Dominion The Velgrath | SO Dominion of Sluis Van

[Madelyn Lowe]

OBJECTIVE III
"Arrival of the Velgrath Scrap Fleet"
Tags: Drazen Lutris | Kaila Irons

The first appearance of the approaching fleet was not a swathe of emerging battle lines or scout frigates, but a stream of civilian ships. Boxy freighters and sleek yachts. Shuttles and sloops. Behind them came the limping vestiges of several fleets, combined into a single mass glued together by the civilian ships that buzzed around the fleet like a swarm of so many insects. The vessels huddled and converged at the edge of the system, anticipating a hail of fire to greet their arrival. When no such attack eventuated, the foremost ships extended, tentatively making a track towards Kyral's Wound.

The size and makeup of the force was the first sign that Madelyn was bending, if not breaking, the rules. Who said that one could not borrow another Lord's fleet? Who said it was not permitted to use her authority as Minister to commandeer vessels from the local defence forces, or to sign on crews of minutemen in personal and commercial vessels, or liberate classified starmaps from secure sites? Well, nobody had written it down, so that is what she had done. At worst, it was against the spirit of the game. But Madelyn didn't care about that. What mattered was winning.

"Sector scan?"

"Six fleets. All damaged, but not enough that we'd have any hope matching them."

Still, the Madelyn's forces had not been spared from the destruction of the Velgrath. Mostly she had trailed in the wake of other more heedless and destructive fleets, taking in the crews of decimated ships, patching up the wrecks that could be coaxed into moving and inflating her numbers. Twice already, she had been forced to fight tooth and nail for her fleet's survival as what looked like a peaceful aftermath turned out to be a hyperspace trap sprung by a cunning Sith Lord. The second attack had left its scars on her fleet. Madelyn's command ship trailed plasma from great runnels carved across its hull, and was being steered from the auxiliary command deck, since her bridge was in pieces two sectors behind them.

Luckily for Madelyn, most Sith made for poor naval commanders, and few in their ranks, even amongst the Lords, had witnessed as many battles as her. She had years of experience and Imperial study that they did not. So far, that had kept her alive, allowed her to escape with mere damage where otherwise there would be only destruction. But, the damage was growing, the fleet's effectiveness blunting with every frantic engagement. Something had to give, and Madelyn feared it would be her next. She had to do something to throw the odds in her favour.

"And the station?"

"A parley, it would seem, Commander."

Madelyn had a few other distinctive advantages over her betters. For one, few considered her a true rival, underling as she was, allowing her to get the jump on overconfident opponents. Further, Madelyn was known amongst the planetary officials of the Empire. Trusted, even. In the chaos of the Velgrath, Madelyn was a saviour, not a conquerer. That meant something.

Even better that the battle hardened crews of the Legions were still locked beyond the confines of the Blackwall, leaving her the only Imperial of consequence with genuine military campaign experience within the Velgrath, at least by Madelyn's own reckoning.

For all her confidence, Madelyn had reason to be cautious, too. Her title, the thing that usually offered her protection against the machinations of her Sith rivals, meant nothing here. A single misstep could mean destruction.

"Hail the station."

There was a fuzz of static as Madelyn's image was projected upon the holotable within the ancient structure of Kyral's Wound, before flickering on the floor as if she were standing in the meeting herself. After a moment, the image solidified and grew coloured. Madelyn caught a glimpse of herself in the feed. Regal. Composed. Perfect. She suppressed a smile, and focused on listening to the end of the conversation, quickly identifying Drazen Lutris and Kaila Irons , a single eyebrow raising a touch at the words. Madelyn's ships closed the distance towards the station, and she keyed the comm.

"I hope I have been invited to this little party?" Madelyn tutted. "An interesting proposal. But you won't make it halfway to Sluis Van without me. Let alone Utapau."

Madelyn let the objections wash over her, and she powered on.

"You have extraordinary powers, of that there is no doubt. But, you need a commander, one able to direct a fleet the size of our combined complement."

It was a gamble, to question the competence of her betters. But the Velgrath was not won by craven servants, and if the Lords and Ladies aboard the Kyral's Wound had any sense they'd see she was right.

"Put me at the helm." said Madelyn. "And everything you want is within your reach."

 

[Armaros Asenath]

"For when they shall say, Peace and safety; then sudden destruction cometh upon them, as travail upon a woman with child; and they shall not escape."​

Objective 1
Tags: Raef Malstadt , Ellissanthia , Serina Calis , CT-312 Cassian Ravel

There was no explosion at first.

It struck a hundred meters before an advancing vanguard squadron of Loculus APCs, burying itself into the sun-blasted dirt. The kinetic shock of the impact temporarily rendered the ground liquid. Shockwaves traveled through the soil like coiling waves, lifting the carriers off their treads and even snapping one in half as its frame couldn't absorb the rolling force. Troopers shrieked as they were tossed around in their cramped compartments. Bones broke and skulls shattered.

Then silence.

The battered crew of the scout Loculuses began to regain their bearings.

Maybe it was a dud-

The shell exploded.

A flash of white-hot annihilation erupted from the impact crater. Superheated pressure vented outward in a ring of death, peeling apart the surrounding vehicles like onions before the fireball vaporized them. The blast wave punched through the rest of the vanguard like an open hand swatting insects. Multi-ton armoured carriers were thrown through the air with the same contemptuous ease that a spoiled child flung their toys.

Chunks of armor plating and charred chunks of meat rained from the sky like burning hail. A turret, torn from its hull, spiraled through the air and landed with a shrieking clang next to Asenath's command tank.

Asenath cackled as he heard the screech of his dying and wounded blot out the comms.

This. This! This was what he lived for. The mindless slaughter. The blind butchery. The pointless murder. In a broken Galaxy gone mad, the battlefield was the only place that made sense to him anymore. Where, instead of wandering the endless wastes of his youth, here he finally had glorious purpose - a reason to continue.

"FORWARD!" his voice boomed out across all channels, drowning out the sounds of animal suffering.

Quickly shaking off the shock and leaving behind the wounded too far gone, Pact forces continued the advance towards the ridgeline. The eight heavy Mors Ferro Battle Tanks took up the front, churning blackened soil beneath their armored bulks and forming up in a long, trailing V. The two Parum walkers took up the wing tips, pumping their crustacean as fast as possible to keep up with the rest. Behind the first line came the Loculus Carriers, each nestling within their durasteel hulls a viscous load of biological monstrosities and equally vile troopers.

Each vehicle had at least a dozen meters of clearance between them. Asenath might have been mad, but he wasn't stupid. He didn't need to lose half his forces in a single strike.

"We're coming into range, sir."

"All tanks," he barked, "Lay on and fire at will!"

The 240mm Howitzer main guns began to fire, belching titanic thunderclaps as they each hurled two hundred kilos of pure detonite and baradium at the ridgeline with every blast. Inertial dampers worked overtime to keep the massive howitzers stabilized through the bouncing and lurching. The two walkers began to open up with their heavy turbolasers and unleashed rolling waves of screaming proton rockets from their missile racks against the VesperWorks forces.

Behind them, the carriers began to disgorge their contents as their auto-cannons endlessly thumped away.

Dressed in heavy pioneer gear, they began their relentless advance, leapfrogging from cover to cover. Heavy weapons teams dropped into position and began saturating the ridge with suppressing fire, raking the enemy positions with blaster cannon rounds and grenades.

Several Pact troopers collapsed, felled by distant but deadly accurate sniper fire. Heads were blown clean off. Fist-sized holes seared through torsos. Asenath witnessed a single shot rip through four men unfortunate enough to be lined up before severing the spinal cord of the fifth. The fifth paid no heed to her wound, dragging herself forward through the dirt.

Her display of insanity was copied several more times down the formation. The Pact troopers didn't balk or hesitate as they continued their drilled advance despite the growing amount of firepower.

"Slow us to ten klicks an hour," Asenath ordered, "I don't want to outpace our foot support."

The sequence of howitzer shots fell into a practiced sequence. The eight Mors Ferros started rotating fire to maintain a ceaseless drumbeat of bombardment. Each tank advanced five meters, halted, and fired again, plowing the ridge with shell after shell. Every single one of their coaxials opened up. The air shimmered with heat as tracer and laser rounds blazed in glowing arcs toward the enemy positions.

Suddenly to his right, Ash-Crowned Tyrant's starboard tread section was repeatedly struck by volleys of five-bolt bursts from a AT-AW and lost its tracks in a shower of sparks and steel fragments, causing it to violently slew to a stop. Already combat pioneers were stumbling through the hail of blasterfire to begin repairs.

Spite Engine wasn't so lucky. It's front hull disappeared in a sheet of flame and meta. A lucky shot from one of the enemy's main battle tanks had found the minuscule weakness in the turret ring. Trapped in cramped quarters with no protection gear, the interior carnage that occurred was akin to blasting a tinned meat cannon with a scattergun at point blank range.

Yet the others held strong, shielding and armor deflecting the worst strikes. The Mors Ferros were far from subtle or elegant machines. They were war engines built for nothing but the breakthrough. To endure every thing the enemy could throw at them and some more. This was their element. This was their day.

The skies above caved open.

A streak of burning crimson carved across the overcast skies, trailing a comet's tail of black fire and screaming brass. It fell, It howled downward with a terrible screech like incoming hovertrain slamming the breaks, drowning out the thunder of guns below. Sermons in dead tongues that were exterminated for a reason crackled from it's many tongued mouths, summoning forth floating glyphs that hurt to look at.

The Eviscerarch Seraphim struck the ground with the force of a meteor. Rising from the resultant crater unfurled it flayed wings ablaze with blackfire. Clutched in its gauntleted hands was the Scour-Spear, a monstrous weapon longer than a man, forged from martyr-bone and thrice-anointed iron. Arcs of lashing silent-flame crawled from its barbed tip across the haft.

The air around it seemed to bend and fold. A distinct wrongness gripped every single creature in its vicinity.

It had landed several hundred meters behind VesperWorks line.

It had chosen that monstrous siege mortar as a potential worthy champion.

It charged.

Spoiler: TLDR and ORBAT

Asenath begins a ruthless combined arms attack against the VesperWorks ridgeline while the Eviscerarch Seraphim begins to rip and tear towards the mortar from the rear. If your character is a duelist and wants a boss fight. This is it.

• 2 Parum-Class Medium Walker
  • Absolver
  • Saintblade
• 7 (-1) Mors Ferro Heavy Battle Tank
  • Harrow of the Unrepentant
  • Wyrmcoil Anointed
  • Fleshgrinder of Woostri
  • Gravemaw
  • Ash-Crowned Tyrant (Crippled)
  • Spite Engine
  • Shrieker of the Thrice-Blessed Path
  • Steelmaul
• 15 (-9) Loculus Armoured Personnel Carrier
  • 210 (-90) Dismounted Troops
  • 30 Death Brigadiers
• 8 Dread Wolves (Reserve)
• 20 Pestilent Ones (Reserve)
• 1 Eviscerarch Seraphim

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Frankie //: Serina Calis //:
//: Undercover //:
//: Attire (under the cloak and hood) //:

Blending into a cult wasn't too hard. It was probably the easiest part of the mission. Allyson had heard rumors of the cult along with a certain someone's desire to rule over them. Sith and Cults went hand in hand, and if Serina Calis wanted to be a real Sith, finding a group of crazed individuals to follow her was the next on her checklist.

Allyson had dragged Frankie from the Commonwealth for this mission. Thankfully, she was seemingly willing, perhaps because of the urging of their mutual benefactor. Allyson didn't complain or press anything on Frankie. For the most part, she enjoyed the company for some of these missions - particularly one in which she would strike Serina down if Allyson saw the opportunity. With Frankie with her, Locke had to keep her emotions locked down.

Their cloaks drawn up, they both moved through the crowd. Allyson did her best not to look skilled enough to weave through the crowd without touching. Normal people weren't like that - they needed to see part of the group. Small talk and minor exchanges between them gave Allyson a small clue as to how insane the group was.

They were mad. They made the Woosanians, or whatever they were called, who worshiped Alisteri ( Darth Strosius ), look like typically adjusted citizens of the Empire.

After a small conversation with a toothless man, Allyson looked at Frankie and shook her head.

Leaning in, she whispered just loud enough for the two of them. "People here are insane."

Truth be told, Allyson should have expected this, but nothing to this extent. She continued with Frankie towards the more central part of the crowd. There, they'd be able to blend in better and get a good sight of what everyone was waiting and gathering for.

More whispers between the two as they settled into their place, hoods drawn and faces hidden. "If my notes are correct, the girl should take her opportunity here." Allyson paused, and a glint of mischief was in her eye. "Tell me your honest opinion of her after we hear her out."

Knowing what she knew of Frankie, Allyson figured the blonde to have a colorful opinion of Serina Calis - most people did. Still, Allyson was almost giddy to hear Frankie's rendition.

As they waited, Allyson let her mind wander. Her gut told her something she wasn't fond of; it was almost worrisome. But she didn't let it break her composure as she waited. Through her pondering, Allyson remembered a small conversation with a certain Minister. A hand rested against the Corellian's chin as she remained in deep thought and then glanced at Frankie from the corner of her eye.

"I've been told that the Commonwealth has excellent restaurants." She started, letting her curiosity bleed into her words.

"I'm seeing someone, and I'd like to impress them - what kind of food do you have and suggest…mmm, and the price point." Allyson smiled sheepishly, forgetting the deep pockets she had as the Emperor's apprentice.

 

[Cassian Ravel]

"Onset of war."

Tags - Raef Malstadt Armaros Asenath Ellissanthia
Objective: 2


The scream of the dying sky began to fade.

Smoke clung to the air like a second atmosphere, rising in greasy spirals from the ruined craters where armored vehicles had once stood proud. The Hollowfang's first shot had been apocalyptic—an act of industrial wrath so complete that even the ground now trembled beneath the memory of its violence. But that moment was gone. The silence that followed was not peace. It was the pause before the next scream.

Cassian Ravel lowered the macrobinoculars with deliberate precision, jaw locked tight, eyes narrow behind the faint ash that clung to his brow. The display unit flickered briefly as it adjusted for the heat haze, but he had already seen enough.

Fire belched from the horizon. Mors Ferro tanks had begun to return fire with rhythmic, world-shaking pulses. The great Parum walkers lumbered at the flanks, like titans dragging artillery across a battlefield stitched together from bone and fire. Between them, waves of depraved infantry surged forward behind walls of smoke and shrapnel, heedless of death, moving with the zeal of something less than human and more than rabid. Monsters—biological and otherwise—poured from Loculus carriers, and where once the void had been empty, now the very air seethed with shapes that shrieked and writhed.

And above it all, circling with baleful grace, the thing with wings. That winged beast.

It was beautiful in the way only weapons could be—its vast silhouette etched against the storm, serrated wings slicing through thunderclouds with unnatural lift. No sensors could identify it. No database claimed it. The only truth was the instinctive shiver that moved through the men when they glimpsed it. That feeling of being prey.

He felt the voice before he heard it.

"Commander. Their winged beast is a threat. I am making it my objective. I will be on channel if you need me."

The words came not just over comms, but through the very marrow of the Force. Clean, sharp, crystalline—Ellissanthia's tone carried no fear, only resolve. The Undine had chosen her prey.

Cassian's eyes flicked upward, catching one last glimpse of the beast before it vanished into the cloud layer like a living omen. A smile touched the corner of his mouth—not joy, not hope, but the acknowledgment of a force equal to the chaos. He reached to his wrist comm, voice iron.

"Acknowledged, Ellissanthia. Bring it down."

He turned on his heel and descended the command post steps, motioning to his lieutenants with a single gloved gesture. Around him, the battle was no longer hypothetical. Shells detonated along the outer trench lines. Two of the PGEM light tanks were gone—burning wreckage marking where the enemy had bracketed them with frightening speed. An AT-AW walker limped into a defensive fallback zone, one leg trailing fluid, its internal gyro blown. Infantry losses were mounting. But no one panicked. Not under him. They moved with precision—his precision.

He entered the tactical shelter and activated the holomap.

It bloomed into being like a stained-glass window composed of data and flame. Red lines surged toward the ridgeline from the western quadrant, fanning into a daggerhead formation. It was too clean. Too practiced. Whoever led that horde was not just a butcher—they were a commander. One who understood how to break a line and bleed its edges before committing the core. Cassian respected it. Hated it. Admired the design, even as he began calculating its destruction.

"Raef," he said, tapping the side panel and opening a direct channel to one of the rear mechanized reserve groups. "You are to engage immediately. Prioritize the second wave of incoming infantry and brace for walker contact. You're not there to die heroically. You're there to make them bleed badly before they touch our gate."

The map updated again. New flashes. A gap was forming between the enemy's central spear and its right flank—where their medium walkers were pushing too far forward, unsupported by infantry. A classic overextension. But still, the numbers were brutal. Every kill cost. Every delay cost. This was not a battle of maneuvers anymore. This was a battle of wills.

"Recalibrate Hollowfang firing solutions," he ordered to the gun deck. "We go for psychological strikes now. No bracketing. No soft barrages. I want surgical removal. Pick their command elements and paint them red. Make them think the next shell's for them."

"Understood, targeting recalibrated."

Cassian keyed into the artillery support squad next. "Relay to all AT-AW crews. Adjust arc suppression patterns to intercept advancing armor. They're rotating fire—stagger your counter-battery to punish reload windows."

He turned to the secondary deck, where a squad of sensor officers worked beneath dim, violet-glowing status screens.

"Tell the fast-response tanks to circle behind the tertiary ridge and prepare to hit their flank the moment we locate their commander. We're going to peel this bastard's skin back and see if he still wants to roar without it."

The officers nodded, relaying orders with crisp precision.

Cassian stepped back from the holoprojector.

He could already feel the flow of battle tightening—becoming a noose, not a shield. The enemy was not just trying to kill them. They were trying to overwhelm them. Obliterate them. It was personal. The kind of fury that came not from strategy, but from religion. From madness.

He inhaled slowly.

Then turned, and stepped outside into the war once more.

Ash swept past him like snow. A IFV hissed nearby as techs tried to keep it running. One soldier, chest-wounded and half-conscious, still clutched his rifle with white-knuckled tenacity. A medic tried to pry it from his hands. Cassian paused.

He crouched next to the man and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Rest. You've done your part," he said quietly.

The soldier nodded once, lips parted in a bloody smile before losing consciousness.

Cassian stood again.

The sky rumbled. Far above, he could feel Ellissanthia rising into the dark like a myth in motion. Below, Raef's men would already be charging toward the lower valley, blades sharp, eyes cold.

And behind him, the Hollowfang let out its next mechanical hymn.

A second shell rose like a god's judgment.

And Cassian, standing at the heart of all of it, whispered the only truth that remained.

"We do not break."

"We teach others how."

The Hollowfang was loosed once more.

Spoiler: Order of Battle and TLDR

1. Battlefield Assessment

• Cassian assesses the initial Hollowfang strike's effects on the enemy.
• Recognizes the growing threat of enemy artillery return fire, saturation bombardment, and advancing armor/infantry columns.
• Identifies critical patterns in the enemy's push (daggerhead formation, overextended flank).

2. Ellissanthia Directive

• Receives and acknowledges Ellissanthia's message regarding the enemy winged beast.
• Authorizes her to pursue the target, opening a separate aerial engagement arc.

3. Mobilization of Reserves

• Raef and his force are activated and ordered into the field.
  • Objective: intercept enemy infantry and brace for walker engagements.
  • Tactic: delay and attrition, not direct frontal assault.

4. Hollowfang Fire Recalibration

• Hollowfang targeting adjusted from saturation fire to precision psychological strikes.
  • Goal: demoralize enemy command elements.
  • Shell #2 fired during the post.

5. Tactical Orders to Tank Crews

• AT-AW walkers ordered to time counter-battery fire during enemy reload cycles.
• Fast-response tanks instructed to maneuver behind tertiary ridge for flank engagement.
  • Objective: punish enemy overextension, isolate commander if possible.

6. Leadership Presence

• Cassian directly engages with wounded troops and field officers to maintain morale.
• Reasserts calm control and stabilizes frontline atmosphere.

4 x NZ/BW-01o, AT-AW "All Terrain Assault Walker (1 disabled, 1 damaged)
6 4 x PGEM Fast Response Tank (-2)
4 3 x Type 70 Main Battle Tank (-1)
20 12 x PGEM Light Infantry Fighting Vehicle (-8)
450 370 x Dismounted Troops (-80)
1 x VMM-9 "Hollowfang" Heavy Mortar

 

[CT-312]

//: Attire //:
//: Forestry cliffside , Morrigal //:
//: Weapons: LO-18D ASSAULT RIFLE, IQA-11 & Vibroblade Knife//:
//: Objective II: The Silence at Morrigal//:​

She was halfway through the sandwich when CT-312 noticed the vultures flying in. Black shapes flapping high above, drifting in lazy circles over the burning valley. Villages splintered, cities spewing smoke into the sky. Sith Lords and their armies, militias, and other resources they had were brought to the battlefield. Not only attacking inhabitants of the planet, but each other.

CT-312 took another bite. Staring lazily at the mayhem. Her legs swung slightly off the boulder. Rhythmically, almost cheerfully.

Smoke clung to the air like a second atmosphere. Shells exploding all around the field. Armored vehicles that once stood proud, now just simply ruined craters. The shot that took them out had been apocalyptic. Even the ground now still trembled as the violence surged on.

“You’d think with all this baradium flying around,” CT-312 said out loud to no one in particular. “Someone would’ve figured out the mystery of keeping bread from going dry.” She could faintly hear her helmet comms picking up some poor soul bleeding from shrapnel wound as another yelled coordinates so fast that it all blurred together. “Rough day to be a walker crew” She muttered between chews.

A stray shell landed somewhere not too far off. Closer that it should’ve been. The ground shuddered. The Camo Scout didn’t flinch. CT-312’s hand moved to flick a crumb off her armor and continued watching the inferno. Who needed fireworks when you had this?

Behind her, she could hear the groans and shrieks of metal gears turning as it echoed through the forestry cliffside. Glancing over her shoulder. “Hope they aim this one better.”

Crows flocked in noisy, ragged spirals. Cawing like a funeral choir. The dead were fresh and the birds didn’t care. They knew a feast was already underway. A few of them broke from the spirals, flying higher. Dark dots circling directly above her position.

CT-312 sat at the cliff’s edge, chewing in silence. Her helmet rested beside her. The only piece of her armor not caked in dirt or soot. The sandwich–half stale, half smuggled, was the closest thing to a break she’d had in days. Just bread, meat, and stubborn defiance. It tasted faintly metallic from the foil wrap. Something that reminded her she was human. Or close enough.

Reassign. Redeploy. Return to orbit. Drop.

That was the rhythm now. Or at least has been for the past handful of missions.

She tilted her head slightly, watching the birds above her circle. Not aggressively. Curious. Hopeful. Her helmet’s HUD blinked. Proximity alerts. Faint pings, CT-312 easily dismissed. Already assuming it was more birds.

Snap.

A twig behind her. Footfall, grass shifting.

Her head turned, as instincts took over. CT-312’s body responded before her thoughts caught up. She was on her feet in less than a breath, rifle raised in one hand, sandwich clutched in the other.

Two figures stumbled out of the trees. Hooded and dirty. Cultists. Their hands were already reaching for their weapons. ‘Of course.’ They hadn’t expected her, the look in their eyes said it all. Maybe they tracked her pod? Or maybe they were trying to flee the area? Both of them reached for a weapon.

So did the birds. One dove straight for her..

“Damn it all.” CT-312 sighed out heavily annoyed. The bird dove low, she felt the wind of its wings as it snatched her sandwich clean out of her hand with a snap of its beak. Her now freehand was brought to support and stabilize the rifle as the trigger was pulled. It barked only once. A slug round pierced right through the chest of the first cultist. Dropping instantly.

A second later, a bolt fire hissed past her cheek. CT-312 ducked. Pivoting as another bolt from the second cultist’s blaster screamed past where her head had just been. She moved fast, freehand to the back of her belt. Years of motion turned into reflex. Drawing the vibroblade loose, throwing it mid-turn.

Thunk.

Plunging straight into the cultist’s chest. The cultist staggered. Blinking down in disbelief. He was still moving. Still trying. He raised his weapon.

Boom.

A shot to his leg. CT-312 didn’t wait. His leg gave out. Dropping with a cry as the weapon fell from his grip. Now she was irritated. CT-312 walked up, ripped the vibroblade free. Before the wide eyed cultist could utter a plea, the blade was driven in again. Ending it. No flair. No indulgence. Just necessary. The body just slumped over to the ground lifeless.

Her stomach growled. Breaking the silence. Her damn sandwich.

CT-312 looked up and saw the bird flapping away with the last of her sandwich. She slung her rifle and pulled her sniper from her back. Raised it to her shoulder, tracking the damn bird. Lining up the shot.

BOOM.

Feathers exploded. The remaining of the sandwich plummeted down with the bird’s corpse. “If I can’t have it… then no one can.” CT-312 muttered bitterly to herself. She exhaled. Her shoulders barely relaxed for a second. ‘Not even ten minutes’ she thought. Ten minutes to breathe. To feel something normal. And the goddamn birds didn't even let her have that.

And yet… it was better this way. CT-312 needed this moment to be interrupted. If it wasn’t the cultists, it would’ve been something else. That’s what the job was. ’Peace is a pause. Not a place.’

Looking back at the cultists on the ground, she started to pat them down. Finding trinkets, old pistols, scriptures, some old relics too worn to read, and a still functioning datapad with a cracked screen. One was carrying a small leather bag clung at their side. 'Good enough.' CT-312 used it to stash the items. Then the Scout noticed it. Behind the bush near where the cultist had emerged. A narrow break in the cliff’s wall. Low and almost hidden. A tunnel entrance. ‘So that’s where they came from.’ CT-312 stood, walking back to her boulder. Carrying the small leather bag of plundered items.

Grabbing her helmet, sliding it on. The HUD reactivated with a low click. Annoyed, but at least she didn’t have to go looking for the cultists. She sat again, sniper locked in and ready. Finger resting near the trigger as her eyes focused on the tunnel entrance. Waiting for any unsightly cultists to come on out.

No more sandwich. No more bird. But the mission? It was still on.

Now all CT-312 had to do was wait.

Spoiler: Nearby

Armaros Asenath Cassian Ravel Raef Malstadt Serina Calis Adean Castor Ellissanthia Itzhal Volkihar Darth Morta Lyssa Clauda Allyson Locke

 

[Kaila Irons]

OBJECTIVE III​

Location: Kyral's wound
Wearing: New Armor
Tag: Drazen Lutris Madelyn Lowe

"Utapau." echoed Kaila.

"Lots of ore, and some starship production even."

No doubt he would use that wealth to his own ends, but surely there was enough to go around, and such a remote world would indeed make for an excellent staging grounds for their operations. The gears turned behind her visor for a moment, risks evaluated, rewards considered in silence until finally she nodded to herself.

"Well, if the Second Legion has taught me anything it is when to recognize a good raid when I see one."

"Frakk it, why not?"

She pushed up off the table, feeling good about this "Velgrath" so far.

Until a familiar hologram appeared across from her.

Though she'd seen her face once before, Madelyn Lowe was known to her more by reputation than not. She'd always been a top Kainite, even if the young Darth had not familiarized herself with the woman's work during her tenure as Kaine's apprentice, she knew she was important. And anyone who remained important across two empires was surely capable, especially for a non sensitive.

That made her dangerous.

"Minister..." she greeted.

"I do not doubt your capabilities, but neither do I doubt your taste for imperial politics."

Anathemous spoke in a tone that was almost too polite, as if to illustrate the potential for deception and her awareness. It was bad enough that she may have to work with a Kainite, but Minister Lowe would not be so dependent upon her as the others, and thus betrayal was all the more likely.

"What assurance do we have that you'll not stab us in the back?"

"Or... blast our thrusters with ion cannons, perhaps that is a more realistic outcome."

​

 

[Serina Calis]

"Onset of war."

Tags - Adean Castor Allyson Locke Zachariah Conway Itzhal Volkihar Frankie Lyssa Clauda Darth Morta
Objective: 2
OOC NOTE: You wanna join in? Just send a dm to me and I'll fit you right in!



The tunnels were quiet in that wrong way—too silent, too still, as though the darkness itself had paused in reverence. Or fear. Dust motes floated like flakes of old bone through beams of flickering light, dancing in the aura cast by the violet pulse at the core of Serina Calis' armor. Her every footstep echoed not in the air, but in the Force—soft, slow, resonant. Here, beneath the bones of Morrigal's forgotten elite, the illusion of the galaxy's order faded, and the truth of things whispered through stone and shadow.

She walked like a queen carved from blade-edge and myth, each movement an exercise in restraint and precision. The obsidian plates of Tyrant's Embrace hissed faintly as they shifted with her gait—liquid and monolithic all at once—its segmented hem brushing the ground like a priestess' train in a cathedral of bones. Her clawed fingers trailed along the ancient walls, reading their glyphs as one might read a lover's body: slowly, reverently, but with intent to dominate.

The writing was older than most would recognize. Pre-diasporic Sith, inscribed here with tools of bone and flame. They had believed this place hidden. And for a time, it had been. But everything—everything—was eventually revealed beneath the right gaze.

A low breath escaped her helm, distorted into a serpentine rasp. "They buried their faith with their rot," she murmured, almost amused. "Let us see if the corpse still dreams."

The crimson glow of another saber flickered behind her—Lyssa, obedient, breathing quietly, fingers curled tightly around the shaft of her pike. A good girl. Hungry for meaning. Eager to serve. Serina didn't turn to look. She didn't need to. The Mirialan's presence curled at the edge of her awareness like smoke, loyal, desperate, useful.

But her thoughts broke as a distortion kissed the edge of her senses—movement. Distant, but sharp. The enemy was advancing, closer than expected. She pivoted without urgency, her voice sharp and low across comms.

"Itzhal."

The comm crackled, then hummed to life.

"I want charges laid across this corridor and the next three junctions. Arc the blast pattern for maximum concussive overlap. When they come—and they will—I want them swallowed by the planet they thought to claim."

"Darth Morta, secure the exit to this cave in case it needs to be collapsed, I want to make sure we have a secure vector for exfil."

She turned back to the descent. The air grew heavier the farther they walked—not with heat, but with weight. The Force here pressed against her mind, dense and slow, like gravity had grown a mind of its own and wanted her to kneel. A lesser creature would have submitted. But Serina? Serina leaned into it. She exhaled slowly, her voice threading through the veil between dimensions.

"You will not silence me," she whispered to the Force itself. "Not here. Not now."

Ahead, the tunnel twisted into a rounded chamber, more carved than natural, its walls covered in mosaics of calcified bone dust and paint made from mineral-rich ash. Symbols pulsed dimly across the surface, glowing faintly with old power—shapes that warped when stared at too long, forms that suggested language without conveying meaning. And at the far end, a door.

It was not a door of metal or wood, but of flesh. Or something like it. Slabs of pale, membranous tissue stretched across an archway, pulsing faintly, webbed with veins of silver and violet ichor. It responded to her presence—tensing, quivering.

Serina stepped forward.

She said nothing at first. Simply reached out, placed one clawed finger against the membrane's surface. It felt… warm. Breathing.

"Someone still feeds it," she said to Lyssa without turning. "Which means someone still believes."

A slow grin formed beneath her helm.

Perfect.

She pulled her hand back. No need for brute force. Not yet. Instead, she lowered herself to one knee, brought her hand to her sternum—palm splayed over the pulsing node at the center of her armor—and whispered in an unknown language.

The membrane pulsed—once, then twice. A convulsion. Then it opened.

Not with grace. Not with welcome. But like a wound being torn back open after long festering.

Behind the door, a great descent. Winding stairs carved into the earth, their edges worn by ritual use, and at their base—light. A circle of flame, guttering, ringed by robed figures.

The cult.

She descended, each step calculated, slow, deliberate. She wanted them to see her. To absorb her image. Her presence. The violet-eyed helm. The runes crawling like veins across her armor. The way the Force around her bent, like light warped through gravity wells.

One of the figures began to speak, throat raw, voice ancient.

"You—"

"No," Serina said, softly. Commandingly. "You will not speak until I am done."

The Force did not scream here.

It listened.

She stood at the edge of their ritual flame, not breaking its circle, but becoming its center nonetheless. Her voice was silk dipped in poison, a blade sheathed in prophecy.

"You whisper of the Velgrath. You chant of thresholds. You bury yourselves in ash, dreaming of the end that will cleanse all things. And yet…"

She raised her hand, splayed it outward.

"…you have waited. You have prayed. And still, the galaxy burns without meaning. Still, your gods lie silent. Still, the stars refuse you."

A flicker of doubt, just one, danced through the eyes of the eldest among them.

"I am here," she said, voice low. "Not as the end. Not as the flame. But as the door."

She stepped forward, and the circle shuddered.

"You built this sanctum to await. I have come to fulfill. The Velgrath is not a storm. It is a selection. And I," she said, voice falling to a whisper, "am the hand that chooses what remains."

They did not kneel.

Not yet.

But none spoke.

None ran.

That was enough.

She turned her head slightly, the violet eyes of her helm catching Lyssa's reflection in the flickering fire.

"Stay close," she said, barely above a breath. "If they kneel, they are ours. If they run, break them."

Then, to the cult, louder now, she asked:

"Who among you dares deny the will of the Velgrath?"

 

[Fiolette Yvarro]

Objective IV: Survive Home without Taeli​

(Current Status: Critical)​

Taeli Raaf ​

Fio, with milk foam dotting her forearms, stood in the frame like a woman on the brink. The chaos in the background was artfully blurred, but its presence was unmistakable: crashing, screaming, distant child-giggling—all of it fading into a haze behind her focused expression of pure, caffeinated despair.

"Instructions in the drawer?" she repeated, deadpan.

She turned to the kitchen island. "Taeli… there's a child sitting on the drawer, island, drawer-thing. Uh, it's, Jaq? No. Morrigan. You know what, I don't actually know. They move too fast when they're guilty." She wiped milk off her arm with a towel that read 'Espresso Yourself' in cheerful script beside cartoon caf beans. A punny gift. She regretted it now with the weight of someone who had once survived a Sith incursion and was currently losing a battle to dairy foam.

"You said steam setting two?" she asked, flipping the machine's manual open like it might confess its sins. "Darling. Love of my life. I pushed two. And then—your feral machine, which I'm convinced is possessed by mecha deru the likes of which I haven't seen since your dear pet spy hit the Kuragin, it hissed at me."

She paused. Looked Taeli dead in the eye through the holoscreen.

"It hissed, Taeli. Like a vengeful god."

Fio drew a breath, centered herself, and muttered: "I've engineered long-range proton torpedo targeting systems that are less temperamental than this chrome demon you married us into."

With the grace of a naval officer disarming an explosive, she picked up the portafilter and studied it like it had personally insulted her lineage.

"You know," she continued, eyes narrowing, "I thought today might involve pirates. Instead I'm fighting lactose. And I am losing."

From offscreen, the sound of a crash echoed, followed by high-pitched giggling.

"NATE'S PUTTING PEANUT BUTTER ON THE DROID AGAIN!" Jaq's voice shrieked.

Fio's left eye twitched. She didn't blink.

"I just wanted espresso," she said evenly. "And now? You've made me sentimental about instant caf, Taeli. Instant. Caf."

Her shoulders sagged. She looked down at her half-full cup and sighed.

"I miss you."

A longer pause. A deeper sigh.

"…Also, your espresso machine is now officially a war crime."

More clattering. Accusations being thrown. Jaq blaming Nate. Nate blaming Morrigan. Possibly the droid being blamed by everyone.

But Fio stayed still, expression resigned, waiting for her wife to bring order, or at least, better coffee.

 

[Frankie]

Allyson Locke​

Frankie was only half-listening, her gaze flickering across the dimly lit corridor with that trademark detached expression she wore during missions. Eyes cool, movements efficient. The other half of her mind was wandering, somewhere between irritation and utter disinterest. She was here because her grandmother told her to be here. That usually meant it was important, or dangerous, or both.

The cult atmosphere didn't help. Whispers curling like smoke in corners, faces hidden beneath hoods, everyone speaking in the kind of hush that people think makes them sound mysterious when really it just makes them sound like lunatics.

Frankie tilted her head, deadpan. "Is that not the entire point of cults? To be utterly, hopelessly insane?" she murmured, almost rhetorically.

Allyson kept talking, something about the mission, probably. Frankie offered a noncommittal, "Sure," in reply, her tone flat but vaguely amused. "She can speak, I suppose," she added, as if granting permission to some unseen party, her voice curling with mock generosity.

Then came the name Serina Calis .

Oh, that name some teeth.

Frankie didn't react, but she recognized it. Being the granddaughter of one of the most powerful figures in the Commonwealth gave her certain liberties. She suspected her grandmother had deliberately left out specific files on the person, which only made Frankie more curious. Plus, the Commonwealth had done well to keep tabs on the various Sith Lords.

"If she starts monologuing like a holoflix villain," Frankie said, lips twitching into a subtle smirk, "I'm exercising full authority to walk out. I've got better things to do with my evening. Like watching paint dry. Or maybe jumping off a modest ledge."

Then, completely out of left field, Allyson asked about restaurants. Commonwealth ones. As if they weren't currently in the middle of an intelligence op involving shadowy cultists and probable armed conflict.

Frankie blinked. Once.

"Firstly," she began, tone clipped, "how are you thinking about restaurants now? We're surrounded by cloaked weirdos, one of whom may or may not be practicing dark-side ASMR."

She turned slightly, eyebrow raised.

"Secondly, are you trying to impress someone? Wait. Is this a date thing? Are you asking me for date night recommendations?"

A pause. Frankie stared at her. She couldn't decide if Allyson was serious or just mad.

"Third," she continued, brushing imaginary lint from her coat, "I am not a bloody HoloYelp review board. But fine. I might have a few ideas. Assuming this person you're trying to woo enjoys dim lighting, aggressive fusion cuisine, and the subtle undertone of first imperial grandeur that clings to most Dosuunian dining establishments."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Morrigal, Outer Rim Territories
| Objective | The Silence At Morrigal

Itzhal Volkihar moved with an air of quiet confidence through the dimly lit cavern corridors, the dust swirling gently around his feet with each measured step. The faint sound of his footfalls echoed softly, a whisper against the presence of the others, a disruption to the natural stillness that had ingrained itself over time and ritual, worn into the edges of carved stone and flakes of dust that danced around them.

Whether the inhabitants of this place seldom ventured beyond its surface or if this was an uncommon entrance, Itzhal couldn't determine. Time slipped through his fingers, like sand, drifting away from an impending threat that hung above their heads and rattled with the outcry of battle, leaving little opportunity to observe the tracks in the dark. Their features brought to light only for a moment, cast aglow by Serina Callis's appearance and the rhythmic light of her armour, a heartbeat in the void.

In her absence, the world would have languished in the shadows, caught in a relentless cycle of conflict between the Sith and their followers, untouched by the encroachment of outsiders. Individuals like him—a Mandalorian, not raised but instead a path chosen—and other mercenaries, unbound by the creeds and society that had forged the Sith's empire.

Neither did he possess the natural sensitivity that characterised some of his kin, Mandalorian Knights, wielders of the enigmatic power that often led to spiralling paths into chaos and turmoil. So akin to the histories of Jedi and Sith, filled with mistakes and successes that could not be ignored. He knew not if the runes and symbols carved into the walls meant anything; the language not one he recognised, nor did the linguistic database stored in his buy'ce, but still he kept the footage recording as useful for catching flickers in his vision as it was for storing information that might later help.

However, he was not here for his own curiosity.

With a curt nod of his helmet, Itzhal stepped deliberately toward the rugged stone walls that surrounded them, aware of the looming threat from anyone who might attempt to follow. Serina's voice, sharp and commanding, resonated through the air as she instructed him to set up their welcome surprise for anyone brazen enough to pursue them, or if the worst was to come, as a potential deterrent for those who might follow their retreat back the way they came.

With a swift motion, he raised his arm to deploy the whipcord thrower integrated into his gauntlet, its sleek design reflecting the dim light as he prepared for the task ahead. Ascending the jagged surface of the craggy terrain, Itzhal deftly manoeuvred his body into a better vantage point, ensuring his package remained hidden from prying eyes. His gaze scanned the horizon as he judged where best to angle the explosive charge to maximise coverage, determined to create an effective deterrent for any unwelcome visitors. As he dangled momentarily from a sturdy outcropping, his boots finding secure purchase in the uneven rock face, his other hand deftly reached for the sturdy weight that hung at his hip.

His fingers deftly explored the secure compartments of his satchel, nestled close against his side, where several demolition charges were meticulously stored. Their potential for devastation evident in the care he wielded each, as he removed them from their storage, the weight of life and death held in his hands as he caressed the first of the charges into place, a faint beep, then utter silence as his visor informed him of the first device linked to his helmet.

The next few followed much the same—a faint beep against the caress of promised death, laid down in silent tombs.

Tags: Serina Calis Adean Castor Allyson Locke Zachariah Conway Frankie Lyssa Clauda Darth Morta​

 

[Adean Castor]

TAG: Serina Calis | Open
NEARBY: Allyson Locke | Zachariah Conway | Frankie | Itzhal Volkihar | Darth Morta | CT-312
OBJECTIVE 2

Dreadful familiarity washed over Adean as Serina and who followed of her entourage descended the winding stairs. The Epicanthix suspected that it wasn't the entire party that followed. No, it'd be foolish not to leave at least someone up above.

But the one who led the charge, with a visor of violet and armor that gleamed in the ritual fire, bringing at least one more in her wake. Even without a face to put to the silhouette, her presence was unmistakable. If there was even an inkling (or hope) of doubt, it was dashed away by that voice. If temptation itself has a voice, Serina would give it a run for its credits.

Tavis wasn't sure if her own assignment ran alongside or against whatever the other woman was attempting. Just as she also wasn't sure if she wanted to sit idly by and let the cultists of weaker minds be tempted. Her own meeting on Korriban had been enlightening in the best and worst of ways, enough so that the often content wallflower felt spite's beckon.

Yet the list of things she could do to really cause a stir was pathetically short. Not if she wanted to maintain her cover. Already, she was outnumbered, outclassed. There was perhaps one advantage she held over Serina and her crew.

Familiarity.

Or at least the illusion of such. The cultists seemed to think her a part of them. While it meant she had walked on eggshells in all things, consumed by the terror of ruining said illusion, there was a degree of power in it.

Like the ghost she'd once been referred to as, Adean's robes slipped among the gathered cultists, moving with their own shifts and restructuring until she came across the eldest of the bunch. The one who's eyes now flickered with doubt. Briefly, she touched their arm, bringing their attention instead to her. In doing so, she rose a dark brown in a silent question. Are you really considering this outsider's words? Really?

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Serina Calis // Cassian Ravel // Adean Castor // Raef Malstadt // Ellissanthia // CT-312 // Armaros Asenath // Darth Morta // Itzhal Volkihar // Adean Castor

Lyssa never failed to be in awe of her master. The woman was so deeply in tune with the fabric of reality itself that she seemed to immediately sense every disturbance, every small movement that took place around them. It was as if the cyborg's mistress was a spider and the world was her web, each movement across it's silver strings was known to the woman immediately. Yes, her master was surely at the centre of everything - and all the other members of the galaxy were merely pitiful flies or an extension of her own magnificence.

Lyssa prided herself on being the latter.

That was why the mirialan never questioned her mistress, even when she spoke of things she didn't fully understand yet. Instead, she listened intently, eager to absorb whatever she could from her. That was until they reached the door of flesh.

Such a curious thing, certainly very different to any material Lyssa had ever encountered before in her sheltered life on Kalee. It pulsed almost as if it had a heartbeat. It quivered under her mistress's touch, and when her master spoke of it, Lyssa nodded, fascinated.

"Emotion and resolve alone is enough to sustain a life force," she whispered back. "Belief and devotion heals even the gravest of wounds."

When her mistress knelt, Lyssa knelt with her, not out of necessity but because it was not right for her to be elevated above her master in any way. That was how it would be for many years - with Lyssa behind or below her, but never beside her. Not until she'd proven herself worthy.

Finally, after they had descended the dank, dark staircase, Lyssa saw light again, wreathing a council of cultists in it's glow. But she wasn't about to turn her saberpike off just yet. No, let them see her, a dark shadow of a warrior behind her master, and let them know exactly what kind of choice they were being offered - worship or death.

So enchanting was her mistress's voice that the mirialan barely even noticed that the screaming was softer here. The force was muffled by the weight of this moment, silenced by her master's power. Inconsequential. The only thing that mattered was the cultists reaction to her speech, and whether or not they would walk through the gates of salvation.

They did not kneel, and that irked Lyssa. They were blind if they thought they could find anyone greater to serve. Her fist instinctively curled tighter around her pike even as her mistress spoke to her quietly. Still, her commands brought a smile back to her lips. "As you wish, Master."

The mirialan took her job seriously, as guard dog and hunting hound to her mistress. If there were enemies here, they would feel the weight of her yellow and red eyes as they scanned the crowd, cataloguing every whisper, every hesitant glance, every hint of betrayal. The force was quieter here and it let her sense those before her again, allowing her to open her mind to any danger directed her mistress's way.

So it was she sensed the man at the edge of the circle, whose hands twitched for the gun under his robes. She sensed friction, voices from young women hidden amongst the crowd who didn't quite belong among the rest. Hesitancy, in the eldest among the group, heightened when a cloaked figure whispered in his ear. An interloper. An enemy of her mistress who had to be stopped.

Yet it was the man who moved first, leaping forward as if to either run or attack. Lyssa didn't give him a chance to decide. In a blur of crimson and black steel, she cut clean through his neck. Her strike was over before his head had a chance to hit the floor, rolling past her feet and leaving a sticky trail of singed blood in it's wake.

With a glance to her mistress to ensure she had her permission, the cyborg struck her staff against the stone below her. The sharp metallic crack echoed through out the cavern, drawing the distracted cultist's focus back to her master and her.

"That kill...was an act of mercy," Lyssa declared loudly. "For a life lived without the light of our goddess is no life at all. Just as my master is willing to end your suffering by granting you the honour of following her, so too am I willing to end your suffering by sending you to the force if you refuse such a generous offer."

As she spoke, she glared fiercely at the figure whispering to the man her mistress had swayed. She didn't need to inform her master of the danger. She already knew.

 

[Azazel Xaphan]

Tags: Darth Morta
Objective 2

Xaphan found himself humored by the grim situation. Though, when was it ever not grim?

The Sith Empire roared like a Nexu as they proclaimed their brutal strength to the Galaxy, when in reality it was pathetic mewling. What type of Empire tolerated such needless infighting? What kind of state allowed its subjects to bicker and banter as it wasted their resources? They could cope all they wished with claims that they were purging weak assets, but weak assets were still assets.

He had to praise the plan his beloved Prophet had shared with him in private once, when he was but a cub without a pack. It had seemed so counterproductive to Xaphan that Sachiel would have thrown his weight behind the Sith, whose very existence was an affront to his Goddess, until today. Now he regretted ever doubting the path Apophis had set him on.

Because at their core, no matter how sturdy the foundations, the feeble Sith would always destroy themselves.

They would give the Galaxy to the Empire, and the fate that befell Sluis Van would capture every corner.

The day of revelation would come upon them all.

But now was not the time for religious reflection. He had infidels to kill.

Xaphan looked down the craggy slope that led up to the pass. Jagged and broken rocks -burnt brown and ochre - lay randomly across the decline like some giant had made a pastime of hurling boulders. Loose scree and broken shale made any ascent treacherous, forcing any approach to be funneled into dips and narrow gaps between the broken boulders. The dry winds whispering between the rocks led to an odd phenomenon where it sounded like someone was humming in your ears. He swore he heard it mutter portents of things to come.

There were forty of them. Sealed into their splinter-pattern camouflaged Wolfsbane armor, they were making the final preparations. Foxholes and low trenches had been dug. Mines and tripwires laid. Barricades were erected across flanking passages in the rock. Ammo dumps and aid stations established.

He could hear the distant roar of the battle in the distance. Smell the faint metallic tang of blood and gore borne on trade winds. Feel the ground ever-so slightly tremble beneath his feet whenever that monstrous mortar fired.

Oh! How he wished to be there, to partake in the glorious slaughter and wet his fangs. But far more important duties had called him to this region. His brothers and sisters had been given the task to guard the pass behind them that led directly into the rear of Chervertim-Colonel Asenath's assault. VesperWorks was not the only foe that the Pact was facing today.

"Look at what the hound dragged in," Xaphan heard a voice from behind him.

"Verchiel," He didn't turn around. "It's been a long time. Last we met, was it Mirial or was it Woostri?"

"Neither. Ziost. Don't ever try to forget the fact I saved your ass from that Alliance walker."

She didn't need to see past his helm. His wolfish grin could radiate through a foot of solid blastocrete. "You're never going to let me live that one, are you?"

"If I hadn't been there, you'd have had a higher chance of survival jumping headfirst into a volcano."

"Still. That got the Warmaster to staple that medal to my chest."

"By the Goddess!" the crimson lens of her facemask blinked to indicate her eyes rolling, "No matter how much you ask for it... Death always moves you to the back of the line."

Xaphan turned around.

Verchiel was a good head shorter than her comrades. For Xaphan, the top of her head barely came up to his lower chest. But what she lacked in height, she more than made up for in width. Death Brigadiers were already subject to rigorous stimm-regiments to strengthen their elite bodies. She took it to another level by spontaneously performing extreme physical training whenever her wolf pack was back on base. It wasn't uncommon for her to be seen heaving hundred-kilo hand weights with one hand while simultaneously writing poetry and hymns with the other. In a way, she viewed her body as a sacred altar to Apophis.

Over time, her muscles had swelled to such breadth that her Wolfsbane armor had to be constantly readjusted and refitted. Her midnight raids on the barracks pantry quickly became songs of legend and had proven quite unstoppable. Finally, it had gotten to a point her pack leader finally told – no, commanded! – her grow no thicker.

Ever the obedient soldier, though with some reluctance, Verchiel's massive body followed her superior's orders, and she worked only to maintain what mass she possessed. Though what she maintained was more than enough to allow her to wield a monstrous blade as her secondary weapon, more easily likened to a heap of raw iron than anything else.

Xaphan suspected that they could easily erect a bastion wall by just putting her alone on the ridgeline.

"Then I hope Death extends my misfortune to all of us."

She paused, knowing he had just gotten back from his scouting mission against Darth Morta 's forces. "It's that bad, huh?"

Xaphan nodded.

Spoiler: Equipment and ORBAT

-40 Death Brigadiers in defensive positions.

Armour
-Wolfsbane Heavy Armor
-Beskar vambraces

Weapons
-EE-4 carbine rifle
-DT-29 heavy blaster pistol
-Vibro-Beskad Bayonet

-7-PrG proton grenade
-Baradium-core code key thermal detonator
-Compound Flex-5 Detonite Tape

 

[Taeli Raaf]

Objective IV - Sluis Van Restoration
Sub-Objective - Help the Wife Survive Home
Fiolette Yvarro
​

"That's what they do, they hiss because of the steam, love," she replied, attempting to hide the ever threatening smile from growing as she heard the chaos in the background. "And might I remind you, your love of espresso is precisely why I bought the machine. That caf-house in Qosantyra spoiled you, and we both know you could never go back to instant."

Her expression would soften.

"I miss you too. I should only be another day or two at most. I'm just getting everything in order and then handing it off to be overseen by Merryn and others. In the meantime, point me at the machine."

Once the camera focused on it, and the immediate surroundings, a few cabinets would open on their own accord as a backup portafilter and other components and ingredients float out and in as she used the Force to fix the machine from its campaign against her wife. Like a Niamos dance line, levers and buttons would be pressed in a certain sequence as caf and espresso and milk and cream and steam were spun beautifully into a cup for her wife that was gently placed onto the dispenser.

"There, should be good to go for now," she would say, then her attention would shift to off camera and once again the Force would make her voice echo in the middle of the kitchen as she used a technique she learned in her wandering of the galaxy. "Kids, be good for your mother or she'll put your armlets on you and I'll make sure they stay there."