Faction The Soil Endures: From Scars to Song || Sith Order

[Aspect of Defiance]

​

The smoke had long since lifted, though its memory lingered in the scent of the soil.

Brosi did not forget easily. The forests bore their scars openly, great trunks marked by heat and shrapnel, stretches of earth still dark where fire had tried to claim what did not belong to it. Yet life had answered in the only way it knew how. New growth pushed through cracked stone and broken duracrete. Roots wound through the bones of war machines left to rust where they had fallen. The jungle had not merely survived. It had begun its quiet work of mending.

At the heart of it all stood the World Tree.

Its vast canopy spread like a living sky above the clearing, leaves whispering in tones that seemed to carry memory as much as wind. Light filtered through layers of green and gold, falling across the gathered paths that spiraled toward its trunk. Where once defenders had stood ready for assault, lanterns now hung from living branches, their soft glow mingling with bioluminescent growth coaxed forth by Psilofyr’s presence. The ground beneath the great roots had been carefully cleared, not stripped bare, but shaped into spaces where voices could rise without disturbing the living heart of the world.

Along the great roots, careful hands had shaped small spaces where memory could rest without disturbing the living bark. Tokens hung from low branches, ribbons woven from local fibers, fragments of armor polished and set into the earth, simple carvings pressed into wood that would weather and remain. Some bore names. Others carried symbols recognized only by those who had stood through the long hours of defense.

They marked the presence of those whose strength had held when the invasion pressed hardest, of leaders who had guided the defense of the grove and the cities, of warriors who had fought beneath burning skies, and of allies who had ensured that the lifelines beyond the world endured. There was no grand proclamation, no ordered roll of honor. The forest required none.

The World Tree remembered in its own way, holding quiet witness to the many hands and wills that had shaped the outcome, its roots curling gently around each offering as though drawing those memories into the living heart of Brosi.

Brosi had called, and the call had been answered.

Delegations arrived from across the region, soldiers and commanders who had stood through fire, settlers who had refused to abandon their homes, travelers drawn by word that the world which had endured invasion now opened itself in celebration. The air carried the low murmur of conversation, the warmth of shared food, and the subtle hum of life that seemed to pulse beneath every step.

There was no denial of what had come before. Sections of bark still bore the marks of blaster scoring. A shattered hull, half reclaimed by creeping vines, rested at the edge of the clearing as a quiet reminder of the cost paid here. Yet beneath the great canopy there was a sense of steady pride. The invasion had come to break what had been built. It had found instead a world that endured.

Tonight, the forest welcomed those who walked beneath its branches.

Music rose in gentle currents, carried by instruments both crafted and grown. Long tables formed from living wood curved naturally along the contours of the roots, set with simple fare and shared drink. Children moved between clusters of gathered warriors with easy familiarity, as though the presence of armor and scars were simply another part of the landscape. Above, the leaves shifted softly, catching the light like distant stars seen through green.

The World Tree stood as witness.

Its presence was not silent. Those attuned could feel the slow rhythm of something vast and patient, a reminder that healing was not an event but a process that unfolded with quiet certainty. The same roots that had surged in defense now settled deeper into the soil, drawing strength from what had been endured.

Brosi did not celebrate victory as conquest. It celebrated endurance. It honored the simple truth that what had been broken was already being restored.

And beneath the branches, there was room for all who wished to take part.

Spoiler: SO OBJECTIVES AND ART

Objective One: Beneath the Canopy​

Gather beneath the World Tree where lantern light filters through the leaves. Share stories of the campaign, reconnect with allies, meet new faces, or simply take in the living presence of the grove. Characters may reflect on what was lost, what was defended, or what the future may hold as the forest continues its quiet healing.

Objective Two: The Living Grounds​

Walk the surrounding paths where the forest has begun reclaiming the scars of battle. Explore regrowth overtaking old fortifications, visit memorial markers set among the roots, or assist in small acts of restoration as settlers and soldiers work together to mend what was damaged. Conversations here may be quieter, shaped by memory and renewal.

Objective Three: Fires of Celebration​

Join the communal feasting areas where music and shared meals bring warmth to the evening. Celebrate survival, forge new alliances, or simply enjoy a rare moment of peace beneath the trees as Brosi hosts those who stood through the storm.

 

[Reina Daival]

Tag: Open
Objective:

It should have felt wrong. All of this. To have fought with the Sith. To have had the Dark Side flow through her veins as easily as blood. Yet it didn't. If anything, it had felt good. It felt like she had accomplished something. Finally. Even if in the grand scheme of things, she hadn't. It was still pleasant for her to think on it. She had done what she could to aid the tree, using what limited knowledge of Plant Surge she had learned, though it felt like an offense to the Jedi who had taught her the technique.

She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a long exasperated sigh, before wincing at the pain that echoed through her throat. It still hadn't fully healed from the recoil of her screams, which is why she was currently nursing a soothing warm cup of tea in her hands, blowing against it gently. Reina most definitely felt the pain from the battle, both in her throat and alongside the side of her face. The bruising was starting to form quite clearly on the left side of her face, matching both her split lip and the blood-shot eye, with the red mixing in with the yellow.

Her gaze flicked amongst the feast, unable to hold back the slight smile on her face as the Ersansyr watched those who took part in the revelry, eating and drinking. The Sith seemed to party better than the Alliance ever did. For now, the redhead shook her head and continued to nurse her cup of tea. Depending on how her throat healed, Reina would take part in the singing. She was content to listen for now as she sat against the trunk of a tree. To think back on the battle and to think what would come next for her. She had called Darth Carnifex her master. In a way that simple statement had made it official. It made her wonder what would lay in future for her. Would she finally be able to be someone of note? Or was it just childish thinking?
​

 

[Madrona A’Mia]

​

Brosi
Objective 3
Tags: Darth Strosius | Lina Ovmar | OPEN

The end of the second battle for Brosi had become similarly abstract for A’Mia as the end of the first incursion by TIC forces. Both struggles had resulted in widespread destruction but in turn, miraculous regrowth and transmutation. The use of atomic weapons during this last stint was perhaps the most taxing thing on A’Mia and the world’s heart, Psilofyr. Much time elapsed during which the neti was merely one with the radiotrophic fungi and the various interwoven ecological systems which were working overtime to purge the radiation in zones that it still plagued. Thanks to the gifts of cosmic force from Taeli Raaf and Darth Carnifex though, the cleansing and regrowth of Brosi would take only weeks rather than years.

As if asleep, in some meditative reverie, A’Mia had been seated at the base of the great world tree whilst the last of the fighting raged on, but she stayed like that even as enemy forces were driven back and her fearsome allies took no prisoners. The hours ticked on and still the woman sat as a living statue, communing with her wounded world, overseeing its mending. Only after much time had elapsed and new stirrings of life were bustling amongst the Grove of the First Risen did A’Mia finally rouse from her pseudo slumber. Having sustained herself upon naught but broad spectrum light and the Force, the neti soon realized she was famished.

With the party already under way, A’Mia wandered along a path she knew would wind its way toward libations. She might have stood out a bit, still dressed in ceremonial robes stained in places with her own dark green blood, but A’Mia didn’t give a second thought to that.

Food.

Drink.

There were tame fires too, not the hateful things that raged so recently throughout her forests. With an airy, dazed expression, A’Mia plucked a wooden stein from a tray and surveyed the food on offer. She was so preoccupied that she might not notice even the most familiar of faces until interacted with directly.

 

[Neryn Ka]

​

For his part, Neryn had not made an appearance in the Brosi campaign proper. After all, he'd crawled, mewling and broken, from his tank a few days ago.

It was quite a sight, for one who was, almost literally, born yesterday. Brosi's governor had done wonders with the place. Neryn fancied himself a sophisticate, unlike so many around him, and could appreciate the pristine beauty of nature.

Maybe it was the Sephi in him, barely visible under the glowing scars and strangely-mutated anatomy. He found that he loved beautiful things, even if he himself was anything but beautiful.

Despite his lack of participation, it didn't stop Neryn from putting in an appearance (if only to take more than his share of drinks). He lounged easily on a branch some twenty feet above the gathering, legs kicking off the edge in a boyish fashion.

He radiated the sort of asinine, self-satisfied smugness that a Loth-cat embodied when it sat atop one's refrigerator. Master of all he surveyed, at least in his own mind.

Neryn had come out of the flesh-vats brimming with a sense of destiny and entitlement far out of proportion with his extreme chronological youth. Of course, Lirka Ka was to blame for that, just as she was to blame for everything else about him.

Rather than having an existential crisis, Neryn took a bite out of a fruit he'd taken from the tree he was sitting in, washing it down with a mouthful of some delicious (but unknown) beverage pilfered from a table below. He had no idea if the former were poisonous, but what was life without a little risk? It likely wouldn't affect him, anyhow.

He peered down at the goings-on with mild, condescending interest, wondering if he could get away with another drink without being made to leave.

​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The aftermath of the battle had been a bloody and agonizing affair. What Imperial forces hadn't made a hasty evacuation were encircled by the Sith, cordoned into claustrophobic killing fields were dozens were scythed down like wheat. When enough had been culled, the survivors were disarmed and rounded up for collection. Utilizing His authority as a Dark Lord of the Sith, Darth Carnifex transferred the captured Imperials of lesser and middle rank to His custody. The Empire got those deemed important enough to mind-flay for all their worth.

On the site of the Kainate base, a great banquet hall had been erected out of overlapping tents. It spanned nearly an entire quarter of the shoreline surrounding the black lake, and could seat many multitudes without issue. Within the hall, a huge wroshyr spanned the length of one end of the hall to the other. Large cages hung suspended over the table at various elevations, each near jam-packed with prisoners of war harvested from the slaughterfields of Brosi. They had all been deprived of armor and weapons, left to squirm against one another in their tightly bound prisons.

Below them was a scene of horror.

A grotesque display of voracious hunger was laid out across the table, the bodies of dozens of Imperial soldiers dissected and arranged as if they were floral displays. Graug warriors, wielding butcher knives the size of short swords, hacked off the choicest cuts and set them upon scalding hot griddles and braziers for Raykkan cooks to prepare. When they had eaten their fill of one body, another fresh one was taken from the cage and prepared in view of the assembled horde. Any appeals of mercy fell on deaf, alien ears, for the Graug had been promised a feast by their Lord and God.

And so they would indulge gratuitously.

Darth Carnifex sat at the head of the feast, elevated on a platform so that none could rise above Him even if standing. All around Him were half a dozen enslaved Imperial soldiers, each in various degrees of desiccation and malnutrition. Whenever His hand would idly graze one of them, their life energy would leach out into His fingertips; withering them further into nothingness. When one died, another was brought to replace it. Every so often, the Dark Lord would raise His goblet and the assembled horde would roar their approval, stamping and shaking the table with their jubilation.

And so the festivities would go on.

A feast of conquerors.

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The World Tree remembered.

So did the Dark. The celebration beneath Psilofyr's canopy would never reach the ears that mattered, not anymore, not when the Sith Empire had won, and victory didn't mean lanterns and ribbons, but chains and smoke and the accounting of the living. Somewhere beyond the grove's patient roots, the jungle's new growth climbed over shattered hulls while the last pockets of Imperial resistance were harvested like a crop. Brosi began to heal because it had no choice, and because it was allowed to. Where the battle had split reality, the wound still hung open, ragged, soot-limned, rimmed in sigils that pulsed like fresh scabs. Darth Prazutis stood before it in Qâzjiin'vraal, a monolith of obsidian plate and hungry runes, His cloak a slice of void draped over war forged shoulders. The air around Him tasted of iron and burnt ozone and something older, Netherworld cold wearing the skin of night.

The Noćna Mora didn't celebrate. They prowled the edge of the breach like starving hounds at a butcher's door, two colossal silhouettes of horn and fissure-fire, their ember-light breathing in slow gulps, their laughter a pressure in the skull rather than a sound in the air. They were swollen with what they had devoured. Terror, memory, the thin sweet thread of life that had snapped in a thousand throats. Even sated, they were not calm. They were restless, the way storms are restless when the sky has nothing left to break. Together they pounded the Imperials to boneless pulp, twisting the battlefield into a charnel house of gore, fire, and burned husks and ash. The Dark Lord of the Kainate faced both of them down alone, not as a handler, or an ally, but as their undisputed master, as the shape of their chain. His gauntlet rose, slow, precise, and the runes across His forearm brightened in a synchronized pulse, as if the armor itself inhaled. His voice rolled out through Xûl-Karzaan in layered abyssal resonance, not shouted, not pleaded, spoken like law.

"Enough." The single word hit the Devourers like a hook behind the ribs. Their bodies stiffened. Their ember fissures flared, offended, then dimmed in reluctant obedience. One turned its crowned head toward Him, maw splitting wider, heat spilling between its teeth in a silent threat; The other's claws flexed into the soil, carving furrows as if it wanted to write its hunger into the world. Their psychic auras pushed outward, nightmare pressure, bile-fear, the reflex to run even when there was nowhere to go. The Dark Lord simply stood there. Unmoved. The amulet at his throat, Ka'ra'nazat, throbbed once, and the air around him thickened, as though fear itself had become a liquid weight. Qâzjiin'vraal drank it like oxygen. Xûl-Karzaan watched the Devourers the way an executioner watches the blade: without emotion, with inevitability. "You have fed." He continued, voice calm as a closing tomb. "You have obeyed. Now you will leave."

The portal answered him like a throat remembering how to swallow. Sigils flared brighter, crimson without warmth, while corpse-cold rolled outward in a ground-hugging tide. The breach widened by inches, not from strain but from submission, reality parting because it recognized the hand that commanded it. The nearer Devourer resisted by instinct, its shoulders hunching, its maw opening in a silent roar, then the runes on Prazutis' gauntlet burned hotter, and the creature's defiance broke like brittle metal. It took one step back. Then another. It wasn't dragged, nor thrown but recalled. As it crossed the threshold, Netherworld fire licked up its limbs in blue-white tongues that clung like liquid hate, and the monster's ember-fissures pulsed once, bright, furious, before the darkness swallowed the glow. The second Devourer lingered a heartbeat longer, head tilted as if tasting the last lingering panic on the wind, as if searching the jungle for one more mind to peel.

The Shadow Hands helm angled a fraction. That was all. The second stepped through. The tear sealed with an unzipping sigh reversed, stone and air and light knitting back together, until only scorched earth remained, and the faint impression that something had stood there that reality would rather forget. Then the Shadow Hand turned from the place where hell had touched Brosi. He moved through the reclaimed paths of the Kainate base towards where Carnifex had raised his banquet hall, toward the overlapping tents, the roaring Graug, the suspended cages swaying with the weight of disarmed men, and the long tables dressed in obscene abundance. The nearer He drew, the more the air changed, salt and smoke and sizzling fat undercut by the thin, terrified scent of prisoners who understood, too late, the difference between "captured" and "claimed."

Right at the threshold of the feast, the shadows seemed to lean toward Him as if eager to be worn. The runes across His warplate pulsed slow. When Darth Prazutis entered, the conquerors' din didn't quiet from mere respect. It quieted from instinct, like an animal holds still when the apex predator steps into the firelight, when their god emerged. He approached the high table where Carnifex sat enthroned above the grotesque display, and without ceremony, without hesitation, took His place beside the Eternal Father as if the seat had always been waiting, two thrones erected for the Dark Dyarchy. The battle was over, but the harvest only just begun.

Darth Carnifex​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He stood, having climbed one of the taller trees of the forest, overlooking the multiple spots and pockets of destruction that laid over the surface, and its regrowth. His fists clenched. He was not there to help this time. He growled in frustration The smoldering cloak upon his back clung loosely to his shoulders as his visor scanned over the landscape.

The damage was extensive, more extensive than the first battle. He checked his datapad once more, it had been some time and he had heard nothing from Haro or Naami after the battle, he started to think the worst had happened. He slowly placed the datapad back into his pack and turned to face the edge of the branch.

He stepped off, dropping straight down towards the ground beneath him using the force to slow his fall not far from the landing. The metallic and heavy thud could be felt nearby and he checked his bracer for a location on the Brosi map. An invitation to a celebration of victory. He started to make his way towards the celebration.

After a bit of travel, the sounds of merriment and conversation followed by the scent of food found him. He followed.

He put away his map as he set foot into the area, looking around observing many faces. Some familiar and some not. He slowly removed his helm, the molten eye glowed fiercely as he looked over everyone. Various force signatures in one area and some much more prominent than others.

He tucked the helm under his arm as he ventured into the celebratory area, giving slight nods to those who greeted him and those who recognized him. It was another glorious victory that he missed, and he was angry about it, but he would not let it boil over to ruin anyone else's night.

His eye glanced over the edges where he watched a very familiar walking gate from a certain Netti that he knew. He directly made a bee line towards her. Walking at a calm pace even though he wanted to get there a bit quicker. It wasn’t excitement but shame that he felt that he was not here to help. He slowly caught up to her.

“Lady Madrona.”

Varin gave her a slight nod of respect before slowly looking back at her, the molten eye now dulling in its ferocity when he looked back at her.

“I…I apologize I was not here.”

His grip slightly tightened on his helm as he spoke.

“I should have, perhaps things would have gone smoother if I were, or perhaps not. But I should have contributed. I do hope you could forgive me for that.”

He looked back at the ground for a moment as he tried to choose his words carefully, before he noticed the old dried blood on her outfit, the old green color clung to the surface. At the sight a twinge of anger twitched within him.

Madrona A’Mia | OPEN​

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Vigfjall
TAG: OPEN

Gerwald approached the World Tree without announcement.

The paths beneath the canopy had grown familiar in a way that settled somewhere deeper than memory. Brosi had always spoken in the quiet language of living things, asking nothing of those who walked its soil except honesty. Tonight the forest breathed with a steadier rhythm, as though the long tension that had coiled through root and branch during the invasion had finally begun to ease, though not entirely. Some strains never vanished. They simply became part of the foundation that followed.

Lantern light filtered through the leaves in soft currents that shifted with the wind. Voices carried across the clearing in low conversation, punctuated now and then by laughter that sounded earned rather than careless. Gerwald noted it without lingering, his attention drawn toward the vast trunk rising before him, its presence both anchor and witness.

The World Tree bore its scars without apology. Darkened sections of bark traced the memory of fire and violence, while new growth layered itself patiently across old wounds. He had seen battlefields all his life, from the days of the Confederacy to the long years that followed, yet there was something here that resisted the finality he had come to expect elsewhere. Brosi did not simply endure. It answered.

He paused at the edge of the great roots.

Small offerings rested in the natural curves where wood met earth. Tokens left by those who understood that memory required form, whether spoken aloud or carried in silence. Some were pieces of armor. Others were carved symbols or simple items worn smooth by handling. Each carried a story that did not need explanation.

Gerwald reached beneath his cloak and drew out a fragment wrapped in dark cloth.

The metal had once been part of his armor, torn free during the press of battle when the ground itself had shifted beneath friend and foe alike. Faint scoring marked its surface where energy and steel had found purchase. He turned it once between his fingers, feeling not only the weight of the metal, but the echoes that clung to it. There had been many battles. There would be more. Yet each carried its own measure.

He knelt beside a broad root and brushed aside a thin layer of fallen leaves before setting the fragment gently against the living wood.

His hand rested there for a moment longer than necessary.

Another battle fought. Another victory carried at cost.

Naedira Darcrath had not stood beside him when the fighting came to Brosi. The absence was familiar, a quiet space at the edge of his awareness where her presence often lingered even across distance. He had long ago accepted that war rarely granted the comfort of standing beside those one would choose, yet the thought remained steady, woven through the silence like a thread that never broke.

His thoughts turned, as they often did, to those who had walked long roads beside him.

Srina Talon had been a constant since the days of the Confederacy, through campaigns, councils, and conflicts that had shaped them both in ways few others could fully understand. There was a familiarity there that required no explanation, forged through years of shared purpose and tested in fires that lesser bonds would not have endured. Her presence in this battle had felt less like coincidence and more like the continuation of a history neither of them ever truly set aside.

Others had stood as well, each carrying their own weight into the defense of Brosi. Allies, warriors, and leaders who answered without hesitation when the storm came.

The memory of his son rose with quiet clarity.

Aerik Lechner bore an injury which served as a reminder he did not require, though he accepted it with the same resolve he had always carried. War was never an abstraction within their family. It was a language learned early, spoken plainly, and paid for when necessary. There was pride in the young man’s strength, tempered by the understanding that survival was never promised, no matter the skill one possessed.

Gerwald’s fingers pressed lightly against the bark.

“You held,” he said, the words offered to the living world before him and to those who had stood upon it.

The tree answered only in the subtle vibration that traveled through its vast structure, a slow and steady presence that spoke of endurance rather than triumph. Healing had begun. That was enough.

He rose in a single unhurried motion and regarded the base of the trunk once more. The forest gathered memory in its own fashion, drawing it inward, holding it without judgment.

Turning toward the clearing, he allowed his gaze to move across the gathered crowd. Warriors who had faced the invasion now stood at ease, speaking in tones freed from immediate danger. Settlers moved among them with the confidence of those who had seen their homes endure. Music threaded through the air, blending with the natural sounds of the canopy overhead.

A faint smile touched his expression, present only for a moment.

Brosi endured. The forest healed. Those who had fought would carry their marks forward, as they always had.

Gerwald stepped away from the roots and into the warmth of the gathering, the living presence of the World Tree at his back and the quiet certainty that, for now, the storm had passed.

 

[Revna Marr]

Tag: Lunaria Talon ​

The battle was over. Brosi had been defended against the Imperial incursion, again. In the immediate aftermath, Revna had stayed to help where she could, tending to those she held dearest, giving her aid with a solemn silence that said that something was going on within Revna.

She was still coming to terms with the piece of herself that she had sacrificed to the Void, in order to absorb the energies of the one missile that had been destined to destroy something she held precious and dear to her heart.

A sacrifice made out of her duty to the Sith Order. Did she regret it?

…No. But she certainly mourned the loss of that sliver of herself. She felt cold inside, colder than she normally did, and now the Hunger burned with a cold fire that hadn’t been there before. It was something she would bear in silence; no one who knew her, or was close to her, needed to know what she had done.

Brosi was soon bursting with life again, renewed from the efforts of many who had poured energy and power into the soil. Soon, it was time to pause and breathe, reflect on what had been done. The lengths the Sith had gone to keep a world that belonged to them. For all their violence towards one another, the Sith certainly knew when to set aside their differences in order to fight a common enemy.

That pause in animosity also extended to moments like this - when the Sith gathered together to reflect, remember, celebrate…and plan what was to be done next.

Revna found herself alone near the base of the Great Tree, soft lantern light glimmering above her head, filtering through the leaves that rustled softly from a cool breeze that drifted across the forest. In place of her ornate battle robes, she now wore her more typical attire these days: soft black Sith robes, threaded with red and gold - fine, to denote her status as a rising power on Korriban, holding the colors of House Marr as well as Korriban’s royalty - but not too audacious. She was not one to flaunt her position, her power, or her status. She simply liked the feel of the cloth against her skin, and the colors that glimmered under the light.

Resting safely in the folds of her robes, was a sphere that contained her precious warmount - her battle drake, who had survived the assault against Brosi against all the odds, but not without injury. Revna had sacrificed some of her own energy and essence to pour Dark Side healing into her Sithspawn to seal some of the worst of the female drake’s wounds, but the rest would heal while the creature rested. And now she was with Revna, and would go everywhere with her. Revna’s hand rested upon the lump in her robes, even as she was knelt down in the soft moss and undergrowth that had sprung up around the tree and carpeted the forest floor. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed, lips slightly parted as if she was communing silently with something - maybe even praying.

And she was, to a degree. If one looked more closely, they might see the fine filaments of mycelia stretching up from where she was kneeling, piercing through her robes and making contact with her skin. It was how Psilofyr had chosen to bridge the space between them, in recognition of her as one of those who had been present at its birth, had fought to keep it safe, and had fed it directly from her own energies.

One might be led to believe that she was unaware of her surroundings, lost in the moment - she was anything but. Revna was well aware of everything going on near and around her, aware of those who tread upon the surface, and she was more than aware of anyone who might approach her this night - hopeful that someone would, if only to have a little bit of company and keep the coldness in her soul at bay a little longer.
​

 

[Lina Ovmar]

Tags: Madrona A’Mia Darth Strosius Varin Mortifer | OPEN​

There was no grace in the way Lina arrived, no beautiful gown nor well practiced smile. There was only the lengthening of shadows as she passed them, anger that swirled like ink in water and the edges of her sclera.

The message had reached her too late. So engrossed in her study, in her own craft that she had not been here.

And she should have been here.

Lina weaved through the crowd, tracking the familiar thread that always pulled her towards A'Mia. When her eyes found her relief flooded her, only to evaporate at the sight of her. Her dear friend never had a twig out of place, and yet here, she was positively dishevelled, dark blood smearing ceremonial robes as she seemed in her own little world.

She did not pause as she approached; she didn't even glance at the young Varin. She just planted herself between them and threw her arms around the neti's neck, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“A'Mia, ki manatsa I am so sorry. I should have been here.”

 

[Aerik Lechner]

Wearing: This | Weapons: Lightsaber | Knife
TAG: Skadi Lightbane | Irina Jesart | Torvald​

The celebration fires burned with steady strength beneath the canopy, their glow pushing back the night in warm circles while smoke curled upward through the branches carrying the scent of wood, resin, and damp earth. Aerik stepped into the edge of the light, feeling the warmth settle across his face and shoulders as the sounds of laughter and conversation drifted through the clearing.

The fire caught the scar along his jaw immediately, tracing the jagged line where flesh had sealed under heat when the shift had taken him. The mark stood out plainly in the shifting light, its uneven texture a clear reminder of tooth, flame, and the moment when instinct had carried him through the worst of the fighting on Brosi. He did not turn away from it or attempt to hide it, accepting the attention it might draw with quiet ease.

Torvald’s voice carried above the gathering with unmistakable volume, laughter rolling out of him as though survival itself deserved to be celebrated loudly and without restraint. Irina stood near the flames with a presence that felt like contained fire, her intensity never fully softened even in the calm of celebration, while Skadi held herself with the grounded stillness of a warrior shaped by harsher traditions, steady as if rooted as deeply as the trees themselves.

Aerik moved closer, boots settling into soil softened by new growth that pushed through ground once scarred by battle. The forest had already begun its work of reclamation, green pressing upward in quiet defiance of what had passed. He paused beside the fire and let the heat work into muscles that still carried the faint pull of healing, a reminder of how close the fighting had come and of the strength required to endure it.

For a time he simply watched the flames, listening to Torvald’s booming voice rise and fall in what sounded like a retelling of events that likely grew more dramatic with each telling, and the corner of Aerik’s mouth lifted in response. The presence of those beside him brought a sense of familiarity that needed no explanation, forged through shared danger and carried forward into this moment of hard won peace.

He crouched and picked up a length of wood, turning it once in his hands before placing it into the fire, where it caught and flared briefly, casting sharp light across his features and the scar that ran along his jaw. His fingers brushed the edge of the mark in a casual motion that acknowledged its presence without dwelling on it, and he exhaled slowly as the warmth rose against him.

“Looks worse in this light,” he said, his tone easy, carrying the faintest hint of dry humor.

His gaze moved between them with quiet appreciation, taking in Torvald’s boisterous warmth, Irina’s living intensity, and Skadi’s steady strength, each presence distinct yet bound by the same experience of standing through the storm that had swept across Brosi.

“Brosi doesn’t do anything halfway,” he added, watching the flames settle into a steady burn.

He leaned back slightly, resting his weight comfortably as the fire crackled and sent sparks drifting upward into the canopy, where they disappeared among leaves that whispered softly overhead.

“I’m glad you’re all still here,” he said simply.

Around them the celebration continued, voices blending with music and the steady breath of a world already healing, and for the moment Aerik allowed himself to stand within the warmth of firelight and shared survival without looking ahead to whatever battles might come next.

 

[Darth Strosius]

Tags: Madrona A’Mia / Lina Ovmar / Varin Mortifer
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The defense of Brosi had been far from a clean and tidy affair, even in terms of warfare in general. The Imperials had brought heavy firepower and decimation to bear down upon every front that they'd made to wage war against the Sith, even now the simple issue of having to allot enough grave space for the deceased was proving to be an all too taxing matter. One that had taken up quite a bit of His time even after His forces had pulled back from their defensive positions in Rann.

Darth Strosius hadn't even made the time to be informed of the celebration of the repulsion of the Imperial assault until the mayor of Rann meekly entered His control center and politely offered to retake command of the city's efforts. An offer that He was tempted to dismiss outright until He was informed of the celebration at hand and the lack of a certain Neti in organizing it. Not for the first time did He wish that He knew how to move one from one place to the next in the more esoteric and unnatural manner that several within the Sith seemed capable of.

If nothing else it would have saved Him the trouble of having to navigate the celebrations and the battlefield that was in the process of regrowing itself in real time. While He hadn't seen the full devastation of the area firsthand He'd read enough of the reports and seen what the Imperials had brought to bear to know that already Brosi was reclaiming what had been lost and destroyed during the battle. Of course it still had a long way to go, even if the craters were starting to sprout roots and new saplings already.

He idly wondered how offended A'Mia would be if He offered her a few fertilizer scows with full cargo bays, He was sure that the Wonosan expeditionary forces that had come to Brosi's aid would be more than enough to capture several and return them to the planet before long. Darth Strosius filed the idea away for later and focused on navigating His way through the crowd until He arrived at the feast, His hidden gaze settling on three familiar figures which had gathered together.

If only the Neti herself didn't look so...unkempt then it would have been a rather welcome sight. Before He knew the masked man found Himself approaching the trio, arms crossed behind His back as He glanced over A'Mia for a moment before nodding to Lina and then to the Sith Apprentice. "Young Varin, always a pleasure."

 

[Madrona A’Mia]

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Brosi
Objective 3
Tags: Darth Strosius | Lina Ovmar | Varin Mortifer | OPEN

Mild surprise formed on her face as Varin approached with such solemnity, his new attire and augmentation certainly making him stand out even in such a crowd as this. A'Mia looked him over slowly, as if seeing more than what met the eye.

"Oh, it's apparent that you were precisely where you were meant to be, I don't think-"

What exactly she might have said was cut short and the neti absently handed her flagon off to Varin, opening her arms a few beats before Lina arrived. It seemed that despite her fatigue, the woman's prescience was still somewhat intact.

A'Mia wrapped Lina up in return and rested her head atop hers, all at once aware of how dreadful she must look given how long she swam the mycelial network and was away from her body. For the first time in her life she experienced a twinge of what might be considered self consciousness.

"You've nothing to apologize for, dear one."

Something about the energy radiating off the woman made A'Mia return her to arm's length, shoulders gently grasped as the neti looked her over more thoroughly.

"Have you… had some kind of breakthrough? Sorcery clings to you with purpose and-" once again unusually distract-able, her bearing brightened further as she acknowledged another.

"Alisteri," she said simply, voice warm.

Just then, a large platter of grains wrapped in grape leaves and drizzled in a simple dressing were being walked through the crowd by a servant and A'Mia waved them down.

"A seat by the fire then? I've never been more famished in my life."

A'Mia didn't seem to want to break away from Lina and chose to walk with her arm in arm if she was agreeable.

"If I'm honest, I've only just arrived to this celebration — feeling a bit behind on the times myself. It's apparent we've driven the foe back for now."

 

[Taeli Raaf]

Madrona A’Mia Lina Ovmar Darth Strosius Varin Mortifer Darth Carnifex Darth Prazutis
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While many others had taken to feasting or gathering together in the wake of the battle, the Lady of Secrets was once again sitting in the upper boughs of a tree overlooking the grove, and once again a cup of tea wafted steam from between her hands. She watched as A'mia was approached by Lina, Varin, and Alisteri and was drawn into the party below. She could have eavesdropped on the conversation, but the moment didn't call for that. Besides, she understood the need for some privacy. She had just gotten off the holo with her wife after all, with assurances she would be home shortly. Not that there hadn't been a figure that had tried to make sure she couldn't. She had much to ponder about the mysterious Force user who wore hunger like a cloak. They would need to handle him for the future... A flutter of wings and the sound of feathers ruffling announced the arrival of her eldest daughter, sitting beside her mother.

"Most of our teams have pulled back, but I did give orders to some of the Ravenscars to continue working on healing Brosi in conjunction with Lady Madrona," Nerralyn said in terms of greeting.

"Good, their abilities with Plant Surge should help further accelerate the regrowth and further ingratiate us with A'mia and those around her," she replied softly, sipping her tea. "The other task?"

"We've recovered enough armor pieces and weaponry for a legion, roughly ten thousand strong, and the Mephit raisings and bindings are already taking place," Nerralyn answered. "They'll be ready to face their former comrades soon enough, Mother. Although the Dark Legion took the bodies... I'm assuming..."

"He made them a promise, and he generally keeps his word," she offered, giving her daughter all the answer she needed about what purpose the bodies had been put to. "How did young Lady Marr perform?"

"Eager, likes to play with her food, but she handled herself well, and so did her paramour," Nerralyn answered, giving an assessment on Sophia of House Marr and Horus Rhyne . "Do you still intend on assisting her?"

"I do, but there will be time for that later, when or if she requires help or is open to an offer," Taeli answered, taking another sip. "We'll leave the rest of this horde here to help replenish the biosphere and ecosystem of the jungle. Get what else we need, then return to Ziost for further preparations. I'll be along shortly."

"Yes, Mother," and Nerralyn shifted back into a raven and took off, leaving the Lady of Secrets to continue watching the festivities below.