not be kept waiting for long, and when the Sith Pureblood appeared with his mercenaries, the one-eyed Woad could not help but smile at the sight of a rival he trusted to maintain his power. This was given great consideration on the Khan's singular return to his own collective, hoping, for once, that the Marshall Commander was still as tough as ever, as many years had passed since their last encounter on Mustafar.
'Before you say it, Jas; yes! Our rivalry is still on, an' yes, I also would clear the board for another clash in the future - your safe conduct is assured! An' so-'
Whether he trusted Khamul over Jas held no consequence here, and for that matter, nor would it, not in any other warfighting collaboration of the sort. Survival would take precedence beyond that point, and with enemies of ill repute assailing Coruscant, the realm, and the Khanate alike, Barran would work with Katis to clear the board of obstructions, regardless of however long it would take. Thus the cursory, respectful nod would be extended to the Hellions' commander all the same, as it would to all who walked up the street to rally on the Khan's position as he exclaimed,'Welcome all... Welcome, ye braves! All will have ears to hear me for this one, rest assured. Come ye Mandos an' Mercs, Marauders an' Keshigs alike - gather beneath the overpass for our plan of attack!', a welcoming presence for all who still had second thoughts about this gathering.
'Old enmities have once again surfaced in the Galaxy, an' the Epicanthine menace wishes to devour the corpses of yesteryear's struggles, like carrion birds, circling overhead as they await the sparrowhawk's demise.... Well, I'll be havin' NONE o' that today - YOU HEAR ME?!?!'
With an almighty grunt, the one-eyed Woad unsheathed his Chantress for all to see, letting everyone bear witness as the Songsteel Dragonslayer scraped out into the open, a display of resolve to all who understood this gesture from yesteryear. Raising the overgrown Greatsword overhead, the Khan would let it glint and gleam with his power for a moment, then he eventually rested it on his right shoulder so he could continue,'So I, hereby, declare my intent to break the siege on the Imperial Palace! I WANT TO MAKE THE COVENANT FLINCH!!!!', to the raucous, bellowing approval of all the lower-ranked warriors beneath the overpass with him.
'RALLY THE MOBS, RALLY THE TROOPERS - RALLY THE WARRIORS!!!! AN' LET US FIGHT OUR WAY TO THEIR SIEGE LINES, TOGETHER - AS ONE!!!!'
As the Bloodhound raised his sword overhead once more, his posture would turn to gesture comradeship with Kryze, then across to Katis in quick, short order, roaring,'THE GOIDEL, THE MANDALORIAN, AND THE PUREBLOOD - ALL THREE WILL CARRY THIS DAY!!!! WITH ME, BROTHERS!!!!', before running northward without warning. Leading by example, leading from the front, exactly the way they fought in the previous century; and with zealous warriors following without prompt or nudge, swarming north with the one-eyed Woad, it would not be long before his legendary contemporaries join the attack.
No more would the Khanate contingent elude their enemies, and with air-to-ground bombardments lessening to noticeable extreme, Barran, Katis and Kryze had a freedom of movement they initially lacked at the start of the assault; and with that same amplification of mobility, the newly-grown agglomeration could strike all the more quickly at their desired targets, especially with hindrances between objectives diminishing to a new, and still-descending low. Much worse for those who remained to slow their advance, as there would be more than scions of Yesteryear's Trinity to face by then, and with the local Coruscanti element still rallying to their defenders, more yet still would step forth to fire upon the planet's assailants.
Two soldiers grasped Eurydice by either shoulder and ushered the trembling acolyte further into the chamber. Which was nice, because her legs had forgotten how to move on their own.
Still, it felt like an overkill.
Arris told her not to touch anything, to which Eurydice gave the woman the saddest, most wide-eyed expression she'd likely ever seen in her life.
Amoun lifted a finger in her direction, and the girl froze. Why were they acting so nonchalant? He clearly knew the blonde, but to what extent?
What had she gotten herself into?
Throughout it all - the recollection of the conclave she'd fled from, Amoun's heel turn against the Empire - Eurydice remained blessedly silent, trying to process mountains of unfamiliar information, and perhaps envisioning her own death.
Then Arris turned toward the trembling husk of a girl, and spoke. Eurydice's mouth fell open.
"Wha…you…."she gaped, unable to get over how Arris's feminine cadence had shifted into Solipsis' grizzled drawl. Between this, and the flickering visage in her head…
"H-How many of him are there?"came her whispered dismay.
Ever obedient to the whims of others, Eurydice lifted the sweeping skirt of her robe and scampered awkwardly behind Arris.
"Wh-what do you want?!" she wailed, having had her fill of invasive voices for one day. Oh, this had been a mistake. The girl had not been built for war, and she didn't imagine that enough exposure would fix that. "I don't know who that is!"
Tavi did as he was told, since it allowed him to turn away for the signal, making sure that Vesper wouldn't see the relief on his face. That she was okay, safe and secure.
The idea of having to be Captain certainly put the fear of the heavens in him.
"Might be, yeah..." Turning on the map for her as requested while they waited for the others to file into the room. It was cramped by the time everyone was there. But that wouldn't be for long and they didn't want to take any risks. "We should take this route here, see? Says here those were old storage facilities. If they didn't do a complete remodel... they might still be used for that."
A big chief Emperor like Solipsis probably got a lot of tribute.
Not all of that would be above. Some of it was too big, or too heavy, or too much even for a Dark Lord of the Sith. And they wouldn't throw it away... so maybe they had to store it down deep.
"Do we uh..." As he signaled to some of the men to stay behind, making sure their exit path was secure, if they needed to beat a hasty retreat. "Do we need to do something to assist the flamed-hair maniac?"
Another explosion rocked after his words.
"...or do you think she got this without us?"
Tavi wasn't sure exactly what the discussion had been between Vesper and Mercy. His Captain hadn't been that interested in divulging the details.
Others filed out, to start mapping the actual corridors with the maps. It should still be up to date, but who knew. Tavi nodded. "Aye, Cap. Ready to go." But he was still wondering if they shouldn't do something other than loot. Would the maniac go psycho on them if they just stole everything that wasn't hammered down and left again?
Tavi took point this time, after Vesper had done so last time.
Climbing up, until their were corridors to explore.
Indeed, reinforcements eventually came. When the last of the cultists and the royal guard, the sovereign protectors, had finally been winnowed to a manageable number… The soldiers of the 551st Legion appeared to brave the flames. Kept in reserve for so long, their armor was spotless, their resolve fresh.
But at the remote command of their Tribunes, it was the remaining forces of the Empire they opened fire upon. Every weapon the 551st had at their disposal was put to the task of snuffing out the Karsta Raka once and for all.
They did not bother to target the Saint of Fire himself. When titans clash with titans, it is better to let them sort it out.
Krasskorr, on the other hand, was only a beast. Amoun's soldiers dispensed for him a withering storm of high-powered blaster bolts.
The 551st Legion opened fire, aiming to eviscerate the Karsta Raka, and they found themselves assisted by the Graspborn remnant that had survived being burned alive, somehow still going, just as their Master. They fell upon the fire cultists with animal ferocity.
"Treachery in your ranks," Mercy hissed gleefully as Srina's magic caused the air itself to vibrate in frost, smothering the heat that had been burning Mercy to the core. Her arm, golden and terrible, was left with layers of hardened magma. "You fight for nothing and you will die being nothing."
Her arm writhed unnaturally and began to reshape itself, solidifying into a brutal spear. She launched herself forward, aiming to run Da'Raziel through and put an end to the bout.
Then she noticed it. Srina... distracted? No, occupied with something else, leaving her open to Krasskorr. The reptile was being attacked by Amoun's Legion, but the boulder was already in flight.
Mercy's frame exploded into even more violent activity. She broke away from Da'Raziel, stabbed or not, jumping and landing hard just in front of the Empress.
Rather than the Empress, the boulder (and the crocodile behind it) would find Mercy... unamused. Allowing the boulder to smash to pieces against into her body, she slid back nearly a quarter of an inch with the force of it. She did not even flinch as jagged duracrete fragments lacerated her flesh and shredded her armor.
Mercy paused a moment to fix Krasskorr with a baleful stare. Then she launched forward, arm swinging to bash him right across the snout.
When the Sith transport struck the Temple, it pierced deep into the main hall. Controlled detonations sent pieces of the transport careening in every direction, settling alight anything that was even remotely flammable. The center fuselage alone survived, having been meticulously reinforced for such a maneuver. It embedded itself into a steep gouge in the floor, created by its sudden and violent stop.
Dozens of Sith poured out in a vicious mass as the bulkheads popped open, miniature explosions rocketing the hinges off the reinforced doors in loud, staccato pops. He was among the first through the breach, those unfortunate enough to not fully earn the trust of the Dark Lord made to weather the initial fire of this new war.
Fortunately, his skill had been enough to survive. He'd cut down several Jedi by this point, mostly knights and padawans, the weakest of the Order who'd been caught unaware by the sudden attack. The Masters were elsewhere, preoccupied. This had been by design, for unbeknownst to the Jedi and even most of the Sith…
The Jedi Order had been betrayed.
Even Vornskr himself did not know, the One Sith did not trust him yet. In time that would change, and in time he would outgrow them to become the most powerful Dark Lord in living memory. But that destiny had not yet come to pass. In the present of Vornskr, he was being judged by those who had severed the chains of his bondage. He had no choice but to appease them, to play into their hands and be the blade by which they carved out the Jedi's heart.
Hound of the Sith, collared and leashed.
Even so, Vornskr had his own ambitions. He did not forget Mon Cala, he would never forget such humiliation. Reaching out with his senses, he could feel her near. His fingers curled into a clenched fist, buckling the chestplates of several Republic soldiers as they rounded on him. They died in choking sputters, writhing on the ground as their ribcages were crushed to powder.
The next group he cut down with his blade, breaking their formation and scattering them before finishing each off with a well-placed thrust. As he yanked his blade free of the last soldier, he raised his head to look at his surroundings.
Fury laced each word as he spoke, "No use hiding," the growl reverberated in his bones, "I will find you soon enough."
Suddenly, he was running. His body moved more on instinct than conscious thought, the Dark Side guiding him. As he pivoted around the corner, he came face-to-face with the object of his intense ire. Wasting no time, sparing no words, he flung his hand forward and tore the corridor to ribbons with a wave of the Force. Anything not anchored down was violently ripped away, flung at hypersonic speeds towards a lone woman who had just now turned her head to look at him.
Raising both arms, she met his fury head-on.
And deflected it away.
"Foolish," spoke Daella Apparine as she straightened, her blue eyes sparkling with resolve. "Is vengeance important enough to go this far out of your way?"
Indeed, He was a great deal out of His way.
Smoke billowed and caressed about His form like a shroud, one He dispersed with a meager wave of His hand. He glanced up at the Imperial Palace, similarly smoldering like the Temple had all those decades ago, before looking down at the dead near His feet. But the dead around Him were neither Jedi nor Republic soldiers, but Royal Guard and Stormtrooper. He pressed His boot against the fallen helmet of one such Stormtrooper, and watched as the plastoid shell buckled and cracked beneath the pressure.
Most of the adjacent court had been cleared, the Blackblades had methodically swept up whatever resistance yet lingered and put them all to the sword. As zealous as the Faithless might have been in their final hour, they were no match for the carefully cultivated brutality and thoroughness of the Blackblades; a cultivation that had taken more than half a century to see ripen.
By now, His forces had linked up with elements of the Covenant that had been put into play. Whatever power He felt lurking at the edge of the battle had dissipated, and He could sense that this had not been the time to confront it. He could also sense a sudden shift in the Force, a darkening slashed through with shock, betrayal, and rage. His eyes once more drank in the sight of the Palace, and His hand reflexively reached up towards His breastplate; feeling the beating of a heart that was not His own, so distant and yet so near.
Around Him, the nine Valkyries waited in quiet patience. Darth Isolda was lost in thought, no doubt discerning the spiraling pathways of the future as it unfolded. This lull in the fight had been foreseen as well, as what was to come next. The Dark Lord had prepared for many eventualities, setting in motion overlapping contingencies dependent on the flow and outcome of a hundred different potentials. Much of them had unfolded as anticipated, while others had failed to materialize and many more had simply gone down different paths.
"Supreme Excellency."
The husky voice of one of the Valkyries intruded upon the silence, the Dark Lord turning His sight to fall upon her fair countenance. Behind her were a small cadre of lithe recon units, all of them kneeling in His presence and averting their gaze entirely. He too had seen this vision, Isolda had shown it to Him.
"They are advancing, as the Prophet saith."
Then it was time. "Send word to the Mornskarrs, inform them that their moment has come. All Blackblades will turn about and fall into the foretold position. The killing field has been well prepared."
Sometime after the Dark Lord's forces had first established their anchor point, efforts had been made to secure an aerial corridor so that the transfer of heavier equipment could be made without overwhelming risk of loss. Chief among them were two groups of Mornskarr-class Sith Gunships, the latest in bleeding edge Kainate technology. Since their arrival, they'd been waiting under sufficient cover until the order to finally unleash them had been given.
In total, sixteen gunships rose up from their hiding spots. They nimbly weaved their way through the broken Coruscant cityscape, the full lay of the land projected in real-time on a holographic holotank within each gunship. They knew exactly where they were in relation to both their Blackblade allies and their Faithless enemies, and could seamlessly coordinate with ground forces.
They would come from intersecting angles, one group strafing from the right, the other from the left. Advanced gyroscopic and navigation sensors ensured that each group could pass through one another without collision, overlapping their volleys with seamless precision and intensity.
All of that harried their advance towards the Covenant's rear siege lines, while the Blackblades had set themselves up to meet the enemy with entrenched positions and heavy weapons. Darth Carnifex would be absent from this, however. He turned towards the Palace and, feeling the echoes of the past tug at His memories, walked towards it.
About him shifted the primeval tides of war like an ocean of blood.
Bolters blared like a furious murder of crows.
Vibroblades shrieked against plastoid armor plates, grinding through it and flesh alike.
Hypercannon salvos roared wrathful echoes into the gore-colored heavens, each detonation tearing fresh wounds across the burning sky.
The god of death walked among them. Step by step he moved, for so full was his burden, so many died at once. Next to one another. Beside one another. Together.
Dreams perished in the forever void. Aspirations for greatness, cut down. Faith, righteous, known, eager convictions, executed. Beheaded.
The galaxy burned. This world burned. The palace burned.
And within the breach, the pounding heart of the battlefield, waged war the Saint of Fire.
Two massive figures locked in a crucible of power and strength, neither yielding, neither relenting.
The Kotjontû had found purchase in the War-Titan's shoulder, its jagged Barab shears buried deep in flesh that should not have held together, eager to sink its jagged fangs into her impossible form with each further bite.
Above them, the sky tore open to reveal its gory guts.
Crimson lightning lanced down from the roiling storm-mass that had been gathered over the metropolis. Obsidian-flecked bolts of nexus-fed dark energy struck the palace spires, shattering ancient stone and sending molten debris cascading into the infinete levels below.
Each blast sent ripples through the Force itself, for this storm was not natural. It was summoned*,* a thing of will and hatred given meteorological form, and it beat the battlefield in strobing flashes of arterial red.
With every heartbeat, the Saint and the Warlord shared their battle burns brighter in a fireburst of violence.
The ground beneath fractured, marble vaporized to reveal the superheated duracrete layers beneath. Multiple strata glowed the color of forge-coals, glaring up at them with malevolent heat.
The rupturing noise, the death screams of air burning, devoured, fed upon. The fire knew no mercy. Pure, gluttonous feeding frenzy, the crater in which the two colossi grappled turned into a smelting core.
Da'Razel had no eyes for anything that did not concern this conflct.
This destined duel.
His essence had melted to a single slit of purpose, a burning aperture that sought nothing but this fight in which to shine brightest, to become a greater star, a light seen lightyears away, for millennia to come. Eternal.
He had no ears to hear the surprised, shrieked screams of his Karsta Raka.
Befallen from behind.
The cultists had nothing in common with the common trooper of the Legions, but held no feud with them either. They had never anticipated treachery from brothers-in-arms.
Ixel and Ellena, two young cultists recently elevated into the order, their faith still stark but untested, fell before they could even comprehend the betrayal. Bolts punched through their backs, dropped them face-first into the burning stone.
A mercy, perhaps, upon their damned souls. They died believing.
The Green Wards, towering automata that had stood sentinel alongside the faithful, turned their guns upon the treacherous opposition. Photoreceptors flickered with cold machine logic as targeting arrays shifted, and heavy repeater fire ripped into the 551st's pristine ranks.
But machines held no divine mandate.
A concentrated salvo tore through the rear chassis of the foremost Ward, that ruptured its power core. The automaton erupted in a cascade of fire and shrapnel, its death-scream a mechanical howl that echoed into the breach.
The second Ward maintained fire, its repeater cannons cycling hot as it swept the traitor positions.
Khra'von, the bullwark among the patrons, a man whose faith was armored in ceramite and conviction, led a ravaging charge into the gates from which the blaster-fire poured. Black-armored silhouettes committed treason among their fellow man, and Khra'von would answer treachery with fury.
His advance cost the lives of dozens and more before the sheer crushing force of the onslaught, bolt after bolt after bolt, punctured his armor and ruined his form. He collapsed to the side and died with a curse on his lips and fire in his heart.
Tú, the oldest member among their congregation, did not fear as death laid its wretched grasp over his shoulders.
The old hermit stood amidst the crackling flames, wreathed in them like a mantle of prophecy fulfilled. He bore witness to the combat of the god-figures his religion had venerated, the Gods and deities whom Tú himself had worshipped since his first breath.
And standing as a radiant and resplendent source of faith was his Saint, a sentinel against what he knew to be the infinite darkness. Curtains lifted behind that tapestry of fate, and he warred for their prophecy fulfilled.
Tú was as prideful as an old man could be as he strode past death's door, beginning that journey into the unknown. He went well.
Much unlike Rael Orvax, the most faithful among the Karsta Raka, who had stood with his brother in arms as two decades past.
For almost twenty years he had followed the Saint, since that day upon the Gehinnom when a Devaronian boy had combusted into holy flame and seared the Mawite savages who sought them ill.
Rael Orvax had traveled far, waged war across a dozen planets with his oldest comrade. His scythe was a furious storm of blows as his armor pinged to the drumming of bolter-fire. He would not falter. Could not fall. Should not die here, not to treachery, not to this…
A bolt found his throat. And he fell.
Da'Razel had no words to mourn his dead.
No prayers for their passing souls. No wishes for safe passage, no guarantees of absolution before their God-Emperor. No curses to lay upon the oathbreaker. No vows of revenge to swear. No hatred to share with the hated. No chance to declare a timeless vendetta upon the traitor Hasuras Na-Amoun
Da'Razel only had war.
Da'Razel only had fire.
The Furnace's servos whirred with an uncharacteristic coughing, stressed beyond tolerances, pushed past breaking by the demands of this duel. The searing ultraviolet glow that wreathed his armor shifted, deepening, brightening, until it became a pure white gleaming. A brilliant shining surface like liquid mirror.
Sronias screamed its fury across the battlefield, jagged crystalline growths erupting from the Echani witch's touch, ice-spears thick as speeders surging toward him in a fan of pale crags. They rode the corridor of heat he had left behind, impossible cold tearing through superheated air.
Then the Warlord Mercy broke from their embrace.
Her hand became a gruesome mass, a substance that was not flesh, reshaping into a golden lance of terrible malice. She surged forward without regard, aiming to run him through and end their bout.
A ritual conducted in that cathedral of annihilation, where a billion souls had screamed their final agonies into the void. A being born of impossibility, nourished on pain and suffering, grown fat on the torment of Atrisia's burning civilisation.
A being that turned heat and anger and pain into pure pyre, a living hellfire of the cosmos.
Zherach answered its master's call.
It had always been there, coiled around the molten core that beat beneath his armor, beneath the flesh. Now it erupted.
A titan of pure flame towered over the battlefield, summoned from the heat-sink of bleeding emotion and storming inferno. It grew into shape, the demon-spawn mirroring the form it had come to understand, to imitate, to learn from. A giant humanoid torso. Arms. Hands. A head that stared down upon the writhing battlefield with no eyes. No mouth. No expression.
A cosmic judgment with an empty visage.
Its vast, glowing infernal hands grasped outward, reaching for Srina Talon
the Empress of Ice. The crystalline spears met its licking flames and died. Glinting aquamarine shards vaporized into hissing plumes of superheated smoke.
The hand of a god, swatting at a fly.
The Zherach loomed over the battlefield, and its empty skull-face turned toward the pale witch who had dared bring winter to this ethereal landscape of flames.
He allowed the blow. Absorbed her momentum. And pulled the titan toward him.
Her golden spear-arm punched through gaps in the Furnace's plating, through the bodyglove beneath, into flesh that should have screamed but only burned hotter. Da'Razel's armored gauntlets closing around her wrist, her forearm, his grip a forge-vice that would not release.
He aimed to draw her closer still.
His greaves sought to brand her with every touch, ceramite running hot enough to sear through whatever impossible substance comprised her form.
"You speak of nothing," he growled through his helm's vox-grille, the words distorted by static and rage. "You know NOTHING of nothing."
He drove his helm forward, in endless rage.
The headbutt was a physical assault akin to a third strike of his war-hammer, the weapon long discarded, resting by his feet. A skull-bash delivered by a plate helm forged of the same metal that had clad the Death Star III's superlaser housing. Made to endure forces that would unmake worlds. Made to a battering ram.
The impact would ring like a temple bell across the crater, as he sought to rid the galaxy of her face, to unmake that mocking golden countenance that had brought havoc to the heart of his god's domain.
"YOUR COVENANT WILL BURN," he roared madly, each word a primal promise. "YOUR EMPRESS WILL BURN. YOUR EMPIRE WILL BURN. AND YOU..."
His grip would tighten, seeking to pulling her closer still, refusing to let her break away to aid her precious Echani.
"...WILL BURN."
Karsta Raka massacred by 551st betrayal
Summons Zherach a living fire titan to vaporizes Srina's ice, now threatens her
Takes Mercy's impalement deliberately, pulls her closer
Headbutts, with superheated armor, attempting to keeping her grappled
Name: Khar-Vorn(Deceased) Health: 0% ░░░░░░░░░░░░
Force User: No
Appearance: Devaronian male, heavily scarred, lower jaw replaced with a brass restraint frame, back and shoulders branded into overlapping furnace sigils
Appearance: Human female with vitrified burn-scarred skin, and iron nails driven through spine and collarbones; wears a scorched modular assault cuirass with ritual markings
Strengths: Jet-assisted close-quarters executioner, fearless under fire, highly mobile ritual enforcer
Weaknesses: Short-burst jet systems strain her damaged body, armor inferior to true Mandalorian gear
Echani eyes watched while the jagged pillars of frost were destroyed in snowy bursts, as if, they weren’t made of more than water and cold. She was a practitioner of the Dark Side that was more than proficient in bending reality to her whim, not, some wide-eyed sow of an apprentice. She had been leading armies, entire nations, since before the Galactic Empire had crawled from the muck for the seventeenth time, defeated, by grandiose ineptitude and absentee leaders.
Her life was dedicated to the craft—To the art of it all. She would not be stopped. She would not be broken by a few harsh words and menacing attempts to thwart their progress.
Krasskorr the Maw
did something she couldn’t quite see, though, she could have sworn she saw an injectable. Was that the secret to his adaption? There was sudden chatter on the comms about a startling defection via Hasuras Na-Amoun
and her eyebrows rose. The Echani warrior had noted the thick presence of more bodies entering the fray...But she didn’t have time to think it over as the creature made his move seconds later. The slab of duracrete that he kicked in her direction might as well have been a bus and she braced for impact, ready, to try and slice it through with her saber—But her vision was suddenly obscured.
Mercy.
The impact that followed wasn’t subtle while she once again stepped into the shadow of the Covenant Warlord. She felt it through the floor first with a world-shaking shudder that traveled up her legs and into her spine as Mercy took the full brunt of the beast’s charge and the slab meant to turn her into pulp. The larger woman didn’t so much block the attack as she just stood in the way and took it. The rock shredded flesh, even, while lizard face was being shot at by some…Unlikely allies. “…If I didn’t know better…”
And she did, clear, on the sociopath that had somehow become her partner in battle.
“I would say…You worry for me.”
The same soft hand that had touched Mercy
before fell along her spine, even though, her own inner-demon growled at the proximity of her Star-Arm. Skilled fingers pressed power back into the brutal warrior, first, by utilizing the additional strength that Quinn Varanin
provided with her Phobis Core. It filtered through the Dread Queen and forced its way into the red-haired Titan without asking questions, burning, through her veins like black fire.
It would make the punch @Mecy threw at the crocodile feel like they’d been hit by a starship.
But…It was then that it seemed Da'Razel
seemed to wake up, reacting, not only to the ice-crags that had targeted him but to her presence as a whole. Would he notice that Mercy was with her and not with him while something that had him screaming to the heavens?
The Zherach loomed over the battlefield, and its empty skull-face turned toward the pale witch who had dared bring winter to this ethereal landscape of flames.
The same words that she had murmured to Mercy before, the same intent, the same instructions. It didn’t matter what sort of cosmic horror they pulled from nothing. All that mattered was that they remembered the goal, the mission, and ensured that when the sun rose on Coruscant there was nothing left but ash and bone.
Echani eyes narrowed while she watched living flame take shape and a tremor against her chest caught her attention. Her hand came to lay against the phylactery that belonged to Darth Carnifex
in silent communication. It whispered of warning, of things to come, and she felt a great heaving sigh build up in her throat. She turned slowly and let her back rest against Mercy’s while watching the Fire Giant stand tall against the skyline.
A little dopey, a little confused, not of this world…But for some reason taking orders from a small masked man in armored dress clothes. At least it was doing damage to the Imperial Palace. At this rate, the Faithless would destroy the planet for them.
And…He was yelling again.Why were they always yelling? Her jaw tightened while metallic orbs glowered on the thing that was meant to stomp them out. Every moment she spent next to Mercy with her arm active made her spine itch. Made her soul burn, ironically, just not the way @Da’Razel intended. They were two beings that were not meant to be in close proximity and yet they forced themselves together like two north magnets. It was against her better judgement…But somehow—It worked.
Srina reached up and brushed the back of her hand against her cheek, knocking off a bit of soot. Everything had turned to hell but she was relatively fine where she was. Sure…She was stuck between an angry crocodile and an even angrier priest but she’d had worse days. The generally soft-spoken woman addressed the them directly, perhaps, for the first time.
”You Imperials really must enjoy the sound of your own voices…”
The creature stumbled forward, grasping at her, clawing at the air. She exhaled and she put her saber back in its harness before raising one hand toward the supposed eldritch horror. It was a slow movement. Like she was…testing, something. She had felt beings like it before, fought worse, and was currently married to worse. The Darkside coiled tight at her behest and her empty expression slowly filled with something that one might call disgust. Her presence became a black beacon, beautiful as the dawn, but oppressive to the point where it made some of the remaining soldiers throw up.
And then she began to pull…
Reaching metaphysically inside this entity with the specific goal, not of defeating it, but acclimating it. Just as she had done with the Nocna Mora. She watched coldly while the Fire Giant seemed to recoil, confused, as the first tendrils of that cosmic heat tore from Zherach and drew down toward her instead. She siphoned away the greatness that they found so impressive and as it fed, she, fed more. The more it took in…The faster she devoured.
It filled her eyes with unholy light. Unforgiving. Unimpressed.
The mistake…Was forgetting that despite this manifestation the Empire had lost at Atrisia. It wasn’t enough then and it sure wasn’t going to be enough now. The Fire Giant growled at her, roaring, but what could it do? It radiated energy dark, terrible, and it was exactly the sort of thing she knew how to call to heel.
Her words were soft, pointed, but cruel.
“A spirit of a failed annihilation means nothing to me.”
The reports were stark and grave. Betrayals. The surrender of forces. Acts of defiance by Imperial soldiery, brave yet foolhardy against impossible odds, tore through the buried command centre in relentless succession. It would be safe here. She knew that.
But she also knew they would come for her.
The lives of every person in that room were weighted against her continued presence. As long as she remained, the centre was a target. She motioned to her adjutant and attendants, her voice low, almost gentle.
"Take me to His Throne."
The adjutant looked bleakly at her, almost daring to offer counsel against such an action. She nearly smiled, humbled by their concern.
"There is nothing to fear," she said softly. "I am no false believer. There is truth in the Dark Side."
Shannic understood it all at once, with a clarity that came not from revelation but from acceptance.
The enemy would come through the palace gates. They would burn their way along the axial corridors, through marble galleries and vaulting halls where banners hung unmoving in recycled air. There would be no redoubt deep enough, no chamber sacred enough to dissuade them. Carnifex would not stop at the outer sanctums. He would come for the throne.
The throne room had always been more than a seat of power. It was an absence held in stone. An expectation made architectural. The throne itself remained untouched, not by cloth but by ordinance and memory, reserved for the return of Emperor Solipsis. Every officer knew the law. Every servant felt its weight. To stand beside it without sanction was unthinkable.
If the end was to come, it would come there.
Not fleeing down forgotten passages. Not sealed behind blast doors while others died buying time. She would not surrender the heart of the palace to spectacle or desecration. If the throne was to be approached by the enemy, it would not be unguarded.
She would enter the throne room. She would take her place beside the throne. She would stand as witness to what remained of Imperial order. And if death was required to preserve the sanctity of that space, then death would be rendered without hesitation.
Shannic felt no bitterness at the thought. Only a quiet, almost austere calm.
Empires were not preserved by survival alone. Sometimes they endured because someone chose where to fall.
And if the Emperor were ever to return, let it be said that the throne was not left waiting alone.
Except...
That wasn't the end for Shannic.
The moment of defiance had been real. Sacred duty. Loyalty to the Emperor, embodied in posture and breath and certainty. But there would be no grace for her, no last procession to the Imperial Throne Room. The plan was undone in seconds. Shock troopers emerged through the smoke. An ironic title. The shock belonged to the Vizier.
Confusion crossed that normally pallid face just once before the firing began. The command centre became a killing chamber. Detonations tore through consoles and bodies alike. Shannic was thrown backwards as one of her attendants hurled themselves in front of her. The bolt round exited their skull and caught her in the arm. She hit the floor hard.
Sound collapsed into a dull, blood-soaked whine.
She lay there, disbelief radiating from a face that had so rarely betrayed emotion during her years at the head of the Imperial Administration. Abandoned. Betrayed. By her Emperor. By the very system she had upheld without hesitation.
Time stretched impossibly.
She thought of Ellayina L'lerim
. The finest of them. The student she had been proudest of. The one she had hoped would see a new day. Her nephew might yet endure, she thought. Perhaps that would be enough.
A trooper approached her, methodical, efficient. He cleared the body of her attendant aside. She could not remember the name of them.
That was the shame.
No. That was the purpose.
Imperial rule demanded the surrender of the self. Identity dissolved into function. A higher calling beyond the individual.
She met the trooper's gaze through smoke and drifting ash. Her voice came slow, thick, already fading.
"He isn't here, you cowards. You'll never kill the—"
The shot took the back of her skull with pinpoint precision.
He didn't expect the projectile to actually kill the Empress Srina Talon
but wanted to use it has cover for a devastating strike with his lightclub. Though that would have to wait for the moment as he didn't account for Mercy
to intervene, because they were supposed to be distracted by Saint Da'Razel
.
Although he couldn't see what was unfolding in front of the projectile, he distinctly heard the sound of the slab shattering against her body, a thunderous crack of stone colliding with something far more formidable.
Krasskorr, leaping right behind the projectile, suddenly found himself face to face with the red-head and was caught off guard by the balled fist, a golden glow of power driven by the phobis core and the Empress's own dark alchemy. He simply lacked the time and ability to dodge, forcing him to brace for the impact as the sound of his own jaw breaking echoed in his skull.
The world blurred into a whirlwind of grey stone and red lightning as the immense kinetic force lifted his massive form off the ground. He was sent hurtling backward, his heavy tail flailing uselessly in the air.
He crashed into a group of 551st Legion stormtroopers dispatched by Hasuras Na-Amoun
to take him out. Krasskorr did not resist the descent; instead, he curled his enormous armored form into a sphere of sharp scales and plates, leveraging his three-ton weight to crush the treacherous soldiers below. Bones shattered like brittle twigs as he rolled through their lines, a living demolition machine of flesh and durasteel.
He came to a halt amidst a pile of crushed plastoid and broken men. His vision was swimming, trying to fight against the concussion rattling his brain. One eye was swollen shut, and blood thick, dark, and smelling of iron poured from his mangled jaw.
He spat a broken tooth into the dirt and harnessed the Force to pull ornate pillars from the adjacent corridor that led to a different part of the palace. He hurled them with his augmented strength towards Srina Talon
and Mercy
. One after the other, in rapid succession, more than sufficient to overpower the duo.
Summary: Krasskorr throws massive pillars at Srina Talon
and Mercy
.
The galaxy had been warned. That was all that mattered. How the Core responded, how the wider population shifted and adjusted would be up to them.
Not him.
Around him, the control room’s rhythm shifted again. Not panic. Recognition. The subtle tightening of a machine that understood its own terminal parameters. Impact windows updated. Defence rings collapsed inward. Red became the dominant colour of the display.
So this, then.
Noda exhaled slowly. He felt no bitterness. No fear. Only a mild, academic regret that certain threads would remain unresolved. Atrisia. The rituals. The missing Emperor. The precise point at which strategy had been supplanted by faith.
But death had never concerned him. Mortality was a datum, not an injustice.
He turned from the console and surveyed the chamber one last time. Officers still at their posts. Some would die in seconds. Others in minutes. A few might escape, carrying fragments of truth warped by terror and loyalty in equal measure. That too was acceptable. History was never clean.
Shannic still stood at the dais, unmoving, a figure carved from doctrine and belief. Noda understood her now more clearly than ever. She had chosen meaning over survival. He had chosen record over reverence. Two functions of the same system.
The bulkhead alarms began to sound. Not urgent. Final.
He straightened his tunic. Habit. Order persisted until it did not.
When the traitor troopers entered, he did not turn to face them. There was nothing left to observe. Their presence confirmed the hypothesis. Internal authorisation. Pre-cleared kill orders. This was not an enemy breach. It was an execution. How efficient.
A blaster round struck him centre mass. Pain registered distantly, briefly, like static. He collapsed without ceremony, vision tilting to fractured hololiths and the boots of men who would never know his name. His last coherent thought was not of the Empire.
It was of confirmation. The Sith had declared themselves.
Vesper regarded her compatriot with narrowing eyes at the suggestion that Mercy
either needed or deserved a rescue. It was Tavi's suggestion that put them on the road to that shadowport, the one that had led like night leads to day to the 'flame-haired maniac' he spoke of. That coincidence -- coincidence -- was a thought that settled somewhere under her ribs, which didn't bother her unless she thought too much about it.
And now he had put her on the spot in front of the other crewmen.
An opportunity to show that she could be loyal -- to dance with the one that brought her. Or a chance to prove that once a mutineer, always a mutineer, never to be trusted. Her jaw set irritably and she put her hands on her hips. "All right. We go to Mommie. And you pray to the Void Mother herself that there's still loot to steal when we leave this place." She didn't say anything further on the subject, but she did brood. The whole point of this endeavor was to enrich her crew and then herself -- in precisely that order. It was how she had sold it to them. It was how she had convinced them to agree to the plan. If it went badly, she would have egg on her face, at best.
The truth was she didn't care a fig whether Mercy lived or died. She sure as shit didn't care about this band of Sith. They would step on necks as sure as the Empire they were fighting against, and probably worse. Chaos was a ladder, people said, chaos or order could kill and oppress as well as each other. And as far as Vesper could tell, the Sith had bigger fish to fry than to care about Vesper Thrace and the crew of the Sirenjack so it was really just a two-way street.
But enough navel-gazing. They had things to do.
"We go," she barked, and she unholstered her blaster, checking the powerpack on the way out the door. "Out of my way," she told Tavi curtly, shouldering past him. Her voice was flat, which in their experience together didn't necessarily mean humorless. She was feeling sharp suddenly. "I'm Captain. Means I get the privilege of being the first one to die if we run into trouble."
And they did.
Vesper didn't know how many flights of stairs they had climbed, how far into the Palace they were. They'd left half the crew at various spots along the way to scout promising-looking areas for loot. But the further they rose, the more things seemed to be going quite badly for anyone caught on the surface. The storm roared its rage, and things rattled and boomed much closer -- maybe even inside the building. "Fuck is this?" she spat breathlessly as a series of explosions, sounding like the grand finale to a fireworks display went off, sounding only a few floors above them. Her thighs burned at the pace they had been taking up the stairs
She had voiced her displeasure too loudly, perhaps, for above her at the balustrade of the stairway an enemy soldier peered over, then raised a blaster. "Intruders from the lower levels!" he shouted and opened fire. "Men, to me!"
"Down!" Vesper cried, her voice shrill, and she tucked into an alcove, narrowly dodging a blaster bolt that sizzled through the air where her shoulder had been a moment ago. The crewmen scattered into alcoves or behind the column support at the previous landing. She leaned around her alcove and squeezed a shot off, narrowly missing the trooper that had spotted them but burning a hole in the helmet of the one that had come at the order of the first. Superheated stone -- or maybe it was marble? -- burned at the back of her neck as the return fire impacted the wall behind her. She flinched, brushed it out of her collar, and let out a curse that would make a Gamorrean dockworker blush.
"What are you waiting for?" Vesper bellowed to her men from her alcove. "Kill them!" And following her own advice, she leaned around the column again, firing another three shots. No hits this time. Damn!
Hasuras Na-Amoun tensed slightly to hear the Emperor's voice, but it was only some simulacra. Sufficient to fool plebeians - which the Empire was well-populated by, he had on good authority.
Amoun hunched forward and gripped the back of his head when Gerra's call intruded in his mind. Nuisance. He had heard far more from his family today than he ever wanted to. But it all turned out for the better, didn't it?
"Wh-what do you want?!" she wailed, having had her fill of invasive voices for one day. Oh, this had been a mistake. The girl had not been built for war, and she didn't imagine that enough exposure would fix that. "I don't know who that is!"
Windrun's companion behaved less like a companion and more like a lost menial. She, too, apparently heard the voice of Gerra and did not altogether take it in stride.
Amoun tilted his head at Eurydice before looking back to Arris. "Is this random hysteric supposed to offer you a tactical advantage or som-"
His speech was interrupted by another personal apparition - this one of the Emperor. He startled like a frightened cat and nearly fell over the table, but it did not take him long to realize trickery was afoot.
That mere apprentice fiddling in the basement with powers beyond her comprehension. Amoun had been sitting, drinking from that same nexus for weeks leading up to this battle, and now some random pissant was trying to wield it against him.
He ignored the apparition. Indeed, he traced the invisible leylines of the Force back to its caster. Amoun's own words forced themselves into Remowa's skull - reverberating in there with such force as to cause a sharp, temporary headache.
Worthless brat, don't be a sore loser! It's not personal. Stay out of my way. Go on living.
She was too distant and too weak to truly hurt him, but the inverse was not so. He did not listen for a response - his presence was gone from her mind an instant later. In the command center, Amoun righted himself and fastidiously smoothed his cloak where it laid along his shoulders.
"Mm… What were we…? Yes. The throne room. For the Emperor's final address."
He moved forward, so lightly and silently in spite of his armor he appeared to glide. Amoun expected they would follow.
"This way."
---
They navigated the halls, passing more of his shock troopers, standing at rigid attention. There was another, larger command center on the way to the throne room. Shannic Wulf had been working in there with her own staff and some quite high-ranking personnel.
By the time Amoun, Arris, and Eurydice came upon it, the massacre had already concluded. The dead lay in twisted heaps or sprawled over consoles. Smoke rose in thin trails and exited from the cavernous doorway.
Amoun jabbed his thumb towards the desolation as they went by. "Ah, how quickly the glory of Empire can pass away," said he, and then laughed a hideous, hyena laugh. "Take note, girl!"
Arris Windrun
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Srina Talon
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Quinn Varanin
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Vesper Thrace
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Aelissandre
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Darth Carnifex
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Eurydice
Hasuras Na-Amoun
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Shannic Wulf
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Da'Razel
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Colm Noda
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Krasskorr the Maw
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Remowa
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Darth Ayra
