Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Invasion The Eleventh Hour | BotM Invasion of NIO held Noris and Sharb


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Private Gavyn Berand
New Imperial Order
117th Stormtrooper Division
29th Company
South of FOB Belisarius, Noris
Allies: NIO | DECEASED Remmel Karsh DECEASED Remmel Karsh | Murraea Pharo | Ivan Sienar | Morrow | Jalter Volff Jalter Volff | Mav Ryburn Mav Ryburn | Kinoan Kinoan | TK-8867 TK-8867 | Anith Dorce | Frajan Borjar | Greven Astor Greven Astor | Aerys Myrrine | Others
Enemies: Maw | The Mongrel The Mongrel | Keilara Kala'myr Keilara Kala'myr | Subject 54 Havoc Subject 54 Havoc | Erion Justeene Erion Justeene | Romund Sro Romund Sro | Darth Kalyptos Darth Kalyptos | Darth Ptolemis Darth Ptolemis | Khamul Kryze Khamul Kryze | Electra-12 Electra-12 | Darth Saevius Darth Saevius | Others
Engaging: Mawites, open to opposition​

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The Mawite assault was relentless, the cultists and marauders pouring across the battlefield, spilling into the trenches. The 29th gave far better than they were getting. They kept up a constant stream of fire, mowing down the enemy is staggering numbers. Aerys Myrrine and the 313th added a ferocity to the defense that would have left Gavyn awestruck if he'd had the time to admire it. They fought like a well-oiled machine, refusing to cede even an inch of muddy ground without exacting a heavy toll in Mawite blood.

Bodies began to pile in some areas, providing the advancing enemy with some modicum cover, though many chose to forsake it entirely. Instead they came sprinting forward, slowly battering down the stormtroopers' defensive line. It was working, too. Imperial forces couldn't hold here much longer.

"We'll hold the line, you and your mates need to go!"

Gavyn could only just barely hear the voice of Private Myrrine above the sound of battle. He looked around him, watching the battle play out all around him. Explosions, blaster bolts, troopers and marauders engaging one another in close combat. A short way away Gavyn could see the form of Sgt. Horne, his armor stained and scorched, still moving about. One hand gripped his blaster, the other waved. He was signaling that the unit was to begin pulling back

The young man's heart caught in his throat. It seemed like they were needed everywhere at once, and there just weren't enough people to do it all. He didn't want to leave the 313th to stand and die alone against the horde. But then, deep down, Gavyn didn't want to die either. If they stayed here, if they did not pull back, there was not even a remote hope of surviving the day. This would be his final resting place, of that he was sure. For perhaps the first time since combat had started he realized just how afraid he was.

Gavyn swallowed hard, fighting away those feelings. He had orders to follow. He had a job to do. He had a duty to his family, his comrades-in-arms, his Empire. He was a stormtrooper, and he would not fail them, no matter the cost.

"29th Company, we're pulling back toward the FOB!" A blaster bolt whizzed nearby, striking a glancing blow on the helmet of a trooper nearby. The trooper fell on his backside, stunned but otherwise unharmed. Gavyn reached down, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. "Let's go, trooper, we're moving!" He gave the trooper a light shove in the right direction, went back to waving in imitation of the sergeant. "Fall back!"

The remains of the 29th Company began their tactical withdrawal. Gavyn paused and turned before he finally left the trenchline. He saluted Myrrine and the 313th and shouted one last encouragement to them.

"Give 'em hell, three-one-three! AVE RURIK!"


 

Jorus Fel

Guest
J

The Second platoon of Ember Company arrived back into the trenches, their safe passage back behind the entrenchments bought with the lives of the Captain. Alas, no reprieve found the tired Stormtroopers of the 2PLT. Like unbridled fury the Mawites came crashing into the lines of the white armored troopers marred with blood of friend and foe, with ash and soot of a thousand plasma cells expended. Wave after wave, each larger than the previous. Again, again and again. They hammered against ardent chestplates and black barrels relentlessly.

An unstoppable force against an immovable object.

There was no pause in the waves, nor in the shelling. The artillery rumble so loud, so persistent the static in their comms grew unbearable and one by one the stormtroopers shut them off. Lines broke, trenches fell under the hefty weight of the Maw's furious charge and the Imperials' contingent explosions. One by one, they were pushed back until there was no more ground to retreat to. Backs against the walls, the stormtroopers dug in for a final clash between chaos and order. Whoever had reached the safety of the stars could only watch their remaining brethren damned to inevitable doom.

The discipline cracked and shattered, the hierarchy of command crumbled and all that remained was the Imperial's defiant will. Nothing more, nothing less. No orders came from above, they were silent, muffled by the ceaseless barrage of artillery fire. Only awareness told him what he and his unit was fated to do. The 38th Sappers had brought the MOAB to the Orbital Cannon which had fallen silent prior to a mercenary bringing it back to life.

"Sergeant!! -- unfurl the banner!!"

"Yes, Sir!!"

"Bayonets and grenades in hand -- we blitz towards the Canon!!"

With their comms out of commission, the Iron Sun's symbol waved in the air was the last command they would receive.

Half a platoon at first, then scattered units linked up as the Second Platoon led the final sturm towards the encroached canon. With the divine wind of the Emperor at their backs, the Stormtroopers advanced to the Orbital Canon. Vibroswords flashed bright, then drowned in crimson. Thermal detonators flanked their approach, ravaging through any form of resistance on their way.

The adrenaline subsided at the sight of the dying remnant of the 38th Sappers Company protecting the canon with their last breath. A spike of pain surged through his body and only then did he realize his left arm had been torn off at his elbow. His guts twisted into a knot and his chest belched before he knocked his helmet off to puke to the side. Ice cold sweat scorched his body like drops of molten lava and his knees flailed weak as he collapsed on the ground beside the fallen Sergeant Cormac Thire. Ivan blinked frantically as if the stutter of his eyes would wash away the Hell they were in and replace it with the grand streets of his homeworld of Lianna. Marble columns draped in white flanking his side, not the bared, crooked teeth of savages. Grey velvety carpet beneath his legs, not the torn black earth of a foreign world. A girl with pearls in her hair held by his arm, not the melted barrel of a rifle. An argent altar for the most sacred vows ahead, not the blood-stained hull of a weapon of mass destruction loaded to unleash death.

He would've been married a fortnight from now.

Instead, his face would forever be lost to the frame of a mural the winds of time will someday erode.

The lieutenant crawled to the controls of the canon, set its sights on the largest target -- the marauders' flagship FDS Immortal and struck the launch button. The canon rattled and shook, and with a loud roar, it fired the MOAB at its makers.

Till death do us part.
 

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E M B E R _ T W O
THE EMPIRE
117th STORMTROOPER DIVISION
15th INFANTRY COMPANY
NIO | Cormac Thire | Baxter Weyland | Gwyneira Krayt | Erin E-141 | Jack E-138 Jack E-138 | Hiran Avola Hiran Avola | Jax Sloane | Anith Dorce FN-999 Mav Ryburn Mav Ryburn Gavyn Berand Gavyn Berand Aerys Myrrine
Ivan Sienar
MAW | Rannan Kol | Skorge the Bloodied | Kyrel Ren | Keilara Kala'myr Keilara Kala'myr | Erion Justeene Erion Justeene | Romund Sro Romund Sro The Mongrel The Mongrel | Marlon Sularen Marlon Sularen
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HELL


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Tulan had a lot to live for.

But he had more to kill for.
Everyone always said, when they joined the military, one way or another, they'd die for their Empire, they'd die for their country, their planet, their lord, their whatever. But to kill-

That was something else entirely. To take life, in order to preserve yours, or to remove the power of another Empire. But that wasn't Tulan's goal right now. It was not his mission, it was not his parameter currently. No, Tulan had killed enough getting here, following the trail of the Stormtroopers. Katarn-class armor clanked along the eerie silence of the room, as he looked down upon one soldier, who had bravely put forth a valiant effort to summon the strength to fire the cannon.

And Death Incarnate was standing over him, looking down at him. Missing an arm, blood splattered. Thoughts of home, thoughts of what could have been. No comms. No chance for medevac. Tulan crouched near him, setting his rifle down near him. War had taken his youth, war had taken his love, his life, his passion, his joy, his chance at anything normal. Endless horrors and sleepless nights. Bodies twisted and contorted, laid out across fields of ash and concrete.

Tulan knew the pain he felt. He was reminded of his loss of a face, of a soul essentially, every day when he awoke.

Tulan leaned over the young man, grasping at his collar.

Commander Kor gave him an order. He knew the weight of his actions. He would not let him go to the sweet ether, the embrace of death's icy touch. The endless fields- or so the poems said. No.

The living were not done with the young man yet.

"You were not given permission to die, soldier."

He crouched near him, taking his hardpack off of his back, setting it down next to him. He removed his bacta injector, and started to control the bleeding on what remained of his arm. He jabbed him with the bacta- hoping to turn away death's embrace on the young man.

"This is no place to die, Trooper. Don't disobey my order."

Tulan picked up his rifle again, pressing another bacta injector into the man's good arm. It was up to him whether he lived or died. Tulan Kor turned back to the battle, slinging his hardpack back over his armor, and picking up his rifle.

The battlefield was Tulan's canvas, and he was less the painter, moreso the brush. He collected the stragglers and weary Troopers, hastily organizing a more effective position than the one they were in previously. He turned his head only for a second to look back at the cannon, before turning back- an orange armored hand thrusting upwards, directing fire, angry, vicious fire at the enemy. Hate, discontent, malice, reflected back at the enemy. And at the center of the Stormtrooper's resistance to death himself, the defiant, unyielding force- stood Tulan Kor, orange and white armor. Despite being less than five and a half feet tall, Tulan was a presence on the battlefield.

A soldier like no other, and a man defying would-be Gods and Masters by simply being alive.

And like hell, he would make sure that the Troopers around him would live to be stubborn another day.









 

Marcad

Another Snake

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C R E S T F A L L E N
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
NORIS
NIO
MAW | Darth Mori

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A rise of confidence instilled within him as his own brute, physical strength dominated the Sith even if it was for a mere moment. She retaliated back with her own force matching his strength and even surpassing when she incorporated the Force in her strikes. Indeed it did make the Dark Jedi step back, regrouping his balance before committing to another aggressive attack.

Relentlessly she advanced with her lightsaber ready and primed to skewer him. As if he would not last much longer in this duel, already committing to concluding this fight. Of course, both wanted to see victory with the other fallen with defeat; however, this was so…premature.

Cewr stepped forward and swat at her blade with great fury, still from his own natural strength without tapping into the Force. Deflecting her attack while throwing a round house kick at her ribs. Displaying his agility and martial prowess.

Hopefully enough to silence her.
 

Erin E-141

Guest
E

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Erin "Esk 141" E-141
Sergeant First Class
Noris, Near Primus, HM Base Belisarius
Writing with:
Jack E-138 Jack E-138 , DECEASED Remmel Karsh DECEASED Remmel Karsh .
Narrative Tags: Aerys Myrrine, Gavyn Berand Gavyn Berand , Tulan Kor Tulan Kor , Ivan Sienar

Erin listens to Jack's remark about the Troops looking at them as some manner of saviours. It brooked no reply, and Erin wasn't sure she was comfortable with the sheer confidence the regular troopers placed into them. Erin had seen Elites die most commonly for two reasons: The ruthless and tenacious pursuit of the win or to save the lives of their comrades; Elite or otherwise. A Storm Commando crudely remarks at Erin and Jack. Erin pretended not to hear the comment from her subordinate enlisted soldier, ignoring him and fixing her eyes on Sergeant Cantrell. The animosity in the special forces community for the Elite Troopers went one way.

The born and raised warrior Erin E-141 knew there was no place for ego or quarrel in one's own team. Erin walked past the Corporal with Jack. A Stormtrooper passes them in the other direction. Erin's visor identifies the ultraviolet chevrons painted onto his unremarkable Pauldron, Master-Sergeant. Studying his biotelemetry, Erin's feet pause, and she turns steadily to continue watching the man, raising a clenched left fist signalling Jack to stop.
"Sergeant Ramon Cantrell?" A distinctly feminine voice with a faded accent projects loudly from Erin's annunciator.

The inflexion of Erin's voice was distinct among the Elites' near-universal Imperial nobility. It was an atavistic remnant of her old life. Only those among the Elites' ranks like Jack were privy to her ability to speak Old Correllian fluently. Erin watches Ramon Cantrell dip his fingers between the attractive Storm Commandos' cuirass and bodysuit and thump his forehead against the fair Commandos' sharp nose, sending him into the muck. Erin's eyelids disdainfully narrow on Ramon Cantrell for a moment, and then she cares to studies the Commando's rise for the sign of more significant injury; she thought such a display was unnecessary though not unexpected given the 117th's boisterous reputation.

"Master-Sergeant Ramon Cantrell." Erin's heels snap together, and clenched fists shoot down by her sides where the seams of her uniform's trousers ought to be. "First Sergeant Erin One-Four-One and Staff Sergeant Jack one-three eight reporting for duty." Erin relaxes and looks around and studies the Scopes; they looked to be at quarter strength, low on rations medicine and expected to fight off an encroaching Maw advance with little more than hand-grenades, shoulder-fired rockets and battered infantry fighting vehicles. On top of that, all present had arrived straight after a battle, and it showed in the sagging eye-sockets.

"Master-Sergeant." She began. "It'll be simpler if you call me 'Erin', 'Chief' or 'Sergeant' though." Erin knew it was strange that their surnames were replaced with numbers, and she thought Ramon Cantrell looked perplexed on how to address them. Erin could not divulge or explain the Elite Program's designation protocols without compromising classified information relating to training or recruitment for the shadowy supersoldier program. Erin tried to quickly change the subject of conversation by craning her helmeted head to the flashes on the horizon.

"I apologise there aren't more of us." Erin's voice is cold and invited no exploration on the topic. "But we'll still stop them." A cool surety punctuates Erin's statement; she walked toward a repulsor craft recon vehicle with a flatbed tray. Erin was glad that she and Jack had arrived in time to help; the gossamer mud was so deep and thick it presented a trip hazard. The enemy dominated air and orbit; everyone glanced in Erin and Jack's direction. When an Elite in four-hundred odd kilograms of powered assault armour stood two metres above the ground, even soldiers caught in conversation or preparation for the upcoming assault felt the Elites' heavy footsteps and turned their attention to the armoured silhouettes and then back to their tasks.

With a single jump, Erin leaps about five feet above the ground and onto the back of a repulsor flatbed and unceremoniously wrenches the multi-tubed man-portable air defence rocket launcher from its' whining vice and thefts the square launcher over her right shoulder.
"Shall we get going?"
 


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Æthelrath the Vengeful
Vicar to the Avatar of War
Heathen Priest


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Shields depleted, hoversled decommissioned, bodyguards dispatched, and the bomb.. taken. The Heathen Priest lifted his gaze from the rough soil, the final Imperial charge having brazingly cut through the indomitable personal force of the Dark Side Deacon. He struggled to rise to his own decrepit stance, eyes rising to meet the cannon just as it fired. Rocking the battlefield as the thieving Imperials began to fall one by one to the advancing hordes.

The Supersonic MOAB was spirited away with a boom, launched faster than the eye could see. It’s majesty had been intended to kill all inhabitants left in the city, to make clear the final advance and end the petty resistance of the Imperial occupation. To end the dream of a freed Chiss nation.

No.

The Imperials had other plans, other ideas. Even as it all became hopeless, even as the tide turned against the brave defenders, they would not submit and go quietly into the night. They had seized the initiative, they had seized the bomb, and in that moment decided to give it back.

“No!” The Priest screeched.

The FDS Immortal, the flagship of the Final Dawn sect, positioned itself in orbit above the planet unawares of the weapon fast approaching. At the helm of this imposing Goliath was none other than Marlon Sularen Marlon Sularen , Grand Overseer of their forces. As the weapon collided with the imposing shields of the Super Star Destroyer, a near translucent blue streak ruptured as it exploded.

The sonic waves emerged rippling through the shield defenses with the unfathomable power of the Scar Hound engineered MOAB. Metal groaned, lights flickered, and all was quiet as the shields washed out like waves. It was but a fleeting moment where it would appear as if nothing had transpired, as if the Immortal truly was kin to it’s namesake before the glasteel viewports began to explode out into the abyss followed by the entire starboard side of the vessel.

Ruptures followed crease and crevices, gaping holes followed out into the vacuum as the behemoth vessel was torn asunder, beginning it’s spiral down towards Noris. The bridge was intact, flames wicked all within the ship as internal systems failed and countless fell dead.

One of several commanders rummaged through the debris, moving quickly to the side of Marlon Sularen Marlon Sularen .

“We must evacuate milord!”




 


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R E B I R T H
FINAL DAWN
Admiral Aldo Garrick
ORBIT OF NORIS | BRIDGE
"Relentless"​



The Sith Cultist-turned-zombie watched as the FDS Immortal took the blunt of the returned MOAB. His glossy eyes emotionlessly peered into the void as others gathered around to view the spectacle. A discerned look of pure anger and malice formed over the Admiral’s lips as his face scrunched.

“BATTLESTATIONS! WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT!? Back to your posts!”

Aldo spun about on his feet and glared menacingly to his right hand, the captain at his side.

“Make contact with the Immortal. Find the Grand Overseer Marlon Sularen Marlon Sularen and ensure he receives swift safe transport back here before the planet swallows the remains of the vessel. Secure the damn thing! Quick! If he’s dead recover the corpse.”

The captain nodded swiftly making his leave as the Admiral stormed down the bridge. His right hand crunched up into a tight fist, raising high as he barked to his deck crew and at ready officers.

“Contact the Warlords then wipe this pathetic planet from the face of the galaxy! Glass it NOW!”



Fleet-wide the order would be given.

No Mercy. No Imperial Survivors.
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Objectives:
  • Hold the Line
  • Die Like a Hero
  • Make Your Escape
  • Aid the Wounded
FOB: Belisarius, Western Outskirts,
Primus City, Noris (874 ABY)


'Master-Sergeant Ramon Cantrell.'

Standing to attention in a clear gesture of respect between soldiers, the obedience and duty factor would be ruled out for the understanding of what they were all about to endeavour together, showing clearer than ever when Erin sounded off,'First Sergeant Erin One-Four-One and Staff Sergeant Jack one-three eight reporting for duty.', before relaxing to a calmly-confident, non-regulation stance once more. There was much and more to take in after all, many and more readying for the last defensive play of the battle, seen in the Elite's demeanour as her helmeted gaze drifted to and fro.

Survivors like her should live to see another day.

Briefly turning his gaze to the Elite who ensured their safe return to FOB: Belisarius just days before, Ramon scoffed at his own neglectful ignorance as he considered the numerous moments (in that one engagement in particular) when Jack saved his life from hidden cannibal-sharpshooters on their way back. The Tetan distractedly smiled under the obscurity of his helmet in consideration of this, almost an instant away from remembering the state Erin was found in but Esk-141 chimed in,'Master-Sergeant.', then pausing to adopt a warmer tone in contrast.

'It'll be simpler if you call me,"Erin", "Chief", or,"Sergeant" though.'

Nodding amiable acceptance with open and receptive demeanour, Cantrell would appreciate the dropping of Imperial soldiering etiquette, for it didn't matter much to any of them by then. Not whilst the planet burned, not whilst Imperials and Chiss alike suffered, bled and died beyond the walls, beyond salvation and the reprieve of their helping hands - beyond the dignified deaths they all deserved to embrace on their own terms.

'I apologise there aren't more of us.', Erin said soon after, voice changing to reflect her part in the mutual awareness of the fact the writing was well and truly on the wall for all the Imperials still fighting on Noris. Fearsome though she appeared in the Rampart power-armour, it was obvious that none of the suffering sat well with the Elite, and on that occasion, Ramon accepted it for the moral right that it was, being thoroughly happy to have someone with a heart fighting alongside his subordinates for the battle's final moments. There was much and more that Cantrell would be thankful for in that moment, and even more when 141 continued,'But we'll still stop them.', politely expressing her disdain towards hopelessness as a concept and further enhancing the Tetan's morale in the process. Rare were soldiers such as these, but in that moment, Ramon realised that both Jack and Erin retained qualities seen most-specifically in All-Heart himself, silently dumbfounding himself as a result of the self-revelation.

'Shall we get going?'

Remmel, it would seem that your,"All-Heart", legacy has been assured.... Oh.

'Mierda....', Cantrell began, trailing off as he cursed quietly to himself with head bowed, then lifting his chin again to look at the two armoured Elites before him before bringing his helmet over his head, hiding the first teary droplets of his grief-struck realisation as the air-tight hiss hid the shuddering sigh that threatened to rob the Tetan of his Iron-wrought resolve. It would take a moment to snap himself out of it, but when he did, revealing,'I hate to admit it, but I think Captain Karsh is-', was too much to bear, storming off ahead with a beckoning hand-signal for the Elites to walk with him. Ramon had every reason to break down and give in to his despair, especially with the Maw closing in around FOB: Belisarius on all sides with every passing second, but his willpower would return as he growled,'I want you to inflict untold agonies on these freaks, I want every last one of them to suffer!', over the din of distant artillery shelling, taking the safety off his rifle then holding it up with his right hand as a signal to the Scopes by the east gate.

'AAAAAAAVEEEEEEEEEEE RUUUUUURIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIK!!!!'

And thus the red mist descended, bringing the Tetan to a state of warfighting fury that would be impossible to repulse for as long as none could get a clean shot on him, bringing the other Scopes to a similar rage as they opened the east gate and began fanning out beyond it, with rifles shouldered and pointing out to the battlefield beyond in anticipation of the madness that awaited their collective advance. By the time the trio passed the gate, all the Embers' best sharpshooters were past the threshold and spacing out generously already, set in their wild, wide-eyed death-stares to give their enemies a fright in the event their helmets were removed from their lifeless corpses, disregarding the ticking-clock completely as the skirmishing line widened to it's farthest reaching points on either side. It was too late to consider if one circumstance nullified the relevance of another, too late for what-ifs and how-comes alike, so all that could possibly remain for the Scopes was the fight itself, and their collective urge to inflict brutalising judgement on their Mawite adversaries with the time they had left.

<"All Scopes, this is Ramon! This is my last moment of kindly coherence, so I'm going to make it count while there's still time to do so; we saved the life of one Elite, but I would like it if we tried for two this time, reasons though.... One, they're too young to die just yet, and two, they're much too valuable to the war-effort.">

Double-clicks on the comm-link shot like automatic blaster-fire on the airwaves, all replying,"Affirmative", in quickness and the attempt to adopt early OPSEC at the same time. In any other circumstance, the Master-Sergeant may not have been pleased in the slightest by it, irritated beyond reason in any other occasion it had been done before, but this time, on this night of nights, Ramon would allow it - letting it increase his adrenal output as the clicks steadily increased then quickly died off to silence within seconds.

<"And without further ado, it brings me my last great pleasure to say.... Scatter!">

Like a gust, the Scopes ran into the smoky fog of the eastern battlefront beyond, sprinting into the unknown with bloodthirsty, vengeful intent as the Tetan calmly let the moment sink in, taking in the sheer ferocity that he could feel in each and every sniper he saw leaping forth.

'You two, set your scopes to thermal-optics and follow me. First part's easy - first part's fun.'

Then just like the others, Ramon sprinted into the hazy city beyond the walls, and with two of the empire's best troopers in tow, using smoky fog as cover for the first segment of their advance. Some of the first shots of the advance would be heard pulsating nearby also, with comm-chatter lighting up the local channels with kill-confirmations and orders to continue as intended, painting a supremely clear picture of the Scopes' ferocity in their attempt to close the distance. Comm-chatter would also light up between the Elite and Ramon in the center of the line, also making good progress as they swiftly made quiet work of each risk factor who walked into the trio's line of fire, with the occasional melee-kill in silence applied in last efforts to conserve ammunition. Covering street after street, block after block like it was just another deployment, even after the heaviest of the murk had long since been passed and directed by gusts elsewhere, but the time for serious warfare would arrive soon enough, much to the excitement of the Scopes sat waiting from their newly-acquired vantage points.

<"We're all set, Ramon. Where you at?">

<"Don't worry, Denzo. We're close.... I can hear the hostilities quite easily now.">

<"Copy that, Scope Three out!">

And within minutes, the Master-Sergeant was standing atop a derelict three-floor housing block's roof, overlooking the last approach to the spaceport itself, bearing witness to the sorts of horrors the Imperials had been enduring through the uncomfortably graphic view of his rifle-scope. Despite the fact the Imperials along the trench-line were fighting doggedly to keep their foes at bay, it was obvious to all who were watching that their comrades were just minutes away from breaking, with Embers, Sabretooth-Troopers, and others holding on against all hope, sacrificing their lives in a way that served to strengthen the resolve of each and every last surviving Scope who had to watch.

<"So what's the battle order this time, Ramon?">

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<"Simple one this time, Quinton. Break this assault, then prepare to defend against the next one.... Mark targets, load.... Confirming fire at will order, check wind direction.... Fire - fire - fire!">

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A LIFETIME OF SERVICE: ACT 2 (DEATH) - PART 15
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FOB: Belisarius, Western Outskirts,
Primus City, Noris (874 ABY)


Unflinching in the face of All-Heart's final act of defiance against his aggressor, Kryze watched on as Karsh roared at the top of his lungs, taking it all in as his vision returned to focused, 20/20 vision once more. The armoured-headbutt had been enough to create space between them, and had been enough to leave a mark that would stay with the Mandalorian for as long as he shied away from a Bacta tank, but it wasn't enough to dissuade Khamul in any way, shape or form - only serving to enhance the rage that powered his pulsating blade.

The angrier the Mandalorian became, the brighter the blade pulsated it's red hue, and what a pretty glow it was to the old Captain, appearing as something beautiful enough to be considered otherworldly as his eyes drifted in transfixed magnetism towards a weapon of which Karsh had never seen the like. In this realisation, Karsh would delight in another revelation, such that screamed out from the depths of his soul; bellowing into All-Heart's mind that he'd never known a weapon to appear so alluring as it was in that moment, gleaming with the wrath that soared up from within the Mandalorian's heart. And as Khamul's sword continued to grow brighter, Remmel nodded satisfaction that his headsman was using something much more eye-catching than something as cold and soulless as an executioner's axe, considering it an honour most befitting of an old, scarred warrior of the Empire.

'Yes... a dog... AND NOTHING MORE!!!'

And this old dog has had it's day.

A low mechanical hiss was heard soon later, rising into a roar of air-pressure, then a bright flash of fiery light momentarily snapped Karsh out of his pre-death meditation, defining the silhouette form of Kryze's Beskar'gam whilst the Imperial set a low, cat-like fighting stance once more. Then, as soon as the Mandalorian's body lurched forward with the increased momentum, so too did the Krieger, sprinting forward with weapons bared like his final moments were all too easy to endeavour by then, almost as if the hardest part of it all had been endured already. Even as his arms instinctively thrust his weapons out to block the full-force of the attack, Remmel knew it was all over, smiling gleefully under his helmet as the pulsating blade cut through his weapons like butter; no flat-side safety net this time, no headbutt-delivered breathing space, just a short moment to allow a smile to reach an old man's lips before the end.

'For the Empire.'

With head parting from his shoulders, the air-tight seal that kept the helmet on his face was burst upon impact, sending the helmet careening off the old man's face as the head itself fell spinning towards the ground. Khamul, if he was savouring the kill as much as Remmel had hoped, would be paying attention to the resting expression of the Thane he had just beheaded, and would notice that the old man had been smiling in the end; not with rage, jest or insolence, and not with any smile Kryze would ever expect of a dying Imperial. Instead, what the Mandalorian would find, (confirmed as soon as the Krieger's head bounced off the ground between them) was a smile of the purest, most unadulterated bliss. Going far beyond the many realms of acquiescence, with soul leaving for somewhere more like home in a journey that made such notions seem far too petty to worry about - a home where the bravest of his ancestors awaited.

Thank you, Mawite. And like this old dog, I know you'll see your day also.

I'll be waiting in the Nether, lad.

And thus ended the storied life of Thane Remmel Karsh, Captain of 15th Company, best shot in the Embers; father, husband, friend and leader to honourable people, proud native of planet Krieg. From the thawing wilderness of Nachtland, in all it's lush, snow-topped beauty, to the Empire's war-torn western frontier on Noris, the man they dubbed,"All-Heart", had been a pillar of strength and duty to all who had the honour of knowing the Captain personally. His gift for language, sign-language and Lorrdian Kinetic Communication were also great aspects to an already great man, a passion that later became necessity; such that Karsh would welcome with open arms, giving his all for souls born of his own, and for souls fighting for the survival of his own in turn. A fierce man he may have been in combat, throwing every last ounce of his strength into fights others would see as unwinnable, but that fierce wrath had always contrasted to a ferocious ability to love and care for people in dire need of it.

Such a man's bright, heavy-hitting spirit, with that explosive strength and sincerity for which so many were grateful, would no doubt find it's way to the Halls of his Forefathers; passing between realms in combat, though not only as a brave, but for doing so with an otherworldly gladness in his heart. If his beliefs were as correct as he believed, then a warrior-champion's welcome would await the old Thane at the gates of Aesvania, for all the parameters for entry had been met, and the courage required to slip his mortal coil in such a way had far exceeded all expectations, both recent and ancestral alike.

All-Heart died a hero that night, but as for the question of whether any would learn of his valour or not, would be left entirely to fate, the Empire and the Galaxy's fleeting curiosity.

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Thane Remmel Karsh,"All-Heart"
Captain of 15th Company,"The Embers"
812 - 874 ABY

"Death smiles at us all, but all a man can do is smile back." - Marcus Aurelius.
 
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The Light In The Shadows

The slash was successful.

Watching the Sith shrink back in pain, the Knight went again for another attack. If they were weakened then this was his chance to finish the warrior off. Before any attempt could be made another smoke grenade started to release its grey fumes.

Now the Knight was becoming angered.

“Quit cowering in fear and come fight me like the warrior you pretend to be!”

Raising his golden blade, the man started to go in for another attack. Yet there was a large disturbance he felt in the force, and it wasn’t coming from the Sith. Locking onto the presence he turned to face it. Dropping down from the Sky were hundreds of Maw ships.

First the sky darkened.

Then the bombs fell like rain.

Following it was the brightest explosion he had ever seen.

The frag grenades that were thrown moments ago towards his men seemed like a child’s toy compared to this. The ground erupted with each pass of the bombers. He watched as Maw and Imperial forces were reduced to ash. This wasn’t a strategic attack.

No, this was a massacre.


“Troopers, run!”

He watched as the troopers began to dead sprint in the opposite direction of the bombers. They may outrun it, they may not. But that wasn’t his concern right now. His life had served its purpose, and he was ready to lay himself down right here.

Reaching out in the force, the Knight attempted grab the Sith warrior that lurked in the smoke.


“You aren’t going anywhere.”
 

W O K E N F U R I E S

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AT NORIS, NEAR PRIMUS
NO MAN'S LAND


ALLIES: MAW & ALLIES
ENEMIES:
NIO & ALLIES

Equipment in bio.

1/3 smoke grenades remain.

ENGAGING: Kinoan Kinoan

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DEFIANCE AND UPHEAVAL
“Quit cowering in fear and come fight me like the warrior you pretend to be!”

An alien chuckle could be heard from within the smoke. – I am no warrior, naïve one. – The shadowy voice danced upon the ripples of the deployed smoke grenade. The cloud was tall and wide, and the Sith's mind melded with it. Both echoes and smoke soon enveloped the Knight Kinoan Kinoan since the Force wielder did not back away from the ever expanding fumes. Each reverberation of the dark one's words more dreadful than the last, attacking his victim from all directions. Bone-chilling faces began to infiltrate the minds of everyone close to the Sith Lord. The fluctuating auditory illusion of soft steps revolved within the mists. One noise close, one noise far, and one within the skull.

Ptolemis' dearest punishments had forever targeted the mind.

He sensed the rising blade, but with it came a far greater disturbance in the Force. A savage Maw bombardment was suddenly underway. In a second, everything changed; and so did his objective. His head snapped at the skies, then behind him, from where he came. Yet this relentless Imperial Knight wanted to continue. To satisfy his … honor. 'Fool.' He thought, and made a snap decision.


“You aren’t going anywhere.”

His opponent's sovereignty over the Force was commendable. Like a burning engine, his telekinetic pull tore into the cloud, aiming to grab onto the Dark One's shoulders, arms, legs and overlong garments, casting his arm out into the beyond and dragging his hand back with thunderous momentum, but then… there was nothing.

Like a gust of air the smoke raced past the
Golden Knight, ripping a clear tunnel into the dense smoke, only to reveal the shocking absence of the Sith Lord he thought he was facing just moments ago. The Dark One was long gone by now, traversing the blurred land at insane velocities, retreating into any of the dropships they arrived on. 'Death is death.' He believed. Honor is an instrument of manipulation. A cruel weapon that swallowed more lives than this bombardment ever could. His cosmic goals are far too important to now fall prey for such useless ideals.

Back where he disappeared from, the smoke cleared, and a dark omen was palpable within the Force. A memento left behind by Darth Ptolemis to seep into the back of Kinoan Kinoan 's mind, to haunt him when it's dark. When he's alone. When he feels anger.


A dark message that carried the words…
We Shall Meet Again.
He will be waiting...
...He will be watching.
 
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Location: Noris
Objective: Woken Furies
Tags: NIO
DECEASED Remmel Karsh DECEASED Remmel Karsh Murraea Pharo Ivan Sienar Morrow Mav Ryburn Mav Ryburn Kinoan Kinoan TK-8867 TK-8867 Anith Dorce Frajan Borjar Greven Astor Greven Astor Aerys Myrrine Gavyn Berand Gavyn Berand | Others
Ship: TIE/HB Bruiser
Flight: x2 TIE/HB Bruiser

Jalter watched as the fast approaching Final Dawn sprayed it's blaster, hosing down his bomber. The entire craft shook and his HUD was flooded with warnings. Shields down, coolant was leaking into the bomb bay, the list went on. Whatever fighter it was it packed a punch. Jalter squeezed his finger on his trigger and four concussion missiles launched straight out and towards the enemy fighter. He felt as each missile fired off and watched as they arced towards the Mawite TIE fighter which quickly broke off from its attack run, firing off chaff as the heat seeking missiles began closing in. Jalter pulled hard back on his joystick to try and keep track of the fighter.

He watched on his HUD as one by one, the missiles ran out of fuel, detonating in the air in some futile attempt to catch their prey with shrapnel. No matter, the missiles had forced the fighter into a defensive posture and Jalter was now on their tail. "Swapping to guns." he spoke out loud, as if he was talking to some imaginary wingman. He pulled the trigger and green laser bolts streaked out from his bomber. The initial volley found its mark but immediately his foe began taking evasive maneuvers. Jalter reactivated his targeting lock and no doubt the enemy pilot was flashed with warnings as within a few seconds of this, the TIE shot upwards in a vertical climb.

"Stang" Jalter said out loud, pulling hard on his joystick to follow the fighter into the air. Jalter fired hopelessly as the enemy fighter shot upwards, knowing they couldn't keep this up forever. He felt his bomber slowly losing speed as the planets gravity began pulling on the ship, almost as if it kept the bomber bound to the planet.

"WARNING LOW AIR SPEED! WARNING LOW AIR SPEED!" The droid computer blared into his ear. The bomber was at its limit. Jalter pushed forward on the joystick, sending the bomber straight back down and watching his radar, his much faster and more nimble adversary had noticed and was now turning to pursue. He pitched the bomber slightly to the right, in a wide spiral as he flew down. If he could get gravity on his side, he could keep the fighter just beyond reach as he spiraled downwards. As he predicted he picked up speed rapidly and the enemy fighter followed him into the spiral downwards.

Both spacecraft were locked in this death spiral heading straight towards the ground. It was a matter of who pulled out of the spiral first, exposing themselves. Essentially a glorified game of 'chicken'. Jalter looked out the viewport and at the enemy fighter, he could almost make out the outline of the pilot who mirrored him in their downward spiral. The altimeter fell rapidly and soon a new and rather annoying message centered itself on the Bomber pilots screen.

"TERRAIN TERRAIN. PULL UP."

It flashed but he kept focused on his enemy. The only thing Jalter hadn't accounted for was flak and in an instant Mawite anti-air batteries began lighting up the sky. Out of shear instinct he pulled up and out of the loop and he immediately was filled with dread, realizing what he had just done. The enemy who now had Jalter exposed seized the advantage right away and the TIE Bruiser was rocked with blasterfire.

Sparks went flying in the cockpit as the blaster bolts tore through what remained of the shield and ripped into the bomber's hull. The viewport shattered and the cabin depressurized as air was sucked out the holes in the cockpit. The Fighter accelerated straight past the crippled bomber and before Jalter could gain his bearing the bomber was rocked by a secondary explosion of the remaining ordnance in his bomber detonating from the precise shots of the enemy TIE.

Jalter grabbed the controls but there was no response. His engines were dead, ejector seat jammed and power levels were dropping. He began furiously tapping on the starfighters controls to get any available system back up but after a few seconds he stopped himself and just sat there. This was it he realized. "Am I ready?" he said to himself softly. He had known if he kept flying he'd see himself and most of his squadron end up floating lifelessly in space or burning up in some wreckage but now it was actually happening, he hesitated. He wished his death would've been quicker, the rush of thoughts running through his head was torture. Had he done enough? Was this the life he had wanted to live? He craved more time to process it all but that time was running out as the burning bomber glided closer and closer to the ground.

He took deep breaths. As the thoughts continued racing they were suddenly silenced by the bright lights of turbolaser beginning to envelope the planet. Despite all the death and destruction it was causing, the bright lights looked almost beautiful, illuminating the dull and grey battlefield. His doubts and fear washed away and he calmed himself, relaxing in his chair. He tapped the side of his helmet activating an open comm line that could be heard by anyone in the area.

"This is Captain Volff. I'm going down." he said calmly, eyes mesmerized by the glassing. His bomber would strike the ground any second now.


"Ave Rurik."
 

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The Unchained

Engaging:
DECEASED Remmel Karsh DECEASED Remmel Karsh

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

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Spoken Words of Venom

The blade cut through flesh and bone just as the man's final words escaped his lips, severing the head from the Imperial's defiant body. Faithful to the last... too bad it was for the wrong cause. These Imperials had put forth a valiant effort, perhaps one almost worthy of the Mand'alor's respect. Almost. Though they had made the Brotherhood pay for every inch of this battlefield, the end result would be the same. So too would the rest of the galaxy follow... in time.

The Demon Mandalore's masked gaze fell upon the head of his fallen opponent, looking into the dead, empty eyes as Death's Hand swept the area. So much could be learned from the final look in a person's eyes at the moment of death. Khamul had learned a lot in those moments, learning something from each individual he had killed. This time... he only saw the purest of joy. The same joy that Khamul hoped to feel one day, when he would finally become a part of the Manda. It was the joy only a true warrior could experience in their final moments, and his opponent was indeed a true warrior.

"Sir?"

Khamul's focus shifted to one of his faithful vode, bringing him out of his usual relishing of the kill.

"Yes?"

"It's time."

The bombardment would start shortly, meaning that the fight was over. Khamul would gather his troops and make a move for their transports, ensuring that they got offworld before the the surface turned to glass. Before he gave the order, Khamul knelt down near the head of his enemy, taking one last look in the eyes of that old, hardened man he had just slain. Then, without a single word, Khamul picked up his enemy's helmet, holding it in his hand as he finally turned toward his fellow Mandalorian.

"Gather our forces. We rendezvous back on New Mandalore."

The fallen Imperial would be turned to dust soon, but the helmet would be coming with Khamul, a reminder of the old dog that he had put down.

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GREVEN ASTOR - "SAXON ACTUAL"

New Imperial Order
Strike Team Saxon


Engaging: Kralmus Orr Kralmus Orr

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In Keeping Secrets

Greven continued his attempts to get to his feet, hoping to get the fight back into his favor. Despite his best efforts, the searing pain continued to tear through his body, locking himself in place. All the man could do was hold his knife in front of him as he watched his opponent creep toward his own weapon. Whether he would kill this man or not, it didn't matter. In those moments, all that Greven could think of was his men. Their fates were unknown, but he prayed that they had made it back to the FOB. If, by some sheer grace of the galaxy, they would make it offworld, then Greven's sacrifice would be worth it.

As his opponent drew close, Greven attempted a couple of swings of his knife, though the daze brought on by the explosion made them imprecise. His strikes carried no force, as his body continued to fight him at every turn. As the ravenous dar'manda mocked him, Greven simply continued holding his blade outward, defiant till the last.

"You'll be lost... to time... dar'manda..."

Suddenly, the axe came down at his collarbone, slamming into his armor with a great and terrible thud. Plastoid gave way to the vicious attack, bits of his own armor caving inward and digging into his shoulder as it separated. Bone shattered and blood flowed freely as his shoulder came apart from the rest of his body, the axe embedding itself deeply into his torso. Greven couldn't even feel the pain anymore... all sense of feeling was gone as he stared up at the horned helmet that hid the face of his killer. All began to fade as he felt the arms of the endless void calling to embrace him. His last thoughts were once again of his troopers... of Jerynn... perhaps the young man would find a way through this mess. Maybe they all would... but not Greven... today would be the last day he drew breath...

As the darkness crept in, Greven's knife finally fell to his side. His body went limp, only being held up by the blade embedded within it...

And thus, Greven Astor, commander of Strike Team Saxon, loyal servant of the Empire, fell upon the field of battle.

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Erin E-141

Guest
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Erin "Esk 141" E-141
Sergeant First Class
Noris, Near Primus, HM Base Belisarius
Writing with:
Jack E-138 Jack E-138 , DECEASED Erskine Barran DECEASED Erskine Barran
Narrative Tags: Jack E-138 Jack E-138 , DECEASED Erskine Barran DECEASED Erskine Barran , @

Erin stood beside Ramon on the stout apartment building's roof, her armour battered although not yet broken and cut with the blood of the fallen. The Rampart armour servos thrum lively. Erin's greyish eyes study the pebbles jitter and vibrate against the concrete floor. Suddenly, she snaps her helmeted head skyward and observes a boltgun grey wedge-shaped warship descend from the clouds. Erin thrusts her left hand's fingers toward the horizon and the spire that was the orbital cannon at the spaceport.

"That's the Princeps." Its' shields acted like an umbrella as a hail of emerald and crimson rain fell from orbit and smashed into Noris' pock-marked surface. "It's a Mawite Star Destroyer. It was captured by Leftenant Kaun." Erin omits her own role in its capture regarding the late Leftenant and the instrumental role she played in organising the force responsible for its' capture. Wordlessly, Erin muses through pursed lips before turning a helmeted head toward Ramon. "We can't stay here." The corners of her orbs wrinkle in alarm.

"The Maw is going to raze the surface." Erin's observation is passionless; she reached down and picked up a one-hundred-kilogram anti-armour mass driver cannon once mounted on the rooftop. "Maw armour is approaching. I count twenty-five crimson hand tanks. No more than Jack and I can handle." A swarm of tracked turreted tanks and armour-personnel carriers scrambled for the building Jack, Erin, Ramon and Denzo stood upon. Erin's orbs search for an answer from Ramon as she hefts the massive cannon above the rooftop; she saw in his tired sunken eyes vengeance and rage, not the lucidity of a rested professional soldier.

Noris' surface was beginning to burst open in geysers of flame. They sent mud and debris at least fifty metres into the air. The planet's surface was dying. Even so, Erin remains outwardly stoic and calm. "The enemy's motivation is unquestionable, and they have superior force. There is no sense in remaining. We will fight them, just not here." Erin was technically making a request for Ramon and his scopes to tactical withdrawal. The looming spectre of the FDS Immortal a giant star destroyer drifts further to the surface from its' ruination in orbit; time was running out. "I know you want revenge, Sergeant Cantrell." Erin's voice cooly states and rests her left palm on his shoulder. "But we'll kill a lot more of them fighting smart."

Though it was clear and evident to Erin, not all of them would survive to escape the doomed planet unless somebody remained to halt the Crimson Hand's tank division in a holding action.

 

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