Victorious in Death [One Sith and Allies]

[Laira Darkhold]

Location: Galactic War Memorial Park, Contruum​

With ships still hanging in Orbit, the conquering armies of the One Sith still securing parts of the world. Most of the Cities had put up little resistance, their fighting spirit beaten out of them, or simply they accepted the occupation for what it was. Near the site of the war that had taken place on the planet the Dark Lord's emissaries had toiled day and night to construct a monument to the War, as a way of inspiring those that still fought, and martyrizing those that had died in his great war to destroy the Republic.

Arrayed in the field before the great mountain the memorial had been carved upon there stood eight hundred nineteen Mandalorian warriors, each in full Beskar, still armed and armored from the fight over the world, each clutching a pistol or rifle and a bottle of liquor.

I stood atop a platform constructed of rubble and bent rebar before the arranged Warriors. No doubt some of the members of One Sith we wary of their intentions and kept distance, though I expected many to join us in this congregation before the night was over and the dawnstar rose back to the heavens.

"Brothers and Sisters of Mandalore. We fought and bled for this world. Our allies in the One Sith stood shoulder to shoulder with us, and in the end we prevailed. But we were not without loss. Many of our kinsfolk passed on during the battle." I nodded to the rows of blanket covered corpses sitting behind me, waiting to be loaded into cargo ships and sent into Contruum's star. "Let us spend this night in remembrance for those that died and celebrate the honor and glory that as their passing into the Manda." A roar errupted from the Mandalorians in the crowd, some firing off shots into the sky.

I waited until they grew quiet again, and the dusk sky was still once more. "Hail the Glorious Victorious Dead!" And the cry went up in eight hundred twenty voices, blaster bolts echoing out. Each warrior immediately took a great gulp of the liquor in their hands and then turned the bottle's neck down, letting the a swig of the liquid poor into the ground with a cheer. Only seconds later music began playing and the Mandalorians were no longer quiet and organized, no longer waiting and honoring the fallen with silence and reflection, but celebrating the victory their comrades fought and died to achieve with drinking, fighting, dancing, and socializing. As is proper.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aw78NYAv05g​

I took my leave of the pile of rubble that had been a make shift stage for the short ceremony, checking on the droids loading up the fallen into transport ships. Soon they would become part of the star and the atoms that composed them would forever sweep across the cosmos. With any luck, our comrades from this campaign would join us in this celebration of victory.

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Darth Ophidia's joints were still stiff as the Force Stasis wore off slowly. By the time she was able to move again, her victim was gone and the Tsaisibola had snuck into her boot for warmth, making her muddy in yet another place. As soon as she could, she had called for a bath to be arranged, but because of the battle logistics, she would have to wait. Such insolence. Someone would have to be flogged. Hearing the cries from the Mandalorians, the Rattataki trod into their direction. Where there were Mandalorians, there was booze. At least a few drops of precious gold would warm her innards.

Mud soaked every inch of her body, her lightsabre was broken, and a splatter of blood adorned the forehead of her helmet as she approached the Mandalorian party. Coming close to the merry band, she pulled her helmet off her head and plucked a bottle from the hand of one that had two. He did not seem too concerned about losing one. She didn't really know if he noticed to begin with.

She took a gulp, pored a little bit on the ground and raised the bottle to the newly erected statues. Was that why she didn't have her bath yet? Statues?

 

[Vrag]

Vrag lingered at the edge of the fields, content to stay on the sidelines as the men and women who had wept tears and sweat and blood unto the soil of Contruum celebrated. It was to be expected, and even encouraged, after a battle like this. The Republic hadn't gone out without a fight, and many had lost their lives to their foes.

That being said, she'd never been one to care much for the past. It was done now, and crying a river would not bring them back. Every single one of them, dotting the landscape like a myriad of black stars, had known what could await them down here. Each time they stepped out of a dropship, the soldiers in service of the Dark Lord knew they might never return.

Now the fires that burned across the hills weren't of the napalm variety, but pyres, some to burn the dead, others to give into that primal call of celebrating the fact that they were still alive. Wasn't the first time she'd watched them lick at the darkness, and she doubted it would be the last. War seemed to follow her, or maybe she followed war. Hard to tell, these days. It had been so long since she'd last enjoyed a period of peace that it was becoming increasingly difficult to figure out what peace even felt like.

She pulled her eyes from the dancing lights below and focused instead on the monument carved into the rockface. There were still scars of artillery decorating the stone, though obscured somewhat by the relief now staring down at the cold mountains of Contruum.

It was irony at its best, the trio of faces gazing emptily on the festivities below. Well, two faces and a mask, at any rate.

Vrag chuckled, running a hand through her messy hair as she returned the cold gaze of her likeness chiseled into the gray side of the mountain. Nobody would recognize her like this. The sculptured skull? Yes. That was the Hand of the Dark Lord, conqueror of worlds and vanquisher of many a Jedi. But the woman slowly making her way downhill, meandering between groups of drinking soldiers? Just another face in the crowd, tired from a long day of fighting and looking like it too.

A quick hand shot out at some point, relieving a half-comatose trooper of his largely untouched can of juma juice before the man spilled it all. It would be a shame for good alcohol to be wasted in such manner, and so heartily downed the liquid. It burned down her gullet just like the fires around her, a scorching reminder that she was still breathing.

 

[Krux Mullarus]

The rain began to subside. The sun poked around the clouds. The cheers of the Mandalorians, however, were the only things that echoed within Mullarus' mind. His hands still twitched, his arms still shook. Never before had he partaken in a battle like that one. His first real military action for the One Sith had turned out a victory. A victory with many a loss, just as the Mandalorians cheered for. Mullarus admired that about them. They were always willing to fight, and likewise, to die for their honor.

Of course, that often brought out their thirst for blood, too...

Mullarus exhaled, running a hand tiredly through his soaked hair. The loose grey jumpsuit he wore under his black robes was also waterlogged. There wasn't an inch on him dry. Even his lightsaber was starting to act up from all of the water getting into it's circuits. It was his first, so it was nowhere near perfect. It would no be his last, either. Just like how this would not be his last battle carrrying the banner of the One Sith onto worlds all across the galaxy.

Mullarus stared at the monument from afar. It was a sight to behold. It was a perfect reminder to honor the fallen of Contruum. But not just that of the Sith.

The Republic put up a good fight. They stood up and fought to defend their families and their homes. Mullarus, personally, did not take part in many of the campaigns across the world. He helped the soldiers whenever they needed it, whenever he was called upon, and of course, the most memorable of battles for himsef took place on the Killing Fields with the Jedi Knight Ella, and his old rival Nerius. Nerius' thirst for blood and lack of control seemed to symbolize something to Mullarus. In fact, the same for the Jedi. She fought with as much, if not more courage and valor, than himself and Nerius. The Jedi was a beacon of self-control and respect on the battlefield. Though the enemy, Mullarus had felt more respect for her than he did for his own ally, who took every chance he could to try and kill the woman, even with her on her knees before Mullarus, as if testing his mercifulness...

No, Mullarus wouldn't want to join them. The Jedi. There are many respectable warriors among their ranks, but their code...to Mullarus, is flawed.

As the young, exhausted apprentice stood before the monument, he not only gave his word to the fallen sith on Contruum, he raised his fist in the air and gave a celebratory shout for the Republic, who perished defending their home. Even if the Mandalorians were not cheering for the fallen enemies.

Somewhere on Contruum was probably a young boy who had lost his family to the ferocious might of the One Sith. He, too, would grow up with hate in his heart and vengeance boiling in his blood for the brutal bastarda carrying banners of red and black. He would have seen the horrible armored soldiers cheering around burning cities and towns, the Republic flag torn and scalded by the rising smoke. He, too, would grow into a hateful young man who sought revenge against the Sith, ambition and revenge driving him to strife.

Hopefully he would learn to respect the ones he hunts, too.

 

[Isamu Baelor]

With the battle finished, and a victory over the Galactic Republic, the united forces celebrated. The Mandalorians attacked the booze, almost as hard as they had attacked the Republic troops. Isamu’s men joined with them. They drank, fought, and socialized with the men and women who had been their brothers during the battle.

Isamu did not join them. He sat away from the celebrations, finding a place where he could rest. His armor was filthy and damaged. His cloak was torn. The battle was long and arduous, and it took it’s toll on the general. He was an old man, and he did not recover as quickly as his men.

Fatigue wasn’t the only thing that kept him from the celebrations. He wanted a place where he could mourn in peace. Where he could mourn for his soldiers, as their deaths weighed heavily on his heart. He was caught in a whirlwind of grief, guilt, and self-doubt. It was tearing him apart.

Many of Isamu’s soldiers died today, and he felt responsible. He did not pull the trigger, but he did order them into battle. Their lives had been in his hands, and he failed them. Each soldier killed had a family. They were a father, a son, a mother, or a daughter. They were important to someone, and now they were gone.

Doubt crept into Isamu’s conscious. It mocked him. It tormented him. Had he been better, would they have survived? He could not shake those thoughts. They ate away at him. He failed them, much as he failed his wife. It was a pain that he would never be able to run from.

The Mandalorian’s spoke of glory. Isamu scoffed at the notion. What was glorious in death? The pain and suffering left in its wake? The voids left in the hearts and souls of their loved ones? Glory wouldn’t keep their spouses warm at night. Glory wouldn’t feed their families. Glory wouldn’t raise their kids. Glory would do nothing.

He mourned.

 

[Darth Ophidia]

Eventually, Ophidia's eyes fell on the three large Sith figures carved into the rock as well. She snorted derisively as she ploughed her way through the drunkards and the mud to stand at the foot of the rock. Then, her face turned up against the three large humanoid figures. Sometimes, she envied those who fought in the open and gained such momentous honours. Had she chosen another path, would it then have been her figure carved upon the mountainside? Or perhaps she would perish along the way. She was a capable fighter, but subterfuge was indeed where her heart lay. Even the victory of the day was won by stealth and underhanded techniques.

The Rattataki took another swig of her brew and splattered some on the feet of the three Sith before she turned around and slouched down on rubble from the rock-carving. Her eyes surveyed the persons as she was prone to do. She looked from one to another, weighing in her mind kill or spare. She was not exactly the life of the party, then again, she had never been.

Another swig of her bottle. It was growing steadily lighter in her hand, and her head was swimming. Damn it, she wanted that bath. Perhaps a different bath was in order. Once more her eyes went from one to the other. Fight or spare. She could still feel a stiffness in her joints, but the booze softened her up just as quickly as it clouded her judgement. Duck, duck, duck, duck g-duck, duck, duck ... goose.