Invasion This is the Way || ME Invasion of DIA-held Yaga Minor

[Beskar]

INVASION OF YAGA MINOR
"Shall I not avenge myself on a nation such as this?"​

YAGA MINOR, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES
Local Time: 0700 Hours

Dawn broke over Yaga Minor the way it always did, pale light spilling across factory spires and smog-choked skylanes as the planet stirred itself awake to labor.

The airwaves hummed with comforting routine. Morning broadcasts rolled across public frequencies, cheerful voices discussing weather patterns, output forecasts, and productivity benchmarks from the planet’s industrial sectors. Traffic controllers guided cargo haulers into holding patterns with practiced ease. Refinery supervisors checked in with orbital coordinators as shipments of refined materials were queued for departure into Diarchy space. Every channel carried the same unspoken promise.

Business as usual.

Then the static began.

At first it was easy to dismiss. A flicker. A crackle. The kind of interference that haunted industrial worlds thick with machinery and power draw. But the noise did not fade. It multiplied. It leapt from channel to channel with unnatural speed, a synchronized disruption that swallowed planetary comms whole. Civilian, industrial, and military frequencies alike were seized in a single, suffocating instant.

The slicing was total. Precise. Overwhelming.

The chatter died, replaced by silence, and then a recording.

A single figure filled holoscreens and datapads across the planet. One of the Diarchy’s own Diarchs, seated casually at a table, posture relaxed, expression unguarded. There was no speech crafted for public consumption, no measured cadence meant for a crowd. This was private. Intimate. Damning.

His voice carried clearly as he spoke to an unseen benefactor, his words stripped of ceremony and restraint. He begged. He pleaded. He asked not for victory or deterrence, but for eradication. For Mandalorian worlds to be displaced. For their people to be wiped from the stars. For genocide, spoken plainly, without hesitation or shame.

The transmission did not remain confined to Yaga Minor.

It surged outward, riding hyperspace relays and pirate bands alike. Lianna. Coruscant. Jutrand. Naboo. Pelagon. Nar Shaddaa. For a few brief, shining moments, the galaxy watched the Diarchy’s mask fall away completely. No denials. No reinterpretation. No escape.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the signal vanished. The airwaves returned to life in a frenzy of confusion and panic. Questions rose unspoken in a thousand minds. What had they just seen. Who had done this. Why now.

They were never given time to ask. Above Yaga Minor, the heavens thundered.

A distress call tore through orbital channels, a standard mayday cry crackling with urgency and fear. Panicked droid voices overlapped one another, warning of catastrophic failure, of systems unresponsive, of a vessel spiraling beyond control. Sensors flared as something vast began to claw its way out of hyperspace. A relic emerged into realspace in a storm of flame and ruptured energy.

A Lucrehulk-class battleship, ancient and immense, its hull scorched and burning as it roared forward on an unyielding trajectory. The droid voices grew shriller, pleading for assistance, for intervention, for mercy. Yet the ship did not slow. It did not alter course. Its engines burned hotter, driving it faster toward the dense cluster of stations and automated defenses guarding Yaga Minor’s orbit.

Like a moth drawn to an ember, it was falling exactly where it was meant to.

The Forgepoint-class War Station loomed ahead, the crown jewel of the planet’s orbital defenses. The Lucrehulk became its inferno.

As collision loomed inevitable, a deeper thunder rolled across the void. Space itself seemed to recoil as hyperspace tore open again, not once, but dozens of times. Warships poured into realspace in disciplined formation, hulls dark and angular, banners and transponders blazing with the sigil of the Mythosaur.

The Mandalorian Empire had arrived. There would be no more warnings. No more patience. No more restraint. Blood would be answered with blood. Violence with violence. War with war.​

THIS IS THE WAY.​

Spoiler: Objectives

Location: High Orbit, Yaga Minor

Yaga Minor’s sky is not empty space. It is a fortress.

The Diarchy’s Bastion Curtain coils around the planet in layered rings of steel and energy, anchored by war stations and orbital platforms engineered to endure prolonged siege. Adaptive shield networks recalibrate in real time, learning from every strike. Defense platforms stand ready to burn attackers from the void, while command nodes coordinate the battlespace with ruthless efficiency.

This is the Diarchy’s first promise to its people. That nothing reaches the surface without their consent.

Mandalore intends to tear that promise apart.

Your mission? Engage the orbital defenses. Break their cohesion. Seize control of the sky and hold it long enough for the invasion to breathe.​

PvP | Space Combat-Focused (Attn: Fleeters & Pilots)
Expect coordinated enemy fleets, layered defenses, adaptive shields, and contested objectives across open space. This is a proving ground for commanders who can read the flow of battle and pilots who thrive under pressure.

Location: Santhe-Sienar Orbital Shipyards, Yaga Minor

Suspended above the planet like a crown of steel, the Santhe-Sienar shipyards stand as a monument to the Diarchy’s industrial reach. Forty-eight construction bays churn endlessly, feeding fleets, contracts, and wars beyond counting. To the galaxy, they are proof that the Diarchy rewards those who stand beside it.

To Mandalore, they are a warning etched in durasteel.

The station is guarded by local garrisons and interceptor wings, confident in the layered defenses of Yaga Minor’s orbit. Its architects believe distance and partnership make them untouchable.

They are mistaken.

Your mission? Penetrate the station’s defenses. Take what must be taken. Leave behind proof that Diarchy protection ends at the first real test.​

PvP | Boarding & Sabotage-Focused (Attn: Breachers, Slicers, & Saboteurs)
Expect close-quarters fighting, shifting control of key systems, security countermeasures, and enemy players defending vital infrastructure. This objective rewards coordination, precision, and ruthless efficiency.

Location: Vjunhollow, Industrial Capital of Yaga Minor

Vjunhollow is not merely a city. It is a machine.

Its foundries burn without pause, its manufactories feed the Diarchy’s war economy, and its rebuilt space elevator pierces the sky as a declaration of endurance. Once shattered during the Gravesong War, it was restored as proof that the Diarchy survives all challenges and protects what it claims.

Mandalore remembers the first fall.

And it has not forgotten how to make the ground tremble.

Garrisons of Diarchy forces hold the city in force, supported by contracted security and hardened infrastructure. Every avenue is fortified. Every approach watched. The space elevator stands at the center of it all, artery and symbol bound together in steel and ambition.

Your mission? Strike the heart of the industrial engine. Break its ability to sustain the wars beyond this world.​

PvP | Ground and Demolition-Focused (Attn: Military Forces)
Expect entrenched defenders, urban warfare, fortified positions, and contested demolition objectives. This is a battlefield for disciplined units, shock troops, and commanders who can turn chaos into decisive momentum.

Location: Wherever your story takes you

This invasion is not fought quietly.

The Diarchy claims righteousness, protection, and strength earned through sacrifice. Those claims have gone unchallenged for too long. Mandalore does not merely strike. Mandalore exposes.

Your mission? Tell your story. Shape the narrative. Decide what this war means for your character and how the galaxy remembers their role within it.

Victory here is not measured in territory alone, but in perception reshaped and convictions broken.​

BYOO | Bring Your Own Objective
This objective runs alongside all others. Political maneuvering, personal rivalries, battlefield heroics, covert operations, propaganda, or character-driven arcs are all welcome. If it fits the invasion, it belongs here.

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | MSV Ironsides​

ORBIT, YAGA MINOR

The hangar of the MIV Ironsides opened onto the stars like the maw of a great beast, all steel ribs and burning light, and Aether stood at its edge as hyperspace peeled away before them. The Iron Eidolon-class Battlecruiser emerged with predatory grace, its vast hull casting long shadows across the assembled fighters and dropships as the Mandalorian armada arrived in force. He did not rush forward, did not bark orders, did not posture. He watched. He waited. He witnessed.

Far ahead, a relic of a dead era screamed toward oblivion.

The Lucrehulk burned as it tore through realspace, engines howling beyond restraint, its course locked with merciless certainty. Mandalorian intelligence had been clear in its assessment, this would not be a war won by half-measures or polite exchanges of fire. This would require a statement written in flame and impact, something so decisive that even the densest corners of the galaxy would be forced to look up and listen. Aether’s jaw set as the ancient battleship hurtled toward the Diarchy’s defensive line, a hammer cast across the void to shatter complacency and fear alike.

“This is how it begins.” Aether said, his voice calm and iron-bound, carrying easily through the hangar’s roar. “They thought themselves untouchable. They thought distance and steel would save them. Today, they learn what happens when you mistake comfort for strength.”

As the armada surged forward, engines flaring and formations tightening, Aether turned from the stars to face his warriors. The hangar was alive in a way only Mandalorian spaces could be, the growl of starfighters cycling power, the heavy footfalls of Basilisk war droids shifting in their restraints, the sharp scent of fuel and hot metal hanging thick in the air. Helmets turned toward him. Warriors leaned in. Every pulse in the chamber beat toward the same purpose.

Mand’alor the Iron stepped forward, charcoal beskar’gam drinking in the hangar lights, crimson cape falling heavy across his shoulders. With a smooth, practiced motion, he raised the Darksaber high, its black blade humming with restrained fury as it caught the eye of every soul present.

“Today.” Aether declared, his voice rising without strain, carrying authority rather than volume, “we answer a debt written in blood. The Diarchy begged for our erasure, whispered it behind closed doors, and thought the galaxy would never hear them. They were wrong.”

He swept the blade outward, indicating the stars beyond the hangar doors.

“They preach that they are indomitable!” he continued, a hard edge cutting through his words. “We will break them. They preach that their industry stands above consequence, that their machines and markets make them untouchable. We will lay them low. They preach righteousness while plotting slaughter, and today, they will be proven guilty before the eyes of the galaxy.”

The Darksaber lowered slightly as his gaze locked with the ranks before him, voice dropping into something colder, sharper, unmistakably final.

“Mandalore does not forget. Mandalore does not forgive treachery. We demand an answer for every lie they cast across the sky, and we will take it with our own hands.”

He lifted the blade once more, fist tightening around its hilt.

“This is the Way!”​

Aether shouted, the words tearing free from his chest as the hangar erupted in thunderous response.

Moments later, he climbed aboard his Basilisk war droid, its massive frame coming alive beneath him with a familiar growl of power and readiness. Waiting at its side was Persephone Halcyon , alabaster against the dark machinery, calm and unshaken in the face of what awaited them below. Aether gave her a confident nod, a silent promise passed between them, then ran a quick diagnostic across his beskar’gam, systems responding in clean, reassuring tones.

“Let’s finish this.” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, as the Basilisk shifted toward the hangar threshold.

With a roar of engines and a storm of fire, Aether led the charge into open space, the Mandalorian armada’s weapons coming online around him as battle blossomed above Yaga Minor. Yet his focus was already fixed beyond the stars, beyond the orbital firestorm, locked on the surface below.

In the shadow of the space elevator, beneath the smoke and steel of a world about to be judged, Mandalorian justice waited.​

Persephone Halcyon , Tessa Thayne , Itzhal Volkihar , Siv Kryze + Open

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Amelia von Sorenn | Laphisto | @OPEN




High Orbit, Yaga Minor

Yaga Minor did not greet invaders with silence.

It greeted them with geometry.

Rings of steel and light coiled around the planet in deliberate layers, platforms locked into overlapping arcs, shield lattices breathing as one, command nodes pulsing with adaptive logic. The Bastion Curtain was not a wall so much as a living system, learning, adjusting, waiting. It promised safety to those below.

From the void beyond the outermost ring, something answered that promise.

The Iron Hound translated in at standoff range, engines cold a heartbeat longer than doctrine allowed. A battlecruiser built for pursuit and punishment, her profile was lean and aggressive, prow angled like a hunting blade. Around her, the fleet resolved into being, escorts sliding into preassigned vectors, strike elements holding just beyond the curtain’s sensor envelope, pilots quiet and ready.

On the command deck, Renn Vizsla stood with his hands clasped behind his back, visor dark, posture unyielding.

He did not rush.

“Confirm telemetry lock,” he said calmly.

Data flowed across the tactical holo-defense rings, power distribution nodes, shield harmonics cycling in complex patterns. The Diarchy had invested heavily here. Adaptive systems, redundant command spines, kill zones nested within kill zones.

Good, Renn thought. They believed in this place.

“Fleet,” he continued, voice rolling out over encrypted Mandalorian channels, “this curtain isn’t meant to stop us. It’s meant to slow us. That means it can break.”

The Iron Hound advanced by degrees, just enough to taste the edge of the defenses without committing. The fleet mirrored the movement, a predator’s patience rather than a charge.

“Primary objective,” Renn said, “is cohesion. Not destruction. We peel their coordination apart, force the platforms to think alone. Once the curtain stops breathing as one, we own the sky.”

A pause. Deliberate.

“Pilots, this is your proving ground. You will be tempted to chase kills. Don’t. Bleed them, blind them, and live long enough to do it again.”

The battlecruiser’s forward arrays came to life at low power, sensor vanes unfolding like a hound scenting prey. Targeting solutions began to ghost into existence, suggestions, not commitments.

Renn inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging an old rival across the void.

“Helm,” he ordered, at last. “Bring us in on vector dusk-nine. Let the Bastion Curtain know we’ve arrived.”

The Iron Hound surged forward, and with her came Mandalore’s intent, measured, relentless, and utterly unconcerned with promises made to planets that were not hers.

 

[Souls of the Lilaste order]

Objective 3
Open for Oposition

​

LIlaste Ground command.


Commander Tarain stood before the holotable, both hands braced against its cold durasteel edge as shifting blue light washed across his armor. The projection filled the room with a live, overhead view of the battle unfolding block by block an entire city reduced to vectors, heat blooms, and casualty markers. His eyes moved constantly, tracking motion rather than symbols, reading the fight the way only someone who had lived inside too many of them could.

The Lucrehulk’s death had not been clean.

Though the massive vessel had been destroyed before full atmospheric entry, its momentum had carried the wreckage forward. Vast fragments of hull and superstructure tore loose as it broke apart, and several Mandalorian transports had latched onto the debris in its final moments, riding the dying bulk downward like parasites clinging to a falling carcass. What followed was not a single impact, but a sustained rain of fire and metal. Entire sections of the city vanished beneath collapsing durasteel, shockwaves rippling outward as burning wreckage punched through towers and streets alike.

The battlefield below was no longer an urban engagement in any meaningful sense. What had once been clean avenues and planned fallback routes had become a labyrinth of collapsed hull plating, shattered infrastructure, and impromptu choke points. Supply lines that had been mapped and rehearsed were now being rewritten in real time, convoy routes constantly adjusted as new obstructions formed faster than they could be cleared. Keeping units in contact was becoming a fight of its own.

A sharp ping cut through the command chamber as an incoming signal flared across the holotable. Tarain raised a brow slightly and keyed the channel without looking away from the display.

The situation report was concise and grim.

A convoy of LO-94s had become pinned while attempting to force a path through a fractured hull segment from the Lucrehulk’s forward section. The debris was too dense for the tanks to push through unaided, and enemy pressure was mounting. Infantry support was requested immediately to clear the obstruction and secure a corridor. If those tanks failed to reach @tarn’s position in time, the front there would not merely stall it would collapse.

That was only part of it.

A significant portion of the LO-25 emplacements guarding the command base had gone dark, their power feeds severed by secondary impacts. The weapons themselves were intact, but without rapid rerouting of their power supplies they were little more than dead metal overlooking open sky. If those emplacements remained offline, the base would be exposed, vulnerable to air assault at the worst possible moment.

Tarain exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing as the implications stacked one atop another. Armor delayed. Infantry stretched thin. Static defenses compromised. The battle was still winnable, but the margin for error was shrinking by the minute.And minutes were something he could no longer afford to waste.

---

'Sentinel' Janius Everwall

Tapping commands into his holocomputer, Tarain scrolled through the roster of available units. Data cascaded across the display as he filtered by distance, operational readiness, and terrain compatibility. Several Diarchy and Lilaste formations remained active across the wider battlespace, but most were either already committed or positioned too far out to intervene in time. The battle was compressing inward, and response windows were closing rapidly.
Two units remained within reach.

The Meuans of the Iron Creed and the Angels of Meu stood apart from the rest of the listings, not because of their numbers, but because of what they represented. Both formations hailed from a world long disconnected from the wider galaxy, warriors forged in an environment unlike any this city could offer. On their homeworld, they were experts. They understood its terrain, its weather, its threats with an instinct born of generations. Here, among shattered durasteel towers and burning avenues, that instinct would be tested.

They were trained. Disciplined. Highly capable within the bounds of what they knew. What they lacked was experience in a war like this. Tarain studied their positions in silence, weighing the risks. Committing them now meant throwing them into an unfamiliar battlefield at a critical moment. Holding them back meant leaving veteran units to bleed longer than necessary. The decision was not ideal, but war rarely offered ideal choices.

Perhaps it was time for the new flock to get its feet wet.

Reaching out, Tarain keyed the holotable and established a stabilized, encrypted commline. Routing protocols locked in as the channel resolved, the signal cutting cleanly through the chaos of the battlefield.

He directed the first transmission to the Iron Creed.The channel resolved with a brief hiss of static before stabilizing. Tarain straightened slightly, one hand still resting on the holotable as the tactical display continued to shift beneath his palm.

“Iron Creed, this is Commander Tarain, You have a mission.” With a flick of his fingers, targeting data transferred across the channel. Coordinates pulsed into existence on the Creed’s end, outlining a broken arterial roadway leading toward the sky elevator. The route was choked with wreckage, collapsed plating, and intermittent enemy contact.

“A convoy of Gravemark and Firestorm tanks is currently pinned along this corridor,Their route was compromised by hull debris from the Lucrehulk’s forward section. Those vehicles are critical to reinforcing the elevator approach. If they do not arrive, that axis will fail.”

He paused briefly, letting the weight of the assignment settle.“You are the most suitable infantry regiment I have within range,Your task is straightforward. Escort the convoy. Clear obstructions. Secure the route. Ensure every tank reaches its objective intact.”The battlefield flickered again as secondary data populated the display.

“If you require overwatch, establish contact with Marius, He is operating independently in the area with a radio pack and can coordinate artillery strikes or limited air support as needed. If you need fire brought down hard and fast, he is your point of contact.”

Silence followed for a fraction of a second as the transmission concluded. Tarain terminated the channel cleanly, the Iron Creed’s tactical markers updating immediately as they began to maneuver. Without hesitation, he shifted his attention back to the holotable and selected the second unit.

The channel shifted as Tarain rerouted the signal, the holotable briefly reconfiguring before the new commline stabilized. He did not raise his voice when he spoke. He did not need to.

---

Norbert Oro

“Angels of Meu, this is Commander Tarain,We are in need of guardianship.”As he spoke, a new set of coordinates transmitted across the channel. The display highlighted an array of air defense emplacements positioned along the outer edge of the command sector. Several icons pulsed amber, their systems intact but inactive.

“These emplacements lost their primary power feeds after debris impact Your objective is to restore them. Reroute the main power block to an alternate relay node if the lines are still viable. If not, engage the turrets’ emergency battery systems.”

He paused briefly, anticipating the complication before it could become a question.

“The emergency systems should have activated automatically, If they have not, assume the internal power cells are depleted or damaged due to the outage. Inspect and replace as needed.”The tactical feed expanded again, marking a secondary location nearby.

“There is a small outpost approximately five hundred meters from your current position, It holds spare power cells. You are authorized to requisition them for your weapons or for the emplacements themselves if required.”

His gaze remained fixed on the projection, already tracking how long the defenses could remain down before enemy aircraft noticed the gap.

“Restore those guns, Once they are back online, this sector becomes far harder to break.”

The transmission ended cleanly, the Angels’ icons shifting as orders were acknowledged and movement began.

Tarain leaned back slightly from the holotable, eyes narrowing as the battle continued to unfold. Two new variables were now in motion. Whether they would hold depended on how quickly familiar warriors could adapt to an unfamiliar war.

---

Marius Hayes

Tarain tapped his commlink and routed a priority message through secured channels. The signal leapt outward across the battlespace, seeking a single node amid the chaos.

“Marius,I am routing you a direct uplink to the Iron Creed.”As he spoke, authorization keys and targeting permissions transferred automatically, binding the channels together.

“You are their eyes in the sky,” Tarain continued. “A convoy of Gravemark and Firestorm tanks is moving toward the space elevator. They are pinned and will require constant overwatch to break through. Your task is to keep that corridor clear.”The holotable updated again, threat envelopes shifting as Tarain tracked likely ambush vectors.

“Provide them with cover,” he said. “Watch for movement along elevated wreckage and fractured hull sections. Call in artillery or close air support as needed, but keep your head down while you do it.”His tone hardened slightly, not with anger, but with emphasis.

“You are the only active radio operator in that area of operations,Those men will be relying on you for accurate fire missions and timely CAS coordination. Make every call count.”The transmission ended, and Tarain’s attention returned to the wider battle.

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Vjunhollow, Yaga Minor
Tags: Aselia Verd | Mia Monroe | Aether Verd | Liorra | Warpriest Prime | Drego Ruus | Itzhal Volkihar

The countdown began.

Rashe’a.

Cuir.

Ehn.

T’ad.

Solus.

The Mandalorian fleet reverted to sublight speed. Ahead of them, the Lucrehulk-class battleship burned internally, listing and on collision course with Yaga Minor’s orbital stations and defenses. Right on target. The Mand’alor from his position in the ship gave a brief speech. A chorus answered. Adelle listened to the comms come alive as commanders gave orders, pilots acknowledged and coordinated their movements.

::Mhi slanar diryc tra.::

There were some big names on board the ship: Aether Verd, the Mand’alor himself; Warpriest Prime; Aselia Verd; Mia Monroe. Adelle approached her Jai’galaar Basilisk and mounted it with steadier movements than she felt. Her beskar’gam sealed itself and she settled in to wait. Her helm’s comms crackled again.

::Bat ara’nov. Ke tsikador barycir. O’r rashe’a. Cuir.::

Adelle gripped the controls of her Basilisk and steadied her breathing.

::Ehn. T’ad.::

The armored shuttle rumbled and slowed.

::Solus. K’barycir!::

The floor dropped from underneath them and the war machines dropped into low orbit. Adelle adjusted the angle of her drop for more control and kept to formation. Lights flashed as the battle for space supremacy began in earnest, before they were burned away by entry into atmosphere.

War machines roared through the air as they dropped deep into Vjunhollow. Duracrete cracked beneath their landing and the fireteams began to divide. And conquer.

 

[Aselia Verd]

Armor: [X]
Armament: Full List

Aselia heard the transmission the same way everyone else did.

The moment the Diarch's voice bled across the holonet unfiltered, unvarnished, begging for extermination something in the galaxy tightened. Not fear. Recognition. The kind that comes when a line is finally crossed and everyone, even those pretending neutrality, knows it.

Genocide didn't need interpretation.

It didn't need debate.

It needed an answer.

---

VJUNHOLLOW, YAGA MINOR
LOW ORBIT → DROP PHASE

Aselia stood locked into her Basilisk's cradle as the countdown rolled, beskar'gam sealed tight around her like a second skeleton. Her HUD scrolled continuously telemetry, atmospheric shear, hostile density estimates blooming red across the schematic of the city below.

Orbital fire lit the upper atmosphere in fractured arcs. The Lucrehulk's dying trajectory painted the sky in molten lines, a falling monument to inevitability. She watched it without sentiment.

Let it fall.
Let them see.

Her comms caught Adelle's steady breathing on a nearby channel. Familiar. Grounding. She didn't speak to her yet no need. They'd fought together long enough that silence carried intent.

Aether's voice came next. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Iron.

She felt it settle through the formation like gravity, aligning vectors more efficiently than any algorithm ever could. Mand'alor the Iron didn't command attention he anchored it.

Aselia toggled weapon systems live.

Missiles: armed.
Micro-rockets: green.
Wrist blasters: charged.
Countermeasures: cycling.

Her lightsaber remained mag-locked at her back.

Her HUD pulsed once as predictive combat models finished resolving urban terrain, verticality extreme, likely resistance nodes clustered around the space elevator and industrial control spires. Diarchy security forces were already scrambling. Too late. Reaction instead of preparation.

Predictable.

The countdown hit zero.

Gravity seized her Basilisk and hurled it planetward.

Fire wrapped the war machine as it punched through atmosphere, shockwaves rippling outward as dozens of Mandalorian drops followed in disciplined descent. The city of Vjunhollow rushed up to meet them—steel towers, conveyor arteries, smoke stacks already vomiting confusion into the sky.

Aselia adjusted her angle mid-fall, aligning her vector with Adelle's, her basilisk rolled sharply the vector for the space elevator locked in, the velocity now exceeding break away tolerance.

She smiled faintly inside her helm.

"This is what happens," she murmured to no one in particular, "when you break faith with Mandalorians.."

Her Basilisk hit hard.

Duracrete shattered. Shockwaves rippled. The machine rose from the crater like a myth given steel and fire, weapons already tracking, systems already screaming for targets.

Aselia dropped from the basilisk and simultaneously drew her saber and her disruptor pistol.

No speeches.

No mercy.

Just follow-through.

This was the Way.

​

TAG: Adelle Bastiel + OPEN

​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda didn't brace for the descent. He didn't need to. The Basilisk war droid beneath him had lived through thousands of drops—he'd ridden worse. Still, the planet spread out below like a living thing, and for a moment, even he allowed himself a heartbeat of awe. Yaga Minor's industrial grids glinted in the sunlight, smoke spiraling from the orbital turrets that had just begun firing at them, and the sprawl of the Diarchy's defenses looked impressively organized. Too organized. Dangerous. Perfect for a hunt.


The war droid shuddered as its retrojets fired, flares streaking against the thickening atmosphere. Korda tightened his harness straps, feeling the vibrations through metal and bone. Around him, the rest of his squad, unnamed Mandalorians he had trained, led, and occasionally berated, clung to their Basilisks with the same grim focus, their armor reflecting the dying sun as they cut through the upper clouds. None spoke. No need. Their silence was a signal, a shared acknowledgment that every drop was a roll of the dice.


He laughed, sharp and raw, letting the sound rip free into the wind. Not mockery, not bravado, just a small, human acknowledgment of the insanity of what they were about to do.


"May the Destroyer watch over us," he said, voice clear in the comm-link, and let the words hang, heavy with meaning. "If we fall today, save me a spot in the afterlife."

Even with the chaos around him, Korda felt calm. There was honor in this madness, clarity in the violence. The war droid responded smoothly to his slight hand movements, stabilizing as flak began to bloom from the planetary surface. Smoke spiraled upward, streaking across the sky like the fingers of a hand trying to pull them back before they reached the ground.


Korda's eyes, behind his visor, tracked every line of fire, every projected shield bubble, every glint of a turret barrel. He memorized patterns instinctively: drop zones, blind spots, likely kill zones. By the time they breached the upper cloud layer, he already knew where the first Basilisk squad would hit, and where the enemy would try to choke them.

Beneath them, the industrial planet groaned under its own weight, belching smoke from the factories and orbital platforms that dotted the landscape. Explosions began to dot the surface, tiny at first, then larger as incoming squads collided with automated defense batteries. The Basilisk droid under Korda bucked slightly as a stray shell detonated nearby, sending tremors through his harness. He adjusted immediately, leaning into the machine, feeling the familiar hum of its servos in response.


He could hear the distant shouts of his squad through the comm, not words of fear, just clipped tactical observations, acknowledgement signals, a chorus of controlled chaos. One of them shouted coordinates for a turret nest, another flagged a defensive trench. Korda absorbed it all, already forming a plan for their impact.

The final kilometers burned past. The war droid screamed through the lower atmosphere, heat shields flaring as air resistance tore at its plating. Korda allowed himself a second laugh, quiet this time, almost a chuckle at the absurdity: falling through a sky filled with gunfire and smoke, leading a squad of Mandalorians on machines built for death.

Below, the ground rushed up, industrial buildings and defensive emplacements becoming shapes, then textures, then individual points of danger. Korda's gloved hands flexed, checking his harness straps and the Ashen Maw secured across his chest. He had to be ready for anything: a sudden pit in the road, a turret they missed, a squad of DIA enforcers sprinting to meet them at the drop zone.

"Lock in," he murmured to himself. Not a command. Just a reminder. The war droid responded, retrojets pulsing in anticipation of the final burn. "this is the way"
And then, impact.

Metal screamed against metal as the Basilisk hit the surface, treads scouring concrete and slag. The force shoved Korda into his harness, his armor rattling against him. Debris flew, and through the visor, he saw his squad leaping off the war droids with lethal precision, landing among the scattered defensive fire with unerring timing. He followed, landing hard but controlled, servos absorbing the worst of the impact.

All around him, Yaga Minor erupted in chaos. Turrets flared, walls shattered, and somewhere a factory's roof gave way to an explosion that lit up the sky like fire in a tomb. Korda drew the Ashen Maw, feeling the familiar weight, the hum of energy that promised swift retribution.

He smiled beneath the helmet, teeth hidden but intent clear. The Destroyer might watch them, or not, but down here, he would make sure that every second, every swing, every shot counted.

The invasion had begun.

tags: Open

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

​

| Location | Yaga Minor, Outer Rim Territories

Authority was not given; it was earned.

Mandalore did not follow simply because orders were given; it followed because the words resonated with the souls of those who heard them. The Diarchy had chosen its line in the sand, their spiteful vision concealed behind paper-thin smiles, and backroom deals they never intended to breach the light of day. Blind to the message they carved in blood, a declaration of weakness that demanded the Empire's retribution, or else forever be damned with the consequences of their impotence.

It was time that they were dragged from the shadows.

"This is the way," Itzhal whispered—solemn, weighed down by the expectations of war and the coming bloodshed. The sound of his voice was muffled by the sides of his buy'ce and the vocalizer, which remained inactive.

The tide shifted as Mandalorians above the Iron Eidolon rushed towards their transports, a racket of bodies, thunderous in the confined space, their steps a drumbeat in the incessant call of war. Itzhal's stride was quick, cutting past dropships and fighters, on the way towards his own mount.

Sleek lines and sharper edges covered the outer regions of the Basilisk War Droid; its glowing eyes—bright and knowing—turned towards him as he approached, eagerness in the shape of its bowed form, and the step it took, offering the seat that awaited him.

He reached out towards the side of its face, layered in black and crimson plates, "Mhi va subay athu'neha etid naak, bid rala mhi athu'neha etid a nakine kyr."

It purred under his touch, an amused glint in the bright red glow of its optics.

No further words were needed; joined in unity, bound by duty, Itzhal climbed upon his mount, and with a roar of thrusters that rattled the floor beneath them, they crossed the threshold of the hangar bay, out into the void.

Blaster bolts crisscrossed through space, bold lines of red and green, battered across flickering shields and scarred hulls. Slabs of metal that dared to call themselves dropships hurtled past, tails of stardust trailing in their wake. Mounted riders and their Basilisk War Droids descended upon Yaga Minor, illuminated in a blaze of glory that scorched the sky with the cry of war.

Dark clouds shrouded the sun's blinding brightness, beneath a roiling wave of grey, interspersed with thunderous sparks that skittered through the atmosphere. Yaga Minor cried for the suffering it endured, a bleak history marked by grave losses and awe-inspiring heroics from Men of Iron and the Twin Thrones alike. In the distance, lightning crackled like the guttural laughter of a jester's final performance.

Crack

Ha​

Crack.​

Ha​

Crack.

Surrounded by allies, Itzhal Volkihar sat alone, his visor obscured by the blistering heat that swallowed his form, reduced only by the atmospheric shield attached to the war droid beneath him. The screeching wind swallowed the roar of his fellow Mandalorians, and the signals received by his buy'ce were nothing more than crackled nonsense.

Blackout.

Sweltering heat trickled down his back, a fickle acknowledgement of the firestorm outside, and the searing metal plates of his mount that should have burned him alive. They wouldn't, not yet, at least. His bodysuit was made for this, he told himself, even as his bones ached and the pressure outside slammed him deeper into the press of his seat.

Ten seconds.

The atmosphere tore itself apart in a flare of light that flickered over the ablative heatshield, defiantly beating back the tongues of fire that skittered over its glowing form.

Six Seconds.

Slow falling debris in their way shattered, torn asunder by metal claws, a shrill shriek reverberated through the scorched sky, felt rather than heard over the endless wind.

Two seconds.

Laboured breaths stained his visor with a creeping mist of perspiration. A moment later, a flash of blue light scanned from left to right, evaporating the stains as his vision cleared.

Red light twinkled in the corner of his sight, growing brighter as it neared. The weight beneath his legs shifted, the straps digging deeper into his thighs, as he flipped sideways, the blaster bolt flying past to detonate in the slowly falling debris field above.

They needed to move faster.

Itzhal's helmet panned across the horizon, over the monument of crumbled buildings and war-torn battlelines, marked with bloody purpose, Mandalorians and the servants of the Twin Seats fought. Hardship was their ally, and toil their destiny. In time, they might even grasp victory, but such was the path of attrition, a pyrrhic victory built upon far too many bodies.

His place was not there.

Amidst the chaos, a towering spire stood tall yet forlorn, weeping with the bitter tears that streaked down silver plates, crying out for the world that suffered beneath its despair-ridden gaze. Lashed to the structure's side, cables in dull bronze and faded grey, shivered with the screech of the wind that rattled against them, bending under the strain that brought them low. Smoke curled around its base, obscuring the path to the stars and the war that waged in the heavens above.

It was there, in the shadow of the space elevator, surrounded by smoke and fire, that the Diarchy would make their stand.

Buildings and streets beneath them blurred—a dull blend of obnoxious charcoal, sheathed in a low-falling layer of ash. His hands wrapped around the handles of his Basillisk, squeezing tight as the wind slammed into his shoulders and back, his chest pressed deep into the curve of the padded seat.

A shooting star descended upon the tower.

Tags: Diarch Rellik

Assets: Standard Basilisk War Droid​

 

[Jonah]

ABOARD THE RELENTLESS
Orbit, Yaga Minor

After so long, the reckoning had finally arrived.

Months had passed since the Diarchy chose blood as their opening argument, months of restraint, preparation, and careful accounting. Jonah had felt every one of them settle into his bones like a promise that would not be denied. Now the Mandalorian Empire had come to collect, and the galaxy would learn that debts answered by Mandalore were never forgiven, only resolved.

He had no interest in the thunder and spectacle unfolding across the wider battlespace. That belonged to his brother, to the Mand'alor, to banners raised high and blades held aloft before thousands. Jonah preferred the work that happened where the light did not linger, where results mattered more than applause. Shadows had always listened to him better than crowds ever did.

Yaga Minor's orbit was a bristling snare of defenses, platforms and stations layered with deliberate cruelty, but even a fortress had soft places if you knew where to press. Nestled among the hard angles and overlapping kill zones was the Santhe-Sienar station, an orbital stronghold that tried very hard to look inviolable. Jonah saw it for what it was instead, a vault packed with secrets, schematics, and leverage that the Diarchy never intended to share.

Untapped potential, waiting to be claimed.

"Big place for people who swear they got nothing to hide..." Jonah said quietly, his voice low and even as he studied the distant silhouette of the station through the viewport. "Anything not welded down is fair game. Anything that is, well... accidents happen in orbit."

The Relentless slipped through the dark like a held breath, its profile small and unassuming compared to the warships tearing space apart elsewhere. Jonah stood within the vessel, one hand wrapped around a strap as the ship adjusted its course, the familiar vibration of controlled power humming up through his arm. Smaller Mandalorian craft ghosted alongside them, escorts ready to flare into action if subtlety failed, though Jonah had no intention of letting it come to that.

He turned slightly toward the pilot's position, his expression unreadable beneath the calm set of his features.

"You're Tessa Thayne, right?" Jonah said, his tone casual but assessing, words measured with the precision of a blade laid flat on a table. "Aether mentioned he likes you. Said it like it mattered."

His eyes flicked back toward the station, then returned forward again.

"Figured I should see for myself what earns that kind of respect..." he added, the faintest edge of approval threading into his voice. "No pressure. Just don't get us killed before we make the Diarchy pay."

The Relentless continued its quiet approach, swallowed by shadow and signal noise as Jonah settled into the moment, every sense tuned toward the coming breach. Somewhere ahead, alarms slept unaware, data waited to be stolen, and a fortress believed itself safe.

Jonah smiled thinly. Not for long.​

Tag: Tessa Thayne , Hanna , Siv Kryze + Open

 

['Sentinel' Janius Everwall]

Objective III: Secure and Escort the Convoy
Supporting Units: Nearby Artillery, Possible CAS/CAP, Marius Hayes
Opposition: {OPEN}
Forces: The Iron Creed

Within Seconds...
"Mandata simplicia sunt, ad punctum itineris move et agmen interruptionibus libera. Nullus errori locus est."

"Interfectores Puerorum cadent, haec verba animadverte, custos. OMNES TURMAE! PROGRESSUS!"

Heavily armored boots shake the ground behind them as they reach the Convoy, a simple formation is made, Two squads of Infantry in the front, one to clear rubble manually as the other covers, and Infantry on each flank of the tanks, ensuring the enemy have a difficult time placing or using explosives...
​

Frontal Force

[Cataphracts]

Armor Integrity	User Health	Armor data	Weaponry Data
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M

[Mud Waders]

Armor Integrity	User Health	Armor data	Weaponry Data
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M

---

Right Flank

[Cataphracts]

Armor Integrity	User Health	Armor data	Weaponry Data
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M

---

Left Flank

[Cataphracts]

Armor Integrity	User Health	Armor data	Weaponry Data
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-20D LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M
▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮	T-6 PACA	LO-40R LO-22S LO-10M

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

O B J E C T I V E | Objective III
L O C A T I O N | Yaga Minor Orbit
G E A R | Gjallerhorn | Crown of Blades | Dovahdrake

Aether Verd | Adelle Bastiel | Korda Veydran | Aselia Verd | Renn Vizsla | Jonah

Diarch Reign

O P E N​

This was the only way.

For most, war was an answer. A bruise pressed until it bloomed. A grievance sharpened into permission. Even here, among Mandalorians locking helms and mounting their war machines, many carried reasons heavy as lead into the hangar.

Prime did not.

She stood apart from the current of movement, immense and still, four arms drawn inward as she cradled her sacred blades against her chest as though they breathed. Not weapons. Not merely steel. Relics, each one etched with devotion, each edge a prayer written in blood and fire. Her voice sank into a low murmur as she whispered rites meant for gods who listened best when the violence started.

Speeches rolled across the hangar. Oaths were shouted. Basilisk war droids awakened and accepted their riders.

Dima heard it all, and needed none of it.

Others required provocation. Cause. Justification.

She did not need a reason to go to war.

She needed a reason not to.

And none had been given.

When the moment came, Dima lifted one blade and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its edge. The metal shimmered, then unraveled beneath her touch, dissolving into a drift of stardust that flowed back into her armor and the crown of blades bound to her will. One by one, the rest followed, reverently dismissed, never truly gone.

She turned toward Aether Verd

No words passed between Mand'alor and executioner. A single nod sealed it. Where he pronounced judgment, she would ensure it was remembered.

As the hangar thinned, Dima raised one claw and made a small, precise gesture.

The void answered.

Azura arrived like a summoned myth, vast wings folding as the Dovahdrake drew close to the Ironsides' open maw. Ancient eyes burned with recognition as Dima approached, patting his armored neck before climbing into the massive saddle set between his shoulders. Her helm sealed with a hiss, systems aligning as faith and war synchronized.

Basilisks were symbols of empire.

This was scripture. Legacy. Echoes of a time their ancestors rode mythosuar into battle.

With a sharp flick of the reins, Azura coiled, power gathering beneath scale and sinew. Dima straightened in the saddle, her voice carrying across the hangar, rich with devotion and promise.

"For the old gods," she declared, calm and deadly sure, "and the wars they are owed."

Then executioner and dragon launched together, vanishing into the waiting dark, following Mandalore's judgment toward a world about to be corrected

 

[Laphisto]

Objective I
Renn Vizsla Amelia von Sorenn @open

​

---

Laphisto stood on the bridge of the Tracyn, his hands clasped behind his back as the low hum of the ship vibrated through the deck plates beneath his feet. A quiet rumble rolled in his throat, not anger, but recognition. The Mandalorians were coming. They always did. This time, he had not waited for certainty.

Defense fleets from nearby sectors had already been pulled inward, their arrival staggered and deliberate. The system had been reinforced further by his own personal fleet, vessels repositioned to form layered kill zones around key orbital assets. Every approach vector had been considered. Every assumption challenged. If the enemy intended to strike here, they would bleed for it.

A sudden pressure flared behind his eyes.Laphisto's breath caught as he staggered, one hand snapping out to seize the railing of the holotable. The projection flickered as his weight bore down on it. He winced, a sharp growl escaping him as the pain surged and then ebbed just enough for him to remain upright. For a heartbeat, the bridge was silent save for the soft hum of systems and the distant murmur of crew stations.

Then his eyes snapped open.He straightened, drawing himself forward, and leaned over the command console. His hand struck the comm unit with finality."All planetary guns, begin firing,All stations, open fire on the entry zone. We have contacts inbound." There was no hesitation.

Across the system, planetary mass drivers roared to life, their deep, thunderous discharges shaking continents below. Orbital defense platforms pivoted as one, weapon arrays cycling up to full power as targeting solutions flooded in. Turbolasers, ion cannons, and mass drivers poured fire into the void, saturating the space where the enemy was expected to emerge.

For a brief, terrible moment, they fired into emptiness. Then reality tore open. A massive Lucrehulk burst from hyperspace directly into the storm of incoming fire, its bulk filling the sensors in an instant. The ship emerged already too close, its momentum carrying it forward as rounds tore into its hull. It crashed through multiple orbital defense platforms, annihilating them in a cascade of fire and debris, and continued on its destructive path toward the main Forgepoint station. The battle had begun, not with maneuver or warning, but with impact. And Laphisto was already moving to meet it.

Thanks to the preemptive barrage, the Lucrehulk was already dying the moment it emerged from hyperspace.

Thousands upon thousands of kinetic slugs and turbolaser bolts slammed into its hull in overlapping waves, tearing through armor plating and cargo superstructure before the ship could even begin to maneuver. Entire sections detonated under sustained fire, internal compartments venting violently as power systems failed in rapid succession. The massive hauler pressed forward on momentum alone, its bulk hemorrhaging debris and flame as it fought to survive a distance it was never meant to cross.

It did not make it halfway. The Lucrehulk finally gave way in a cascading series of internal explosions, its frame rupturing from within as weapon fire punched clean through its core. The ship tore itself apart in a blinding chain reaction, scattering its remains across orbital space. What had once been a single vessel became a storm of wreckage.

That storm was now outbound.

Thousands of jagged fragments spiraled away from the blast site, tumbling end over end as they slammed into nearby stations and defense platforms. Some shattered against shields and armor. Others punched through, carving gouges and ruptures as they passed. Countless pieces continued on an unaltered trajectory, burning toward the planet below in long arcs of fire. On the bridge of the Tracyn , Laphisto felt the impact before the alarms caught up.

The deck lurched violently as a massive fragment of wreckage scraped across the bow, sending a shudder through the ship's frame. Laphisto staggered, a sharp growl tearing from his throat as he caught himself against the console. Warning lights flared across the bridge as inertial dampeners struggled to compensate. He straightened immediately, eyes hard as he turned toward the command stations. "Status," he demanded.The question was not whether damage had been taken. It was how bad it was, and how fast it was getting worse.

One of the bridge officers broke the silence, their voice cutting through the rising alarms.

"Shields are still holding at full, sir, Sensors confirm two Mandalorian battle cruisers jumped in behind the Lucrehulk. We are reading one hundred and seventy six orbital defense platforms destroyed by direct collision with the ship. An additional two hundred have sustained shrapnel damage but remain operational."

Laphisto's hands moved behind his back once more, a low rumble sounding in his chest as he absorbed the report. The losses were severe, but the line had not broken. Not yet. He stepped toward the holotable, the projection adjusting to his presence as new threat vectors resolved into view. "Is the Ixen ready?" he asked, lifting his gaze toward the officer with a raised brow. The answer came with a slight shake of the head. "Understood, Notify me the moment they are available."

He turned back to the table, eyes fixed on the newly arrived Mandalorian signatures. "Open a channel to the Mandalorians, Open frequency. Route it through the Trojan currently docked at the Forgepoint. I want this broadcast loud and unmistakable." The command deck moved at once, systems shifting as encryption protocols and relay paths aligned. Across the system, preparations were already underway for what came next. Laphisto remained still, watching the holotable as the channel began to open, his expression calm and resolute. The first words of this exchange would matter.

Stepping forward, Laphisto leaned toward the comm unit, his presence filling the bridge as the open frequency carried his voice outward into the void. He did not raise it. He did not need to. The words were measured, deliberate, and sharpened to draw blood where armor could not.

"Mandalorian forces, Is this truly the best you can muster. I fought your kind during the Mandalorian Wars of old, Back when you were true Mandalorians. Warriors who understood sacrifice, endurance, and the cost of the iron they wore If this is all you have to offer then you are a poor and shallow excuse for what your people once were."

He finished the challenge in their own tongue, the words carried cleanly across the open channel. Gar kyr'beskar, a'ru gar ni kyr'burcya. Beskar'gam ad echoes'la. The transmission remained open. Laphisto straightened slowly, hands clasped behind his back once more as the bridge waited in silence. Whether they answered or not, the message had been delivered.

As Laphisto pulled back from the holocall, his gaze shifted to the cold expanse of space separating his fleet from the Mandalorian ships beyond. The void between them was already alive with weapons fire, distant flashes blooming like silent lightning.

"Keep firing in their direction, even if the shots fall short at this range, maintain pressure. Save the mass driver slugs until they close within effective distance. Pull the Kor'ask Class Corvette in close to our Star Destroyers, Their anti fighter coverage will be critical once Mandalorian strike craft deploy. Keep our own fighters on standby for now. I want them fresh when the real engagement begins."

With a few precise inputs, he brought up the broader operational display on his holocomputer. The hologram expanded to reveal the full scope of the system's defenses. Five Star Destroyers held the central line, supported by thirty heavy cruisers arranged in layered formations. Nearly a hundred corvettes filled the surrounding space, their patrol patterns overlapping in tight defensive meshes. Reinforcement vectors glowed faintly at the edge of the map, inbound fleets already converging on the system.

The battle was far from over. In truth, it was only just beginning. Laphisto looked up from the display toward Edwards , a faint chuckle rumbling in his chest as the sounds of coordinated fire filled the bridge. "Welcome to the wider galaxy," he said quietly.

 

[Diarch Reign]

Location: Yaga Minor | Orbital Elevator
Tags: Aether Verd Warpriest Prime
Gear: Amulet of the Warden's Eye, Bladefather
Color Code: #B35432

---

The transmission that broke through was no surprise to Reign, he had assumed the that the perfidious Black Sun had recorded the meeting. Whether the Galaxy took it at face value or for what it truly was, an extreme ask in negotiations so that the true ask would seem far more palatable, would be seen.

Of course the syndicate had fled to the Mandalorians. Their ties to the Sith all but necessitated it. And like a barking dog, “The Iron” had come.

Troops were rallying, the Bastion Curtain was in place and the fleets were on route. Reign himself had but one mission. He would cut the head from this rabid dog. He would find Verd and silence him.

As the flurry and excitement of battle happened all around him, Reign’s focus was singular. He would meet the Mandalorian again in combat and any who stood in his way would fall.

 

[Norbert Oro]

The Angels of Meu
Allies - Diarchy and Lilaste forces
Support - Friendly FOB 500 meters away
Current Objective - Restore LO-25/AA battery, near
Location - Objective 3 City Ruins
Manpower - 20 Elite Infantrymen
Equipment - LO-20D, LO-44 MKII, LO-RPG20, LO-12S, LO-22S, Beskar Vibro-Bayonet, T9-XO Exo-Suit
Current Element Status - All 20 Alive


The 20 angels group up with their leader, Norbert Oro. One of them asks what their commander said, he cannot understand him due to a language barrier. They crouched down as the city around them was ripped apart from debris falling from the heavens. A good portion of the group was awestruck by the sight. It shook many of them.

Norbert Oro spoke to his men after the transmission ended:

"Angeli mei, ad potestatem armorum Ordinis restituendam missi sumus. Basis operativa provecta ad septentrionem nostri est. Procedamus."

After he speaks, a large piece of metal crashes into the building next to them, and sends rubble everywhere. The group is knocked to the ground and try to recover. Any normal man from Meu would falter here. To them, they were fighting a battle of the gods in the heaven, and a few of them thought about giving up there. The roar of the cannons from the ground to orbital weaponry shake everything around them, adding to the bright fiery sky.

One of the soldiers yelled out to her warriors. She spoke with bravery amidst the chaos.

"Fratres et sorores, ne desperemus ante pugnam. Venite, animas huius mundi servemus!"

With that, the group climbed up the rubble of the destroyed building. Their power armor assisted them in traversing the destroyed city. When they couldn't run down a road they went through buildings, when they couldn't go through buildings they went around them, when they couldn't go around them they went over them. Though there aren't any, they still look for the unarmed to protect. Buildings collapse around them, places that once echoed with conversations of friends and lovers were destroyed around them.

The angels ran into a building and waited there. Their first objective was just outside and in a courtyard. The battery was silent, they needed to turn it on again. The group waited for their commanders word.


Tag: Open

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Spoiler: Equipment

• Armour
• Primary Firearm
• Primary Blade
• Sidearm
• Knife

ME: Jonah Siv Kryze Hanna
DIA: The Shroud Knight Trace Xyston Souls of the Lilaste order

The Relentless was a blip on a radar, a thing to be ignored in the wake of the massive fleet that had appeared above Yaga Minor. They’d arrived with them, but she’d deliberately adjusted their vector, set their timing so they flew a minute behind everyone else. Defence systems came to life and began to light up space above them, she guided them in shadow.

Where sensor sweeps might be a problem, she shut down, letting them drift, correcting their angle with small undetectable bursts from thrusters before bringing engines back to life. Their pace was unhurried. A smile curled her lips at Jonah’s comment but she didn’t respond, her focus was on sensor readouts, watching their flanks for any surprises in case someone was bright enough to look down.

A chuckle passed her lips and she chanced a glance back at Jonah. “Is that so? Guess it's a good thing the feeling is mutual. He does like to make a scene though.”

A ping on her sensors drew her gaze back to the controls, fighters passing at the edge of their sensor range. She relayed it to their escort and adjusted course to compensate. “I’ve been flying people and things into places I shouldn’t be for two decades. There isn’t a planet or station that exists on this side of the core that I can’t get you onto.”

The shadow of the Santhe-Sienar shipyards swallowed them and Tessa shifted in her seat scanning the underside through the viewport as sensor sweeps built her a better picture of what waited beyond. “Alright, we have ventilation shafts dispersing nasty chemicals, no thank you. Waste disposal. Better, ok give me one that's inactive.” She was talking more to herself. “There we go.”

She fell quiet, gently adjusting controls as she moved the ventral airlock in line, the force guided her as much as the sensor readouts, the focus was absolute, easing only when mag locks shuddered into place securing them. She flicked the comms to their escort. “We’re secure, shutting down all non essential systems and going dark. Thank you for the company, now go give them hell.”

 

[Kallous]

​

Tags: Quinn Varanin

Kallous watched the opening engagement with a calm that didn't match the situation. The Freighter that had been used as a bomb to punch a hole in the planetary curtain, the ensuing destruction of several orbital stations following the impact. The way those orbital stations had shredded it with a hail of bombardment on approach. The transmission Laphisto had sent to them, insulting them and invoking their ancestors while doing so. So far things were going about as well as he'd expected them to.

Standing in the control center for one of the many shipyards he was tasked with defending, Kallous directed the defence of the facilities in orbit that weren't likely to be targeted for destruction. The benefit of shipyards was that they were excellent for use as hangars, and in a prolonged seige, which this might turn into, the ability to house and repair fleets of fighters, bombers and corvettes in orbit was indespensable. Meaning the Mandalorians were more likely to attempt capture as opposed to simply destroying them. Which also meant they'd be sending their best to deal with it. So the Diarchy needed its best for their defence. Because if the Mandalorians got themselves a foothold on the surface, it would be incredibly convenient to send waves of bombers on them from orbit, and if they managed to capture these shipyards, they could do the same to the Diarchy forces on the defence.

So Kallous had with him four platoons of his Storm Detatchment on board. Their weapons were meant mostly for punching through light vehicle armor at incredible range, and even disabling any lightsabers their bolts came into contact with from their sheer output, and Kallous suspected that Mandalorian armor would stack up somewhat poorly against hat amounted to small anti tank rifles.

"Major." Kallous said, turning to the commanding officer he'd brought with him for this operation. "Are the men in place?"

"Yes My Lord." The Major answered, an older man in uniform and armed with a vibrosaber and a pistol. "All of the pieces are in place."

"Any sign of trouble coming our way?" Kallous asked, even as he watched the readings himself.

"None so far," The Major reported, affirming what Kallous saw on the readings.

"Excellent. If anything starts coming in I want the gunners to funnel them toward Decks eight through eleven, between frames 1200 and 1300. Keep as many of them in that section as possible, and have the remainder no less than four compartments further out. I don't want any strays to muck this up for us." Kallous instructed.

"Yes My Lord." The Major affirmed, before relaying these reminders over their comms.

Things were just beginning. And Kallous had the feeling that they were going to become very interesting very soon.

 

[Aknoby]

Objective III

Allies: DIA open



Aknoby was sitting on his Basilisk Stomper, his helmet on his lap, as he lay comfortably in the Stomper's pilot seat, when suddenly there was an explosion in the sky and Aknoby's vision changed.

He saw explosions raining down on the city, heard screams, buildings exploding, bodies...

A clatter from his Basilisk brought him back to reality. He looked around, still somewhat confused by it all... a fragment of memory?

"Thanks, Stomper."

He took a deep breath and put on his helmet, already receiving information on his HUD.

"Invasion, Mandalorians? It will be sweet irony to face them with you."

He said, giving Basilico's armor two friendly pats.

Smirking.

"aknoby herewhere you need I and Stmper?"

 

[Trace Xyston]

​

Spoiler: Equipment

Main weapon: LO-44 MKII
Secondary weapon: LO-12S
Tertiary weapon: LO-10M
Armor: LO-62C
Utilities: grappling hook 2x gas grenade 2x thermal detonators 1x

OBJ 2

Trace Xyston, Director of Lilaste Special Operations Command, did not often find himself inspecting station security. Such a task was for members of the Internal Security Force, not an elite unit such as Commando Alpha Squad. But the orbital shipyard above Yaga Minor was no ordinary station. Diarchal information of vital importance and secrecy was stored here, and could not under any circumstances fall into the hands of an enemy. If a power wished to thrive, it needed to guard its secrets closely.

The fully armored Twi'lek stood in the archive room, watching as his comrade Rhomma's fingers moved steadily across the keys of the command console, verifying the integrity of the system's security. His comm crackled in his ear with static on an open channel and the voice of a Diarch broke through the noise. The commandos never received direct orders from the Diarchs, much less orders over a publicly available channel. Trace's hand moved to the rifle strapped across his chest slowly as he listened. This was a recording.

Then came the distress calls. Voices crying out in terror, reports of warships making haste to orbit, stations falling from the sky in burning wrecks, and the designs and emblems of the Mandalorian Empire adorning the numerous spacecraft now swarming into Diarchy space.

Trace looked to the man beside him in the uniform of the DISF, who's brow was raised slightly, but seemed largely unconcerned about the threat now bearing down on the world. The captain looked up into Trace's visor, and the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "Well. I can arrange a shuttle for you immediately if you will be deploying, Director. We will be safe here behind the Curtain. You needn't worry about us," he said, breaking into a full smile now.

The commando remained still, towering over the station commander. He appeared intimidating, but beneath his helmet his face was one of disbelief. The captain had a squad of the most elite special operators in the Diarchy and he wanted them elsewhere? "Your faith in the Curtain is noted, Captain Taz, however we cannot leave this shipyard's security to the DISF, especially when facing such a formidable foe as the Mandalorians," Trace explained, his tone steely with no room for disagreement.

Taz gulped, trying to swallow his discomfort, and replied, "Respectfully, Director, this is a Diarchal shipyard, and I am its overseer. A commando will not tell me what to do on my own—," he broke off as Garz, the largest of the operators, interrupted.

"Your standard security force will fall in minutes to the Mandos and you know it. This station needs help, and we're what you're going to get. Relinquish command of this station's forces to us. We'll do a better job conducting them than you will."

Trace could see calculations going through in the captain's eyes, where he ultimately decided fighting five heavily armed men would not be a responsible decision. He nodded reluctantly and muttered, "I'll ensure the garrison knows."

"Good. Get to the command center and lock it down. Order around 30% of your men into the room with you to guard it in case anyone boards with the intention to lock down the station. Bring the rest of your men to me, quickly. Comm me if the sensors detect ships incoming, and launch every wing of fighters we have in a tight patrol around the station."

The man did as he was ordered, and in minutes a disappointing fifteen Diarchy security soldiers stood at attention in the room. If he survived, Trace would have to bring the frustrating lack of security on a station storing secrets to the Diarchs.

A holomap of the shipyard was projected into the air, and Trace walked around it slowly. He marked the archive room and the control center, and highlighted the long corridor connecting them. The short travel time between the two rooms was a pro for his defense, allowing a quick summon of whatever reinforcements the station could muster towards the focus of the Mandalorian attack. Two corridors led to the archive room. One from the upper hangar bay, and the other from a turbolift servicing other levels of the station. He stopped pacing and looked at the soldiers and said, "Five of you are to be stationed in here as a last line of defense if the rest of us should fall. Three of you will take up defensive positions in this corridor between the command and the archives. The other seven of you will be with Garz and Rhomma, elite commandos, guarding the way from the upper hangar bay. Questions?"

There were none. The troops dispersed with determination set on their faces despite the looming threat of death at the hands of a Mandalorian. Trace and his two other comrades, Traxus and Kai, moved out of the archives and down the corridor towards the turbolift. Trace motioned towards a sanitation closet halfway to the lift, opening it to find a spacious area where three operators could comfortably wait to ambush their enemies. But three deadly warriors in one place would be a waste of resources in a defensive situation like this.

Trace shut the closet as Traxus and Kai gave a thumbs up, leaving the ambushing to them. He took cover in a branching hallway leading to the captain's quarters and brought up the shipyard's surveillance feed on his HUD. Cycling through cameras, he waited for the inevitable.

Kallous Jonah Tessa Thayne

 

[Mia Monroe]

Spoiler: Equipment

Basilik
Armour
Shotgun
Blaster
Beskad
Knife

Spoiler: Tags

ME: Liorra
Drego Ruus
Adelle Bastiel
Aselia Verd
Korda Veydran
Itzhal Volkihar
Aether Verd
Warpriest Prime

DIA: Lord Mettallum
Zinayn
Lady Izanami
Souls of the Lilaste order
Diarch Rellik
Diarch Reign
Marius Hayes
Norbert Oro
'Sentinel' Janius Everwall

War always comes, whether you want it to or not.

There was no life she had lived that had not been steeped in war. Sith, Republic, Mandalorians. No matter when she opened her eyes there was a fight to be had. She should have been tired, she should have yearned for the quiet comforts of retirement. But quiet made her more nervous than the rumbles that filled the hangar. Stillness bred stagnation and she was and always would be a disciple of Kad Harangir.

She ran a hand over the basilisk, checking Liorra was secure in the gunners seat before hauling herself into the pilots. “If we pick up a tail on the way down, take them out fast, we can’t outrun a fighter but we can tank a couple of hits.” She said over the roar that answered Aether’s.

She took a deep breath, looking to her left and nodding to Drego Ruus . The protectors had lived on through him, finding their place in Aether’s Empire and for that she was grateful. It felt good to be fighting alongside friends again. The countdown dropped to four.

“Ready, ad’ika?”

Three.

Two.

One.

The floor opened beneath them, the shift in gravity making her stomach lurch as for a few seconds they were free falling. Then the basilisk rumbled, adjusting its vector at her touch roaring towards the industrial city below.

 

[Dreidi Xeraic]

Objective: 3 - Yaga Minor
Outfit: Nightsister Armour
Equipment: Lightsaber, Ichor Sword and Dathomiri Energy Bow
Opposition: Zinayn

Dreidi stood in front of a mirror as she looked over the armoured appearance that she had while etching the Dathomiri markings into metal plates. She was using Force Imbuement on the armour to increase their protective qualities. Dreidi knew little of the Diarchy's tactics and weaponry but she doubted it would be mere blasters or weapons that would be easy to avoid taking damage from. She breathed in deeply, it had been a long time since she had been coaxed into jumping into battle, into war. In fact, it had been facing her step-father's Sith Lord father which had earned Dreidi the scar across her stomach. A lingering reminder of how close she came to death that day.

"Years ago. That was before I was a Knight. It was before Aileni." A young Padawan out of her depth. Similar to the bombardment she barely survived during the twilight days of the CIS.

Tightening the armour, she gave one last look at the warrior that stood before her, the witch who would burn the galaxy for those she loved. Turning away, she headed towards the dropships that were aimed to descend onto Yaga Minor. Her sword was sheathed in its scabbard, the Lightsaber hilt on her opposite hip and the energy bow was strapped to her back. She was prepared for battle, whatever that might look like now. Entering the dropship, Dreidi only gave a short nod to the others in the dropship with her. Gripping the handle tightly, Dreidi closed her eyes as she felt the ship descend hard towards the surface of the planet.

Focus on the breathing. Focus on the objective. Focus on what comes next.

Dreidi forced herself to ignore the shakes, the blasts of explosions from the Diarchy as they attempted to prevent the Mandalorian Empire forces landing on the ground. She had to ignore it all otherwise the anxiety would eat at her. Dreidi focused on a song and waited till she felt the ship doors open for the occupants to all descend. Jumping from the dropship, Dreidi grabbed her energy bow and made sure to hold it ready.

Rushing forward, Dreidi did not look like a Mandalorian, she would not fight like one and she would be making sure they broke through the entrenched defences of the Diarchy. This was all to help protect her home, her people. Dreidi needed to show she was willing to fight for it all. Spotting some Diarchy forces, Dreidi launched her arrows towards them. Firing several in a rapid rate. She was being cautious in using her Magick for now but knew there would be a time and place. Especially since she held no doubts that there would be fire and explosions she could harness and redirect. The Witch Mother was going to demonstrate that it was not beskar and guns that the Diarchy just needed to fear.

It was the wrath of Dathomir and the fires that burned from it.