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

[Razh Sho]

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

The sound of the world narrowed again — not silent, but smaller. Focused. The falling rain blurred the edges of vision, hissed along his blade, but Razh's attention was razor-thin, refined to the single arc of Nodak's movement.

The shield came forward.

He had expected it. Not because of experience with Nodak, but because Makashi taught a lesson too many brutes ignored — every giant relies on space. Rob them of it, and their reach becomes burden.

His blade kissed the shield's face — another flash, another jet of hissing sparks — but he was already moving.

There is no shame in retreat. Only in waste.

Makashi did not seek to contest strength — it sought the line of minimum resistance. Razh pivoted low, weight sliding to the back foot, shoulder tucked, blade arcing with him in a swift withdrawal along a tight spiral — not away, but just far enough to let Nevermourne's arc pass.

And it did.

The sound of the weapon slicing through air was like the tearing of steel fabric, vicious and deliberate. Had he been half a step slower, it would have split him open to the spine. Instead, it crashed through where he had just been, and Razh turned into the vacuum it left behind.

He reappeared on Nodak's right flank — inside the mace's follow-through.

His saber reversed grip for just an instant, a flicker of movement designed not to penetrate but to cut across the wrist, to sear into the gauntlet housing the mechanism that fueled Nevermourne's tether or cannon. Not to disable. But to warn.

This dance is not yours alone.

Razh's voice came with the strike, gravel-worn and controlled. "Even titans fall, Nodak. They only forget how."

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he disengaged, sliding back to a defensive Makashi stance, blade raised, his weight narrow and body turned again to profile. It was not cowardice. It was discipline. He had no illusions: one blow would kill him.

But Nodak had not earned it yet.

"Your pace is slowing. The rain weighs on you more than it does me."

The wind caught the hem of his cloak — soaked now, heavy — but Razh's footing was still sure, lekku dripping with water, face stern beneath the dim blue light of his saber.

He waited.

For the storm to come again.

 

[Lirka Ka]

​

Jedi. So painfully slippery. Days like these were Lirka's grim reminders that perhaps she had molded this form far too much down the path of hunting her "fellow" Sith-Imperials than turning her weaponry towards the Sith's eternal foes. Her lenses tracked the form of Jonyna Si , watching, waiting. Lirka was out of her league, admittedly. Though the Once-Sephi was far from willing to turn tail just yet - the fun had just gotten started.

Quippy, this one was. Lirka may not have had much chance to strike with blades, but the Once-Sephi did very much enjoy hearing the sound of her own voice. If it wouldn't be with blades, then let it be with words.

"Who said I'm not smiling? Though perhaps I'd smile more if your lot did magic tricks less, and fought more. But I am no Sith, not yet. Though I'm certainly flattered I gave the impression."

And so did Lirka continue to watch, feeling the tug of her whip as it rose with the Cathar's figure. Then came pain. Sweet, delectable, pain. Her electric charge surged right back into her, down the length of her arm. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, this form loathed such things. It writhed, pulsating like a hateful thing beneath her dark plate. Yet her grip did not weaken, the systems in her hands churned and the metal of her whip's hilt whined as the pressure grew.

And in pain and pleasure both, Lirka Ka laughed. A horrible, distorted thing coming from her blank-faced helm - scarred all the same as the meat beneath. With power born from the masochism of a zealot, Lirka tugged. Putting all her mechanical might behind it in an attempt to either yank her newest Jedi friend closer, or merely her weapon.

Her moods an ever-flipping coin, she then asked - in both jest and true curiosity.

"Do you think it'll matter, Jedi? All this death. All these souls sent back to the embrace of Primordial Dark. The blood that will stain the mud red, the blood of brother against brother, the battle of kin fighting for their meaningless little rock like it actually means something. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

​

 

[CT-312]

//: Quinn Varanin Kirie //:
//: Capital of Axilla //:
//: Attire //:
//: Weapon: Vibroblade Knife//:
//: OBJECTIVE: The Harvest Festival //:​

Days Prior:

How did she end up in this situation? In the bathroom, with an orange and yellow sundress staring back at her. This was a bad idea. CT-312 growled, “Tch.” glaring at the sundress like it had personally insulated her.

Her contact, the Princess had put in a request for her once more. When she arrived at said coordinates, it perplexed her it was a residential area. The Princess’s home to be exact. There was another personel with her. Judging from the brief interaction and words exchanged that CT-312 observed from the two, they were partners. Companions. They were excited to go to “The Harvest Festival” held in the capital of Axilla. Of course they wanted to dress up.

Arms crossed, jaw tight, CT-312 shook her head once. Walking over to the window in the bathroom. It was locked. ‘Cute.’ thinking how something like this would confine the Trooper. Using her left hand to brush her fingers along the frame, reaching back with her right, grabbing the vibroblade knife. Sliding the thin blade between the gap in the window frame. Feeling resistance, nudging the lock until a faint snap was heard. The latch yielded, ‘Cheap lock.’ making a mental note to inform the Princess to replace all the window locks for better ones.

Half of CT-312’s body was out the window when she heard the Princess asking if assistance was needed. The Princess and their companion probably didn’t think CT-312 could hear their whole conversation despite whispering through the closed door. Groaning. How she hated being here. This was not duty. This was suffering. Stepping back inside the bathroom, closing the window, the Scout took off her helmet. With a deep long sigh she began to take off her armor until she was in her undersuit. Could she? Yanking the orange and yellow sundress over the undersuit. CT-312’s whole body stiffened with protest. She hated it. This dress on her felt like a betrayal. This wasn’t her. This would never be her. Putting on the helmet, holding her breath. Even without the undersuit there would be no way.

The door opened and the Princess ordered her to breathe. As she did the Trooper knew what would happen as the sound of fabric ripped. CT-312 felt bad.

—

As they arrived at The Harvest Festival, CT-312 informed the Princess that she would handle her attire. Remembering she was strictly told to not bring any guns, showing up with a brown cloak, festival mask, and wide-brimmed hat. She could tell by the look the Princess gave her, she was displeased. Clearly she wasn’t matching her and Kirie. Sighing. At least she had her vibroblade knife.

It was her first time at a ‘festival’, the Scout Trooper had no idea what to expect. The noise was the first thing she noticed. Laughter, drums, and distant music that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The people moved in waves, brushing past with paint or masks. Smiling. Everyone was so… cheerful. The smell was dizzying, the different types of foods wafting in the air. It wasn’t unpleasant. This felt like a dream. Another reality that CT-312 knew she would never be able to be apart of. It was surreal to the Scout Trooper who's lived in the barracks, detention cells, or on the go with missions her whole life. She didn’t know what to make of these…festivities.

Despite all the distractions and noise around them, the Scout Trooper kept her senses sharp. On the lookout for anything that may harm the Princess. At least this was another escort mission, even if it was something mundane as a festival. Puzzled, CT-312 didn’t know why she needed to chaperone the Princess’s and Kirie’s date. Paying attention to the words spoken, her gaze was still straight on focusing on their surroundings. Observing and scanning for any threats. It was only when it was made mentioned that her, 312, should come to Eshan. One eyebrow arched behind the mask, her head tilted slightly. ‘She’s joking again’ , a barely audible sigh escaped her lips.

"Have you been to a festival before as well?"

“No.” a prompt mundane response was given. As they continued walking, CT-312 caught a glimpse of a military dress uniform in the crowd. Watching the direction in which it was going. Her head turned back to Kirie and the Princess. Before she could say anything she noticed the Princess’s focus was fixated on something. Following her gaze, it was people wearing flowers weaved together making a crown. Looking back at the Princess, “Forgive me Princess. But, I need to briefly excuse myself. No need to wait on me. Both of you keep enjoying yourselves. I’ll find you both later.” With that, the Scout left towards the direction of the military uniform she spotted earlier on.

Catching up to the target, it seemed that the turn CT-312 took led them to a less populated area. As she silently caught up to the unexpecting uniformed officer, the Scout did a quick glance around. No one was looking. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arm around the officer's neck while using the other hand to cover their mouth. Forcefully pulling them into a back alley where prying eyes couldn’t see. CT-312 thought about snapping the neck, but thought against it. Her thoughts quickly drifted to Lord Mordecia, respecting the Sith Lord greatly. Agreeing, there was no need to waste life. Especially if her mission and duty was only to escort the Princess and her companion.

Swapping clothes with the unconscious officer, CT-312 was now sporting a blue Galactic Alliance Officer Uniform. After double checking the restraints and mouth cover on the unconscious figure, she propped them against the wall. It looked like a drunkard passed out. Tugging at the collar as CT-312 tapped her boots to the ground making sure everything looked and fit orderly. Patting herself down, confirming her knife was still secured. ‘Much better than that sundress’, but still uncomfortable not being in her armor, especially not wearing her helmet. Feeling exposed. Inhaling deeply, who cares about her comfort. This was her duty and mission at hand. Never really wearing a military uniform, CT-312 was sure she looked silly. Hopefully this would appease the Princess and match better with their outfits.

—

As CT-312 started to make her way back. She looked through the crowd for the two. Moving to a higher elevated platform, the Scout was able to spot the Princess and Kirie. Heading towards their direction, she would have to stop multiple times as some Galactic Alliance soldier would salute her. Mimicking their actions back, nodding with a fake smile. Dismissing them. It was exhausting.

Just as she was about to close in on the two, CT-312 noticed there was a plaza that was not too busy. A bar caught her attention. She shouldn’t. But with the terrible experience of the sundress, being dragged along to babysit a date, and having to be out of her armored uniform without any guns. She should. The Princess and Kirie could wait a bit longer. It wasn’t like anything was going to happen.

Needing a drink, CT-312 entered the bar. Despite the outside being less bustling with people, the inside had quite a good amount of patrons. Majority of the tables were filled, with people drinking, eating, and some were gambling. Others were standing up singing, as others listened to the piano playing in the back. Walking up to the bar, there happened to be a few open seats. Sitting down CT-312 ordered a pint of beer. Something quick and simple before she headed back out. While waiting for her drink, she noticed a woman in their armor as well as a pistol on their side. A Galactic Alliance soldier. ‘Chit.’, she needed to get out of the bar. Forget the drink. CT-312 left the money on the bar top as she got up, turned facing the exit. Readying to head out. Her senses on high alert. Hoping to not be noticed by the specific patron.

Spoiler: Nearby/Foes

Ashley Nevermore

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Eyes were quickly drawn toward the bolt of lightning that heralded by the crashing boom, struck the earth with a certainty of death itself. The air buzzed with the energy of what was brought from the dark heavens, as keen red eyes made out an ever-familiar sight, in the depths of the horde of plate and mail that constituted the first attack upon the enemy positions. No more than a skirmish, that which constituted the inevitable confrontation of armed men of opposing banners that had been brought by overeager captains far too close to their opponent's lines. Yet, even without constituting a true battle, blood had been drawn, and it was obvious enough with the shape of armour worn by one that had acted as a spear through their lines, that a Mor- Mandalorian, seemed to be partaking in the activity most suited to them.

Annoying the grand plans of Sith Lords.

A ghost of a smile flickered upon the expression of one such Sith Lord, behind the mask that was the face of a far greater, grander Sith Lord. Gazing up at the sky, the sun had long disappeared beneath the darkness, a promise of their victory, or simply a promise that none of them would see the light for quite some time?

He missed Mia...

...He missed Elsie...

...He missed too much, him and his bleeding heart.

There was a certainty to the past that seemed altogether impossible in the present and the future, perhaps...

...Perhaps that was why he longed for it so, despite all the regret, the belief that if fate's heel had turned ever slightly so, he might have...

...He might have found happiness that he so longed for.

The whisper of a smile was long gone, as his ruby gaze fell away from the sky back towards the earth, there was little time for regret these days, little point in it either. He was what he was, he had done what he had.

And now, he would fulfil his duty to the Empire, to his people.

For all that it would cost.

"Darth Nefaron... begin the attack, we have granted them enough reprieve." He whispered, a whisper that flowed through the wind, a dark ichor that emerged from his lips, and formented by that darkness that was made manifest, was heard by the ears of only the Lord of Corpses wherever he stood.

As Malum took step forward, helmed heads and masked faces standing silent and still all around him on their heights, as with the shrill roar, Sith Steel bore itself angry and raging against the air and water, a hissing growing ever louder as red plasma protruded out from the tip, a black knight in black arms, holding by his hand the beskar hilt of a weapon made for war.

Aimed toward the Mandalorian.

The force swelled around him, that which energy existed in all alive and unalive, that which power held within it the magnitude, the shape, the very motion of the galaxy, that evil that stood at the heart of the powers of fate and destiny, whose presence was the chain that stood to be broken.

He grasped upon invisible, yet, still choking chains. The wind, battering its caustic breath against his face, its temerity to stand against the power rising upon the heights overlooking a field that begged for blood. The sky rippled with sallowed grimace, the rain peppering down upon, seeming to be restrained challenge, or... a perfidity as nature itself bent around the power contained within the heir of House Marr.

It bent, he demanded that it heel, as his breath caught, and he shivered against the chill of environs and strain. This struggle, this war, one hidden behind millennia of atrocity, this was the enemy that they faced, the most dangerous of them all, in a galaxy manifest of danger. That secret enemy, that enemy that flowed through every breath one took, and every action thought, that foe that whispered the most dangerous lie of them all.

That it was your friend.

Lightning burst out along the black steel of the black blade, strumming along its sharpened edges the drums of war, as within mere seconds, weblike frequency flowed along its touch. Red, the colour of the blood that flowed through his veins, was its nature, yet, as beneath the mask, his red eyes glimmered ever dangerously.

As the chain broke.

The world around him pulsed, as that which lightning brought by his own strength, brought by his own power, sunk in with the fangs of a vampiristic intent, drawn not from the heavens, but from his own body, strumming towards the colour of the cool oceans, before, as if the sun itself was being born upon those heights, a brightness enveloped this makeshift arena, that hiss, that serpentine hiss of the white lightning strumming along his blade.

Before it burst forth, with a cacophony that shook the foundations of the world on which they stood, a burst of lightning that was heralded with the roar of thunderous lions, skidding across the air between them, its riotous target stood, basking in her victory.

As already, the Dark Councillor's mind shifted away.

As the air rippled, as invisible, inky tendrils sailed away towards all who breathed life upon the field, they stood. As he felt burning embers ferment upon ruby orbs, his head shaking, followed suit by the rest of his entire body, his heart beating like a blaster firing, as his breath caught, a power that was not his.

But a power that he deserved, stretched out far and wide, a serpent burying its fangs deep into hearts, a raven circling high, its caw heard by all.

Those who stood under the banner of the hex charm, felt a certain levity, felt a certain confidence, felt the bones of their muscles rested and ready. Those who stood under the banner of the Alliance felt that which was their greatest fear, an impending doom, a looming dread, that Ukatis would burn.

And there was nothing they could do about it.

Malum's eyes burned as bright as golden bars. As his meditations would bring them to victory.

Darth Nefaron Jenn Kryze
Affected by Battle Meditation (Good or Bad) (if you want): Lirka Ka Razh Sho Serina Calis Makko Vyres Reina Daival Dominick von Ascania Corazona von Ascania Jonyna Si Mykel Dawson Cin Nodak Jalen Kai'el Aris Noble Marcel von Ascania Shan (Anyone else in The War Fields).
Mentioned: Mia Monroe Elise Ahana-Gwyneira

 

[Eurydice]

ROYAL PALACE

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

Eurydice and Indis remained frozen until the shaking subsided, tensed in confusion. Though they were deep beneath the palace, sound still barely penetrated. That wasn't a good sign, given the concerns of an impending coup. Had rumor swelled into reality that quickly?

"What…was that?" Indis dared to murmur.

"I'm not certain," came her companion's whispered response. Though they were alone - or so they assumed - the two women spoked in hushed tones.

"Let's just hurry up and find what we need," Indis grumbled. Though she sounded displeased, her words were edged with nerves. Turning on her heel, the Seer began feeling her way through the storage shelves. In the low lighting, it was difficult to read labels and discern the contents of jugs and barrels.

Eurydice lingered, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling. The sense of foreboding had grown from a tickle in her throat to a hand wrapped around her neck.

"Perhaps…it is safer for us to stay down here," she said quietly.

---

Luciana nearly jumped at the appearance of Lord Meverell. She took in a sharp breath, exhaling a slowly as she could manage. Her heart still beat a mile a minute.

"My husband is leading an army toward the capital. It's not just him - it's Lords Godfrey and Clervaux and Baron Eldridge and…so many more who are dissatisfied with the King's rule. They plan to march on the palace and overthrow him.”

She paused to swallow down a rising sob in her throat. Luciana's sons would be among the fighting. Dominick, though skeptical of his course, was at his father's side, while Volkhardt was a captain in the royal army.

Would she and her younger children be punished for Marcel’s involvement? It was a gamble, but things had spiraled out of control and she’d gamble to protect her family. Thank the gods that Lysander von Ascania was offworld, and Corazona….she couldn’t dwell too long on one daughter’s fate. She had four more at home to look after.

"My Lord, they have not done this alone. My husband…"

The viscountess retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and hesitated. Urgency won out, and she pushed forward.

"Something has taken ahold of his mind. I do not know if it is the dark magic of a rogue magus or something more, but our manor has been visited by a number of strange men who are his collaborators. They were the ones who encouraged him and his fellows to take up arms. Dark Lords they called themselves-"

Before Luciana could continue, the bell tower shattered. The palace rumbled, and screams could be heard rising from the courtyard.

 

[Aris Noble]

A lightsaber. The faint hum of such a blade filled his ears as he brought down another of these soldiers. Solid blades that couldn't cut his skin, it felt odd to fight against people like this. The technological advantage alone- wouldn't it be easier to strike them down from the air above? He doubted the sparse amount of armor many of these soldiers had could even protect them from the very blades they were using, what hope did they have against a blaster?

A lightsaber?

They weren't of Ukatis. Or worse, the Sith had armed some with a Lightsaber. His gaze turned, finding the source. The source that was currently charging him down no less. He gritted his teeth, shifting mid step to twist his blade up to try and deflect the lance like strike. Not deflect. The monstrous strength he held was turned against the blade before him, as if he was trying not just to rend the strike away but cleave rider and horse alone with it.

Not that the cold blade could do as much. He'd have to swap to a proper lightsaber blade rather than the Entropite's dull blue, but that depended on the reality of if this was a child of Ukatis, or one of the Sith puppeteers behind the scenes.

Phoebe Winsloe | Lyssa Clauda

 

[Nodak]

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

---

The Backswing had already began as Razh Sho stepped in, closing the gap to the Monsters right flank and ensuring that the Jedi could come close for a strike.

Instinctively Nodak had turned, keeping the Jedi at his fore as much as possible though with distance closed, diminished it seemed less an advantage under the circumstances.

The Momentum of the backswing had carried Nevermourne back, past Nodak's right hip however rolling his wrist outwards along with his forearm he rode that same momentum. It allowed for an upwards arc of his right arm so that the Mace drew high again and over his right shoulder. Differing angles meant sparks flew as the strike from Razh's lightsaber made contact with the vambrace of the Monsters armor, damaging the repulsor he'd outfitted it with and deployed earlier, rendering it inoperative.

With Nevermourne raised, up over his right shoulder after it had arced higher out of the backswing he didn't hesitate though. He'd punch the butt of the mace downwards while the sparks flew. Aiming for the Jedi's sternum with a hammer of a blow even as his opponent made his withdrawal.

Nodak didn't advance after that. Maybe the Jedi was right, maybe he was slowing. Then lightning crashed in the distance amidst the torrent of rain, a howling wind spread across the battlefield and an unseen energy washed over him.

Nodak laughed. Loudly. Even under cover of his helm the satisfaction he felt seemed palpable.

"Are you sure, Jedi?"

...if his pace had been slowing, if he was tiring a sudden wave of euphoria had revitalized him. His muscles felt rested, relaxed and the Monster seemed to exude a greater aura of menace that threatened to swallow all those within his sphere of influence whole. All this thanks to the Battle Meditation that Darth Malum of House Marr had cast across the battlefield.

 

[Veradun Sharr]

Allies: Darth Nefaron // Rebel Forces // Sith Forces
Target: Eurydice
Objective: Capture A Seer​

It took a moment for Veradun’s eyes to adjust to the deep shadows of the underground tunnel system as he slowly followed a group who made their way through the darkness, the rumbling of events above occasionally reaching the group as they moved further towards the palace itself. The tunnels were dark and musty, damp and chilly - but the Nagai was used to such things, after living as a slave within his Master’s domain for many months prior to this event. His mind started to drift back over old memories, but he forced them away so he could focus on the task at hand. He could relive the pain of the past another time, he mused to himself.

Soon, Veradun and the group would discover that the tunnels themselves were a maze, passageways leading in different directions and in the darkness, it only added to the growing sense of confusion. He was thankful then that their guide seemed to know a rough idea of what direction they needed to go, and he kept up with the group so as not to lose them in the darkness. As he moved onward, however, a thought - and a dark urge - began to slip through his mind. These people…they were nothing to him. Only their guide was important to him. In the dim lighting, he counted four in their group, a couple of women and men - and he weighed back and forth on how he should eliminate them in the quickest and cleanest fashion possible. He had his hidden blade, strapped to his right wrist - but that would be messy. He could use the Force, but that might give away his position to any Jedi that might be above and nearby.

It was a great risk, either way - but in the end, the boy chose to use his knowledge of the Force as his weapon of choice. He concentrated on the first one closest to him, and with a quick grip and twisting motion of his fist, the sound of bones cracking echoed through the darkness - and then came the thudding drop of the body. The others, startled, turned around to see the body - and the barely visible form of Veradun beyond. There was confusion, then panic, and the Apprentice launched into his murder spree - snapping the neck of another, before being forced to resort to the use of his hidden blade.

It was all over and done within moments, the guide being the only individual left alive - and Veradun gripped him and shoved him against the wall of the tunnel, the bloodied dagger pressed under the man’s jawline.

“P-please! Don’t hurt me!” the man begged, fear dripping from him like a fountain, and in the darkness Veradun smirked. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?! The ones ruining the Festival!”

Veradun didn’t respond to the accusation, setting the silence hang between them uncomfortably, until his captive finally asked a question worth answering.

“W-what do you want from me?”

“A way into the palace. And you will take me.” The Nagai said softly, his suggestion piercing through to the man’s mind. The man blinked rapidly, barely nodding so as not to cut himself on the blade’s edge that was pressed into his skin.

“I-I can take you! I know the way!”

“Good. Now…do you know where I can find the Seers?”

The man blinked again, his mind struggling against the pressure of Veradun’s will. “The S-Seers? I…I think they are doing a ritual in the Great Hall for the King!”

“Will this passageway you are guiding me through, take me in the direction of this Great Hall?”

The man’s eyes widened, and Veradun could feel his pulse quicken underneath the razor edge of the blade. He pressed another suggestion upon the man’s weak mind, in an attempt to ease him into further compliance. “Don’t worry. I’m not here for your King. I just want to find the Seers. If you can take me…then I will release you. You have my word.”

“I-I…I can take you. P-please...just don't hurt me!”

Veradun searched the man’s eyes and face for a moment, pleased to see that he had broken the man’s will enough that he felt confident that he would do as he was told. The Nagai stepped away and dragged the man with him, thrusting him out in front while keeping a hand firmly gripped on the back of the man’s tunic.

“Carry on then.” he said in the same soft voice as before, and the two continued further into the tunnels.

Eventually, the light of fire sconces could be seen ahead, and there was a collective sense of change in the general atmosphere. Above, rumbles continued - and occasionally dust and fragments of rock would rain down upon the heads of Veradun and his captive guide.

“We are really close now - I, I think we are by the storage chamb-”

As if on que, voices drifted in towards them from beyond, and Veradun pulled his captive to a swift halt. They were female voices, from what he could tell. His keen senses sharpened, and he listened intently so he could pinpoint their location.

Perhaps…perhaps they might be of some use, Veradun thought to himself. His pale eyes roved over a couple different passageways, before he looked at his guide.

“Does the storage lead to the palace?”

“Y-yes.”

“Which passageway?”

The man was quiet for a few moments, before he gestured to one of them. Veradun let him move forward towards the hall that glittered with faint light, but just before they could reach it, he brought his hand around the front of the man’s mouth to silence any noise he might make, and with a quick and violent twisting motion - broke the guide’s neck. He let the body drop to the ground, feeling nothing for taking his life, for his purpose had run its course.

Now…he had to put on a bit of a performance. Taking his blade, he turned it on himself, wincing as he delivered shallow but bleeding wounds to his hands and arms and even on his face, smearing the blood on his stolen Palace uniform, before he slipped the blade back into its hidden place, snug against his arm. Slipping through the passageway, he eventually came into a large chamber, filled with crates and shelves. In the low light, he could see two figures beyond, one of them searching the shelves for some object or item.

“Hello?! Is…is anyone there? Please…help me!” he called out, his voice laced with panic and the growing pain he felt from his wounds.

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Deep into the enemy lines!
| Objective | Engage, overwhelm, defeat

The daughter of water was almost disappointed. ​

​

For all of their talk of galactic domination, of primordial truth the rest of the Galaxy shied away form in fear, of power and darkness... ​

​

The Sith were such a boring, unimaginative lot.​

​

The first use of lightning against her had been as effective as it was horrific, leaving scars all along the right side of her face, her armor blackened by the intensity of her foe's hatred. A baleful power indeed, brought to bear during the Dark Empire's short-lived occupation of Onderon. The second had been during the Siege of Coruscant, when Jogon took her by surprise through his swift transition from brute force in melee combat to the use of those tendrils of hatred given form. On and on it went... and with time, that horrific power lost its impact, even for a being born of water like herself, so very vulnerable to it. ​

​

It was nothing more than a cheap trick. Something to be expected, in the same manner that those who survived more than a single engagement with Mandalorians grew to expect a panoply of vambrace-mounted weapons to disorient them - flamethrower, wrist rockets, the rare and deadly whistling birds... any one culture could be figured out, she supposed. Surely, the Sith would blather on about the effort required to wield such perverted lightning for their own.​

​

Fortunately, she cared precious little of what Sith thought, and even less so of what they chose to bring into words. They were only stepping stones - loathsome monsters to be killed by any means necessary, each and every one of them slain further adding to her legend.​

​

Where rain seemed to part from Malum, water all but embraced the Mandalorian, flowing along the piece of the ocean she carried all around her body, hallowed beskar'gam wrought by her own hands. Plate fit for a Duchess, an Alor; beautiful and regal, yet far from gaudy, for it evoked a natural beauty. Wherever one would go, they would be hard-pressed to find a world without water. The reach of the wet carried further than the sentient species of the Galaxy could ever know. ​

​

So too did Jenn's motions flow with prenatural grace, her fingers ghosting along towards her belt to draw the elegant hilt of her choice weapon. An elegant flick of her wrist saw the great length of her kad'yustapir describing a most stunning arc, all but absorbing the concentrated hate directed her way... and towards the dark figure who thought her so easily assailable.​

​

The tendrils she felt reaching out against her own mind, throughout the Force, were easy enough to push back, to sever. They sought to afflict those who fought for the Light? A good thing she held no such delusions. No, the Sorceress fought merely because Corazona von Ascania had earned her respect time and time again, and the time had come to repay that trust the only way she really knew how.​

​

This vainglorious fool thought to split his attention between the offensive and the battlefield itself? So be it. The time of cold fury was past; years upon years of emotional repression, of forcing herself to bottle it all in - all came undone before such a presumptuous course of action. The god she had long scorned would now find a most pleasing offering as she chained one deft blow of her kad'yustapir after another, the twin tendrils of water-like energy describing one graceful and destructive arc after another towards her target, coming in from one side, then the next, then another; such artistry, such elegance, belied the destructive potential of such a weapon.​

​

Breaking this one's focus would weaken the foe and strengthen her "allies", she supposed. ​

​

In truth, she cared only to do the bidding of Kad Ha'rangir, Mandalorian God of Destruction. To let all of her blasphemy against his name wash away as she abandoned herself to his most renowned and feared of faces.​

​

To let the wrath of the Beast-of-War into her heart, and let it burn.​

​

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

 

[Darth Nefaron]

Allies: Marcel von Ascania | Serina Calis | Veradun Sharr | Darth Malum of House Marr | Rebel Forces
Enemies: Corazona von Ascania | Eurydice | Loyalist Forces


"Darth Nefaron... begin the attack, we have granted them enough reprieve."

The Corpse Lord scoffed, the whispers of a false Lord now holding Nefaron's leash. All this death, all this glorious suffering had been Nefaron's doing; he would not allow the foolish Master of the Tsis'Kaar to dictate the course of battle. But Nefaron agreed, the time had come to press the attack and push toward the capital. While the royal army had the numbers, they could not stand before the dark might of the Sith brought to bear.

While the rebel army threw themselves into battle, Nefaron kept to the rear of the army and observed the battle from a holotable. At his side were a dozen cloaked beings who said nothing, standing as if mere statues. The time had come to unleash his weapons, to bring forth the terrible creations of Sith science to reap death on the battlefield. Marcel must make it to the royal palace, and Nefaron would be at his side. Turning to the unnerved liaison between the rebellious royal houses, Nefaron gave but a single order.

"Press your attack. Send all reserves forward, the Capital must fall for our victory to be complete."

"It isn't that simple—" the lesser noble held his tongue under the gaze of the Corpse Lord. "My

lord, we face greater numbers. It will take time."

"Then I shall once more grant our future King a boon."

Nefaron turned, and the creatures he had carefully held back from the initial melee now revealed themselves

They were horrid. Flesh and Machine made one.

"I grant you my Flesh Reavers. What they lack in intellect, they more than make up for in their ferocity and brutality. They will surely turn the tide in our favor."

Though utterly horrified by the beasts that now towered over him, the noble managed to muster what little courage he had.

"O-of course, my lord. I am certain the King will be most grateful. I shall send our reserves into battle."

"Good. Oh, and fetch me one of those creatures you take as mounts. There are matters I must attend to."

"Of course, Lord Nefaron."

The noble left the Corpse Lord's side, eager to be away from the monstrous Sith Lord. Nefaron was to make for the Capital, he intended to direct the final stage of his triumph personally. Soon, he would turn one of the greatest Jedi to his side. Her fall to the Dark Side would be his masterpiece, and she would serve as a herald for the coming tide of darkness that would soon drown the Core in terror.

The Flesh Reavers, at last free to chase the scent of blood, began their mad dash for the front. They desired little more than battle, and nothing less than the blood of thousands would satisfy their endless hunger for suffering and death.

Much like their creator. Nefaron could not help but be proud.

"Onto the Capital, my King. Your throne awaits."

Nefaron offered a whisper of his own, the Dark Side carrying it to his puppet. Marcel von Ascania had served him well, his mind forever clouded by the visions of the Corpse Lord. But he had yet to fulfill his greatest purpose.

"Let none stand before you. No quarter. No prisoners."
​

 

[Jonyna Si]

TAG: Lirka Ka

"Who said I'm not smiling? Though perhaps I'd smile more if your lot did magic tricks less, and fought more. But I am no Sith, not yet. Though I'm certainly flattered I gave the impression."

"Why don't you smile a little harder so I can knock your teeth out?" She shot back as she felt the tug of her opponent. Rather than fight it, Jonyna rushed forward, and once more drew a pistol from her coat with her tail. This one however, was much more personal. The Kyber-Powered machine pistol that fired bolts equivalent to that of a lightsaber, in a spray of near a hundred in less than a second. Then came next next move. Dropping a hand from her blade, and drawing her lightsaber, igniting it to slice through the whip, and blast herself away in a directed stream of white hot flame right at Lirka's face. "You're all the same. Just a bunch of space cadets who needed to be hugged more as kids. All you care about is proving you're the big bully in the sandbox, and that everyone should respect you."

"Do you think it'll matter, Jedi? All this death. All these souls sent back to the embrace of Primordial Dark. The blood that will stain the mud red, the blood of brother against brother, the battle of kin fighting for their meaningless little rock like it actually means something. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

That got a snarl out of her, as she suddenly changed direction mid-air, rocketing back to her starting position in all of this. She spun as she did, and sliced at the air, letting loose another bolt of Force Light infused lightning, followed by a flying slash of holy flame.

She could feel it. Somewhere out there, Malum was trying to suppress them. Stifle the light.

Sheathing Liz, she draw her other sword, The White Blade, and suddenly her body felt envigored. The blade shined across the battlefield, empowering those around her. She watched as a cavalryman gored a sith with his lance, before she answered. Lirka could hear her from every direction, as if the wind itself was speaking Jonyna's words for her.

"I think it's pathetic. All of you, rampaging a world just because they don't think you're cool enough. Just because they don't bow to your whims. I certainly don't respect you. I think what you need is a little sand in your eyes, and a broken nose. And I'm happy to give that to you. And if you don't think so? Come and get me, Hellion. Haven't been able to hit me so far."

 

[Shan]

Tag: Shan's attempting to go Battle Meditation against Malum's Battle Meditation! Up to y'all if you want to be influenced - Jenn Kryze Lirka Ka Razh Sho Serina Calis Makko Vyres Reina Daival Dominick von Ascania Cin Nodak Marcel von Ascania Aris Noble and anyone else on the war fields! Sorry if I forgot you!

Shan was focused on dealing with one of his patients, making sure to tighten off the bandage, before preparing to move off. They had at least some bacta for the more grevious wounds, but it was going to need to be used for select patients. Those who were too far wounded would be a waste, which was a thought that brought a pain to Shan's heart. There were also people who's injuries wouldn't be severe enough and they'd be able to heal more naturally. Of course, he could use the Bacta to make sure they had more soldiers back on the field, but once again in his eyes that would be a waste of resources. He was snapped out of his thoughts however at the voice of Mykel Dawson

"Hm? Of course Padawan Dawson."

With that, Shan described the missing Padawan as well as he could. Of course what neither of them knew was that the Padawan had been killed and had their identity stolen by Kaila Irons a short while ago to make her infiltration into the city. The idea of letting more Padawans adventure out onto the field went against his better judgement. It wasn't as if they had a choice at the end of the day, and so he prepared to just bite the bullet and let those worries fade into nothingness...At least that had been his plan.

Yet like in the blink of an eye, Shan felt the the tendrils of the darkness snaking their way into his thoughts. Into his heart. Trying to make succumb to the fear of failure, the fear of Ukatis burning. His fingers curled and clenched into fists as the Mirialan focused, steeling his mind. It was strange how much of his time as a Padawan was coming important in this moment. The connection he had built with Cora that convinced him to stay behind to heal, the mental defenses and training that Valery had given him, to let him steel his mind against this sensation that was so very familiar to him, and now it was time for him to resort to being the Jedi Consular he had trained to be.

"Nurses, you're going to need to take over for now. My focus is needed elsewhere."

He couldn't wait for someone to relieve him of his healing duties. No. This was far more urgent. Shan was no stranger to Battle Meditation, it was one of the best ways he could support those he cared for. It was rare for him to be on the other side of it, but he was going to push back against it. Finding a small spot in the field hospital for him to claim as his own, as the Mirialan sat himself down in the mud, folding one leg below the other and clearing his mind. Focusing on the eb and flow of the Force as it flowed through the field, through the air and through the people themselves. Running his thumb over the gift from Everest Vale gently, letting himself relax. Shan intended to stay as fluid as he could be in both his mental strength and through his connection of the Force.

Once he was ready, Shan closed his eyes and felt through the Force. The mental landscape of the Force forming in his mind as a ferocious storm battling against itself. Huge volcanic islands battling against similarly sized snow-capped peaks. Smog and soot falling down from above as a specific Volcano ( Darth Malum of House Marr ) erupted, spewing darkness and despair into the water that was the Force, polluting the very thing that connected everyone together. It was a strong Force to go against, one that Shan was unsure he could fully face, but there was no hesitation for this. Either he succeeded or he succumbed. There was no other choice. This would not be like Hapes. Not again. Where he needed Kahlil to inspire him, to connect him to his fellow Jedi. This time Shan would connect to them himself. He was both alone but connected.

And so he pushed back against the Darkness. Focusing on the familiar connections he had first, as golden strands whipped through the air. Burying themselves in the familiar Force signatures of the people Shan cared for on the field. Corazona von Ascania , Jalen Kai'el , Jonyna Si to name a few. They were the Light. Slowly but surely, the Light amongst the golden strands started to drip into the corruption, the darkness that clouded the Force, and the golden ichor started to spread. To cure the darkness and fear that was trying to settle amongst his allies and invigorate them with the Hope that they could win, the Light that warmed their backs. Shan was reminding them that they weren't alone in this fight.

 

[Kaila Irons]

FALSE JEDI

Objective: Investigate Darth Nefaron's activities

Secondary Objective: Impersonate Jedi
Wearing: Akwursa + Disguise
Allies: Tamsin Graves Allyson Locke (comms)
Frenemies(?): Azurine Varek Everest Vale Drystan Creed

Kaila weaved through the crowd, hiding in plain sight.

Her hazel eyes were shifty at first, searching for hidden knives and jedi robes like those she wore. In time however, she found herself looking back to the stage more and more. Her features softened, the dancing was... beautiful.

It reminded the disguised sith of her own Ataru practice when she was an acolyte. Not many knew but it contributed a great deal to the strength she was now known for, and something about the graceful, quick movement had always been paradoxically calming. It gave the body something to focus on, a way to quiet her discordant thoughts.

Watching wasn't the same, but for now it served similar purpose.

In time she found herself clapping for Azurine Varek 's performance, telling herself it aided her disguise. It wasn't long however before the bell tower struck three, that infernal ringing which drowned out all cheer and merriment. Then came the screams... Fire, brick, death. That was a familiar sound to the former soldier.

So too was the snap-hiss of a Sith lightsaber...

Kaila didn't need to see it coming. So many of Darth Carnifex 's apprentices, her fellow students, had tried to kill her in such a way that it had become second nature, like an abused animal who knew when to flinch, when to duck and weave.

Her spinning step aside cost the life of an innocent bystander, cleaved in two by a crimson blade.

By the time her would be assassin knew that he'd missed, Kaila's violet saber had already sprung to life, separating the man's head from his shoulders. She stood over the collapsing body, lips twisted with nothing but contempt as she opened her palm, summoning his now inert lightsaber to her hand.

She turned it over once or twice before tucking it into her robes. Evidence, a fine addition to her collection, or both perhaps.

"Nefaron's sith are attacking the festival," she whispered into her gauntlet-commlink to Allyson Locke .

"Blew up the bloody bell tower, doesn't make any sense for an assassination. Probably a diversion."

Her professional demeanor was broken then as she peered over her shoulder, realizing that she couldn't see Tamsin Graves yet. She could feel her sister nearby, but was she alright?

Gods, what about Quinn Varanin and Kirie ?

"For my last trick…"

A pause—enough to let the moment crackle.

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

Damnit, she thought, they're looking right at me!

Kaila looked up at the performers too, realizing that she'd walked right into the gundark's nest.

"You are jedi then?"

​

 

[Lirka Ka]

Oh Lirka most certainly smiled, wide and malicious beneath that mask. Her taunting words humming out of the helm’s vocal distorter

“Please. They’ll grow back.”

​

Always one to jest about the unknowable oddness of her stature as a “Once Sephi”. Not like she wouldn’t accept the bloodshed. Let her slam some poor sod’s teeth into her jaw to replace whatever Jonyna Si decided to take from her yapping gob.

Yet, it was not her teeth that felt the Jedi’s wrath. Lirka was a weaponsmith, an admittedly crude one that dabbled in the likes of electro-flails, seismic hammers, and singing vibroblades. The Kyber pistol was a proper surprise, and a painful reminder to further her studies. The thing unleashed its hail, and the familiar twang of kyber against beskar sailed through the air. That plundered metal of Lirka’s form that wept with the deaths of billions upon billions all those years ago upon Moridinae. Yet, Lirka was no Mandalorian - her suit was not formed from that most sacred of materials. Soon the relentless hail would find purchase, searing through wretched unnatural flesh. Like a poison the small of burning chemicals shot to the air, and from Lirka’s wounds seeped a horrible, viscous, blackness that must have been the monster’s blood - or the closest thing that counted as it.

Pain consumed her being, but it was not unwelcome thing. Let her failures today be a catalyst for evolution. She felt the saber slice through the coils of the whip - it was far from the songsteel of her blade: a tool of torment more than war.

Flame seared against Lirka’s helm as her lenses shuddered briefly to protect her eyes. The distance between them grown once more. Lirka’s agony did not come through her words, only her mocking scorn.

“How…aggressively child-like. My father loved me very dearly before I cut that old traitorous fool’s head from his neck. You do not know Lirka Ka. Whose respect do I need, Jedi? These…meager little rebels that stand upon Ukatis?”

The hail of blows continued - Lirka raised her still overloaded blade in defense but it was far from a useful thing. Lightning crackled against its gleaming visage and fire licked both it and Lirka’s black plate.

The meditations of the battlefield merely tickled at the back of Lirka’s void. The force dead brute stood alone, unburdened by the machinations of dark lords. Her power was her own, fiercely selfish. And evidently not up to snuff considering how thoroughly outclassed she was. And so, did Lirka Ka let out a bemused cackle in the wake of light and words upon the wind.

Arrogance.

“Is that why I rampage, kitty-cat? My, I hadn’t even realized! I do not care for Ukatis. It’s war. It’s people. I do not demand their subservience, nor their respect. But I will be what tests them - I shall join the legions of those that will inflict suffering unknowable upon this world. And they will weep, the weak will crumble, they will die. All that will remain is the strong, those worthy to survive under the purview of Primordial Dark. So break me, Jedi! Make me suffer! For suffering begets the transience of strength!”

And with that, she charged. Arms wide in savage tackle - her blade overloaded and whip broken, Lirka decided to do the one thing she knew she most certainly could do - brawl.

 

[Sinya Tarkona]

Oops, wrong account

 

[Phoebe Winsloe]

Tags: Aris Noble Lyssa Clauda

Phoebe stayed back, perched on a speeder bike and surveyed the masses in front of her, a Jedi, even a Padawan like her, would be overkill for infantry armed with swords and bows. But she was keeping watch for acolytes of the dark side, she wouldn't be able to take on a full Sith, that was practically a death sentence, but they seemed to surround themselves with other dark side users like Grandmaster Noble did with Padawans and Phoebe felt confident in her skills to take them on.

She'd never been in a real battle before and Phoebe had a little twinge of excitement, which was probably adrenaline, telling her to rush in and break a few lances along side some of the local cavalry. Phoebe reached out with the force to calm herself, tempering the emotions that would draw her away from the mission. Then she saw what she was looking for, a lightsaber pike's blade in the hands of a rebel.

Stepping into action Phoebe gunned the engine of her speeder and put enough power to the repulserlifts to skip above the heads of friendly lines. Approaching the rebel lines she put the bike at its usual hovering hight and brandished her saberstaff, only igniting one blade, the soilders could choose to dive out of the way to or be cut down. She targeted the dark side user, unsure if they were sith or not, with a single minded determination aiming to catch them at about the same time they reached the other Jedi Phoebe could see on the field.

 

[Ellissanthia]

Location: Farms Outside Axilla - Ukatis
Objective: BYOO
Mission Objective: Agricultural Sabotage

• Primary: Raze the granary complexes.
• Secondary: Destroy farming equipment and vehicles.

Tag: Valery Noble

Ellissanthia’s features contorted in a fleeting mask of discomfort, then hardened with resolve. The initial moment of incandescence gave way, the distress of the farmers grounding her awareness so that she could reset her focus on her physical surroundings. The Undine then looked more closely at the figure standing before her; the telltale snap-hiss of her weapon revealed that she was a warrior.

A Jedi.

She took in their stature, her eyes telling her more than what she was capable of elucidating through the Force alone.

Not just any Jedi.

“A battle is on,” Ellissanthia replied, her voice a low, predatory purr. “And yet, here stands the Grandmaster of the New Jedi Order, in the flesh, defending farmers.” She breathed, her tone manifesting equal parts aggression and wide-eyed awe.

And perhaps, fear.

Which could only be harnessed one way.

Letting loose a high-pitched, earsplitting shriek, Ellissanthia’s left arm snapped towards Valery, palm raised outward, towards her chest. In the same fleeting instant, a burst of supersonic overpressure surged from her in a blanketing wave, tearing through the air with a sharp crack. Embers, dust, raindrops, and tiny particulate matter came rushing outward, collected in the shockwave. Cast from just six meters away, the power was a simple Force Push. And yet, the wave of raw kinetic force carried enough energy to shatter stone and smash durasteel, manifesting a massive pressure differential that forged the air itself into a hammer.

A hammer, leveled towards the Jedi Battlemaster.

Spoiler: Loadout

• Eclipsed Veil
  
  • Miscellaneous Equipment
    
    • FAE/U-01 "Serenity" Anti-Signal Field System
  • Aesthetic and Accouterments
    
    • Red Accents
    • Eclipse Sect Symbol - Left Shoulder
  • Energy Shield
    
    • Phase III “Force Avenger” Energy Shield
• Storm Kiss
  
  • Purple Blade
• Supernal Infusion Vials
• SHIVA Vials
• Spirit Anchor Talisman
• Iadrium Charge (8)
• Siqsa-S1 Semiautonomous Seeker Obscuration Canister (2)

 

[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



She had dreamt of this moment.

Not in sleep, no—sleep was the indulgence of the content, the soft womb of the weak. Serina Calis dreamed in waking thought, in cold calculation, in obsessive blueprints of blood and empire drawn behind her eyes like constellations shaped by tyrants. And in every variation, in every diverging vision of how her legacy might unfold, there was always one constant: the black dragon.

And now… she rode it.

The wind screamed past her as the beast thundered into the sky, higher and higher, until the battlefield below became a chessboard of scuttling pieces—soldiers, fools, kings, Jedi, pretenders. Their banners blurred. Their names blurred. Only she was clear. Only she mattered. The rest were lessons waiting to be taught.

Beneath her, the dragon's body heaved and surged with power—not just the physical kind, but the spiritual, the metaphysical, the sacred wrongness of a being born not of nature, but of will. A thing forged in agony, then chained in ritual, then awakened only to become hers. Scarred wings stretched like vast curtains of shadow. Fire simmered in its gut. And though the creature did not roar, she felt its power in her bones, like a hymn carved into marrow.

She leaned forward, her gloved hand gripping the collar where runes throbbed in defiance of the rain. Her golden hair streamed behind her like a comet, catching firelight from distant destruction below. The air up here was pure—uncluttered by politics, diplomacy, or the pretense of mercy.

And in that purity, Serina reflected.

Violence, she had come to learn, was not simply a tool. It was not an outcome, nor even a necessity. It was a language. The truest one. Spoken fluently only by those who understood that it could express not only anger or revenge, but intent. Purpose. Design.

She did not crave carnage for its own sake. Let the beasts do that. Let the brutes wallow in their appetites. Serina wielded violence like a sculptor's chisel, stripping away weakness from civilization one strike at a time. The war below was not chaos—it was cleansing. A controlled burn to clear the rot. Her rot. Her plague. Her cure.

Control. That was her doctrine. Not peace, not justice, not the gluttonous fantasies of Jedi who still believed in innocence. Control. The art of shaping others to your will, of making them choose what they never would have considered before. Her corruption was not mere temptation. It was revelation.

To dominate someone physically was simplistic. But to make them want to serve you? That was godhood. And now, as she rode this wounded godling—the black dragon of her House crest, once metaphor, now flesh—she felt the shape of godhood wrap around her like a throne in the clouds.

For House Calis, this was vindication. Their heraldic beast had returned to the world not as a symbol, but as a storm. For her enemies, it was an omen, an executioner's silhouette on the sky. For Serina… it was the beginning. This was not the apex of her power. It was merely the coronation.

She did not care for Darth Nefaron's empire of rot, nor Sith theatrics, nor the saber-swinging ideals of the Jedi below. Let them war. Let them burn each other down to ash and soot. The survivors would crawl. They always did. And she would be waiting, black-winged and serene, to mold the next generation from their melted bones.

This was not chaos.

It was order, imposed through terror, elegance, and control.

A new kind of order.

Her order.

And the people of Ukatis—those farmers, those peasants, those faithless animals—would look to the sky and see. See her not as a queen, not even as a tyrant, but as something higher. Something primal. Something divine.

The dragon banked slightly, circling now over the battle. The clouds roiled around them. The air below turned to steam. A million eyes would soon turn upward.

Her heartbeat slowed.

Everything else quickened.

She opened her mouth.

And whispered a single word.

"…Now."

The dragon unfurled.

Like a banner of judgment unfurled over a crumbling world, its vast wings tore open the sky, eclipsing the sun in one titanic beat. Rain burned away in curtains of steam as lightning cracked behind it—not above, but behind, as though the storm itself had become its herald. Black scales, scarred and molten at the edges, shimmered with violent light. The heavens howled as the silhouette of Serina Calis—Governor of Polis Massa, Heir to House Calis, Corruptor of the Light, Mistress of the Dark, Heir of Malak, Widowmaker of Saijo—rose framed in fire and fury, her form haloed in smoke, flame, and the dying breath of gods.

She was astride something more than a beast. She was astride symbolism incarnate. Not merely riding the dragon of her House crest, but becoming it. There was no difference now between bloodline and fire, between ambition and sky. She was the dragon. All else—crown, creed, or code—lay beneath her.

Then it came.

Like oil on clean water.

The push.

From below.

Twin serpents slithered into her mind from opposite ends of the battlefield—one sickly sweet, the other stiff with withered pride. Battle meditation. One bore the shape of Jedi serenity, a golden tether of hope and breathless compassion. The other, black and aching, wore the stink of legacy and rot—Darth Malum. Both reached for her. Both dared to touch her mind.

She smiled.

A terrible, holy smile.

The Jedi's presence was first—so earnest, so gentle, as though it thought her wounds could be soothed by sunlight and shared grief. It was not a weapon, but a plea. Pathetic. She crushed it like a child's toy beneath her boot, and the golden tendril recoiled from her with a silent scream.

And then his voice.

Malum. That corpse-puppet. That decadent heir who clung to the shadows of better men and called it heritage. His presence tried to root in her bones, to demand allegiance, to draw her beneath his grand meditations and rituals of failure.

She burned.

She knew Malum would selectively try to block it out.

That's what he always did.

That's why Saijo fell to fire and fury.

That's why he was now where he was.

Because you ignore Serina Calis at your own peril.

She stood, one foot on the dragon's back, hair whipped around her like writhing flame, her body outlined by the infernal corona of lightning behind her—and she screamed.

A voice amplified by the Force. Twisted, sharpened, weaponized. It echoed across valleys, plains, minds, and souls.

"I AM NOT YOUR SERVANT, MALUM.

I AM NOT A DAGGER IN YOUR CRACKED, BLOODLESS HAND.

I AM NOT THE CHILD OF YOUR DOGMA, NOR THE HEIR TO YOUR FAILURE.

YOU RULE IN TEARS. I RULE IN FIRE.

YOU SPEAK OF LEGACY—AND I WEEP FOR WHAT HOUSE MARR HAS BECOME. A WRETCHED LINE OF PALLBEARERS DRESSED IN THE EMPIRE'S SKIN.

YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME. YOU NEVER DID. YOU NEVER WILL.

I AM SERINA CALIS. GOVERNOR OF POLIS MASSA, HEIR TO HOUSE CALIS, CORRUPTOR OF THE LIGHT, MISTRESS OF THE DARK, HEIR OF MALAK, WIDOWMAKER OF SAIJO.

AND I REJECT YOU. NOW. AND ALWAYS."

The Force itself shuddered.

Below, on the western flank, Loyalist soldiers who had heard her words—who had felt them—trembled. Some fell to their knees. Others dropped weapons. And then came the fire.

The dragon roared.

No—he screamed. For the first time since birth. No longer muzzled by iron. No longer silenced by ritual. A true roar, one born not of rage or pain, but of freedom. His voice tore through the clouds and cracked the air as his body twisted with vengeful grace, wings folding back as he dived.

Flame followed.

A tidal wave of iridescent fire vomited from his gullet, scalding the very rain from the sky. It struck the Loyalist line in a perfect, scything arc—an execution writ in light. Serina guided him not with reins, but intent. A whispered will. A phantom hand.

And as the fire rolled forward, she joined it.

Her hands crackled with energy—not the cold blue of Jedi precision, but raw, hungering lightning, born from unchained fury and apocalyptic certainty. She cast her arms forward, and the twin bolts arced from her fingers like fangs, dancing through the maelstrom of dragonfire and striking those who had survived its edge.

Their armor burst like overcooked meat. Their weapons shattered. Their souls screamed into the storm.

She laughed.

High, regal, triumphant.

The dragon pulled up, soaring into a wide arc, the fires below marking a line—a grave, a boundary, a sentence. No one who crossed it would survive. No one but her.

And the dragon flew now of his own will. No longer commanded.

He chose the sky. And in doing so, he chose her.

Serina Calis stood astride that truth, framed in shadow and lightning, as the battlefield cowered below. Her legacy—her truth—had taken flight.

Let the Jedi meditate.

Let Malum rot.

The world belonged to those who could set it aflame and fly above the ashes.

Spoiler

Darth Malum of House Marr , Shan

 

[Razh Sho]

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

The butt of the mace came crashing down like the hand of a vengeful god. Razh pivoted late — too late to evade it entirely. It clipped his left shoulder as he angled away, and even that glancing blow felt like being struck by a meteor. His left side numbed instantly, the muscles shocked into silence by the kinetic violence. Pain didn't register — not yet. Just force.

His boots skidded. His blade flickered in his hand but did not fall.

And then — he felt it.

A wave.

No — a pressure. An intoxicating current of triumph that was not his, rushing through the air like wildfire beneath the skin. It did not belong to Nodak — not truly. It had been given to him, as one grants fuel to fire.

Sith.

Even before the colossus spoke, Razh felt the distortion in the current. A hand reaching into the river of minds, stoking fear, sharpening violence, painting purpose in darker shades.

Battle Meditation.

Razh had known the technique. He had once seen a battlefield split by a single mind's will, as if destiny itself had taken a side. And now — Nodak stood taller. Moved faster. That weariness Razh had been coaxing out of him like poison from a wound… was gone.

The monster laughed.

"Are you sure, Jedi?"

The words rumbled like thunder.

But even before Nodak could rise to full height, Razh exhaled. A breath. Deep. Controlled. He closed his eyes — just for a heartbeat. And through the shadowed sky and scorched earth, he felt the answer. Like a candle untouched by wind, Shan 's presence steadied the light. It did not roar. It did not burn. It simply endured — and it reminded him of the reason he still stood. He opened his eyes. Rain slid down his lekku. His ribs ached. His shoulder throbbed. But his grip remained firm. His blade remained alight.

"I don't need to be sure, Nodak," Razh rasped. He stepped forward again — not fleeing. Not flinching. "I need only stand. Every moment I do, someone else lives." He paused, "That is the difference between us."

He circled again — not for advantage, but for time. For lives. For the medics working behind the barricades. For the frightened defenders still organizing their lines.

For the breath of peace this stand bought them.

"And no power you borrow from your master," he said, raising his blade again into Makashi's center-line guard, "will make you fast enough to stop that."

Razh Sho waited. He would hold the line. Until the last breath, or until Nodak yielded — or until enough of the galaxy had been spared the storm this monster promised.

 

[Lord Meverell]

Eurydice​

Though she was clearly agitated, Lady Luciana managed to answer his questions. Meverell's face remained impassive as she relayed the terrible news of her husband's betrayal and the uprising orchestrated by shadowy "Dark Lords", his expression giving away nothing. Inside his emotions were a tangled knot, but he had trained himself to always look as if he knew what he was doing. To be caught unawares was one thing, but if your enemies... or your allies... sensed how unprepared you were, it would do you no good.

He listened carefully to the names she listed as co-conspirators. Godfrey, Clervaux, Eldridge... They were the usual suspects, greedy and power-hungry lords who had caused His Majesty no end of trouble as they constantly grasped for more. He expected them to take part in something like this. There was some small comfort in that, at least.

An explosion startled him, the sound closer than anticipated, followed by a terrible banging like that of a brass gong falling down a rocky hill. The bell tower had been destroyed, provoking screams from frightened onlookers. The invasion—he would not grant a coup orchestrated by a malevolent foreign power the dignity of calling it a rebellion—had reached their doorstep.

"Come, Lady Luciana, we must get you to safety." With one look, he convinced the formerly uncooperative guards to open the gate and let her through. Once she was within the reinforced walls of the Palace, he stepped closer to her, his voice lowering so that only she could hear what he said.

"Listen to me very carefully. If you want to keep your head, you must denounce your husband and give me all the names of the lords who have participated in this uprising. Leave none of them out, not even if they be your own sons." The look in his green eyes was gravely serious. "Otherwise I cannot protect you from His Majesty's wrath. He will keep you alive so long as you may serve as leverage against the Viscount, but you must account for when the dust has settled." In other words, if King Horace emerged victorious, she would not want to be known as the wife of his enemy, but as a loyal subject of the crown.