Faction The Tempest | A Operation Cinder Story

[Ellayina L'lerim]

Information

Minister of Intelligence, Director of SHADES​

"Galactic Common" | <"High Nelvaanian"> | ["Essonian"] | ~ telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

Objective: Doing her job
Location: Council Tower, Ord Cantrell
Equipment: White uniform | Viper Mk. I Skinsuit || Empyrean gland || OPBC-01m
Tags: Aggadeen Myi | DT-1966 | DT-7747 | Kroeger | Open

This was a city where Ella could easily find anything with her eyes closed. Although she was impressed by how much she had managed to rebuild in a fairly short space of time. This was the place where they had lived nearly two months of hell because they had been trapped and hunted. This was the place where she learned to trust one person besides her family, Kazian Blackwood . She was forced to, because alone they would have both died, it took two to survive. But that was all in the past now, and she still didn't know where the other agent was. It was as if the earth had swallowed the man.

But back to the present, she was not one of those who were afraid to get their hands dirty. No, the look in her eyes was perfectly in keeping with her bloodline, so that she felt in her element when she could be on the front line. Literally, or figuratively in terms of the front line. Ella had once been an interrogation and torture officer, and to this day she enjoyed that part of her job as well. Now that the Empire was beginning to consolidate again, she was moving to a higher plane than she had been in the Dark Empire. There she was "only" the Director of the ISB, but now she had moved up a notch from there. This was also due to the fact that she remained loyal all along and learned and developed under the wings of Shannic Wulf .

The last time she was on this planet she was a division officer, now she is the Minister of Intelligence. She was now the second in her family in three generations to become the head of an Empire's entire intelligence service. It was another matter that her close relatives and siblings did not appreciate it, especially since those two were Ashlan believers and played the saint while Ella played the devil. At least in their eyes. But it didn't matter, her career was more important to her, as no one in the extended family circle cared which realm she was loyal to, as long as she was loyal to House L'lerim. But now it didn't matter so much.

She, like her men and the Stormtroopers, took advantage of the riots and chaos to get into the building. Now she finally had the right people with her who really needed to be here. And the earlier data led me here about Jordi Massad . She hoped to find more details about this mystery agent here. Her agents and men were doing their own thing, so if nothing was stopping her, she might be able to move forward with Massad's case. For some reason, the traitors were connected to the man and were in contact with him. Several of them, even some who were not even connected, only Massad was the common link. It was time to put an end to the case.

So she headed to the central control room in the building, where she hoped to access the databases. The only question was whether they could work calmly in the tower or whether there would be resistance.

Open to any interactions even with the Stormtroopers, once we're in one place.​

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Sasmay Cull Remus Adair

THE TEMPEST

THE ZEALOT - PART 3​

Sage's Hill, Sage Park Peninsula,
Southern Seaboard, Ord Cantrell (902 ABY)

'Heh! If Reaper Actual really is from the Vice-Admiral's flotilla.... Then I really should expect no less than wonder.'
​

With the next wave of storms still brewing at sea, with the rain still lapping at the enclosed back of the landing-ship foothold, the Keshig-Chiefs looked over to the city, having borne witness to the explosive displays on the not-so-distant horizon. They remembered what was seen in the latter moments of the most-recent orbital drop experience, recalling quite well as to where the air-defence batteries had been placed at the time, or at least, those of which they could see - the closest and only culprits of the quickened, near-lethal landing trajectories.

​

'Not us, not good, but - better than nothing, no?'
'We can't do much about that though, can we?'
'True, wanted crush skulls, but crush wait. Not bad thing, just not me.'

​

'You might want to come see this, Ulusar!', Gorm exclaimed outside, standing in full-gear with the other warriors of the Rogues' Brigade, standing in the rain with an anticipation that was beginning to overshadow that of all the Keshigs around him. Both Rook and the Mastiff would make their way out all the quicker, having heard him well enough to note there was something more in the usual boom of Slicer's parade-ground voice, with eyes resting firmly on the Errant-Chief as he inquired,'What are your orders, Ulusar?', there would be no mistaking the Mirialan's eagerness to prove his worth to the others.

And yet, despite the clear eagerness to fight, the Mirialan would first use initiative to prompt the attention of the Arkanian and his Mantellian friend - diverting the eyes to see what was headed their way instead.

But what they saw when Slicer's gaze cursorily pointed out to sea would surprise them the most, even turning to each other with gleaming hope in their eyes before finally turning back to Gorm, and only then did the Zealot relent enough to respond,'Good catch, Slicer.... Ya see that? The real dark bit in the middle? That, right there, is the cover we need to make our assault on Council Tower. Now, watch this.', only to start cackling as he made to climb atop a waist-high chunk of fallen dropship debris. Already gathering Keshigs from around his near-proximity by presence alone, the sound of Rook's voice would bring all the more to approach him, but when the Zealot had climbed high enough for all to see his face, everyone gathered, surrounding their Darkhan just to hear what he had to say.

​

'Brothers and sisters, Keshigs all! Follow my gaze to the sea, look to the storm that yearns to embrace us, gaze upon the darkest heart of the tempest - and know that Nature protects us, here, on Ord Cantrell's surface!'

Even without the approaching clouds considered, even without the audible thunderclaps factored into the presence of an approaching tempest, the mere change in the air itself could have indicated the impending torrential mayhem, and all the Keshigs knew it. Consequently changing all attitudes towards matters like the rain, their drenched heads, and all-things apprehension toward the conditions they would face in the assault on Council Tower; and it was on this change (along with the morale-shift he could see in their eyes) that the Zealot had been waiting since they landed, seeing his opportunity to amplify that surging willpower, his chance to light a beacon of hope for all who survived the landings.

'The storm is the shadow that shields us, the veil that obscures our approach.... Fear not the storm, my brothers and sisters! The storm - and the shroud she wields - will bring vitality to brave Keshigs! That storm.... IS LIIIIIIIFE!!!!'

 

[Kyric]

Kyric raised his arms across his chest and ate the kick with the help of his armored forearms. The vambrace situated on each arm absorbed the brunt of the force to the limbs, but did very little to stop the momentum of the blow. He slid back a half dozen paces before he managed to arrest his movement and activate the porcelain blade of his borrowed lightsaber.

Old Silic's saber burned white with the faintest tinge of blue bleeding through the energy blade.

"I'm afraid no one sent me, ma'am," Kyric lifted his blade aloft in the traditional opening stance of Form IV. "Yer Dark Lord's machinations haven't quite reached the rest o' the galaxy. You could say it's somethin' of a personal responsibility that landed me here."

Sahar's taunting tore the memory of that day from the deeper confines of his mind. Again the kiffar was forced to relive the oncoming crimson blade in perfect clarity. The iron tang of blood filled the air as scarlet splattered against his boots. Creuat's malign grin drifted about Kyric's darkening vision.

Fear blossomed within the Jedi Knight's chest. He shook his head and met the fallen Knight's corrupted gaze.

The word's of another battled for supremacy within Kyric's mind.

"That’s what “bravery” is… not the absence of fear, but doing what you need to do without it."

Creuat's mental influence on Coruscant decided the battle well before he claimed Kyric's eye. He wouldn't allow her intent to so easily worm its way into his mind. He took a deep breath to ward away not only his fear, but the lingering darkness gathered about him.

"I only screamed a little bit," Kyric said with a smile. The Jedi surged forward and drove the blade downward in a practiced-feint, then pulled back and struck out in a wide horizontal sweep with every intention to sheer the woman's head from her shoulders.

---

Tags: Sahar
Honorable Mentions: Lord Creuat | Caltin Vanagor

 

[Meliant]

Objective: Cast Traitors + Ship into The Fire

Sahar offered him a disdainful look and then took off running like an insane person. Which, he supposed, she was. And that was fine. It takes all kinds, doesn't it?​

​

"We cast the traitors into the fire," Tyro said, voice cold and measured. "The ship follows."​

​

Meliant nodded slowly. "Very well. I'll see to it."​

​

But he hesitated. They both did. A ripple in the Force… Someone of strength was elsewhere on this ship. An Imperial Knight, perhaps, although Meliant had assumed all those cretins had died out - whether literally or, as in Sahar's case, spiritually.​

​

Meliant observed Tyro's clenching fist for a moment, only to stalk off without further comment. How very strange. Was this someone known to the rest of the Dark Side Elite? What a tantalizing prospect.​

​

In any case, Meliant entered the deeper corridors of the star destroyer and set about carving his way through the navy troopers and marines sent to greet him. He would catch up in due time.​

Tyro Lok Sahar @DSE Kyric​

 

[Da'Razel]

He clenched the talisman in his clawed, red-tainted hands, a crimson heirloom.

A towering scarlet-hooded figure stood motionless before the wide, transparent capsule of the observation deck.

Before Da'Razel, a world burned.

Steel giants anchored in orbit fired an endless stream of flickering vermilion plasma beams into the atmosphere beneath. The blimp-like satellites stared back at him in apathetic detachment, neither impressed nor burdened by the havoc they were unleashing below. At the far end of those rays, he could just make out the twisting skyline of the ravaged world.

The heavens of Ord Cantrell seemed to knot themselves in painful agony, unnaturally contorted and twisted. Cobalt and violet bursts of thunder flashed beneath the endless darkening grey, sliding swiftly into black.

His palms fidgeted with the Imperial crest resting in his grasp. His body remained still, but his mind was pacing furiously.

He prayed in silence for those poor souls beneath the vortex, for the men and women loyal to their Empire, loyal to their Emperor. Loyal to this crusade, yet burdened by the hardships of this battle.

"Oh, Great One," he whispered hastily, a hiss escaping from his lips as he recited a verse in blessing for his comrades.

"You who have freed yourselves from your shackles.
You who have embraced destiny.
You who serve eternally our eternal Lord."
His open palms clasped together in prayer.

"May your blades pierce the lie of peace.
May your passion grow with every stroke of your weapon.
May you be blessed by our Lord's strength, and in return, bring strength to His fold.
May His guidance deliver you victory.
The Emperor shall set you free."

The metallic shine of his visor glared in the reflection of the enormous transparisteel frame.

An ominous red hue sat within the single vertical slit that stared out onto the planet below.

His comms had been open the entire time. He had been listening the entire time.

He had eagerly absorbed every word as the initial Shadow Strike Force, true to their name, had performed miraculously, infiltrating and overwhelming the western perimeter and laying the initial anti-air defenses to waste.

His grin had widened behind his mask as he savored the broadcast from Vice Admiral Remus Adair's Orbital Fire Support division.

But what concerned him was the Council's Tower.

Da'Razel was young and impulsive. A trained killer, yes, but a creature of tactics, not strategy.

He knew this.

He was trained to be this.

Still, he had expected the operators on the ground to be capable enough to quickly crush any resistance around this key objective and extract their targets as planned.

Certainly, it should have been him down there.

But the Father would not allow it. He still held him back. Still insisted it was not yet time to deploy him into combat.

A hot fury rose in his belly. He tore his burning gaze away from the sight.

His frustration mounting, he naïvely flicked through the more sensitive channels, private lines used by ground operators to report directly to various levels of the command chain. He impersonated senior OIT personnel, using stolen chain codes and clearances that his sect had carefully acquired during the drawn-out formation of the Office of Imperial Promotion, Galactic Truth, and Fact Correction.

Politics were beneath him.

Beneath his Master.

Neither his brothers, his sisters, nor the Father of their Chapter had any patience for the bureaucratic inclinations of this new intelligence arm.

They cared only to serve the Emperor, to praise the Dark Elite, and to honor the Sith of Old.

To his further frustration, what he heard over the comms made little sense.

The storms raging on the surface were so severe they disrupted even the normally stable channels used by stormtroopers, captains, and the few intelligence officers he could extend his access to.

Iron... something. Warriors... soldiers... brigades...

Something was definitely amiss in the Tower.

He should be down there.

He should be aiding the cause, laying his life on the line.

And yet…

His iron helm jerked upward to fix its gaze on the void once more.

The last remnant destroyer in orbit, just beyond his immediate peripheral vision, nothing but a speck. And yet he knew it, too, was a source of delay.

He couldn't exactly pinpoint them. His senses weren't subtle enough, weren't gentle enough.

But he inherently knew, there were true avatars of the Emperor aboard that distant vessel.

True harbingers of His great will.

The sharp, fine fangs littering his jaws pierced tightly drawn lips. He tasted the metallic musk of blood on his tongue.

Why was Father still keeping him here?

Now he paced for real. He could not stand it any longer. He had to act.

He had to fight.

He had to deliver his great Emperor's will.

He was a manifestation of that will, and he would no longer stand here purposeless. He would...

"My son."

The Father's voice tore him from his rising anger.

His gaze snapped to the figure who had called out, a pan-black robe, a face hidden in shadow, only the pale outline of a near-forgotten visage faintly visible.

The red-robed giant dropped to one knee, the sound of armored greaves releasing a pounding gong as they struck the metal walkways. His eyes fixed on the floor before the high-ranking zealot.

"Father… I…"

He almost couldn't stop himself. He was a thought away from demanding to be sent planetside, but two and a half decades of discipline and indoctrination cut his words short.

"Oh, my poor child. I can feel your agony. I know what it is you desire."

He slowly raised his head, a failing attempt to find his master's fleeting gaze.

"We have a rare opportunity, my son. For at this very moment… we are without supervision. The new director remains planetside. We must act now. And I have become privy to the details of a coming storm, a storm we will unleash upon the galaxy, the likes of which has never been seen."

The image of continent-wide hellstorms brewing below returned to him. The young darksider's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Father… how can I serve your will?" he asked softly, his voice cracking mechanically through the built-in speaker.

"There are preparations to be made, far from this place. A plan to set in motion. A destiny in need of fulfillment. And you, my child… you may have the honor of casting the first stone."

"What are your orders, Master?"

His voice now steadied, fuller, with inner resolve.

The shadowed man crept ever closer, leaning forward unnaturally far, achieving an eerily crooked shape, until the apprentice's crimson robes nearly touched the void-black cloth of the Church Magistrate's own.

The Father whispered, a slithering, writhing phrase, as though the words themselves were festering with rot.

"Set course for Coruscant."