Invasion &nbsp; The Second Coming | TIC Invasion of TSO-Held Thandon Super Hex | Objective One

Lysander von Ascania |

Spencer Varanin |

Darth Prazutis |

Eira Dyn
TIC ENEMY: TBA

____________________________________________________

Mercy said:
"Let them come."

It was the same thing that she had heard repeatedly, though it surprised her that

Mercy would hold the same philosophy. It was not in Srina’s nature to allow an imminent threat to make the first move. It was the main reason she had joined the Covenant on Coruscant in the first place. The Faithless had come for her children. The Faithless had dared to touch the Blackwall in an effort to destroy it, and now, more of their wretched cousins had returned from the ashes to desecrate Brosi once more.

The pale woman remained still while Mercy bounded toward her drake with the exuberance of a child. It was a strange thing to observe, her laughter, ringing in the low boughs of Psilofyr with such merriment that it felt out of place. Her wintry expression softened. They were on the precipice of war, and it was the last thing she’d expected to hear. She looked away when the Warlord looked toward her, erasing emotion, as if it had never been. “You’re a terrible student…”

Willful and cocky, argumentative. But…She envied the ease that the red-haired woman held, the way she met the world head-on, fists-first, questions later. It was simple—a luxury that Srina hadn’t had in decades. “So, you’ll have to forgive the repetition…It will happen again.”

That laugh again. So out of place…So earnest.

The Covenant would be horrified.

Mercy said:
"There is little shame in staying behind. If you are not ready yet. Coruscant was hard on you, even if you refuse to let anyone see it." You don’t have to show me… I know. "I will use my strength to defend this place just as I used it to conquer Coruscant. Why not rest?"

“I’ve rested long enough.”

The words fell from her lips like rain, cooled, until the drops pricked the skin when it fell. There was no fury in her rebuke, but it was obvious that she rejected the notion of being anywhere but with her people. What did bother her to some degree was the fact that the tragically unobservant

Mercy had noticed something was amiss. Yellow-gold eyes lifted when a familiar presence touched her senses, surprising, but not unwelcome.

“You know as well as I do…This is where I belong.”

Spencer Varanin said:
"Asking the child to respect something is like asking her to wear a dress…" Spencer wrinkled her nose in the same fashion as Quinn often would when she knew she was teasing.

"Impossible."

Srina’s head tilted when she looked back at

Mercy , perhaps, placing her hulking form in a gown in her mind’s eye. Humor rose in her chest against her will, dry, but present all the same. “Nothing is impossible…”, the counter was light, though, her head inclined respectfully toward

Spencer Varanin . It wasn’t quite a bow, but it was as close to it as Srina would get. Those who knew her would recognize the significance.

The white-haired Echani bowed for no one.

She could see the question in her former Queen’s eyes, in her expression, but it was something Srina did not know how to answer. They held a conversation in seconds, in silence, without any use of the Force at all…Because it was their nature. It was an expression of exhaustion and annoyance coupled with a singular truth she had been avoiding. She had never needed more power. Never looked for it…But now?

I was not enough.

That would never happen again.

The conversation would have to be cut short because, in that moment, the storm she predicted seemed to be coming down. Her eyes closed, and she reached through the Force to see more than what should have been possible. Psilofyr amplified her sight, her senses, and a heavy sigh pulled from her lungs. The Confederation had arrived, lacking subtlety, with mass planetary landings and battalions that all seemed to be advancing on the World Tree.

The roots near her boots shifted, apprehensive, and she could feel understanding dawn on the World Tree as if someone had turned on a light switch. Intruders were coming to destroy it. Her head tilted to the side when she noticed something else, and metaphysical fingers crawled toward one that the Empress recognized twice over.

She saw him.

“It seems that our old friend has returned.”

Friend was not spoken in a way that denoted warmth, but, almost as a word of curse. He was always scheming beneath the guise of aiding whatever nation he served, when truly, his only loyalty belonged to ambition.

The Lord of Hunger had tried to impose his will during the development of Psilofyr and it made sense that he would try and do so again. It wasn’t even a moment more when she felt something strange in the World Tree…

Hunger.

She remembered the last battle more as a sensation than a scene. Force twisted into consumption, the taste of despair, while weaving sentience into something that didn’t naturally have it. Each one of her companions had given Psilofyr a gift. She had offered sorrow and memory so that it could learn and grow.

Revna Marr had given an offering that was not so gentle.

Srina’s eyes narrowed slightly as she tracked the way this Sith Lord’s awareness moved. Spreading, prying, and searching. Psilofyr might feel something scraping across his outer network, the lesser roots, the “easy” pathways, like a hand clumsily rifling through pockets.

The World Tree did not feel amused with any of this.

So much of him was walked on, broken, burned, and ripped from the ground.

Her focus snapped back and she reached for

Revna Marr in that space of silence. Psilofyr was born with hunger. If the Confederate Sith Lord provoked it…The seedling was a seedling no more. It would undoubtedly bite back.

<<We have an uninvited guest.>>

Revna would hear her and in a flash of insight…Would know exactly whom she referred to.

The pale woman turned and walked toward her drake and the great beast roared before dropping it low enough that she could touch the black scales along its jaw. Srina didn’t hesitate when she glanced back at

Spencer Varanin and

Mercy , though, she knew that the latter wouldn’t be far behind. “…They are here, destroying what is mine.”

Her eternally beautiful expression morphed into something fearsome, switching gears, while taking one solid leap to land lightly on the back of Vaelcryx.

“Time to die.”

Armour
Saber
Ring
Ring
Terentatek Body Gloves
HG-54 "The Vora" Class Hand Cannon
Holding Aces
Popper
NPC Units
Drake "Vaelcryx"
Unknown

Darth Carnifex · Feb 1, 2026

Drawing the cup to His lips, the Dark Lord drank from the tea. The initial sip brought with it the bite of smoked bitterness, sharp and peppery. Warmth immediately spread throughout His mouth and sinuses, a sudden and abrasive intrusion to anyone who was not prepared, but He'd grown up drinking such a concoction. Bitterness was a common taste on Panatha, drawn from the ancient warriors who prized it for its honest character and the strength it took to endure it.

The body of the tea differed from the initial taste, deep and resinous from the cardamom, cloves, and pine sap imbued into the mixture. Fermented bark-herbs lent a savory note to the brew, subtly umami in taste. The aftertaste lingered with a dry heat mixed with faint sweetness, dark and subtly bitter like burnt sugar. Overall, the tea coated the tongue with an oily weight, while the tannins from the herbs and spices dried the mouth.

After savoring His drink for a moment, the Dark Lord returned His cup to the table. Her answer to His question was unsurprising, it was what He'd expected her to say. It was an apt analogy regardless.

"Such filth always filters to the surface during times of conflict. Weak and contemptuous, they chafe against that which is superior. Alone they pose no threat, but the weak thus amalgamated possess the potential to be more than just a potent irritant."

There was a rumble that shook along the ground, the tea in their cups sloshing about from the reverberations. Carnifex didn't seem to initially pay it any mind, instead taking His cup and drinking from it a second time. But, by the time He'd set it back down, the flap to the tent was thrust open by a long, gangly reptilian arm. What entered next would be something straight from a nightmare, a gaunt, looming horror of sheer unnatural height. Its arms hung absurdly low, almost brushing the ground, with far too many visible joints, fingers long and slightly curved as if always halfway to grasping.

It walked into the tent on long, willowy legs, each limb corded with lean, sinewy muscle that pulled tight against a narrow frame. When it came to standing still, the whole of its body pulsated with a faint, unsettling sway, like it could never bring itself to remain fully at rest. Its scaled and leathery skin was adorned with vestments akin to that worn by Sith priests, the most striking element the massive ceremonial collar clasped around its neck of banded muscle. Interlocking plates of dull gold, blackened bronze, and dark crimson enamel cascade across its elongated chest and collarbones, each plate etched with angular sigils and stylized religious motifs.

When it begins to speak, the first sensation is not sound, but pressure, a subtle tightening behind the eyes and along the spine. Its chest expands slowly, deliberately, and for a brief moment there is only a dry, rasping intake of breath that sounds more like stone grinding against stone than lungs drawing air.

The voice that follows is wrong.

It is deep, but not in a resonant or commanding way. Instead, it carries a layered harshness, as if several voices are speaking at once but slightly out of sync. There is a guttural base tone, low and scraping, overlaid by thinner, reedy vibrations that hiss through its flattened snout. Each word seems to drag itself free rather than be spoken, stretched and distorted by a throat never meant for gentle articulation. Consonants scrape. Vowels linger too long, warping into unpleasant, wavering drones.

"Kha-Stymphalian, the soft-bellies congregate against you. We offer up their tender flesh in your name."

The Dark Lord looked to the large, gangrenous creature, who astonishingly did not wither in His presence. "Sound the liturgy, let the Horde disperse into battle. Proclaim that the Kha-Qaghan accepts your offering, and shall let the Children of Gratos partake in the feast."

Long strands of saliva visibly dropped down from the creature's open jaw, dripping down onto the floor in thick, globulous piles. It then spat forth a deluge of words in a language utterly unknown and alien to Reina before suddenly taking off and exiting back out of the tent, a great cacophonous roar following in its departure as thousands and thousands of other voices joined it.

Carnifex closed His eyes briefly and again sipped His tea. When He opened them again, they were fixed on Reina. "The Graug, the Hansnok-Hai especially, respond well to ritual affirmation. It is not so often that I give them leave to feast so wantonly. The Confederation has delivered quite the meal to our doorstep."

He then rose, and while not as tall as the creature that had just been here, He was infinitely more grand in presence. "Come, let us see what these insects have wrought against us."

Reina Daival |

Darth Prazutis |

Srina Talon

Gerwald Lechner

Madrona A’Mia |

Darth Caedes

Nerralyn Raaf · Feb 1, 2026

Direct Allies:

Sophia of House Marr
Other SO Allies:

Revna Marr
Enemies:

FN-999 (restored) and his Imperial 7th Army

Armor: Dorocha | Equipment: Lightsaber | Farrus Spheres containing Terentasaurs and Kasina Satwas

"I'll give them this, they are not subtle," Nerralyn murmured to her companion, watching from a safe distance as the Imperials cleared a landing zone by burning out a whole section of the jungle that Brosi had become through incendiaries from their bombers. She could feel the pain and anger rising from the roots and trees around them, all interconnected to the World Tree off in the distance, and the stirring of the jungle's denizens. "About as blunt as a brick to the face."

The Imperials had likely been expecting a traditional defense of the planet, perhaps even the use of the undead the Sith had unleashed in prior battles. That had not been the plan this time. As her mother would always say, it was always best to use new tricks in each fight and keep more in reserve. A message flashed across her mind and HUD from her armor's integrated Neahtid that the Dark Legion and their Dread Master were preparing to march. It was about time to start playing their role then.

The Order of Arcane Syn, as her mother held an investment in the planet, so did they, and they would assist with the defense in their own way. She had not brought along troops from the Iron Talons or the other legions under her mothers' command. Instead, she had opted to use their more... unconventional forces to make use of Brosi's now-natural terrain. The Imperials were unaware that they were already under surveillance, even as their troopers moved into the treeline and their armor began moving. Teams of cloaked Ravenscar Adepts lurked in the trees, waiting for the command to strike, while cloaked and phased Geists waited for their opportunities in the coming chaos to start disrupting the enemy command structure. Squads of Vheh'ramikad waited for word to descend to battle, bound in both soul and duty to the Lady of Secrets and her family.

"Have you ever commanded or seen what a Sithspawn horde can do, Sophia?" she asked. She knew the likely answer was no, but she to ask regardless. Her mental message relayed across the Neahtid network to the other teams was given. Release the first wave. "If not, it's a memorable experience and best of all, you don't waste any of your own men in the fighting. You can always make more."

It would be like a ripple in a pond, a wave of dark side energy racing from point to point... and in its wake, the jungle would come to life. Swarms of Desolators would spring from hiding, rushing along with swarms of Suppuraters either burrowing through the earth or rushing along above it. Erupters, brought by the Order to aid in the defense and further grow the ecosystem of the planet, rolled forward towards infantry formations and the TIE Crushers alike. From the treetops, Mantises rose to blanket the battlefield in their gases and to attack infantry from above and even take runs at low flying aerial vehicles.

In the undergrowth, insects swarmed forward. Small unassuming beetles and slightly larger bugs with glowing thoraxes. The beetles, tens of thousands of them, would be drawn to the larger vehicles and power sources therein of the walkers, sensing their next feast. The others would seek out the infantry.

And from her perch, she stood up and tossed the first of her crystal spheres out, surging a pulse of the dark side into it. A large hydra-like monster would emerge, roaring its displeasure and rage, bioplasma dripping from its mouths.

"Shall we?" she asked Sophia.

Gerwald Lechner · Feb 1, 2026

WEARING: This | WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Howling Death
ALLIES::

Madrona A’Mia |

Darth Caedes |

Taeli Raaf
ENEMIES::

Taregh Garon

Brosi reacted before any signal reached him.

Gerwald felt it through the ground beneath his boots as pressure shifted through soil and stone while fire tore into living corridors and armored weight forced its way across terrain that had learned to listen. The sensation did not arrive as a single wound, but as several at once. Heat and smoke marked the path being burned by purge troopers driving toward Psilofyr. Farther out, wider scars opened where incendiaries stripped whole stretches of forest to invite an army onto ground that had once resisted them. Above it all, a sour chemical taint rode the air as viral agents and industrial toxins settled into a canopy that should never have known them.

Psilofyr drew its awareness inward around those injuries. Gerwald felt the tightening through the roots beneath his feet as the tree gathered itself and learned what intrusion meant when it carried the intent to unmake rather than pass through. The wolf within him rose in answer, fully awake and unrestrained, stirred by a desire to protect from the violence the noise around him promised. The destruction had a direction. A path was being forced where none existed.

The Lord Commander turned without hesitation and followed the pull that ran deeper than sound as Brosi adjusted around him. Roots shifted beneath the soil. Stone pressed inward. The planet was no longer retreating. Through that shared awareness, he felt another presence scraping along the network, moving with care and patience, spreading inward through channels that did not belong to it. He did not need to hear a name to recognize

The Lord of Hunger , because he had endured hunger shaped like will before and understood how it tried to enter a place it could not claim outright.

He placed his hand against Psilofyr’s bark and held it there long enough to align himself with what the tree was becoming. Psilofyr did not recoil. Its response steadied, and the pressure through the roots sharpened as the distinction between pain that could be endured and damage that demanded answer became clear. Brosi was no longer something that needed to be sheltered from the world.

It was learning how to survive it.

Other movements registered through that same awareness. The Dread Wolf felt

Srina Talon commit herself fully as she took to the air, her intent cutting cleanly through the noise of battle. He felt

Mercy follow close behind with a presence that burned hot and unhesitating. Farther out, the rhythm of the conflict shifted as

Darth Carnifex loosed something vast into the massive Imperial advance that organized formations could not negotiate with or outlast. Those fronts would hold without him, and they would consume what had been sent against them.

Gerwald moved instead toward the most deliberate violation.

A corvette of the Inquisitorious had driven hard into the atmosphere, burned a landing site clear with turbolasers, and climbed back into the sky long enough to rake Psilofyr before fleeing back to orbit. The act had not been meant to secure ground. It had been meant to provoke. The purge troopers advancing beneath it made that intent unmistakable as their incinerators tore into the roots, not to claim the forest, but to make it feel small.

The forest felt the fire.

Movement crossed low through smoke and ash above the forced path, circling overhead rather than fleeing from it. The Dread Wolf sensed the presence before he saw it because it carried the same focused attention he recognized in himself when prey revealed its intent too clearly. When it broke through the haze, it did not resemble the other drakes already in the sky. Its antlers gave it an age that did not match its size, and its pale hide caught the firelight in a way that unsettled the very flames beneath it.

The drake was drawn by recognition.

It felt Psilofyr’s reaction in the same instant Gerwald did, and it turned toward that pressure with the hunger of a predator orienting itself to a shared threat. Gerwald did not call to it and did not reach for it. He let the wolf within him remain visible and unmasked, wild and ready, because there was no reason to soften what he was.

The drake dropped through thinning smoke and landed with a force that shook the ground without breaking it. Its attention stayed fixed on the burning corridor where the purge troopers continued their advance. The Lord Commander stepped to its side and placed a gauntleted hand against its shoulder, standing where it could see him clearly. The contact held, and something lasting took shape between them.

They lifted together.

The drake surged upward through heat and ash, and Gerwald settled into place as if the motion had already been decided. The forest fell away beneath them, exposing the wound in full as armored troops and imperial arrogance forced fire through the living growth. Psilofyr’s awareness rose with them, gathering itself with a steadiness that sharpened as they climbed. The drake felt that shift as well, and its breathing changed as heat gathered along its throat, guided by the same pressure threading through the roots below.

The Dread Wolf guided the drake without reins as intent flowed along the channels the tree had already used to reach him. They swept low over the advancing wedge, and the drake’s breath rolled out in a broad sheet of heat and smoke that pressed down on the formation. The air itself became a furnace that the advance might feel the weight of what it was burning.

Gerwald banked the drake away before the line could adjust, because he had not come to trade passes with soldiers. He had come for the one advancing behind them, the towering figure in matte black armor moving with the certainty of an Inquisitor of the Imperial Confederation who believed the forest would yield first.

The Lord Commander brought the drake down ahead of the advance where the roots still pressed thick against the surface. The creature landed and held steady, wings half spread and heat pulsing beneath its pale hide. Gerwald slid from its back, and the bond tightened with the movement. The drake remained without any need for instructions.

He faced the oncoming line and felt Psilofyr watching through him.

Elsewhere,

FN-999 (restored) continued to push armored columns through the western forests, while

Ronhar Tane pursued total annihilation rather than victory. Viral weapons still drifted through the wounded canopy, and the pressure of Credius continued to scrape along the roots as he searched for weakness.

The Dread Wolf did not look away from the Inquisitor,

Taregh Garon .

If the Imperials intended to reach the heart of Brosi by cutting a path through its living veins then they would have to go through the Dread Wolf and his drake. They would have to do it while the tree learned how to return pain back upon those who caused it.

Gerwald rested his hand against the drake’s neck feeling the heat grow beneath its pale hide, while allowing the wolf to rise fully into his gaze.

“Come,” he said, his voice carrying through smoke with the same steady pressure the roots carried through the ground. “Show me what you think you are.”

The ground shifted as he stepped forward to meet the advance, roots tightening and stone bracing beneath his weight. Smoke parted around him as if pushed aside by intent alone, and the heat of burning foliage rolled back in his wake. The Wolf did not announce himself further. He simply stood where the path had been forced open and waited, making it clear that whatever wished to pass would do so on his terms or not at all.

Mercy · Feb 1, 2026

ALLIES:

Lysander von Ascania
DIRECT:

Srina Talon

Srina Talon said:
“You’re a terrible student…”

Mercy snorted as she kept communicating with her Drake. "You wouldn't be the first to say so. Somehow... I succeed anyway. It frustrates many." She didn't think Talon belonged here. Not on Brosi, anyway. She was a warrior, through and through, instead... she belonged in the fray. On a forward front where wars were won.

Instead of this defensive posture. But she did not say that, Srina never liked it when she criticized her children and a pouty Empress was always a handful to handle.

Head tilted as a new voice entered the arena.

A smile, warm and happy, was aimed at

Spencer Varanin next.

Spencer Varanin said:
"As much as I adore my wife, I still try and find reasons why she's taken on this brute," A jest at the fire-haired warlord, one she had heard often.

"Come now, auntie, you always had a soft spot for me." Mercy drawled lazily as she stretched there, leaning deeper into the flank of her Drake. "You wouldn't have let me get away with half the stuff I pulled during my Apprenticeship otherwise." She didn't point out that she had buried Ashin's creation into the ground.

It was Varanin who had rose up the Emperor from his death and allowed him to resurrect his Empire. And then it had been Mercy, Varanin's Apprentice, raising a host that destroyed it and conquered the Core.

She wondered what Ashin would think of that. When she had a free moment, she'd have to send her a message.

Spencer Varanin said:
"Asking the child to respect something is like asking her to wear a dress…"

That did get a snarl out of her. A light one, before Mercy checked herself. It was a testament of her control, of her growth over the years. Spencer would know just how much. All those decades ago, she had made a similar jib and back then Mercy had thrown herself at Spencer. Heedless, uncaring, that this was the First Apprentice.

And that the First Apprentice outclassed the Fourth or Fifth Apprentice utterly.

"My respect for you knows no limits, auntie... but that doesn't mean I won't try and shove your head in the sand, if you push me."

Srina Talon seemed to have sensed an enemy. Someone she knew from the past. Well, Mercy didn't need an excuse, really, she was itching for a fight and for a good one at that.

"But alas, maybe we will have our re-match another time." Mercy said over her shoulder as she jumped on her Drake, Babygirl, scritching her neck as it immediately seemed to sense her intentions. Pushing herself off of the platform and bursting into the air. She was slower compared to Srina's Drake, because of her size.

That... seemed apt.

It seemed Srina realized it and slowed herself down, even though she was eager to shed blood, until they were flying near each other.

"See? She hasn't thrown me yet." Yelling into the air was an exercise in defeat. Instead she utilized

Madrona A’Mia 's gift, the connection of nature in her head that let her send messages to their allies.

Even though they were here for a fight, the Drakes seemed in a playful mood, fluttering their wings at each other mid-flight.

Mercy laughed, whooping into the air, because flying was... the best feeling ever. It reminded her of her youth. When she was smol, careless and launched herself off of the cliffs to dive into the waters below.

"Are you looking forward to this fight as much as I am?"

Revna Marr · Feb 1, 2026

Objective One
Gear/Items: Armor, Lightsaber, Battle Drake
SO Allies:

Srina Talon //

Madrona A’Mia //

Darth Carnifex //

Gerwald Lechner //

Mercy //

Taeli Raaf //

Darth Caedes //

Darth Prazutis
Enemies: TIC
Other Tag:

The Lord of Hunger

Revna watched the skies above Brosi for a moment, her eyes scanning the horizon and beyond. Their enemy was right on their doorstep, and about to make their appearance. But there was still a moment to perhaps reconnect with allies, with those that Revna had fought and shed blood beside. Strengthening the bonds wrought through conflict and struggle was something that the little Sith woman liked doing - even if others spat upon such things or thought it to be meaningless.

The presence of so many Sith and their servants and troops pressed against her, but she recognized some almost instantly, due to familiarity in one form or fashion or another. Darth Carnifex was like the inevitable event horizon, always looming, always undeniable. Darth Arcanix with her almost wispy, mysterious aura - like arcane smoke curling from a sorceress's hands. Lady A’Mia, whose presence Revna had already touched and communicated with - a rustling of leaves and the groan of swaying branches. Darth Caedes was out there, somewhere…his presence unmistakable to Revna - bound with her own, in a way. He would feel her noticing him - a look passed between lovers separated by foggy planes of glass, but her awareness moved on.

Her own Father was out there too, somewhere else, doing His duty despite His hatred for everything. She felt Alisteri as keenly as that of her cousin, Lysander. Bound by familial bonds and blood. Distance and diverging paths had separated the young ambitious Sith from her, but she was still proud of him, still in his corner, always.

Lastly, but not least, Revna felt the Dread Mother, with another whom Revna was not too familiar with. But before she could move to greet the Empress, Revna felt something, or rather someone, else. Her eyes sharpened, her head tilting to one side. She didn’t feel the Lord of Hunger’s presence in the Force, no - she felt him through her connection to Brosi, through Psilofyr.

Psilofyr remembered the Lord of Hunger - and his failed attempts to corrupt the seedling even as its life was just beginning.

The moment his sickly fingers dug into the roots and penetrated through to spread his disease like hunger, he would feel the weight of the entire ecosystem looking directly at him. Eyes, unseen, everywhere - all around, malevolent and displeased. The focus of an entire planet would settle upon him, and there would be nowhere to hide. Even astride her own drake, Revna would become acutely aware of his presence and exact location and the tree borne of her gift of Hunger, would take what he so unwittingly gave to empower the creatures and Sithspawn upon Brosi’s surface, while the planet itself hid her from his searching invisible tendrils.

Revna smiled, feeling an energetic boost through her own dark connection to the Tree. A symbiotic relationship - while she was here, she benefited from the gorging of Psilofyr. Yes, I accept your offering…by all means, continue to feed me. You only empower me - whisper the dark Void within her mind, heard and felt only by her. Darkness coiled within the fiery depths of Revna’s eyes for a moment, like black smoke curling from the roaring of flames, before it vanished.

It seemed an old friend had come to pay her a visit.

A heartbeat later, she felt Srina’s mind connect with her own, and a voice whispering through her thoughts: <<We have an uninvited guest.>>

Revna felt a cold and cruel smile flit over her face. Instead of moving forward to greet the Lord of Hunger, Revna guided her drake from the trees to the opening where the Empress was atop her own ebon scaled battle drake. She brought the female drake towards the silver haired Echani who meant so much to Revna, watching carefully as their two mounts greeted one another in their own draconic way. Her eyes slipped from Srina to the utter mountain of a woman who was frolicking with her own drake, and her breath stilled for a moment.

She recognized that individual, and her eyes narrowed slightly as memories flashed through her mind.

That was the woman who had tried to kill her Father, when they were engaging Darth Nefaron when the Tsis’Kaar fell. Revna was tempted to feel hot anger, felt it bubbling up - she acknowledged it, but let it go a heartbeat later. Darth Strosius had many enemies, and He liked to make more for Himself wherever He stepped foot these days. Revna’s anger was borne from the desire to protect her family, but also in a more twisted and possessive manner - no one should kill her Master except for her.

Revna turned her gaze away from the one known as Mercy, and towards Srina.

“Dread Mother…” the little raven haired woman said, gentleness and no small amount of affection laced into her words as she slightly leaned across the space between the drakes to show the other woman her affection. She was content to exist for a moment with Srina, aware that something terrible had happened to the Empress - though she was still here. She made no mention of it, aware that perhaps Srina did not wish to speak about whatever had happened to her.

“Don’t mind my intrusion but I cannot help but dote on my favorite Echani before we go our own ways. Seems I have a friend to go and entertain…”

The Lord of Hunger · Feb 1, 2026

LOCATION: Preparing the first stage of defoliation

OBJECTIVE: To bring unlife and decay

IMPORTANT LINKS: Sword #1 | Sword #2 | Armor | Jewel | Ring | Necklace | Gauntlet | DIII Gluttoneria | The guards | The Enforcer | KRONOS

TAG: 
			 
		Srina Talon
 | 
			 
		Madrona A’Mia
 | 
			 
		Darth Carnifex
 | 
			 
		Revna Marr
 | 
			 
		Gerwald Lechner
 | 
			 
		T'zarna Khab
 | Ella Nova | 
			 
		Lirka Ka
 | 
			 
		Darth Prazutis

ENEMY: ALL

Behold your end

There was no hatred, no ill-will towards those who would suffer due to his actions, there was only pity. Pity towards the Sith who could only see the galaxy and the force from within their strongholds, from behind their soldiers and hordes of sithspawn. Decadence had turned the Sith into a compacent group, lead by the instability of one insufferable leader after another, each more selfrighteous and diluded than the one before them. They believed themselves masters of the dark side, they believed themselves in control of the force, but just like the jedi...they were shortsighted. However, He was not of such stock, not bound by their delusional disposition that their way was the only way.

As his reach expanded, the Lord of Hunger could pick up flashes of outside of the roots through which his mind was running, his senses picking up the outliers and rough positions of several key people within the Sith Hierarchy. he could feel the roots, the very soil recoil with every push he gave through them, the hidden secrets of the Psilofyr, but the monster who sought to break not just the will of what had once been a seed, but the very will of the planet at large, knew that he would need to utilize every piece within his arsenal to do so with gusto. Thus as he finally found what he was looking for; the traces of his corruption still remaining within the soil, the rememberance of his presence during the last invasion, a deep, haunting chuckle escaped from his lips. His eyes behind the mask flashed with a vibrant gold and crimson.

His free hand rose upwards, it was time to utilize the gifts from his silent partner Ella Nova who had been so kind to deliver him a veritable host of slaves in the form of prisoners and captives of the Imperial Confederation, scurried and spirited away from their confines and delivered unto him. A black miasma began to form around his free hand, a hum from deep within the man's lungs resonated through the air, when a crackle of electricity formed in the air, violently bursting out in black flames before an unstable, small portal began to form itself, the black and green energy within clashing and crackling as one after another, barely clothes humans, zabraks, dathomirians, miralukans were walking out of the portal, all lead into a circle around the Lord of Hunger, as he raised his hand covered with the dark miasma into the air. "Through hunger, through dread and through unending torture... you will bow to me, ensnared and enslaved by my desire, my design, my will."

As if to illustrate his hold over the lives of these poor, unfortunate souls the black miasma around his free hand crackled and seemed to practically hurt himself, ripping open his skin underneath the armor and allowing his own, vile and tainted blood to seep out. However, while it began to flow through the openings in his armor, his black blood did not drop to the ground, no...it lingered and began to form into tendrils, which like a ravenous spider's web jutted straight towards the captives, piercing their chests and infiltrating their very being, draining what lifeforce they had, while also corrupting, tainting and infecting them, rewriting their very biology. And as expected, none of them were remotely strong enough to withstand the infection, the virulent strength of the Blackwing 71 strain. While it normally would've taken some time, now....with such direct means of infection, the near instant weakening of their bodies expedited the process and was essentially nought but a reaction to the gruesome, unfiltered and direct way the Lord of Hunger had decided to feed and strengthen himself.

It was at this point that the Sceleratis unsheathed their blades, cutting the throats of each of the prisoners, allowing the black liquid they secreted to pool around the Lord of Hunger, who lowered the hand with the black miasma, drawing in all that blood and all that proliferated blackwing back into himself. A loud, deep thumping could be heard from within Him, a ravenous awakening as his armor seemed to tighten, his aura beginning to overflow and consume the very life around him. 

"Yes..."

They were fed, they were strengthened, both the host and the parasitical virus within raging with newfound strength, engorged upon the life of so many, strengthened by the addition of more of the blackwing strain violently coursing through their system.

"YES..."

Tilting his head backwards, the Lord of Hunger cocked both his arms, bending his knees ever so slightly when once more he slammed his Hand of Avaritia with great force into the nearest root, this time he no longer tried to push or pull, he no longer tried to maintain an equilibrium within the system of roots, leaves and twigs, nay...this time he let his Hunger loose, he did not hold back, he did not refrain...trees would wither this day, Brosi would turn back into the wasteland it should have been...

"Look upon my works ye mighty, an despair..."

Removed the thanatos virus and just illustrated the already present, unfiltered blackwing 71 strain within him in order to supercharge LoH

"Templar" · Feb 1, 2026

		
//:  Allies: 
			 
		Spencer Varanin
			 
		Mercy
			 
		Srina Talon
  | TSO //:

//: The World Tree, Brosi //:

//:  Attire //:

//: OBJECTIVE I - TIMBER! //:

Templar looked downward through the narrow slits of her helmet. Eyes followed the placement of her boots as they pressed into the ground. Grass bent and whispered beneath the armored soles. Only to spring back moments later, reacting to her presence— offended. The vegetation here was thick and lush. It felt excessive… almost invasive.

She had never been to Brosi before. Only heard of it through whispers and reports. Rumors of rituals and transformations that occurred on the planet. As the Relic lifted her gaze slowly, Brosi unfolded around her in layers.

What had once been described as a barren wasteland of a rock had been rewritten entirely. Terraformed into a breathing world, towering trees with broad canopies crowded the horizon with strange bioluminescent growths. Flowers bloomed in unnatural abundance with their petals too perfect. The air was warm and heavy with moisture, a scent of soil and sap lingered. Even the ground pulsed faintly beneath her feet, as if the planet itself exhaled. Seeing it now, one would find it hard to believe this had ever been dead.

A rough exhale left her in an impatient release. Templar did not know why she had been dragged along into this conflict. Wars between factions meant nothing to her. Names, banners, ideologies, be it The Imperial Confederation or The Sith Order were empty sounds that belonged to a galaxy she felt no connection to. A low barely audible sound escaped the Relic’s helmet. A rough grumble of distaste that was more vibration than voice. Her attention shifted toward the World Tree. 

Its colossal size dominated the clearing. Roots tore through the soil in vast interlocking arches, vines coiled and uncoiled along its bark. By the tree were figures who clearly did not regard the tree as a threat. One woman, (
			 
		Srina Talon
 ) stood with vines wrapped gently around for a moment. The other, (
			 
		Mercy
 ) stood beside a massive drake. It seems both knew of her ‘Master’ and her ‘Master’ knew them.

Templar’s helmet tilted upward. Neck craning as her gaze followed the movement above. Drakes circled overhead, some perched along  massive branches, and others flying in lazy arcs through the sky. One passed close enough that the shadow of its wings washed over her. The helmet shifted forward slightly, the rim dipped and narrowed her vision for a moment. Then she heard Her. 
			 
		Spencer Varanin
 's voice. It was calm and lately began to settle into something familiar. The word spoken at the end caught her attention like a hook.

Padawan.

The Relic paused. Eyes rolled beneath the helmet as her attention dropped back down. Gloved hands emerged from beneath the cloak. Fingers adjusting the helmet with practice irritation, shifting it back into proper alignment. The metal clicked softly as it settled. Templar’s hands lingered for a moment before retreating once more beneath the fabric.

In another lifetime, that word might have meant something. Pride? Purpose, she’d suppose. Maybe resentment or aspiration. But now… she couldn’t remember which. Only that it once carried weight. Now that word felt hollow. A reminder and mockery of a version of herself she struggled toward and perhaps could no longer reach. No memory stirred nor an echo of feeling followed it. Just absence.

Another heavy sigh escaped her, rough and distorted through the vocoder. Followed by another low grumble. Templar slowly turned her head toward the blonde woman beside her. A flicker of irritation crossed her features hidden behind the helmet. She made no attempt to speak aloud. Her voice was broken and unreliable. There was no patience for it now. Instead, she reached out. Not with fear or submission, just cautious intent. Just as when Templar had been dragged to the meeting for the Sundering, she didn’t bother holding back her thoughts, then or now.

<Life, interesting?> The thought carried a dried scoff. <Life or interesting, both have a habit of arriving at the worst possible time. Neither is ever simple. And neither asks for permission. You never know what they’ll demand of you next…> Her helmet turned, now looking at the camp around the World Tree. <It’s bothersome.>

She felt the nod from her ‘Master’, but drew nothing from it. When instructed to mind the perimeter, Templar did not hesitate. ‘Gladly.’ She did not need to be told twice to leave. Giving a silent nod in return, her boots carried her toward the edge of the encampment. Even as the Relic walked, she felt the sensation of being watched lingering at her back. 

Near the boundary, a patch of flowers caught her attention. Templar slowed, focusing on a single bloom among the cluster. Kneeling down, slowly she reached out. Brushing one gloved finger across its petals that were slightly translucent, veins faintly glowing beneath the surface.

Something felt wrong. Templar removed the glove. The bare skin of her fingers tingled in the humid air. Drawing a blade, she slid the edge carefully across her fingertip. Blood welled and fell in a single drop onto the flower. Eyes watched as the reaction was immediate. The petals shuddered, curling inward as the blood was absorbed. It was subtle but unmistakable, the bioluminescent color deepened as it fed. The plant moved. Not violently, but with intent.

Life is interesting, isn’t it.

Her eyes lingered on the flower as its stem thickened and bloom grew. “Per–haps…” The Relic murmured to herself, the word rough and unused. With the blade sheathed and the glove returned to her hand, she rose. Leaving the flower untouched. A quiet understanding settling in her chest. This planet was not merely alive.

It was hungry.

Templar’s head snapped up, staring into the dense forest beyond the camp. She began to move, climbing one of the towering trees. Branches creaked beneath her weight as she broke through the canopy. From above, the world stretched wide and green.

There— far in the distance, movement in the sky. Starships, dropping something. Templar tilted her head. Her curiosity stirred. She had expected fire. Explosions. The roar of devastation tearing through the forest… Instead, a fog spread outward. A creeping mist rolling through the treetops. Iridescent and unnatural. Templar descended, settling back onto the grass. Boots striking softly against the living ground.

It seemed the annoyance of life had finally arrived on Brosi.

Taregh Garon · Feb 1, 2026

Brosi
Equipment: Greatsaber | Inquisition's Fist | Menasor Armor
Allies: Imperials
Enemies: Sith |

Gerwald Lechner

Troopers were enveloped in heat and fire when the Drake and its Rider swept down over them. Many scattered, several were transformed into ash from the super-heated blast.

Further back the Inquisitor would raise his left hand, the Inquisitor's Fists fitted over his gauntleted hands to shield his vision as though the optics of his helm wouldn't have filtered out the flash of the inferno.

As the Purge Troopers regrouped and the Drake landed ahead, blocking the path they meant to cut through the forest on their way to the World Tree, Taregh would have lowered his hand from where he'd raised it. Almost instantly the HUD in his helm would have identified

Gerwald Lechner , the Lord Commander though to the Inquisitor with no notion of whom he was Gerwald was merely a Force-User, a Sith aligned with the enemy. He was an obstacle to be destroyed with the rest of the forest.

While Gerald's vocie carried over the distance and through the smoke Taregh's deep voice crackled over the comms of the remaining Purge Troopers...

"Kill the beast, burn the forest."

...the Inquisitor had made no mention of the man, the Troopers would assume that he intended to face him personally. They reacted to their new orders.

Incinerators belched new gouts of chemical fire to burn away more of the forest, pushing back foliage and vegetation to create an even larger perimeter and a heavier blanket of smoke. Blasters targeted the Drake, firing at intervals. Unlike regular Troopers the Purge Troopers were elite, trained to fight Jedi and Sith; where a regular man might falter the Purge Trooper was more disciplined and mastered their fear.

Their shots didn't come randomly, several of them fired at the beasts torso and limbs so that others could target its wings. A Drake that couldn't fly was slightly less intimidating that one who could take to the skies.

Taregh himself focused only on the man, Gerwald who beckoned him with a challenge to show him who he was.

Pressing off a foot he charged at Gerwald, every footfall crushing against the earth as the massive form crossed the distance between the two men. As he moved he focused, the force began to saturate his core. He expended a fraction of that energy to leap into the air, carrying himself to heights unnatural to a man.

The cylinder he'd held in his right hand came around into a reverse grip while he was in mid air, his left clasped over its butt and the lightsaber ignited. It was a greatsaber, larger and more unwieldly for a normal man but comfortable in Taregh's grasp so that he could wield it in one hand or both. It's blade ignited, snapping to lift as a deep burgundy and crackling with the increased intensity of the varpeline crystal it currently focused its power through. It was long, twice as long as a regular lightsaber's blade at least and promised to bite with more ferocity wherever it struck.

Gliding through the air Taregh when up at an angle, carried by forwards momentum before descending it turn; rocketing towards Gerald with the blazing plasma blade of his saber aimed at his chest and acting more like a lance than anything else...

Madrona A’Mia · Feb 2, 2026

A moment of dread twisted throughout her fibrous being as the first bombs and huge canisters of gas struck. She'd dreamed with this planet, lived inside the minds of its millions of various bestial and floral denizens. This was her home now. Each new attack was as a bite from a flea, a stinging paper cut, an annoyance. Too well she knew that death by a thousand cuts could and would fell a giant if left to bleed for too long.

Revna Marr said:
...To war again, my dear. You have my sword, and my violence. I will give you many sacrifices for all that you have done for me…

Strength to you, dear Revna. They seek to be thieves, and this world is as much yours as it is mine. I’ll not waver, nor shall you.
This I know.

A'Mia's head snapped in the direction of a distant disturbance, the Lord of Hunger, but was again steadied by the unwavering presence of her allies and the natural world around her. Brosi knew hunger, it had been made in its likeness — gorged upon death and born anew. Brosi learned hunger from Psilofyr, who had first learned it from Revna. A lesson hard earned amongst others provided by several powerful Sith Lords who planted the super-organism and supercharged its growth process.

The woman called out telepathically to one of the drakes, he was smaller than some of the others but clever and keen. Upon her summons the creature plummeted toward her location, landing very near her in a blast of air from buffeting wings. The drake snaked his noble head toward her reaching hand, one emerald eye sizing her up as if tempted to take a bite but uncertain given her arboreal appearance.

While conflict drew nearer still, while pieces of Brosi began to burn, A’Mia took one last private moment shared between none but her new companion and Psilofyr. The neti swayed slightly, anchored to the large root where it joined to the trunk as she was, and observed the truth of the Weave. That constant ebbing and flowing, life become death become life anew. Despite the pain already felt and that which she knew lay ahead, there was a grim solemnity and even dark joy in being part of the great cycle.

Her hand made contact with the broad scaled muzzle of the great beast before her and creeping hyphae spread from the tips of her slender fingers to decorate his face in green filaments. A silent knowing passed between them, then the great beast was off, gaining elevation to be her eyes.

Her mind lingered below for a while longer. A’Mia’s expression, so often affected or blank, was faintly sorrowful. Deep within her though a fire of wrath was burning. Her thoughts strayed one last time, reaching out briefly to touch the mind of the oldest friend she had.

Darth Strosius . Her mental voice was hard to discern emotionally, was that sadness or mischief? The words carried to him as if on a warm breeze.

Having any fun yet, Alisteri?

As Seen On High

Through the eyes of her drake, A’Mia honed in on one particular conflict zone that drew more than just ire. It sickened her.

Dead metal, scorching flame, annoying gases, and ineffectual viral sequences which were more than likely to fall inert soon after touching the transmutational properties of Brosi’s soil. It was all wrong.

She was irked about the incursion but she hated this particular theater of war and the drake was fast approaching it. He was as death on high with wings grand enough to black out the sun despite being the smallest of his nestmates. Somewhere from deeper within the forest, yet unsullied by unwelcome hands, an ominous buzzing began to fill the air. The droning of tens of thousands of insects began to grow into a dull roar which grew ever nearer to Ronhar and his forces.

Elsewhere, across the various battlegrounds and near the outskirts of the cities, the very earth itself began to slowly churn.

Rorsch · Feb 2, 2026

Brosi
Objective: I - Timber!!
Allies: TIC
Hostiles: TSO
Equipment:

Rorsch said:
Kaldrweave Black Imperial Uniform
NZ LHEA Mk. II/EOTL Armor (Dyed Dark Grey)
NZ Modular Blaster-02E (Single Load Rocket Launcher Variant)
Inquisition Slugthrower DN-1 (Carries about 4+1 magazine's worth of bullets)
Baskethandle Lightfoil

Forces:

Quaritch-1
Quaritch-2
Quaritch-3

15x AT-SWs - three groups of 5

Sturm-1
Sturm-3
Sturm-3

12x AT-AWs - three groups of 4

Vult-1
Vult-2
Vult-3

108x ZMDIII-KXU Droids
72x Heavy Weapons Stormtroopers (Armor, Weapon: X)

Brosi was alive in the wrong way.

The world had completely changed from the previous reports on the first invasion of Brosi. Forests pressed in from every direction, trunks and canopies sealed out the sky and muted the world in a dense green. Roots broke the soil like exposed bone, and the air carried a dangerous pressure that had nothing to do with humidity. Ahead of the Imperials, buried within this dense living mass, the Sith world tree waited.

A sound tore through the living forest: cracking and grinding, as a steel behemoth forced its way through a tree, the trunk groaning before collapsing into the growth around it.

Armored walkers advanced in measured intervals, Imperial-durasteel legs crushing undergrowth with methodical force. Infantry, stormtroopers and KXU droids, moved tight to the machines, weapons up and scanners active, their feet sinking into the loam of this unnatural forest. At the column's center, three 'Quaritch' super-heavy siege tanks ground forward. Their reinforced hulls and tracks forcing aside roots that would have trapped lesser armor.

The lead tank, Quaritch-1, rolled to a halt.

"Column, hold," Rorsch ordered.

The response was immediate. Walkers locked their stance and elevated hulls for stability. Stormtrooper squads fanned outward into covered arcs, squads taking knee around roots and fallen timber; the KXUs stood in front of them, their armored carapace giving a better degree of protection, all weapons watching the tree line.

Rorsch studied the tactical overlay in silence. Sensor returned blurred ahead, heat sinks, voids, distortions where living matter absorbed energy it had no right to contain. The forest was denser there. His tanks would take too long to go through it or around it. He reached a conclusion.

"Walkers," he said, "front line, step back ten meters. Shields forward. Infantry, clear the blast lane. transmitting data to SLs. Mark and hold."

He watched as green markers moved across his tactical display. Efficient, to say the least.

"Gunnery crews," Rorsch continued, "load firestorm. Single round. Forward axis."

Within Quaritch-1, the sound of the autoloader clicked into action, one of the 220mm barrels lowered and locked. There was a heavy sound as it seated a thermobaric round into the chamber. Rorsch did not raise his voice.

"Fire."

The gun spoke.

The round vanished into the forest and detonated in a rolling bloom of incandescent force. The blast did not simply explode; it unfolded like a roiling pressure wave that turned air into fire. Trees vanished in a widening corridor as flame washed outward, clinging to bark, roots, and canopy alike. The forest ignited in layers, napalm-like fire cascading through branches and undergrowth, consuming everything it touched. The blast carved a wide, smoking corridor through Brosi's woods, heat rippling visibly in its wake.

Rorsch watched the after-action data scroll. "Walkers, advance through the breach. Spacing twenty meters. Sweep left and right."

The walkers stepped forward, legs crunching into scorched earth, weapons tracking the ash-choked tree line.

"Infantry," he added, "move behind armor. No flanking beyond visual range. Burn anything that moves."

Acknowledgments returned: brief and professional. Quaritch-1 rolled forward last, treads biting into blackened ground, as the column pushed into the fire-scarred wound it had cut into Brosi's forest. Somewhere ahead, the world tree waited.

TAGS:

Madrona A’Mia
OPEN

Darth Prazutis · Feb 2, 2026

The Imperial Confederation advanced through the root choke with the confidence of a force that believed fear could be outmarched. Wedges of troopers moved in disciplined intervals, rifle muzzles steady, drones skating low to map angles and feed clean solutions to calm voices on the net. The world tree loomed ahead like a black cathedral of living ruin, and the Imperials treated it as an objective, something you could bracket, burn, and break. Even here, in Brosi's warped corridors, they still believed the Sith were theatre and superstition, that momentum and coordination would flatten anything painted as "legend". That mere strategy could quell the dark.

Then Darth Prazutis stepped into view, and all hope died. The Mortarch didn't sprint to meet them. He didn't raise His lightsaber, nor did He posture, or offer the enemy the comfort of a recognizable beginning. He simply walked into the open as though the shattered avenue belonged to Him, Qâzjiin'vraal drinking muzzle flash into void black plates, crimson runes pulsing slow along His armor like a patient heartbeat. Xûl-Karzaan turned its predatory face toward the vanguard, lenses swallowing smoke and steam and giving nothing back. The Shadow Hand stopped, and for a heartbeat the Imperials might've mistook His stillness for calculation.

The rune-inscribed gauntlet rose with deliberate calm. Fingers spread. The gesture felt less like a motion and more like gravity shifting, and with it the very air thickened. But it wasn't with any form of fog or dust, but with presence, sudden and intolerable, the way pressure builds before something catastrophic gives way. Sound didn't vanish. It thinned, stretched brittle, until even blaster fire sounded far away and wrong. The roots nearest Him trembled, then recoiled, then tightened, as if Psilofyr's network had recognized a larger predator and tried to draw its veins inward. The Dark Lord lowered His hand and pressed His palm to the cracked earth. The contact looked almost reverent. Then He spoke.

The Mortarch's voice was not loud for it didn't need to be. It moved through the choke point like a locked door closing from the outside, measured, cold, absolute. Words like iron nails driven into the world, a name like a chain. Words so vile the skies above him blackened at their utterance, a summoning keyed not to the sky, but to the thin seam beneath it, old sacrificial scars and hidden Sith work where reality remembered how to tear, by His will.

The temperature dropped.

Not the clean chill of weather, this was the sudden, sickening cold of a door opening somewhere it should never exist. The wind died first. Then the comm-net crackled with static that didn't sound electronic so much as alive. Men swallowed and found their throats too dry, and helmets felt too tight. A few troopers involuntarily checked their seals as if the air itself had turned poisonous. Behind Him, darkness gathered in a tight, coiling knot, not an absence of light but something thicker, night poured into daylight and left to boil. A ring of soot black sigils snapped into existence, flaring crimson without warmth, and the ground bowed beneath it as if something enormous pressed from the other side. Stone bulged upward. Hairline fractures sprinted across the avenue in spiderweb patterns. The earth groaned, deep, structural, like a continent remembering pain.

Then the world shattered.

Not an explosion but a tearing. A cruel unzipping of reality that peeled the stone apart and revealed a bleeding seam of black. From that wound came a sound that made trained soldiers forget their training. A deep, oscillating roar that didn't strike the ears so much as the mind, vibrating through thoughts like teeth grinding on bone. The breach widened and shadows surged, as something hauled itself into the world with the terrible patience of a hunger that had never been denied.

It rose.

Vaguely humanoid only in the way a guillotine is "vaguely" a tool, upright, towering, impossibly dense. Iron hard skin split by lava bright fissures, liquid fire coursing beneath a chestplate of calcified darkness. Horns crowned a skull built to be remembered. Its eyes ignited first, two pits of hateful light, then its maw opened and the corridor suddenly felt too small for the idea of surviving. Teeth like broken long blades, a throat glowing with the restrained fires of the Netherworld itself. Breath that stank of ash and nightmares. The Noćna Mora emerged fully, and the choke point became a cathedral of dread with the Devourer as its altar.

The first footfall hit like a localized quake, knocking dust from ruins and sending loose rubble skipping across the broken avenue. The second made helmets rattle, teeth clack, knees soften against will. Men who had never prayed found themselves whispering to anything that might be listening. It was then that the crushing aura hit them, not suggestion, not intimidation, imposition. A pressure that reached into the mind and dragged private horrors into the open. Faces, failures, deaths, the worst moments of their lives replayed with cruel clarity. Some troopers fired at empty air, screaming at phantoms only they could see. Others froze, breath stuttering, hands shaking around rifles that suddenly felt like toys.

Above it all, the beast laughed.

Not with a voice but a grinding amusement that scraped along the psyche like sandpaper, a sound that made the inside of the skull feel raw. It leaned forward, flames pressing brighter through its fissures, and the line might've buckled, not a rout, not yet, but mortal falter that no doctrine can erase when the body decides the mind is lying. Right beside it, beside the towering nightmare He had pulled from the beyond, Darth Prazutis stood like a master beside a weapon.

He did not flinch at the heat. He did not recoil from the fear he had unleashed. Qâzjiin'vraal held the darkness like it was forged into him. The crimson runes along His armor beat slow and steady, indifferent to the panic around Him. Xûl-Karzaan turned slightly, as if studying the Imperial formation the way one studies a diagram before breaking it. The Shadow Hand raised His gauntleted hand once, small, controlled, and the Noćna Mora's attention snapped to Him as if yanked on an invisible chain. It did not obey out of affection. It obeyed out of compulsion, out of the brutal certainty that the thing in armor was stronger than the thing made to terrify.

Prazutis' voice slid into their comms and into the hollow places fear opens behind discipline, calm as an executioner preparing the block. "These mongrels think they know the fire, they are wrong. Burn them. Burn them all. Destroy everything in your path."

The order landed like the fall of a hammer into the bones of the world. The Noćna Mora answered with a roar that shook the roots overhead and set ash raining like black snow. It surged forward, and anything before it became slaughter. Claws carved trenches through stone as it closed distance with impossible force. A prehensile tail scythed sideways and turned a firing line into tumbling bodies. Its maw snapped shut on armored forms with a crunch that carried over blasters, and it did not merely tear flesh, it drank terror, fed on panic, flayed minds through a psychic link that left victims screaming even before teeth found them. Those who tried to hold formation discovered the forest itself had become complicit. Roots tightened along flanks, forcing men into narrower angles, turning their retreat into a funnel. Those who tried to run found their feet caught, their senses betrayed by hallucinations that looked solid enough to kill. All around came a roiling storm of fires raging hotter than any conventional flame, their sources birthed from the depths of the realm beyond, the Netherworld. Its destruction swept outwards like a tide.

Yet the Shadow Hand didn't step after the Devourer. Instead? He remained at the breach. The portal behind Him still yawned, ragged, bleeding black, its edges crawling with blood red sigils that flared and dimmed like a dying star refusing to die. Heat from the Devourer's fissures warred with the portal's corpse-cold, creating a fog that rolled in low, thick waves across the stone, and through that fog, the Shadow Hand continued to speak his dark sorcery, His cadence unchanged, His tone almost conversational, as if He were reading a litany from memory. Each syllable tightened the air. Each phrase made the wound in reality flex wider by inches. The spellwork over his form blossomed then, easing the load, empowering every incantation he spoke. The sigils brightened. The darkness beyond shifted, and something vast moved in it, more silhouettes, not yet formed, but present enough to make the stomach drop with fresh understanding.

It was sorcery rooted in a pure mastery of the dark side so great few could ever hope to match it. Once he'd been convinced to halt the arrival of the Devourer, the Dread Wolf's first foray into fighting alongside the Sith. Now? There was nothing to hold him back.

Lirka Ka |

Eira Dyn |

Lysander von Ascania |

Specifically:

Rorsch

Sophia of House Marr · Feb 2, 2026

Direct Ally Tag: [SO]: Nerralyn Raaf +

Horus Rhyne
Distant Ally Tag: [SO]:

Eira Dyn |

"Templar" |

Lirka Ka
Enemy Tag: [TIC ] - Not Engaging Yet [OPEN]
Location: Brosi [In a "Tree"]
Objective: Objective I

Sophia Marr stood cradled in the arms of

Horus Rhyne while the jungle burned some distance away from them, shielded by natural camouflage. He was doing all the hard work in keeping them secluded while she observed the battlefield. The Sith Order had cells located all over Brosi, large and small, and they had been just lucky enough to catch this end of the Imperial forces lumbering along toward the World Tree.

As if.

Horus had his arms locked around her middle with the easy familiarity of someone who had done this before. Held her steady when the world went wrong. Smoke drifted up through the leaves in bitter waves, clinging to armor and skin, turning the air sharp and acrid. It burned the eyes and made it hard to see. Soon enough, they’d need to put their helmets or rebreathers on…There was something else foul on the breeze. She didn’t want till she sprouted a foot from her forehead to find out what it was.

She snorted at the comment

Nerralyn Raaf made about their subtlety or lack thereof.

“You can say that again.”

Nothing the TIC had done so far had been anything remotely close to understated, even when it came to the attack itself. There had been clandestine missions that had been discovered by the Hordemother (

Madrona A’Mia ) and Holo-Net recordings trying to dissuade the Mandalorians from fulfilling their contracts so that the Holy Worlds would be easier to assault. Part of her wondered, briefly, if they wanted all Sith on Brosi for a reason.

Maybe they were going to glass the place?

They were already carpet bombing it.

Her head tilted to rest on Horus’ shoulder rather possessively as the memory of their last incursion on Brosi came back to her. Void-Stone AP rounds tearing through the air from a mobile gatling that hit him in the chest. The man had gone down hard, fast, and there had been several hours that they’d spent trapped in an old building while she did all she could to try and keep him from bleeding out. “I guess they were expecting more traditional defenses…Barricades. Fighting in the city, maybe, a few zombies…”

Odd that the walking dead had become what one might call “traditional defenses” when the Sith went on a warpath. The daughter of the Lady of Secrets was the last person she had expected to be paired with, but she was grateful for the opportunity. The loss of her brother had left her family name in tatters on Jutrand, and the littlest Marr had been tasked with raising it back to standard. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when it came to him. She hated him—But she missed him. It was all a blur in that regard.

Nerralyn Raaf said:
"Have you ever commanded or seen what a Sithspawn horde can do, Sophia?"

“No…Not outside of training. Sithspawn were never my forte…”, she replied, a little rankled, that she had to admit she wasn’t perfect at everything. Her gifts were more probability related that seemed to resemble Dathomir more than traditional study. She sank back into Horus a little more when the jungle all around them came to life. What had once been still turned into a wave of movement that her crimson eyes had trouble following.

What caught her attention more than anything?

The Hydra. A bloody, damn, karking—Hydra.

The sudden surge of insects almost made her jump out of her skin. Have mercy, she hated bugs, little scurrying legs and a thousand little eyes looking at her? Oh, hell no.

Nerralyn Raaf said:
"Shall we?" she asked Sophia.

“Down there? With those?”

It wasn’t that she was afraid of the Sith Spawn and varying creatures that

Nerralyn Raaf had unleashed against one of the Imperial Armies but...She would rather not become lunch. What if they had a taste for pretty Sith nobility instead if Imperial filth?

She knew which she’d rather eat.

“Okay…Right. Yes…We shall.”

She glanced up at Horus, biting her lip, because once more he had insisted on coming with her. Once more they were walking into danger that he didn’t have to be in. Once more, they were far from home, defending a planet from scum-slime goblin-imps that just couldn’t take a hint. The goal seemed to be pretty darn simple once she stripped all the fancy language out of the battle plan like “decimate” and “overpower” and “neutralize”…Blah, blah strategy blah.

Three-hundred pages of tactics swiftly translated into:

Harass the Imperial Confederation until they took so many losses, they gave up, and dipped out.

Again.

She could do that, really.

Sophia was the best at annoying people she didn’t like.

“Well…Uh…After you?”

Amni Kazda · Feb 2, 2026

Battle Armor
Kitty

Amni could hear the clash of Lightsabers and howls of pain from both Sith and Imperial alike. The battle had just started and already Amni could sense mass casualties on both sides. The Sith were putting up a real fight which made Amni more excited. "Good," Amni thought. "All the more satisfying for me to defeat any Sith get in my way."

She could hardly believe that this was the Imperial Confederacy second attempt in trying to take over Brosi. It reminded Amni of the Emperor's first foray into Sith territory. Velran was filled with confidence and conviction thinking that with the Imperial factions united for better or for worse. The Sith were encroaching on Imperial territory and Velran launched an invasion trying to take Felucia and use it as a staging ground to take over Korriban: His ultimate goal. However, the Invasion of Felucia was a colossal failure with millions of Imperials losing their lives.

Amni didn't participate in the slaughter, and she remembered Velran ranting and raving that he should've sent her. However, Amni was doubtful that she would make a difference. Afterall, her newfound powers were still unstable back then. "I'm here now." Amni mumbled seeing the large tree in front of her, as well sensing a disturbance in the Force. Frowning, Amni saw a wave of Imperial troopers falling to a figure cladded in armor. It was hard to make out the design but from Amni's perspective it looked ridiculous.

Closing her eyes, Amni concentrated and raised her hand, a portal with yellow jagged edges appeared before her and she stepped through. A split second later, another portal was formed in front the Sith lord as she continued to thunderstorm of Force Lightning from her hands. Amni exited the portal her metal boots skidding against the ground. She knew that the men and women were burnt to a crisp. Once again, she was too late to save anyone: The story of her life.

"Nice display of fireworks," Amni said in a blunt tone. "What is it with Sith and their obsession with wearing overdesigned armor? It looks like you're trying to overcompensate for something."

She raised her hand a small portal was summoned and Kitty: Her weapon rose from it. Amni grabbed the hilt and held Kitty high. The blade was as alive with light and as pale as glass.

"I got a job to do," Amni said with a smile holding Kitty close to her. "But I don't mind the distraction, it keeps my skills sharp and besides, your armor could fetch me a decent price on Holobay."

A smirk spread across her thin lips as Amni rushed towards the Sith Lord. "LET'S DANCE!" She shouted raising her blade and preparing a vertical strike.

Eira Dyn

Eira Dyn · Feb 2, 2026

Objective: 1 - Protect the tree
Armour Mode: WAR
Equipment: Marwolaeth Ddu, Lethal Pursuers, Vibrosword, Blaster Pistol
Allies: TSO - Distant Allies:

Spencer Varanin |

"Templar" |