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

[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


The dragon's wing descended like the veil of a cathedral, a sacred path of flesh and fury laid bare before her. Rain hissed against its hide, steam curling where dark scales met the air like the breath of a dying world. Serina Calis stood at the threshold of myth—hood down, golden hair slicked to the edges of her face, and her eyes gleaming like stars trapped in ice.

She did not flinch.

Not at the dragon's presence.

Not at the sight of the molten iron mask bolted to its skull like a crown of thorns.

And certainly not at him.

Her gaze did not waver as Mykus spoke, serpentine tongue slashing at her dignity, his voice cloaked in the threat of a puppet master who feared he had already lost the strings.

"Your mouth drips prophecy like a leper's wound," she said at last, softly. "All blood and no meaning."

Her voice didn't rise. It deepened, a shade colder, a fraction more final. She took a single step closer to the beast. "You do not command it. You maim it. Bind it. Chain it like a frightened priest shackling a god and calling it worship."

Her hand extended—not toward Mykus, not in aggression, but toward the collar. Toward the handles. Toward destiny.

She did not yet touch.

"You may have summoned this creature, Dragonmaster. You may have shackled its flesh. But its soul is not yours."

Her eyes turned slightly, catching Mykus in their periphery like a knife reflecting moonlight. "And neither is mine."

Then it came. The voice.

I am mine, Leech.

It was not a roar. It was not defiance. It was something purer—a pain-spoken truth hurled like a stone from the bottom of a well. Her breath caught, just slightly. A chill rippled through her body not from fear, but from recognition.

She stepped forward again.

Only now, so close that the heat of the drake's broken soul warped the air around her, did she lift a hand to the iron collar.

Not to grip the handles.

Not yet.

Instead, she placed her fingertips between them. A gentle press. No force behind it. No claim.

Just contact.

"I am not here to own you," she murmured aloud to the beast. "And I will not beg you to be tamed."

Her voice dropped to a thread.

"But know this—if we ride together, if we burn this world to embers side by side, they will write legends that even your scars will not remember. You and I… We will not be tools. We will be symbols. And symbols do not ask permission."

The air trembled again. Her cape fluttered behind her like torn silk caught in a storm. Every line of her form, every angle of her armor, radiated elegance sharpened into weaponry.

Then she turned—just enough to let her voice carry.

"Mykus Cowl. You can have your jealousy. You can even have your rituals. But from this moment forward…"

She placed her hand on the handle.

"…the dragon has chosen me."

And with that, Serina climbed.

One step at a time, up the black wing, past the burned scales and seared runes, toward the iron-clad neck of a creature that should never have existed.

To ride a wounded god into battle.

To make history tremble.

To become the myth she was born to be.



Dominick von Ascania

The battlefield crackled with thunder and fire, a hellscape of loyalties shattered and born anew. Amidst the charge of iron and flesh, beneath the beating drums of revolution, a shadow moved—not with haste, but with purpose.

She was dressed not in armor, but in something older, something truer to her role. A skin of shadows, draped over lean muscle and ancient cloth woven with whisper-sigils. Her face was veiled, her eyes lined with kohl like funeral rites of forgotten empires. Where she walked, torches guttered. Rain curved around her. The Force avoided her like a living thing.

Nyssa Vel, Praeceptor of the Manus Obscura. Agent of Atramentum. Servant of the Corruptor of the Light.

She did not fight. She did not scream. She simply appeared—at the edge of the chaos, just off Dominick's path.

Waiting.

She had watched him, this son of nobility, this would-be liberator drunk on justice. A man who charged not for crown or cause, but to end the very game both sides played. A dangerous thing. A useful thing. And Serina had plans for dangerous men with clean ideals.

The moment came.

Dominick, blade raised high, surged forward amidst the clamor of his men. His current sword—a loyal, stalwart thing—clashed against the air, hungry for a tyrant's blood. But it would not do. It was a farmer's revolt in steel. What Serina intended for him demanded something darker.

"Heir of ash…"

The words bit, not into the flesh, but into the soul.

She was there, between heartbeats, at the edge of his path. She moved with no sound. No weight. Her presence crawled across the senses like frost over grave-soil.

From her robes, she unwrapped a blade.

A blade not made so much as bound.

It pulsed with a cold beyond weather. The runes down its length screamed in silence. And even in this battlefield of fire and fury, a hush came over the land.

She raised it—offering it like an executioner offers peace.

"It was waiting for thee," she rasped. Her voice was a cavern—hollow, and full of teeth. "Hungering, dreaming… in ice and death, it slumbered. Not for a king. Not for a tyrant. For thee."

The pommel's eye pulsed. Something within stirred. Something old.

"Thou seek to end the throne," she continued, breath cold against the air, "to burn the yoke, to sever the hand that feeds itself. But thou wieldest a child's blade. It knows not the truth of endings."

She stepped closer.

"Take this sword… the blade of undoing… the fang of the forgotten. Speak thy justice through it, and the world shall hear naught but silence and fire."

Lightning split the sky. The blade glowed brighter. Frost climbed her sleeves.

Then, one last whisper:

"But beware, child of chains… for it will not obey.
It will only… suggest."

No promise of glory.

No lie of peace.

Only power. Laid bare. Waiting to be used.

And deep inside the crystalline pommel, something watched Dominick. Not with malice.

With hunger.

 

[Tamsin Graves]

Theme: Barefoot Adventures
Disguise: Here
Equipment: Twin Omens | Circlet of Projection | Stars Enchained | Mind Crown | Akwursa
Tags: Kaila Irons | Allyson Locke | Drystan Creed | Azurine Varek | Everest Vale

Recon and disruption the Marshal of Echnos felt almost like she was in inquisition again. So covert and her disguise made her a tall person….as she thought about the excitement though it ended quickly as she realized fully what she had done to get this disguise. Tamsin wasn't experienced in killing, this was only her fourth kill ever. Well as she thought on it that wasn't exactly true now was it.

It scared her, she did not find enjoyment in killing and yet she felt nothing at all when she did it unless she stopped to think on it. When she had slipped up behind that jedi knight with the beautiful wings pretending to be a lost girl looking for her sister. Those eyes looked at her so kind, wanting to help not seeing the doom until it was too late.

Those lips trembling asking why as the saber plunged into the chest, Tamsin had just stared into those blue eyes and felt nothing as she consumed the soul into the mask. As she thought about it, now it terrified her, she was really the demon. She remembered just watching the Jedi die and not thinking of them as a person just nothing. So cold like a switch she could turn off her feelings.

She walked through the crowd, dwelling on the thought of what she might become in time. She might become the monster the dwelled with in her and once again thoughts of running as far away as she could ran through her head.

She pulled herself from her thoughts and the verge of tears about to form. She had a mission to complete and a sister to reunite with at the end of the day. She looked around seeing a magician and other artists up ahead of where she was. She could also sense her sister in that direction. She took a deep breath and cleared her mind.

Perhaps a bit of street performances would distract her from the dark thoughts clouding her mind. That and being closer to her sister she knew she would feel more confident. She was an angel this night that meant the demon couldn't hurt her.

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Combat Jumpsuit
Weapons: Blasters | Lightsabers

The rain fell harder now, slicing through smoke and flame, hissing against molten metal and scorched earth. Valery moved through the wreckage like a shadow cut from light. The heat of the fire kissed her skin, but it didn't slow her. Not with that presence ahead — cold, foreign, wrapped in destruction like a veil. She stepped through the mist, past shattered farm equipment and the cries of the villagers who had barely escaped the inferno. Their pain rang through the Force. Their fear. Their loss. But most of all, their shock.

Because someone had come here not to conquer — but to burn.

The figure came into view beyond the haze. Graceful. Almost ethereal — but tainted by darkness, by intent. Valery's eyes locked onto her, and her hand slipped calmly to her hilt.

Snap-hiss.

The violet blade ignited with a deep thrum, casting a soft glow across the mud and flame. She held it low at her side, not striking, not rushing — but not uncertain either. Her steps brought her closer, boots squelching in the soaked earth, until only a few meters separated them.

"You've made your point," Valery said, voice calm but sharp as the blade in her hand. "You're not here to liberate. You're here to ruin. To destroy."

Her eyes narrowed, amber burning through the gloom.

"It stops here." She raised her saber just slightly — a warning, not a strike, "Step away now. Drop whatever detonators you're carrying. And surrender. This is your only warning." A pause. Rain rolled down her cheek, steam rising from where it struck the humming plasma of her weapon.

"No more fire. No more death. Not today."

Ellissanthia ​

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

He smelled ash in the air.

Red eyes blinked owlishly as he stared up towards the sky, droplets of the planet's tears landing upon the replica mask, long raven locks having long since become soaked by the downpour, as the knight of darkness stood vigil over the nearby heights, force signatures fluctuated around him, altogether far too familiar for him to ignore, yet, the silent figure stood still.

He would have thought the rain would have drenched the flame, but in the twilight of life, of construction, and civilisation, it seemed the flames could never entirely be brought to null. There was a mellowness to that realisation, perhaps it was simply the fact that it was no realisation at all, it was simply the reality of their galaxy.

A reality that the Sith had known a hundred different times.

When the galaxy had tried to destroy you so many different times, what action was unconscionable in one's own defence? What action was unconscionable in bringing the truth that would liberate the galaxy, but that its masters refused to hear? Still.

There was a reason he was up on the heights, and not with the army built by the Sith below. There was a reason that he stood upon the heights, as the rains fell, with his Guard, and remained silently vigil. This was a test for Darth Nefaron, a test to bring him forth into the midsts of the Tsis'Kaar.

And thus far, he could not fault what the Corpse Lord had achieved, Ukatis brought to the midst of civil war in mere months, enlightenment strumming the hearts of those willing to bear the truth, threats and manipulation delved to those that had refused. Ukatis could not be held, neither of them held any delusion that it could.

But it proved something, very clear and dear to them both.

The Alliance could be struck harshly, extremely deep within their borders.

The border worlds need not be the only ones that feared the hex charm of the Sith Empire; every world of the Alliance was a target now. The entire Alliance, a canvas for them to paint a deathly creed, as his mind spun with the possibilities.

As his heart lay heavy.

His cousins were down there; he felt them with the heat of the amulet at his chest.

Cora was here...

...He bore no love for this world, but she did... she did, and he had anonymously donated the funds to rebuild it.

And now here he was, with an army ready to burn it to the ground.

Its necessity, what it would bring for them, what it could mean for the von Ascania's... all that which was necessary for their family's continual rise.

It did not take away from the biting sting that his heart felt still.

Jenn Kryze
Mentioned: Corazona von Ascania Marcel von Ascania Dominick von Ascania Lysander von Ascania Darth Nefaron

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Afield; wading into the heart of battle
| Objective | Break the assault

Lightning crackled within the Mandalorian's grasp. A promise of power waiting to be unleashed.​

​

Promises made, promises kept, no matter how contradictory they might seem. No more Mandalorian lives thrown into the grinder for the sake of a foreign power neither she nor her warriors could trust; to break that promise would see her quickly ousted, and rightfully so... ​

​

... but so too had she promised to stand with Corazona be aliit Ascania. Knight of the Jedi Order, Princess of Ukatis... and, in truth, one of her dearest friends. Although the two of them had met as foes, pride welled in her heart whenever she found the time to look towards the young woman's achievements from afar. That she yet owed such a luminous soul aid for saving her life during the Siege of Coruscant was but another reason to go through with this course of action.​

​

There would be no deployment of New Mandalorians on the field, although she very much doubted that Pollux would respect such a command, and neither would his beloved. Somewhere on the battlefield, the scion of House Seiros and his Mandalorian lover made themselves into the heroic defenders they were always meant to be, through shield, sword, and spear. So too did Karrys undoubtedly look after her charges, far from the action. ​

​

But the mighty warrior had not come as Kryz'alor, nor as Duchess. No, her intervention in this battle would merely be as Jenn. Everything was simpler for it. No expectations, no restraint, no decisions to make but the next few seconds.​

​

Killing was no artistry, for a singular soul such as herself. The cloaked figure simply took one step after another, letting her twin pistols sing, one utilitarian shot after another helping to stem the tide. To Haran with assisting the defense! The path to redemption could only be found forward, into the maelstrom of battle; every life she took, another stone removed from the heavy, heavy basket carried on her back. The burden of guilt, of responsibility. She had been loyal to the Enclave, and a part of her still loved those vode who had taken her in when no other would. But that loyalty had a cost.​

​

Violence. Violence was how she would repay these debts, visited upon the enemies of Ukatis. The crown was rotten, that much was hardly in question; but then again, so much of Ukatis was, to the Mandalorian. A rotting edifice in need of cleansing fire to let its people start anew. ​

​

It was only a shame they had thrown in their lot with the Sith, and thus doomed themselves to naught but eradication at her hand.​

​

The further she advanced, the less and less support she benefitted from. More weapons turned her way, her HUD picking up all manner of incoming signatures. Cold satisfaction met such overwhelming odds. She would either die here, or triumph over enough foes to let her legend grow further. Either way, without allies, there would be no need to share the glory with anyone. ​

​

So much rain, so much mud. Easy for her enemy to be slowed down, where she employed quick bursts of her jetpack to evade salvos and bring about death, through plasma, explosives, or fire. The more she killed, the more focused she became. Those few shots who found their mark simply burned through her cloak, absorbed entirely by the beskar beneath. ​

​

What had they, these Ukatians standing before her? Delusions of their own might? Resting upon their own laurels for so long. Nobility, right of blood, unearned pretenses of strength. Strength was not found in blood, but in deeds. They were pretenders. They were weak.​

​

And she was strong.​

​

Alone amidst the foe, now. Outnumbered, outgunned, certainly, but not outmatched. There was neither fear nor worry in her heart of an onlooker reacting poorly to her use of sorcery; this was her path to walk now, her trail to blaze, and none other. More shots slammed against her, more pain flaring. They were closing in, and swords were being drawn. Atop their horses, three riders lowered their lance for a deadly charge. And here she was, knee-deep in the mud, out of breath.​

​

"This is not how it ends," spat the warrior, slowly mustering to her feet and lifting an empty hand into the air, watching as a protective barrier formed around her self, projectiles crashing against it with fury. Soon, they were joined by swords, as more than one Ukatian knight sought to be the one to cleave her head from her shoulders and claim the glory of felling a Mandalorian warrior. ​

​

Jenn looked up to the sky, then, even as her concentration strained with every blow against the barrier. Dark skies, and rain. Water. With but a dismissive gesture of her hand, she used the Force to cast off the cloak from her shoulder, revealing the regal beauty of her beskar'gam to the world, to the cool air. Water was of her, and she was of water. The Sith had thought her broken, when first twisting her, when she became Ersansyr. But she had accepted her nature, in time, and found strength within it.​

​

Clouds gathered, and the rain only seemed to intensify, obscuring vision and blocking out the sun. Her mind strained under such pressure, threatening to break, to shatter; but the path to immortality through legend had ever demanded sacrifice. She could feel her essence unraveling under such a push, and yet...​

​

A bolt of lightning fell onto her outstretched hand, shattering the barrier and sending the fools arrayed around her into the mud. An agonized scream tore itself free from her throat, pain surging through all of her being. It almost broke her, ended her tale then and there.​

​

Through pain, clarity shone. Clarity, and power.​

​

Lightning took shape within her hand, fashioned into a crackling bolt, hurled towards one of the charging knights - one whose armor betrayed him as one of the first-born sons of some noble bloodline or other. Slamming through and into his armor, the destructive power spreading throughout the ranks all around him, the air filled with the screams of Ukatian soldiers as they were cooked inside their own armor.​

​

"Behold, you treasonous dogs! Behold true power!"​

​

| Friendly | ???
| Hostile | Darth Malum of House Marr ​

 

[Everest Vale]

Outfit: X
Equipment: Lightsaber (concealed), Bracelet, Earrings
Tag: Drystan Creed Kaila Irons Azurine Varek Tamsin Graves

The soft glow of festival lanterns bathed the narrow streets of Axilla in gold and amber. Music drifted on the breeze, all clashing together in the chaotic harmony of celebration. The scent of roasted meats and citrus wine lingered in the air, sweet and heavy. Costumed performers twirled down cobblestone paths, and masked revellers danced between merchant stalls like shadows made merry.

And through it all walked Everest Vale. She wore no mask, no ribbons or silk, no dazzling ornamentation, only simple white garments that allowed her to blend into the crowd as a civilian, her silver hair tied neatly atop her head. Her eyepatch, dark and clean, covered the hollow of her left eye, and the fabric of her cloak whispered gently with the breeze.

She wasn't here to dazzle or be seen. Truly, she was here for Cora. Ukatis was her home, and Eve didn't need to think twice about whether she would come when the call for support came. Quietly, respectfully, she had volunteered to attend the festival, to keep her ears open, to sense any wrongness, and to simply be present. It was what she could offer, and she would always offer what she could.

Moving through the crowd alone, she kept her Force presence low, almost muted, and lightsaber concealed, as she slipped between onlookers like wind through reed. Isari had remained on the transport that brought them here, just in case, but she could still feel the gentle stirrings from their bond. Eve's gaze found the small raised platform where Drystan had been performing, masked, sharp, and perfectly composed in his magician's guise. The knives flew in synchronised arcs, dazzling the audience. And then, a costumed figure in a golden-accented bodysuit took to the air.

Behind the mask, she knew the fierce purple eyes of Azzie were watching everything as carefully as she was. The crowd gasped and clapped as she moved through the routine, her hoop spinning wildly. Eve marvelled, heart fluttering with awe and... worry. Azzie shouldn't be up there. Not so soon. Not with her injuries still not fully healed. But she swallowed the concern and trusted her. Azzie was strong. If this was something she needed, then Eve would support her — quietly, faithfully, without question.

The path curved, and Eve drifted along with it, her thoughts still on the stage. Her gaze moved carefully through the crowd, as attentive as it could be. The festival, in full force now, was noisy, busy, but otherwise was shaping up to be an exciting day.

And yet, something felt... off.

 

[Connel Vanagor]

TITLE
LOCATION
LOCATION

Connel, Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel,Raphael, Jeremiel,

The clouds above Ukatis cracked with thunder, as if the planet itself braced for what had just touched down in its highland shadows. The dropship’s repulsors roared against the monsoon-soaked cliffs, scattering scree and bending the hanging moss like grass before a firestorm. Locals would whisper of that moment for weeks — the storm within the storm — when the skies growled back at something more dangerous than weather.

The ramp dropped.

Boots hit earth — seven pairs, armored, synchronized, unstoppable.

They fanned out like a blade drawn in slow, deliberate motion. Not a squad — a sentence. Silent. Absolute. The kind of team whose name wasn't spoken unless you had a reason to fear it or a reason to pray they'd come.

At the point strode Lt. Bren Alazar, Michael to those who fought beside him — eyes like flint, heart like durasteel, a young commander hardened by wars too many and years too few. His command didn’t come from barked orders. It came from the weight of survival, the kind that couldn’t be taught — only earned.

Behind him, Gabriel — Holden Afart — swept his gaze across the treeline, fingers dancing over a datapad wired into his gauntlet. Righteous. Loyal. A tech wizard wrapped in faith and fire. If there was data to crack, a field to shield, a system to bend — he already had it folding.

The long barrel of a rifle shifted with the wind. Sariel, sniper and shadow, scanned the high ridges above with predator patience. His justice didn’t come in speeches. It came in silence. One shot. One breath. One end.

A low chuckle — dry as the circuits he wired. Azrael — Jet Tila — never smiled when explosives were involved. The rest of the time? Jokes for days. But when he knelt to set a charge, he became something else — a craftsman of controlled chaos.

Then came Raphael, the calm in the inferno. Symon Gribbs didn’t need to raise his voice. The rotary cannon slung across his back did it for him. Zen didn’t mean passive. Zen meant he’d thought of every consequence before you’d blinked.

Jeremiel, their corpsman, moved like a ghost among them, eyes watching everything, hands ready for everything else. Soire Noman wasn’t the best at anything. That’s what made him the best at surviving everything. His loyalty was a fire that would burn through duracrete.

And at their center, robes fluttering just beneath matte-black armor, lightsaber humming low at his side — was Connel Vanagor. Jedi Shadow. War-born Guardian who walked paths most Knights feared to tread. Where others wielded the Force as a shield or sword, Vanagor became the storm itself. If Omega Squad was a scalpel, Vanagor was the edge sharpened by the old Jedi ways — and reforged in silence.

As one, they advanced toward the ruins cresting the ridge. Old noble clans watched from their towers. Guerillas whispered in hidden bunkers. The jungle held its breath.

Ukatis had seen armies. It had seen death.

But this... this was Omega Squad.

And Ukatis would never be the same.

The field trembled as Omega Squad melted into it.

Connel and “Michael” were getting the report. The skies above the capital were a roiling black crucible, vomiting lightning and rain like a wounded god. In the chaos, the enemy marched. Thousands of rebels — soaked, snarling, and fanatical — surged through the valley passes toward the gilded spires of the capital city. At their head rode Viscount Marcel von Ascania , a noble once full of honor and integrity, now remade in agony and shadow. His armor glowed with unnatural sigils; his eyes burned with the gift — or curse — of @Darth Nefaron.

But this was not the story of armies.

This was the story of seven.

---

Break contact. Ghost protocol, Michael whispered over comms, crouched beneath a sheet of jagged mossrock. His voice was calm — which meant things were about to get very, very loud.

Gabriel was already patching into the Alliance command net. We’re blind in sectors Echo through Heth, but I’ve got thermal shadows one klick east — looks like a comms relay hub tucked beneath the ridge. He marked it with a pulse. They’re coordinating forward artillery.

Michael: Connel, eyes?

Vanagor, perched above them on a slippery ledge of stone like a gargoyle, didn’t speak at first. His senses were deep in the storm, brushing against something dark slithering at the edges of the Force.

…There’s something beneath that relay. Not just machines. Something alive. Something… old.

He dropped from the ledge, landing without a sound.

Michael: Michael, We move. Raphael, Sariel — flanking pattern. Azrael, set a fallback package on grid three. Jeremiel, eyes on evac lanes and civvies. Gabriel, I want that relay blacked out in two minutes. Connel?

The Jedi nodded once, already gone.

---

The squad moved like mist through thorns. Rain veiled their forms. Thunder cloaked their steps. The field opened briefly, revealing the enemy relay post — makeshift, ugly, crawling with rebel scouts and a pair of brutish walkers striding ahead like impatient hounds.

A patrol passed — five soldiers, hunched and muttering under hoods.

They never heard Sariel. Just one breath. One suppressed flash. Then four. The last tried to scream. He never made it.

Gabriel slipped under a canopy of tangled wires, his gloved fingers dancing across exposed circuits. Attempting to drop their entire uplink net in 3… 2…

The lights across the ridge died. Rebel communications looked to be blacking out across the eastern front. In the distance, two artillery positions turned inward — without coordinates, they had fired on their own.

Now they should be deaf, and hopefully not playing us.

Azrael’s charges went live. A whispered click. The entire left side of the jungle trail collapsed into a mudslide, swallowing an advancing column whole. Their screams were drowned by the mountain’s wrath.

But then — a presence.

Vanagor froze mid-step, rain sliding down his armor. He turned his head — slowly — toward the relay’s foundation.

Something… emerged.

A Sithspawn — a living monolith of flesh stitched with rusted metal and cloaked in runes. Eyes like molten knives locked onto the Jedi.

Vanagor ignited his saber. Permafrost with a gold outline — no flash, no sound. Just a single gleam in the downpour.

Michael: Engage.

---

The battle was silent thunder.

Vanagor danced between lightning strikes, his saber carving arcs through wet air and blighted flesh. Sariel found elevation and began dropping rebels mid-command, one shot at a time. They advanced where the regular army held. This was to sew chaos among the advancing forces and to hopefully slow them enough to allow for more of a foothold.

Raphael, calm as a temple bell, stepped into a clearing and unleashed. His rotary blaster barked like judgment, clearing walkers and trees alike.

And at the nearest path leading towards field hospital, Jeremiel fought with hands, blades, and sheer will — shielding medics as rebel saboteurs tried to breach the triage tents.

He bled. He fought harder.

---

Meanwhile…

From atop a ruined comm tower, Gabriel spotted movement — a shadow too fast to be a man, too precise to be a beast.

Could Darth Nefaron have finally entered the field?

---

Michael (breathing hard): Omega 1 to Command. Be advised. Rebel advance is disrupted — repeat — disrupted. Sith entities detected. Omega will intercept.

Pause. Storm crashing.

No reinforcements needed here, direct them to better needs. We’ve got this.

---

And as the rains fell harder, and the mountain trails ran red with mud and blood, Omega Squad advanced — not as soldiers, not as symbols.

But as shadows.

The rain had lessened, but only in sound.

In its place came silence — the wrong kind. Not peace. Not pause. The kind of silence that crawls up the back of your spine and tells you something’s watching.

Connel Vanagor stood alone amid the skeletal remains of a ruined temple garden, half-swallowed by jungle, half-carved by artillery fire from a war long dead. Vines wrapped around shattered statues of ancient saints. Pools of black water reflected nothing. The Force here was tainted. Bent. Coiled tight like a spring about to snap.

Then — movement.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t reach for his saber.

The blade would come if it was needed.

Five heartbeats passed.

Six shadows dropped from the canopy in silence.

Their forms were near-invisible — veiled in light-bending cloaks, armed with curved vibroblades and poisons that whispered against flesh. Sith-trained assassins, bred for precision and cruelty. They circled the Jedi like wolves who'd been promised a lion’s pelt.

But Connel Vanagor was already gone.

Not physically — spiritually. The Force drew inward, cloaking him. Veiling him. One breath, and he vanished from their senses.

The first assassin stepped forward.

A flash.

No blade. Just motion. The crunch of a throat collapsed inward, body dropping before the others registered he'd moved.

The second turned, already raising a blade — and his hand fell off, followed by a spinning kick that shattered his visor.

Still no saber.

The third, smarter, fired a wrist-mounted dart — fast, silent, tipped with neurotoxin.

Connel tilted his head — the dart passed by his ear, and in the same motion, he surged forward and slid under the assassin’s stance. A sharp elbow to the side of the knee. A disarming spin. The vibrodagger was his now.

He used it once.

The others began to back away.

They didn’t get far.

---

From the treetops, a sixth assassin watched. Patient. Cold. Her heartbeat slowed. Her breathing matched the wind. She had studied Jedi movements. Shadow styles. Guardian patterns.

But Vanagor was neither.

He didn’t follow a pattern. He was the pattern — the moment before thunder, the flicker before lightning.

She blinked.

He was already behind her.

She turned, blade raised, snarl on her lips—
But all she saw was gold and blue.

The saber ignited mid-stroke. A single line across the air — horizontal, controlled.

She never screamed.

---

Vanagor stood amidst the bodies, the garden now still.

Steam curled from the tip of his saber, then flicked away as the blade vanished. He walked past the corpses without looking back — just another shadow passing through a forgotten ruin.

On his comm, Michael’s voice crackled:

Connel, [Connel. You good?]

A pause. His voice came low. Clipped.

[Assassins are down. They weren’t scouting. They were stalling.]

Gabriel: [Stalling for what?]

Vanagor’s gaze drifted east — toward the horizon where dark towers rose in the distance, and lightning lit up figures in crimson robes standing at their crest.

The approaching Sith.

Vanagor: [Them.]

Corazona Von Ascania • TAGS Open/Anyone looking for a partner/Assistance/An Opponent​

 

[Makko Vyres]

UKATIS

SHIELD | ARMOR | LIGHTSABER | DRONES | SHIP | PISTOL​

Allies: Corazona von Ascania
Enemies: Cin Serina Calis

Makko would feel her resolve shiver through their bond, but maelstrom of conflict within her was steadied by the presence of her allies

She had sacrificed so much for Ukatis but it felt like it would never be done with her. Her own father once again trying to pull the strings, but this time he wanted to place himself on the throne.

He sent her whatever strength he could. Cora was at the heart of the maelstrom, but she wasn't alone.

"Marcel von Ascania," she cried. Her horse sped into a gallop, racing over trampled grass and soft earth. "Stop this madness at once!"

It wouldn't be long now, Makko thought to himself. Whether she talked him down from the fight or not, the sith would reveal themselves.

They had drawn this plan together, would have accounted for everything that could put it at risk. A hand hand grabbed the base of his spine. The Force didn't speak as clearly to him as it did to some. It was warning him of the looming danger.

Makko took a deep breath. His hand touched Darkfyre at his hip. The fate of an entire world in the balance. He had to be ready to act to tip the scales.

 

[Shan]

Tag: Open to Allies

"Doctor Pavond! Lyssa hasn't came back from trying to find her brother out there."

One of the Nurses spoke out to Shan, as the battle was well and truly kicking off. He was already hard at working treating a casualty when the nurse had came to him with her worries. Lyssa was meant to be one of the Padawans that had wanted to learn from Shan and his healing...The fact that she wasn't back yet didn't bode well. Had she been struck out on the field? Killed? Shan afforded a moment to look up from his patient to stare onwards towards the field of battle, biting his lip in thought. He could do so much more with his Battle Meditation. He could inspire so many more people with it and help them in the fight...but the wounded needed him. Unless he could get someone to relieve him of his duties, this is where he'd stay.

He could only imagine how Corazona von Ascania was coping with this battle. They had first met here an age ago, when Shan had been working at a pop-up clinic and Corazona had came in with a horsebite and here they were now. Cora had charged on in horseback, whilst Shan was at the field hospital doing what he did best. He just had to have faith that Cora could do what she did best. Cora was like family to him. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to help her out in the battle, if he was needed. But for now, he had to focus on where he was now, glancing over towards the Nurse.

"If Lyssa isn't back yet, then give her section to someone else. We can't afford to worry about who isn't here. We can look for her after the battle. Okay?"

Even if there was a small feeling in the back of Shan's mind that said all they'd find was a corpse of her, it was better for him to reassure those under him, instead of worrying them. It was a burden he had to bear himself, not others. If it meant the Nurses would hate him once the battle was over, so be it. At least the injured would be able to live to see another day. Even if Shan would hate himself for potentially losing a student under his watch...He had to focus on his work. No distractions.

 

[Reina Daival]

Location: Ukatis Field
Tags: Open to Allies
Lightsaber - Pequod
Leg - Anchor

The battle was well and truly started at this point, as Reina flipped through the air, slashing Pequod out at the Rebel Soldiers. Even now, she held back her aggression, keeping her strikes as non-lethal as she could, striking out for arms and hands were she could. Parts of her wanted to advance forward, to take the fight closer and closer towards the Sith but she knew that it wasn't her mission. Her mission was to stop the advance, not to destroy it. For as long as she could, she was just going to need to stop them from moving past her and the Soldiers she fought alongside with. The screams of pain and anger echoing all around Reina as she steadied herself from feeling those emotions. Her hand darted out towards one of the Loyalists on her side that had been shot, using the Force to drag him away from a second more lethal shot.

"Get him off the field! Get him to the field hospital."

He might have still be able to fight, but Reina wasn't going to allow wounded people to fight alongside her if she could help it. She cared in her own way, even if she wasn't going to make it evident. Death wasn't something she wanted for anyone, not anymore at least. It's why she was pulling her strikes, aiming to disarm where she could. For now, Reina leapt and landed in the puddles forming on the battlefield. Dodging and weaving past various blaster shots sent in her direction. All the practice she had put in was finally coming in useful. Now it was time for her to rely on her strengths though as she made her way back towards cover, before resting her hand amidst a mud puddle, closing her eyes.

She could feel the clouds shifting, the rain increasing in its downfall. Someone was manipulating the weather. Who was it? Reina had no clue. What she did know was that it was her time to play with the elements as she focused on the puddle, letting the Spirit flow through her and connect her to the nearby puddles. And so she willed the liquid inside of the puddles to suddenly jut out into into solid spikes of water, letting the rebel soldiers slam their feet down upon them. It wasn't going to do too much damage, but she hoped that it would at least slow down the advance. After all, it was pretty hard to walk when you had holes in your feet.​

 

[Dominick von Ascania]

Everything was chaos in an instant. One moment Dominick was charging with the others into the field of battle, blade at the ready, the next he was covered in mud and blood. The lessons instilled in him from a young age on how to use a blade had come far more in handy than they should've now as he walked over another corpse. He wasn't a good duelist, that much he knew for a fact. Among the others of his class, he was lauded as the softest sword.

But these men. These boys, even, they didn't have that training. His armor deflected blows he would've suffered otherwise. The nick of his superior sword, well tended and sharp, was enough to inflict debilitating and even lethal wounds. Every person he crossed, every blade he clashed with, the words rang in the back of his mind.

This would be the last time. This would be the end of this cycle. There would be no more sons of Ukatis left to bleed out in the mud for the power plays of old, greedy men. The detachment worked wonders. It was easier to kill when those deaths served a purpose.

"Heir of ash…"

No. He knew enough of this to know where the voice was coming from. A Sith, somewhere watching. Tempting. He wouldn't be tempted. His blade cut down another as he stepped forward ever still. Towards where the bloated king was. Towards yet another abuser and enabler.

"It was waiting for thee," she rasped. Her voice was a cavern—hollow, and full of teeth. "Hungering, dreaming… in ice and death, it slumbered. Not for a king. Not for a tyrant. For thee."

He ignored it. He couldn't listen to these words. Couldn't let himself be tempted, could he? His blade cut another son, watched the horror and fear fade to nothing in the boy's eyes.

"Thou seek to end the throne," she continued, breath cold against the air, "to burn the yoke, to sever the hand that feeds itself. But thou wieldest a child's blade. It knows not the truth of endings."

He paused, staring down at the blade in his hand. Gleaming with blood, nicked already from use. Another clatter hit his armor as a blade failed to cut through, and he was swift to strike back. Another chip, another crack.

"Take this sword… the blade of undoing… the fang of the forgotten. Speak thy justice through it, and the world shall hear naught but silence and fire."

Another dead son. How many were going to have to die because of these old men who don't fight? Why was he killing these children, when there were only two who truly mattered?

"But beware, child of chains… for it will not obey.
It will only… suggest."

His gaze finally shifted to the source of the voice. To the blade held in offering, some how undisturbed by the battle. If only two people needed to die to end this war, then he simply needed to be strong enough to kill them, right? He wouldn't have to kill these sons any longer. The honed blade he carried dropped from his grasp as he neared the blade.

"Help me to end this war, then."

Dominick took up the blade.

 

[Razh Sho]

Allies: The Royal Army | The Republic |
Enemies: The Rebels | the Sith | Nodak​

There was a moment — just before the roar. Razh felt it in the change of pressure, in the ripple that passed through the Force like a bowstring drawn taut. Nodak's muscles tensed, and the Jedi's green eyes narrowed beneath the fall of rain and ash.

Up.

The ground shook from the release of compressed power as Nodak launched into the air — not with grace, but with raw, savage propulsion, a juggernaut torn free of gravity. The rain parted around him in a halo of mud and wind, and the rotary cannon behind him belched flame over the rear lines like a second sun.

He's not chasing me. He's erasing the space I stand in.

Razh didn't watch the arc. He moved. One step, two — a burst of motion enhanced by his own internal current, drawing the Force into every tendon and nerve. Makashi was not built for running. It was built for poise, for the deliberate dance of blade against blade. But even a duelist knew when to retreat.

The Morning Star came down, screaming through the air with its crimson tether glowing like a brand — and Razh was already vaulting over the lip of broken terrain, one hand touching down to roll, cloak dragging behind him like a banner in the storm. Then the earth erupted. The detonation ripped through the field, an inverted thunderclap that tore stone from stone. Chunks of soil and shrapnel spun skyward in wild arcs. Razh felt the wave hit him, even from beyond the immediate blast — a gut-wrenching punch of concussive pressure that sent him tumbling further down the incline, his boots skipping once across mud before he slid to a crouch behind a half-collapsed barricade.

The roar still echoed.

He was already rising again, saber alight in one hand, the other sweeping wide in a defensive arc. He exhaled slowly — not in weariness, but in calculation.

"He cannot be weathered. He must be redirected."

Nodak landed in the crater he'd made, his massive frame half-silhouetted by the fires of his own fury. Rain hissed against the hot metal of his rotary cannon. His shield glinted with the glow of scorched earth.


Razh took a step forward from cover — unshaken, but not unwounded. One side of his robes was singed, a shallow cut marked his temple, and his breathing came just slightly heavier now. He did not posture. Instead, he raised his saber in front of him, turned the hilt horizontal, and extended it in the air with his arm bowed. The Makashi salute — again.

"Impressive," Razh said, voice low, gravel-laced, but clear. "But you do not carry that weight alone. And so—"

He shifted, the blade snapping into high guard, legs angled, balance reset.

"—we begin again."

And he advanced.

The rain had slowed, not in truth, but in awareness. His breath, though shallow, was steady. His blade — level now, humming in his grip — cast blue light across the ruinous crater where Nodak stood, wreathed in the scorched vapor of his own impact.

He is power. But he is not untouchable.

Razh advanced, calm and coiled.

One foot slid through the mud — not charging, not leaping — but gliding in a manner only the Makashi discipline allowed. His posture was narrow, side-on, profile reduced. The curved hilt turned in his hand with a motion practiced in silence for decades, blade low, as if to probe again for the gap he'd struck once before.

And then—

He stepped in.

A flick of the wrist. A sudden upward thrust — blade rising toward Nodak's upper right quadrant, aimed not to penetrate but to draw reaction. The motion was precise, almost surgical, meant to flash across the field of vision and trigger the instinct to guard high—

And just as the blade reached midline, he shifted his weight.

The saber dropped — a whip-crack reversal, knees bending, blade slashing low for the soft armor behind Nodak's left knee — one of the few biological weak points a warrior of such bulk could never fully plate.

Makashi was not about force. It was about creating a question the opponent could only answer one way — and then punishing the answer.

Feint high. Strike low.

All of it was done in three heartbeats.

Even as he struck, Razh's stance was already retracting, foot turning to pivot away, saber ready to spiral back to center — defense already built into his motion, should Nodak answer with his mace, or worse — the blast of that infernal shield again.

He did not expect to end the fight.

But he intended to teach the beast something:

He would not be hunted.

 

[Drystan Creed]

UKATIS

WEARING

In the midst of preparing another flourish, Drystan stilled.

Three solemn tolls rang from the belltower, each reverberating through the marrow of the city. His head turned toward the sound, a curious tilt beneath the mask—and then, the tower erupted in fire and stone.

He didn't flinch.

He had expected something, even as he immersed himself deeper into his role. Drystan was a creature of prepared chaos, a maestro of the anticipated unknown.

While hysteria erupted around him and screams split the air like shrapnel, he stood unmoved. The masked magician—silent, composed. His gaze stayed fixed on the smoldering ruin, through which he could now sense them: a wave of dark signatures erupting across rooftops and alleys, predators slicing through the festival like blades in silk.

Unacceptable.

He turned toward his ever-poised assistant, Azurine Varek , offering her only a knowing nod. The performance had reached its climax, and though unscripted, the finale had arrived.

"Oh dear," he said, as calm as one announcing rain at a garden party. "It seems our time on the grand stage has come to an end."

A pause, deliberate and precise.

"I do believe it's time for our final act… though we'll require a few more hands on stage."

His eyes cut through the chaos like a scalpel, catching glimpses in the crowd— Everest Vale blending in the crowd with discretion, and two more unfamiliar figures: Kaila Irons and Tamsin Graves . He didn't know them, but they looked to be Jedi.

"Excuse me, my friends," he called out with genteel grace, his voice lilting above the wails of the panicked crowd like a violin's final note. "I'm in need of volunteers for my finishing act this evening."

A sliver of his eye was visible beneath the mask—sharp, focused, and alight with something far darker than showmanship. The veneer of charm faded. His tone dropped, low and deadly, like a silk-wrapped dagger.

"For my last trick…"

A pause—enough to let the moment crackle.

"…We are going to make these assassins disappear."

Without another word, a dagger slipped from his sleeve and into his hand—vanishing just as quickly through the air. Enhanced by the Force, his motion was exact and effortless, every muscle recruited for the motion moving in perfect concert.

In the distance, an assassin staggered. The blade had found its mark—buried in the heart—and with it, the first shadow fell.

Blood bloomed across the cobblestones. The curtain had risen once more.

Azurine Varek Everest Vale Tamsin Graves Kaila Irons

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Razmir Tezhyn

​

With an all too practiced gentle motion Braze lifted his right hand, empty of any weapon and curled his fingers inward. In response, the two targets crumpled to their knees, then collapsed to the ground, near-motionless.


He cast a wary glance toward Razmir Tezhyn as he stepped forward, kneeling beside each body. With clinical efficiency, he secured their hands and adjusted their posture to ensure they could still breathe as they were rendered unconscious.

The vocoder crackled to life, his voice emerging in a distorted echo of his younger self, offbeat and unnatural, the cadence skipping like a broken recording.

"Speak quickly. Speak at the same time. Where are you two going?"
Then, in the distance, the bell tolled three times ringing out from the belfry, but a moment later, the air split with a thunderous explosion, and Braze stumbled half a step as his head swiveled looking towards the sight of the explosion.

 

[Jonyna Si]

​

TAG: Lirka Ka
Indirect Assist: Jenn Kryze

The Art of Movement was second nature to the Cathar. Moving through the jungle was instilled into a denik often before one could walk upright, and Jonyna had done so before she could speak. A blast of flame shot her upward to avoid the swing of the sith's blade, before the whip caught her.

“It’ll just make it all the sweeter when I wring my hands around your throat, you wretched little thing.”

"Oh, but you'd never get the chance. Always so tense, so angry you sith. Ever considered a smile? How bout you try it!"

She could feel it. The changing in air pressure. The twisting of the clouds. She could feel it, somewhere out there, her Lyrana was still doing her favors. The whip, wrapped about Liz, her black blade, gave her an idea. Once more, she took off with pyrokinetic force, this time raising herself and the whip with it.

Then it came.

The crack of lightning, drawn to the raised metal. The blade itself absorbing the energy, and Jonyna using her skill at manipulating nature to direct it.

Where?

Right down the length of the damned whip.

 

[Darth Kentarch]

​

Location: Axilla
TAGS: Connel Vanagor

Rain fell like a funeral veil over Axilla, washing the brilliance from the cobbled streets, turning banners into limp rags and firelight into dull glow. When the bell tower exploded, the Summer Harvest Festival had dissolved into screaming chaos. Where once children danced and merchants shouted, bodies now lay sprawled, some torn by shrapnel, others cut down with precision. And above it all, veiled in the mist and shadow, Darth Kentarch stood motionless, his cloak soaked through, the rain rolling off him in silent rivulets. By the time of the Explosion, Kentarch was gone, silently heading to the ridge at the eastern front.

He had felt each death like a whisper in the Force, a thread of shadow snapping under sudden pressure. One. Then another. By the third, his eyes were already scanning the upper terraces. By the fifth, he knew it was not chance. These were not frightened guards or vigilantes defending their home. This was deliberate. Surgical. And when the sixth life was extinguished, it was not the silence that caught his attention, it was the sudden presence of something controlled, honed, disciplined in a way most Jedi had long forgotten.

Dare he say it, he was impressed.

Through the veil of rain and smoke, seven figures advanced in unison. At their center walked the Jedi. Not robed, not humble. Armor made of black material, which he was not familiar with. From his perch atop the shattered colonnade, he had watched the Jedi commander break formation. Now was the time to strike the team. One of them had taken position atop a ruined comm tower.

The Sith Lord's presence was an absence. He moved with the silence of falling ash, unbound by light or form. His steps did not echo. His breath did not fog the air. He scaled the far side of the tower like a shadow climbing its reflection, each grip precise, each movement guided by malice honed into art. Rain streaked down his cowl, pooling in the folds of his cloak, running over the hilt of the weapon he now drew, not with flourish, but with finality.

The Ghostfire lightsaber blade ignited without a sound, a shimmer of pale distortion more felt than seen, like the glint of cold glass beneath moonlight. Invisible. Undetectable. Even now, as Kentarch reached the top of the tower. The man Gabriel, whom Kentarch did not know, remained unaware. But it mattered not. Kentarch rose behind him like the shadow of death itself.

No warning. No whisper.

The blade passed cleanly through the armor between shoulder and spine, humming as it parted flesh, nerve, and bone in a single, merciful stroke. Gabriel jerked once. Then slumped forward, lifeless. His weapon clattered onto the steel grating, and he toppled after it, collapsing onto the platform with a wet thud drowned in thunder.

Kentarch vanished again, folding into shadow. The Hunt for Omega squad had begun.

 

[Mykel Dawson]

Location: Field Hospital
Objective: Medivac
Allies: Loyalists and Galactic Alliance ( Shan Reina Daival )
Opposition: Rebels & Interlopers (If they pew pew me)
With: OPEN
Equipment:
-KPA-01 Katarn Armor w/ Poncho
-Gauntlet Shields
-Lightwhip
-Blaster Pistols x2
-Glop & Slider Grenades

All wars were tragedies, but civil wars were uniquely grim. There were no foreign invaders to drive away, just fellow citizens and kin to turn on each other like a starving pack of Kath hounds. No matter which faction ultimately prevailed in their military objectives, there would be no true victors among the loyalists or rebels - only embittered survivors who would have to live with shattered bonds that may never be mended.

So needless to say, Mykel didn't feel comfortable engaging in direct combat, even in support of his mentor Corazona. For once, the Padawan didn't complain when Master Vexis assigned him to support duty, escorting medics and assisting with evacuations. That was something he could manage.

As he was about to head out with the next medivac team, he overheard a concerned nurse alerting Shan to a missing Padawan.

"If Lyssa isn't back yet, then give her section to someone else. We can't afford to worry about who isn't here. We can look for her after the battle. Okay?"

Even if there was a small feeling in the back of Shan's mind that said all they'd find was a corpse of her, it was better for him to reassure those under him, instead of worrying them. It was a burden he had to bear himself, not others. If it meant the Nurses would hate him once the battle was over, so be it. At least the injured would be able to live to see another day. Even if Shan would hate himself for potentially losing a student under his watch...He had to focus on his work. No distractions.

"I'm on my way to the front, Doctor," he informed Shan and the nurse. "I'll keep an eye out for her."

It was very clear that the Jedi Knight already had a lot on his plate leading the triage. If Mykel could even do one thing to bring Shan some relief, then he would try.

"Just give me her details."

 

[Cin]

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

"I am not here to own you," she murmured aloud to the beast. "And I will not beg you to be tamed."

Warmth.

He had known hot before. The feeling of searing irons digging runic furrows in his flesh, the suffocating warmth of the deep cave he was chained within, his own calamitous fire... He had known cruel heat, and crueler cold... But never had the Beast known warmth. A gentle touch.

The Dragon's long, serpentine neck twisted, until he was staring at the woman who dared lay her fingers on him. His dull-iron eye underneath a duller iron face was cold, calculating, too intelligent to be the mindless creature the Faithful men around him wanted. Kindness was a stranger to him, but he was a Dragon, and a Dragon's pride was a powerful thing. Talk of destruction and symbols would not be enough to earn his cooperation, were he free to make that choice.

But the promise of being in control of something that would outlive his pain? Of creating something of his own will, to feel for a flickering moment that he was in control? Of not being a servant, but an equal? That piqued his interest.

The Dragon blinked. For now, at least... it had chosen her.

Like billowing black sails, the wings of the Beast extended, scarred as they were. With a flap, Shadow and Rider took off. It was time to burn.




The clashing of armies was interrupted by a soft, whistling sound in the air. A shape like an arrow, forty feet long, pierced through the heavy stormclouds, dark and entirely too fast. Then, wide wings unfurled over the Loyalist brigade, suspending an omen of death over their western flank. The Dragon's mask, metal and stuck to it's face, glowed with intense heat, before slagging away as the Beast ripped it apart with it's opening, superheated maw. Then...

Searing wind caught the western flank. Rain evaporated before ever hitting the ground. And a torrent of growling, iridescent dragonfire engulfed a column of soldiers. Hungry, licking flames that sloughed flesh off bone, and turned muddy ground to cracked, thirsty clay.

The Dragon pumped his wings, staying on the move. He was at Serina's command, now. But all the while, the Dragon would be silent.

Nobody had ever taught him how to roar.

 

[Nodak]

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

---

He rose. As the Monster stood back up onto his feet, coming to his full stature his head turned with features still obscured by his helm. There was a buzzing that transformed into words when Razh Sho spoke. Once he'd heard him Nodak turned his field of vision towards him, catching the salute of the blue bladed plasma blade at its conclusion before it snapped into a high guard and the Jedi reset himself.

Nodak felt a subtle burn in his aft left quadrant where the lightsaber of his opponent had made contact, threading into a gap between his armor where only armorweave remained for protection. He could feel the heat from the wound. It was an annoyance more than an injury.

Perhaps if he'd attacked sooner.

Again his shield rounded to the fore after he'd stood.

The crimson tether that attached head and haft retracted again, reattaching itself to one another as it became whole again. The Mace felt solid in his hand again, his fingers tensed around it. He'd start to raise it slowly.

This time he advanced, meeting the Jedi who advanced on him.

Nevermourne rose to meet the feint of the Jedi but it could not deflect a blow that was not meant to land.

The Monster was ready though.

The Jedi feinted for the right quadrant then struck with a snapping strike for the soft spot behind his left knee. His Shield pumped forward, stuffing the space between the two of them so that the lightsaber had no room to maneuver. Against another duelist a finesse move may have succeeded but acrobatics and graceful stratagems had less place in this type of combat. Razh Sho should remember that Makashi was a duel centric lightsaber form, developed for lightsaber on lightsaber combat; he needed to learn this was no his element.

Sparks would erupt would lightsaber met shield again.

Nevermourne, already rising to meet a feinted blow would whip back around Nodak's head, come back around over his left shoulder and drop in a diagonal blow for the Jedi's right shoulder. It meant to crush him, to power through with its momentum from shoulder to pectoral and all the way across the torso as the backswing too it past Nodak's right hip.

Nodak hadn't left room, he pressed this time so that he could pressure the Jedi though his assault was neither extensive nor was it unbalanced. If Nevermourne missed its mark he had already begun to play on the momentum to deliver the next blow...

 

[Madrona A’Mia]

Wearing: Nondescript robe and cloaks, necklace of a dozen farrus spheres,
a silk bag with only a few Peeping Daisies remaining.
Allies: Sith Order | Lysander von Ascania | Darth Nefaron
Target: King Horace
Frenemy: Corazona von Ascania

Moving Toward: Banquet Hall in the Royal Palace
Soundtrack

​

Slinking surreptitiously amongst the crowd in a guise that felt nearly as jarring to her as the juxtaposition of people being merry in the streets while war was wafting on stormy winds, A'Mia drank in the strangeness of it all. Her odd eyes drank in all the little details that went unnoticed by most others, and her keenly attuned senses granted her the echoes of a warning before any at the festival were any the wiser that the mood of the day was about to shift dramatically. The neti sent out an eerie message to drift as if on the breeze into the mind of Lysander von Ascania who currently occupied himself with Sibylla Abrantes and fanciful frivolities.

Prepare yourself to move toward the target.
​

A'Mia spied a less traveled side street, one being used for storage by various vendors, and slipped that way just as a clamoring alarm was raised. Using the ruckus she foresaw, the neti timed her trajectory toward the palace perfectly.

Three chimes. The signal given to the Sith and rebel elements to begin the onslaught. Shortly after the final knell, a rumbling was felt beneath the bell tower. Concerned chatter rose from the crowd as anxieties began to heighten.

KA-BOOM!​

The bell tower exploded, sending a hail of shattered stone and hefty duracrete chunks raining down on the festival. The bell itself, several thousand pounds of copper and tin, began tumbling to the ground.

Panicked screams erupted. The rumors were true. The rebellion had struck the capital.

In the chaos and confusion, A'Mia made swift work of feeding eight palace guards to three of her beloved pets. After silencing their surprised yells in seconds, her pets aided her in scaling the palace walls in a way that mimicked a mass of creeping vines. To the untrained eye the sithspawn might even pass as ornamental foliage decorating a few parapets of the grand palace.

Still carefully dispersing her Force signature, A'Mia crept over walls, through windows, and even along walls where the architecture provided just enough hold for her many limbed form. She was not beholden to normal pathways, nor the same expectations of gravity given how versatile her ambulation could be, and she quickly disposed of palace attendants who were unlucky enough to come across her as she made her way closer to the festivities.

Soon she would be required to again go by foot bipedally and act once more like a well behaved guest. That gave her brief pause, as she summoned the focus required to feign social niceties and take on a civilized visage.