Dominion &nbsp; CIS | The Red War: Dorvalla

Cardinal Rachne |

Rann Thress

They would not surrender.

So be it.

Bron could feel the force, a battle meditation, linking him to the others which were force sensitive. There was something else he could feel.

DARKNESS.

It was always pulling at him, always fighting for control. Bron hated losing control, but as he looked around. All of them carried a darkness with them. Perhaps he could find a home among this Confederacy and stop his running. The Echani planted his feet and drew his weapon as others charged ahead. The vibrosword was red, as was the armor he wore. He looked to the woman at his side and nodded his head. He was a quiet man who said little. There would be time for conversation later perhaps, but even then he would not say much.

The killing had already begun.

There was another Echani among them, she fought as expected, her skill much more than her size would ever let on. Many of them carried light weapons, the tool of force users. Bron had yet to make one, he had yet to be still long enough to train beyond what he had learned since that day.

A deep breath was taken in just before the man charged ahead. The castle would fall, and so would the slavers inside it.

One swing, one death.

Another fell as Bron slashed upward, pulling the blade which rest at his enemy's thigh from its sheath, he sent it flying into the throat of another which would charge him.

He could feel it... the darkness... as the battle raged it would gain control. It was only a matter of time.

Golden eyes turned toward his companion, and when it was safe to speak, he did so.

"If I lose myself... everyone will be in danger. Put me down if you must. Promise me."

Xobos Yakieer · Sep 30, 2020

Location: Dorvalla
Equipment: Illyria Knight Armor, Knight Saberstaff, Miralukan Eye Mask
Mental state: Silent.
Tags: |

Rann Thress | @Byrn Vaashe |

Cardinal Rachne |

The scream that ripped through her mind was akin a gunshot splitting through her skull.

Apparently, the ability to feel through the mark to her apprentice, especially the pain, was something that needed to be tempered. It took little more than a few seconds to regather herself, channel the dark side to smooth over where the searing pain in her neck subsided. But the pain was not at the top of her list of worries. At least, not her own pain, but the source of where that suffering had come from. Somewhere nearby, her apprentice was suffering greatly, and her odd signature in the force was beginning to fade.

Leven needed to be found, and soon. That didn’t mean there wasn’t something that Xobos could do from her current position. The dark side that was originally being channeled to dull the pain in her neck, instead flowed into the mark on her forearm opposite the one given to her by her master. There, it unblocked the healing capabilities of her apprentice, enough that while there would still be quite a lot of pain, the jester would not expire before Xobos was able to find her. The last thing she wanted was Levan dying on one of their first outings.

Through that mark, Leven’s location could also be felt out, along with the signatures of another two soldiers who were in pain comparable, even worse than, her apprentice’s. The Miraluka found herself pushing through the rubble of what looked to be a building that was more than likely even in construction before all of this destruction. The screaming of a man filtered down the half completed stairs, and a small trek found herself face to face with one of the three men from earlier, who’s arm was severely broken and somehow twisted into the rebar of the stairs to hold him in place.

“Seems you were unsuccessful in killing my apprentice..” She mused, stooping down to stare in to the man’s eyes. They were wide with a mix of pain and fear that could only come from having met the face of death, only for them to leave you to slowly expire. “Please..please kill me.” Those begging words brought a slow sneer to her face. He..actually wanted to die. The blood loss from his wounds would certainly do that for him, albeit, much slower and more painfully than he would have preferred. But such was the fate of scum such as this one. Begging whimpers continued to filter past his lips, only rising and volume and need as Xobos began to stand once again, starting her way back up the stairs. The solider, gang member would be left there to slowly die, as was his fate.

At least that’s what she wanted, until the man reached out with his hand to grab at the boots of her armor, gripping at her Achilles. “You..you and your kind will never retake this world..LOBOS shall rule with an iron fist..” In her younger years, especially early on in her training, the offense she would’ve taken to herself being gripped and spoken to in such a way would’ve earned the man a swift death. Ambrus and Ora would’ve cheered it. Perhaps even her master would too. Adron’s training had grown her, matured her decision making, in a sense. The man wanted to die swift, and he was not the kind that Xobos felt the need to fulfill his wishes.

The only sounds that now came from the stairwell after she kicked his hand free, continuing her assent, were the curses in various languages that flew up at her. Whatever lineage she had would supposedly be cursed forever, but this wasn’t much the time for hypotheticals…or fairy tells. All that mattered now as the reality that faced her.

A reality that became all the more clear with the sight of Jester’s pained body laying in the middle of the floor. Xobos could see the damage her apprentice had done before then, another soldier’s body lay dead near body, having bled out, while one of the windows was smashed to bits. Those things, while making her feel a flash of pride, mattered little to see the state her apprentice was in. The fight she had been in, with no exaggeration, had been one for her life, and it had just about cost her it. Kneeling, she could see where the pain was originating from, the burn mark on her neck. A few inches more, and Leven would either be very dead or in no pain whatsoever. What a cruel galaxy of fate they lived in sometimes.

Eventually her eyes met those of her apprentice, red from what Xobos could only assume to be tears. “My dear apprentice…” She started, running a gloved hand through the changeling’s hair. For a moment, that was all there was. A soothing touch, a look of concern, but no words. “You have done well, today, my apprentice..and made me proud.” The pride she felt in seeing her jester’s dirty handywork had only strengthened her belief that Leven could become something very special. Getting her apprentice out of here, alive and in care, was her first priority now. Whatever reward for a job well done could come later.

“Do you feel like you can stand? Our shuttle can meet us in the square below.”

Leven Jeyd · Sep 30, 2020

Location: Dorvalla.
Equipment: Knives, Will to Live.
Tagging:

Xobos Yakieer ~

Lunara Azure ~ Bron Vaashe ~

Rann Thress ~

Cardinal Rachne ~

Srina Talon

Something deep within her, the forces which had been pushing towards being fully released but had not yet managed to surface, felt irritation at her current state. It was unacceptable. Laying on the floor and whimpering in utter vulnerability, It was the perfect being. She couldn't accept to be felled so easily. And then there was the other side of her, the one that held the strength to make itself known because it was the only one that the Jester had known so far: the child. She was in indescribable pain, and she had almost died. Fear and vulnerability, shunned by this deeper instincts, threatened to feel like a home.

Then she felt a ripple in the Force, a strong pull in it, and her white eyes fell towards the Mark on her forearm from where this heightened presence emanated. The pain lessened because of its dark comfort, because it fed those emotions that bid her to push forward despite the agony. And soon she felt it: her skin stretching on its own to piece itself back together, a sweet discomfort has the charred flesh was shed and replaced by new, pale and slightly rosy smooth skin. Little groans and whimpers escaped her as certain areas complained at the pain which was sometimes emphasized by the speed of the regeneration. And even when it was healed enough, Leven could still feel the bite of it in her bones and muscles.

The Jester was no longer in danger, her natural healing ensured this much, but she was in no position to go back into the fray. And she was still scared, a feeling that fueled the Darkside of the Force, even if she was at the moment too weak to tap into it. It was then that she felt the presence of her Master draw near, and then heard her voice. In this moment, far from feeling revulsion, Xobos' presence inspired comfort and security. A reaction that Leven was in no state to ward off or refuse. She welcomed it.

The Force presence of the changeling, a small umber candle in comparison to that of the Sith Knight, seemed to want to blend into the Miraluka's, drawing from its strength and connecting to it through the channel that united them, represented in the mark on the girl's forearm. You made me proud. The words stirred something within the Jester, satisfaction. Perhaps the single most powerful thing the little devil could feel. And then she was asked if she could stand up. Saying no was simply not an option.

Against her body's every painful objection, Leven's face contorted into a grimace as she began to try and push herself off of the ground. Her arms trembled as she tried to brace her weight on them, a quiver which soon overtook her spine and later on her legs. The equilibrium and stability that characaterized her and set her apart weren't there right now, nulled by the searing pain. And finally she found her footing, another drowned whimper speeding past her lips as she began rising to her full height. Her eyes then met the Miraluka's face, and for once there was no defiance or objection. No ire directed at her. Only darkness, a placid but dangerous darkness that wanted to match her own.

Lunara Azure · Oct 2, 2020

Tagging: Bron Vaashe |

Cardinal Rachne

The smile that curled up the corners of Lunara’s was utterly devoid of emotion, no warmer than the ice that filled the air around her. The ice that had become her weapon.

Crystal blue eyes settled on the white-haired echani man behind her, letting her gaze travel to the three bodies at his feet before looking back up at him.

“Oh dear, maybe you don’t quite understand what’s going on here. I’m not going to stop you.”

The elfin woman raised a hand, gesturing at the castle ahead of them, at the forces of LOBOS that swirled and hid ahead of them.

“I’m going to throw you at them again and again and again until you’re used up and there’s nothing left. Then I’ll throw you at them one more time.”

There had been a time, not too long ago, that Lunara would have been shocked by the words coming out of her mouth, shocked by the sentiment behind them. There was perhaps a part of her that still was, crying out for attention, yet that little voice was drowned out by the cold anger that infused every part of her being.

What was the difference between LOBOS and the shadows that had conquered her homeland?

Nothing but time.

The broken terrified people that surrounded her, hiding away in their homes, as if the sealed doors could protect them from what was to come. Mothers hugging their children while fathers hefted whatever weapon they could looking grimly at the door. For a moment the blonde was somewhere else, looking at a house engulfed in flame, a family bundled together underneath the burning timbers.

She hadn’t been there, hadn’t been able to save them. The blonde had only heard later about what had happened, but it had been her fault. No more loved ones left, she’d failed them all.

All that was left was stopping this happening to anyone else again.

Lunara blinked, a single frozen tear falling to clatter against the floor as she turned her head, the heels of her boots clacking against the surface as she turned to the castle, reaching out to gather as much light as she could to herself.

“If you want to whet your appetite then come.”

Srina Talon · Oct 3, 2020

C A S T L E

Tag:

Rann Thress | Bron Vaashe |

Abel Denko |

Lunara Azure

Cardinal Rachne [+Any Others I Missed]

“Are you not your own man as we speak?”

The query was made with veiled interest. Half-curiosity and half-bemusement. The Echani was not so lost that she did not understand that her perspective was skewed and tainted by her affiliation with her Master. The relationship she held with

Darth Metus was one that had been forged through fire. He was not family that she had been born to – But he was someone that had been chosen. Her loyalty was unwavering. Her faith unshakable. Few of his offspring knew him as she did. “Do you stand on your own two feet? Or are there strings holding you upright to dance?”

Perhaps, that was why this one sought to differentiate himself.

The history mattered little. Srina lived, because other men bled. Her life of servitude for the Bright Lady of the Echani people, of devotion to the Queen, had been exchanged for a life of servitude for the Confederate people. The entirety of her world had all been reduced to this one axiomatic definition. There were moments when she could scarcely recall a time from before her armor was patterned with hexagons. A time from before she had been regarded with equal amounts fear and approbation. Such things had ceased to matter. She had seen the light fade in the eyes of an enemy more than a hundred times, and each time, the cessation of the other’s breath and heartbeat had simply validated a primal truth.

She belonged to no one—But herself.

No matter whom she served, no matter her occupation, she was Srina Talon. That was not due to her parentage or the clan from which she hailed. It was simply a fact. She had come into her own long ago. That would not change. It was never about being the best.

It was simply about winning. By any means necessary.

The LOBOS stickmen surrounded them, or, at least they tried to. Srina refused to allow it. She would run through them over and over until they realized that resistance was futile. Silver eyes watched while the chill in the air from Lady Lunara began to settle in their bones. It made them move stiffly, with tension in their arms and legs announcing their discomfort louder than the wail of a hungry Sithspawn. They were numerous—But haphazard.

She could both feel and hear the Son of Thress fighting fiercely in her vicinity. Every blow echoed in the Force. Every sound gave her his proximity and placement without ever needing to remove her gaze from the enemy. He was aggressive. Srina withheld her judgment as he sufficiently deflected the half-beaten soldier she tossed in his direction. Death, swift. The reluctance to recognize that any of the individuals standing in their way could be his end was a folly. Weak, strong, if they severed his head from his shoulders in an opportune moment—His legacy would end before it began. “All things end; All things die.”, she murmured in return, briefly, pausing to dispatch her own attacker.

“Some are just simply more resilient.”

Silver eyes flickered coldly over the young man while he caught up to her position. She could have pressed onward and left him to his own devices, however, she remained. Why? Why would she wait? That would go unanswered. The Dread Queen listened passively to his responses to her statements while surveying the height and width of the wall that separated them from their goals. “If you do not wish to be compared; It is simple. Do not.”

“We are all our own. Do you not realize that you place yourself in his shadow while clawing and screaming to be free of it? You will feel quite the fool when the dawning comes and you realize that you were never hidden. You were never lacking. I never considered you to be less than what you are until you claimed it to the heavens to be so. Hear me clearly—”, she paused, turning unsettling eyes back on his form. She seemed to take stock of him anew. Her lightsaber disengaged as she neared the stone wall and she tucked it back into the holster along her spine. “Let it go.”

Her palms rose and she exhaled while they lay flat along the mortar and stone. She could see the breaks and cracks within the construction in her minds eye. She pushed forward in the Force and a terrifying crack rang through the air. The men on the ramparts above began to panic while the wall started to shake. The Exarch could feel her heartbeat echo in the sudden flow of energy. It was deafening—And event those without sensitivity to the metaphysical would feel it. Sharp. Piercing.

She withdrew all at once and with a pull the stone ripped from the wall like a sword ripping from a sucking chest wound. From the bottom to the top it flew away, leaving a gaping maw behind in which the LOBOS fell to her doom. She was careful to keep the debris from hitting either herself or the whelp but some of it remained suspended in the air. Srina tilted her head to observe her handiwork.

<<“The wall is breached. You know what I require. See it done.”>>

Srina did not bother with her holo-comm and simply broadcasted the missive to anyone within range. Her mind was a cooling wave that retracted as quickly as it arrived. The application of the Dark left its mark on her features. Silver eyes bled to gold. A shadowed latticework mottled the pristine skin beneath burnished orbs and as she neared the fallen soldiers she fell into that delicious sway. The seductive pull that caused her to pull apart her enemy without ever touching them.

There—And gone. Vaporized in a breath of pink mist.

“Seek the leaders of this failed corruption. Bring them to their knees—Force their surrender.”

The battle had only just begun, for them, but for the people who endured and lived in these conditions it had gone on long enough. They hid in the tallest tower. Watching, others die for them.

Pathetic.

Regardless of whether the Masters surrendered or not, still, they might die. She could imagine no other outcome. Her hand fell to her side and her lightsaber hilt jumped back to her hand. Red light, again. Red to accompany the sudden terror that ran through the ranks of the thugs and soldiers they were set to dismantle. As their fear crashed forward quickly enough to cause hearts to still, she could only breathe it in. It made her stronger. Dread Queen was a moniker—But it was also a fact.

Her intended targets would fear her. They would lose, for it.

Srina sent the remaining stones that hovered through the air careening back at the castle before them and began to pummel the area with the permacrete hunks that fell. Damage beget damage. With every crack, with every stone dislodged, she sent it back from whence it came. The Exarch would bear down on the enemy and distract them so that others could see the mission to completion, unhindered, and without difficulty. This was the fate of a slaver.

This—Was the fate of her enemy.

Splinters of bone, blood, and meatier chunks. Nothing more, nothing less.

Rann Thress · Oct 3, 2020

NO Q U A R T E R

Tags:

Srina Talon Bron Vaashe

As Rann tried to quietly gather his breath back, he contemplated Srina's words. She made sense. It wouldn't sway his opinion, or his goal, but it did cause him to pause and consider.

Maybe one does meet his fate on the road he takes to avoid it, he thought.

He looked at Srina as she spoke to him.
How could one feel so cold, all the time? he asked himself. He'd think he'd rather she hate him outright. The way it stood? He wasn't sure. She didn't care and that felt worse. Or maybe she did, and he couldn't tell. Either way, she was an enigma. It irritated him.

He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly as he listened to her. To anyone else, her words would have worked wonders. But for Rann? His issues with his father were too....set in. If he didn't want to kill his father, he wanted to surpass him. It wasn't something a simple conversation would fix. But, she did cause him to falter, and he dropped his eyes down.

It was something.

“Let it go.”

She spoke, turned towards the wall of the castle, and turned it to rubble. Rann's eyes went wide in amazement. He could only nod at her when she gave him his order. Find the leaders, bring them before her.

He wanted to kill them. He wanted to throw their severed heads at her feet.

"Here's your rebels." he'd say, cocky, confident, victorious.

This....this wouldn't be like that. This wasn't the hill to die on, this wasn't his time. With one move, Srina had done what her words didn't.

She defanged him.

It just...was overwhelming. The ease that she did that, the coolness she continued to exhibit, the uncaring. He could sense the darkness within her, and how quick she kept her demons at bay.

In short, she was everything he desired to be. So...above it all. Superior. Powerful and respected. The end goal, save one objective of his she hadn't accomplished, or even wanted to. The only kill that mattered.

He found himself staring at her, just...taking it all in, and blinked, looking away. He shook his head and then nodded at Srina once more, murmuring something in agreement. Then he went about his business. He peeked around the opening in the wall, gazing towards the tower that held his new targets.

As he tried to plan his attack, a piece of wall rained down upon the battlements of the castle from behind him. He looked back at Srina, and saw her launching the castle's debris back at itself, and using the debris created from those strikes to continue her own assault. He stared, eyes wide again and looked away still unblinking.

I have so much more to learn. he thought to himself, a bit dejected, yet filled with a strange source of determination. He rounded the corner, holding his sabers up in front of him ready to deflect any blasts fired his way yet nothing came. Almost every soldier was fleeing for their life from the onslaught of rocks. He dropped his sabers to his side, his shoulders slunk.

"...So that's that then."

He squeezed the hilts tightly and grit his teeth.

Rann didn't know what to feel anymore. Admiration? Fear? Respect? Hatred? Did it matter? He didn't know. He admired her personality, her sense of superiority. He feared her power, yet respected it. And he hated her. He hated that she seemed to be exactly what he wanted to be. A fully formed monster looking at a newborn pup. Now their dynamic was established. There was no question. Srina was, without a doubt, Rann's better. In every way. He wondered if she could have cleared the whole battlefield herself. If she just allowed him to think he was even in the same league as she was.

But did that matter?

He shook his head. No, it didn't. This was what it was. None of this mattered. He exhaled, sadness on his face, and continued towards the center Keep. He proceeded slowly, absentmindedly deflecting the odd shot or attack that did come his way. Yet with every step, his heart began beating faster. Depression quickly gave way to anger and as he approached a weakened wall of the central Keep he rose an arm and, with a roar, pushed in the wall, giving way to the inside of the Keep, and bewildered soldiers within. Rann leapt forward, not wasting a second.

Rann was good, maybe even one of the greats, at saber combat. He'd honed it, practiced daily. He studied new forms and worked diligently to improve himself.

This wasn't skill. This was a butcher working on meat. Swinging of a blade. Wild, reckless power. Not the refined class and poise Rann tried to fight with.
Three fell in as many seconds, and Rann chucked his lightsaber in his right arm at a fourth. He used his now free right arm to grab a fifth and choke him. He lifted him up off the ground, amplified by the Force, and threw him against the wall. His head made a sickening thud against the stone, and Rann summoned his saber back from the fallen soldier.

The remaining soldiers fled from the hall, seeking more defensible positions no doubt. All, save for one.

This last soldier dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, begging and pleading. He looked up at Rann, snot running down his nose as he cried, bargaining for his life.

Rann looked towards this soldier, and put his sabers away. He approached the soldier and grabbed him by the collar with his left hand, pushing him down to the ground. Rann stood over the man, bending at the waste and holding him up by his collar with his left. With his right, robotic arm... Rann began to beat the skull in of this soldier. The crying became louder and louder, until it suddenly stopped. Rann's arm covered in blood, his tunic too. He looked down at the fallen man and felt nothing. It felt....cathartic. He stood over the man, then stepped over him. Not giving him another thought.

As he walked down the hall, the power began to fail. The fading light worked well to enhance one of Rann's physical features.

It really brought out the pale yellow in his eyes.

Bron Vaashe · Oct 3, 2020

TAG:

Cardinal Rachne |

Rann Thress

She wasn't going to stop him?

Golden eyes went wide as he realized this woman did not care whether he kept his sanity or not. Her hatred for the slavers would drive the woman to use him as a weapon. Was that all Bryn was? A weapon? There were those who would say that was all the Echani were good for. Perhaps Bryn should simply resign himself to the fact he had been raised to fight, it was even in the way his people communicated. Combat was woven into the fiber of who he was, why not embrace it?

To embrace it meant embracing the darkness which threatened to take control.

"Then let the blood be on your hands."

The elfen woman could take credit for whatever happened if she was not going to help him keep the darkness at bay. The rampant destruction and mass murder fueled the monster inside.

Was he ready to move ahead?

"Yes... let us move ahead."

Shortly after giving his answer there was a voice in his head. It was not the voice which shook him, but the sensation behind it. Whoever it was that spoke, there was a darkness, one which seemed to draw out the evil within.

<<“The wall is breached. You know what I require. See it done.”>>

He turned to the woman. Bron wondered if she heard the same voice in her head. The orders were clear however.

Death. The voice commanded death.

Pushing the force to his legs, Bron began to run and drawing his weapon to the ready the monster prepared to attack as he raced toward the wall.

Lunara Azure · Oct 3, 2020

Tagging: Bron Vaashe |

Cardinal Rachne

“It’s not like they can be any more red.”

The woman’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper as she turned to the building, watching wave after wave of stones clatter against the walls as the white-haired Exarch tore the building apart. The Echani man swinging his weapons around in the air like a child swinging a stick playing at war. The man thought she’d worry about a few drops of blood, the paltry few he could reach with his sword. When she closed her eyes Lunara could see rivers, oceans of blood, the dead of an entire planet staining her hands, drenching her in the blood of those she’d failed. It was that blood, that vision that woke her in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, screaming in terror. It was the weight of all that death that drove her to kill these slavers, these monsters.

The plight of the people on this world had fallen away from the woman, lost beneath the cold force of her anger. The Confederacy had come here to bring these men to justice.

Justice.

It was a small word, a mighty ideal wrapped up in it. There had been a time when Lunara had believed in justice, when she’d fought with the other members of the church to preserve the rule of law, thinking that it was the highest ideal that one could strive for. Justice, law would elevate and protect the people, would let them live safe and happy lives. She’d believe it right until the Shadows arrived, till they had proved just how flimsy that shield really was.

Justice…justice had no place here anymore, justice couldn’t protect the people who looked to them for protection, it couldn’t bring them back.

Justice had left the equation a while ago, all that was left was revenge. Cold pure revenge.

The air around the woman had been cold before, but now it was artic, as cold as the diamonds catching the light in her eyes. Frost formed on the side of the building, white fingers racing forward, stretching towards the sky, where the fingers touched windows they cried out under the cold, the glass freezing and shattering in a sparkling explosion that blew out time and time again. An echoing cry reaching across the building as the stones groaned and shifted under the assault.

Those reaching fingers stretched up, winding around the roof of the building, the upper windows blowing out as the corner of Luna’s lips turned up. She could feel them up there, the masters, the men who had perpetrated this tragedy. The wind swirled around her, blowing out her long locks of blonde hair as her head tilted back.

“You want to hunt, to kill? Then you’re in the wrong place. You need to be up there.”

A step forward, one delicate hand sweeping up as she unleashed an iota of the storm roiling inside her, the energy that she’d gathered on the way to the building. It only required a small touch before Bron found himself lofted into the air, thrown like a ball through the hanging remnants of that window, the glass shards drifting around him like little snowflakes as he rolled along the floor, the guard’s bringing their blasters to bear as he came to a stop, springing to his feet with swords drawn.

She’d said she would throw him at the enemy, it wasn’t her fault if he hadn’t believed her.

A blonde head tilted up, blue eyes staring at the building for a moment before she reached out a hand, the icy grip around the building tightening the stones starting to shift with a tortured groan. The castle…this monument to slavery and terror…she’d tear it down stone by stone. A gift to the people of the planet, to all those she had failed.

No Mercy

Cardinal Rachne · Oct 5, 2020

Armor: Black & Red Full Body & Cape
Tag:

Leven Jeyd | Bron Vaashe |

Abel Denko

Some might romanticize what was happening here today as a Holy War. A righteous retribution delivered upon the sinner, the criminal, and the deprave. Punitive action well earned by illegal, immoral, and unconscionable actions. They'd feel better about themselves afterward for having purged the galaxy of filth; they'd risen above the slime that'd grown far from the dredges of society and threaten to mar the gracious beauty the powerful enjoyed.

Others simply wanted the excuse to kill someone. Didn't matter who, but seeing how the Confederacy labeled these 'bad guys' every excuse existed, and free-reign was extended for actors to deliver corporal judgment. Such was not necessary so much that it made the aftermath easier. Murder without consequence. Long as none of the victims knew anyone that survived such a purge, and possessed the means to exact revenge.

The Cardinal? She'd taken to resting atop one of the Castle walls, one leg dangling out over the area below. She'd carved her way there with painful ease and not found an iota of satisfaction doing so. She might as well have been moving through a mist or a light fog -- a barely perceptible change soon burnt away by morning light. Delightful for a slight deviation from the norm, but ultimately unremarkable and gone without a trace. A lack of worthy combatants made it unnecessary for the masked woman to progress further into the Castle. True warriors would be on the battle field, not clinging to their masters to make sure they were safe from whatever rodent scurried about the halls.

Srina's cry to end the day's affair was well and good for those inclined to care -- for whatever personal reason drew them there. Cardinal, however, felt the rest could handle such paltry creatures. One might as well call upon a Grand Master of a Jedi Order or Emperor of a Sith Empire to step on an ant, as to expect her to crush some slaver. Perhaps if they knew how to hold a lightsaber properly it might have even been worth a moment's consideration.

The view from atop the wall out over the surrounding shanty town was more enjoyable than the conflict around the castle. The way the horizon was both near and far, and the knowledge that the world curved just out of sight over that gently curved line. How you could almost imagine walking out over the edge into the void. Some days being released from appearing and vanished from the world would seem a blessing. There was so little she could call familiar, and as such nothing worth fighting for.

A cry below drew her mask down toward the battered and bloodied soil. Someone seemed to like their work.

Without a sound, the cloaked figure slipped from the wall.

A spring-like bend of the knees had the Cardinal moving forth the next second after she touched bottom. Falling was an old friend. As was walking in the muck of the galaxy. Yes, some days she wished this cycle would end.

Not inclined to rush to fulfill the day's agenda, the Cardinal found herself shadowing a man --

Rann Thress -- further up the hall in the Castle. Some bodied lay on crumpled here or there. None drew so much as a flicker of her eyes. Dead was dead, and the Force told her none lived to rise and stab her in the back. This man, whoever he was, seemed inclined to demonstrate his worth. Seeing as she was brought back to destroy and to observe, it seemed appropriate someone witnessed his efforts seeing as he still had the desire to slaughter the slavers. Nothing was less fulfilling than accomplishing a great deed only for none to have witnessed it.

Even if the Cardinal wouldn't consider conquering this Castle a great deed, it was still more than the overwhelming majority of sentients in the galaxy could come close to managing.

Anakwor Farlorn · Oct 6, 2020

Farlorn's Forlorn

Chapter Seven: Rat Holes
Part Two

Location: South Castle Breach
Tag: Cardinal Rachne Lyra Vent Yusha Abel Denko The Monster Luna Terrik Shuklaar Kyrdol Ruus Kote Xobos Yakieer Leven Jeyd Srina Talon
Objective: Purge Old Town

Dressed in heavy dark khaki greatcoats with their signature camo-capes trailing above them, bowl-helmets with wide steel brims perched on their heads, the Lost Children of Caria assaulted the breach. Spread out into platoons, they executed a bounding advance, each unit supporting the others' push with volley’s of blaster-fire. At the same time, in the treeline they had just left, the snipers prowled, looking for any signs of movement of the walls that towered before them.

Colonel Farlorn was moving with his command platoon in the center of the formation when behind him he heard the snap-crack of multiple shots. Red-hot bolts whizzed over their heads. In the distance, a dark shape that had peeked over the battlements dropped back like it was yanked by a rope. Then the spring-coil tunk! tunk! of their light support mortars started up, lobbing frighteningly accurate shells onto the ramparts of the wall. Heavy slugger guns and heavy repeaters blazing steams of suppressive fire, raked the battlements.

This close, the breach in the walls became ever more apparent. It had been first leveled several hours before by a massive explosion after the enemy had detonated a mine they had dug under the city. Using this breach, they had flooded right into the Old Town to pillage and terrify it but the source of their entrance would be their downfall. For three hundred meters the wall had been torn down and in its place was a ridge of twisted rubble as tall as a man. Broken Chunks of masonry weighing dozens of tons had been thrown for hundreds of meters all around. Some parts of the ridge were still aflame, belching out toxic yellow smoke.

The LOBOS foe had not been so foolish to leave their flank wide open and undefended. They had constructed makeshift positions within the rubble. Troopers had dug themselves as best as they could into the twisted sea of ferrocrete. Heavy weapons had also been moved up and dug in. Spotting the oncoming foe and seeing the devastation being wrecked on the walls, they came to life.

Trailing behind it a fiery streak, a missile struck right at the feet of Captain Verdant, tossing his headless flaming corpse backward. A squad of Rangers was utterly slaughtered by overlapping fire, each of their bodies pockmarked by dozens of shots before they even had a chance to collapse.

This slight would not go unanswered. Farlorn ordered the fusillade of firepower to switch from the walls to the breach now. Shells landed amongst the foe, bracketing the opening, mangling, and flinging and tearing the LOBOS troops apart. Devastatingly accurate fire from the snipers killed dozens of weapon-crew, throwing them right off their guns. Heavy weapons swept the ridge, bursting the LOBOS soldiers apart like they were ripe fruit.

The line of Rangers continued to surge forward, unaffected by their losses. The Cold Steel they had attached to their rifles gleamed silver in the sunlight. Amidst them and leading from the front was Colonel Farlorn. He allowed his Battalion and Company commanders to move ahead, confident in their abilities, while he took time to pause and to bellow at the very top of his voice to the hundreds of troopers streaming forward, urging them forward. He brandished his vibrosword, glittering in the afternoon sun, high so they could see it.

When the front ranks were within a hundred meters, the command came. The line of attacking Rangers rose from cover. They began at a jog before speeding up to a full-on sprint, screaming with cold steel pointed forward at their enemies. Glaring tracers spat overhead. Plumes of dust were being thrown up all over, kicked up by shells, solid-slug rounds, and blaster fire. The very ground seemed to shake under the weight of their thunderous stampeding charge.

Some of the foe blanched, hesitated, broke, and then abandoned their positions at the sight of this charge, seemingly unhindered or undaunted of any losses they may have taken. The shots falling on their heads quickly petered out the closer they got, like a water tap slowly being closed. But still, several more Rangers died until the first squads clambered through the rubble. The mortar shelling adjusted their fire to creep forward to strike the back-lines and not endanger their own troops while preventing any possible reinforcements.

They were yelling as they scaled the ridge. The cry they made was incoherent, but the intent, the passion, they were unmistakable. Warriors of the Confederacy, with their blood up and boiling, with the hated enemy in sight. More of the enemy broke, running for their lives, trying to get as far away from the rolling tide of living hatred as possible. Some stayed, continuing to man their positions out of a combination of fear, the knowledge they probably wouldn't make it far anyway, and just trying to prove to their mates they had the balls.

“Forward, for the Vicelord!” Farlorn bellowed as he approached the ridge. “In the name of the Independent Systems, show no mercy! No Respite!”

The rushing tide of Forlorn slammed right into the defensive line with a palpable, shivering reverberating crash. Cold steel punched through flesh. Clubs and vibroswords cleaved through body-armor. Blades struck and dug and stabbed. So many were impaled, hacked apart, thrown down, by the impact of the momentous collision. Decapitations and dismemberment became the norm of reality. The dry dust and soot were being watered by gallons of blood. The rasping belch of Confederate flamers as they vomited long lances of fire. Burning thrashing figures like walking candles. The screaming. Shrill howls emitted from both sides that seemed to originate from the very bowels of hell as they brutally butchered each other. The worst ones were the ones that were abruptly suddenly cut off or just faded away, drowned away by the clash of steel and flesh. Fighting ceased being visible and became blind, confused, and aimless like someone had placed a bag over one's head. At times you could barely tell friend from foe. Sometimes the press of bodies was so tight that a blade or bayonet couldn’t be used and even the dead couldn’t fall. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think.

Bloody

Blind.

Suffocating.

Insane.

Victorious.

Farlorn was right in the thick of it. He blasted into the crowd of enemies with his powerful BAW-55 pistol, striking one of them right in the head, steel helmet he wore split wide open, smoke billowing out from the dark red mess inside. He swept his vibrosword in wide yet controlled arcs, punting away blades, gun-muzzles, and severing wrists and heads. Not everyone who dropped at his feet was dead or incapacitated. Farlorn was forced to kick one of them to death as she grabbed desperately at his legs. His blade whined in his fist as he sawed through the torso of a LOBOS.

It screamed as it met another of his kind, shrieking and throwing sparks everywhere.

Farlorn’s eyes met those of the commander of the LOBOS contingent, a captain judging by the poorly taped lapels on her shoulders. The two blades pressed against each other for a moment. Both opponents pushed forward with all their might. He leaned forward, using his superior upper strength. She countered by bracing to the ground with her feet. Deadlock. Farlorn had trained with a blade. He knew a bad engagement when he saw one.

He broke away, taking several steps back. His opponent quickly followed up with half a dozen strikes of her own, seeking to drive the advantage she perceived. In any other duel, this would have been her end. Her attacks were wild and savage, with aggression that he knew could only be achieved through combat stims. But Farlorn had been expecting a more limited, self-conscious approach any self-respected duelist would have executed. He had taken a weaker stance in anticipation of a follow-up. He was thrown back and nearly fell backward in the face of this onslaught.

He countered. A series of stabbing lunges, measured and ready to withdraw. Her parries were decent but not enough. His blade passed her guard for a split second. It sliced through the side of her shoulder. He quickly drew it back. Blood spitted out. She grunted and with a howl, began another drug-fueled offensive.

Farlorn would not be caught off-guard again. He blocked her heavy over-head blows with ease. He gave ground when he had to for stability. He made sure his footing was always solid. Just one error...

He had a thwart. A move he had learned from his Uncle, Lord rot his soul in hell. At the next cut, he threw his hands up and parried her blade high with great force. Her blade spun away from her center. No doubt. No hesitation. He lunged towards her face, a smile growing on his face.

But despite the surprise, she leaped backward and with blitzing speed slapped away his blade with her free backhand. It didn’t stop the blow though. Her ear was cut clean off. The side of her face burned by the head of an activated vibroblade. Blood flowed freely down her face like a waterfall. Farlorn sneered. He had once more underestimated her. Not again. They circled around each other, ignoring the din of battle around them. No-one seemed to interfere with the two commander’s fight. This was personal. No blows traded, yet.

They once more made eye-contact. This time, he analyzed her opponent. Intelligence was the winner of wars and seeking alternative solutions other than brute force was what had gotten him so far. He saw how dilated her pupils were, one significantly more than the other. He knew the symptoms. Her veins were probably running on pure spice now. Her heart was beating at twice it’s limit. She was breathing rapid and shallow. A slight twitch in her entire body. Constant unneeded fidgeting on her feet that only served to destabilize her posture. Her vibroblade was badly beaten and even bent in several places already. It’s engine coughed sickly. It was badly rusted. Probably a Blackmarket tenth-hand purchase with an old out-dated coin and a spider-web.

“You’re good, I’ll give you that.” Farlorn snarled through gritted teeth. It was generally a bad idea to waste air in a conversation with your opponent. Valuable concentration taken away. However, he had a plan. “But scum such as you rot and die when this is over, like the worthless petulant runt you are.”

With a withering wail, she pounced forward and began a savage campaign of heavy strikes. This time, Farlorn did not give any group to the Captain. He met her blows head-on. He thumbed the power-stud on his vibroblade to maximum intensity. It now roared like a fire-spitting beast of myth. Both of them swung with all their might. The blades clashed once more. Broken chips from their clashing swords whizzed around like shrapnel. The two swords locked together. The duelists desperately pushed against each other’s clinch, trying to knock the other off balance.

Deadlock again.

Then the protective field of her blade died. The motor perished under the strain in a shower of sparks. Just like he had counted on

His master-crafted vibrosword forged by the best had no such issue. He pulled back a step and struck with a powerful sideways swipe. She tried to block. But the power of his blade ripped the sword out of her hands and buckled its blade in half. Clattering it spun away in the air, over the heads of the clashing lines.

Swearing, the Captain jumped backward and drew her service pistol faster than she had ever had in her many years of bar-fights and street-brawls. She had taken the name of Harro the Kid, sent roses to the mother of the infamous slinger Klar the Impaler, and put in the dirt countless lawmen and challengers who had threatened her well-earned position in the gang. This would be no different. Her hand was a blur as she reached down.

She had him, that cursed bastard Confederate Colonel who was sticking his nose in the wrong place. She grinned as she lavished the thought of taking that delightful officer’s cap as a trophy.

She still had that grin on her face as she suddenly found herself staring at her own steel-booted toes. It took the rest of his life for him to realize that something was wrong. Only when her headless body fell onto the ground next to her did her grin go away as she realized the truth of her situation.

She was fast, but Farlorn faster.

***

What was left of the enemy shattered from the breach, running in whatever direction away from the battle. The Rangers were ruthless in their pursuit. Heavy weapons crew had moved up during the melee and set up along the lip of the rubble. They opened down and scythed down the retreating LOBOS as if they were wheat under a mechanical harvester. They established a line of defense to shore up the beach-head they had just secured

Those that remained trapped surrendered. Using whatever they fabric they could find, the occupiers of emplacements desperately waved makeshift white flags in surrender. Troopers threw themselves down, begging for mercy, for they had just seen all their comrades ruthlessly butchered by the terrifying off-wolders.

Some of them still continued to resist in hardpoints because of this. They feared what fate would await them if they were taken prisoner. These resistance points were quickly exterminated with a mixture of flamethrowers dousing them with napalm or thermal detonators to shred apart their bodies.

Those that did throw down their weapons had their limbs bound and secured. They were searched thoroughly, looking for hidden weapons or any articles of intelligence. Some of them found themselves considerably lighter any credits they had on their person. Then they were separated from each other, mixed around, and forced to kneel in rows. It was sweltering in the blazing sun but their captors didn’t seem too interested in providing refreshment.

Officers walked down the lines and took down the information they needed from their captives. Some were reluctant to answer so Major Fennstrum, overseeing the processing and already in a black mood, decided to make an example. He snatched his pistol out of his holster, slamming the snub nose right into the forehead of one of the defiant LOBOS. Suddenly, she was very eager to answer the questions. For good measure, he struck her in the side of the face with the butt of his gun. The last part wasn’t really needed but it made him feel better.

Farlorn saw no issue with the handling of the POWs. He saw them was savage slaving outlaw scum that was right now getting off extremely easy with their current treatment. If he had a choice, he would have gunned down every single one where they stood for their crimes which he was sure would beggar his sanity if he learned of them. But there were laws of war that had to be observed. Besides, it would look particularly bad if some tribunal or good-for-nothing tabloid reporter found out. Certainly not good prospects for his future plans.

Meanwhile, Rangers were picking through the dead in the devastation they had wrecked, searching the bodies and recording the fallen with field medics at their side. There were so many to be counted but what they knew right now from the roll calls and medical reports was given to the commander.

Farlorn read over this with a heavy heart as he organized his men. Around Twenty-one Forlorn had perished with another Fifty wounded and three missing. From what they knew the enemy casualties could be estimated to be around two hundred. Many commanders would have seen this as a decent trade but these were twenty-one fewer Carians in the galaxy, their homeworld burned away all those years ago. Those that still remained were lost, the Forlorn.

If there was any sick mercy in this cursed Galaxy, at the very least he didn’t need to write any notifications of death to the families of the dead. In part, he consoled himself with the knowledge they were reunited with their loved ones on the other side.

He looked into the distance and saw Old Town before him. Plumes of smoke rose in a dozen places. Brought to him by a westerly wind he could hear the sounds of fighting, screaming, and explosions created by the wrath of the enemy. No doubt with this defeat the LOBOS would go to ground and regroup.

He sneered at the sight of this. He could feel the fear and the utter terror that was radiating from this city. For too long they had been bathed in the darkness. But now the brilliant beacon of the Confederacy had come and it would burn away the despoilers, the warlords, and the tyrants. He would purge this world of its cursed enemies. He smoke them out of their rat-holes one by one with blaster, bayonet, grenade, and flamer if he had to.

“Sir, what now?” Fennstrum asked at his side. Already, the men were ready for the second phase of operations. Forming a line just behind them they prepared for the order - no, his order - to attack.

“We liberate this world in fire and blood my dear Major.” He turned and faced his men and rose his hand. “Men of Caria, do you want to live forever!”

Bron Vaashe · Oct 11, 2020

TAG:

Cardinal Rachne |

Anakwor Farlorn |

Shuklaar Kyrdol

She picked him up... or the force did. All Bron seemed to know was that on moment he was running toward the opening in the wall the other Echani had made, and the next thing he knew he was flying through the air...

He grinned as the thought crossed his mind.

The elfen woman was using Bron like a wrecking ball.

With his swords dawn, Bron tucked his head and rolled as he found himself about to come into contact with glass. The force and trajectory at which he had been hurled upward was more than enough to crash through without much injury to himself at all. As his feet touched the ground, the force pressed into his legs once more as the warrior cut each of the enemy down without a single thought.

Darkness filled his mind. Golden eyes became red as the Echani could feel his other nature taking control. Blood and death had been the thing it needed. Screams from those who found themselves perishing by his hands.

EXPLOSION!!!

Bron could feel the foundation of the tower he was in begin to give. The floor beneath him shook as the building began to lean. There was little time to react. Slash after slash cut down the rest of the slavers as he ran to the window on the other side of the room. He had to time it just right, but crashing through the window, Bron used the force to cushion his descent. As the Echani landed on the ground the tower collapsed just behind him.

He turned looking for the elfen woman, and when he found her, he shrugged, and ran off to kill more slavers.

Srina Talon · Oct 11, 2020

C A S T L E

Tag:

Rann Thress | Bron Vaashe |

Abel Denko |

Leven Jeyd

Cardinal Rachne [+Any Others I Missed]

Golden eyes, burning bright, bore holes into the Castle walls. The Force moved within her with the simple ebb and flow of a tide that rose and fell with the moon. It was natural. As easy as breathing—An act that seemed like it had gone on for centuries without a hitch. The wintry creature would never realize how her words had affected her dark-haired companion. She would never know how her use of the multitudinous energy that bound them all brought both wonderment and despair.

Her intent had never been to extinguish his flame. Perhaps, to hone it. To bring it from a pale, flickering yellow, to a smoldering blue. The further he drew from his center the more diminished he would be. A youngling should not feel as this one did. It mattered not that he was descended of the Vicelord save for the fact that it was undeniable. It was biology. Nothing more, nothing less. All that mattered in this place, at this time, was his will to move from one opponent to the next. A will to survive, to win.

The pale Exarch did not have the emotional capacity to truly grasp the depth of his requirements.

She knew her place. Srina saw what existed before her as it had been made to be. She saw the threads and strings of energy that held everything together, that connected them all, and pulled only at those which would deliver the intended result. On this outing?

The Echani wished for their terror. She wished to pull down this bastion of oppression, brick by brick, so that the individuals responsible would know what their victims felt. She wanted their fear. She wanted them spineless, quivering, and hopeless.

Utterly, hopeless.

Without that spark to light their way among the madness? They would break.

Feeling eyes upon her form she turned her head away from the fleeing LOBOS soldiers. Hunks of rock and permacrete flew by her face, millimeters from her nose, and burnished golden orbs fixated on

Rann Thress . Her hawkish gaze saw him turn away. Like a child that retreated from the kitchen once realizing that the stove was not a toy. That it was hot. That, it would burn.

She let him go.

Instead—She drew the rubble back full circle and sent a new volley at the Castle. A burst of renewal pulled at her psyche and the delicate creature followed it without taking a step further. Anger flowed, death followed, and she knew instinctively that it was the spawn of her Master that made it so. The loss of control reminded her of a time long ago. When a young woman followed mind-breaking visions to Coruscant. When terror gripped and a telekinetic wave destroyed a storefront. When cries broke glass.

When the rain-soaked her bones. When her grasp on reality slipped and shattered into nothing as it fell.

She had been that girl once. Now? He was lost in the violence. Lost, in perceived inferiority that only existed in the mind.

There was someone (

Cardinal Rachne ) in his wake. Even that, didn’t hide him. Srina could still see his outcome. Yellow eyes. His sickness, yellow eyes.

Her senses expanded then to include others that were on the same detail. They had a mission. If the Confederacy had no purpose on this world all of her efforts would have been in vain. She was not one to waste her time, nor, did she care to draw the unnecessary out. This Castle would fall. It was only a matter of when. Not how. Simply, When.

She drew strength from the fear—Security in the chaos. Srina could feel their people fighting as their commanding officers ordered them forward. Ever onward. The Men of Caria were one such group. They pressed through the depressed city and removed the enemy with the precision of a scalpel.

Lunara Azure launched Bron Vaashe into the air and the golden-eyed nymph watched in silence. This man was very much like her. At the same time, he was not.

Regardless of their differences, he cut through their enemy as if they were made of wheat. The tower that he had been launched into came down around them and the Exarch found herself redirecting the debris in a more favorable pattern. Something that wouldn’t cleave flesh from bones.

Her voice would linger in the minds of those that neared the objective. She would have the leaders of LOBOS begging for their lives, unworthy, of the air they breathed. With their last cries, Srina would have them call their dogs to heel.

<…Bring them to me. Let this end here. Now.>

Lunara Azure · Oct 19, 2020

Tagging: Bron Vaashe |

Rann Thress | @]Leven Jeyd |

Cardinal Rachne

It was like a song, if you just closed your eyes and listened to it you could hear the rise and fall of the beat. It was like the swelling sound of a full orchestra around you, the sounds of the music enfolding and carrying you away. It was a familiar sound, a familiar feeling, like the first time that Lunara had stepped into a ballroom, into a social event.

She could still remember it, they’d had meetings before, celebrations at the academy but her first posting had been to the countryside to spend some time in pastoral care. It had been friendly and welcoming, but the townhall hadn’t prepared her for her first step into the Imperial Palace. It had been the first time she’d really worn a ballgown, or heels for that matter. The first time she’d seen real jewellery, let alone wear it that just wasn’t something her family had ever been able to even imagine growing up. Yet here she was, surrounding by more silk and jewels than she’d ever thought existed in her wildest dreams. It had been an entirely new world, one that was both wonderful and terrifying, one she didn’t feel that she belonged to though. How could she, it was like nothing she’d been prepared for, no experience to provide her with a point of reference.

The seventeen-year-old acolyte had been on the edge of leaving, of fleeing out into the gardens to spend the party hiding in the shadows until she could find someone to take her home. She’d even taken a few steps towards the gardens when the ballroom doors swung open and she first heard it, the sound of the orchestra. She’d been enraptured and swept away from the first beats, the melodic symphony washing over her, drawing her in like a moth to a flame.

It was one of those life-changing moments, a moment when time had slowed to stand still, the world around her just fading away.

That’s where they’d found her, all those hours later, blue eyes still glued to the orchestra as they were packing up as if pleading them to play just one more song, to hear one more note. She hadn’t missed a performance since then. She still loved it, had dabbled in conducting herself, but nothing ever compared to that first moment. The feeling she could still remember when she closed her eyes, that feeling that seemed to lift you up on wings of sound.

It was the feeling she had now as she felt that energy swirling around her, manipulating it like it was an orchestra. She could feel the energy swelling around her like that sound building to a crescendo. The energy bouncing through the building, swirling around the men inside all subject to her will. She could feel them, their fear and panic as they scrambled away from the white-haired Echani who pursued them like some demon unleashed from hell.

Eyes snapped open, the woman’s gaze blazing a bright blue as she reached out with one hand. It was just like conducting an orchestra, fingers controlling the flow, the pitch of the energy she’d unleashed as she wound it around the fleeing men. They’d feel the touch of cold on their shoulder, frost spreading across their clothes, their skin. The twitch of a finger shattered a window before the icy wind swirled around them, lifting them off their feet and out of the open portal.

Shards of glass, of ice, cut at their faces and hands, rivulets of blood freezing in the air as the woman’s grasp dragged them down to the ground. The icy wind had wrapped them in ice, arms and legs covered in the heavy ice that pulled them down towards the ground. Forcing them to kneel before the white-haired exarch as the blonde released her touch on the force, the building behind them groaning as the ice supporting them started to crumble. Ice falling from the walls with a tortured crack as the building started to shiver, stones and tile falling to the ground in a cascading rain as the castle that had been a sign of LOBOS’ power fell to the ground behind their leaders sending a cloud of detritus rolling out over the grounds.

Srina Talon · Oct 20, 2020

C A S T L E

Tag:

Rann Thress | Bron Vaashe |

Abel Denko |