A Cluster in Turmoil [ Mando'ade Dominion of Hapes Hex ]

[Soeht]

Hapes: A Dark Secret

Once she saw that [member="Jorel Imos"] took care of the thrall attacking him, Monika slowly exhaled as if relieving some tension. She looked away from him and began to slowly bring her blaster back to its holster.

Then Jorel asked his question.

Monika paused. Her body locked up. She looked to Jorel once more.

A second later, she relaxed once more. She placed her blaster in its holster.

“The Hapan version of one,” she told Jorel.

 

[Darth Metus]

"You have claimed a life, but do not mistake yourself as strong. Dare not call yourself a warrior."

His words were as ice - an argument levied against the hologram before him. [member="Diana Veneris"] was many things: intelligent, brave, beautiful...but her hands were pure. Only once before had they been stained with blood. Harkon was different. He, the elder sibling, sullied his hands with death. He, the warrior, had no qualms about sacrificing his own for the greater good. In the now, the current "disagreement" revolved around the conflict on Taanab. She saw his actions against the weakened Mando'ade as hasty. She saw his actions as barbaric.

He saw them as necessary.

"In time, you will understand sister mine. Our ancient enemy bleeds, now we must bury the sword."

With thus said, the conversation was cut short. Interrupted were the siblings by the arrival of a herald. "My lord, we've confirmation. We've intercepted comms...the Mand'alor's ship is downed."

"And so we must bury the sword. Muster the Riders. Ready my Speeder."

"At once, Lord Harkon."

Upon the departure of the herald did the Echani turn to face the azure projection of his sibling. He reached out, offering a light smile, before speaking once more. "Let us not quarrel any longer. Upon my return, we will have much to celebrate." Thus did the White One depart - with a florish of his cloak and thunderous footsteps. Haste bore him to the bowels of the Veneris fortifications...and with every other second, the din of artillery fire rocked the structure. Harkon grinned - an expression much akin to a mongrel before the feast.

"Your speeder, milord." came the obedient voice of his herald. Harkon rendered a half-nod before swinging his leg over. The engine came to life. Harkon raised his spear. And in a few moments' time, the Mando'ade would be greeted by a new sound. A thunderous symphony of engines, each contributing to a mammoth cloud of dust, drew ever close to the downed dropship. There was blood in the water, and House Veneris had come to feast! Harkon lowered his spear - as did his subordinates - and a fresh hail of blaster fire was unleashed upon the Mandalorians.

The Feast had begun.

[member="Vilaz Munin"], [member="Jack Raxis"], [member="Ardgal Raxis"], [member="Stardust Raxis"], [member="Nolan Detta"]

 

[Zef Halo]

[9]​

​

Jorel helplessly looked around for his shotgun before giving up with a sigh. That was when the Hapan answered and his attention turned back to her.

"Yeah, well, I hope it can benefit us in some way." He scoffed, although he really did hope that would be the case.

For all he knew, Jedi and Sith were equally overestimated. Not that their powers were not scary but they were exaggerated by far too much. Well, at least, it's what Jorel thought. He had not been directly in interaction with neither a Jedi nor a Sith.

The agent adjusted the holster on his hip before speaking.

"What's your name, Hapan Jedi? I never was able to ask you." He attempted to small talk as he began heading off to destination unknown.

​

[member="Soeht"]​

 

[Soeht]

Hapes: A Dark Secret

“Monika… Zel,” she answered [member="Jorel Imos"].

As Jorel began to walk forward, Monika followed. She kept her head on a swivel – looking around the horizon.

“What about your name?” Monika asked Jorel.

 

[Zef Halo]

[10]​

​

Their walk led them through the ruins of the Hapan capital, despite the strikes there were still some buildings barely intact. Their lower floors at least. There were no signs of windows, of course, and they more looked like the skeletal structures buildings had in the initial phases of their building.

"Jorel. Jorel Imos." The agent curtly answered as he scanned the area around him. Was this one of the busier streets he had ended up roaming yesterday? The circular building, if one could call it that anymore, reminded him of a building he had just passed yesterday.

Scary. How quick everything could change.

"Help!! Help me!!" A cry broke the silence between the two survivors and Jorel's hand landed on his holster. It seemed to come from the circular building he had just been observing.

Frozen in place, he turned to face Monika with a grimace. As if hesitant on what to do.

[member="Soeht"]​

 

[Malok]

His presence was Winter.

What was once a gilded dream turned gray. A swath of cold washed over the psyche of a man bathed in Kolto. In mere moments, the metaphoric skies turned bleak. The gentle breeze whipped into a frenzy, howling into the ears of [member="Alkor Centaris"]. Where once there was a man alone with his memories, now there were two. A mere glance at the arrival would contradict Alkor's memory: for before him stood a literal Ram. Yet, its hide was the furthest thing from pristine; for ash and soot clung to the whole of its body. Its horns were once-proud, yet now they appeared to have been the victim of fire. Once was charred beyond reason, whilst the other was absent entirely.

And the visage itself was a cacophony of melted flesh and bone.

At first the apparition made not a sound...but then a monstrous din erupted from its mouth. What should have been a simple bleat manifested as ten thousand tongues. They spoke in a thunderous tone - countless languages assaulted the ears of the wounded Alkor - until one spoke above them all. It was his voice. It was the Warmaster.

"You eat, yet you are not famished."

His words heralded the arrival of ice. Frosted shackles manifested from nowhere, coiling themselves about Alkor's body. The man could struggle, but they would not give. The man could fight, but they would not break. The chains would persist until the truth sank into the warrior's mind.

"You are a slave to your own blade. You kill. You eat. Yet an endless feast alone will never bring fulfillment. You will never leave the table satisfied, oh brother mine."

"Not until you eat...with purpose."

 

[Alkor Centaris]

The chains were inexhaustible.

Fiery hot, lancing pains shot through his wrists and ankles as they bound him and dragged him to the earth at his feet, but they persisted. The ground cracked and gave beneath his weight, and soil churned as his body sank into it. His eyes fixated on the skull-that-spoke, but he did not resist the shackles. He had felt them all along. He had seen them before.

"They were forged for me," Alkor murmured through a mouthful of dirt. "I watched as they were made." There had been a time when the fire was in his soul, bright and hot. Once, he had the will to burn worlds all his own, but those embers had gone cold.

Isley's own voice echoed from the spirit. The Warmaster who had given him temporary purpose spoke now of something more.

Death and delusion joined hands often. The darkness shattered the false nature of both and ripped them into reality. Alkor reached out for the lifeless form of Isley Verd, only to feel the weight of his own sins grow to enormity. His wrist was overburdened.

It drooped once more, and his gaze clouded. "I am starved for blood," he admitted. "I thirst for battle, but nothing else. All that made me human was flayed from me."

He was a relic, a tool of an ancient war long put to rest. He was dragged from those days and into a new war, one unready and unwilling to accept the old ways. Sith, Jedi- all creatures evolved and moved on to a higher tier, a new and better way to kill. Some sought efficiency, and some sought a way to avoid meaningless death. All feared the monsters that were born of the tried and true method.

They sought to bury it forever, cast it aside, or change it. Alkor had already been changed. There was no undoing what had been done. "I am the demon that they say I am," he grasped at the dirt and fought from his knees. He stood, bearing the burden of every soul that he had sent to hell. Those chains would not break him. Could not. "But I serve no one. Not ever again."

His darkened gaze did not turn from the Ram, nor was there any conflict or fear there. Only the timeless rage that seethed beneath the surface, that gave him focus and strengthened his resolve. Where Isley had become as winter itself, in its gale burned a soul hotter than hell. "Tell me, Brother," the Jen'jidai spoke, unwavering. "What did you find, and where do I seek it."

His hands gripped the chains now, burning and melting flesh as they crawled back toward the earth, screaming. He gripped them tightly. They shivered, then stood still. "Where is this vaunted purpose?"

[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Malok]

The Ice of Unlife gazed quietly upon his sibling's struggle. He raged against the shackles: chains forged by the horrors of life, yet tempered by [member="Alkor Centaris"] himself. Every link was a consequence of his history: of those who used him like a Slave. Yet what the specter saw before him was more than a spiller of blood. Any man could bear that title - just as any man could bear a weapon. Yet, even in death, Isley saw the same spark within his sibling as the day they had met. Isley saw the reason he had welcomed him into his House; into his family.

And that, in of itself, was the key.

In his youth, the Warmaster thought himself a god. The Dark Side enabled him to cut a swath through the Galaxy. It keened his blade to shatter worlds. Yet, after consuming life after life, winter welled up within him. He felt unfulfilled...and that sensation led to being lost. The Warmaster struggled to find himself for many years. He coped with drink. He coped with women. Yet it took the cries of his people to shake him from the stupor. It took a return to his roots - a return to his family - to give the Warmaster a purpose.

"You lie to yourself, brother."

His words were brief. Harsh. And immediately following, the Ram opened its mouth. Unremarkable rows of teeth were there...and they bit down upon the burdened one's exposed flesh. The apparition deliberately drew blood, enough so that it stained his already ashen coat. Then, he released Alkor's hand and loomed over him. "You bleed like a Human." he remarked, before leaning his head low.

"You and I are cut from the same cloth. To serve...to kneel...is something that we can never do."

"And yet, there is fulfillment. There is purpose. And it through Blood. Our blood. Do not serve, protect. Do not kneel, uplift. Only then will your chains be broken. Only then will you be Free!"

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

 

[Alkor Centaris]

"Even gods can bleed," Alkor remarked bitterly. "Dreams can bleed, and ideas. All of it bleeds, if you cut deep enough." His fingers closed and opened, and crimson wept from the toothy engravings that the Ram had given him. "Only that which bleeds and persists has the right to exist."

Alkor let his arms fall to his sides, but he held the chains fast and steady. "That does not make me human." The blood drained from his wound and spilled out across the world at his feet, stretching across time and space. It burned hottered than the chains, and they recoiled at its touch.

"It was that drive to persist that drove me to understand your lot," he divulged, a truth he had not even told to [member="Keira Ticon"]. "I watched men who called each other Brother tear each other apart. Beliefs and opinions ripped a gulf between them, and egos scoured their world until nothing was left. They bled, [member="Isley Verd"], but they did not persist."

The blood he lost twisted, warped, and images of Empires rose and fell. "Imagine my contempt when I spilled blood time and again for them, only to watch as the life left their eyes."

At once, all of the pooled blood dried and scattered, and the two were left alone. "I have watched so many die, yet I have never lived." Alkor took a step forward, and the chains lurched. They defied him, held him back, and sang their anguished song.

"I would gladly build a world for your people, Isley," he intoned solemnly, "if I only knew where to begin."

 

[Malok]

"Monsters do not crave to know what drives us. Nor do devils, demons, or rabid beasts. Those sort, driven only but a hunger for blood, care only for the slaughter. You were once among their kind, but by your own admission, you are different."

The chains slackened in their grip ever so slightly. Yet he was still not free.

"Our people, not just mine brother, Our people are bleeding. Yet they persist. The land of my birth literally forced fire down my throat, and yet your people live on. You seek a place to begin? Bah. The answer has been in front of you this entire time."

The Ram stepped forward, lowering its head. It's single horn brushed against his chains.

"Find your family. Know what it means to witness brothers bound by love, not ambition. Know what it means to Live."

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

 

[Alkor Centaris]

Frost built up where the Ram had pressed its horn to his chains. They shuddered violently as it stretched, and winter seized them. Ice crept across their surface and laid claim to their heat. It settled on his hand, but Alkor kept his gaze trained on the man he called Brother.

The seasons had come to an end for Isley, and his new form had accepted that. Alkor had always been surrounded by winter, so the cold was inevitable, but for the first time since his youth, it bit into him.

Alkor gripped the chain more tightly, pulled at it, and fought to keep himself upright. They retreated into the dirt, seeking the heat as repreive. The Dark Jedi found no comfort in that place.

There was none to be found in any place. Instead, he ripped the chains upward to assert his control. Then, the unthinkable happened.

The frosted, frigid links crackled, whined, and finally shattered.

Those on his body remained, but as his arms and legs fought for freedom from the bonds, they gave way. His legs staggered forward, unused to freedom from the burden. Both his arms wavered as the weight slacked, weakened. Chains sloughed off him in droves, but bits remained, a reminder that the past would not be undone.

Still, there was freedom.

The frozen chains clung to his body with desperation, and he reached out to seize Isley by the horn. "I will look for this meaning," he replied, "if it takes me my lifetime to find."

It was frigid to the touch. Alkor was reminded of the world he had seen a glimpse of, the place his master had stolen life back from countless times. It was balmy, and it claimed those that it touched. His own heat resonated in response.

"I will live," he repeated the word as though it were foreign.

[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Malok]

And with those words did Winter cease.

Into the warmth - into the touch of his brother - did Isley lean. It was a rare moment of remembering the life he once had. Yet a return from this state would never be. A return to living would never be. Despite this, there was Hope. Hope that [member="Alkor Centaris"] would not live as if he were among the dead. Hope that the Clan left behind would be uplifted by his presence. Hope that his Chains would remain broken.

"Yes, Live! Live my brother!"

And much akin to snow exposed to the light of Spring did the Ram begin to fall away. His form wavered. His presence waned. "Find them...Live!" He was gone. Yet when Alkor returned to the world of the living...when his eyes would eventually part amidst a bath of Kolto...he would feel an icy sensation upon his palm. It would persist for quite some time. It would serve as a temporary reminder. Isley was with him.

Even in death.

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

 

[Diana Veneris]

B A D B L O O D​

A H O L O G R A M ​

Death was only the beginning.

Draygar Veneris, the Usurper, lay cold beneath the ground on Eshan. The tale of his preternatural death—visceral, mysterious, cosmically horrific—spread like wildfire through the galaxy in various renditions, each one more fantastic than the last. Every version of how the Usurper died bore a common thread, however: the violet-eyed, white-haired girl who had slain him.

Diana Veneris had not meant to kill her uncle. He was an abusive man with a touch of madness, but even he did not deserve to die in such agony. As it were, Draygar was not the first Veneris to meet an untimely demise. Years prior, Diana's parents had also suffered a strange and unnatural end. The commonly agreed upon story was a freak house-fire, but Diana knew better.

The timing was too convenient for Draygar. He came to rule over House Veneris with an iron fist, crushing no one harder than he crushed Diana. His fear of the girl and her strange powers drove him to cast her into exile, and his fear was well-founded—after years of torment, she used those powers, albeit unintentionally, to kill him and purchase her freedom with his life.

Some had cried Witch! and Treason! in the aftermath, and would have killed Diana on the spot for her crime, but others . . . others saw the frightened girl for what she truly was. 'You’re not a freak, or a monster,' [member="Siobhan Kerrigan"] had said, the morning she saved Diana from the mob. 'By some twist of fate, you simply have powers normal people don’t have . . . it’s not witchcraft. We call it the Force.'

The Fire-Maned Lady had rescued Diana, marking the beginning of the girl’s training. It might have also marked the end of her remarkable family saga, were it not for the appearance of [member="Harkon"].

House Veneris was built on whispers and secrets. When the news of her uncle’s death rolled out across the stars, the older brother Diana did not know existed had promptly rolled in. Opportunism seemed to be hereditary among Veneris men. Harkon had emerged from the shadows to meet his powerful baby sister for the first time—he had come to reclaim their House. It was an undeniably striking prospect, but already the siblings diverged on the how and the when.

“Please, Harkon. We have no sword of our own yet to bury.”

Diana’s voice came like a bell, ringing gently through the static of the hologram. There was something else in her tone that far surpassed the gentleness, however—that went deeper than any perceived sweetness or purity. From the seeds of her oppression, a mighty bloom of resilience had burst. Diana, though quiet and soft-spoken, was tough.

“House Veneris is too weak to fight this ancient war—and already too tainted with blood. I don’t want to adopt our uncle’s legacy of barbarism. This isn’t the way.”

It was too late. This was Harkon's way.

As the hologram abruptly flickered into nothingness, Diana knew that the Mando'ade ships would fall from the reaches of space at her brother's command—and in their stead, House Veneris would begin its bloody ascent. Eshan would rise once more.

Death was only the beginning.

 

[Darth Metus]

K O R D A​

Bring Your Own Objective​

The Hand of ApeX curled into a Fist.

The Mando'ade were buzzing. Their people were in peril on two fronts. The relative peace they had claimed on Onderon was being dwarfed by the present. Every second was a battle to keep precious souls alive...But what about the Dream? What about the aspiration of a strong and unified people? Well. When an inferno is lit, the priority must always go to putting out the blaze. So, too, were the colonization efforts shelved momentarily in favor of seeing Mandalorian lives liberated. But [member="Vilaz Munin"] did not forget his Dream, nor would he let the efforts of his people completely stall. No. As he departed for Taanab, he reached out to his Ma'alkerrite ally.

And in the conversation that ensued, he did not only ask for Malok's strength...but he contracted the might of ApeX.

A conundrum was unfolding upon the forgotten world of Korda. The simian natives had organized into loose-knit Clans, and infighting had consumed them. The bloody civil conflict had no end in sight, with two majority sides making up the largest contenders. Despite their primitive nature and appearance, however, one of these sides had enough sense to reach out to the Stars. A deal was brokered between Mand'alor the Exile and the Chieftain of this Clan: an exchange that would see a new, Mandalorian Colony rise. This was the mission ApeX had now sworn to carry out. This was the reason Malok rallied his best and brightest - Fireteam Deathsinger - to meet him.

They gathered together in the bowels of a vessel borrowed from the Mando'ade: a Frigate that was more than enough to get the job done. The space was that of a briefing room and the Behemoth stood before an azure projection of the world below. Prisms were illuminated on the blue-ish hologram - with each providing a magnified view of the operation area. At a glance, the terrain was barren. A lack of vegetation characterized the planet and rock formations seemed more plentiful than water. However. The site of the current operation was a stark contrast to the norm. The object of Malok's attention was an old structure...

Situated beside a lake.

On such a world, such a position would prove immensely valuable. Not only would this provide a vital resource, but proximity allowed one's forces to dominate it. With water secured, warfare could continue. With water secured, one Clan could theoretically outlast another. But now, it would be theirs. It was a hard bargain to pull off, Malok had to give the Mand'alor credit for it, but successfully ousting the Clan from the ancient fortification would see ownership land firmly in the hands of ApeX. And. The surrounding land would belong to the Mando'ade. Fertile soil. Access to clean water. All the ingredients for a thriving Colony were within reach.

And Malok would not let this opportunity go to waste.

But first, he waited. With hands folded patiently behind his back, the Ma'alkerrite awaited the arrival of his comrades. From there, he would brief them on the plan of attack and lead them down to the planet's surface.

[member="FN-9999"], [member="Arlox"]​

 

[Alkor Centaris]

The chill remained.

Isley had died, and would never return. In spite of that finality, his touch had cultivated new life for the Mandalorians. For countless millennia, their forebears had destroyed and rebuilt, felling old worlds and culling the frail and meek so that the people of Mandalore could stand strong on their broken backs. The Mandalorians in turn showed their thanks as a culture by embracing those strong enough to survive, teaching them a new way of life, and instructing them in the ideas and tenets of the Resol'nare.

For Alkor, who had all but died long ago, the seed of new life was planted in the form of that frosty touch. Though it was a fleeting echo, and though Isley could not lead their people any longer, his passion burned on in those who he called family.

It joined with the flames of Alkor's own, and as his eyes opened, they stared forward with conviction. I will live. Bubbles billowed upward through the bright blue kolto as his breathing stabilized, and outside the tank vital monitors buzzed with acknowledgment that he had come out of stasis.

Groggy of body, his mind raced over the surreal images that came upon him moments before. Isley had chosen to visit him, and to direct him toward purpose. He had not given him one. There was a great distinction between that and what Alkor had always known.

He knew which direction to look, but not which steps to take. This was Alkor's journey alone.

"He's awake!" the sudden call buzzed outside the tank, and his eyes drifted to the speaker. He barely heard the words as more than a muffled, fuzzy sound, but he knew. "Inform Ticon and Sasi immediately. They will wish to be aware of this development."

The IV in his arm burned for a moment as they flushed the sedative from his system. His awareness expanded, and the pain was born anew. It was different from before- the world was not like fire, but the ache felt more akin to atrophy. His body had not moved in several months. His bones moved, but almost like gel. All his nerves felt as though seismic activity had savaged them.

In spite of all his ailments, Alkor was alive.

"Flush the kolto," she instructed. "Let's start his rehabilitation as soon as possible."

 

[Arlox]

Arlox was originally just exploring the galaxy, it was a while since he had anything to do with Malok or with ApeX at all, he was gone for a long while, but Arlox's services were needed. His old friend came calling and Arlox gladly came to the call.

Arlox was slightly told on what to expect but knew very little of what was actually going on, currently Arlox is in hyperspace on route to the frigate that Malok was currently in. During the hyperspace, Arlox was putting on his red phrik armor set with two large sheathes on the back, one sheathe contained his gravity hammer "Galwe" and the one one contained a AP-41 from Corondex Arms. When he was done, the shuttle that Arlox was in just jumped out of hyperspace, a voice came from the comms.

"Hailing unidentified shuttle, state your business." Arlox walked up to the front of the ship, then pressing down the comms button to reply. "This is Arlox, it's just me and the shuttle pilot, I'm apart of ApeX and the Fireteam Dea-" Arlox was then cut off, "No need to say anything else, I was told to expect you, you are clear to proceed to one of the docking bays on the frigate." then, the pilot went on course to dock in the frigate, he did so safely and without trouble.

Arlox was in full equipment and ready, so he went out of the shuttle and walked down the ramp from the shuttle to be greeted by a guard. "Sheesh, another one of you guys?" Arlox took it the wrong way and was about to unsheathe his hammer, but the guard panicked and quickly said "No no! I don't mean your species, I meant another ApeX... yeah, that's it." Arlox clearly knew what the guard meant, but he let it go as he didn't want to cause any trouble. "Right... well with that cleared, I'm here to show you the way to the briefing room."

Arlox followed the guard across the ship, seeing much of the crew at work and clearly preparing for something big. All though he didn't question Malok's judgement, Arlox wondered what the situation was about that required him.

"Right... this room is the briefing room, and where Malok is. Goodbye." the guard was clearly nervous and afraid of Arlox, and ran off as quickly as he could. He ignored it and went on to enter the room. The door automatically opened and he saw a giant blue hologram with objects all over, Arlox was never a big fan of technology and just assumed it was a map or something. He didn't care about it much however, because on the opposite side of where Arlox was, he saw Malok himself.

"Hey! Malok! long time no see, you've grown bigger since last time." regardless of what operation they were about to pull, Arlox was nonetheless happy to be fighting with Malok once again.

 

[Hansen]

Sydney Ramek
Unidentified Mando'ade Frigate
Objective IV: Bring your own.
Post: #1

Spoiler: Equipment

• x1 Mark III Katarn-Class Commando Armour [Sage Green Markings]
• x1 DC-17m Interchangeable Weapon System
• x2 DC-15s side arm blaster
• x2 N-20 Baradium-core thermal detonator
• x2 Vibroblade

Sydney as a relatively new employee of Apex is nervous as she walks down one of the frigate's largely barren hallways with an old yet venerable DC-17m Blaster Rifle, index finger sits above the trigger she walks with a distinctive military gait wearing the armour of an ancient breed of Commandos who served the Galactic Republic; For Sydney it was both practical and an outward albeit now obscure personal statement of admiration for that historic government and the ideals to which it was dedicated. Ironically Sydney forced herself publically to extoll support for the First Order and her homeland's regime. While it was by no means something she wanted to tear down the young idealist longed for civil and political reform within her homeland. Sydney rounds a corner and sees a creature not unfamiliar enter the room marked by her heads-up-display, her footsteps even in the armour were surprisingly light thanks to her own light frame she cautiously follows behind Arlox and peers past his shoulder to see the Bossman hovering over a hologram of what appeared to be a frigate. "Hello sir, you called?" Sydney's Imperial accent grates against her speech, she brings left-hand upto the helmet's brow and gives an impromptu salute towards Malok before looking towards Arlox with her timid expression concealed behind a faceplate with a 'T' shaped azure opaque and glowing visor. It was vaguely Mandalorian in style although distinctly different and more advanced when compared to the kind worn by members of the ancient warrior culture and from the woman's accent it is obvious she is not Mandalorian, but perhaps a mercenary hailing from the Core or even interestingly the First Order? "My word! You're a burly looking one." Sydney's voice oozes anxiety in such close proximity to the comparatively gargantuan creature. Malok might recall that Sydney experienced a similar reaction when meeting him up-close for the first time, she intimidated easily in the face of such physical strength; It was a point of self-consciousness for the slender woman.

[member="Malok"] [member="Arlox"]

 

[Ardgal Raxis]

Post: 6
Objective: 3, Bad blood
Allies: [member="Stardust Raxis"] [member="Jack Raxis"] [member="Vilaz Munin"] [member="Nolan Detta"] [member="Rashae"] @Anyone else going to kick Echani butt

As Virgil grit her teeth, the pain through her welping like hell itself. She gripped her pistol as tight as she could, her knuckles under her armor growing white. The battle was still going on around them, she watched as the Godkillers looped around to join up with their Mand'alor. She swallowed, feeling a sense of satisfaction. Good, their lord would live another day, or in the least, they would avenge these horrific beings like nothing else in the galaxy. A few moments later, or what felt like lifetimes in her state, the Corvette came through the clouds, its tale-tell sign of relief blazoned on the side. She let out a sharp gasp of relief, grabbing her cape on her back and looping it around to cover her face, all except her eyes.

"Munin, the crash," she struggled between breaths before pointing. Even in her agony, she refused to give in to the weakness of showing her torment. The woman pointed to the left her hand barely shaking, "That direction. Godkillers in route. Re-enforcing him."

Her teeth grit in torment as she felt the doctor bracing her. She was no stranger to pain. The requirements of becoming a Godkiller meant being completely destroyed and rebuilt on the cellular level devoid of all force life. Even still, this pain knocked the wind out of her. With every ounce of strength in her body, the warrior grabbed Rashae's collar, her eyes burning with intensity, the only part of her face visible. "Ardgal. Get. Ardgal. Treat him. First."

The world faded in and out of Ardgal's view. His breathing was ragged, slow, and labored. The warrior could feel his body struggling, trying to mend itself, trying to get back together. He could feel his side throbbing as his flesh began to close around the branch that had impaled him. His fingers twitched as his altered Fierreo genes kicked in, mending themselves as fast as they could. But it still wasn't fast enough. The chip in his head sent electric shock through his brain, sending one message through each synapses:

Reboot. Bring systems back on line. 5...10.... 76.... Failure. Retry.

Reboot. Bring systems back on line. 5...10.... 76.... Failure. Retry.

Reboot. Bring systems back on line. 5...10.... 76.... Successful. Return to Combat.

The warrior could feel the world spinning around him as he looked through his cracked helmet. It took all of the effort in his body to turn his head. He could see Virgil battered with some woman standing over him. The warrior summoned his will power, rolling to his side. The branch lodged in his body sending pain through him. The layer of wildlife that had covered him from slid off his armor, revealing its battered, shining, exterior.

"Gods. Feth." He grunted in pain, blacking out again. His gloved hand reached out blindly, grabbing a fist full of dirt and pulling himself closer, the pain running through his battered body. The circuitry in his head refused to let the warrior release from the pain into sweet unconsciousness again. His hand reached out again, faltering, pulling himself closer.

"All units, this is Commander Raxis," he managed through gritted teeth, feeling the internal blood loss, pain, and head trauma clog his thinking, "--this is commander--coman--coma--co-c--"

 

[Soeht]

Hapes: A Dark Secret

Monika looked toward the building as soon as she heard a cry for help. She neglected to reach for her blaster.

A glance to [member="Jorel Imos"]. She stood in place for a couple seconds. No words spoken, but her eyebrows were furrowed.

“I’ll check,” she told Jorel.

Then, she turned back to the ruined building and began to approach it. She had to carefully avoid the durasteel rebar that littered the space between her and the building. A misstep would have resulted in her being impaled by it.

“Help’s here!” yelled Monika, “Keep talking so I can find you!”

 

[Zef Halo]

[11]​

​

With blaster in hand, Jorel moved quickly behind Monika. The woman selflessly paced towards the building while the agent tried to keep up.

Crushing fragile rubble under their feet, the two entered a hallway lit by the lack of a roof. The remaining walls formed shadows in the corners. No response had come after Monika spoke. Only eerie silence.

Jorel grabbed the Hapan's hand. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Help!! Help me!!" The helpless voice came again. This time unusually close. Jorel did not think it was a good idea any longer.

"Doesn't your Jedi sense tell you anything?" He locked his eyes with hers, head tilted as he whispered through a clenched jaw.

He felt sweat break on the palm that squeezing his pistol.

[member="Soeht"]​