Skirmish The Summer Rain Rebellion [GA/SO Skirmish of Ukatis]

[Corazona von Ascania]

Nestled between Thyferra and Epica, just off the Corellian Trade Spine, lies Ukatis. This small, backwater agrarian planet boasts little material value beyond the beauty of its pastoral lands, unspoiled by the grime and tibanna of modernity.

Ukatis is no stranger to struggle. A long period of isolation was broken twenty years ago by the once-heroic King von Cholmondeley, who has since grown corrupted by his own greed and power. Still, the world’s poor harvests and general lack of resources have been bolstered by the Galactic Alliance. Even through war with the Mandalorians, the hardworking people of Ukatis persisted.

Rumblings of discontent for their monarch have rapidly swelled into an uprising. The grand organizer of this insurgency, Viscount Marcel von Ascania , stands with a shadowy figure at his back.

Darth Nefaron , seeking to sow chaos in the Galactic Alliance, stokes the fires of discontent into The Summer Rain Rebellion.

Held in the capital of Axilla, this year’s Summer Harvest Festival is in full swing. Only hours before the festivities, King Horace is informed of a rebel plot to assassinate him - however, he brushes the concern aside and refuses Alliance assistance. While some civilians have caught on to the tension, others carry on with the festivities.

The Alliance, having too been informed of the assassination attempt, have embedded themselves into the festivities. Sith operatives have done the same thing.

When the clock tower strikes three, all hell breaks loose.

Alliance: Keep a low profile in the crowds. Watch out for anything - or anyone - suspicious.

Sith: Keep a low profile in the crowds. When the clock tower strikes three, sow confusion and chaos in the streets.

Under the cover of heavy rains, the rebel army marches towards the capital. At their head stands Viscount Marcel von Ascania, his broken body rejuvenated, and his mind twisted by the dark magic of Sith Lord Darth Nefaron.

The royal army, aided by the Galactic Alliance, rushes to halt their advance. A temporary field hospital has been set up at the edge of the city where wounded civilians and soldiers - on both sides - will be treated.

Alliance: Prevent the advance of the rebel army, including their Sith allies. Assist in the coordination of the field hospital.

Sith: Ensure the advance of the rebel army, whether it be through bolstering the strength of their soldiers or lending your own prowess in battle.

Note: Due to the covert nature of this operation, only smaller-scale personal/military assets should be used.

BYOO​

With the city under siege and communications in disarray, the opportunity to loot and pillage is ripe. Take advantage of the chaos.

Those who manage to make it inside the palace walls may encounter a Royal Seer - native Force sensitives trained in divination. Though skilled in the mental aspects of the Force and highly resistant to mind tricks and the like, they lack Force-based combat skill.

​

 

[Marcel von Ascania]

APPROACHING THE CAPITAL

Allies | Darth Nefaron | Ukatian Rebels | Sith
Enemies | Royal Army | Galactic Alliance​

King Horace did not know exactly what was coming for him. Even if he did, he could not stop it.

Sat atop his horse and clad in fine armor, Marcel lead his army towards the capital at a steady gait. The air was thick and humid around them, almost supernaturally so; yet the banners bearing the crest of his house stood out like a beacon among the dark clouds and pounding rain.

With communications scrambled, the storm provided the rebels cover. Marcel did not know if it was simply good fortune - a sign that Ukatis herself wanted to be rid of her bloated bastard of a King - or the doings of his mysterious benefactor.

It was more than Darth Nefaron’s proposition that had wormed its way into Marcel’s mind. The Sith Lord provided him with strength, both in resources and for his own body. He felt young again, better than young. He now had the vigor of his youth and the experience that came with age.

Twenty years before, the Viscount had marched with other like-minded Lords on the capital to remove an unworthy king. The current king - Horace von Cholmondeley - had been among them, and he’d been a different man. He’d represented change, and a steady, guiding hand. He was to be their leader.

Now, he too would need to be removed. To make way for a King that would bring glory and prosperity to Ukatis. A King who would embody what it was to be nobility; a man who would truly care for his people and their well-being.

It was unfortunate that some of those he sought to protect - civilians - would perish. Perhaps even his own…

Marcel shook his head. It was unseemly, but the cost of rebellion was steep. He’d made his decision.

Through the Ukatian Lords he’d gathered with persuasion and blackmail, his army swelled to a size that could overtake even the royal military. Their Sith allies and their unnatural methods unnerved him, but they were a necessary evil. Some were embedded in the plaza, waiting to cause chaos. Others walked among the soldiers or hid in the long shadows they cast over the sod and grass.

The rebel army marched on in relative silence, only the sound of footfalls in mud and the heavy patter of rain against metal armor accompanying the insurgents as they moved towards Axilla.

The quiet would soon shatter, scattering shards of violence over the capital. From the destruction would rise a new Ukatis; a powerful, independent world able to stand on its own.

 

[Eurydice]

ROYAL PALACE

Allies | King Horace | Royal Army | Galactic Alliance
Enemies | Veradun Sharr | Ukatian Rebels | Sith​

There was a nervous energy in the air. One did not need to be trained in the mystical arts to understand it.

Ukatis' past was marked with the occasional bloody rebellion, but there were also stretches of peace. Eurydice had been a fly on the wall as the Elder Seers argued about what was to come. Was their loyalty to the crown, or to Ukatis itself? At one point, those things were thought of as one and the same.

The Seers of Ukatis were not the same as the Jedi or the Sith. Their knowledge of the Force was not particularly deep, nor were they capable of great feats. Their power was one that was subtle; the gentle altering of thoughts and reading the winds of the future. Combined with their intimate political expertise regarding the courts of Ukatis, they had the ability to shape the planet's fate.

"Come. Do not be slow, now," came the voice of Father Erasmus. An aged man with a severe countenance, the Head Seer spoke in a hurried, almost strained tone. A disease had attacked his vocal cords long ago, leaving his voice little more than a rasping hiss. It still cut like a knife.

Clad in dark robes, the Seers formed pairs and followed Father to the great hall where King Horace was.

Eurydice chanced a quick glance at one of the tall, stained glass windows where the sun peeked through. Color spilled against the floor in a halo of light, and she felt a sense of disappointment rising along with her anxiety.

Seers were normally given the day off for the festival. Not so that they may have fun, but to mingle in the crowds and listen to the whispers. Eurydice would rather be outside with the fresh air and lighthearted townsfolk rather than stuck inside, attending to a protection ritual for the king. If the festival wasn't canceled, then surely the ritual was an overreaction?

"Sister Eurydice."

Father Erasmus croaked her name like a curse. He had seen her wandering eye.

"Yes, Father Erasmus?"

"Go down to the catacombs and fetch the oil. Take Sister Indis with you."

Indis, a young woman with sandy blonde hair and pale features, scowled at Eurydice from beneath her hood. The pair of initiates bowed to the Head Seer in unison before departing from the group.

"Well done," Indis hissed, clearly irked.

With their heads held low and their features obscured by their cowls, the pair of Seers made for a side corridor that would lead them closer to the catacombs. A new voice, rough with desperation, had their feet stalling and their gazes lifting.

"Please! You have to let me through!" A small woman, clad in a dark riding robe, was arguing with two of the royal guards blocking her path to the throne room. From the way she was put together despite her distress, one could infer that she held some rank among the nobility. "I must see the King," she urged. "Please - he is in danger, I beg of you, let me speak with him at once!"

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Sibylla Abrantes | Madrona A’Mia | King Horace​

Strolling alongside Sibylla, his grip was firm on the umbrella shielding them from the drizzle. The distant growl of thunder rumbled louder as dark clouds gathered ominously. Yet the festival refused to dim in the slightest. Despite the shift in weather, joy filled the air— from bursts of laughter to children running through the streets, and songs drifting from instruments, the city of Axilla embraced the festivities all the same.

As they passed rows of stalls, the scents of roasted meats and pastries began to tease his senses. From every direction vendors called out, hoping to sell their handcrafted items. Lanterns hung overhead, bathing the streets with a soft glow. And under nature’s gloom, they appeared as scattered gems.

Today, he chose to stray from his usual black attire, instead going for a deep midnight hue that clung to his upper torso in a way that was gentle, and perhaps even alluring to the right eye. He would further be disguised in the crowds through Force Concealment– an ability he’d been consistently honing under his mentor, Lady Revna .

Mirth was painted across his features; though, today it felt like a veil, for he was more reserved than his usual animated self, often lingering in brief moments of contemplation. Several years had passed since his journey away from Ukatis, having returned to visit countless times, but this was the first time he'd arrived aboard a shuttle from Korriban. With that came the certainty that his professor was nearby.

Stopping at a nearby stall, he purchased a Ukatian Honey Tart; it was a flaky pastry filled with honey and roasted nuts. Like many of the visitors here, it was a personal favorite for Lysander too. He offered it with his free hand. “This is a famous dessert here," he said, voice smooth with just a hint of amusement. “Sweet and smooth at first, with a punch at the end.. I dare say, rather like debating with you.'”

A sudden uproar erupted from the nearby crowd. Turning his head, he caught the sight of the jousting tournament. One competitor was unseated from his horse.

Lysander nodded approvingly toward one of the knights preparing for the next round; the figure had a silk sash wrapped around one gauntlet, and a shield with a design of twisting vines with flowers. A hint of a smile played at the corners of the acolyte's lips, before he glanced back at Sibylla. "That would be Sir Sebastian of House Ainsworth," he began, his voice tinged with admiration. “He is the champion I favor to win today. His prowess is matched only by his charm, and it is rumored that just the mere mention of his name sends hearts fluttering of noblewomen and fair maiden alike from Axilla to Daphnes.”

 

[Nodak]

Allies: The Rebels | the Sith
Enemies: The Royal Army | The Republic | Razh Sho
Equipment: Nevermourne | Shield | Armor​

---

Heavy rain made the earth soft. Every step the behemoth took left an imprint in the ground beneath him. On the battlefield he appeared as a giant, standing as tall as a man mounted on a horse, broad shouldered and thick; the armor he wore adding to an already menacing stature.

Troopers, a team clad in armor similar to his own flanked him as they moved through the fields. They armed themselves with blaster rifles, small munitions and other equipment to help them turn the tide of battle in favor of the rebels. None of them would engage without authorization from their lord.

As he stalked ahead the rains obscured his visions.

An enormous shield, worn over his left arm gave the first indication of attack when fire from across the battlefield ricochet off its face. The HUD integrated into his armor lit up with targets shortly thereafter. Republic Sharpshooters. An annoyed rumbling was heard from beneath the helm that hid his features.

Matching forward other unique signatures began to appear on his hud, infantry and other manpower belonging to the royal army.

The Rotary Canon mounted onto his left shoulder came to life. Belching out firepower across its arc of fire signatures representing enemies began to flicker from existence. At a distance whenever the canon came to life its high rate of fire would make it seem like it was breathing fire while the rains obscured the monster whose call it answered.

Over the comms a guttural voice was heard...

"Fire at will. Thin their ranks."

...and in response the team at his flank would likewise take aim and begin to fire volleys down the field in the direction of their opponents.

Blasterfire would deflect off his shield again, pining off his armor harmlessly on occasion. He continued a slow advance towards the enemy line.

 

[Serina Calis]

"And when he opened the second seal, a dragon went forth. It was as black as the void, and its rider was granted permission to take away peace from the earth and to make men slay one another." - Legend of House Calis

Tag - Cin , Makko Vyres , Marcel von Ascania


Darth Nefaron willed it.

Rain peeled from the heavens in great, glistening sheets—a baptism, Serina mused, for a world about to be reborn through fire.

At the head of the rebel host, astride a charcoal-hued destrier that looked carved from obsidian, Serina Calis rode beside the reanimated legend that was Viscount Marcel von Ascania. The old nobleman had been reforged into something worthy of reverence—or fear. Yet even his sharpened bearing paled beside hers. For while Marcel carried the weight of legacy, she carried the promise of annihilation and inheritance. She meant to ride a dragon before the sun next rose over Ukatis.

And not just any dragon.

The skies had whispered to her. Sith acolytes in half-mad trance spoke of it—hidden beneath broken chapels and forgotten crypts, an alchemized terror kept by cultists to mimic the apex predator of myth: a black dragon. When Serina first heard of it, her fingers had tightened subtly on the reins of her steed. Not in fear. No—in thrill.

The Calis crest, inlaid on lost tombs and shattered statuary, bore the image of a black dragon upon a blood red background. Long had House Calis been written out of galactic relevance—its line scattered, degraded, quietly mocked. But here, now, in the filth and thunder of rebellion, destiny offered Serina a blade-shaped gift.

She would take the dragon.
She would become the dragon.

She turned her head slightly beneath her angular hood, the rain streaking her golden hair in glistening trails as her piercing eyes scanned the blurred silhouette of the capital beyond. Axilla, bloated jewel of a corrupt crown. And in its center, the corpulent king she would see dismembered with surgical precision.

"Viscount," she said softly, the words barely audible over the hiss of rain. "You march with ghosts. And gods. But it will take monsters to finish what you began so long ago."

She did not smile. Not truly. But the smirk that danced on her lips was the kind that caused generals to second-guess and traitors to beg before the blade. Her voice dripped with a silken irony laced in steel.

"Let us pray your enemies are wise enough to flee before blood shall be forced to kiss ground."

A bolt of lightning clawed through the sky. Her cape, drenched and gleaming like liquid obsidian, whipped in the wind behind her—sharp-edged and regal. Crimson light pulsed through the veins of her bodice like the armor itself breathed with her, fed by the same Dark Side current that now tingled at her fingertips. It would not be long now.

She could feel it. The beast. Her beast. Somewhere just beyond the lines of men and steel and trembling loyalty, it waited.

Was she afraid?

Of course. Only fools thought power could be seized without consequence. Fear was not an enemy—it was a whetstone. It honed the mind. It sculpted resolve. She would ride the dragon not in defiance of fear, but in full, terrifying harmony with it.

And when the skies broke and the people of Ukatis looked up into flame and wings and wrath…

They would not remember her as a noble.

They would remember her as inevitability.

The black dragon of House Calis had returned—clad not in scale, but in flesh and armor and will sharpened to a blade's point.

She lowered her gaze to the field ahead, toward the field hospital where mercy dared to operate amid madness. Serina would not touch it. Let them see her pass by. Let the wounded—rebel and royal alike—watch her ascend and understand: the age of moderation was dead. Compassion would no longer shield the undeserving.

"Tell your men to keep their swords drawn, my dear Viscount," she said, with all the elegance of a guillotine's descent. "Until I descend from the clouds on wings of myth, you will have to fight tooth and nail for your beloved world."

And with that, Serina spurred her horse forward through the mud and storm, toward the chapels where dragons sleep.

 

[Madrona A’Mia]

Prelude
​

Whether it was mere happenstance or perhaps the inexorably shifting stars which aligned just so, A'Mia caught wind of mischief afoot on Ukatis. Darth Nefaron was partly to thank for her interest, but the neti's curiosity had also been greatly piqued by one of her deceivingly clever students. At first, she'd thought of Lysander as merely a nuisance, but eventually he'd revealed himself as worthwhile of cultivation. So the Lord Seer of Korriban decided almost on a whim to slip away from her other responsibilities for a time in order to sate her curiosity. Perhaps she'd even manage to pay a visit to an old friend.

Present
Wearing: Nondescript robe and cloaks, necklace of a dozen farrus spheres,
a silk bag containing two dozen Peeping Daisies.
Allies: Sith Order | Lysander von Ascania | Darth Nefaron
Enemies: To Be Decided
Frenemy: Corazona von Ascania
Soundtrack

​

Though other festival goers might be slightly put out by the rain, A'Mia would have considered its presence a sign of kismet were she the superstitious type. As it was, the drizzle granted her coverage to move through the crowd surreptitiously. Her form was far more short and stout than normal, clad in simple unadorned robes and a hooded cloak. Any that drew near and peered at her shadowed face would see a lovely nymph-like face that had been altered to appear more like a peaceful Sylphe rather than the more recognizable neti psychopath.

A'Mia had no great skill in masking her energetic presence with Force concealment, but she was capable of diffusing herself within the Weave and making herself harder to pinpoint. Like so many sinister roots creeping just beneath the surface, the woman focused on laying low and relying upon some passive effects of the fatazi mushroom spores that wafted invisibly about her in the moments there were breaks in the rain or that she sought brief shelter beneath fabric awnings.

The neti had alchemically altered the fruiting fungal bodies now grafted to her skin so that they produce a pleasant effect for any who brushed close to her. In most mundane folk, even those faintly Force sensitive, the spores would cause mild elation and emotional suggestibility. The puppetmaster wielding this subtle tool was putting forth the sensation of "calm" and "joy" and "easygoing fun", all while subconsciously making herself disappear into the backdrop of the festivities while she waited for the right moment. Every so often she would casually bend to plant a small daisy among other decorative flower arrangements that lined the streets.

 

[Shan]

Tag: Open to Allies

"Keep the rebels separated from the loyalists. I don't care if they're wounded, we aren't risking some kind of brawl breaking out here. Make sure both sides are being treated equally with aid as well. I'm keeping an eye on you all."

Shan ordered to the various medics helping out at the field hospital. He was taking charge. He wasn't going to let anyone get ignored for aid, no matter what side they had fought on. That wasn't to say he was foolish enough to keep them all in the same parts of the field hospital. Whilst he might have had an open heart to the wounded, he knew some people might consider it a waste to work on the enemy. But in Shan's eyes? He personally had no enemies. There might have been those who considered them Shan's enemy, but he would not return the opinion.

For now, he moved amongst the beds, making sure everything would be ready for when the influx of wounded and dying would come rushing in. He had already explained to the Medics to focus on performing triage first, wrapping coloured bandages around an arm or leg where they could to gauge a casualty. Green meant they would be fine. Yellow meant aid would be required. Red meant immediate aid would be required. Black just meant to make them comfortable for their last moments. Shan had a mental note to at least double check the Triage colours for the rebels that would be coming in. It was better to be paranoid than to have someone die on his watch.

He had also established different coloured sections of the Field Hospital to place the wounded. Sections for Rebel Soldiers and their non-combatants and then the same for the loyalists. This was going to be as efficient as he could make it. Shan wasn't able to work on the front-lines as a fighter, he had learned that in the past, but he was going to do his darndest to work on the backlines and heal.

 

[Lirka Ka]

THE WAR FIELDS
ALLIES: Sith and allies
ENEMIES: GA and allies (looking for opposition)
TAGS: Serina Calis Nodak Marcel von Ascania

War was such a beautiful thing.

By all metrics, Lirka didn't much care for the politics of Ukatis and all the other drivel that had brought her to the mud today. Merely the clarion call of violence, and of course, the knowledge that when Darth Nefaron was involved the chance for chaotic oblivion surely followed. The foul twilight of Vassek still flashed in her mind, and if the killing fields of Ukatis were to be remotely similar to that glorious day? Well how could she have ever resisted lending her aid to these rebels.

So arrived the Lash, and with her came the black-armored menagerie of her Kainite minions at her back. Those cruel warriors that had fallen under the Once-Seph's purview, among them the few survivors from the chaos at Vassek - those too who had tasted some of the madness. They trudged through the mud with stomping feet, following the metal goliath at their head. While some of the rebel army may have been quiet - Lirka Ka was never quiet, not for long.

With her forces came the droning march-chant of the Sith, bellowed out the assorted murderers.

Primyn! Kitfi! Zudyti!

Forward. March. Kill. Crude simplicity befitting the savagery of the Kainite's current commander. Lirka raised her blade high, the thing burning with crackling electro-plasma filament that sizzled when the rain clashed against its glowing edge. She could taste bloodshed on her lips, a new chance to bring pain upon the alliance dogs and their ilk. A wonderous prospect. Though not one to ever be content with a mere march-chant, Lirka's own voice bellowed out across the storm. She did enjoy hearing the sound of her own voice, after all. Of course it also paid to make the appearances of a good, loyal, Kainite.

"Eternal Father! Hear my words, for my eyes are yours, as yours are mine. Bare witness to your chosen today, witness the killing fields of Ukatis and know that Darkness rises ascendant today! Witness me, witness she-you-have-made-kin and know that all fall before the wrath of the Butcher-King!"

With her shouting out of the way, Lirka ran headlong to the fight - the lines would clash, and she intended to be right there with the spear-tip machete in hand. Now all she needed to do was find something worth fighting in this lot of would-be-defenders of the crown.

​

 

[Cin]

UKATIS
THE EVE OF THE BURNING
- Serina Calis - Makko Vyres -
​

All was dark and silent, at the top of the hill.

It had been a long way from Mount Avara. The Faithful men that now dismounted with purpose had worked their hands to the bone to get them this far. They'd rode tirelessly on their horses, day and night, only resting when their mounts threatened to collapse from exhaustion, and only enough to keep them alive. They'd fjorded rivers, collected food from what farms they could pillage, and fended off the King's forces and strong-armed bandits with equal cruelty

But none of their labor compared to that of the oxen. There was a team of eight of the beasts, struggling against their harnesses as they managed to pull their cargo to the precipice of the hill. Behind them, the object of all this effort, the reason for their pilgrimage, was a box.

Wrought, twisted iron, as tall and wide as a peasant's home. Intricately carved designs were lovingly calligraphed into the metal, geometric and distressing to the eye. Each design hid the impression of runes, bastardized by untrained hands, but potent all the same. And within... well, the black malice within was intoxicating.

Mykus Cowl ran his hand along each groove with a tender sort of care, making the final checks before nodding to his men. Without hesitation, the Faithful slaughtered the oxen with daggers, and began to chant in pidgined Sith and Dathomiri tongues, smearing ornate glyphs into the metal with their bloodied knives. Viscera mixed with rainwater, until the earth was covered in a slurry of red mud.

He'd seen it, as clear as a dream. A gleam of prophecy. He couldn't say why, or how, but he knew it had to be here. He felt as deeply in his heart as his faith, that someone would come to herald the ascent of the Shadow of Mount Avara. Mykus should have felt glee at the revelation, but instead, his skin crawled at the notion that he, the Dragonmaster of the Faithful, would not be the one to ride the Beast into battle.

He felt a presence approaching. The presence. Mykus drew himself up, and prepared to meet it. Behind him, the Faithful began chanting their native language, prying the cage open. And from the darkness within, the Beast stirred.

"Arise, o Heart
O Soul, o Shadow of Avara.
Become our Sword, our Shining Furnace,
Reforge our world in Glorious Flame, until all that is Wicked is
Ash, and Cinder.
Arise."
​

A pause. Then, a single, molten eye winked opened.

 

[Minerva Fhirdiad]

Allied Tag: Galactic Alliance, Jedi and Royal Army
Enemy Tag: Sith and Ukatis Rebels​

Armed with her rifle Minerva beheld the battle already being joined yards away on a forested hill. The Mandalorian looked on with cool disabain for the rebels. If they really think aligning with the Sith will bring them independence then they are truly deluded thralls or they're only foul hypocrites, decrying their king's association with the Galactic Alliance while embracing Sith Power. Either way their independence movement is nothing but a cruel lie as far as she was concerned. Sighing Minerva readied herself for combat. In the back of her mind she reflected.

I keep finding myself back on this planet Ukatis for one reason or another. Funny how life turns out.

Without missing a beat the armored warrior flew forth out of the trees. Minerva's eyes narrowed through the t-visor. One of the things that has remained in her life was the hatred for the Sith and anyone similar to them. While allied with the Jedi and serving within the Alliance military she still refused to let go her hate for the dark side worshipers. Today she fights them again.

Flying on the jetpack Minerva flew around above the battlefield, firing short bursts of particle rounds toward enemy infantry.

"Ohlkana adol cayatr! Ibic cuyir miai!"(Forward through the fray! This is the way!) Minerva exclaimed in Mando’a amidst her flight maneuvers.

Today unlike her ancestors during the Mandalorian Wars she fought not for conquest but to defend others.

 

[Ashley Nevermore]

Foes: CT-312​

It had started as a normal afternoon.

Ashley was only on semi-off duty, acting as security for a festival that seemed low-key. While she wore her armor, she wasn't packing any of her normal tools, only the ion pistol she kept on her side for the sake of dealing with drunken idiots who got 'funny' ideas.

She had found herself at a bar, a fancy little open air place that overlooked the plaza. She needed a small bit of liquor to wet her lips. The day had been a dredge, and she was still trying to get over Jaloxa's death. Waste of effort, that was. She knew the Mors Mons would back to full strength sooner than they could ever strike it.

That damned Blackwall was preventing them from raiding the SO's borders.

Might as well enjoy the food and drink here at least...

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

AXILLA

Allies | Jalen Kai'el | Makko Vyres | Aris Noble | Royal Army | Galactic Alliance
Enemies | Darth Nefaron | Marcel von Ascania | Rebel Army | Sith​

"The king still will not accept our help?"

Volkhardt von Ascania chewed at the inside of his cheek. He was several years younger than his sister, with the powerful build of their father and the dark hair of their mother. Instead of stern, his face was youthful, almost cherubic. He'd been ranked a lieutenant straight out of the academy and had climbed his way to captain in the royal military.

"No," he answered. "Either he doe not believe the danger to be real, or he is being stubborn. The only people he's allowing in the palace are the Kingsguard and Seers."

Cora let out a sharp breath through her nose. King Horace might've been a greedy lech, but she did not think him stupid. Perhaps his brain was soaked so thoroughly in ale that rational thought had been washed away completely.

"I see. We have Jedi and Alliance operatives embedded into the festival crowds, in the plaza near the palace. If they catch wind of anything suspicious, they'll let us know. Generals Hargrave and Aldrich are garrisoned at the city gates. They should be able to hold back the insurgent soldiers, but it's the Sith element we need to worry about."

Volk frowned. "Even if the Sith are here, they can't be in great number. They couldn't pose much of a threat, could they?"

To that, his sister clicked her tongue. "Even one Sith can turn the tide of a battle. Do not underestimate them, but do not let their presence demoralize you. They are clever and dangerous, but not impervious."

The Alliance had less than a day to mount their response. Twenty-two hours and forty-eight minutes, to be exact.

The timestamp of the message had burned itself into Corazona's mind. She'd been investigating rumbles of discontent, which were frighteningly common on Ukatis. Occasionally, they'd swell into a failed coup.

Not a well-organized rebellion. Not nearly half of the planet's nobility plotting in secret, gathering their resources and quietly building an army. Not for the Sith to be backing them, of all things.

Not for her own father to be the architect of it all. She hoped that the rumors were exaggerated, but Cora had learned long ago how to read foreboding winds without letting them strip away her resolve.

The Alliance had mobilized quickly; groups of Jedi and military experts had arrived planet-side not long ago to aid the royal army and protect the civilians of Ukatis.

"Come," she said to Volkhardt, directing her mount toward the capital gates. Their retinue was several streets away from the festival, but the celebratory din carried easily across the city. "We must resolve this as quickly as possible."

"You're going to fight father?"

Cora inhaled deep, her lungs swelling with humid air. Great black clouds billowed on the horizon. The Force twisted and turned, agitated as it was pulled in two directions at once. She glanced to the saber hilt clipped to her belt, then to the vibrosword slotted next to it, and finally to her brother.

"No. I will talk him down-"

A volley of canon fire boomed over the city. It hadn't reached them - the noise came from the outskirts - but it was the opening salvo of war. The fighting had begun.

"Quickly!" Cora shouted, urging her mount into a canter as they navigated the narrow streets. Alongside and behind her, hooves clattered frantically on cobblestones. As they neared the gates of the city, they could see smoke rising from the newly christened battlefield, reaching up to kiss the roiling storm clouds overhead. "The sooner I can speak with father, the better."

The knight threw her gaze to the Jedi accompanying her. "Help me clear a path to him - but remember that many of those we fight are the sons of Ukatis just as much as our allies are. I urge you to avoid using lethal force."

With that, she charged forward.

​

 

[Darth Nefaron]

Allies: Veradun Sharr Lirka Ka Serina Calis Cin Madrona A’Mia Nodak Lysander von Ascania Marcel von Ascania
Enemies: Corazona von Ascania Ashley Nevermore Minerva Fhirdiad Shan Eurydice

MUSIC: The Burning of Ukatis ​

The host was gathered.

The Children of Ukatis would spill each other's blood.

The puppet King would fall at his daughter's hand.

And Darth Nefaron, true Dark Lord of the Sith, would revel in the chaos.​

A new power has risen.​

Storms had become common since the Sith's arrival on Ukatis. This operation had been months in the planning, ever since Darth Nefaron first spoke with the Caretaker of First Knowledge. She had vexed him; she had managed to resist the pull to the Dark Side, and yet he saw within her a fierce anger that he wished to bend to his will. Though he lacked vast legions and fleets of his own, Nefaron had entered into a compact with the Master of the Tsis’Kaar, who desired to bring war to the heart of the Galactic Alliance. This simply proved to be an efficient show of loyalty to his new benefactor, while also strengthening the Corpse Lord’s hand for future operations.

Nefaron had been careful in contacting several allies and useful agents within the borders of the Empire, and even now, they lay in wait within Axilla, the pathetic harvest festival, the perfect cover for the coming slaughter. Many more have embedded themselves within the legions of household soldiers and mercenaries that now sprawl out in vast columns, all marching toward the doomed capital. The puppet King, the ever-proud Marcel von Ascania, sat at the head of this force, but his mind was little more than a plaything for the Dark Lord. The Dark Side had strengthened the old Viscount, offered him the strength of a man two decades his junior, and granted him a lust for battle and an ambition to rival that of any Sith. But in the end, he was little more than a vehicle for Nefaron’s true goals. In the end, he would have to die in order for his daughter, Corazona von Ascania, to fulfill her destiny and embrace the Dark Side as a servant of Darth Nefaron. Perhaps he would install her as ruler of Ukatis, a new bastion of corruption in the heart of the fading Alliance.

“You have been well trained, my Apprentice. With our victory today, our ascension is all but guaranteed.”​

Nefaron did not ride alongside the King at the head of their army, instead, he remained in the rear of the army, in the encampment that served as the gathering point for the rebel forces. Kneeling before him was a young Nagai, the boy who would one day lead Nefaron’s legions to the heart of the core. But he would not fight in the vanguard today, no, he had a far more important task.

“Once you have your target, rendezvous with me in the capital. I must ensure our King is in position for the final act.”​

As thunder roared overhead, the Corpse Lord unleashed a truly diabolical cackle. This day, terror would reign on Ukatis, and he was to be its master.

Nothing could stop him.​

​

 

[Jonyna Si]

TAG: Lirka Ka

War was an awful thing.

The summer rains had come, and Jonyna had come to greet them. Off in the southern flank she stood, looking to Corazona von Ascania and the others as she watched the lines collide. She wasn't here to act as a warrior. No, she was hunting sith.

The last time she was here, she had hunted Mandalorians. She wondered if next time, she'd be hunting Imperials.

She could see one. A metal monster leading a horrid charge.

She didn't waste a movement.

A single draw of her black blade, and a crack of lightning extended from the blade, infused with Force Light, aimed right at the metal commander.

Last time she was here, she had nearly snapped the blade in two with a strike against mandalorian iron.

Now she intended to show it's improvements. The blade of Harmony, striking with Jonyna's own motto.

Kindness and Fury.

 

[Drystan Creed]

UKATIS

WEARING

And now, the curtain rises.

Upon a stage of splintered boards and borrowed nails, where shadows clung to the seams of hastily assembled wood, a curtain of deep merlot swept upward like bloody velvet, revealing a solitary figure dressed in a sharp suit and an elegant mask. No fanfare. No orchestra. Only the hush of a curious crowd gathered beneath the festival lanterns, entranced by the promise of spectacle.

The masked man bowed—not humbly, but with the precision of a guillotine—measured, deliberate, refined. When he rose, he was no longer Drystan the Jedi, nor Drystan the Shadow.

He was a magician.

Card tricks flowed like water between his fingers, sleight of hand as smooth as silk. Daggers spun through the air in dizzying arcs, vanishing and reappearing with uncanny timing. Flowers from empty palms. A coin behind an ear. A deck that shuffled itself midair. Every motion was perfection, each flourish pulled from memories his body had long ago devoured and made his own.

The crowd was enthralled. But the true magic lay not in the show.

Behind the mask and beneath the polished exterior was a mind sharpened like a blade—cold, watchful, relentless. This was no celebration of the arts, but camouflage. Drystan did not come to dazzle for the sake of joy.

He came to hunt.

To stalk among the color and chaos, eyes sweeping every face, every twitch, every heartbeat in the crowd. He was no assassin, but he had buried enough of them to know their trade—and in this masquerade, he would play their game better than they ever could.

He glanced briefly toward the alleyways and rooftops. No signs yet of a would-be kingslayer.

But soon.

He stepped to the side, a set of daggers already in hand, glinting in the torchlight. In a single, fluid motion, he let them fly—a squadron of knives in a blossom of steel, all striking at once. They landed with perfect placement upon a wooden post, outlining the shape of a heart, its center unscathed.

The crowd roared, believing they had seen a master at work.

They had.

But not the kind they thought.

Azurine Varek Everest Vale Kaila Irons Tamsin Graves

 

[Darth Kentarch]

​

Location: Axilla
The Harvest Festival
TAGS: Connel Vanagor

The Summer Harvest Festival unfolded beneath a cloudless sky, the air thick with the scents of spiced wine, honeyed bread, and sweat from the pressing tide of bodies that filled Axilla's grand plaza. Music fluttered above the din, strings and pipes singing their bright, empty melodies as color spilled from every awning, banner, masked dancer, and flower-laden cart. Yet beneath the laughter and the stomping of feet, something crawled unseen. A presence not born of this world. An omen in flesh.

Darth Kentarch walked among the living and the blind.

No eyes followed him. No mind registered his presence. Where he walked, there was only the faintest sense of discomfort, a momentary chill, a narrowing of the eyes as if trying to remember something that had just slipped away. One moment, he passed as a weathered old merchant with a crooked back, draped in robes of dull brown. Next, a festival guard loitering by the wine stalls, visor lowered just enough to hide a face that was not truly there. And then, nothing. Just the crowd again, untouched and unaware. He moved not with footsteps but with intention, slipping through space like a knife sliding between ribs.

The Ghostfire crystal within his saber pulsed softly in its hilt—silent, masked, utterly invisible to the Force-sensitive. It did not hum with the usual menace of a Sith weapon, nor shimmer with light. When drawn, it would slice through armor and flesh with no more warning than a whisper. Jedi would not sense it. They would not even know death had come until it was upon them. That was his edge, honed like his will, patient as a shadow waiting for light to fail.

He had not come to strike down the king. That task had been given to others, blades positioned, paths laid, all converging toward the moment the clock tower struck three. No, Kentarch had been dispatched for a different purpose. The Alliance, always prying, always watching, had caught wind of the plot and inserted agents of their own into the city's festival. Jedi, most likely. Subtle. Skilled. Dangerous. They would not act yet, not until they saw proof of the threat, and by then it would be too late.

He stood now beneath the bell tower, the ancient stone cool against his back, arms folded beneath his cloak. His form was that of a scribe today—thin, hunched, ink-stained fingers clutching a bundle of documents. A guise worn like a second skin. Through the ripple of the crowd, he saw them. Three figures, out of place amid the joy. One held their robes too carefully. Another's boots were too clean. The last walked with a vigilance no commoner could muster. Jedi, or at least trained. The Force hung about them like a veil, faint but present.

He did not draw his weapon. Not yet. That would come when the tower sang its toll. He would wait until they moved toward the assassin, drawn by instinct and conscience, trying to stop what had already begun. And then Kentarch would unmake them. Not with brute strength or crude violence, but with silence, precision, erasure. By the time their bodies fell, the assassin would already be disappearing into the crowd, and the king's blood soaking the marbled stage.

He let his form fade, not into nothingness, but into the rhythm of the city, no longer seen, no longer heard. A presence without shape. A breath held in the lungs of fate.

 

[Nos Voros]

Objective: Standby
Outfit: Senate Commando Armor [X]
Full Kit Deployment:

Spoiler: Full Kit

* Legion Combat Engineer Multi-Tool

• 4 X Combat/Utility Knife-Model 01
• 2 X Vibroblade-Model 01
• Cortosis Vibroblade
• Legion Combat Pistol Mark I with Whisper-class Suppressor Series
• Legion Crew Personal Protection Weapon Mark I
• Combat Scattergun-Model 01
• 3 X Modular Hand Grenade-Model 01
• 3 X Anti-Armor Grenade-Model 01

* GAHA-32 Lionheart Commando Armor

• Combat Blaster Rifle-Model 01 with Tactical Accessories Series and Underbarrel Grenade Launcher-Model 01 (20 X Launchable Grenade Series)
• 4x blaster cartridges
• 2x stun grenades
• Ascension Pistol
• Fusion Lantern
• Datapad
• Garrote
• 3x stimpacks
• 3x bland survival bars
• 128oz Canteen of water.

The festival stank of sweat beneath the perfume. Beneath every garland and banner was the tension of a taut cord—pretty, pleasant, and moments from snapping.

Nos Voros didn’t care for parties. Not even covert ones. He stood motionless in the shadow of a gilded archway, close enough to the palace to reach it in thirty seconds, far enough to disappear into the flow of the crowd if needed. The local security teams didn’t know he was here. Most wouldn’t notice the faint glint of alloy beneath his plain black cloak, nor the polished grip of the blaster at his thigh.

He had memorized the flow of foot traffic, the behavior of the guards, and the smell of the rain before it hit the stone. All patterns. All precursors. He didn’t trust that the enemy would be so polite as to show themselves in the open.

Nor did he trust the nobles. Too many eyes lingered too long on the palace gates. Too many uniforms hung too crisply on men who walked like they'd never worn them before.

Nos adjusted the angle of his earpiece, low enough that the revelry muted into a mechanical hum. A private GA relay crackled once with static—an encrypted blip. A Senator’s aide was voicing concern about “unusual behavior” among local guards. Voros didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he shifted his stance subtly, repositioning along the edge of a food vendor’s tent, where the scent of spiced root vegetables masked him from passing patrols. Rain whispered against the cloth overhead, the first hints of a storm barely perceptible.

“Too early,” he muttered under his breath, though no one heard. “Too clean.”

He tapped a rhythmic signal against the side of his thigh—one beat, pause, two beats, long hold—confirming his position to anyone tuned to the same covert frequency.

When it began, he’d be ready.

And if it didn’t?

He’d wait.

Nos Voros was good at waiting.

OPEN​

 

[Jalen Kai'el]

Ukatis
Allies: Corazona von Ascania , Makko Vyres , Aris Noble , Others
Opposition: Darth Nefaron , Marcel von Ascania

Delta-7, Lothal Jedi Temple​

The youngest of the padawans remained still, even as Cora desperately pleaded with him to wake. Still, to the observant eye, Jalen's distress would be clear. His skin was clammy and sweating, his breathing ever so slightly accelerated. It was almost as though he was coming down with a fever. Then, out of nowhere, a voice would ring out in their minds. Desperate... Sad...

< Please... don't leave... >

Jalen's lips didn't move. His eyes didn't open. The boy remained asleep.

Jalen sat in silence, seated with his legs crossed as he allowed the sensations of the planet to surround him. There was peace in the breeze, a whisper on the blades of grass that echoed around him. He was going to unleash his power for Cora once more, just like he had all those years ago.

This time, however, it was going to be different. Jalen was going to maintain control and keep himself awake. He was going to give his friend everything he had so that she could face her father... that terrible man who had brought her a lifetime of pain. He had felt her truth through the Force the day she left for that doomed wedding, a pain he dare not divulge to others until the day the rest discovered it for themselves. He wasn't going to be the quiet boy that she left behind on that day.

He was going to be a Jedi Knight.

So the young man, no longer a boy, mounted his horse. He allowed his mind to touch that of the beast, allowing the Force to guide them both. It was not long before he trailed behind Corazona.

The knight threw her gaze to the Jedi accompanying her. "Help me clear a path to him - but remember that many of those we fight are the sons of Ukatis just as much as our allies are. I urge you to avoid using lethal force."

As Cora stated this, Jalen let out an exhale. Aid. What was it that he was going to do to aid his friend...

Whatever it took.

None will pass.

A Force Barrier rose up around them at this declaration, a voice which echoed out in the Force for all to hear. Jalen let the bindings over his eyes peel away, revealing the raw light now seeping out from them. They would surely have burnt the bandages away, the light burning with the intensity of a sun. No longer a conduit for sight, they now were a window into the truth of the Force. All those riding with them would be protected from harm, and those standing in the way of the barrier would be urged aside.

I won't leave. You will have safe passage. I promise you that.

Not a word uttered from his lips. Jalen body had grown still, in a meditative trance to maintain the defense of his allies. Through his connection the steed knew to follow the others. His trance like state remained upright and stalwart, a powerful determination oozing off of him. Jalen had reserved himself for years, but would do so no longer.

As a boy he feared being left behind. He would not allow such fear to overtake his friends.

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

BYOO: Keep a duke from a making permanent mistake
Ukatian Palace, outskirts

One stun bolt was all it took to outmatch the greatest minds of Ukatis in rigorous debate. The elderly man slumped forward, onto the unconscious body of his colleague on the palace floor.

Certainly, Razmir would admit that resorting to the stun setting on a blaster pistol as his rebuttal to the well-formed deconstruction of his blatant lie the Royal Seer had offered could be considered, by some, to be ungentlemanly. Crude, even. But then one had to consider that he'd been pitted against a scholar of significant renown with over half a century of experience in the arena of verbal disputes. The battle had been heavily stacked against him from the get-go. He had to even the odds one way or another.

Razmir tossed the unconscious body of the Royal Seer over his shoulder and started down the palace corridor. Behind him, Cardinal followed with the other Seer. They left a group of unconscious, mostly unharmed guards behind them.

"How long to get to the drop-off from here?" Razmir strained to speak. The Seer might as well have weighed as much as a Wookiee in his unconscious state.

"If our intel is correct, under a minute without complications," Cardinal replied, without that same effort in his voice.

Razmir often envied Cardinal's athletic prowess and ridiculous height. The human stood more than a head taller than Raz, and his career as a mechanic hadn't left his muscles atrophied. Quite the opposite, Cardinal counted among the strongest beings Raz knew, able to flip a speeder car without assistance.

"Then let's hope we don't run into anything—" Raz cut himself off, sliding to a halt next to a large set of windows. Something outside caught his eye, or more accurately, someone.

Duke Orvos von Rhallian, first of his name and an entrepreneur businessman who rose to power through clever maneuvering and subtle market manipulation, stood in a hidden alcove of a small connecting courtyard exchanging weapons with two cloaked figures. Raz had caught wind of the impending political crisis on Ukatis the same as the Alliance, and so he had a good idea of why the duke held a blaster pistol in his hand. The very same duke upon which Razmir's smuggling route through Ukatis relied. The man he'd had to convince for hours to allow that smuggling route to pass through his business under false pretenses.

Now that cornerstone of his business operations stood down in the courtyard by the palace wall, ready to embroil himself in the coming chaos when Razmir needed him safe and sound at home, far away from the potential political cataclysm about to hit the capital of this backwater.

Razmir dropped the Seer in Cardinal's hands, opened up the window, and attached a small whipcord to the windowsill.

"Get them out of here, and don't wait on me. I have some business to take care of," he ordered Cardinal.

"Please be safe, Razmir, and let the Force guide your path," the taller man gave a bow of his head, then ran off with both Seers slung over his shoulders.

Raz would never get used to the grace with which Cardinal moved. Nor would he ever get used to how kind-spirited the man remained despite being neck deep in the black sludge of the underworld, anchored by Razmir and the rest of the Crew.

Not wasting another moment, Raz tested the whipcord, ensuring it held, then jumped out the window, rappelling down to ground-level. He passed several windows, which blurred together from the speed of the descent. He hit the ground with a quiet thud, rolling off the impact, which got mud all over the shoulder-cape the locals insisted he wore.

The duke and his friends had witnessed Razmir's descent. The duke had the blaster raised, expecting an attacker, but it became clear he'd never held one before from the way the barrel barely pointed Razmir's direction. It took the duke a moment, but he eventually recognized his business partner in the rain and relaxed his posture.

"Tirell? What are you doing here?" The elderly duke called to Razmir.

"I should ask you the same thing, von Rhallian!" Razmir replied, slipping effortlessly into the role of Tirell, the Corellian businessman, as he sauntered up to the group.

The two strangers with the duke looked on in confusion as Razmir shook the duke's hand. They remained fully on guard, suspicion radiating off of them like a pungent stench.

Braze