Public Woe to the Vanquished (Slave Raid of Hapes)

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"If you had not sinned so greatly, the Force would not have sent a punishment like me upon you."

ALLIANCE SPACE - HAPES

​

A cry had gone out through Sith space, the corsair warlord Hasuras na-Gerra called for a raid upon the Cluster of Hapes, whilst the Alliance reeled from their defeat. Strike them while they were down. Strike them while they were weak. Fall upon them and take their elite as prisoners and slaves. Give them the choice: join the Eternal Sith, or perish.

​

The warlord's dark armada emerged from the ether, a world devastator of immense proportions, flanked by many smaller craft. A transmission beamed to the surface.

"Submit, or die." ​

The devastator's hangars unleashed hundreds of orbital drop pods that fell in an iron rain through the atmosphere of Hapes, burning as they went like unholy comets. These pods were full of Vahlan corsairs of the Ember and other warriors who had answered the call. Behind them, a wave of shuttles to scoop up whatever slaves they captured.

Gerra's pod cratered through the top of a mansion before slamming into the ground. The hatch blew open. He stomped onto rubble, gleaming beneath noonday light in his armor of burnished alchemized steel. He hefted a warblade and set toward the city square. He would see them laid low.

 

[Daeg Shrovl]

Daeg stepped into his drop pod and stood ready as it's door closed. The door seal hissed as the pressure stabilized. Faint sounds of the others onboard running to their pods and yelling along with the siren whining as the attack was commencing. The pod shook in it's tube as the other pods were unleashed. Daeg slowly closed his eyes, diving into the Force to prepare himself for what came ahead.

Then, gravity took hold. Daeg's pod had ejected and was in freefall. The engines fired up and the pod headed down, breaking through the atmosphere until it reached the ground, obliterating a large tree on impact. The pod's canopy popped open and it's occupant pulled himself out. Thick black fur and a monstrous face leaped from the pod, landing in the grass of a park. Daeg sniffed the air, searching for prey. He was compelled to hold back his urge to slaughter in favor of capturing prisoners to be subjugated. Those who resisted would be not as lucky.

The hunt was on.

 

[Darth Metus]

HAPES, RENTAL MANOR

For a generation, the name Darth Metus had faded from the lips of diplomats and warlords alike. Once, it had been a rallying cry in the Southern Systems, a name spoken with reverence or dread depending on which end of his saber you stood. But time had its way of smoothing even the sharpest blades. The Confederacy fell. The stars shifted. And Metus, ever a survivor, had chosen the one prize left worth chasing.

Peace.

That peace had taken the form of long vacations, longer drinks, and the occasional check-in with whichever child of his happened to be speaking to him that month. Some visits were warm. Others cold. He counted it all a win. And now, after a rather enlightening stopover on Denon, he found himself on the next world crossed off his bucket list: Hapes.

He had heard the rumors, of course. A world ruled by women, styled like some feminist fever dream. Naturally, he booked the finest rental he could get his hands on. Pool. View. Privacy. The Hapan sun kissed his bare chest as he reclined in a chair meant for someone with no plans at all. A pair of shades clung to his face, and beside him sat a frosted glass whose contents were strong enough to peel paint. Retirement, in his eyes, was nothing short of holy.

Then the sky screamed.

It began with a broadcast. A voice, booming and brazen, echoed across the estate. Metus lowered his shades by a fraction, sulfuric gaze glinting with quiet irritation. Something about submission. Something about death. He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Must we? Really?" he muttered.

Then the pod came down.

It didn't knock. It didn’t call. It came screaming from the sky and blew a crater through the mansion like it had something to prove. Chunks of marble and steel shot skyward, and a plume of dust rose in defiance of all that was serene. Had he been inside, he might have been mildly inconvenienced. But thankfully, the poolside offered just enough distance to avoid becoming paste.

The Sith Lord rose to his feet.

He took his drink in hand first. Priorities. His free hand swept outward lazily, but with purpose. The air thickened. Shadows lengthened unnaturally. Pools of inky black bloomed from the ruined garden and rippled like disturbed water. From them emerged his disciples: great beasts wrought of smoke and fury, the favored spawn of sorcery and spite. They did not roar. They simply obeyed.

"Find them."

The Demons surged forward at his command, claws dragging through marble and earth alike as they descended upon the intruder. Somewhere, someone probably cared about why the sky was falling. Somewhere, someone might have worried about the fate of Hapes or the Alliance or the broader implications of this attack.

Metus only cared about his deposit. And someone was going to pay it.​

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus Vacation Attire
Tag: Hasuras Na-Gerra + Open

 

[Kyric]

Hapes
Ta'a Chume'Dan - the Fountain Palace
Tags: Corr | Hala Adris | Hasuras Na-Gerra | Open to More!

---

Red lights flashed and sirens blared throughout the outermost halls of the Fountain Palace. Warnings of an impending attack played on repeat over terminals spaced throughout the facility. Security officers transitioned key figures into better defended rooms deeper underground. To the credit of the upper-brass of the Hapes Consortium, there was scarcely little panic spreading throughout. These people learned from their history.

Kyric pushed out into an open-air courtyard adjacent to a spread of private landing pads. He lifted a holoprojector from his belt and activated it with the brush of a thumb.

"Captain Culahn," the kiffar greeted. "Status report."

The captain met the Jedi Knight's stare with uncontained disgust. Even with Henna Ashina's connections to the royal family, the palace guard did not outright trust the Jedi Militia now rooted within the Consortium.

"A massive ship is approaching the planet in hyperspace. ETA ten seconds."

"What?" Kyric demanded. "And our scanners didn't pick em up how?"

Captain Culahn huffed. "They must've made the jump from a nearby sector. We're scrambling the Battle Dragons in retaliation, but the fleet won't be airborne in time to stop enemy fighters from breaching atmosphere."

"Understood. I'm headin' to the landin' pad now to collect the kids. We'll head on up there and see if we can slow em down." Kyric slipped the device back onto his belt and descended a small set of gleaming silver stairs to where a sleek transport shuttle stood. Standing at the mouth of the stationary ramp, two Jedi awaited him.

Through circumstances unforeseen to the young Waybinder, Kyric found himself assigned not one, but two Padawan Learners.

Hala Adris wasn't far off from her Knighting based on her files. The mirialan knew another Master before Kyric, and they managed to guide her through the training for many years. However, Kyric worried the loss of her late Master may represent a newfound barrier. More importantly, he wasn't sure how Hala would handle herself in the heat of combat. Would her training deliver her through the coming conflict? Many a mentor inadvertently shaped their students to play a role out in the field, one often complimentary to their methods. Could Hala grow beyond the legacy left to her?

Standing across the ramp from the mirialan, Corr remained to himself. Pain seeded deep within the boy rooted him in some unseen trauma. Kyric didn't know him well enough to wager even a guess on what ailed the echani, so he didn't bother. They didn't have time.

Kyric opened his mouth to speak as the World Devastator flashed out of hyperspace and floated overhead. In seconds, drop pods fell like rain into the city proper. Flying speeders erupted in distant balls of flame on contact with the pods. Duracrete shattered and buildings buckled in their passage.

Chaos spread across the city in the form of marauding raiders and slow-spreading fires.

Stone shattered nearby as several drop pods crashed into the eastern courtyard between the landing pad and the palace. Doors exploded off the sides of the makeshift-transports and Vahlan cultists armed with vibro-weaponry, blasters, and stun-nets hurled themselves out onto the yard. A few peered the way of the palace, but most turned on the trio near the dropship.

"Chit," Kyric cursed and drew his lightsaber from his side. "Corr, stop them from gettin' in the palace. Hala, with me."

The kiffar charged toward the cultists and swung his saber, batting aside a heavy phrik spear charged with an electrical tip. He dipped into the opening he created and sliced through his opponent's hands at the wrists. The spear fell uselessly away and its wielder screamed. Kyric thrust a hand forward and sent them tumbling uselessly into the closest drop pod.

Fifteen cultists stood between the Jedi and the palace. More drop pods crashed through the palace walls overhead, depositing a fresh wave of Vahlans directly into the heart of the Hapes Consortium.

 

[Aurellia]

Warning came rolling through the comms speakers of the palace, interrupting Aurellia's interpretation of the newest senate proposal. Study doors immediately slid open, Ki'la walking through, panicked. Through the windows, she spotted drop pods already falling to destroy twice rebuilt structures.

"Again?" The noblewoman breathed a heavy sigh, laying aside her datapad.

"My lady, do you want me to initiate lockdown protocols?"

Cocking her head, Aurellia considered. It had done them little good last time - but the idea of protection could make the parliament bearable. There was also the fact the Queen Mother was in attendance. The timing hadn't been right to strike, yet, but the raid could very well solve the issue of having to dispose of her later. Better yet - it would make a martyr of her. The Queen the Alliance killed, then the Queen the Alliance could not protect? Even the loudest of the houses would fall into line behind her.

"No. Inform the building we need to evacuate. We are sitting ducks."

Who could she ensure would ruin the job of protecting their ruler?

"Dispatch Rod'rik and his unit to the royal chambers. He's to see the Queen Mother country side."

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Lo, hither came the warlord Gerra, dark of humor, wrothful in his gilded splendor. Great were his lumbering strides upon the finely wrought flagstones of the Hapan city. A cadre of his Vahlan cultists emerged from the surrounding chaos to fall in upon him, forming a guard for his flanks.

The sounds of battle rose from the city, a threnody of violence fresh formed by the mewling howls and screams of these thrice-cursed lapdogs as they perished beneath sword and blaster, or else were stunned and dragged toward waiting shuttles.

"To the keep," rumbled Gerra, his voice a bass so low as the quaking of the earth, an awaking volcano.

At once, a being blocked his path, some smoke-formed of a sorcerer's hand. Well did Gerra recognize the workings of another Sith. And he cared little for one who would so interlope. With a dismissive backhand of an alchemized gauntlet wreathed in its own Sith ensorcel, the Vahlan warlord smote the demon asunder and it vaporized in a cloud of dissipating smoke.

"Petty magics," he grunted with disgust, and continued on his ascent up to the castle.

Kyric | Darth Metus | Daeg Shrovl | Aurellia

 

[Darth Metus]

The first of the Smoke Demons met its fate in a plume of vapor. Snuffed out by the warlord’s gauntlet with all the subtlety of a fly swatted mid-flight. A lesser conjurer might have winced. A younger Sith might have flared in retaliation. But Darth Metus simply tilted his glass and took another drink.

And the smoke did not disperse.

Instead, it lingered. Thickened. Pulled itself back together like tar drawn to heat. It crawled up the warlord’s alchemized gauntlet, clinging to the grooves of etched metal, refusing to be dismissed. The vapor coalesced into a single, pulsing mass, and then it blinked. A single inky eye opened upon the back of the warlord’s hand, and it stared.

It did not tremble. It did not flinch. From that eye came a voice, dry and venom-laced.

“So you're the dickhead of the hour.”

The eye narrowed.

“Do you have any idea how much money you just cost me?”

The rest of the Demons did not wait for introductions. The beasts lunged from shadow to solid form, their hulking silhouettes flaring with eldritch purpose. One snapped for a wrist, another for an ankle, while two more gnashed toward the calves and elbows. Their claws were less about cutting and more about claiming, limbs straining as they sought to pull the warlord taut like some monstrous stretch of canvas. Metus had ideas, and each one was worse than the last.

Back by the pool, the Sith Lord gave his glass a lazy swirl. The clink of ice was an afterthought to the mayhem erupting in the distance.

“Way I see it...” he muttered, voice still channeling through the demonic eye, “you owe me for the deposit you pissed all over.”

Another sip.

“Cough up, and I’ll leave you to your little tantrum. Don’t?”

The drink was set down on a towel, with care.

“I can be a pain in the ass all day.”

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus Vacation Attire
Tag: Hasuras Na-Gerra + Open

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Eyes that burned thus like twin embers looked upon the offending shadow that sought to avail itself of the warlord's limbs. He snorted with utter contempt. Around him, the cultists of Vahl - Dark Siders one and all - stood fast and let no demon near their lord, rending smoke demons asunder with slashes of their lightsabers or Sith blades as they sought to wrap about the Vahlan. Seizing the eye, his gauntleted hand by some foul sorcery somehow finding purchase on the essence of the creation, he ripped the aphotic sludge from his arm and held it aloft before him.

"I care not for your feeble extortions, nameless one. Fight me, face me, or flee."

This judgment pronounced, Gerra held up his warblade and channeled the power of the Dark Side into it. The blade became as a black hole for surrounding energies and the dispersed smoke of the demons swirled as a vortex about the warblade, which then consumed the malcreations utterly.

No trace of them remained.

The Chosen of Vahl continued on his way as before.

Darth Metus

 

[Darth Metus]

The shadow writhed in the ogre’s grasp, eye rolling once in exaggerated exasperation. Clearly, the Sith Lord behind it was not impressed. As the warlord made his grand pronouncement, the pupil began to move. Left. Right. Up. Down. It studied the brute in full, tracing the edge of the warblade, the curvature of his armor, the sheer idiocy of whatever this was supposed to be.

Then, just as the vortex began to consume the last vestiges of sorcery and smoke, the eye narrowed one final time.

"Iiiinteresting..." it said. And then it was gone.

The scent came next.

It began subtle. The kind of shift one only noticed if they were paying attention. A hush in the atmosphere. The quiet hush of petrichor curling along the wind. The distinct aroma of rain, thick and earthy, yet the skies above remained stubbornly clear. No clouds. No thunder. And yet the air was changing. With it came the taste of ozone, sharp and electric, like copper on the tongue.

Somewhere, not far from the cratered ruins, Darth Metus finished the last of his drink. The glass clinked as it settled against the remains of a luxury poolside table.

And he was gone.

In his place, lightning.

The bolt did not streak down so much as erupt, a wrathful crash that split the air as though the gods themselves had thrown down judgment. A blinding flash. A sound that stole breath from the lungs. And then, just silence...followed by the wet slap of bodies falling in smoking heaps. The cultists closest to the warlord were erased entirely, reduced to greasy streaks across ruined marble. Where once there was sky, now stood a man.

Same shades. Same unbothered expression.

A lightsaber hilt now dangled from his dominant hand, plain and dull in every regard except for the venom it promised.

Darth Metus surveyed the field with sulfuric calm, gaze hidden behind dark lenses.

“Congratulations.” he said, tone dry as bone. “You’ve just earned a sixty-thousand credit ass-whooping.”

Wearing: Armor of Darth Metus Vacation Attire
Tag: Hasuras Na-Gerra + Open

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Spoiler: Loadout

Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Clarion | Copero's Wail | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets

Tags: Hasuras Na-Gerra Daeg Shrovl Kyric Aurellia | @open

---

It had been a good day. Like, suspiciously good. She hadn't even stabbed anyone. Scherezade licked cream off her fingers, flicking the empty container into the nearest trash receptacle. It hit the edge, spun once, and splattered somewhere behind it. Eh. Close enough.

She hadn't meant to end up on Hapes for long. Honestly, she couldn't even remember why she'd landed here in the first place, something about chocolate, or maybe silk? Possibly a dare. Either way, the place was far too clean, and the people were too polished. She'd entertained herself by talking to a statue for half an hour before realizing it wasn't a statue, just a nobleman who thought standing still in self-importance counted as a personality.

And then. A shadow passed overhead.

She looked up, expecting maybe a fancy air yacht or fireworks, but instead: pods. Metal, massive, ugly things crashing through the sky like angry punctuation marks.

The Force howled.

Her stomach sank, the sweet aftertaste of cream curdling.

"Oh, kark me sideways."

She was really going to have to learn how to not always be in places that ended up exploding like that, wasn't she?

Though, if Scherezade was honest, it was probably her own fault that she was there, completely ignoring her own inner ramblings from earlier. After all, she had nearly perfected her ability to go to places without bothering to check which stupid faction laid claim to them, whether war was happening, or anything else. The not-a-statue nobledude had been a distraction for the Sithling, when her sole reason for being here was because she'd glued together a few clues about the schematics she'd been chasing, and a few of them pointed the way to here.

She rolled her shoulders as debris rained from a nearby explosion, lips already curled into a grin far too pleased for the situation. The Force was giving her that feeling of being tickled in a not completely unpleasant way on the inside, which meant that someone nearby. Probably someone strong. Her head tilted, catlike.

"Well then," she said to absolutely no one, "Guess I'm not the only thing out of place today."

Her fingers itched. Her senses sharpened. She wanted to take another sip from her cream mug before remembering she'd tossed it seconds ago. Let them come. Wait, no, that was the wrong line. Let them try.

 

[Kyros of Memnon]

The sky rained fire and fury, and through the clouds descended the fury of the gods incarnate himself.

Kyros laid rest within one such cluster, his arms resting across his chest, his eyes closed solemn. The metal tube shook with turbulence on its way down from orbit, yet not even the glancing hit from ground-based anti-orbital fire would be deemed important enough to interrupt his battle meditations.

The final staging boosters on his pod kicked in, slowing down his inertia until the pod spiraled into the ground, the nose grinding into the dirt underneath. Klaxons blared within, a chorus of voices rising in dedication to the Sith as a whole, and the pantheon of Gods that would protect them in battle. The doors fell down hard into the duracrete below, the earth shattering as boarding ramps meant for space, dug into the ground. Cultists flooded from the boarding pod, weapons erupting freely with little discretion to where their weapons would land. What little defenders that were present would be cut down, no matter how many cultists it took to overwhelm their positions.

More pods descended into the ground, brining fresh waves of meat to sow pandemonium on the streets. His meditations would only come to an end once the terror of the innocent had reached a beautiful crescendo, a solemn dedication to the Gods of his spitefulness, and his hatefulness, and altogether of his devotion.

His face stirred, and his eyes began to flutter open. Wisps of the God's flame coalesced around them, dancing between each individual lash as if the flames possessed a life of their own. The Warrior-Prince stepped out of the pod with a smile, the sight of the dead -- both his warband and the natives alike -- bringing a joyful tear to one of his radiant eyes. His warband fanned out, their deaths echoing into his soul through the force. It empowered him further, and with each step down the ramp, Kyros gradually stepped upon the very air itself. Wisps of flame carried him upon the winds as he floated idly through the streets, only stopping occasionally to bring the Gods' fire upon those who still yet walked between life and death on the ground.

He bestowed death upon the wort hy, though special interest fell upon those who were deemed worthy of capture, and not just death. Those whose blood called to him-- whose blood sung to him through the force with the power of the Gods made manifest. They were few in the galaxy, but even a few who the galaxy called "force sensitives" would prove worthy to sacrifice for the Gods amusement. Already the vessels meant to collect them were beginning to shuttle down to the occupied streets, quick to exfiltrate them before an organized counterattack could be mounted.

Curiosity befell the Unconquered Son, though not for the purpose of sacrifice or bestowing death. He floated at a snail's pace through the emptied streets, even going so far as to ignore those who ignorantly hid from his eyes, only to not realize that his mind's eye still saw right through them. Kyros pivoted fluidly in the air, his gaze already turning downwards and settling upon one who felt...out of place.

Golden orbs flashed with incandescent streaks of fire, shaping his brow into an amalgamation of piqued curiosity and the desire to crush an insect beneath one's boot. He tilted his head slowly at an angle, staring upon them with the intensity of the eye of a hurricane's storm. Slowly, almost reverently it appeared as if he stepped down from the air, each foot bouncing upon unseen wisps of flame made manifest to mortal eyes. The procession continued until his feet touched the ground. A single arm raised up towards them, two fire-doused fingers coming together to point at them directly .

"You...are not supposed to be here." His voice bellowed out into the empty street, then recoiled unnaturally back towards him as the echo of his words faded away. His gaze was intense and focused, only shifting briefly to stare upon the tossed remnants of the beverage it had been consuming before he had arrived.

"Yet you frollick with these insects...You entertain the presence of these vermin." Kyros' voice trailed off, his steps approaching ever-closer. A sweltering aura of heat surrounded him, ever-present and unyielding as long as he drew breath.

"...Why."

His gaze trailed across to the tossed drink. He waved a hand in its direction, fire whirling around the remains of it until nothing but bubbling fluids and soot remained.

Scherezade deWinter

Hasuras Na-Gerra Daeg Shrovl Darth Metus Kyric Aurellia ​

 

[Corr]

His garment in the arena on Cato Neimoidia appeared gladiatorial, placed on him for the sole purpose of the spectacle. To see him don the same clothing, same make-shift armour -- as it largely seemed -- was strange. His war-paint trailed down from his amber eyes, crawled across his forearms and wrapped around his knuckles, his fingers. Of all things, the sun was a constant theme with all his yellows, oranges, and reds. Glimpsing beneath them, there were countless ritual scars. Even brandings.

Corr did not speak much of where he had come from. Only that whatever he had, the Empire had taken it.

Sent to Hapes, it was a far cry from his homeworld.

He broke off from Kyric and Hala, a burst of the Force used to propel him forwards and into the nearest cultists. Corr met them with a club, swinging across the body of one to send them far flung, raising it up into the chin of another, then down on the head of the third. Meeting rudimentary weapons with his own.

"I'll handle these sleemos out here," he wiped at his brow with his forearm, wading closer.

Kyric - Hala Adris

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Spoiler: Loadout

Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Clarion | Copero's Wail | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets

Tags: Generally open, currently interacting with Kyros of Memnon

---

---

More pods rained around her. It was almost a shame she didn't have an umbrella or a camisole. It was going to be annoying to remove the little pieces of debris from her hair later that night. Still, she let herself stroll through the mostly empty streets, knives in hands, but a body language that radiated nothing but casual.

"You...are not supposed to be here."

A dark voice bellowed behind her. But Scherezade had come across an abandoned stall, coffee mugs still hot. She didn't actually like coffee, that was a drink reserved for her sisters and other people. But, coffee stalls didn't just have coffee these days. They had various kinds of milks as well, and when one got really lucky, whipped cream!

She was full of glee as her left hand snuck the dagger back into its sheath so it was free to grab an empty mug and fill it with lovely whipping cream all the way to the top.

"Yet you frollick with these insects...You entertain the presence of these vermin."

She sprayed just a little extra whip cream on top, and gave it a lick. Mmm… she loved the texture of it, and since she'd made it herself, she skipped the sugar, so it was absolutely perfect on her tongue.

"...Why."

Only now did she turn, a mug full of whip cream in one hand, a dagger in the other, her glowing green eyes falling on Kyros of Memnon .

Someone was talking to her?

"Hi!" she smiled before taking another lick of her whipped cream, and then allowed herself to focus for a moment. He's asked stuff. No, he hadn't. He asked why, but why and stuff weren't the same thing. And for some reason she couldn't quite comprehend, her empty mug, the one she had tossed a few moments ago, was doing that bubbly thing that disposable cups did when they weren't sure if they were supposed to melt because of the heat or burn up in flames.

"I'm sorry, you're going to have to repeat your question," she said with a lovely grin, "No idea what you're talking about. But I found some free coffee and whip cream if that's up your ally."

She took another lick from the top of her mug, glowing green eyes twinkling with delight as if the ground hadn't just vomited fire and war cultists around them.

Then her gaze flicked back to him.

"Unless you're one of those types who needs to set something on fire before having a proper conversation. In which case…" She gestured vaguely at the flaming wreckage behind them with her dagger. "...I guess you're already halfway there."

 

[Mercy]

Objective: Restore the Monarchy and remove an obstacle.
Allies: Jogon
Aurellia

Mercy liked the Hapes people, but recently they had fallen astray. Giving rights to men, trying to be more equal with things. What would be next? A Hapes King? The very idea filled Mercy with disgust.

Finally there was a region that understood the proper hierarchy of things and even here women hated themselves so much they'd rather step down from power than to wield it properly.

At least Aurellia seemed to understand this. It was what they bonded over. And it was the main reason that Mercy agreed to assist her in her succession troubles.

Money was nice and she'd accept it. The ego stroking was even better, but no. It was the idea of restoring the proper monarchy and bring Hapes back to what it was supposed to be.

"Don't make it too easy for me, darling." Mercy murmured through their shared commlink to Aurellia and received the exact location where the Queen would be with her less than stellar bodyguards.

Then she switched her commlink to her channel with Jogon.

"Check the data link, Jogon, you know what to do. Perhaps we will bring a smile to your face with this one."

She probably could have done this one alone, but sometimes it was good to have a friend on call.

They set off, using a corridor that ought to have guards, but mysteriously was devoid of them currently.

Mercy knew it wouldn't last.

She hoped for it even. If they didn't manage to shed some blood today she'd be awfully disappointed.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

An extended palm shielded eyes from the sudden wash of light and power, an aphotic dome of energy erupted from that palm, drinking in the light and the blast of power that erupted from it.

All seven feet and 250 pounds of the gene-warrior paused, looming over the shorter being. Those hot coals which did glow in Gerra's skull scanned the one who stood before him, this man who reeked of arrogance and flung barbed words without art. Powerful, yes. Surely the slain Chosen smeared against the wall would say he was powerful. But for all that, just a man. Not a chosen of the Vahla. Not crafted with the precise gene-tailoring of the cloning tanks aboard their vagrant ships to be a vessel for Vahl. This being, this man, did not measure up. Gerra rested his warblade on a shoulder, the heavy metal clinking against his pauldron. Not even close.

"All this, over a paltry sum," Gerra shook his head, "You'd have twice as much if you stood with us this day, instead of against."

Without warning, the warblade came up in a sudden slash that cut empty air.... and then the air itself did contort and unfold, peeling away as the fabric of reality itself had been stricken by the blade and Gerra's own cunning. The art of shatterpoint extended beyond mere displays of strength to obliterate armor and metals, or to forge wondrous blades. It could puncture this dimensional illusion and reveal what lay beneath.

The howling gale of the netherworld awaited beyond the rent in reality. Gerra gestured toward it.

"I go to the castle to make a vassal of a queen. Join, or stay out of my way."

Darth Metus

 

[Koda Fett]

OBJECTIVE: Steal the Hapan Crown
OTHERS: Mercy - Jogon - Aurellia

The guards that otherwise should have encountered Mercy and her Dashade companion in their hall had instead been in his. The Fountain Palace was on lockdown, the guards ran rampant in an effort to combat the hastily approaching cultists that threatened to beat down the front door. Fett figured an alternative entrance was required, and there was no finer door than the result of wrist-rocket and marble.

Fett strode through the wound, seeing two squadrons instead of one. "Hrrn," he groaned, and got to work.

The ensuing firefight started with the scream of a name and ended with the slump of bodies that steamed with searing wounds, among other things. Most found themselves blasted full of holes, three were lit on fire, one was ensnared and electrocuted, with another being struck so hard that getting up again was a difficult question to answer.

He had to move, and quickly. Anymore guards would just slow him down.

 

[Ben Khal]

POV: "Nimaa'ri Daaray", Queen Mother of Hapes

Nimaa'ri sat upon her throne, presiding over a parliament meeting. At the sound of klaxons blaring, she turned to her chief bodyguard and asked, "Who is it this time?"

During the Crisis and subsequent incidents of unrest, she had grown used to the sound of alarms. The last year or so had been a period of relative peace, but it had not lulled her into complacency. The Ereneda was never truly safe.

"We are receiving reports of Sith ships inbound," the chief said. "The fleet is mustering, but they will not be ready before the enemy breaches atmosphere." Her tone turned urgent. "Your Majesty, we must leave now."

Rising from her chair, Nimaa'ri lifted her skirts and followed her security team out of the throne room, heading for a hidden passage out of the Fountain Palace...

Mercy Aurellia
Hasuras Na-Gerra Darth Metus Kyric Corr Hala Adris Koda Fett​

 

[Zoro Igala]

Wild Space Rebellion Fleet, The Dawn of Hope
Tag: Hasuras Na-Gerra​

It came from the other side of the cluster, a long shot that wouldn't have been noticed had it not been for the sensor's of the sith's slaveship.

Two volleys of capital ship grade turbolasers. Where did they come from? It was hard to tell.

At least, that was until the rest of the fleet arrived behind them.

The Lifeline made itself known as it lurched forward to meet the Sith fleet.

The call that followed over the Sith Channel was simple, but unlike anything an Alliance vessel would send.

"Surrender, or die."​

From his chair within the flagship, the cathar rebel watched his viewscreen, keeping an eye on each ship of his that entered orbit. First, the flagships. The battlecruiser, and it's twin Venators. Next, the five Tenacity Class Cruisers that flanked the trio of higher vessels.

And then, far off in the distance, the three Astrocats that had fired the first volley.

This was not a rescue mission.

No, this was a massacre. The rescuing would come later. Zoro leaned forward, taking the microphone to speak to the rest of the ship.

"All squadrons, hear this. The objective is simple. Blow them out of the sky. Longbow, link up with Crossbow and Recurve. Hit them before they have a chance to regroup."

The Y-wings of each of the massive ships were prepping as soon as they got the word. Zoro didn't want to give the sith a moment's notice.

"All ships, open fire. No hesitation, I want all guns trained on the slave ships."

The three ships opened up. First ion batteries, then a barrage of superheavy turbolasers.

 

[Kyros of Memnon]

His gaze followed Scherezade quietly as she moved to acquire another drink, as if the dead and debris of a once bustling neighborhood did not line the streets these two now occupied alone. He was uncertain if this creature had decided to meet his question with derision, or if it was a vain attempt to stall for time when faced with an unknown threat, but he so far had decided to play into her game until his interest had waned in their charade. He could feel the lost souls entering the great beyond on his behalf across adjacent areas in the city. Cultists who'd pledged loyalty to him were dying in the dozens, ignoring Hasuras Na-Gerra 's orders to seek slaves and wealth in favor of the Unconquered Son's directive to simply pillage, burn and destroy.

Their collective deaths were more fuel to his fire, and each soul echoed a beautiful symphony through the force that coursed through his veins like a hit of endorphins. to the brain.

He lips slowly curled into a smile, the gesture appearing uncomfortable despite te sincerity behind his amusement. "Does it not bother you?" His grin shifted with disgust following those words. "...You blend in with your lessers in a galaxy that can't help but to see you for what you are." His lips twisted into what could only be described as a devious smirk. "An anomaly-- an abomination."

One hand raised outwards, and into the grip of his palm the throat of a fallen civilian would. slot right in as he pulled the corpse telekinetically into his grasp. They were human, mid-thirties perhaps, and riddled with lacerations from being swarmed by hate-fueled cultists under his command. His eyes fluttered briefly, the force whispering into his ear. "This one...had a family. You may find them somewhere in the rubble if you desire to free them before they suffocate."

Kyros examined the deadened eyes, his mind shifting through the fresh memories that he'd acquired from the dead soul in his hand. "Or perhaps their deaths mean nothing to you-- perhaps you haven't abandoned the imperfect imbalance that is the Darkness we carry within, abomination." His shoulders raised into a shrug as his flames carried themselves into the corpse's mouth, incinerating it within a matter of seconds in order to free his hands once more.

"Or perhaps...the Gods' lead me to you, for you would be a worthy sacrifice to their pantheon." Kyros stepped back slowly, his hands lowering once more to his sides. The flames from before coalesced around him, wisping off his clothes and faintly emanating off his limbs. They were a mere paltry of the true fire that belonged to him and him alone, but they would serve the purpose of testing this creature's will, to see how they'd react under these circumstances.

Scherezade deWinter

Hasuras Na-Gerra Daeg Shrovl Darth Metus Kyric Aurellia ​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Spoiler: Loadout

Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Clarion | Copero's Wail | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets

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Tags: Open, currently interacting with Kyros of Memnon

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Scherezade had finished licking the top of her whipped cream as the man spoke, and had attempted to take a sip, leaving her with a very out of place white moustache that she attempted to continue to lick as the monologue continued. Frankly, she wasn't certain why he thought she thought she could somehow blend in. She was notoriously bad at doing that these days unless she very dedicatedly tried to cosplay as a normal civilian.

But was nice being called an anomaly or an abomination to her face for a change. Those who had done so in the past had done so behind closed doors, cowards that they were.

Some poor unfortunate soul that had dropped dead was now being stretched apart to be placed on display, the pressure around his throat all too easy to say. Her eyebrows arched up ever so slightly, signaling that she… Well, honestly, she didn't get it. A display of power, sure, but what power could one not have over a corpse? It was just a corpse.

"The last God I met tried to marry my sister," she shrugged, her tone light and bored, "I don't find them all that impressing. Don't think yours is either."

But yeah, the dude was obviously serious about his creed. That was okay. There was a certain way one had to dance with the zealots, and that dance included many blades, a lot of pain, and more often than not, a really good story to tell afterwards.

Scherezade took a step forward, her neck rolled with a satisfying crack as bones aligned just right, and exhaled, and another dagger appeared in her hand.

And seven more flew from her person, coming from pockets no one would ever bother to check existed, and fanned behind and above her, pointy ends outwards before moving in unison to point at Kyros of Memnon .

"Actually wait," she mumbled, switching gears. The two daggers in her hands vanished, only to be replaced by the hilts of her twin sabers, Fire and Smoke. Still dormant and waiting for her to caress their on buttons.

Now, the Blood Hound grinned.

"You may begin our holy dance."