Dominion Two to Tango | SO Dominion of D'Qar

[Lúthien Tinúviel]

OBJECTIVE ONE: Shut down enemy communication systems.
LOADOUT: Arm | Armor | Hidden Blade | Dagger | Sword
TAGS: Adean Castor (Interacting) | Vaelon Scarr (Nearby) | Brooklyn Zambrano (Nearby)

The Blade led aloft as more blaster bolts came my direction. A twisted grip on the weapon allowed me to hold the flat of the blade forward. Smacking the bolts down or just holding it out for the bolt to smack into the face of the blade. Moving to a better position behind a makeshift barricade, the other individual in the shuttle came up behind me. They started to speak about battle buddies, but as they were, A ripple in the current alarmed me.

My hand reached out to the cuff of their clothing. Yanking them down just as a bolt flew over head. Screaming past and slamming somewhere else. Just shaking my head as clearly they had not been in open conflict before. I just breathed in deeply and let the sigh escape. Trying my best not to open up a knife hand on them.

"I said, stick to cover. All the gods, and they didn't give you enough brain cells to smack together for that?"

Shaking my head again, I reached out and put a hand on their shoulder.

"Looks like you are coming with me even if you had one."

I did take notice of the datapad. Likely the person I would be escorting to the facility to shut down the communication systems. Otherwise, I would have just smashed the hell out of it and see if that worked. Maybe with them here, we could use their communication against them.

Breathing in, and exhaling slowly to center myself in the current, I spoke softly with my eyes closed.

"Sounds weird, but I need you to hold my hand. Don't speak and do your best to keep up with me. Understood?"

 

[Sable Varro]

M̵̥̐͘I̶̡̤̅͘S̴͉͎͠S̶̯͙̀̔I̵̧̗͘Ȏ̸̭̋N̸̕͜ ̴̭̔̋R̸͔̾̚͜E̶̠͛͝P̸̞̾̐O̵̝̦̿̃R̵̟̙̍̾T̸͚̀̓:̶̨̽͆ ̷͓̐F̴̤̓e̴͙̓ȅ̶̩t̶͎̐͌ ̴͖̠͌F̷̤͎́̿i̵͉̍r̵̻̰̚͘s̶̗̩̆t̵̥͐ͅ ̴͉̆͐Ǐ̷̼n̷͕̻̈́͠t̴̛̯̎o̶̘̒ ̴͕̿H̵͎͈̊̕ë̷̥l̴͙̃l̸̥̎ͅ
̷̝̓Ồ̵̱ṕ̶̭͐ē̵̾ͅŗ̸̲̊́ä̷̼̹́t̶͙͙̀i̵̺̤͂v̷̦̿̓e̴̡̠͝:̶͉̊ ̸͎̗͐S̵̼͔̈́å̷̟̖̍b̶̦͗l̴͕̹̇̚ė̵͚ ̸̱͋V̸̤̈́͝a̴͎̬̐r̸̳̺̂r̷̹̱̂́o̴̘͘
̶̥̀M̸̖̂î̸̯͎͆s̷͈̒s̷̜̅͜i̷̙͂ō̸̰̖n̵̯͌ ̴̭̼͆C̵̩̿͑ľ̸̰̃a̶̬̔š̸̺s̴̮̫͊̈́i̶̧̓f̴̯̽i̸̢̛̛č̵͓̮͊ḁ̷̝͘t̷̤̿̚ǐ̴̝ó̶̟͌ṋ̷͙̈́:̷̱̘̎̐ ̶̧̙̋͐[̷͖̻̌͗C̸̫̬͊͝o̵̦̐n̴̪̼̾f̷͇̈́͆i̸̩͂ḑ̸̬̓̂e̶̛̋ͅn̵̢͗t̶̞̄̂i̷̘͕̽͐a̵̢̛̽ͅl̷̦͙̆]̸͖̿͂
̴̄͒͜
̷͔͕̈́P̵̱͠e̶̦̽͆r̷̘͕̎̐ș̶̰̇͘o̴̡͑̍ņ̴̘̅̒ñ̸͕̰͛ḛ̴͚̊l̷͙̀̉ ̵͔̔I̷̪̗͊n̵͓̪̂̃v̸̯̻̈̒ọ̷̅͘l̷̙͕̆͘v̷͇̄͆e̵̦͍͒d̶̗̥̀͠:̷͖͂
̶̫́
̶̠͆̈P̷̯͇̅r̴͕̖̐̿i̴͇͒̇͜m̵̢̈á̷̡͋r̵͙̿̏y̷̛̮̆ ̵̡̪̎Ő̴̟͜p̴̪̎e̶͉̳͛͑r̷̻̈́̀a̶̭͂t̷̨̳͊ǐ̷͇ͅv̶̡͒͘ě̶̜(̶̞̠͛s̷͎̚)̴̡̭͋̒:̴̩͌ ̶͚͋E̶͈̟͊͠l̷͕͇͗i̴̡̦̕m̶̢̀̕ͅi̶̤̔n̷̖͊̕a̵̰͖͑t̷̳͗è̴̖͝ ̵̟͌̕H̶͉̏͐͜o̷͍͓͌̊s̸̲̫̀t̷̉̿ͅi̶͇̗͂͘l̵̨̿ẹ̶́̈́s̷͙̉
̸͎̮͒S̷͈̀ǔ̸̡p̵̲͛p̸̛͕͂ọ̶͝r̴͘͜t̴̢̪͑͆i̴̥̞͐͛n̷̥̬͌̚g̸̳̈͜ ̸̳̋͠Ù̷͍̯̽n̴͓͝í̴͉̻̔t̴̨̍̔s̸̛̘̈:̷̢̳̎͒ ̶̖̿ͅȔ̵̩͈n̸̡̝̕͠k̸̲̈́n̷͈̮̊̿o̵̱̬̍͆ẘ̷̞͔n̴̩̿͘
̴̰̻̿̊A̴͍̕l̵̞͌l̶̤̃̎i̷̲̻͆e̴͚̐̀d̸̰̂ ̸̫̊C̷̭͇̈o̶̖̜̚ņ̶͖̀͌t̸͚̋a̴̪̅͒c̴̺̟̈́̆ṱ̷̯̈s̶̕ͅ:̴͈̭̔̈́ ̶͗ͅȔ̵̩͈n̸̡̝̕͠k̸̲̈́n̷͈̮̊̿o̵̱̬̍͆ẘ̷̞͔n̴̩̿͘
̷̞̆D̴͔̝͠e̶͎͠p̷̱̘̓̈́l̴͈̑̃o̴̧͒̏y̷̯̦͋̈́m̶̬̜̄̆ẽ̷̞̟n̵͙͛͝t̶͂͜ ̵͓̋L̷̠̔ȍ̷̗͙̇c̶̥̤͊a̸͈̦͛̚t̴͉̭͑i̷͙͒̔ö̸̳̭n̵̼̘̎̉:̸͓͈̏̈́
̸̛̪̹͑
̵̦͊P̵̗̞͐̉r̴̡͐i̵̮̓m̶̟͓̌̂â̸͍̘r̷̼͑ỷ̸̢̝ ̶͔̌͠T̶̤͓͂̐a̷̖̪̎̂ŕ̵̝̠̄g̴̹̋e̶͍̩͐͋ṭ̵̿ ̶͉̹͆Z̵̬̈o̶̳̪͌n̸̟̠̅e̴̞̚͠:̸̤͍̎̚ ̴͙̔̽Ȕ̵̩͈n̸̡̝̕͠k̸̲̈́n̷͈̮̊̿o̵̱̬̍͆ẘ̷̞͔n̴̩̿͘
̴͎̬̃E̴̅͌ͅq̵̞́u̶̢̬̽̿i̵͇̻͆̂p̴͚̹͒m̸̻͒͘ȩ̶͚͛̕n̷̡̳̊̽t̵̞̘͛ ̸̟̏͜L̷͔͊o̶̗̅ͅa̵͇̬̍d̵̪̂o̴̡̩͂͝ṳ̷̩͛̔t̵̪̳̽̍:̶̰̹̋
̷͍̘̑͝
̶̗̪̔P̶̢͛̊r̸̥̳̊̿i̸̙̊̿ṁ̸̝á̵̩̏r̷͕͆̀y̶̖̦̓̅ ̷̧̈́̈W̷͍͍̕͝e̴͇̾a̴̪̣͋̃p̸̡͈͋o̵͉͕̊n̸̻̊̅(̸̠̼̄͝s̴̪̟̈́)̷͇͠:̸̼̊ ̴̼̎͝Ṣ̴͛D̸̥͖̐̀-̴̟̰̈́͠Ĺ̷̪̮͑1̸̙̈̅ ̸̰̌͗Ĺ̸̮̣o̴͉͎̓́ṉ̸̰̍̈́g̵̩̔͑ ̷̧͖͒B̵̥͕͊l̸͎͍͊a̶̺̾͜s̸̤͌t̵̳̤̆ẽ̸͓̅r̴͍̊
̶͇̥͛S̷͙̙̔͗ë̶̺c̵̬̞̅͒o̵͈̭͊͝n̶̺̱̿̈d̷͙̯͂͘a̸̝̻̅ȑ̷̯̔y̷͔̜͂̊ ̷̭̻̐̾W̵͓̖͘e̵̩͗a̷̛̻͈̔p̴͓̍ó̷͇ͅñ̷̮̓(̷̖̹̀̏s̷͎̚)̵̪̈́̑:̸̺̿ ̸̺̫͗H̴̲͓͒G̴̯̘̽-̶̨̭̇̃8̶̹̍8̷͓̟̄̕ ̴͇̪͒B̴̧̼̓į̵̊g̶͕̔̕ ̷̩͊Ḯ̵͖̙͛ř̷̹̅o̴̗̥͐n̸̼̊,̸͙̲̑̏ ̷̩̹͂V̶̟͋B̸̲̊͝-̷̖͒͠1̸̬͋1̴̱̼́̿3̴̘̳̓͒ ̶̚͜"̸͚̆̕T̸̢͇̕í̴̧̈́ͅd̶̠̲̾è̵̥̘f̴͈̊͌ǎ̴̻̭̊l̸͓̽l̷̢̅"̵̡͖̉ ̵̱̭́C̴̭͍̃l̷̼̆͂a̶̜̓̀ͅs̵̭̓ṡ̷̩͖ ̸͙̏Ṽ̵̮͔ì̸̧̞͋b̴͇̘͒́r̶͇̉̃͜ō̴̚͜b̷̧͔̈́͂l̷̮̅ȃ̵̧̭d̷͇́̓ḙ̵̖̌́,̷͎͝
̵͖̈́̄S̵͚̋ͅp̶̱̙̈́̉ę̶̹̉c̷̲̈́̀ǐ̶̜͚̆a̷͇̎ͅl̸̰̄͂i̵̻̽ẓ̸̈́e̸̟̲̕d̸̻̬́͗ ̵̲̏G̵͓͚̀͝ȩ̴́̀a̶͖̚͝ṝ̴̺:̷̖̓́ͅ ̴͓̔W̸̤̾̄ͅr̷̜̎ḯ̷͈͔s̸̬̀͛ṫ̷̹̞̉ ̵̢̒̄Ḿ̴̺̈ő̸͕͈u̴̖͖͑͛n̴̙̎t̴̩͚̓͑è̸̡̟̀d̵͉͎̒ ̸͙͙̾̓W̸̦̞̓͝ȩ̸͂a̶̧̓̑p̵͓͈̕o̴̙͑̉n̷̓̌͜s̷̢̥̋ ̵̪͇̾̏(̵̛͇͜H̴̟̄e̷̯̓k̴̳̞̈́l̸̘̜͋̀e̵͑̾͜r̴͍̞̊̈́'̴̲͖̊͘K̶̙̤̾͑o̸̹͗̅k̵̮̯̒ ̵̳̋̾W̵̦̹̚M̷͚̮̊M̴̯̠͝Ẃ̵̘̘̂-̸͔͝0̸̹̍͜1̸̢̔̕)̴̭̆,̷̭̎̔͜ ̴̞̥͒́D̶͖͆̎S̶͍͎̑-̸̠̜̇̈́1̸̙͋0̵͚̈̓2̵̮͝ ̵̜̄"̴̞̫͛A̴͇̔ẹ̸͂͂g̸̨̾͘ǐ̶͔͛s̵͚̹͒̅"̵̗͈̓ ̸͉̳̒̃P̸̻̱̐̾e̶̥͐̾r̷̓͜͜s̴̨̼͋o̵̺͐̽n̴̲̄͆͜ä̵͔́̕ļ̴̭̅͆ ̸̣͠E̴̥̓̉n̶̜̏̓e̴̟̕r̴̖̿͝g̶̡̃̑ỹ̴̙́ ̸̡̧̀̈́S̸̰̽͒h̷͈͑i̶̡̭͂e̷͚͠͝l̵̢͑͜d̴̞̀͘,̷͎͛
̷̠̆̒͜Ā̷̰r̸̼̟̽m̷̭̈́̌ͅò̴̹̕r̶̞̫̈̇ ̵̢̋&̶̝͑̎ ̴̟̓À̸̲͓t̸͍̂͊t̷̙͛͆ì̵͙͕͂r̵̗̃͠e̴͔̟̐́:̵̲̇ ̷̙̫͝P̷̠̈́̑ę̷́r̴̡͑ś̵̛͈̘o̷̭̭̚n̵͎̾͜a̶̹͊ḽ̸̨̓ ̶̧̥͌̽Ã̴̪̃ͅȑ̴̲͒m̴̫͐͜ö̷̺͎r̵̪͍͆́

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Pain exploded through Sable's body as the vibroknife dug into her back, a searing agony that made her spine twinge and her legs nearly give way. But still, she didn't stop. She couldn't. The fury inside her—A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃—drove her forward.

Then came another strike. The blaster bolt tore into her knee, the force of the hit knocking her off balance. The impact sent her sprawling for a moment, the taste of blood and burnt flesh filling the air. The pain was unbearable. She could hear her own breath ragged, wheezing as she struggled to push through.

A third round slammed into the side of her head with a deafening crack, her combat mask exploding apart like a shattered porcelain doll. Her vision faltered, her senses a blurred mess of disorientation. The world spun, and for a moment, she thought she might fall, might finally break. But then—

A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃.

The figure was still there, the smirk, the infuriating calm. Sable could smell the blood in the air, hear the crackling of energy weapons still burning through the atmosphere, and she felt a surge of fury deep in her chest. The world was nothing but her—A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃, the woman who had always been just out of reach, just a whisper away from Sable's grasp.

Sable's hand tightened around the hilt of her vibro-sword despite the blood dripping from her fingertips, her knees buckling under her, but she still pushed herself upright. She could feel the blood pooling around her. She could feel the agony coursing through her. She didn't care. Not now.

She could see A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ now. She was close. So close.

Her breath quickened, growing erratic with every labored step she forced herself to take. She stumbled, nearly falling, her knee buckling under the weight of it all, but still—still, she kept moving. One more step.

And then, as if the world itself had decided to stop her, another blaster shot ricocheted off the ground near her feet. It didn't matter. She was done with running, with being pushed back.

A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ was right there.

Sable's voice—gravel, strained—ripped through her chest, raw and full of anguish. "You. Will. Die."

She didn't wait for A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ to react. She charged, every fiber of her being focused on that one, singular, intoxicating desire.

Kill her.

The pain in her body, the bleeding from her wounds, meant nothing now. She would reach her. She would make A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ pay for everything. She had to.

She was done with shadows. Done with her. Done with the weakness.

Sable was ready.

Sable's movements grew more erratic as each step was met with another searing strike. Her armor, once a stronghold of protection, was being torn apart, the blaster bolts and vibro-blades eating away at its integrity. The metal plating buckled under the relentless fire, each impact taking more from her than the last. She was a storm, but even the fiercest storms run out of wind.

The world around her was a blur of chaos—explosions, blaster fire, and the sickening sound of her own body taking damage. Her chest heaved with each breath, the effort of keeping up with the fight becoming increasingly difficult. Every muscle in her body screamed, each strike forcing her to push harder, move faster, despite the pain, despite the blood running freely from the new and old wounds.

Her vibro-sword was slick with blood, but her arm was trembling, the weight of it becoming too much to bear. Her blast pistol had long since lost its power to hit with precision, the barrel singed from overuse. She was out in the open—exposed. The soldiers around her were closing in, their shots too fast, too many. There was nowhere to hide, no shadows to slip into, and she couldn't keep up the relentless pace.

Each time she took a hit, a wave of dizzying nausea washed over her. One blaster shot tore through her shoulder, another hit her side. Her combat mask, long gone, had left her face exposed, her features raw and smeared with blood and dirt. Her once-pristine armor now resembled little more than shredded scraps, barely holding together under the strain. She was losing steam—fast.

Her heart hammered in her chest, but even as it faltered, Sable didn't stop. Her eyes stayed locked on A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃. That woman. That thing. It didn't matter what was happening to her body. She had come too far. She was too close.

But the realization settled in slowly, cruelly, like the calm after a storm. She was fighting against her own limits, pushing past what was left of her body to continue. The hits, the wounds, the blood—all of it meant nothing. It was just her and A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃, and she would not stop until one of them was dead.

Another round slammed into her side, ripping through the remnants of her armor. Her ribs screamed in protest, and the world tilted dangerously to the side as her legs gave out beneath her. She collapsed to one knee, her hand gripping her vibro-sword tightly, as if that would somehow steady her. She was bleeding, exhausted, broken.

But she wasn't done yet.

The fury inside her—a mixture of rage, hatred, and determination—forced her to her feet. She couldn't fall here. Not now. Not when she was so close. A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ was still moving, still out there, and that was all Sable needed.

She wasn't finished. Not yet.

A primal scream tore through her throat, and she threw herself forward once more, her body still faltering, but her mind—her mind was clear.

One more fight. One more kill.

Then it would all be over.

 

[Darth Umbra]

Umbra stalked through the valley toward the Fulminatrix. Vagabonds, scavengers, and other personnel attempted to stop him and his guards, but they were no match for the Sith and his troopers. Umbra, with disdain, struck them down, batted them aside, or used the force to choke off the blood supply to brains, leaving people writhing before passing out. The Fulminatrix, like some ancient being, rose before him as he continued forward.

As he neared, Umbra stopped, alerting his guards, who kept their rifles at the high ready, peering into the distance to see what their Lord sensed. The dark side pulsed nearby. It pushed against itself, writhing, squirming. Umbra snorted. Dark Side users were fighting among themselves again.

"Forward," he snapped as his boots continued toward the ancient ship.

Time and time again, through eons and eons, the Dark Side turned upon itself. More often than not, Empires were brought down from within, not from some outside source. All the Jedi had to do was sit back and watch the inevitable downfall of any Empire that bathed in the Dark Side. Maybe his Master was right; perhaps the history spoke some truths. Too many Sith, too many users of the Dark Side, polluted the force and caused it to turn on itself. Maybe a culling was in order, maybe not. For now, these thoughts were better left in his mind; he could think about them another time.

The shadow from the broken warship blotted out the sun as Umbra made his way through the damaged exterior, passing into the interior.

"Mulitple signatures, they're crawling all over the ship," one of his guards stated.

"Make for the bridge; leave these rats to their feast."

Darth Umbra's boots clanked against the metal as he continued toward the Bridge of the Fulminatrix. His guard's armor shuffled, scraping as they plied ahead of their Lord. It seemed a new enemy appeared every few feet, either well-armed and armored or entirely caught by surprise. Umbra's blade ignited, slashed, blocked, and reflected before being put back into his belt, only to come back out a few feet later, blocking, cutting down vermin, and deflecting blaster rounds.

Umbra's ire rose, the force swallowing him like a whirlpool from his anger and rage at this slow pace. He shaped the whirlpool around him, forming an almost arrow-like shape with the force around his body, and advanced. Blaster bolts reached out to him but could never touch him. They would curve around his body and strike the ship's bulkheads he walked through. Kinetic rounds deformed as they went to impact him, skipping away onto the ground. Ion blasts seemed to dissipate into thin air, and the occasional shoulder-fired missile streaked around him to lose its targeting and detonate in a manner that left him and his men unharmed.

But it came at a cost; Umbra was using the force to bend the space around him from a small army of vagabonds, and he was tiring. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and his breath came more rapidly. It was time for his men to pick up the slack.

"Advance. Cull these worthless scum."

The force around him flowed away, his lightsaber spinning to deflect what remaining bolts came his way. His troopers advanced around him, blasters spitting fire and death into the enemy, clearing a path toward the bridge. It wouldn't be long now; the bridge was close.

 

[Kaila Irons]

Location: Scavenger camp
Wearing: Armor + Mask
Tag: Tamsin Graves Lirka Ka

The clash.

Goddamn did she miss the clash of steel.

Anathemous was proud of her sabers of course, having put so much time into their methodical design, but the ringing of steel in her ears sent warrior's blood pumping, old memories once wiped from her mind coming back thanks to Carnifex's restoration. An act she was now repaying in treachery.

And it was long overdue.

The young Darth pushed her unnatural weight against Lirka's blade, the sparks and plasma singing sweetly until ✱THWACK✱ the cyborg kicked her with a cybernetic.

"Gah!"

Her leg made an almost equally metallic sound as Lirka struck. A normal woman would have broken her unarmored leg then and there, but her laminanium bones held, even if the flesh was now blackened and bruised beneath her suit.

She nearly dropped to a knee, bending her wrist to fend off any blow the Kainite might threw from above as the roles of attack and defense were momentarily switched.

"Nice toy, Darth. Where did you get it?"

<"Gar taylir meg gar kyr'amur!">

The former mandalorian hissed in fluent mando'a.

She'd heard tales of the Slavemaster who governed Concordia when she was young, and should have known Lirka would recognize the gauntlets about her wrists. For all the black paint she poured on to hide the past from herself, and the shame of taking it for a trophy when her memories were yet stolen, the beskar still shined through every scratch.

Though she'd forsaken her adopted people, perhaps they could still be of use? If Lirka hated them then perhaps this knowledge could render the cyborg's thoughts as irrational as the Kainites made her own.

A second lightsaber rose from her belt and into her offhand as Anathemous swiped it at the cybrog's stomach in a reverse grip, then rolled backwards onto her feet, though it aggravated her bruised leg.

Her breaths were deep, almost excited, as she stared the cyborg down.

<"Gar copaanir ner beskar?"> she goaded.

<"Olaror pabida bic!">

​

 

[Lirka Ka]

Today just kept getting more and more interesting. Treason was to be expected, Kaila Irons had proven the point Lirka had hammered in time and time again to her fellows: her mind briefly flashing to her conversation with Eira Dyn on Oricon. The lands of the Sith were a place of blades in the dark, all aiming at Lirka’s throat. Oh how Lirka loved being proven right.

Though sometimes, they were blasters aimed her instead. Lirka felt the bolt slam into her and dissipate over the dark plates that formed her powersuit. The shot was not what mattered, she had been shot plenty of times. It was the utterance of Holy Rhand that perked her ears. A Rhandite? Here? Were she not locked with the blades of Anathemous, she would have rushed off to find them, dissect them, and reap whatever tally of knowledge laid within. But as the young Darth before her spoke, there were matters more pressing to attend to. She would have to find the Rhandite another day.

Mando’a grated upon Lirka’s ears like a knife. She was surprised, almost. She would have assumed a rat would have scorned the Sith entirely - the Galaxy really was just full of wonderful surprises.

The metallic clang of leg against leg was a curious thing - Lirka put it as a note in the back of her mind. Evidently her foe must have been augmented in some way. Most curious indeed. The weight being pushed against her blade proved it even more, though Lirka matched it - whirring servos and bulging, crafted, musculature that pushed the Once Sephi beyond what any normal creature should have been able to muster. Another member of Carnifex’s great menagerie of monsters.

Lirka spoke out, the distorted voice in her helmet oozed mocking disgust.

“Your language is repulsive, Rat.”

Whatever formalities existed disappeared in an instant. Partially because this Sith was attempting to kill her, partially because Lirka would never let the flame of Moridinae die so easily. Kaila may have expected true hatred from Lirka, a blinding and ravenous thing, but that was not her. Lirka hated the Mandalorians because of a dead woman’s dreams, and she continued that “ancestral” hatred because Carnifex said so. But Lirka’s hate was a petty thing, of mockery and taunting, built upon the skulls of a billion dead souls. Moridinae was history, but the pain would remain: Lirka would never allow it to fade so long as she breathed.

Lirka felt the saber slash across her armor, a good strike that went underneath the beskar of her breastplate. But far from a kill blow, she made sure her plates were thick enough for that - even with the smoldering gash cut into them.

Lirka’s voice too, held excitement. But hers was a cruel thing, the voice of a torturer desperate to open old wounds for no other reason than because it brought joy to her cold dead hearts. Lirka let out a laugh, a dry thing. And let her words ring out of the rancor of battle around them.

“Look upon my glimmer, Rat. I do not need your Moridinae Iron. For I have already reaped the bounty of your world, plucked it from the corpses that littered the surface. What might I have taken from you already, in those glorious days. A parent? A sibling? A friend? How much pain? How much misery?”

Lirka sprung to life, her blade lashing out to strike her foe in chest. Her free hand at the ready to use the beskar of her gauntlet to withstand what blows she could on her exposed front.

 

[Tamsin Graves]

Location: D'qar, disembarking
Theme: Back From The Dead
Equipment: Twin Omens | DE-10 | Combat Knife | Multi-Tool | Circlet of Projection | Trench\Hazard Armor | jetpack
Tags: Kaila Irons [ | Lirka Ka
Nearby: Serina Calis | Eira Dyn | Phaelissia | Darth Strosius | Kasir Dorran | Elane II of Kuat

​

After her shot landed but dissipated on the sephi thick armor plates of the power armor, she watched as the giant elf kicked her master in the shin. She saw Kaila nearly buckle under the power of the kick that would have snapped and crush a normal person's leg. Her eyes watching in wonderment at the flow of her masters' blades as she attempted to slice through that power armor.

She thought a for a second about taking a second shot but knew it wouldn't do much other then be small prick in the armor the massive elf. As lines of men around her battled with each other. Echnosians and Kainites slaughtering each other all around her, other fights ignited between all the others in the area. Despite the fire of war waging the demon inside her was not strong enough to fully come out play.

Part of her was glad and another part terrified at that thought, as her master clashed with Sephi. She knew the Demon could crush that thing in armor laying siege to her sister, yet the demon might just crush her master as well. She thought about rushing her saber ablaze, her saber designed specifically to cut through armor. Still, she hesitated she didn't want to get in the way of her master's flow of battle.

She gritted her teeth then and looked around the battlefield specifically at fallen soldiers. Then she spotted what she was looking for as she holstered her blaster then with her free left hand, she reached out with force to pull off a dead soldier an ion grenade. Bringing the grenade towards her she gripped it in the palm of her left hand. Then turned her sights back to her master who was yelling something in her Mandalorian tongue at the Sephi.

Then as the Sephi went in for the strike at the chest of Kaila, Tamsin pushed off her leg on the ground and went sprinting right for danger. Cutting ducking under blaster fire and blades clashing, rolling through soldiers fighting each other. As she sprinted, she counted in her head seconds her saber still ignited in her right hand to deflect any stray shots that might come her way. As she got close enough and her counting reached the right number, she punched the ignite button on the ion grenade.

A few feet away from where her master and the Sephi were fighting she yelled out to Kaila. "Move!" As she tossed the ion grenade at the Sephi feet, not sure how well protected the armor they were wearing was from ionic energy but maybe if they were lucky, it might be enough to shut it down or at least cause some electrical damage to it to slow it down. If not, at least now they were close enough to attack with their saber if the Sephi came after her instead.

 

[Darth Strosius]

​

Objective: Obtain Autocannon Schematics
Tags: Elane II of Kuat / Phaelissia / Serina Calis / Kasir Dorran
------------------------------------------

The lightning struck and did the job of gaining Him some breathing room after their initial clash, allowing Him to reorient His lightsaber defensively once more as she was pushed back. He had been expecting some sort of exhale, an outcry, even just a wince or a curse from His opponent given how direct the bolt of lightning had struck, but that wasn't what He received. She had the gall, and evidently the capability, to laugh. To smirk. To twist and yet remain composed.

Darth Strosius instantly decided that He was going to wipe that look off of her face, even if that required crushing her windpipe to do it. Perhaps especially if it required such. When she came at Him again He was prepared for another careful strike at an unprotected area, which wasn't quite what happened. Instead she feinted and nearly caught Him up in an attempted parry before He shifted His stance to block the blade of her halberd from cleaving into His side. She maneuvered and wielded the weapon quite well given its size and weight, what little He could feel from when their blades met anyway.

She fought less like a warrior and more like the wind, gusts of strikes that flowed easily and yet had a certain logic and pattern to them due to the nature of the weapon she carried. The ease with which she could perform was what caught Him off-guard more than any single movement or strike she made. She was just persistent enough to keep Him on the defensive but didn't seem to be exhausting herself enough to give Him a proper opening to deliver a counterstrike. Such was evidenced by the fact that she kept running her mouth through it all.

Steps had to be made, quick adjustments of His stance done, throws of movement in order to keep her from managing to slip around Him or arc her blade over where His lightsaber would meet it. Credit where credit was due, she certainly wasn't dull. Feints, probes, wide strikes, all could be handled in one way or another but she didn't even seem bothered by how little progress she had made in actually cutting Him down. If anything she seemed to be planning on Him blocking or sidestepping some of her attempted strikes.

That she was goading Him during each attack was even more frustrating.

Despite His lightsaber being far more maneuverable given her style He couldn't find an angle to pursue without leaving Himself open to a swift rebuttal, a clever tactic. But not clever enough. As He hopped back to avoid a strike at His left He made a quick motion with His free hand at His belt, not drawing something to bear but making some adjustment to whatever was hidden beneath His robes there. "Do you ever tire of reciting a soliloquy during a fight?"

She stepped closer, brazen and daring, and a fanged grin split His face beneath His mask in response. Right where He wanted her. His free hand splayed wide and without warning His sword slid off of His belt and whipped around in the air, the tip pointing at her side before plunging forward through the air in a stab. Not at her, but just behind her. To keep her still. In the same moment His free hand clenched into a fist and was thrown forward towards her gut while His lightsaber lashed out against her halberd to try and keep it occupied and out of the way. "And it's Darth Strosius to you, gnat."

-

The struggle inside the Fulminatrix was not a grand nor particularly valiant affair, rather it was brutal and often times rather swift. The Legionnaires of Wonosa had carved a bloody path through the entrenched scavengers but with more assailants coming in to race them for the prize it was no simple matter as it might have been otherwise. Corridors became deathtraps, rusted and collapsing sections of hull turned into large guillotines, all to batter their way to their objective.

The Legionnaires didn't move for the bridge or even some terminals as one might expect, they ran for the cannons themselves. They had to cut through, literally via fusioncutters, half the ship to reach it given their initial entrance but eventually they did arrive at the autocannons that adorned the ventral hull of the vessel. Without delay they established a perimeter and fired at any who didn't wear their armor while their engineers set to work.

Fusioncutters and molecular torches were set upon the cannons in a wave of sparks and careful slices, working to detach the cannons and as much of their systems as possible from the rest of the ship. It was time consuming but with a few squads worth of Legionnaires it was being tackled. All they needed was time.

 

[Adean Castor]

OBJECTIVE: Communications
TAG: Lúthien Tinúviel
Vaelon Scarr | Brooklyn Zambrano (nearby)

Mandated stable breathing turned strangled as a grip closed on her collar and pulled. Her momentum already forward leaning having started the duck herself, the sudden yank very nearly gave way to a flailing of limbs.

"I'm working on it," she responded in a hiss. There was a balance to be kept among the Sith between accepting another's expertise and displaying weakness. While it would be foolish to argue her competency in the midst of a battlefield, it'd be foolish to let another believe she was fully out of her depth no matter how true it was.

Any further inkling of protest drained from her being as the hand shifted to her shoulder, it's weight all but freezing her in place. The last time anyone had done so, she'd had every cause to believe her life was over. Considering she was here now rather than anywhere else in the galaxy, she'd been quite right.

Straining to hear her situationally-assigned battle buddy above the other noises of combat, Adean could feel her ears heat up at the mention of holding hands. It wasn't that she was reading more into the command - such a thing would be more than foolish in the midst of battle - rather for one who remained isolated mostly by design, the sudden influx of contact was off-putting.

"How does hand holding aide with keeping up?" She wondered, voice low to match the secrecy of her companion's. Nevertheless, she took the offered hand. Her own fingers were soft and well cared for, meant to mimic someone who had seldom dealt with physical labor in the life. It was a meticulous time sink, but one that had felt necessary for the name she'd borrowed. Anything to serve that illusion was a necessity.

 

[Serina Calis]

Two to Tango.
Location: -
Objective: 2.
Allies: -
Opposing Force: Darth Strosius
Equipment: Ebon Requiem, Tyrant's Kiss, 3 CV-1 Gas Grenade's (The Choking Veil)

"Power is not found in the ruins of dead empires—it is claimed by those with the will to take it before lesser hands dare to reach."​

The battlefield around them had become an irrelevance, a shadow-play of screaming warriors and bloodied ruins. The only thing that mattered now was him—Darth Strosius, standing before her, exuding wrath and raw, blistering power.

And yet, he could not touch her.

Not in the way he wanted to.

Serina watched him with open delight as he parried, sidestepped, adjusted. He was skilled—incredibly so. A lesser duelist would have long since succumbed to the relentless waltz she had drawn him into, their corpse crumpled beneath the weight of her artistry. But Strosius was no lesser opponent. He was sharp, unyielding, and patient in the way only those accustomed to absolute power could afford to be.

Yet she had felt it—that tremor of irritation beneath his composure. That flicker of impatience behind the mechanical precision of his defenses.

Oh, how delicious.

She saw it in the way his stance adjusted ever so slightly, how his weight shifted—preparing for something.

And then, there it was.

"Do you ever tire of reciting a soliloquy during a fight?"

A flick of his free hand, a subtle adjustment beneath the folds of his robes, something slipping from his belt—and she barely had a moment to track the movement before the unseen weapon whipped through the air, the blade hurtling toward her with predatory precision.

The attack was a masterstroke—calculated, vicious, and expertly timed. A strike designed to pin her in place, to force her into a reaction, into hesitation.

But hesitation had never been her vice.

The instant she felt the weapon moving behind her, she moved with it, twisting into the attack rather than away from it. Instead of remaining caught between the incoming sword and Strosius' advancing fist, she stepped into the danger—right into him.

"And it's Darth Strosius to you, gnat."

His punch collided with her abdomen, the force enough to send a tremor of pain lancing through her ribs—but rather than cry out, rather than recoil, she yielded to it, folding with the impact, her body pressing forward with the momentum, until—

Her hand was on his chest.

So close.

So unbearably close that the scent of scorched ozone and cold metal filled her lungs, so close she could see the faintest reflection of herself in his mask.

Her laughter was soft this time, quiet and indulgent, curling between them like whispered sin. "Oh, Strosius—" she practically purred, her fingers curling against the dark fabric of his robes, as if in mock affection. "I do believe I've missed you."

And then, with all the lithe grace of a serpent, she slid even closer, her lips nearly brushing the edge of his mask as she breathed him in.

A taunt, a challenge, a provocation—

And in the same moment, Ebon Requiem twisted in her grip.

The halberd had been trapped, locked against his lightsaber, but that had never been the point. It was a distraction, a misdirection—a magician's flourish, meant to draw the eye. And now, as she leaned in, her body pressing against his in a mockery of intimacy, her knee came up brutally toward his ribs, aiming for the gap in his armor, while her other hand reached downward, toward the unseen weapon that still hung in the air behind her.

Serina fought with steel and with words, but most importantly—

She fought with presence.

He had underestimated the danger of letting her in this close.

Her voice was velvet, sweet with indulgence as she twisted the knife deeper.

"Oh—" her breath was a sultry whisper, warm against the cold edge of his mask, "—and darling, if you're going to hit a woman, you could at least make it worth remembering."

 

[Sable Varro]

M̵̥̐͘I̶̡̤̅͘S̴͉͎͠S̶̯͙̀̔I̵̧̗͘Ȏ̸̭̋N̸̕͜ ̴̭̔̋R̸͔̾̚͜E̶̠͛͝P̸̞̾̐O̵̝̦̿̃R̵̟̙̍̾T̸͚̀̓:̶̨̽͆ ̷͓̐F̴̤̓e̴͙̓ȅ̶̩t̶͎̐͌ ̴͖̠͌F̷̤͎́̿i̵͉̍r̵̻̰̚͘s̶̗̩̆t̵̥͐ͅ ̴͉̆͐Ǐ̷̼n̷͕̻̈́͠t̴̛̯̎o̶̘̒ ̴͕̿H̵͎͈̊̕ë̷̥l̴͙̃l̸̥̎ͅ
̷̝̓Ồ̵̱ṕ̶̭͐ē̵̾ͅŗ̸̲̊́ä̷̼̹́t̶͙͙̀i̵̺̤͂v̷̦̿̓e̴̡̠͝:̶͉̊ ̸͎̗͐S̵̼͔̈́å̷̟̖̍b̶̦͗l̴͕̹̇̚ė̵͚ ̸̱͋V̸̤̈́͝a̴͎̬̐r̸̳̺̂r̷̹̱̂́o̴̘͘
̶̥̀M̸̖̂î̸̯͎͆s̷͈̒s̷̜̅͜i̷̙͂ō̸̰̖n̵̯͌ ̴̭̼͆C̵̩̿͑ľ̸̰̃a̶̬̔š̸̺s̴̮̫͊̈́i̶̧̓f̴̯̽i̸̢̛̛č̵͓̮͊ḁ̷̝͘t̷̤̿̚ǐ̴̝ó̶̟͌ṋ̷͙̈́:̷̱̘̎̐ ̶̧̙̋͐[̷͖̻̌͗C̸̫̬͊͝o̵̦̐n̴̪̼̾f̷͇̈́͆i̸̩͂ḑ̸̬̓̂e̶̛̋ͅn̵̢͗t̶̞̄̂i̷̘͕̽͐a̵̢̛̽ͅl̷̦͙̆]̸͖̿͂
̴̄͒͜
̷͔͕̈́P̵̱͠e̶̦̽͆r̷̘͕̎̐ș̶̰̇͘o̴̡͑̍ņ̴̘̅̒ñ̸͕̰͛ḛ̴͚̊l̷͙̀̉ ̵͔̔I̷̪̗͊n̵͓̪̂̃v̸̯̻̈̒ọ̷̅͘l̷̙͕̆͘v̷͇̄͆e̵̦͍͒d̶̗̥̀͠:̷͖͂
̶̫́
̶̠͆̈P̷̯͇̅r̴͕̖̐̿i̴͇͒̇͜m̵̢̈á̷̡͋r̵͙̿̏y̷̛̮̆ ̵̡̪̎Ő̴̟͜p̴̪̎e̶͉̳͛͑r̷̻̈́̀a̶̭͂t̷̨̳͊ǐ̷͇ͅv̶̡͒͘ě̶̜(̶̞̠͛s̷͎̚)̴̡̭͋̒:̴̩͌ ̶͚͋E̶͈̟͊͠l̷͕͇͗i̴̡̦̕m̶̢̀̕ͅi̶̤̔n̷̖͊̕a̵̰͖͑t̷̳͗è̴̖͝ ̵̟͌̕H̶͉̏͐͜o̷͍͓͌̊s̸̲̫̀t̷̉̿ͅi̶͇̗͂͘l̵̨̿ẹ̶́̈́s̷͙̉
̸͎̮͒S̷͈̀ǔ̸̡p̵̲͛p̸̛͕͂ọ̶͝r̴͘͜t̴̢̪͑͆i̴̥̞͐͛n̷̥̬͌̚g̸̳̈͜ ̸̳̋͠Ù̷͍̯̽n̴͓͝í̴͉̻̔t̴̨̍̔s̸̛̘̈:̷̢̳̎͒ ̶̖̿ͅȔ̵̩͈n̸̡̝̕͠k̸̲̈́n̷͈̮̊̿o̵̱̬̍͆ẘ̷̞͔n̴̩̿͘
̴̰̻̿̊A̴͍̕l̵̞͌l̶̤̃̎i̷̲̻͆e̴͚̐̀d̸̰̂ ̸̫̊C̷̭͇̈o̶̖̜̚ņ̶͖̀͌t̸͚̋a̴̪̅͒c̴̺̟̈́̆ṱ̷̯̈s̶̕ͅ:̴͈̭̔̈́ ̶͗ͅȔ̵̩͈n̸̡̝̕͠k̸̲̈́n̷͈̮̊̿o̵̱̬̍͆ẘ̷̞͔n̴̩̿͘
̷̞̆D̴͔̝͠e̶͎͠p̷̱̘̓̈́l̴͈̑̃o̴̧͒̏y̷̯̦͋̈́m̶̬̜̄̆ẽ̷̞̟n̵͙͛͝t̶͂͜ ̵͓̋L̷̠̔ȍ̷̗͙̇c̶̥̤͊a̸͈̦͛̚t̴͉̭͑i̷͙͒̔ö̸̳̭n̵̼̘̎̉:̸͓͈̏̈́
̸̛̪̹͑
̵̦͊P̵̗̞͐̉r̴̡͐i̵̮̓m̶̟͓̌̂â̸͍̘r̷̼͑ỷ̸̢̝ ̶͔̌͠T̶̤͓͂̐a̷̖̪̎̂ŕ̵̝̠̄g̴̹̋e̶͍̩͐͋ṭ̵̿ ̶͉̹͆Z̵̬̈o̶̳̪͌n̸̟̠̅e̴̞̚͠:̸̤͍̎̚ ̴͙̔̽Ȕ̵̩͈n̸̡̝̕͠k̸̲̈́n̷͈̮̊̿o̵̱̬̍͆ẘ̷̞͔n̴̩̿͘
̴͎̬̃E̴̅͌ͅq̵̞́u̶̢̬̽̿i̵͇̻͆̂p̴͚̹͒m̸̻͒͘ȩ̶͚͛̕n̷̡̳̊̽t̵̞̘͛ ̸̟̏͜L̷͔͊o̶̗̅ͅa̵͇̬̍d̵̪̂o̴̡̩͂͝ṳ̷̩͛̔t̵̪̳̽̍:̶̰̹̋
̷͍̘̑͝
̶̗̪̔P̶̢͛̊r̸̥̳̊̿i̸̙̊̿ṁ̸̝á̵̩̏r̷͕͆̀y̶̖̦̓̅ ̷̧̈́̈W̷͍͍̕͝e̴͇̾a̴̪̣͋̃p̸̡͈͋o̵͉͕̊n̸̻̊̅(̸̠̼̄͝s̴̪̟̈́)̷͇͠:̸̼̊ ̴̼̎͝Ṣ̴͛D̸̥͖̐̀-̴̟̰̈́͠Ĺ̷̪̮͑1̸̙̈̅ ̸̰̌͗Ĺ̸̮̣o̴͉͎̓́ṉ̸̰̍̈́g̵̩̔͑ ̷̧͖͒B̵̥͕͊l̸͎͍͊a̶̺̾͜s̸̤͌t̵̳̤̆ẽ̸͓̅r̴͍̊
̶͇̥͛S̷͙̙̔͗ë̶̺c̵̬̞̅͒o̵͈̭͊͝n̶̺̱̿̈d̷͙̯͂͘a̸̝̻̅ȑ̷̯̔y̷͔̜͂̊ ̷̭̻̐̾W̵͓̖͘e̵̩͗a̷̛̻͈̔p̴͓̍ó̷͇ͅñ̷̮̓(̷̖̹̀̏s̷͎̚)̵̪̈́̑:̸̺̿ ̸̺̫͗H̴̲͓͒G̴̯̘̽-̶̨̭̇̃8̶̹̍8̷͓̟̄̕ ̴͇̪͒B̴̧̼̓į̵̊g̶͕̔̕ ̷̩͊Ḯ̵͖̙͛ř̷̹̅o̴̗̥͐n̸̼̊,̸͙̲̑̏ ̷̩̹͂V̶̟͋B̸̲̊͝-̷̖͒͠1̸̬͋1̴̱̼́̿3̴̘̳̓͒ ̶̚͜"̸͚̆̕T̸̢͇̕í̴̧̈́ͅd̶̠̲̾è̵̥̘f̴͈̊͌ǎ̴̻̭̊l̸͓̽l̷̢̅"̵̡͖̉ ̵̱̭́C̴̭͍̃l̷̼̆͂a̶̜̓̀ͅs̵̭̓ṡ̷̩͖ ̸͙̏Ṽ̵̮͔ì̸̧̞͋b̴͇̘͒́r̶͇̉̃͜ō̴̚͜b̷̧͔̈́͂l̷̮̅ȃ̵̧̭d̷͇́̓ḙ̵̖̌́,̷͎͝
̵͖̈́̄S̵͚̋ͅp̶̱̙̈́̉ę̶̹̉c̷̲̈́̀ǐ̶̜͚̆a̷͇̎ͅl̸̰̄͂i̵̻̽ẓ̸̈́e̸̟̲̕d̸̻̬́͗ ̵̲̏G̵͓͚̀͝ȩ̴́̀a̶͖̚͝ṝ̴̺:̷̖̓́ͅ ̴͓̔W̸̤̾̄ͅr̷̜̎ḯ̷͈͔s̸̬̀͛ṫ̷̹̞̉ ̵̢̒̄Ḿ̴̺̈ő̸͕͈u̴̖͖͑͛n̴̙̎t̴̩͚̓͑è̸̡̟̀d̵͉͎̒ ̸͙͙̾̓W̸̦̞̓͝ȩ̸͂a̶̧̓̑p̵͓͈̕o̴̙͑̉n̷̓̌͜s̷̢̥̋ ̵̪͇̾̏(̵̛͇͜H̴̟̄e̷̯̓k̴̳̞̈́l̸̘̜͋̀e̵͑̾͜r̴͍̞̊̈́'̴̲͖̊͘K̶̙̤̾͑o̸̹͗̅k̵̮̯̒ ̵̳̋̾W̵̦̹̚M̷͚̮̊M̴̯̠͝Ẃ̵̘̘̂-̸͔͝0̸̹̍͜1̸̢̔̕)̴̭̆,̷̭̎̔͜ ̴̞̥͒́D̶͖͆̎S̶͍͎̑-̸̠̜̇̈́1̸̙͋0̵͚̈̓2̵̮͝ ̵̜̄"̴̞̫͛A̴͇̔ẹ̸͂͂g̸̨̾͘ǐ̶͔͛s̵͚̹͒̅"̵̗͈̓ ̸͉̳̒̃P̸̻̱̐̾e̶̥͐̾r̷̓͜͜s̴̨̼͋o̵̺͐̽n̴̲̄͆͜ä̵͔́̕ļ̴̭̅͆ ̸̣͠E̴̥̓̉n̶̜̏̓e̴̟̕r̴̖̿͝g̶̡̃̑ỹ̴̙́ ̸̡̧̀̈́S̸̰̽͒h̷͈͑i̶̡̭͂e̷͚͠͝l̵̢͑͜d̴̞̀͘,̷͎͛
̷̠̆̒͜Ā̷̰r̸̼̟̽m̷̭̈́̌ͅò̴̹̕r̶̞̫̈̇ ̵̢̋&̶̝͑̎ ̴̟̓À̸̲͓t̸͍̂͊t̷̙͛͆ì̵͙͕͂r̵̗̃͠e̴͔̟̐́:̵̲̇ ̷̙̫͝P̷̠̈́̑ę̷́r̴̡͑ś̵̛͈̘o̷̭̭̚n̵͎̾͜a̶̹͊ḽ̸̨̓ ̶̧̥͌̽Ã̴̪̃ͅȑ̴̲͒m̴̫͐͜ö̷̺͎r̵̪͍͆́

---

---

Sable staggered forward, dragging each step through the blood-slicked floor, the weight of her own body threatening to pull her down. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burned flesh, stifling, suffocating. Every breath rattled in her chest, sharp pain flaring where the wounds ran deepest.

The last scream had faded. The last body had fallen. The fight was over.

She had won.

Well for now.

And yet, she was still standing.

A sharp pain dug into her back, her hand instinctively went for it, and gripped the pommel then-pulled.

There was a white hot flash of pain, she felt the air vanish from her lungs, the newly removed blade falling from her hands.

Her vision blurred. The ground tilted beneath her.

And yet she stood still.

Her vibroblade slipped from her fingers with a hollow clatter. A slow, sinking weakness clawed at her muscles, dragging her to her knees as if the blood loss had finally caught up to her all at once. Her body shuddered violently, breath coming in ragged gasps. She tried to brace herself, tried to keep upright, but her arms buckled, trembling from the sheer exhaustion pressing down on her.

Strange, that she was still on her feet.

Not after all

She gritted her teeth, tasting copper, and refocused her gaze to find her.

Her hands—slick with blood, carbon scorching lining her armor—legs pressed weakly against the grounds. It felt like ice beneath her fingers.

But there she was, several steps away. Lying on her back, face to the sky-a hole blasted through her rib cage.

She did it.

She won.

And she was still on her feet.

Then—

The world spun, and she slipped into darkness. The strain, pain, and weakness finally ate through to her very being, and toppled her.

She felt a wheeze pass her lips, the scent of the burning debris around her reached her nostrils, and she struggled to clear her mouth of the handful of dirt she had inhaled.

Everything hurt.

Serina…( Serina Calis )

She needed to call to her, somehow. Though, the fatigue and overload that pulsated in her mind kept her from thinking clearly.

Right now she just needed to breathe, struggling as the forced coughs and lashes of agony worked through her being.

Then she head it.

Footsteps.

Soft. Measured. Coming closer. The sound of spurs.

Not a survivor. Not one of them.

No.

She knew that sound. She felt it even.

Sable forced her head up, blinking through the haze, through the flickering firelight and drifting smoke. A shape moved through the wreckage, stepping over the bodies without hesitation, untouched by the carnage, untouched by any of this. The glow of the flames illuminated pale skin, ashy white hair, the glint of red eyes that were all too familiar.

No armor. No weapons. No wounds.

Her.

Sable's heart pounded. She exhaled sharply, tried to push herself up—but her body refused to obey. A raw, broken sound tore from her throat instead, a mix of defiance and disbelief. Sable tried to move, though her body wouldn’t comply. Her body felt as if it was made of lead.

"You…aren’t…alive…"

Alana smiled. That smile. The same one she wore when she was trying not to make a joke.

"Funny," Alana mused, her voice a low, mocking drawl. "Guess you failed at that too, familiar, huh?“

Sable squeezed her eyes shut, willing the hallucination away.

She had survived worse.

This was just another ghost, just another trick of her own mind. It had to be.

She wasn't real.

But when she opened her eyes, Alana was still there—closer now, crouching in front of her, tilting her head like she was studying something pitiful, something fascinating in its suffering.

Sable tried to move, tried to push herself away, but her arms barely held her weight. Her body trembled violently, heat prickling behind her eyes.

Alana just watched, amused.

"What exactly was your plan here?" She asked, her voice all silk and venom. "Kill some random soldiers, go home, and be the loyal Kath Hound?"

Sable grit her teeth.

"You aren’t real…"

"You think chasing ghosts on Nar Shaddaa will give you clarity? Could try digging up Alfonz’ grave on Dantooine, you try that? Or hey, how about getting high as a kite on Nal Hutta—that gave you peace back in the day, didn’t it? Junkie."

Sable shook her head, strands of sweat-damp hair falling into her face.

"I have purpose now," She whispered, breath shaking. "I'm not you."

Alana's smile widened, almost sympathetic.

"No?" She murmured.

Then she reached out, brushing aside the torn fabric of Sable's sleeve with infuriating gentleness.

Sable flinched.

Fingers traced the ink beneath the grime and dried blood.

The old prison marks. The gang sigils. Every part of her past etched into her skin, things she had buried, things she kept covered.

Because they signified who she used to be.

Alana's phantom touch drifted up, brushing against the faint scars on Sable's throat.

"Then where did all the scars and fancy ink come from?"

She lifted Sable's chin with two fingers, forcing her to meet those piercing, gleaming red eyes.

"Nothing about you, is original. The whole reason you’re here ‘Sable’, is because you’re replaceable."

Sable jerked away with a sharp intake of breath, hatred burning through her exhaustion, through the pain.

"I have a purpose now," She hissed, desperate, clinging to the words like a lifeline.

Alana just laughed. A sharp, scornful sound, devoid of warmth.

"Purpose?" She echoed.

Then, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, each word slicing deep.

"Living under a boot doesn't make you alive, ‘Sable’.”

She leaned even closer, her breath hot against Sable's ear.

"It just means you're being stepped on."

Sable's eyes widened, something twisting deep in her gut, something ugly and painful.

Alana pulled back, shaking her head. "And if you weren't so fethed in the head, you'd know that."

Sable's breath hitched.

"No," She said weakly. "No, I chose this. I chose to be better. I—"

Alana cut her off with a tilt of her head.

"You chose?" Alana echoed, faux-curious. Then her smile faded, something darker sliding into her expression. "You chose to grovel to Serina? You chose to follow orders like a good little soldier, all because you don't know how to exist without someone telling you what to do?"

Sable's stomach lurched.

"No, it’s because you’re scared of making a fething choice for yourself," Alana continued, voice sharpening like a blade. "Because at the end of the day, we’re the same person. Call yourself whatever you’d like, but we’re stuck together, you and me. We always will be. Twist yourself into notes, give yourself as much medication, drugs, or therapy to try and forget where you come from…but it’s on your like a ledger.”

Sable's hands curled into weak fists, nails digging into her own palms, she attempted to rise.

The fatigue kicked her back into the dirt.

"We are not the same…"

Alana exhaled slowly, almost disappointed.

"Then let me start from the top," She began, kneeling down as she adjusted her hat. When she spoke, the tone was softer this time. "You just traded spice for doctrine. Contracts for orders. Freedom for obedience. Yet what do you got to show for it, can you name me anything?"

Sable's breath caught.

"You still remember what it felt like when they died."

The world around her blurred.

Heat. Smoke. A flash of memory—flames licking up a broken body, a scream cut short.

She flinched violently.

Alana didn't let up.

"You want to pretend this uniform makes you new, makes you clean, that you just can’t remember? You’re choosing not to remember, because it makes you sad."

The apparition stepped back, looking down at Sable—weak, shaking, slumped against the floor, struggling just to stay conscious.

"You’re still the same broken thing that crawled through gutters on Nal Hutta, before he found you."

Her voice turned ice-cold.

"You just learned how to wallow in the mud."

Sable's head dropped, her vision swimming. Her whole body shuddered, a deep, aching cold settling into her bones.

Alana took one last step back, staring the down at her, her very presence mocking her.

"I don’t think we’ll die, but if we do it’s on you," Sable could head her murmur.

And this time, Sable didn't argue.

Because deep down, some part of her agreed.

And then—

Sable finally gave out. Her body went still, her mind finally caving beneath the weight.

The battle would rage on, elsewhere.

But for now, Sable was out of action.

 

[Lúthien Tinúviel]

OBJECTIVE ONE: Shut down enemy communication systems.
LOADOUT: Arm | Armor | Hidden Blade | Dagger | Sword
TAGS: Adean Castor (Interacting) | Vaelon Scarr (Nearby) | Brooklyn Zambrano (Nearby)

There comes a time when people ask questions only you know the answer to. Sometimes, it would be nice to just have everyone read minds. So then one would understand. I shook my head, Just reaching out and grabbing her hand. And from that moment, our hands started to shimmer and shift. Disappearing into nothing. Yet she would still feel my hand on hers. Once our forms were completely gone from sight, and the force itself, I stood, and started to move. Speaking softly.

"I said to keep up because you won't see me, and I can't see you. Don't let go and you will be fine."

Holding my sword, I knew its exact length and size. Using it to smack away a blaster bolt here or there that got a little too close, I walked onward. Almost dragging her at first before she got her footing.

"I need these systems off line, and there are too many enemies. So we are just going to walk right past them."

 

[Darth Umbra]

The Fulminatrix was collapsing around Umbra as he continued forward with his troopers. Beams and entire sections of the ship collapsed as they continued toward the bridge. Umbra had to use the Force several times to hold the ship together as he passed through damaged hull sections or to push beams and large pieces of durasteel from falling on him.

"Sir," one of his troopers said, holding up a datapad with schematics of the ship, "Other Sith locator beacons are active on the ship. They're at the guns themselves, sir. Should we reroute?"

Umbra thought for a moment. Were they trying to pull schematics from the gun terminals themselves? The ship groaned and buckled as he thought about his next move. Umbra cast out his conscience toward the other Sith troops, gauging what they were doing from surface-level thoughts.

Cutting. On the orders of their lord Darth Strosius

Umbra smiled. "No. We continue to the bridge. Our allies tread another path."

The fighting continued to get heavier as they neared the bridge. Dug-in soldiers, mercenaries, vagabonds, and other scavengers continued to harass them. He lost several men the closer they got, stepping over the bodies of heavily armed Sith troops as he continued to deflect blaster bolts and hurl the Force at the emplaced enemies.

Umbra's expertise with a lightsaber could only help him so much in these tight confines. Deflecting blaster bolts back into the enemy formations and cutting down the occasional trooper was only so effective. The Force, however, was his most potent tool. The only issue? He was growing tired from the continuous fighting, and he was using the Force more directly than he normally would, taxing his strength. He would need to think about this issue when he was off this rotting carcass of a ship.

"Continue forward!" Umbra snapped at the men around him, urging them to further fervor with the Force. As he blocked blaster bolts and redirected them back at his attackers, he ballooned his powers out to the men around him, twisting it into their minds, causing them to become berserk with anger, throwing themselves at the enemy.

This was even more taxing than direct fighting, but it was proving its worth. His men were cutting down the emplaced enemies in droves, their armor absorbing damage and negating the advantage of the enemy numbers. Just a corridor or two away, the bridge awaited them.

And as they approached, things were quiet. Rounding a corridor and approaching the large doors to the bridge, Umbra's step slowed to a stop as he saw towering beasts before the door.

Resembling some type of reptilian being, heavily clad in armor and wielding comically large weapons, Umbra had no knowledge of these beasts. It didn't take him long to find out their mission as one of them noticed him and his men. As a group, they barked orders, and their repeating particle guns opened up on his troops, cutting them down in the corridor.

"Detonators and explosives!" Umbra yelled at the troops around him as he bolstered himself with the Force, intercepting rounds intended to kill him faster than he could think. "Fill that corridor with fire and death!" His troops flowed around him, boarding shields interlocking. Grenades and other explosives launched towards the beasts as the fight for the bridge began.

Elane II of Kuat

 

[Kaila Irons]

Location: Scavenger camp
Wearing: Armor + Mask
Tag: Tamsin Graves Lirka Ka Nova Ka

Well, it wasn't the blind rage she wanted, but it put Lirka on the attack all the same.

Few expected a sith to prefer fighting on the defense, even fewer knew Anathemous' peculiar blend of unpredictable Niman and deceptive mix of Juyo. She was no Exar Kun, but her form had been developed in the hopes of holding out against titans such as Carnifex.

It was time to put it to the test.

“Look upon my glimmer, Rat. I do not need your Moridinae Iron. For I have already reaped the bounty of your world, plucked it from the corpses that littered the surface. What might I have taken from you already, in those glorious days. A parent? A sibling? A friend? How much pain? How much misery?”

"Nothing." Anathemous replied coldly.

"You're just in my way, it's your boss I want."

She intercepted the oncoming blow, a strike with such strength behind that it pressed her reversed shoto into her beskar gauntlet, spraying the both of them with sparks and digging her heel into the mosey dirt as she tried to backpedal.

Her shoulder was sore, her leg even more so, and if she didn't find a gap in the kainite's armor soon, this was going to be an exhausting battle.

Fortunately, her sister may have found one.

"Move!" As she tossed the ion grenade at the Sephi feet

Anathemous didn't need to know what she was up to, such was the relationship between master and apprentice. She only needed to leap back to a safe distance, though the action caused her to drop on one knee.

"Ragh!" she growled through grit teeth.

The sephi had done more to her leg than Anathemous thought. The metal bone had bent some, stretching the muscle in ways it shouldn't have.

<<...she got my leg pretty good...>> she whispered to Tamsin.

<<...thanks for the assist...>>

Kaila took this brief moment to deploy her staff, using it to stand. It was clear she'd need the reach and to stay out of Lirka's, lest the sephi take her leg off completely, or disable another limb.

With this in mind she threw her shoto in a wide arc, the spinning blade circling around towards the back of Lirka's leg on the opposite side from Tamsin, where she hoped the armored joint would be least defended.

Perhaps it would give Tamsin an opening.

​

 

[Nova Ka]

TAG: Kaila Irons Lirka Ka Tamsin Graves
Gear: Mantle of Ka, Edge of Oblivion, Star of Thustra, X-74 Starpulse Cannon, KX-44 Shard Pistol

Nova Ka watched from the edge of the skirmish, her expression one of cold calculation. The raw fury of Lirka's assault, while brutal, was expected. But what struck Nova most was the careful coordination between Anathemous and Tamsin. They were not just opponents—they were partners in a deadly dance, anticipating each other's movements.

Nova's eyes flared with intensity as she felt the danger in the air—the moment of vulnerability. Her mother, Lirka, had always been a force of nature, but in that instant, she was not untouchable. Anathemous' strike, though strategic, was a chance for Tamsin to push forward, to exploit the opening Lirka had unwittingly left.

As amusing as it might have been, and indeed, Nova might have a greater deal of control if her mother was horrifically injured, or even killed...a small part of her refused to accept that the Blood of Ka be spilled by parasites of the Force. The Edge of Oblivion whined as she ignited it, the Star of Thustra found her open hand, and she tensed her legs.

Nova surged into motion, her large form flying up and over the scene of carnage below.

Her presence falling like a shadow upon the battlefield. She was no longer a commander of soldiers, not just an extension of the Sith; she was a daughter rushing to her mother's side.

Her body blurred with speed as she soared through the air, rising above the fight like a dark omen. Her hand reached for the Star of Thustra, the weapon familiar and deadly, its edges gleaming in the dimming light. With a snap of her wrist, she hurled the Star toward Tamsin with pinpoint precision. It spun through the air like a deadly star, aimed toward her.

Not to kill, but to prevent her from scoring the blow on her mother.

Nova hit the ground with a mighty impact, the earth shaking beneath her. She rose from her new creation. A war-beast in every sense of the word. Her eyes met Lirka's, a brief but resolute exchange between mother and daughter. There was no need for words. She looked to the duo, rage bubbling in her voice, the modifier of her voice cracking as she strained it's audio receptor.

"I alone reserve the right to take the life of my mother," Nova hissed coldly to Tamsin, her gaze unwavering as she slowly moved to stand between her mother and the apprentice, Edge of Oblivion hissed as she raised it towards Tamsin, then cast a glance to Darth Anathemous.

Her form was poised, the air around her crackling with the promise of the fight to come. The battlefield had shifted, and now, it was Nova who commanded it. The Starpulse across her back began to stir, though she dared not use it now.

No, that was for later. She rolled her shoulders, the Star of Thustra giving a whine as it found it's way back to it's owner, being snatched by Nova's outreached hand.

She was now ready for combat.

"Rise mother, do not tarnish our name this day."

 

[Lirka Ka]

Lirka was no Carnifex, or Prazitus, or any of the other myriad of titanic dark siders that riddled the Galaxy. But, she was if nothing else big, aggressive, and always on the offensive. Fine practice for Kaila Irons indeed.

As the Darth spoke with coldness, Lirka’s giddiness died all but immediately. Dark specters looming in the back of her mind as she uttered out in her own response through gritted teeth.

“You and me both, Darth.”

Lirka coveted the Father’s attentions - but today such things felt secondary. Something bubbled inside of her like black bile, even beyond Carnifex’s ichor coursing through her veins, it was the raw emotion crackling through of being reminded of the way of things. This Darth and her apprentice had proven it - in Lirka’s own warped mind. Sithdom reviled her, looked down upon her, just another monster in the Kainate’s menagerie. Assassins in the dark, gunning for her throat.

Lirka could feel herself slipping, the raw negative emotion making the brand emblazoned upon her skin itch even more than it normally did. It drank from her misery, of those grim reminders of the dark lonely path she walked. The Once Sephi’s jaw clenched, fine. Let them doubt her. They would remember the name Lirka Ka - she would make them all remember.

Yet Lirka’s grim crusade of self importance was cut short by the wisdom of young Tamsin Graves as Lirka heard the girl call out. The once Sephi looked down as her eyes widen at the sight of the grenade, quickly did she try to kick the thing away but it was in vain. A flash of energy crashed against the dark-armored plates. A roar came from Lirka’s helm, a bestial cry of frustration that was purely unnatural. Her vision blurred as systems failed, her limbs slumped heavy as various augmentations were forced to begin rebooting. The air in her lungs felt heavy, in the wake of electro-magnetism Lirka’s very flesh writhed and squirmed in protested agony.

In agony, she had become untethered. She had barely even noticed the Rhandite had entered the fray. It was as though a part of herself had been suddenly ripped away. Lirka’s limbs moved with sluggish force now, ferried by purely muscle instead of mechanism. In her confusions, it had made her an easy target for Anathemous’s strike. The saber cut through weakened armor plating, searing the flesh hidden beneath as the foul stench of burning chemicals filled the air. Lirka stumbled to a knee after the blow as she tried to stop herself from becoming totally untethered- both mentally and physically.

Yet, in the dim light of D’Qar Lirka witnessed the gleaming figure of Nova Ka make her arrival to the fray. Lirka found herself reminded, tethered, she was not alone in this path - not yet. For her spawn was here. Her daughter. Her supernova. Letting out a grunt Lirka’s eyes dilated again as she drew herself back into reality. Taking that shaky moment to rise back up to her feet, giving sharp look to Nova that may have been of frustration. Though perhaps more of rare embarrassment, it was not often Lirka found herself with a weakened suit. Taking her blade in both hands now, steadying herself on the blade’s second handle.

“Let us show the Sithlings what it means to be Ka, my supernova.”

Steadying herself, Lirka took a preparatory stance - making the slightest of gestures to have Nova take point. Lirka still needed time before she could reboot enough to attack at full strength.

 

[Tamsin Graves]

Location: D'qar, disembarking
Theme: Back From The Dead
Equipment: Twin Omens | DE-10 | Combat Knife | Multi-Tool | Circlet of Projection | Trench\Hazard Armor | jetpack
Tags: Kaila Irons [ | Lirka Ka | Nova Ka

As the grenade left her hand and rolled to the feet of the power suited sephi, she heard her master words in her head. Sliding to a stop she spun on her spun on her right foot and started to move for the power suited one, she didn't feel it but she could see the Sephi writhing in her suit of armor. The diminutive woman smirked under helmet knowing what she had done had worked.

She bore her saber in her right hand and brought her left hand up to its hilt. Gripping it in both hands she was going to strike at the Sephi's backside while her master went for the frontal attack.

She was about to let loose a right to left swing aimed for the elf's left leg, but she heard a voice off to her right.

"I alone reserve the right to take the life of my mother,"

Then she felt it, that sense of fear and dread emanating from something flying her way fast. Her eyes slipped to her right through her helmet and her grip on her saber switched switched position so she could change the trajectory of her swing at the object spinning towards her.

A flying saw blade of death, looking to tear through flash and bone. It emanated a palpable fear with ever rotation is spun. Her saber came up her right hand dropping from the grip of the blade as she spun to face the whirling death coming her way head on. Her right hand outstretched towards it the force flowing through her as it began to slow her telekinesis taking grip of it with the force. As she did that her saber in her left hand went on a back striking back at Lirka Ka 's left leg.

The whirling blade of Nova Ka slowed and then its spin began to reverse. Sweet pouring down her face under the helmet she was wearing, Tamsin's teeth gritted her focus more on the death spinner then on her back swing to strike at Nova's mother. Still she hoped her swing would strike true it just needed to bite into he armor so she could release the ion pulse into her blade to damage the suit more. If she kept the sephi immobilized her master could make quick work of it.

The Star of Thustra began to fly back at Nova and through Tamsin's helmet visor to bright orange balls of fire began to burn where her dark eyes normally were. It wasn't the demon it was fully her embracing the dark power inside her.

"Sorry I don't take orders from your kind, I guess today you will be an orphan!" Tamsin yelled back with fury, it was probably the meanest thing she had ever said to anyone. Though she didn't have time to feel guilty in that moment nor would she they were trying to hurt her sister.

 

[Kaila Irons]

Location: Scavenger camp
Wearing: Armor + Mask
Tag: Lirka Ka Tamsin Graves Nova Ka

Like master like apprentice, Kaila thought, watching young Tamsin go for the leg.

To her surprise however the Dathomiri altered course at the last second, and it wasn't until the sparks flew that she understood why. A warrioress leapt into the fray, clad in argent plate and bejeweled in crimson. It was like staring at a creature of boney carapace more than a living woman. Knowing the Kainites, it was entirely possible she was looking at just that.

"I alone reserve the right to take the life of my mother," Nova hissed coldly to Tamsin

The words made her skin crawl with iced hate and memory alike, knowing the discordant familial structures of many Kainite broods, and how little difference set them apart from the murderous jealousies of the very acolytes with which she once competed to survive.

Nothing at all like the family she'd since found in Tamsin Graves , in Quinn Varanin and even Kirie .

"Sorry I don't take orders from your kind, I guess today you will be an orphan!" Tamsin yelled back with fury

A family that hated together, it seemed.

Her sister was now facing down one of Carnifex's cruelest and her daughter with a sort of fury Kaila had always known would come but never seen in action. It was a pure and righteous sign of her growth.

<<...fight well, sister...!>>

Anathemous pressed the opening her apprentice provided, rushing forth with her spear in hand, only to drop into a sliding crouch to jab the spear at Lirka's damaged chest plate, though the action sent a sharp pain lancing through her leg, drawing out a pained, yet vicious growl in her throat.

The young Darth didn't have many more of these energetic strikes in her, she knew, not with her leg in this condition. This may be the last such blow delivered before she'd have to resort to sorcery from a distance.

Even with survival having become her top priority however, Kaila thought back on the words of her foe.

“You and me both, Darth.”

If Lirka survived the next few seconds, perhaps it would be worthwhile that she speak to the Slavemaster. It seemed to her that Carnifex's most achieved were often equally mistreated. Something the former kainite could work with.

​

 

[Darth Strosius]

Objective: Obtain Autocannon Schematics
Tags: Elane II of Kuat ? (I swear that was a Muun the other day) / Phaelissia / Serina Calis / Kasir Dorran
------------------------------------------

At first it seemed like she had crumpled forward against Him, perhaps His fist had dug in a bit deeper than intended and had caused something more major than just broken ribs. A notion that He unfortunately couldn't entertain even though it would have been very pleasant, as she had the gall to laugh again. And to lean against Him no less. His fangs ground together and an unnatural hiss of disgust slipped out as she grabbed onto His robes and spoke.

Darth Strosius recoiled as she summoned the foolishness to slip even closer, the fist that had once been thrown into her side shooting up to grab her shoulder and push her away before she could reach His mask. He was the one meant to do the biting, not be the recipient of it. The knee that was suddenly and rather forcefully pressing beneath His chest plate had caught Him completely off-guard and robbed Him of His breath, a wheeze and a slight stumble escaping Him rather than any immediate counter.

His lightsaber haphazardly kept its position against the halberd but clearly that wasn't a focus for either of them. One less thing to worry about for the moment as He caught His breath and glared daggers at His opponent from behind His visor. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword at her back and in that moment, and definitely not when she goaded Him, He felt all patience and any veneer of a fair duel vanish from His mind.

"I didn't hit a woman," The sword twisted in her grasp, seeking to bend her wrist at an uncomfortable angle as though to dare her to keep hold of it. "I swatted a pest. And not hard enough it seems." The 'wings' that had flared from His back surged forward then, seeking to wrap around her arms to keep them still as His free hand swirled with energy despite still grasping her shoulder. "Laugh this off." With a sound to rival a grenade, a blast was loosed from His free hand in a sickly grey explosion.

 

[Serina Calis]

Two to Tango.
Location: -
Objective: 2.
Allies: -
Opposing Force: Darth Strosius
Equipment: Ebon Requiem, Tyrant's Kiss, 3 CV-1 Gas Grenade's (The Choking Veil)

"Power is not found in the ruins of dead empires—it is claimed by those with the will to take it before lesser hands dare to reach."​

Pain.

It was not the first time Serina had tasted it.

It was not the first time she had felt her bones shudder beneath the weight of something far greater than herself, nor the first time she had danced upon the precipice of annihilation, toes curled over the edge, heart alight with the sheer, intoxicating thrill of defying fate itself.

But this—

This was something else.

The moment Strosius' hand clenched upon her shoulder, she knew what was coming. He had played the part of the patient duelist for long enough, tolerated her presence, her mockery, her goading—but now, now she had pressed too far. She had slithered her way into his space, sunk her venom into the cracks of his composure, and she saw it—felt it—the moment his patience snapped.

She saw it in the way his fangs clenched together, in the subtle twitch of his jaw beneath his mask, in the sheer violence that rippled through the Force, curling like a serpent preparing to strike.

And strike he did.

The wings of his power surged forward, not mere illusions of presence, but things that moved, that grasped, that held—tendrils of darkness wrapping tight around her arms like iron chains forged from pure malice. Binding her.

For the first time since the fight had begun, she could not move.

Serina's fingers twitched against the hilt of Strosius' sword, the weapon twisting against her grasp, its unnatural force grinding against her wrist like a living thing, daring her to resist, to cling to it.

And then—

"Laugh this off."

The words were a death sentence, hissed from behind his mask, and in that moment, the world ended.

There was no light. No sound. No breath.

There was only force.

The explosion of raw, unchecked power detonated between them like the wrath of a dying star. A sickly grey eruption, pulsing with the weight of the Dark Side, crashed into her at point-blank range. It was not a strike meant to wound, nor even to kill. It was something more—something absolute.

It was meant to erase her.

And it almost did.

The sheer force of it tore through her body like a thousand razors, ripping across flesh and bone, turning sinew to ruin and breath to fire. The impact cracked against her ribs, her sternum, her skull—like she had been caught in the wake of a supernova. Her vision blurred, darkening at the edges, and for a single, terrible moment, she felt herself breaking—

Her body, her will, her very essence—splintering beneath the weight of something greater than she could contain.

And yet—

And yet she did not shatter.

Her back arched, her limbs convulsing as she felt the Light surge forth within her—a thing instinctive, protective, trained into her for years, a reflex honed from childhood. The Light had always been there, buried beneath her ambitions, beneath her desires. A thing her Jedi teachers had praised, had nurtured, had told her to trust.

The Light will protect you.

And it did.

For a moment.

A moment that she hated.

The Light was not hers to trust.

The Light was not hers to serve.

It was a thing to be controlled. Bent. Broken.

It had never been her savior—only another chain, another hand guiding her, another lie whispering falsehoods of serenity while demanding submission.

No.

No more.

Serina seized it.

Not as a Jedi would, with reverence and humility. Not as a Sith would, with hunger and rage.

She seized it with contempt.

Her teeth clenched, a growl of defiance curling from her lips as she forced the Light to obey her, to fold beneath her will, to shield her not because it wished to— but because she commanded it to.

A pulse of something new—something twisted—shuddered through the battlefield.

The Light did not shine. It did not burn with purity or warmth.

It quivered.

It writhed.

It screamed.

And then—

It began as a ripple.

A tremor, subtle at first—barely noticeable amidst the chaos of battle. But then it grew.

A shockwave of something wrong tore through the Force, warping the very fabric of reality. It was neither Light nor Dark, neither rage nor serenity. It was something else. Something that had never been before.

And the Force felt it.

It did not rage. It did not seethe. It did not whisper.

It screamed.

Not a sound of agony. Not a cry of rage. But a scream of revolt, of disbelief, of sheer unnatural disruption.

The energy pulsed outward from Serina like an expanding sphere, tearing across D'Qar itself in an invisible storm. The jungle convulsed, trees bending as if caught in an unseen gale. Birds and beasts fled in all directions, howling, shrieking, their instincts screaming at them to run, to escape, to leave this place behind.

The sky flickered, dimming for the briefest of moments—not from clouds or smoke, but as if the very sun had hesitated, as if the universe itself was struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

Across the battlefield, Sith and soldier alike stumbled, their breath caught in their throats as the pulse washed over them. Those attuned to the Force—whether trained or merely sensitive—were struck by something deeply, fundamentally wrong.

In the depths of space, where this world was nothing more than a distant rock, seers and mystics stirred, their visions shattered by something they could not name.

For the first time in a long time, the Light had not been bent.

It had not been pulled.

It had been forced into submission.

And it did not know what to do.

The jungle fell still.

For one long, breathless moment, it was as if the planet itself had stopped.

And then, ever so faintly—like an echo from the depths of something ancient and unknown—

The Force shuddered.

Then the blast hit.

The shockwave created by Strosius hurled her backward, a body of flesh and steel caught in the wake of a storm. She felt herself leave the ground, flung like a broken doll, the wind screaming past her ears as the jungle blurred into nothing.

She struck the wreckage of the Fulminatrix hard, the impact sending a deafening crack through her bones. Metal buckled beneath her, and for a moment, the pain was so vast, so all-encompassing, that she almost lost consciousness entirely.

But she did not.

Because she refused to.

Her fingers twitched. She felt the weight of Ebon Requiem still clutched in her grip—no, not clutched, dissolving. The halberd flickered, its presence in the material plane unraveling as she dismissed it, sent it away, for the first time not merely as an act of preservation, but because she no longer needed it.

Not in this moment.

Not when she had something greater than steel in her grasp.

Her breath came ragged, her limbs trembling, her body screaming in protest as she forced herself to move—to rise.

She had survived.

She had taken something untouchable and made it hers.

And as she stood, swaying but standing, the battlefield seemed to pause.

She was broken. Burned. Bloodied.

And yet, she smirked.

Her voice, hoarse and edged with pain, slithered through the chaos, carrying across the battlefield with a quiet, terrible amusement, as if everyone could hear the horrid whisper of temptation sneaking into their very ears.

"Oh, Strosius…" she exhaled, tilting her head, her smile mocking, indulgent, unchanged.

Her blue eyes burned with something new.

Something wrong.

"I believe I owe you my thanks."

Then, she began to laugh madly.

 

[Nova Ka]

TAG: Kaila Irons Lirka Ka Tamsin Graves
Gear: Mantle of Ka, Edge of Oblivion, Star of Thustra, X-74 Starpulse Cannon, KX-44 Shard Pistol

Nova's head snapped toward Tamsin the moment the words left her mouth:

"I guess today you will be an orphan!"

Something in her eyes shifted.

The fury was already there, simmering beneath her skin like coals in a forge—but now it turned personal. Cold. Surgical. A stillness fell over her face that was far more frightening than rage. A moment of quiet before the storm broke again.

"You speak like a child swinging a stick," She said flatly, voice low and sharp like a vibroblade just before it hums to life. "I’ll make a corpse out of you, for speaking with such contempt."

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each movement taut with the grace of a predator.

"I'm not here because I serve her. I'm here because no one—not you, not your little rat, not even death itself—gets to take from me what I will claim."

Her gaze narrowed, the crimson of her eyes glowing beneath her helm.

"You think this makes you bold, child? All I see is another desperate girl screaming for purpose through someone else's blood, but she is scared of the sight of her own."

Then, with a cold smile that didn't reach her eyes, she added, almost conversationally—

"Let's see how much of that fire you have left…when you're the one bleeding."

And with that, she lunged—blades sweeping low, aiming for Tamsin’s legs, the Star of Thustra swiping down to parry for the blade.

Just to hurt.