Faction The Roots of Evil - [The Dark Court]

[Carisma Rostu]

The Living Jungle​

Location: Nathema
Gear: Basic Equipment
Tag: Open

Eyes closed, ears open to the sounds of the jungle, her mind feverishly attuned to the feelings of the primal beasts roaming and haunting the foliage. Under the cascading sunlight, each ray touching the leaves of the trees as they pass through, a sense of foreboding lied ahead, and not just from those walking monsters in search of prey. Something was stirring, something more predatorial ruled these jungles. Something sinister, perhaps?

Slowly her eyes opened, her hand on the right fiddling with the hilt of her unlit lightsaber as she plotted a path through this entanglement of vines, drooping tree branches, and blossomed flowers and plants. Causally she withdrew her hand, stepping forward into the jungle abyss. There was no need to cut a swath through the foliage, yet, but the jungle floor felt odd; a mixture of hard ground and moisten soiled rising to meet her every step. In the distance, roars and bellows echoed while the sounds of screeching and crunching of bones followed suit, the eternal fight between predator and prey on display.

Ignoring the jungle's haphazard attempts to thwart her, to spook her had failed miserably. She didn't fear the living any more than she feared the dead, the latter more appealing than the former. With each step, Carisma gracefully strolled through the underbrush and overgrowth, playing the role of apex predator; prepared to turn the living into the dead, to create a graveyard in the aftermath.

Occasionally she would halt her advance, examining the flora, seeking to find proof of her successful endeavor. And each time, she found nothing but disappointment. This jungle was vast, holding its secrets tighter than a mother does her child in times of danger. She would not be denied. Her ambitious nature would not allow for such failures. Her arrogance would not be sated to return empty handed; she would succeed at any costs. She was young, but dangerous. Far more dangerous than anything that moved through this jungle, either by wings, claws, or fangs.

She was her to conqueror.

​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Objective One: The Living Jungle
The Lost Iskera Valest Delsin Shaw Luvaen Malstadt
Rifle | Armor

​

It wasn’t just wind moving through the canopy; it was intent.

The whisper of the Force sent a shiver snaking down the back of his neck, an ethereal language, one that spoke of danger and the hunting of predators.

A curse fell from the blonde's lips from the sensation, meant to anchor him, rather than vent. Whatever this place was, the rifle slung over his shoulder was dead weight now. And the vibro-machete in his hands wouldn’t be of much use aside from cutting the vines that were ever persistent on tangling his boots.

Movement was detected in the undergrowth, and Lysander was registering the presence of others nearby. Then, a flare of a crimson blade pierced the dark. Another Sith. No matter where one found themselves in the galaxy, that always meant danger, or death, was near.

The rifle slid to his back in one smooth motion, and his hand found the curved hilt, thumb pressing the ignition stud.

Whether it was luck or timing, he was uncertain, but one voreclaw was already upon him; a blur of claws, far too fething swift for a creature of that size. Still, Lysander stepped into its path, his blade biting down in a cruel arc meant to rend chitin.

Before registering the damage dealt, he pivoted, hoping the avoid the rake that would’ve followed. But then, the back of the same limb returned, and caught him across the face. Lysander’s head snapped to the side, teeth rattling, boots failing to keep him upright as he hit the ground hard.

Already those pesky vines were trying to flex under him.

Stars spun in his vision, and the tang of his own blood pooled along his tongue.

Eyes narrowing against the haze, he pushed up on one elbow. More shapes were moving in fast.

​

 

[Qyssiyana]

Location: Cavern - Nathema
Thread Objective: The Whispering Roots
Mission Objective: Capture the shard.
Tag: Obscura Drystan Creed Valaine Valentine Kito
Vicinity: Kyber Veyra Shuun

​

She was not alone.

Qyssiyana’s senses flared, her attention snapping back toward the cavern entrance as a new energy signature brushed against her awareness. Her triocular gaze lit up, electroreceptive organs flaring to life as they locked onto the distinct, pulsing electromagnetic rhythm of a living heartbeat. She rose to her feet with a dancer’s fluidity, hands moving to her hips where her chakrams rested.

A moment later, her perception sharpened. It was not one, but two heartbeats, a subtle duet echoing in the electromagnetic silence.

Her gaze narrowed further as something else caught her senses—a cold, artificial hum that stood in stark contrast to the gentle, passive electromagnetic rhythm of the natural world. Droids. She waited, and soon, the canine-like automatons came into view, their forms moving with mechanical precision as they approached the stream, servos whirring softly in the grotto's quiet.

In a seamless, graceful motion, Qyssiyana drew one of her chakrams. The bladed disc slipped from her grasp in an elegant, underhand flick, its silent, vibrating monomolecular blade becoming a silver streak as it sliced through the air. Integrated systems designed to conceal it from sensors concealed its passage, rendering it as little more than a faint electromagnetic ghost. Having hurled her chakram from just over fifteen meters away, she intended to strike the droid at its neck, so as to decapitate it with a single, decisive cut, thereby potentially removing the unit as a threat before it could even register her presence.

In her mind, the automatons were the primary danger, as she could not manipulate their inorganic cognitive systems. Once they were neutralized, she would then turn her attention to the organic mind that guided them.

And that mind, she would break.

Spoiler: Loadout

• Nullsong Veil
  
  • Arms
    
    • Modular Forearm Attachment Point (2)
      
      • FAE/M-02 Energized Forearm Vibroblade Mk. II - L
      • Repulsorlift Shockwave Projector - R
• Moonpetal Rings (4)
• Nox M-10 “Wraith”
  
  • Attachments
    
    • 1-5x FAE/S-08 Electro-Sight
  • Ammunition
    
    • FAE/AM-01-S1 Energy Weapon Cartridge - Tibanna Gas (4)
• FAE/MDE-01-S2 Semiautonomous Seeker Thermal Explosive (2)
• Infrared Smoke Grenade (2)

 

[Heart of Darkness]

The cavern did not breathe—it strained. The shard's pulse, once a quiet throb, now echoed like a war drum beneath the stone. Its resonance dragged at the marrow of those present, tugging whispers louder, sharper, more insistent. Every heartbeat in the chamber aligned with its rhythm until even silence was fractured, heavy with promise and threat alike.

And then came a weight that was not the shard's.

Drystan Creed 's presence spread like a stain across the cavern. Not the subtle menace of a blade sheathed, nor the cunning suggestion of hidden snares—but the plain, crushing certainty of a predator that no longer bothered to hide. His power bled into the air in waves, pressing stone to groan, roots to writhe, and lungs to labor beneath an unseen gravity. It was no declaration. It was a dare.

The roots around him reacted violently. Some pulled taut as bowstrings, others twisted as though recoiling, and yet more reached greedily toward the pressure, eager to drink deep from the promise of violence. The shard itself flared in response, faint light swelling into a jagged brilliance that painted the cavern walls with fractured fire. Its whispers shifted tone: more urgent, more desperate, as though it knew that only conflict would loosen it from its prison.

Far across the chamber, another presence stirred. Darth Morta , cloaked in the Force like a phantom on a battlefield, had stalked unseen through the depths. Her steps had been careful, patient, her power reined tight. But against Drystan's tidal presence, concealment was useless. The cavern carried his challenge directly to her ears, vibrating through stone and flesh alike.

The shard called to them both—two predators circling the same prize.

Between them, the air thickened. The roots twitched and writhed, sensing the collision to come. Fissures opened along the cavern floor as power bled into stone. Water from the stream hissed as it touched newly cracked channels of heat, steam rising in twisting plumes that joined the mist.

Other contenders would feel this storm building, no matter where they lurked. They could try to slip past, to steal the shard in the shadow of giants—but the chamber itself seemed to hunger for the duel, roots and whispers conspiring to pin all attention on these two.

The shard's pulse intensified again. One moment, silence. The next, a thunderclap through every skull present. The words were not spoken, yet they were heard:

"Prove."

Obscura , Valaine Valentine , Kito , Kyber , Veyra Shuun , Drystan Creed , Darth Morta , Qyssiyana

 

[Veyra Shuun]

Tag: Obscura Kito Valaine Valentine Kyber Darth Morta Qyssiyana

Her own unfamiliarity with interactions with the Force caused unease, but the voice that rattled within her skull unnerved Veyra. Blaster still in hand, she fought the uncertainty with rage.

She heard something nearby, the sound of metal being destroyed, and felt ire building within her being. Someone was closing in? Had they sensed her faltering? Did they think her an easy score?

The questions poked at her own inferiority, which only served to anger her further. Veyra’s jaw tightened, her eyes flicking about the cavern before settling back into a steady, measured gaze.

"I have proven myself a hundred times over…" She refuted to herself, voice low but trying to mask the discomfort to her voice. It was an act, as it often was. But she would not be deterred. She tapped into that bundle of fury within her, letting it spread, and finally basking in it. The dark side was a comfort, a fire to burn away the icy grip of her uncertainty and let them reform in an unspecified future.

Of course, this serves to out her to any skilled enough to sense such Force disturbances, though she was too deep in her thoughts to care.

Teeth gritting, the familiarity overtaking the uncertainty. Her hand settled atop the hilt of her stolen saber as she advanced towards the sounds of the concluding skirmish.

In her mind, the proof laid not on her, but on those in contest with her.

It was a fool hearty notion, but she was too blinded by her own self righteous to notice it.

 

[Luvaen Malstadt]

Objective One: The Living Jungle
The Lost | Iskera Valest | Lysander von Ascania | Delsin Shaw | Carisma Rostu

There was no end in sight, no end to the trees that seemingly expanded onward even when it felt like an edge should've been met. Closer, more tightly weaved, branches intertwined and married in odd shapes and knots; sickly looking bulbs leaking blackened viscous liquid, rot setting in among the environment like flesh gone sour.

A thick sludge became the ground, and Luvaen struggled to push himself onward in his search to find more solid footing, to find anything that made any remote sense in this place. There were no lights, there was no settlement, no outpost to slink away into so that a rational thought could be reclaimed from the sheer unrest of the forest. Calves burning, the faceless shadow leaned against what appeared to be a weathered and jagged chunk of stone. Cries and groans still echoed throughout the area, chittering and snapping fading in and out as the creatures continued their search of their next potential meal.

A low, faint hum could be heard from the stone Luvaen rested against; warmth, a gentle vibration at the touch creating a strange yet calming sensation. The Force coursed through it, reached out to the young man in an attempt to tell him something. Perhaps show him something he needed to know.

Luvaen fell into a trance, closing his eyes as everything else around him disappeared into a melting static of solitude and respite. There was a light, bright and shining as it entered his mind and along with it came a voice that was too faint to be audible in any meaningful way. It was the voice of a man, someone he wasn't sure he ever met. Neither in his time at the facility he was raised in nor on any mission he was assigned to.

Suddenly the faceless shadow found himself back within the realm of his current predicament. Back to reality.

How strange...

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Young blood."

Tags - Carisma Rostu

The air was thick, almost cloying. Every breath carried the taste of damp soil, of rot and rebirth, as if the jungle itself wished to crawl inside and root her lungs from within. Veyra did not mind. She welcomed the sensation, for it was proof that Nathema was alive again—too alive, perhaps, but alive all the same. And that meant it could be broken, bent, and mastered.

Her boots sank lightly into the strange, spongelike ground as she advanced, each step deliberate. She had not come here to wander. She had come with purpose, as a blade sent to secure the Dark Court's claim. Already, her visor's filters hummed, cycling through spectrum after spectrum, recording the subtle shifts of growth, the strange energy bleeding into each stem and leaf. Data was as much a weapon as her saber, and she meant to bring both back to her Lady.

The jungle resisted her intrusion with quiet hostility. Roots coiled like serpents across the path, trying to trip her; branches dipped low, heavy with flowers that stank of sweetness, daring her to breathe too deeply. A lesser mind might have faltered, but Veyra only smirked beneath her mask. Let it try. She had fought worse than vines and phantoms.

Her companion's presence—Carisma, eager and ambitious—was not lost on her. The girl moved like a predator who believed herself the sole hunter here, blind to the weight pressing in from all directions. Veyra would not correct her. Ambition was fuel, and if the jungle chose to break her, then Veyra would salvage what was useful and leave the rest. But if Carisma endured, if she returned with something worth offering, then perhaps the Court had a future predator worth shaping.

A low roar rolled across the canopy, rattling the branches above. The ground trembled faintly beneath her boots. Veyra reached to her side, fingers brushing the haft of her weapon, and turned her head toward the sound. The voreclaws were near. Twisted beasts, swollen on whatever dark echo soaked this world's soil. Their hides would serve as proof, their fangs as trophies. More importantly, their deaths would mark the first cut of order into this chaos.

"Stay sharp," she murmured, her voice calm but edged, carried through the comms link to her fellow hunter. "This world is not testing us—it is feeding. And it means to feed on us."

Her pace quickened. She wove through the tangled brush without hesitation, cutting a path only when she must, conserving energy for the fight she knew was coming. The jungle's whispers thickened, tugging at her thoughts, pressing dreams of foreign memories into her skull. She shook them off with a practiced sneer. She was Veyra, sworn blade of the Court. No root, no phantom, no half-formed beast would take her mind.

Ahead, the foliage shifted, trembling with the heavy gait of something massive pushing through. She raised her saber hilt, thumb brushing the activator.

"Let the Court see who carves Nathema's heart open," she said softly, almost reverently. Then, sharper, to Carisma:

"Bring something worth offering—or you will be the offering."

 

[Iskera Valest]

The forest wanted them apart. That much was obvious to Iskera the moment she heard the staggered rhythm of violence—blades clashing with claws, rifles abandoned, breath breaking into curses. Nathema was clever; it separated prey to watch them bleed alone. But a clever organism could be out-thought.

She slid from behind a sap-bleeding trunk, vial capped, dagger wiped clean against the black moss. Her eyes adjusted to the crimson glow of a saber not far off, and then to the violet haze of spores disturbed by another's struggle. Patterns aligned. The creatures were not infinite—they circled, probed, tested. Numbers mattered. Force of will mattered more.

"Enough scattering," she called, voice sharp but level, carrying through the choking humidity. "If you keep thrashing alone, the forest will carve you apart one by one."

Her boots pressed roots that tried to writhe beneath her, but she did not slow. She angled toward the nearest clash—Lysander, blood at his mouth, vines seeking his limbs. Her dagger flashed, not to fight the beast directly but to sever the creeping roots before they bound him further. A vial shattered at her feet, spewing acrid white into the air—repellent enough to stagger the nearest voreclaw.

"Up. Move." Her command was clipped, clinical, as if speaking to a patient refusing to stand.

Her gaze flicked toward the glow of Luvaen's saber in the distance. "You. Break from trance or be broken for it. With me."

Already the growls gathered again, overlapping, pressing closer. She raised her syringe-gun, another dart clicking into place. Her tone did not rise, but it cut through the oppressive breath of the jungle with steel:

"We hold here. Together. The beasts adapt, but so do we. Circle, blades outward. Let them bleed into the soil instead of us."

The Lost Luvaen Malstadt Lysander von Ascania Heart of Darkness Carisma Rostu Veyra Kryze

 

[Carisma Rostu]

The Living Jungle​

Location: Nathema
Gear: Basic Equipment
Tag: Open

The primitive, primal nature she was sensing through the Force reeked of desperation, survival; strongest of the fittest, the weak pre-destined to serve the strong. She didn't need to hear such obvious words from her companion, words breathed into a state of living, and for what; for this companion to hear her own spoken words. Carisma half listened, waving off most of the lecture as one would judge another who suffered a self-imposed superiority complex.

Shiftly, and very discreet, Carisma would side-glance this individual, gauging her fellow jungle explorer. The person rank of an arrogance she almost accepted, having the same plague coursing through her veins, and yet, this tasted spoiled. It was rotten, destined for the off and distance shores.

In the distance, crashing with thunderous roars came the waking calls of the jungle's most feared predator: voreclaws. Carisma paused, not out of fear, but for educational purposes. She was young, yet oblivious to the ways of the world. She was Sith, but she was still a budding flower in the garden. And she wondered if her years agitated her companion, who Carisma believed wholeheartedly was trying to teach her life lessons, the ins and outs, a path of adult to teen respect. And she scoffed. Foolish, she thought.

Then, without warning or calculated pause, the young Sith teen halted her steps, placing herself in front of her companion, jabbing a lone, single finger in the armored creature's face. "Do not threaten me with such shallow words," Carisma snarled, "Do not judge me by my age, the lack of experience, or by your perceived definition of me in general."

Reaching out with her right foot, she gently kicked the lower half of her companion's weapon before adding, "I perceive things to. So quick to reach for your weapon on the whim from a sound. And I, stood staunch. If you are afraid of sounds, then perhaps it is I who should teach you lessons in bravery. The Sith way."

And without another word, Carisma spun on her heels and continued further into the jungle, smirking, jokingly. She was going to see how far she could push this person's buttons. There were numerous things that she could bring back as an offering; and not all of them were in plant form or animal form.


Veyra Kryze

​

 

[Drystan Creed]

NATHEMA

Things had just taken a turn for the better. He felt it—the stir of another presence hidden somewhere within the chamber. Unknown, indistinct, but there. The hairs on his neck bristled at the confirmation. Good. Something worth his time, perhaps.

Drystan straightened, boots echoing across the stone as he turned deliberately in the direction of the unseen figure. His voice cut through the silence, sharp and steady.

"Come on out. I can feel you breathing in here. Don't waste both our time skulking in the dark."

He shifted his grip on the scabbard, the faint rasp of phrik scraping against floor carrying across the chamber. His smirk was audible in the next words:

"Take it as a handicap if you want. I'll hold back. Think of it as me giving you a fair chance."

He let that sink in, pacing slow and unhurried, like a predator circling the brush where prey hid.

"Doesn't matter if it's just you, or if you drag your friends out too. One or many—it makes no difference to me. I'm only interested in seeing if you can keep me entertained before I cut you down."

Drystan tilted his head, mockery laced in the final prod.

"Or are you waiting for me to come get you? Because I will. And if I have to drag you out, I won't be nearly as gentle."

He had nothing to prove to anyone except himself, his goals strictly personal and to its fullest definition.

Darth Morta

 

[Luvaen Malstadt]

Objective One: The Living Jungle
Iskera Valest | The Lost | Lysander von Ascania | Delsin Shaw | Carisma Rostu

Luvaen did not know this woman, never once had he crossed her path before now yet part of him heeded her words. His mind settled back into the moment that was, his grip on either hilt of his lightsabers firm as he scanned the environment for more of the clawed assailants. They drew near, their pincers clicking closer by as they dug through fallen debris and junk.

He didn't stop to ask the woman any questions. He couldn't. She did not know that yet but spending moments longer with the faceless shadow would prove to her that the young man before her indeed never could utter a single word. Not even in a moment of intensity.

Just then another of the shelled monstrosities lunged forth, its mass slamming into trees nearby and ripping through vines that had settled themselves hanging low from the branches nearby. It was briefly caught, trapped and restrained as it desperately lashed out in a frenzy for a taste of its would-be morsels.

Luvaen rushed foward and extended his right hand, his lightsaber skewering the creature through its head. Convulsions shook its entire form as it thrashed and squirmed, breaking free of its entrapment and crashing into the wet soil before it. More movement could be heard, more would be coming soon in its place.

The darkly clad young man turned to look at the woman who'd arrived, expressionless on the surface of his armor, yet his face behind the helmet held a bit of confusion and frustration.

What were they to do to be rid of this wretched land? Where was anywhere in this wilderness?

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Young blood."

Tags - Carisma Rostu

Veyra did not flinch when the girl's finger jabbed toward her visor. The black helm, the faceless mask, did not so much as tilt in acknowledgement. She stood rooted, a dark shape in the riot of color and sound, letting Carisma vent her bravado. Words meant nothing here. The jungle did not bend to speeches; it bled them into the soil and drank them whole.

When Carisma finally spun away, the smirk on her lips plain even through the heavy air, Veyra followed. Her tread was silent, her presence measured, her thoughts already beyond the petty dance of egos. The girl might think she'd scored some victory, but Veyra knew the truth: Nathema would teach her more brutally than any lecture could. Veyra's duty was not to spar with whelps. It was to cut a path in her Lady's name.

Her Lady. The thought stirred something deeper than hunger. She had not yet laid eyes upon their Mistress, not yet heard her voice. And yet every step she took was in anticipation of that moment, every kill, every fragment of data or root sample harvested was nothing but an offering she built in her mind. To serve perfectly when the time came—that was what mattered. Not a child's tantrum, not petty jabs.

The air shifted. Heavy, fetid, rank with predator musk. Veyra's head turned, tracking the sound of branches breaking, the low, wet pant of something massive. A voreclaw was close—too close. She extended one gauntleted hand, palm down, signaling Carisma without words. Halt. Wait. Listen. The jungle thrummed with noise, but beneath it there was pattern, rhythm. The beast's stride. The swish of its tail. The scrape of talons against bark.

"Bravery is nothing without purpose," she said at last, voice low and filtered, words crackling faintly through her helmet. Not chastisement, not defense—only statement, a shard of iron in the air. "The Sith way is not to stand still and smirk at death. It is to take it by the throat, and chain it to your will."

She moved then, slow, deliberate, easing into a crouch. Her free hand brushed the foliage, not to caress it, but to test its give, its texture, whether it would snap or sway silently. The ground here was moist, soft enough to muffle her steps. She advanced, silent as shadow, drawing closer to where the trees shuddered with the passage of something enormous.

Branches cracked. A shape loomed—scale, fang, hide warped and thickened by the planet's strange resurgence. The voreclaw's head swung, jaws dripping, its black eyes gleaming with hunger. Veyra froze, not out of fear, but out of calculation. A saber here would ignite the jungle, fire would call more predators. No. This needed precision.

She turned her helm slightly, the red visor flashing toward Carisma. "What's you plan?"