Public [THP | TDC] Operation Reckoning

[Delsin Shaw]

|| Objective I: Protect the Refinery ||
|| Equipment: Sword | Pistol | Armor | Mask | Ring ||
|| Company: Broodmongers | Juggernauts | Revenants ||
|| Tags: Connel Vanagor ] | Katarine Ryiah | @Open ||​

Speaking of heavy words. A quick sidestep from the lancing of the sword. Taunting me with words. Mentioning a lack of movement. There was a singular thought to outright come after him. To just once more close the distance or to throw incredible feats of the force at his direction. However, that was the game. Relenting to such was not how one would fight. The more hasty one was, the more likely one was to make mistakes. To move too fast and overextend. A smile came to my face from behind the mask.

"You have me there. One, Love."

I moved to stand straight up. Even as the mask turned to look at him from the sideway's glance. A sword would seemingly spawn and pierce through my chest and out towards him. Following in its grip was a hand that led down to myself. Striking out once more against him. Once more closing the distance to him with another lancing lunge. However, that is where the fun started. Leaping over the top, a searing bolt of lightning was released down to him. The two personages of myself were performing a pincer attack. One from the front, and the other from the air in the jump.

Both of myselves spoke in unison as we struck out. As the one who jumped, came back to the ground and sprinted to close the gap. While the first swung at him with the blade. Providing him someone directly in his face, with another coming only a moment later.

"This more to your liking?"

 

[Connel Vanagor]

A DAY OF RECKONING
Sevarcos II
Eviscerant Yards

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]

Objective I: Break the Chain

Why does that sound like a song? Should I be talking about one heart? Then it happened.


So, now there are two of’em?


He didn’t care about what the dude was trying to say. He didn’t care about anything, he needed to either hold this Sith here and distract him or push him elsewhere. Of course now that mitosis is happening, clearly some kind of visual trick, he needed to move.

What I like is of little concern.


A Pincer?


Cliche’... but prudent… and effective. One was jumping, one was sprinting. This… these… the a… THEY’RE smart! However, Connel had been training hard since he could walk. He never understood why when training time came around, but now? Now it made all the sense in and of the world. There were so many possible defenses. He was already controlling the initiative, as well as psychological warfare, but what about…


”visual trick”

He still hadn’t moved, that was a continued tactic, and he was not going to go against what worked.


The last possible moment was coming, and he was paying as much attention as he could until…


FLASH FLASH One flash through the Force, and one of his flashbangs and he was gone. Only he was never there to begin with. At the same time as the flashes, he was using the Force to alter the environment as he sprinted around in a half moon counter-clock loop.

Connel was going after the… the… the one on the left? These guys were identical, did it matter who was the original? Either way, Connel in attack mode and in a move of his own, no “X’, no “V” but “Day” ready to slash as he ran by and “Night” ready to follow up and defend as he passed.

TAGS • ARE • WIDE • OPEN • TO • ALL • Katarine Ryiah • Delsin Shaw​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Objective I: Break the Chain
Leidimas Sith Plate
KA-10 Requiem | Lightsaber
Tag: Valery Noble ​

Every breath dragged more embers down Lysander's throat, like a punishment from all that surrounded him; the dust seemed to want to scour his eyes clean out of their sockets, as they stung like open wounds. Not only did it cling to armor and exposed clung, but his thoughts too, as all he could hear was the crackle of plasma intertwined with the pounding of his heat.

The poison ate at him, seeping into every nerve, drowning him in rage.

So he breathed it with ravenous pulls.

His head tilted slightly. “Come then, show me the will of the Jedi."

Beneath it all, lay the thought of his sister. The idea of killing her Master, if he could even manage it, threatened to sever their bond forever. Not only did he know it, but he also felt. Yet he could not surrender. Even in the Light he’d never been one to back down.

Through the haze, Valerie's form blurred like a flickering flame. Lysander’s stance shifted, feet planting wide as he stayed true to Djem So. As the Dark swirled and unfurled within, he became a fortress against the inevitable storm. Shoulders squared, crimson blade angled low, he prepared to become the wall against which she would break. No elegance, no flourish, just meeting strength with strength.

He watched her through the blur. An overhead arc was easy to telegraph; the shoulders, the rise of a blade. But the spice was taking its toll faster than he had anticipated. Reactions dulled, limbs became heavy, like moving through water. Regardless, he raised his weapon, bracing himself and locking his core.

With a two-handed guard, he caught the blow that led to another shower of sparks. The Jedi’s weight pressed against him. Pain rippled through his arms as he absorbed it, gritting his teeth. A shift of his hips followed, along with twisting of the wrists. The strike was redirected, but the clash rang violently in his ears.

“If I kill you, I lose Cora. But if I don’t, I lose myself.”

That moment of hesitation was a blow of its own. The riposte should have been swift, punishing. But with his vision swimming, the strike came late. He committed, body moving forward, his blade swept in a heavy diagonal slash at her exposed flank.

 

[Iskera Valest]

The pistol hovered steady in her grip, its muzzle tilted a fraction, never enough to commit, only enough to remind him of possibility. Her free hand pressed briefly against her ribs, mapping the bruise, cataloguing the cost. His words filled the corridor, but she let them wash past like refinery noise. Threats, boasts, confessions of machinery in flesh—none of it mattered in the ledger she kept. Only vectors, options, and time.

She noted the sword on the ground, gleaming faintly in the strobe of alarms. He had cast it aside not as discard, but as bait. Efficient, she admitted, in its way. Yet efficiency demanded reciprocity.

"Warning implies restraint," she said, voice low through the respirator. "You don't restrain. You perform." Her tone was not mocking; it was precise dissection, like a surgeon speaking of tissue.

The pistol lowered—slightly. She stepped toward the sword, each movement measured, heel sliding against ferrocrete, never breaking her sightline on him. Acid still hissed faintly where it had scored wall and visor, smoke curling between them.

Whether she bent for the blade or feigned the motion was the question she left hanging. In duels, ambiguity could wound sharper than steel.

Vyn Daldoure

 

[Drystan Creed]

Eviscerant Yards

He was aware—far more than he let on. Aware of the explosives in his proximity. Aware of Ines Pen-Ar-Lan 's attempt to detonate them. There had been moments—plenty of them—when he could have seized the initiative, reacted, done something. There was a definite lag, noticeable from the press of the trigger to the explosive's activation. And yet he stood there, silent.

The flames engulfed his silhouette as the blast tore through the corridor, hurling durasteel and 'crete in every direction. He vanished within the inferno, body still as the fires and detritus consumed his form.

By any measure, it would have been considered a confirmed kill. Nothing short of a beskar-wrapped rancor could have survived a point-blank detonation. Even then, the fires raged enough to burn anything within it to a crisp.

And yet…

Drystan appeared from behind the wreckage, coat discolored and mottled from heat, faint burns marking the lower half of his exposed face. Steam rose from his body. He was clearly damaged by the explosion, but not weakened—if anything, he seemed even more dangerous.

"That was a neat little trick. I liked that." he said, rolling his shoulders and tilting his neck as if warming up. His left hand rested atop the pommel of his still-stowed blade, while his other rubbed thoughtfully at his chin as his gaze swept over his quarry.

"But you're not going to get rid of me that easily. You two can take me on at once—I prefer it that way. It'll make things more interesting for me… and give you a better chance of killing me. I think that's a win for everyone, even if I get the better end of the deal."

And with little telegraph, he produced a black hilt from his belt, launching it with a mighty throw as the air cracked, and red plasma hissed.

FWOOM!

A crimson saber spun through the air toward the pair of saboteurs, its rasping hum cutting through the smoke as it hurtled for the blast door's console. The intent was twofold: to cleave Ines in half if she wasn't fast enough to react, or to destroy the console if she was.

Ines Pen-Ar-Lan Calyx Sundrift

 

[Vyn Daldoure]

Tags: Iskera Valest
Equipment: Equal Handshake, J.A.M.R, D-37 blaster, Icarus Armor

Vyn flexed his arm, the dull sting pulsated it's way through his limb, it kept him grounded as the pain cut through nausea like a knife. Then as her pistol moved, even within that fraction, his own weapon came out with mechanical precision. But the blaster stayed low, its barrel glaring at the floor. He didn't want to shoot her. Not yet at least.

His head tilted as she spoke, she thought it was theater. Maybe it was. But his gear was more important that any amount of pain. Pain was a signal in the brain, one that says "danger." That was meant to keep the body alive. There was no real danger in most of his interactions. There was either life, or death. So the pain he faced, the burn, the cut, the poison in his system? Those were just signals he could ignore.

"Theater, restraint? You don't know me that well." He began to back up in pace with her. Keeping the distance entirely equal, never greater, never less-than. "I'm not saying I'll spare your life because its honest, or because it appeals to some higher moral ground." He stopped as she did, looking to the sword on the floor, then to her firearm, and then back to her face. "We're in the tightened halls of a spice factory, on some backwater planet. You wanna die like that? Be my guest."

Now a smile broke, his top lip curling up to reveal his teeth. "Truth is, I want you to pick up that sword. Not because I'm bloodthirsty. But because I love the rush. So, in not so many words. I kill you... I don't get my fix. And if you run? Well, there's always a chance we'll see each other again. So no, it isn't restraint. But it's not performance either." Vyn knew what he was: a junkie, addicted to adrenaline and the full stop that came with combat. "It's play."

Now he waited. His heartbeat thrumming in his ears, the taste of metal flooding his mouth. Run away, pick up the sword, or raise her pistol. Each outcome meant very little to Vyn, and he'd meet any of them without hesitation. But only one promised the kind of fun he craved.

 

[Kito]

//: Darth Virelia //:

Kito felt the weight crash down on her. The Force itself shifted against her, dragging at her body, slowing her every motion until she felt wrong — heavy, sluggish. Panic flickered in her eyes as she realized Virelia had twisted the battlefield itself against her.

Before she could adjust, her fire betrayed her. The shaping she had poured out twisted, coiling back in on her as if poisoned. The moment Virelia's shadowflame struck, Kito's body seized. The heat was alien — not hers, not Ashla's. It crawled across her skin like oil, worming into her shaping, forcing itself inward until her chest burned from the inside out.

Air ripped from her lungs in a raw cry as violet-black tongues lashed across her robes. Kito could feel the flames searing through cloth and flesh alike. Her knees buckled, dragging one foot across the ruined floor as she fought to remain upright.

Her grip on the Odachi began to falter, but she tightened it again with white-knuckled defiance. Every step dragged like stone, yet she forced herself forward, teeth bared in a snarl.

"You think… You can own what is mine?" she spat through clenched teeth. Fire was hers. It was her birthright, her culture, her soul — and this Sith witch would never take it. Her ochre eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as she glared at Virelia through the storm. "Stop. Saying. That."

The shadowflame writhed hotter, eating across her arms and chest, but Kito leaned into it instead of retreating. The Shaper remembered her training — fire could destroy, but it could also feed. She inhaled sharply, drawing in the suffocating heat, daring it to consume her. Kito's heart thundered, and with every beat, she pulled the flames closer, forcing them into her core. Pain shook her frame, but she bent the corruption back upon itself, flame answering flame until her shaping bled through the darkness.

The chamber reeked of scorched flesh. Kito wanted to give in to the pain, but the Odachi flared again, white-orange fire bursting bright against the violet arcs that sought to smother it. Kito's jaw clenched, her voice cracked with strain, yet her crooked grin still curved her lips.

"You're nothing but another tally in my penance."

Then she surged. Her body screamed with pain, but she let it fuel her momentum. The Force carried her, countering the slow with sudden speed. The Odachi swept up in a vast, burning arc, dragging a violent trail of fire behind it. At the same time, her leading foot stomped hard against the scorched floor, shaping the flames there into a sudden eruption — a blinding gout of fire bursting upward to stagger Virelia while Kito forced herself into striking range again.

If the shadowflame wanted to devour her, she would feed it until it choked.

---

//: Shego Striga //: Kamon Vondiranach //:​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"DEPLOY THE GARRISON!" - OBJ 2 Kito , Shego Striga , Kamon Vondiranach

Equipment - Tyrant's Embrace

The chamber roared as the Odachi came screaming upward, dragging a comet's tail of fire that lit every fractured wall in furious white-orange. The floor itself answered Kito's stomp, a geyser of flame erupting toward the Mistress like a volcano breaking through marble. For a heartbeat, the storm belonged to the Shaper—her fire filling every breath, every shadow, every seam of air.

And then Darth Virelia breathed in.

The violet eyes of her helm flared, six-fold, as if opening all at once. Her talons spread wide, and the storm bent. A bubble of warped light shimmered into existence around her frame, a perfect globe of compressed Force. The eruption struck it and broke, licking upward and sideways, flame spilling harmlessly across its surface like oil on glass. The Odachi's blazing arc slammed against the sphere with a metallic shriek, heat spidering across it, but the blade skidded away—its fury denied purchase.

The Protection Bubble expanded, translucent but absolute, humming with a low resonance that rattled the chamber's supports. Broken glass, shattered consoles, and molten shards of stone ripped free of the floor and walls, swirling around the bubble like debris caught in a hurricane. The Odachi's own trailing fire was pulled into the orbit, spiraling in violent arcs that painted the storm in clashing streaks of orange and violet.

Virelia's laugh rose, breathless and intimate, from within the storm.

"You feed me, little flame. Every scream, every stroke of your blade—fuel for my dominion."

Her arms swept outward in a slow, ritualistic gesture, the motion more like a priestess than a warrior. The orbiting storm obeyed. All at once, the bubble pulsed outward, detonating in a wave of violet-white energy. The debris became missiles—shards of marble, spears of molten glass, chunks of steel—each hurled outward in telekinetic fury. And woven between them, serpents of lightning leapt forth, each strike splitting the air with the scream of torn heavens.

The Force Maelstrom consumed the chamber. Fire, lightning, and wreckage lashed outward from the epicenter that was Virelia, the Mistress enthroned at the storm's heart. She stood inviolate, framed by the storm she herself had become, her cape whipping in the hurricane, her silhouette more goddess than mortal.

"Your penance ends here. You do not burn me, child. I am the fire."

The Overseer Tower shook, girders groaning, the very storm outside bending to echo the tempest she had conjured within.

 

[Kito]

//: Darth Virelia //:

The world broke.

Kito's fire hit the bubble and vanished into nothing; her Odachi screamed uselessly against the surface. Everything moved slowly; she wondered if the Sith had once more pushed the weight of her presence against her. But instead, the pulse came. The wave struck the Jedi before she could draw a breath.

The room exploded around her. Marble shards cut across her arms and cheek, glass ripped into her side, and steel slammed against her ribs. Cursed lightning coursed through her, shaping and twisting her lungs into knots. Her body seized as the surge ripped through muscle and bone.

She didn't want to; she tried to hold it all in and not give the woman the satisfaction of her pain. But the girl couldn't hold it in much longer. She screamed — not in rage, but in pain. The kind that rattled through her skull and tore her throat raw.

Kito was tossed back and hit the floor hard. The Odachi wrenched from her grasp, clattering across the floor with a metallic shriek. The moment the weapon left her hand, Kito felt her knees buckle. She hit the ground hard, her palms slamming against fractured stone. Dust and ash filled the Shaper's lungs, choking her as she dragged in a shallow, panicked breath. Every muscle trembled, spasms running down her arms as if the lightning still lived inside her flesh.

She was frozen, unable to do anything but shake. Kito's vision swam in streaks of violet and white as the storm raged overhead, all around her. Her ears rang with the screech of metal and the booming collapse of stonework torn from the walls. And underneath it all, that laugh — cold and cruel.

Her stomach turned.

The panic tightened her chest; it was sharp and merciless. She had been in danger before, and she had pushed her limits, but this was different. The power she was facing was overwhelmingly absolute. Every instinct screamed that she was going to die here, burned away in a storm that was not her own.

Her body betrayed her with tears at the corners of her eyes, burning against the grit of ash and smoke. Kito clenched her jaw so hard it hurt, hating the sound of it — that fragile note of fear rising in her throat. She had sworn never to let it control her again.

But she was breaking.

"No…" the word came cracked, more breath than voice. Her arms trembled as she reached forward, fingers clawing desperately across the ruined tiles. She pulled herself forward inch by inch until her fingertips bled and brushed the Odachi's hilt. She grasped it with everything she had left, knuckles whitening with the effort.

Her chest heaved, ribs screamed with every inhale, but she forced air back into her lungs. The taste of copper coated her tongue as blood slid from the corner of her mouth. Still, she lifted her head. Through the haze of smoke, her ochre eyes burned, locking onto the figure at the center of the maelstrom.

Virelia stood untouched, cloaked in her storm like a goddess of ruin.

Hatred welled in Kito's chest — not because Virelia was winning, but because she had turned everything the Shaper did against her.

"You—" Kito's voice rasped, "You are just a number, a step to my sal—" her body shook with the strain of forcing herself upright, but she stayed, her blade rising, prepared to strike. Its fire blazed white hot, "...to my salvation." Her teeth bared in defiance. She wouldn't let this Sith kill her.

Her arms quivered as she struggled to keep the Odachi raised, the weapon's edge sputtering to life. The flames were weak, guttering like a candle in a storm, but it was there — still hers.

Every step forward was agony, blood stuck to the bottom of her boot as it trailed down her side. She could feel the thick piece of glass still buried in her. Every breath, every step, the glass shard dug deeper into her.

She had one chance to strike — everything into one last sweeping strike.

Focusing, crimson lines suddenly appeared etched on the barrier. Each crack led to a point of contact. She had only seen this a few times before, but Kito had learned to listen to the Odachi. Exhaling, she felt her body breaking, but focusing on the last blow she had in her. She coughed, and blood continued to pour from her lips as fingers tightened on the hilt of her blade.

She focused on the shatterpoint anchors, just like before. The force guided her, fueling her body forward as the Odachi's blade ignited nearly pure white flame. She darted forward, blade swinging from overhead, slamming down as hard as she could into the barrier at one of the anchor points, aiming to shatter through the Sith's defenses.

She would get through, even if the next blow killed her.

Kito did her best not to let her mind wander, she needed to focus on this moment — even if she wondered what if.

 

[Kyber]

Objective 3
Equipment: Cloaking Device, 3 lightsabers
Engaging Zaiya Ceti and Aris Noble

Interesting it seemed this young jedi was proficient in the art of using the force as a shield able to not only protect herself but also the slaves from multiple simultaneous attacks. At least Kyber made a convincing act of trying to 'stop' the slaves from escaping. The sabers by themselves most likely won't be able to break through the barrier before the blazing inferno behind him decides to target him.

Kyber called the sabers back to him before charging head first towards the young jedi, focusing his hate into his metallic fist Kyber would leap at the barrier with the intention to smash through it with a powerful punch enhanced by the Dark Side of the force. All Kyber needed was a small window where he could pierce the heart of her or at the least wound her. It was at these moments Kyber wished he had the ability to sense shatterpoints within the force.

"This One Shall Have That One Instead"

 

[Zaiya Ceti]

Outfit: x x x x x | Equipment: x x x x x x | Weapons: x x x | Companion: Domxite
Interacting with: Kyber Aris Noble

Alarm shot through the Lovalla Padawan as the attacker lunged. The cries of the scattering slaves broke her concentration and the iridescent bubble of protection flickered out, leaving her exposed.

Zaiya reacted too late. And while she hardened her flesh with the Force to block the attack with her arm, Kyber's strike slammed against it. Pain jolted through her with a sharp grunt, a bruise already blooming over her forearm. Her glow faltered, flashing from gold to pale white, jagged streaks of tan and gray rippling across her skin, her necklace carrying the echo of her pain straight to Aris.

Staggering but now determined, Zaiya shifted into defense, citrine and cobalt streaks darting through her mottled spots, moving to block and counter continuing strikes as the fight turned into a brutal contest of martial strength.

 

[Iskera Valest]

The pistol eased down to her side, her finger still brushing the trigger guard. She did not break gaze, even as the smoke thinned and the alarms carved rhythm into the walls. His grin, the hunger etched in every syllable, told her more than any dossier could have. Addiction, yes—but refined into function, not waste.

"You crave the rush," she said, voice steady, low, precise. She gestured faintly toward the refinery floor beyond, where conveyor systems still rattled, where spice gas glowed under pressure seals. "You want fights that sharpen you. Meaning for it all."

Her head tilted, eyes narrowing in measured calculation. "The Court gives you better prey. Jedi who bleed light. Rebels who choke on their own courage. Not scraps in a factory hall. Contracts. Targets. A place where your talent isn't squandered."

She let the words hang for a breath, then added, "Join us. Take your rush where it matters. Kill for profit and meaning, not boredom. Survive for more than habit."

The pistol lifted just slightly—not a threat, but punctuation. "A better alternative than dying here."

Vyn Daldoure

 

[Darth Virelia]

"DEPLOY THE GARRISON!" - OBJ 2 Kito , Shego Striga , Kamon Vondiranach

Equipment - Tyrant's Embrace

The Odachi blazed like a dying star, its white fire dragging every shadow into sharp relief. Kito's scream of effort carried through the storm, raw and broken, but bright with that terrible spark of defiance that only the desperate possessed. Virelia's helm tilted, six violet eyes narrowing as the cracks etched across her barrier. She felt the girl's will bearing down on her—a single stroke meant to break inevitability itself.

For the briefest instant, the Mistress allowed herself to savor it. The courage, the pain, the certainty that she would die just to carve her mark into inevitability.

Beautiful.

Then, with a subtle gesture, she moved to claim it.

Her hand rose from within the storm, talons tracing the air as though plucking unseen strings. The Odachi descended—and the Force thickened like amber. Every flicker of movement slowed, heavy, restrained. Threads of power coiled around the Shaper, unseen but inexorable, until each muscle, each tendon, each nerve was suspended in Virelia's grasp.

Force Stasis. A perfect stillness.

The storm eased around her, the maelstrom collapsing into silence save for the whisper of crackling violet arcs. Virelia stepped forward from the heart of the bubble, her cape trailing in slow, deliberate ripples. The girl's blade still burned, suspended inches from the barrier, but the fire no longer belonged to her—it trembled, uncertain, caught between defiance and surrender.

Virelia's voice flowed like molten glass, smooth and searing.

"Look at you, little flame. Broken, bleeding, yet still so eager to burn yourself out. You could have ended here, forgotten in the ash. Instead, you chose me."

She circled the immobilized Shaper, talons ghosting close enough to let Kito feel the charged hum of her gauntlet.

"Your salvation was never in the stroke of your blade. It is in surrender. In being remade. Fire dies when it rages alone. But bound within a furnace, fire is eternal. I will be that furnace. You will be my flame."

Her helm dipped close, violet eyes flaring brighter, intimate as a lover's whisper.

"I will not kill you, fiend. I will keep you. And you will learn the sweetness of burning for me."

The Force held steady, her will wrapping the girl's body, her mind already probing the cracks of pain and fear. Virelia did not see an enemy now. She saw a prize. A penance to be rewritten in her image.

 

[Aris Noble]

Pain was a sensation Aris rarely felt. Twice he had felt it. The screaming Sith who's shouts had ruptured his ears and lead to the reason he now had dampeners attached to his head, and the giant Sith who had been able to bludgeon him. Oh, and the acid of the greater Krayt dragon. Three times. This was the fourth, and it wasn't him who felt it.

It rippled across his arm as he half stepped, blinking rapidly in surprise. He'd felt emotions shared between him and Zaiya before, but not pain. Not physical sensation. He turned his gaze back to where she was, ignoring the panicked screams of the merc he'd missed his strike on. The unloading of blasterfire into his side that couldn't harm him.

They joined the others in ash as Aris reached out to grab their face. Another emotion had bled into his mind now, causing his fire to flicker. Burn hotter, more intense. In a moment he made a choice, then ran. Fire dimmed as he couldn't risk burning the slaves close by. "Keep going down the tunnel, don't stop. Those who can, pick up the guns. Fight! Fight for each other!"

All it'd take was one to be inspired. One who's fire hadn't burned out, or perhaps had been rekindled. Another blaster shot rang out, this time coming from one of the slaves. An old man who's life was likely going to end in a few months. Who wanted to use that pitiful remaining amount for something more than digging.

Good. They'd fight for themselves.

Aris leapt then, clearing over the crowd as he watched Zaiya fight. His eyes scanned, memorized, everything he could as he let that information feed through the necklace he had to Zaiya. Where he was going to land, where he was going to strike. Land and strike he did. The ground fractured as he did, landing right beside the Lovalla as he brought a hammering fist down for the seeming Droid's chassis.

They'd fight together.

Kyber | Zaiya Ceti

 

[Lyrrin]

Objective 2
Tag: Vera Noble
Equipment: See Civilian Equipment

---

Lyrrin leapt down from the ledge to land next to Vera as she called for him. His eyes quickly adjusted to the light within and his head swiveled side to side as he examined his surroundings. It did seem to be clear of any real threats or defenders, at least from where they were currently at within the tower "The first terminal access point will be on this floor." he whispered "It should be about this high." he motioned about halfway up his thigh "Astromech height." "It may be covered by a flap or perhaps a sliding panel. If you find one put this into it gently." he emphasized while pulling out a security spike with a strange box tethered to it and while offering it to her continued in his hushed tone "We'll do the first together. Then I'll take the second floor down, and you the third. The least amount of time we're here the better." he seemed hesitant sending her lower, and presumably closer to danger, but she was a Padawan.

There mission in particular was to access at least three terminal points to gather intelligence on the structure itself but also how the information security protocols were structured for future attempts or cross-referencing. A relatively minor boon to covert operations but also assumedly lower risk than directly engaging bodyguard units or making daring plays at the information nexus.

Lyrrin, after handing out the modified security spike to Vera, looked down towards his compact datapad mounted to his left forearm "The fighting is in full swing, Vera, we don't have much time."

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

PERSONAL FLIGHT LOG – Entry #1964
Location: – Crucible Ridge - Sevarcos
Assigned Craft: Raven Dropship
Astromech Partner: BRED (BB-30)
Current Mood: Come and get me!
Background Noise: The sound of the ship itself (and of course BRED)

They were starting to bring in more fighters. This was going to get fun as I could push this puppy to her limits. The only downside is I had a passenger… okay two… to think about. I’ll make do. I had to make sure they stayed safe while I focused on the mission. The fighters were closing in fast, and I could feel the adrenaline pumping. BRED chirped a warning, and I knew it was time to show them what this Raven could do.


Wooo-beeep. [Translation: “So, you’re not trying to kill us, right?”]

Shut up BRED!! Pitching into a dive… hang on!

We were in a dive straight at a silo. They’re following, good.

Weet-bwoop. [Translation: “We’re so gonna die…”]


I could see the trails of cannon fire slip past us as the ground was getting larger and larger. As if the BRED wasn’t enough, the alarms were going off. A quick switch flip muted them.

“On my call… fire at them in a “sweep” from left to right, don’t care if you hit’em or not!”

We were getting closer, and closer.


“Weeep-bweep.” [Translation: “DO SOMETHING!”]

”NOW!”

“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: “Finally!!”]


Last second and I flipped the flaps, and reverse thrusted the engines. This thing did NOT handle like my X-wing, but as it stands, I could still fire my mains at the silos, setting them off. We pulled out in time…

… our tails didn’t…

End log.


– Michael A.
Getting good at this.


TAG: Katarine Ryiah

This is where he is speaking

 

[Vyn Daldoure]

Tags: Iskera Valest
Equipment: Equal Handshake, J.A.M.R, D-37 blaster, Icarus Armor

Vyn didn’t move. The only sound from his direction was the monotonous droplets of blood hitting the floor. Slow, in time with his rested heartbeat. “You assume I don’t have meaning.” Head held high, yet his brow was tilted downward. The look of a man who’d seen all war had to offer, now slipping into stoic condescension.

“I grew up in the New Imperial Order. I was a Black Ops assassin that hunted Sith of The Maw and other dozens of other sects during the Second Great Hyperspace War.” He now took a long and deliberate step in her direction. “Born into a war cult, and engineered during childhood for one purpose. Killing Sith.”

“After the war, I joined the Hutt’s. Made my fair share doing what I was good at.” The barrel of his blaster waved back and forth, weighing his past. Each step he took, a statement. “So when you mention contracts and targets? Been there. Done that.” He stopped, lowering into his fighting stance once more. “I don’t fight and kill to feel alive. I do it because someone has to. Thrill’s just a bonus.”

His tone and stance might have made the decision clear, but sometimes he needed to spell it out. “You’d have a better chance of waking up alive if you invited a rampaging Gundark to your group… The only reason I’m generous enough to let you walk away is because, if you do, you're no longer my problem.”

“I’m done lecturing. You have your options.”

 

[Kito]

//: Darth Virelia //:

Kito felt everything weigh against her. The stasis was sudden and unexpected, bearing down on every nerve, tendon, and muscle. All of it caught in the web. The odachi trembled in her hands, its white fire sputtering as it caught between her and slipping away forever. For a moment, panic clawed at her chest. The Shaper was frozen, helpless, and the thought threatened to crush her more than the pressure itself.

But, she remembered.

Not in detail — not words or places — just moments that had anchored her. Her master's steady cadence when she learned to breathe through pain. A temple wall bathed in light. A smile that grounded her in the shadows of Malachor. Each memory was a thread, fragile but real, and together they formed something she could still draw on.

The pressure tried to smother it, but pain sharpened her focus. Every wound, the sting of lightning still burning under her skin — she seized onto it. Pain made her present. Pain gave the young Shaper something that couldn't be stolen.

Kito's fingers would not move, but the odachi had not only answered her hands. It had always been more than that, a conduit of her will. Kito poured herself into it, not in significant surges that would collapse under the stasis, but in small, steady pulses. The fire flickered, then steadied, its light threading into the cracks she had seen before when the storm first rose.

She tried to keep her focus, those claws drawing close to her, the hum of the gauntlets mocking her. Kito looked towards the Sith as she postured. Her words were venom that had a gentle caress. Each word bleeding into her as the only sounds she heard were the Sith's empty promises and the sound of her blood pooling at her feet.

The moment her helm dipped, her breath hitched, sharp and ragged. She had come too close; she had entered a space that only one was allowed.

Kito dragged that breath down into her chest and pushed it into flame. For a moment, the tremor along the blade felt like defiance itself. She aimed it, not at the woman who had caught her, but the weak seams she could sense around her — the fragile edges where power anchored itself.

The weight bore down harder. Kito's jaw clenched, tears burning the grit of ash at the corners of her eyes, but she kept pushing. Inch by inch, pulse by pulse, she threaded her intent into the odachi and into the cracks that only she could see.

The flame stuttered, then flared white.

Something gave.

The stasis loosened, barely — just enough. A twitch of her fingers, a shift of her grip. Air filled her lungs again in a ragged pull, copper biting her tongue. Her legs trembled as though dead wood, but the Shaper forced them to answer, dragging herself fully upright on will alone.

The pressure of the stasis had pushed the glass further into her side; each breath now made the edge cut deeper. But her blade continued to burn bright again, and it was still hers.

That was enough.

Kito raised her head, tears cutting lines through the ash on her face. Her voice was raw, scraped thin by pain, but steady.

"I belong to no one."

Her grip tightened, the odachi's white fire lashing in her hands.

"You will never own me."

Broken in body but unshaken in will, Kito stood. Every motion spelled agony, her breath ragged, her arms trembling — but she would press forward. Even if it was her last strike, she would take the Sith with her.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"DEPLOY THE GARRISON!" - OBJ 2 Kito , Shego Striga , Kamon Vondiranach

Equipment - Tyrant's Embrace

The white fire flared, threads of defiance stitching themselves into the cracks she had sensed. Virelia felt it—Kito clawing back inches of her will, tearing ragged breaths through the velvet chains of stasis. It was not nothing. It was almost admirable. Almost.

The Mistress tilted her helm, six violet eyes glimmering with hungry delight. The air thickened with her amusement, her voice silk over steel.

"No one?" she breathed, low and intimate, as though the word brushed Kito's ear. "Then let me remind you how fragile 'no one' truly is."

Her talons curved inward, slow, deliberate. The Force constricted. Not merely around the girl's throat but deeper, a pressure threading into windpipe, lungs, even the veins that carried her fire. It was a suffocating embrace, a lover's hand turned cruel, cutting breath and sound alike. .

Virelia stepped closer, cape dragging through the ash, savoring the sight of trembling defiance locked between agony and surrender.

"Sleep now, little flame. Sleep, and dream of the storm you could never master. When you wake… if you wake… you will know whose fire warms you."

The Force tightened with each syllable, violet arcs rippling from her gauntlet like veins of lightning feeding into the invisible grip. Her voice lowered to a husky whisper, almost tender.

"And whose fire burns you."

With that, the choke deepened—her will intent on dragging the Shaper into darkness.