Dominion The Gravesong War || Crucible [ ME Dominion of Empty Hex ]

[Manti Wyrvhor]

A rocket flew overhead, crashing with a satisfying explosion into a Rancor and its rider. The beast went down with a satisfying roar and thud, a cloud of dust billowing out around it into the battlefield. A quick friendly slap on the pauldron of the Wyrvhor commando who fired the rocket was all that was needed, 'good job'.

Manti passed the rocket crew to the depths of her defensive line. Past shield-bearers, snipers, and those with automatic blasters who warded off any attempt to retake the hill Clan Wyrvhor had claimed. Her command tent had been properly assembled, in the midst a holographic projection of the batlefield; a live feed from several scout droids hovering over the battlefield. The hologram seemed to flicker in greeting as Manti leaned against the desk it rose from, her eyes narrowing at the scene.

The slaver response to the Mandalorian landing parties was mostly infantry, which made Manti nervous. These were heavily armed soldiers with occasional 'tamed' rancors who were just as likely to feat on their own than they were to feast on the Mandalorians. Where were the-

There they are. Manti thought, a grin of satisfaction on her face as the slavers began removing make shift barricades to reveal heavy armor: Storm Walkers. Already Manti's eyes glanced across the holographic battlefield, taking notes on who was close enough to deal with it.

"This is Manti Wyrvhor-" her voice would ring out across the Mandalorian communications "We have assault walkers incoming from the north-east. Take them down before they have a chance to unleash those weapons on our infantry!"

Rushing back to her own men she'd divert the rocketeer's attention to the walkers, the men beginning to hurry in an effort to begin pelting the hulks with heavy munitions.

Behind her the mortar emplacement was almost ready, further heavy firepower if it could be set up in time.

Manti technically lacked the authority to demand action of any vode outside of her direct clan. She heard others giving orders and only hoped hers didn't get lost in the cocophany. If nothing else she was relaying information to those really in charge.

Swiveling she'd hear Kuben's orders. Looking up she'd curse under her breath. Why hadn't she noticed their air support? Had she really been so focused on this one hill to miss the bigger picture? Cursing under her breath she'd respond to Kuban

"On it. Taking my best pilots into the air."

She'd take a minute to gether the commandos she needed, those she had flown with before, and would begin heading behind Mandalorian lines. The mortar emplacement was in good hands, she was certain it would survive without her.

Liorra Adonis Angelis IV Zayid the Lion Kuben Woods

 

[Liorra]

Thermokinesis: Caldera Crisis | The Wild Horde

Liorra had to be honest with herself, she didn't care. Not in the way she should, anyway. All she could feel, all she could hear, was her own anger, pulsing through her like a violent storm. The clang of her beskad biting into flesh was the only sound she needed. With each swing, her blade found its mark, carving through those who dared to draw near. She was a whirlwind of fury, driven by something primal, something raw.

The heat of the moment suffocated her senses, and she welcomed it. Drawing in the Force, Liorra twisted it to her will, pushing out with her hand. Her newfound ability, Thermokinesis, surged through her, and in an instant, the weapons of those around her combusted. Metal burned, and the hands that held them seared with the heat she unleashed. The hiss of weapons turning to molten slag echoed in her ears, and it brought a twisted satisfaction.

And then, someone called out to her.

A name she hadn't said aloud, a voice she didn't recognize. How did they know her? Who was this person? For a moment, the rage that consumed her flickered, but it was brief. A quick glance toward the source of the voice showed a man, his face obscured by his own helmet. The relief of her own helmet's concealment felt bittersweet in that moment. She didn't have to hide the hate in her eyes from them, but for a second, she felt the weight of the recognition.

Her fingers twitched at the thought of turning her power on him, a temptation that almost burned hotter than the flames she had summoned. He was fortunate, she thought, that he wore Mandalorian armor. If it had been anyone else, she might've melted them where they stood. Next time, she promised herself, next time, I'll cook him alive in the very armor he wears.

Liorra didn't know any of these people. They were just faces in the crowd, enemies that would fall as quickly as those who had come before them. The only thing that held her back from severing heads from torsos was the armor they wore, and the Resol'nare.

She gritted her teeth behind her helmet. She had been raised with the Mandalorian creed. She was bound to it, whether she liked it or not. It told her to preserve life, to fight with purpose, to honor the code. But all she could feel now was the overwhelming, seething desire to strike down anyone in her path. The cold, calculated part of her knew she couldn't act on it, not yet. But if these strangers knew her name, knew who she was, then perhaps they were more than just the enemy. She wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

The rage was still there, swirling just beneath the surface, a wild storm ready to break free. But for now, she fought, not just for her vengeance, but for something more. Something that would give her the clarity she so desperately craved.

Kuben Woods | Zayid the Lion | Manti Wyrvhor | Adonis Angelis IV ​

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Objective I
Tag: Kuben Woods Zayid the Lion Manti Wyrvhor Liorra

The order came through clear in his helmet, calm but commanding.

"Adonis, Zayid, Liorra, stay focused on the front runners. Keep the momentum, but don't get too far ahead."

Adonis slowed for a half-second, just enough to let the words settle in the blood-red hum of battle. Kuben's voice cut through the chaos like the edge of a warblade, it was measured and grounded. The kind of presence the rest of them could rally around while the fire raged. A few years ago, he might've ignored that order. Might've already broken formation, driven by instinct toward one of the walkers Manti had called out across the line. But today, the fire in him wasn't reckless, it was forged.

"Copy, Alor," he muttered, voice low and clipped. "I'm pressing."

The battlefield opened around him in pulses, blaster fire, burning metal, mortar thumps, the scream of a Rancor dying somewhere to the west. The slavers were folding but not yet broken. He could see the push happening in layers: Manti's hilltop stronghold anchoring the flank, heavy guns barking in rhythmic thunder; Liorra's Force-born heat surging in wild bursts through the smog; and Zayid, just ahead, moving like a shadow guided by prayer, his beskad falling in deliberate, righteous arcs.

Between all of them, the front line was cracking- and Adonis would be the blade that broke it wide open.

He surged forward, leaping from the lip of a scorched trench and into the fray. A Crucible slaver barely had time to turn before the bayonet of Adonis's scattergun punched low through his knee. The scream was sharp, short-lived, Adonis wrenched the blade out with a twist and followed it with a clean stock slam to the throat. Bone gave way, then the body dropped.

Ahead, two more moved to reinforce the makeshift barricade. Adonis sprinted through the gap, dipped low between them, and carved the beskad-tooth bayonet in a tight arc behind him, slicing through thigh and tendon on one, severing a blaster hand on the other. As they stumbled back in pain, he raised the shotgun in one clean motion and pulled the trigger. The scatterblast erupted point-blank into the nearest slaver's chest, launching him into the side of a broken hauler with a wet, final crunch.

The second one tried to run. Adonis let him, he would likely bleed out, and he had other matters.

His HUD flickered- thermal detonator signature. Another slaver further up the line was prepping to throw, yelling orders as his squad formed around a portable shield.

Adonis reached with the Force, not with calm, but with purpse, and ripped the explosive from the slaver's hand, pulling it back in mid-air. He caught it with a gloved palm, turned, and hurled it over a barrier where more slavers were hunkered down behind a fallen support beam. The explosion ripped through the barricade in a thunderous bloom of dust and fire.

He kept moving, the line bending in his wake.

A sudden hiss to his right- plasma cutter. A shield-bearer closed the gap, slamming into Adonis with his full weight. The impact was very heavy, but Adonis rolled with it, absorbing the blow across his plating. As the shield rose again to strike, Adonis locked it with one arm, pivoted inward, and brought the blade up beneath the rim, driving it deep into the slaver's side. The scream was cut short by a boot to the chest that sent the corpse flying backward.

He stood still for a breath, catching his rhythm amid the chaos.

Above him, he could just make out the black silhouette of a walker moving on the northeastern flank. That was the one Manti had called. It loomed like a promise- a fight worthy of his blood.

"That one's mine," he murmured to himself, not yet reaching for it. "Soon."

But not yet.

Around him, the Mandalorian lines were holding. Wyrvhor flags still flew high on the ridge. Zayid's blade still moved with fury. Liorra's fury still burned, barely leashed. And Kuben was still barking orders with the kind of weight that kept the war machine turning.

Adonis nodded once and keyed his comm. "Front runners are down, holding position."

The fire still burned in his chest, tempered, focused, waiting. The Basilisk wasn't off the leash, not yet.

 

[Mig Gred]

Tags: Vytal Noctura Edrick Aethelred Zlova Rue Ro'talius Emanti Xasin Dyst Conrad
​

Mig nodded, though he did get a chuckle at a few of the others there. Ah. He missed this kinda stuff. Now though, it was time to get moving.

"Right. Let's get moving before whatever's going on here gets worse." He said as he quickly moved to follow Vytal. He'd messed with slavers before, but something felt... off about all this. There was already what was reported, but it did seem like there was more here than what was suggested. Hopefully they weren't too late.​

 

[Zlova Rue]

Zlova smirked as she looked ever so slightly up at Xasin. "Yes, your Master cares. I can't be shouting 'you' and 'hey' all the time, Xasin. And it's prettier." The Twi'lek laughed heartily. "Come on, there'll be plenty of time for serious, dour, and silent-and-brooding in enemy territory," she declared for those that found her behavior unconscionable on the field. Mandalorians knew war. They knew death. Some of them understood you had to enjoy every moment because it could be your last. Others thought such enjoyment started and ended at bonfires -- well, not Zlova Rue.

A dismissive wave of her hand followed the idea of waiting. "Let's go. You heard the Witch. We'll figure out the whole who-where when we get there. There are people to slaughter and slaves to save!" Oh, yes, she was going to find every possible term for the captives besides 'innocent', 'civilian', and 'hostage' possible when referring to them. The more derogatory the better. If they didn't want her thinking less of them then they shouldn't have gotten caught.

Well, it was more their lack of resistance than just being caught, but that wasn't something you could fit on an afterburner.

The Lethan started off in the direction of the Lucerehulk expecting the rest to be in motion or following. "If I get there before you," both curved lightsabers flipped out from the small of her back and ignited into violet beams of living energy, "I'm not saving any of them," she taunted. Once she broke into a run she snapped the sabers off so the glow wouldn't give away the approach. So she was cocky, arrogant, loud-mouthed, and reckless... but she wasn't a fool.

Vytal Noctura | Mig Gred | Edrick Aethelred | Ro'talius Emanti | Xasin Dyst | Talohn Atar​

 

[Zayid the Lion]

O R D O - S E H K​

Objective I - Burn the Chains

The air shimmered with the heat of ruptured earth and scorched steel, carrying with it the scent of victory yet to be claimed. Zayid lifted his beskad from the body of a slaver, the blade dripping with the testimony of the fallen. His visor caught the distant glint of a walker rising, the shape lumbering forward like a false idol striding toward a battlefield that did not belong to it.

The words of Kuben pressed against the comms, clear and firm, the kind of voice that built order from chaos. Zayid received them without resistance, for even the flame requires the hearth to burn true. He turned his gaze toward the front lines where the slavers had begun to falter, their formation sagging beneath the methodical push of the Mandalorian advance. Adonis moved within the chaos with the sharpness of a blade honed on stone, each strike carried with it a certainty that spoke of duty fulfilled. His report came through the channel, steady as the breath before prayer, and Zayid felt a measure of satisfaction that the younger warrior had found his place within the storm.

A call rose across the channel, Manti’s voice alive with the urgency of battle, the words naming the approach of walkers from the northeast. Zayid saw them now, their weapons not yet unleashed upon the Mandalorian lines, and he felt the weight of the moment settle within him. This would be the trial, the moment to break the machines that sought to chain this world as they had chained others.

Ahead, the air rippled with unnatural heat, and Zayid caught the brief glint of slagged weapons and melted hands. Liorra’s presence moved across the field like the sirocco, a wild and merciless wind that knew no master but the hunger within. He could feel the Manda stir in response to her fire, the ancient spirit recognizing the fury that could either cleanse the unworthy or consume the unwary.

Zayid pressed his fist to his chestplate, his voice low in prayer as he stepped forward once more.

“May the Manda witness. May the fire remember!”

He advanced toward the remnants of the slaver’s line, the beskad lifting to meet another who thought to bar his way. The blade met the edge of a vibrosword, sparks igniting where metal kissed metal, the song of war rising beneath the roar of distant engines. Zayid shifted his weight, driving the blade aside before drawing it across the slaver’s throat, a red line following in its wake.

He spoke into the comms as the body fell, his tone clear and unwavering.

“Front runners are falling, Kuben. The line bends but does not yet break. I will hold it until the walkers meet their end.”

The horizon burned with the promise of what was to come, and Zayid moved forward, each step a vow made in steel and blood. The Manda would remember this day, and the chains of the oppressors would break beneath the will of those who carried the creed within their bones.

Kuben Woods , Manti Wyrvhor , Liorra , Adonis Angelis IV​

 

[Talohn Atar]

Talohn could be quiet when he wanted to be, which often came to the surprise of those around him. His jovial countenance had made many doubtful in his capabilities over the years. Even now he wouldn't be surprised if that was the case even despite being Aether's uncle. It was a tad odd. Brother to Metus and therefore uncle to all his children or cousins of those children. Amongst these people he was almost a form of ancient history. Most that had a history this in-depth and relevant to the current Mandalorian empire, aside from he and Zlova, sparsely appeared. Metus himself included. He had found that many viewed him with a certain mystique that he...completely and utterly failed to live up to the hype of. At least in terms of social interactions.

Yet his proficiency was not to be trifled with. They'd be halfway to the camp when the cathar steps out from behind a large rock, a long yawn leaving his lips that he covers with his mouth while falling in pace beside Vytal. In terms of attire, he wore a set of the standard issue Protector Type Beskar'gam, though his helmet wasn't currently on, revealing the blue cathar and his eyes, which seemed even more vibrantly orange and yellow than was conveyed in any photos of him that might have been floating about the empire.

A wide grin shows up on his face as he watches Zlova running towards the camp ahead of them. "She's so cute when she's riling people up, eh?" Yes he was a tad silly, but maybe the mission leader would find some relief in the fact that the morally sound one of the unbreakable duo had made his appearance. "You went inside the base, yeah? Your brand of magic has a...unique scent. We were both scoutin at the same time it seems, just for different stuff. Most of the base's security is based from within...but there are some electrical panels on the exterior I can fiddle with. Make some trouble. Set the sprinklers go off and stuff like that. I'll be able to do way more when we get inside to a proper panel. But I did get one interesting tidbit. That ship they're using is repurposed. Some of the panels aren't the originals. That's a boon for us. We can blow holes in the unstable spots to make extra exits. It'll make the evacuation faster." He hands the Nightmother a datapad that contained a 3d model of the ship, the correlating weak points marked.

"Now, seems I've a date to attend. Can't let my favorite red ball of fury go to a party like this by herself. It'd be rude," He nods his head sagely, turning about to give the others pleasant a salute for good luck before putting on his helmet and running off running off. Given he was a cathar, and likely a hint of force speed, it wasn't long before he was directly by Zlova. "You just can't help yourself, can you?" He teases.

Zlova Rue Vytal Noctura Mig Gred Xasin Dyst Edrick Aethelred Ro'talius Emanti

 

[Conrad]

Conrad

Location: Ordo Sekh, Command Bridge of Lucrehulk | Tag: Vytal Noctura , Aether Verd , Zlova Rue , Mig Gred , Xasin Dyst , Edrick Aethelred , Ro'talius Emanti , Talohn Atar

A smile can be sharper than any blade, and just as deadly.​

Conrad exhaled slowly through his nose, savoring the drink as chaos blossomed across the vessel.

To the officers scrambling across the bridge, he was little more than a gaudy annoyance—an overdressed eccentric clearly too powerful to offend but too aloof to be useful. Good. Let them think that. Let them waste breath around him. He preferred it that way.

In truth, he was listening. Feeling. Sensing.

Like a spider nestled at the center of a web, his awareness flowed outward—through the metal beneath his feet, through the terrified hearts thundering below, through the panicked minds trying to hold this ship together. And, most importantly, through the dark thread he'd extended to the one Force-wielder bold enough to step into this den of carrion: the Dathomiri.

Nightmother. he thought, not as a message, but as a whisper carried on power. I bequeath you a gift of my findings, for you and our mutual friends. And please, by all means, do let me know when you want me to get the party started up here. The guests are all here and it's looking to be a proper ball.

There was no need for speech. No tech. Just pressure. A gentle nudge—like the brush of fingers across her consciousness—and the map was hers. She would feel it: the layout he memorized, the troop placements he'd seen, the gaps they didn't think he'd notice. Conrad's mind was a library of angles. She needed only open the book.

He smiled again, this time, sharper.

Behind him, a technician cursed as a console flickered, then failed. An officer spun toward him in agitation, about to bark something, but paused. Conrad hadn't moved. And yet… the air felt wrong. Heavy. Like someone had cracked open a tomb in the middle of the bridge.

The Sith let his aura unfurl just a little further.

It was subtle at first, just enough to make tempers fray and fingers tremble. Enough for orders to be misheard, for targeting screens to fuzz, for eyes to drift his way again and again, unable to shake the sense that he was the true center of gravity here.

Conrad tilted his head.

"I do hope," he murmured idly to no one in particular, "you don't mind if I stay and watch. Your little dance is captivating."

The officer said nothing. He merely adjusted his collar and turned back to his work, only to accidentally overwrite the previous targeting coordinates with a diagnostic loop.

Conrad sipped his drink, and did not correct him.

Moments later, the doors at the far end hissed open, and a pair of slaver guards entered led by the very lieutenant Conrad had sent on this wild goose chase, escorting a chain of individuals into the bridge. The "special stock."

Conrad didn't look at them at first. He simply set his glass down, straightened his tie, and approached with slow, deliberate steps. The guards flinched slightly as he passed, though they couldn't say why.

The first was a Zeltron with perfect skin and bioengineered pheromones. He barely gave her a glance.

"Vanity," he muttered, "and nothing more."

The second, a near-human with golden eyes and a voice that could calm a wampa, held his attention for only a second longer.

"Conditioning," he sighed. "Tragic, but predictable."

And so it went. Specimens of genetic excellence, of fine breeding, of exotic color and sculpted form. All dressed, posed, and paraded like artwork in a gallery of fools who didn't know how to see.

Until-

He stopped.

The figure at the end of the line wasn't the most beautiful. Nor the most unique. In fact, at a glance, they looked… ordinary. Scarred. Dirty. Hands bound but chin high, gaze unbroken. Where the others bowed or postured or trembled, this one stood.

Conrad took a long step closer, eyes narrowing slightly.

The Force around this one didn't burn or scream. It resisted. A quiet, steady pressure, like stone refusing the wind. It wasn't training. It wasn't luck.

It was will.

"Ah," he said, smiling like a man discovering a rare wine in a dust-covered bottle. "Now there's something you can't engineer."

He reached out, not touching, not yet, but letting his presence graze the edges of the figure's spirit like a scalpel brushing flesh. No pain. Not yet. Just interest.

He turned toward the guards without breaking eye contact.

"I'll take this one."

He paused as he let the slave before him see the flash of his wicked smile. He looked at the figure before him, pristine clay in hands like his. The things he would do to see such a will tested. He let his predatory nature be bared to this soul for a moment.

"And dismiss the others. They're boring me."

His voice brooked no argument.

Behind him, the command bridge trembled as distant explosions echoed through the hull.

He didn't flinch.
He didn't look.

He'd already chosen his prize.

And soon, very soon, the real performance would begin.

Conrad is broadcasting on the bridge to Vytal and co, giving people a layout of the ship that while isn't something they can really grasp, it'll make the entire ship seem familiar making it easier to navigate.

 

[Kuben Woods]

Location: Ordo Sekh, on the field overseeing the battle
OBJECTIVE I
Tag: Zayid the Lion , Adonis Angelis IV , Manti Wyrvhor , Liorra , OPEN
​

The battle outside the Lucrehulk was a storm of blood and fire, but within the fury, Kuben saw the rhythm. The Mandalorians had seized the initiative. The slavers were pulling back, and now the real weapons made their entrance—walkers, towering and bristling with firepower.

They wanted to turn the tide.

Kuben watched them emerge from behind crumbling barricades, massive silhouettes lurching forward on steel limbs. Infantry scrambled to support their advance, thinking they could punch through and shatter the Mando line.

Let them try.

He keyed his comm.

"Closest squads to the walkers: fall back. Don't contest them. Let them think we're giving ground."

Then his voice came, clear and direct to the one he knew could strike hardest.

"Adonis. Liorra. Hold. You do not kill the mighty Zakkeg in its burrow, surrounded, and on its terms. We draw it out, then kill it when it's exposed."

Kuben's gauntlet moved quickly, fingers tapping across his forearm display, reassigning field positions. The battle map shifted: heavy weapons teams began shifting into new positions—not to defend, but to counter. Not to resist the charge, but to break it. He sent coded pings to Wyrvhor squads, signaled commandos to stay low. The trap was being set.

Adonis and Liorra would be the hammer.

Clan Wyrvhor, Zayid, and the rest? The anvil.

"Hold," he ordered again, not just through the comm, but through the air itself.

"Hold."

The walkers began their attack—missiles and laser fire tearing into the lines, smoke and dirt exploding skyward. The noise was deafening. Mandalorians took cover, shifting with discipline rather than panic.

Then, in the moment between heartbeats, Kuben's voice returned. Quiet, cold, and final.

"Mando'ade… send them to meet their ancestors."

The words left his lips like the closing of a trap. And in that silence before the crash, Kuben felt it.

The shift.

The battlefield surged, but something deeper stirred within him, a familiar pressure curling in his gut, rising like smoke through his veins. The faint sound of laughter, cruel and low, echoed just beyond the edge of hearing. A shadow flickered at the corner of his vision. The phantom rider, the thing grafted into him by Sith alchemy, was awake.

The chill came next, like frost sliding beneath his armor. A cold hand touched his shoulder, unseen but unmistakably real in that way only the cursed could understand.

Won't you join the fun?

The voice slithered through his mind like a blade through silk, taunting, eager, hungry.

His hands flexed. He could feel the ache, the itch, to let go. To rip. To tear. The claws beneath his gauntlets begged to be unsheathed. His vision began to glow faintly, twin embers burning behind the visor.

But he didn't move.

He stood, resolute, a mountain in the storm. Iron will wrapped around his spine like durasteel. He would not let the thing inside take the reins. Not here. Not yet.

So Kuben watched.

He watched as the trap snapped shut. As rockets screamed and blades rose. As Mandalorians surged like a wave, hammer striking anvil. And as fire and fury engulfed the walkers in a storm of righteous vengeance…

Kuben stood perfectly still.

And smiled. Ever so slightly.

 

[Manti Wyrvhor]

Manti vaulted over the side of the cockpit, landing with a thud in the leather seat of the Teroch Fighter. Overhead several enemy fighters zipped past, the echo of their cannons muffled as the cockpit's casing would lower down creating a barrier from the outside world. Around her the Clan Wyrvhor commandos she had chosen entered into their own Hettir fighters, two at a time. Behind her Manti could hear Bjenan activate the underslung turret of the fighter.

"Weapons systems operational." He'd call out, clicking a few switches as to prime the first voley of torpedoes

"Copy. Ignition-" she'd grunt in reply as the engines of the Teroch would roar to life, a shame she couldn't use their full potential in atmosphere "And we're off. No formation, find a slaver and take 'em down." she'd command her fellow pilots before zipping off into the sky.

Finding her first prey wasn't difficult. The Gala Fighter had been crudely repainted in Crucible colors and it zipped overhead with impressive speed, but Manti was soon on its tail. With a targetting lock she'd begin to spray the enemy fighter with laser cannon fire, the flare of bolt vs shield creating a satisfying display of her marksmenship. The Gala would take a hard left, pivoting through a rock formation before slowing dramatically just in time to catch Manti as she passed through after him. Yet, Manti was unconcerned, the underslung turret operated by Bjenan swiveling to face behind and the quad barrels lighting up as they'd blast through the Gala's shields.

In a vain attempt to escape the slaver craft would pull off the pursuit only for Manti to fire a single torpedo to finish off the craft, the detonation sending the Gala crashing into the ground in a fireball.

Around her two more Crucible fighters met their bitter ends at the hand of Clan Wyrvhor Pilots and Manti couldn't help but grin.

"Air superiority will be ours momentarily. Afterwards I'll circle back for those walkers if you haven't dealt with them already." she'd call out over coms to anyone listening before finding her next target.

Liorra Adonis Angelis IV Zayid the Lion Kuben Woods

 

[Vytal Noctura]

OBJECTIVE II: CUT THE CORE​

The Nightmother looked over at the Cathar that made himself known recently. What was he doing in love with a Sith Lord? How had that woman even managed to get accepted among Mandalorians in the first place? It wasn't as though she hid what she was. Somehow, Vytal expected when Zlova said she'd kill them all she really meant all of them -- including the hostages -- if her "friendly" wager wasn't met.

"Good." Well, the sprinklers were questionable, but the man's thought about getting the people out sooner than later could prove useful. And with that, the man was off after the red Twi'lek and her lightsabers. Ancient gods and goddesses keep Vytal from needing to intervene against a mad woman instead of the real foe before them.

Then the pale woman turned to look at the lucrehulk with a downward curve to her lips. She quickly drew a rough map of the holding area and tossed the pad over to Edrick Aethelred .

"Move. Now!" Her hands crossed and a portal cut through the air connecting where they stood with a hanger bay inside of the ship. She leaped through the opening without waiting to see what the others thought of the suddenness of the order.

Her left hand threw out to the side with a snap of her fingers that planted the faces of two men into the deck. "Get to the captives as quickly as possible. I will be at the bridge." The Witch hissed. Was Conrad the reason there was an uneasy feeling on the command deck? When had he even arrived? Foul Sith arrogantly wading into a cesspit -- even if it was where they belonged.

Dressed in crimson armor, the pale woman charged toward the open doors. She paused just long enough to check the corners before she peeled around one and down the corridor. She could open another gate, but incapacitating the enemy so they didn't swarm in behind was more important than instantly arriving.

Flames crawled up her arms before they were thrown through the air to plow into two more guards or patrolmen. It didn't much matter what their job was so long as they were the ones holding the weapons and carrying themselves with authority.

You may begin when ready, the Dathomiri woman sent back to Conrad. Who knew what they would walk into once they got the command blast doors open, but if the man was set on causing a catastrophe so be it. At least he'd keep the ship on the ground.

Zlova Rue | Mig Gred | Xasin Dyst | Edrick Aethelred | Ro'talius Emanti | Talohn Atar​