Invasion Darkness Falls // NIO Invasion of TSE held Bastion

[Lirka Ka]

Location: Fortress Carnifex
Tags: Aerith Castiella

Why did Lirka keep trying the peaceful approach? It always just seemed to end in cold disappointment, but it mattered not. This brutish warrior had shown to be worth some modicum of effort...though, Lirka mentally traced through one of her many battles again. This fighting style had seemed rather familiar, most especially in it's disgusting lack of efficiency. Borosk.

"How amusing, it seems you clung on to life, whelp."

A low chuckle came from her helmet as Aerith charged, so many had tried the same maneuver during Lirka's many-a-duel in the Sephi's long and bloody life, they all usually ended the same way. The beastly excuse of a Moff moved like a blur, her unnatural form's senses honing in to try and move to the traitor's left and slash her across the chest: but these were not blows meant to kill, no, Lirka's twisted and warped mind had much better things in mind than death.

"But, unfortunately for you: you have other uses to me than being another corpse for the pile. You will bend, or you will break Child."

Lirka kept her momentum going, trying to move further behind the woman to put some distance between them again. Once satisfied, Lirka spun to face her foe once again, twirling her blade some as a taunt.

"Besides, dirt. I believe you owe me a dance, and you have yet to deliver."

 

[Vilaz Munin]

Location: Throne Room
Allies: Thew New Imperial Order | Sons of Mandalore | Koda Fett
Enemies: The Sith Empire | Darth Carnifex
Objective: Vengeance

And so a curtain of darkness would fall over on Bastion. He could hear in his comms the Imperator’s voice that would bring a chill when he executed the order on Operation: Kyber Dark. The poetry to all of this was ironic. The Sith confident in seeing victory with their Imperial counterparts would face the sudden, cold reality around them. But they were familiar to the idea of betrayal, were they not? They did it all the time. They betrayed each other in the pursuit of power and strength. They betrayed their allies when they no longer any use and become a compromise for their own goals. Why should they be surprised? All the Sith were the same despite whatever flag they pledged allegiance to. They would just be leeches to a movement that would serve their own benefit until no blood could be drawn from it. Like a parasite or a virus, and so they must be eliminated for no one to suffer from their wrath.

Soon the Emperor would join his brethren, even those that had betrayed him.

The Dark Lord sprinted towards Vilaz with great hurry, the Force aiding him in his sprint. He grew tired of dodging this inhuman beast, his hand coming to his utility belt and holding an instrumental sphere in his hand. It was a sonic detonator and with the Emperor not wearing a helmet of his own, he’d finally anguish in pain.

“You’re lucky to not be a Bith, Zambrano.”

He had another one on him, but he’d kept it for a later time. For now he expected the Detonator to bring a stop or detour in Carnifex’s path and disrupt the electrical discharge being conjured by the Sith as the frequency would agonize one’s eardrum. Kaine could be everything he wanted, but he still a man and men bled. Even gods would bleed.

 

[Auteme]

Aerarii Tithe ​

When they arrived at the vault and Aerarii's code cylinder didn't work, he suggested she used her 'aberrant skills'. Okay, maybe she'd knocked out three dudes with her mind right in front of him, but that was a bit much. The Force wasn't aberrant. Mysterious, yet ubiquitous. Even so she didn't want to risk drawing on the Force again -- in the back of her mind she could feel the nagging pain that washed out in waves over the planet. Instead she opened her bag and produced a small droid. The B00 companion floated up and began work bypassing the security measures of the door. After all, "A Jedi is more than their aberrant skills."

She was no expert on slicing or droids, but in no time the droid had opened the door for them. So many artifacts, treasures -- it was far from what was going on outside. But she could make a difference in the future. From her bag she produced three more companion droids to search the vault for the most valuable items, Jedi or otherwise. Holocrons, scrolls, a few weird looking rocks; anything that she could get her hands on and stuff in her bag. Thankfully most of the items were light enough and small enough that they hadn't pushed the Farseer traveling bag to capacity.

Soon enough the alarms started blaring. Auteme was a little surprised; she assumed her droid had worked some magic and made sure they weren't detected. Droids weren't magic. Obviously. And she definitely had no idea how they worked.

"I didn't think it was a good plan!" She squeaked. "I didn't know we'd get this far. Though... I probably should've. I don't know. I usually plan these kinds of things. Well, not these things, because this is really dangerous and normally I'd never do this so this is really bad and I'm starting to freak out- UGH okay let's go."

She waved over the droids; they retreated into her bag. While there were many valuable artifacts here, it was clear this wasn't the true repository of holocrons or powerful items. Perhaps this was just for the Sith acolytes rather than their lords. It didn't matter. There were always small gains to be made.

She made her way to the exit, poking her head out to check around.

Her eyes met with a Sith Knight who'd just turned the corner down the hall.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

He stared at her.

She retreated back into the room. "Hey, you're good at talking to people, right? Get out there and talk to the guy. I'm sure he's friendly."

 

[Ellie Mors]

Ready for the Devil (No Mercy)

Location: Imperial Capital Complex, Gilad Pellaeon Arboretum
Objective: Assume the Will of Typhojem
Close Allies: Quinn Varanin
Tentative Allies: Darth Assimilus
Confirmed Enemies: The New Imperial Order | Maynard Treicolt , Ryv , Loske Treicolt , Kir Dantos
Equipment: Talon of Typhojem, Red Saberstaff, Simmersilk Clothing

'The same.'​

The muscles along his jaw tensed as he felt the initial shove of kinetic energy ram into the side of his arm, shoulder, and thigh, choosing to move with the approaching force rather than brace against it in order to soften the blow and carry him further from the angered Jedi as others continued to arrive - his attention moving towards Quinn in the moment that the Jedi in his tantrum ran to his fallen comrade. Telekinetic energy released itself from his arm as he raised it, colliding against the oncoming wave to cancel the two out - his control over his strength in the volatility of emotions at its apex, unlike his unhinged opponent.

'They're all the same.'​

Like ants they poured in, hopelessly weak and floundering on their own, but they believed themselves to be unstoppable together - through unity, through collective vision, they believed they could overturn what they perceived to be a single entity, a monolith. But, unlike such a ridiculous farce that they believed, and much like the Mandalorian claim - yet far more grounded in reality - there was no way to destroy the Sith, even if every last one of them were to have been exterminated in the rather hypocritical avenue taken by those that claimed to be just, that claimed to be followers of some divine light, some pure and true vision of the force, the Sith would return as they had for millennia.

But this was not just one mindless pawn fighting for some greater cause, caught in a game of risk between Irveric Tavlar and Darth Carnifex , the Jedi and their New Imperial friends had invaded his home, they had threatened his lover, they had assaulted his family, and they had even the gall, the audacity, to believe they were even remotely capable of dividing their own forces to kill their own internal foes and the Sith Empire both. And their ruse, this act of purported betrayal? The writing had long been on the wall - the man had defected from the Sith Empire to escape the governance of force sensitives, it was beyond infantile to believe the Sith, or any that reminded him of from where he came, could survive in the New Imperial Order, much less to thrive.

His gaze moved from the Jedi as he spouted his poor man's attempt at Dun Moche, his insults finding no purchase in his mind as he took a moment to ensure Quinn Varanin was still standing. The padawan, likely apprenticed to the man he'd just run through, seemed more than likely to try to press his luck with her again - but there was a newcomer, and she seemed poised as the fallen knight's partner, as Quinn was to him. His eyes narrowed as his gaze returned to Ryv as he spouted his angst-ridden challenge. "None of you ever learn." He said as the saberstaff in his hand deactivated, floating to his side, clipping to his belt as he jabbed his sword tip-down into the ground, rooted now in place by the will of its creator. "You harp on us for our evils, for our jealousy and our greed," He continued as the ground began to crack under each footfall. "Consumed by our emotions, you claim - so you deprive yourselves, purportedly, of any - too burdened by our pride, so you claim to cast your own aside for your friends."

He smirked, the left corner of his mouth curling up as if to hide a smile.

A hand lifted, darkness manifesting around it as he fed on the pain and the grief these Jedi felt for their fallen friend - and the shroud which coated it became palpable, clearly present in the force exactly as it appeared to the naked eye. "Yet the only fool here I can see is you - bound and gagged by a dogma that denies its followers free will. The Sith of the New Imperial Order were an obvious fatality, from the words that left their dear Imperator's lips when he left our Empire, but when will your time come, warrior of Light? Do you really trust a traitor not to shoot you in the back?"

"Or maybe you'll do it first."

"Like the little murderous shit you are."

Darkness erupted from his hand, a tendril that was absent of light in its entirety, only visible because nothing else could occupy where it went - its mass devouring all that it passed through like death itself. Matter, be it the skin one one's back, be they Sith pureblood or human, Jedi or not, the dark side would not discriminate - as it never would in all things. "So undeniably pathetic that you carry a sword to keep you tethered to the light because of the fear we both know is there - that there's enough darkness inside of you to turn you into just another turncoat, a puny little man with nothing to his name but his pride and his vanity."

"I won't even call you a Jedi, because you're not."​

 

[Darth Bellum]

W A R M A S T E R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
13th Shocktrooper Legion - Warmaster's Wrath
W R A T H

​

Ravelin, Capital City
Fortress Carnifex

The sound of blade clashing against blade somehow rung above the sound of destruction and battle around Vexen, as if everything in that exact moment had fallen silent within the Anzati's vast mind. It was in this very moment where he saw, heard, and felt everything around him with perfect clarity, the thousands of voices that once constantly whispered deep in his mind falling silent as if spectating the scene through his eyes. The essence of every soul that had been assimilated into the Anzati; men, women, children all expectantly awaiting their release from his Sea of Memories.​

​

Vexen stood tall as he circled around Tavlar slowly, a lion against a wolf as he held his unignited saber in hand. Vexen's voice merely goaded him, taunting him as if expectantly waiting for his fate, " You preach of me as a parasite like the rest of these Sith, so enamored with power and glory yet you see so little of the greater picture Tavlar. I have long transcended that of what Sith believe themselves to be, Gods among men. Gods can be made to bleed, but I? I am war eternal - so long as conflict exists, I live on long after my flesh has rotted and my bones turned to dust. Like the Mandalorians we slaughtered, I am an ideal that cannot ever be erased nor purged from the Galaxy. " ​

​

The Anzati stood tall and unflinching, welcoming the Imperator close to him. Vexen twisted his body as the blade was thrust at him, sliding past as it skidded past and caused sparks to fly as it skidded against his armor. The kick sent to his knee would do little to the Anzati as the exosuit served as a steadfast brace that kept him tall while he raised his free hand up to grab the blade, his armored gauntlet constructed in a much sturdier fashion with the same materials as he activated the crushgaunt mixed in with the Force as he found a vulnerability that he poured into to effectively snap a portion of the blade off, gripping it in his hand like a dagger. ​

​

A swift turn of his body as Tavlar's momentum carried him forward and Vexen would ram the shattered blade fragment into Tavlar's back - not enough to mortally wound him, but deep enough to certainly leave a lasting scar that would remind Tavlar of him for the rest of his waking life. Vexen's years of experience over Tavlar was something not to be taken lightly - Every move Tavlar made was like an open book to the Anzati who had experienced hundreds of years of battle, having fought in countless duels to the death, each one only further empowering him. ​

​

Once more, that cold vocoded voice spoke out, " You and I are the same... As much as you may despise or refuse to acknowledge it. We both carry the same strength of character and resolve to see our actions through to the bitter end. I never once considered you like any of the mere pawns and livestock that awaited their deaths, rather an extension of myself. You were one of the few that I chose to inherit my legacy and will. Through you and your hatred for the Sith my actions will resonate, my desire for conflict fulfilled and everlasting. By your hand, my death is made immortal, and I shall live on for time eternal. Till all return to dust when war consumes all. " ​

​

Vexen extended his arms out as he felt a sharp pain puncture him from behind, the blade of Anden Fancelo piercing him from his rear, shortly followed by Tavlar's own broken blade piercing him from the front as he felt it slide through his scarred body. The Anzati let out a cough as blood splattered the insides of his helmet, a crimson smile forming on his typically stoic features that remained hidden behind his expressionless mask as he lurched forward, hands gripping Tavlar's wrist as he drove the blade down to the hilt into him, holding it in place. The armored titan fell to his knees as he felt his life rapidly depart from his body, the essence of thousands escaping him, many to be absorbed and consumed by the two lightsabers that the Anzati kept with him. Vexen's final words echoed through his vocoder, " You may accept this fate or defy it, but you cannot deny it. "A pulse of both light and shadow rippled through the Force, the death of one putting to rest that of thousands felt by those who could sense the Force. ​

​

Vexen had accepted his fate - But rather than bringing about a means to an end, it would merely be the spark that would continue to ignite the flames of war; fanning sparks of conflict into a raging inferno. Only time would tell what the now-deceased Lord of Assimilation had in store for the Galaxy. Now he was reborn anew... As Darth Bellum, Lord of Eternal Conflict.​

​

In Vitae Mors​

// ALLIES | The Force
// ENEMY | Peace

 

[Rurik Fel]

P A R A B O L
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
KNIGHT OF THE EMPIRE
Armor | Lightsaber | Pistol | The Vane
S W O R D _ O F _ D E S T I N Y

​

The pistol fired with no failure of its mechanism, the perfectly crafted weapon making purchase into the chest of the Sith Lord to a crimson cacophony of blood and gore swirling in the space between them. It was an underhanded tactic, not one to be expected in normal exchange between dark and light.

But all light cast a shadow, and that was the realm within which the son of Fel called his own. Virtue in the context of any Force sworn creed of light and dark was irrelevant to him. He'd seen the horrors made at the hands of the Sith and the hypocritical teachings of the Jedi both first hand.

If there was to be peace, they could not linger, less so co-exist.

Today, one of those creeds would be put down. However just as Kyber Dark acted as the fueling surge of vindication in the beating hearts of the Imperial Knights, so too did it act as a catalyst to draw on the darkness more for the very Sith it was meant to target.

Good.

This meant they'd be more eager to throw themselves at the argent blades of the Order and facilitate their own end.

Everything in Rurik's existence had culminated in this. Vengeace, revenge. It had never tasted sweeter, as coldly as it was served. Deceit it might've been but it was not deceit unjustifiable. They were a despicable creed. Each and every single one of them need be put down.

One part of him wish he was out in the fray with the troopers under his command, leading them into the stand of vengeance. The Fall of Darkness.

Here, however, he was far more vital. To stem the tide of this Demon. This ever powerful and tenacious spirit. Forever tempered, forever tested in the fires of battle.

He knew he couldn't kill him, he was never that arrogant, never that brazen else he would've uttered the name 'Rurik Fel' much, much earlier. But in his heart, he was afraid of what that might reap onto him.

That was until the Twilight and his form was scorched to the Soul. The fear, inoculated.

The argent plate that embraced his form was plastered in the glossy crimson ichor of Braxus. A vindicating sight but one short lived.

It was then that he'd truly awoken The Demon.

"Even on bent knee, beneath the cold faces of great Gods, do men find warmth. But -I- have known only sorrow and agony. Gods exist only to pay the unfathomable tolls of mortal souls. Acheron is the rack, upon which the God’s are stretched and broken. Ceaseless grief. . . boundless atrocity . . layer upon layer of tortured history. Always fading, then forever gone."

A foreboding sentiment, but one that washed past the form of the Man of Iron. He would not be so easily broken, so easily wavered in the sight of this monstrosity. This was a battle fought within the confines of these mortal shells, these false guises of flesh and bone. The venue to which wills would be contested.

Though Rurik...was lamely mortal, a man within the suit of iron marred and crucified by dark power. Where as Prazutis tangled with the powers of gods.

Good.

The unofficial mantra to the New Imperial Order. When the odds seemed unbeatable...when the enemy seemed infallible, unbeatable. All that could be uttered was that very word. If it mean't anything, it meant a beating heart and pulsing veins. The grasping of the will to live, the compulsion to triumph the unbeatable.

As Rurik predicted, the destruction of Prazutis's form was an illusion, just as he'd known the very pain that calcified his form to be. He arose revenant and fired a pulse from his vambrace, the very same worn enmasse by the New Imperial Order and its allies. An invaluable tool, seemingly ripped from the clutches of a man slain. Borosk, he could only assume.

[shop credit to cas/lyra]
​

The pulse rung against his head ina reverberation of pain that rattled and buckled in the concentration he honed in on the battlemind with, sending him flying back in a moment of wavering before he was back to his feet again, though the pistol was strewn across the floor he'd still managed a grip around his saber, his sword of destiny. A weapon deemed unforgivable to let leave his clutches.

That kick crushed his lungs in a single blow, drawing a strained breath to which the masque clasped to his features managed to distort and dampen in the open air before letting off the impression of a strain in his life force.

When that blade bared down over him, the argent saber was there to meet it before clashing with his armor, his single cybernetic hand clutched around the blade barely able to stem the tide of darkness that the Zambrano willed with each brutalist display of might unto the wayward son of Fel.

That armor was growing thin, the very fortitude to which he'd drawn on to calcify his pain and anguish in the Force. He now had to forsake that numbing inoculation in favor of imposing his will unto The Demon. Reeling his hand back he ripped the fibrous foundations of his power to his will in a deep coalescing around his splayed palm before he was able to gather that force, his eyes welling up with the searing pain as his concentration broke from his constant compulsion to inoculate it.

Before bellowing out a cry of defiance he made good on his build up of the telekinectic force and willed it into a blast centered at the chest of The Demon once more to compound upon damage already done and cast his form away.

THE DEMON
Darth Prazutis ​

 

[Lucien Dooku]

UNTIL THE WORLD GOES COLD
KAL'ORITSOR | JEDI ARMOR

Spoiler: Strike Group Dooku

STRIKE GROUP DOOKU
Nebula II-class Star Destroyer - NIV Myrmidon
Majestic II-class Heavy Cruiser - Two Vessels
Defender II-class Assault Carrier - Two Vessel
Inceptus-class Assault Ship - Two Vessels
Prosecutor-class Planetary Assault Ship - One Vessel
REC-LC01 "Negotiator"-class Light Cruiser - Twelve Vessels
V-wing Heavy Interceptor - Twenty Squadrons of Twelve
TIE/HB Bruiser - Eight Squadrons of Twelve
REC-LU01 HAAT - Eight Squadron of Twelve
Eta-2 'Midnight' Jedi Starfighter
-
173RD. STORMTROOPER LEGION - MYRMIDONS
-
VARIOUS ATTACHED GROUND/NAVAL ELEMENTS
-
PRINCE LORCAN DOOKU
Defiance-class Star Destroyer - One Vessel
Pellaeon IV-class Star Destroyer - Two Vessels
Valiant-class Star Destroyer - Six Vessels
Tirailleur-class Frigate - Eighteen Vessels
VARIOUS ATTACHED STARFIGHTER ELEMENTS

Spoiler: tags

Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt Avernus Jain

​

---

---

-​

Ravelin may have once hosted millions in the part of the city where Lucien now skulked alone. Block after block of the city had been abandoned, left to be claimed by the fighting going on between its Sith-Imperial defenders and the invading Legions of the Order. The assault upon Ravelin would leave the city filled with echoes of brutality that would not be forgotten for the years to come. It was not to the same extent as the destruction the Sith left upon Mygeeto and Muunilinst, but nonetheless the vibe itself remained the same. The streets were littered with bodies and dedicated to the violence that would only end with the total defeat of the other side. Sith and Legionnaire alike battled against the Stormtroopers of the Order, and wrapped in between this struggle was the internal purge of the Sith who no longer were tolerated within their ranks.

So much violence, so many lost souls echoing their pain into the force at the same time. Pain echoed into his mind much more than he'd ever felt before, his mind seemingly begging him to quit his relentless march towards the danger that lurked elsewhere in the city. "Avernus." He'd known the man by another face at one point in time, and that chance encounter would set the stage for where he stood in the Order later. He'd met the man while tasked with killing Sith, and now he stood ready to find the Sith Lord and end him before the man could escape from the planet.

It was the ideal scenario, finding him before Avernus skulked his way towards the one woman who was truly gunning for the Sith Lord's head. She was someone who connected with Luc, when all else seemed foreign and lost. Her story mirrored parts of his own, and over time he'd realized that no longer was his truly alone. As headstrong as she was, Luc knew that she needed him this time. The corruption of the Sith, the darkness which Avernus instilled within her growing bond with the force could not be ignored by those around her for much longer. He knew little of the true extent of her attunement to the dark side of the force, outside of the lingering aura he felt when in her presence.

The purge of the Sith came with no exceptions to the rule, but regardless, Lyra was not a Sith. He felt it to be true in his bones. He'd prove it-- no, even if he couldn't, there was nothing the Imperator could do to stop him from protecting her. Friends didn't abandon each other in their time of need, and Luc could feel her pain echoing into his mind as the force called out to him with each passing step. She was closer than ever as he cut through abandoned buildings and raced through the streets almost blindly, his momentum being guided by the force alone.

Until he found her, and him. The force had guided him well. He emerged to the Sith Lord's rear, the black hilt of his weapon being immediately guided into his hand as he activated the weapon on instinct. The aqua-colored blade ignited from the hilt, resolve cemented in his visage in the same vein of a hunter finally cornering his prey. Reason would suggest the Jedi was shooting above his weight class, but Luc had abandoned hindsight in favor of moving off instinct and nothing more.

"Avernus!" ​

 

[Avernus]

// A V E R N U S //
// BETRAYED //
// Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt | Lucien Dooku | Jain //
// THE GATES, FORTRESS CARNIFEX //
// L E A R N _ T O _ S W I M //
// B O W _ D O W N //
OOC Note:
PvP hits called with permission from the opposing writer.

“Et tu, Lyra?”
​

As the commotion and fighting raged before him, his vision still struggled to square up through the sudden exhaustion. He wasn't sure why he hadn't yet bee fired upon, and he was trying to ground himself before it was too late. The bile in his stomach subsided from its sudden uproar, leaving him with one arm over the stomach. Forcing himself to stand up straight amongst the wisps of sable haze that obscured his location, he could barely make out Lyra from between the black. His eyes had been drawn to her tangible frustration and anger that could be felt even from this distance. He squinted his eyes as one hand began to wave the atmospheric anomaly way from his face for a clearer look at his apprentice.

Stepping forward, his shades of purple and gold absconded the cover of stygian cover to be seen clearly among the grays and beiges of his locality. Among the redirected tanks and swarm of soldiers, Avernus was dwarfed into near-insignificance. Lyra's initial shouting was intelligible below the ringing that still persisted in his ears. The only thing he could hear clearly was his own breathing, pant after laborious, raspy pant. Eventually, another disturbance tried started to set in around the same time he realized no one was turning on her. Her lips moved as she scowled his direction, but the sound didn't quite reach him.

Until it did-

"BITE THE CURB!"​

​

Even Lyra? Perhaps this was the special privilege of knowing the Imperator's bed. He should have expected as much. Any deeper analytical delving was cut short by the sudden warning of danger that the force screamed from deep within his being. He could feel every mechanism in the tanks beginning to prime to face him. He inhaled sharply and quickly as he prepared himself for another jump, all at once beginning to realize how bleak the situation truly was. Just before the deafening burst of cannon fire, another voice called out-

"Avernus!" ​

Avernus pulled himself through the parallel space once again just as the tanks sent a loud volley of explosive death to where he once stood. Lyra and Lucien? How vexing. There wasn't much time to think as he screamed through the black void at an incomprehensible speed. The one thing he decided for certain; he had to get out of here, and he had to take Lyra with him. Lucien was bound to follow, but Avernus was didn't have time to worry about that.

Ejected once again from the unknown, he flew outward at head-level just above the crowd of New-Imperial troopers. The adrenaline had kicked in and with a sudden profane invigoration granted by the dark side, plasma screech from his closed hand as he began to swing wildly. It took only a split reactionary moment for those not sundered to turn their fire accordingly. Once again, a black haze sent him off once again into the void, avoiding harm.

Being ripped from his own reality was painful. Commanding the force to do such things was something many would consider unnatural, or possibly even contrived, but it served its purpose well enough. Once again he was disgorged from the unknown, repeating his quick dance of sudden death. Soldiers shouted and clamored as they began to catch onto the scheme, but the rest remained in a panic and wildly deferred their fire to his new location once again.

In a flash, and with the expected inky gale, he was gone once again. Lyra was his target, and as such when he has regurgitated from the force once again, he torpedoes from the cloud with arms outstretched. Harshly, his outstretch fingers slapped against her throat, seizing like a hunting trap around the vulnerable flesh. Just before the sound of her armor clattering to the ground beneath his assault could sound, a violent woosh and expansion of black air ripped the two away.

Flying through the everblack realm, it was hard to retain his grip. Their beings had become nearly intangible within nothing. As they rushed to their location, whatever it may be, Avernus clawed and grasped with what he could still retain of his extremities. It was hard to tell where Lyra ended and he began. It was only through sheer will kindled by his anger did the dark side allow him to form himself upon their ejection.

Violently, they would burst feet-first out of that horrible place. It wasn't perfect, his hands had moved from her throat; one gripped her face while the other seized the wrist. He conquered the opportunity so quickly it was almost as if he'd intended it this way. Pushing down on her face, and pulling away with her wrist, he kept her in an awkward restraint. As her knees bent and her spine began to bend backward beneath his strength, his thumb shoved itself into her eye.

Lyra roared, unable to squirm away with her primary arm slowly being near-torn from the socket. Farther and farther he pushed as his squeezed only intensified. Her black strands fell backward to tickle the metallic surface they both stood upon. Only inches between the back of her head and the 'ground'. Blood began to spurt from the socket, and Avernus could feel the globe within give like a crushed grape.

"Sybila, you monumental imbecile!" he screamed, his words echoing from the wall which they stood and down to the cityscapes below. "Do you really think they're on your side!? They will cut you just as quickly as they have tried to cut me," his words were pushed from a tight, rage-paralyzed jaw. His brow softened and his bottom lip protruded as he mocked a pleading looking of empathy for no other purpose than taunting condescent. "Is this really what you think is best for Kriegan and Covallis? For their mother to die an enemy of the state so they can be left to their absent Father, too obsessed with his superfluous acts of vengeance?"

Face returned to malice as he pushed harder and harder, his once azure eyes having finally regressed to the corrupted firey-gold that mirrored Lyra's own. For a split second, they strayed from her gaze to take a quick glance at their surroundings. They had gone far, so far in fact that Avernus could see almost all of Ravelin from where he stood. The walls of Fortress Carnifex had become their stage. And perhaps, even that small moment was enough for his apprentice to seize, if his teachings had been effective...

 

[DK-03]

You Can't Run From Me Ra's

Location: Near Fortress Carnifex

The Sith was getting away.

The rude Sith that could've been DK-03's friend. The Sith that had thrown a flag through his chest when all DK did was wave at him. The rude Sith that was just kinda of a jerk and punching DK-03 and being mean and bullying. The Sith that had used DK-03 as a punching bag for the majority of this war.

Now he chose to run?

Why, because DK-03 and his kin were murdering their kind in the open field? This... this was war. That was happening to like, thousands of people right now.

These people, who chose to submit historical documents stating how when they lost a battle they'd drop nukes while they ran?

These people who lost once and gave up the fight?

This "Sith Empire" that projected power but demonstrated weakness at every opportunity.

This "Sith Empire" that couldn't even properly defend Hoth.

This "Sith Empire" that cowardly took DK-03's Taun-Taun from him.

They would not get away from him.

Ra's would not get away from him.

"HELP ME" DK-03 yelled, throwing all the miniguns on the ground and began fashioning a carapace as many Stormtroopers ran over to help him out, mostly out of fear of the psychopath though partly because the Darktrooper had stolen their weapons and they had nothing else to do. "No, no, there, fashion it down to that joint. Grab the wench." They quickly continued to fashion together the metal and junk.

---

Location: Between the Fortress and Ra's


DK-03 descended from the heavens in his new armor.

​

 

[Sion Alar]

location :// FORTRESS CARNIFEX
local time :// IRRELEVANT
objective :// VENGANCE
dyad :// Asharo Madar
allies :// N/A
foes(s) :// Halketh
[ for the love of god, make him stop! ]
​

When did it happen? Sion, suddenly looking back could hardly remember the last few moments. He absconded the previous engagement on impulse when he heard that order ring in his ear. 'Kyber Dark'. The purge of all Sith, Sion found it a morbidly exciting concept, but only in the moment where the order was given had he found the opportunity. Lord Halketh wasn't a Sith, and neither was Sion, they were similar in their rejection of such a code. Although, Halketh's was fueled by volition while Sion's was merely incapability.

Still, should Sion snuff Halketh's flame from the battlefield, would anyone bat an eye for a man so adjacent to the dark code they so hated? Sion doubted it and was well aware that it could be flipped onto him as well. Halketh could, and probably would kill him without even a slap on the wrist... If it weren't for how badly he likely needed Asharo to survive. But even if he were to be maimed in the next few moments, it was better that keeping his knee bent.

Weaving through the bodies, combatants, and carnage, he focused on Halketh's presence. The stench of undeath assaulted extrasensory awareness like a repugnant rot. The closer he got, the worse it became. Sion had come to associate such an unpleasant sensation with Halketh as a whole, as if his disdain for the subjugator wasn't apparent enough. No regard for hostile combatants or other important details was given as he danced evasively towards the feeling.

When the movements of those around him became less and less unnatural, the feeling reached its peak. Before him, back turned and locked in an engagement, Sion saw him. Inky plasma shot from his grip, pointing down towards the floor as Sion took a moment to seethe. As soon as he forced the hesitation away, he began to march forward with feigned confidence. The plasma drug against the ground, hissing, and squelching along with his approach.

A sudden leap forward sent him careening towards Lord Halketh, blade raised with the preceding wind up of a cleave.

 

[Halketh]

user :// THE_VULTURE
location :// FORT CARNIFEX, BASTION
objective :// CLEAN_HOUSE
post :// x
allies :// NIO | DOOM DIVISON
questionable :// Sion Alar
enemies_closeby :// UNKNOWN
doom_division_status :// 173/230 [LIVING] [74/93] UNDEAD
[x]

MALKUTH​

Another crackling blast of arcing lightning ripped through the corridor, clearing the path for his living forces to trample the bodies of the damned and press the assault. The Vulture's focus was forward, with only condemnation on his mind, despite the inkling that not everything was as it seemed. This moment of controlled chaos was as temporary as everything else. And yet, he found himself reveling in it for as long as he could. No response came from Asharo, though when he reached through The Force, combing for the beaming presence of The Guardian, he felt him well enough.​

The same could be said for the streak of blurring black and red rocketing towards him. He feigned ignorance for a time, only to allow The Ebon Savant's approach. The voice in the back of Halketh's mind screeched in alarm to the feeling of fury lunging his way. Wait for it. Not yet. Hold.​

He forced himself to hold steady, grasping at the pain from his prior wound as it flared up with Sion's presence.​

And then, as the darkened blade arced towards him, he whipped around, cracked helmet as impassive as ever as it fixated on the Savant, sliding himself out of the way of the cleave. "And just what do you think you're doing, Sion?" His scoffing voice slipped between his lips, spewing freely the lack of enthusiasm he had for this song and dance. It was tiresome. Played out. "You've come to use the order as a cover to kill me, have you? Without thinking such a thing through, of course. All the while your Other duels on his own with our enemy. You're here, weakening him, at risk of both your lives, for me?" He almost couldn't believe the audacity.​

Blood-stained fingers pressed heavily against his lower left stomach, curling claws into the broken section of his armor. "Even if you succeed, you'll be run down and it will cost your life, and Asharo's. Is that what you want? Death, dear Sion, is not an escape. There is no freedom beyond what you have already been given." With the rise of his pain, his control on the chaos that clung to his frame was starting to lessen, creating an unseen torrent of absolute dread around him. The remaining forces of Doom Division forward with him turned their heads slowly, looking at their comrade in question. They asked nothing of him, however, likely thinking much the same as The Vulture did; this day was inevitable. This moment was inevitable. It was only a matter of time until Sion had come to enact vengeance on the only one he thought was responsible for turning him into what he was. But the truth, of course, was far grimmer.​

"Focus on the Imperator's order and claiming this place, I will handle your comrade." Lord Halketh sighed to his soldiers, sending them back on the hunt.

The Warlord's free hand extended, flicking at the wrist and splaying out plated fingers in an attempt to seize control around The Ruiner and forcefully slam him into the durasteel wall to pin him there.​

"You chose to become what you are, Sion. You've no one to blame but yourself and yet you've allowed yourself to spiral into blindness and self-pity, truly, a crime worthy of hatred. So much passion and ambition. So much potential. And yet..." Halketh sighed, releasing his hold on his wound to reach up, unclasping the buckles of his helmet and finally stripping it free, dropping it to clatter against the floor uselessly. Rivulets of dried blood wove trails down each of his temples, soaking into the crimson blindfold wound over his eyes- staining the golden embroidery. Sweat glistened across his tattooed cheeks and stuck wild, messy ebon strands to his forehead. "You make the decision every day to waste it on this pointless hatred. Aim your hatred towards those who have actually wronged you, dear one. Look around you. The Sith are the ones who muzzled and shackled you to Asharo. You've been presented a chance to enact your vengeance, nay, your justice, and you come to kill me instead?" His lips curled in some bitter snarl, "I recall teaching you to think better than this."​

 

[Aerarii Tithe]

Market: Great Sith-Imperial Library, Ravelin City, Bastion
Investment: Objective I - Gotterdammerung
Portfolio: Skystas Rieve iv Tave Daboti Dvasi | Vokti Mekn iv Siarbras Naudot | Vaizdas iv Auksas | Sith-Imperial Military Uniform
Assets: TSE
Liabilities: Auteme | NIO
Stocks: VIII

---

Following Durbillion, the New Imperial Order had made an unrelenting push toward Bastion. Unable to stem the tide of the onslaught, Tithe instead focused on doing what he could to benefit himself.

He supported the evacuation efforts on Prefsbelt IV, organising for valuable war materiel to be transported to helped fortify Bastion. The longer the floundering Sith Empire could hold out, the greater the likelihood of his plans succeeding. The capture of Grand Moff Madelyn Lowe , and Tithe’s subsequent appointment as acting Grand Moff, had helped further his schemes, though he admitted to missing his superior. They worked well together.

Things started to come together during the capture of Orinackra, the capital of what remained of his fiefdom of Sector Group II. Holed up in his residence, he peacefully awaited capture by the New Imperials, knowing he was more valuable to them alive rather than dead. They brought him to Bescane as a prisoner, where he made a deal with the Tyrant of Trade Gat Tambor , a deal that would free him from the shackles of the Sith and help him rebuild his fortunes.

Today, on Bastion, he intended to make good on that deal.

---

Tithe hurried through the Force artefacts vault, grabbed the items his data goggles identified as being the most valuable. While he’d already stolen millions of credits from the Sith-Imperial Banking Clan, it always paid to diversify one's holdings. He continued to stash holocrons, old lightsabers and alchemised jewellery into a carry-all. He shoved one last scroll into the bag before going Auteme near the exit.

The young Jedi stepped out the exit then quickly retreated into the vault, asking Tithe is he would be able to talk his way out. The bureaucrat listened carefully and heard the telltale sound of standard-issue armoured Sith Knight boots approaching along the stone corridor. It was all on him to get them past the warrior and to safety.

“My dear, the time for talking has long evanesced.”

Tithe barrelled around the corner and thumbed his electrohammer to full power. Be it overconfidence, foolhardiness, or Tithe’s Force cloaking ring, the Sith Knight was caught off guard. The bureaucrat swung the bludgeoning weapon with all his might and felt the integrated AvXDR AI Weapon Assist™ use tiny repulsorlifts to correct his swing for maximum damage.

“Ahhhh!”

Tithe, naturally, still missed, despite the element of surprise and his (admirably) pitiful battle cry. Neither the AI assistant in his electrohammer or personal training at the hands of the Princess of Dromund Kaas could fully overcome his natural ineptitude for physical combat.

The Sith Knight stepped to the side as the Moff stumbled past and tried to regain his footing. A snicker escaped the Sith’s lips as he recognised the uniform of his attacker as belonging to a member of the bureaucracy. It was to be an easy kill.

The Sith activated his crimson lightsaber and lunged toward the bureaucrat. Tithe executed what a trained combatant would call a ‘parry’, but what he simply saw as ‘trying to avoid being impaled’. The Sith’s lightsaber clashed against the electrified blade of the aptly named ‘Taxman’s Embrace’. Forged by Grand Moff Lirka Ka , it was primarily a weapon of ceremony and terror rather than combat. Tithe only had a few moments left in the power banks before the blade powered down and the electrohammer became little more than a garishly decorated club.

The Sith Knight lunged at Tithe again, intent on quickly finishing the fight.

 

[Agrippa]

G L A D I U S _ A C T U A L
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
501st STORMTROOPER LEGION
P A L Ä S T I N A L I E D
ALLIES: NIO // Imperator: Irveric Tavlar // Dorn-2: Ravraa Vyshraal // 19th Company: FN-999 // Doom Division: Halketh || Noel Strasza
ENEMIES: TSE // Sith

​

"I'LL SEE YOU ALL IN HELL!"

"WITH ME, CAPTAIN- THAT BANNER AIN'T GONNA PLANT ITSELF!"

And to Hell we all went. Our roar echoing beyond life and beyond death. Somewhere above the Gods took a step back.

We did not.

Only forward.

Tyrannous sabers met defiant blades.

Bastion.

Now my life has gained its meaning

since these sinful eyes behold

the sacred planet with towers reaching

whose renown is often told.

Strife is heard on every hand:

ours the only just demand,

He will have us rule the land.

Faceless finished off the enemy Strasza served on a plate. Then, he moved to distract another and my pike found purpose skewering through the chest of the Sith Lord. He called the Force, I tightened my grip and pushed further and further. He tried again and again. Immortal, blessed by the cursed Force until Strasza decapitated the Sith, his head tumbled and rolled off the platform into the ecumenopolis.

As I pulled back the pike, I slipped clumsily on the rain ridden floor and another Sith took her opportunity.

Life flashed before me.

I saw it all.

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Star destroyers on fire off the shoulder of the Hydian. I watched superlasers glitter in the dark near the Maw Cluster. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.

The cigarette I promised to share with Nima on top of the Fortress with the New Imperial flag waving to be seen across the planet remained unlit.

Time to die.

​

As Agrippa fell, the New Imperial Banner rolled off his hands right next to Ravraa Vyshraal.

He knew what to do.

As he would go forward to do what must be done, a Sith feigning death would ambush him. Was Stasza close enough to save the cause?

 

[Paz Koon]

// IMPERIAL CAPTIAL COMPLEX//
// Hunter Blackburn | Atlas Kane //
// SERAPHIM //
// EXECUTE OPERATION KYBER DARK //
// Bleeding In The Blur //

​

Operation Kyber Dark, every decision he'd made had lead him here. Leaving the Jedi to take the fight to the Sith, submitting himself to the teachings of Rurik Fel and the Imperial Codex, and the target he selected. Shadowing the pair this far had been a laborious feat, one that he wasn't going to waste time being proud of now. Especially not while the likelihood of his death was still so high. If he made it back, there would be plenty of time to be proud, but he'd have to earn it with survival.

Even while the Sith's cruel machinations played right before his eyes, Lambert did not react. His presence was still a need-to-know fact. When the time came, Atlas Kane would know of his attendance. But for now, and the moments that would come after, he was a Ghost. Perhaps a holdover from his Jedi years, but he felt no anticipation for what was coming. It was an odd kind of Zen, one born of patience, disciple, and order. Two of the three the Imperial Codex had been certain to nurture.

<"Commence Operation Kyber Dark."> ​

There it was, the cue to abscond from this untold attendance and strike. Lambert almost felt bad, it was a practical strategy, but so dishonest. Though in fairness this was a Sith and Lambert imagined he wasn't too fond of equity anyway. Besides, if the New-Imperials didn't strike first, the 'allied' Sith definitely would eventually. Everyone knew this, even the Sith, so would it really be a surprise? Maybe Lambert was too thoughtful, analyzing every circumstance even when the time to strike was at the tip of the clock's hand.

Just like with pride, there would be time for contemplation later. White blade of hot carnage flew from the silvery metallic hilt that was clenched within his fist. With a call to the force, Lambert vaulted forward, flying through the space between himself and Atlas just as Crius brought up his blaster. A pincer attack. Surely it would work, for the Sith's blade could only make one choice, but he required two answers.

 

[Noel Strasza]

R E D S H I F T

Major "Bridgebreaker" Strasza & The 16th Doom Division Corps
OBJECTIVE :// PLANT_THE_FLAG
LOCATION :// FORT CARNIFEX, BASTION
doom_division_status :// HEAVY_LOSSES
allies :// Agrippa Ravraa Vyshraal

A heavy blow to her helmet sent her scrambling forward across the wet roof, skittering dangerously close to the side of the wall. "Shit... shit... shit!" A quick snap turn lunged bloody blades into the surface, scraping and spitting sparks into her visor. She growled, grunting at the strain and surge of white-hot fear boiling up through her veins. The toes of her boots tore at the curving edge, clawing for purchase where there was none. This was it.​

And then the cease. A stop. A pause. Trembling arms tensed into fibrous steel, locking her place where she had narrowly avoided lethal fall. The quivering major caught her breath, reeling her courage back to bare and cast her gaze up. A climb. It was always a climb. Teeth clenched. One step at a time, that's all she needed. One step at a time. Her slide had felt like an eternity flashing before her eyes in a matter of a heart's beat, yet she had only tumbled for a second. Ten feet from the steepest drop of the roof, which would've fed her the countless feet into the smoldering wastes below. Lucky, perhaps, she was that her blades had managed to bite through and save her.​

"MAJOR!?"​

Strasza barely heard the cry for her over the smothering drone of her racing heart. She swallowed harshly, wrestling with the stone dropped in her throat. There was no breaking through that, not until she was out of the fire and back into the frying pan, at least. Tentatively, she wrenched her left blade out of its anchor. Her armor's powersuit components whirred to life, bolstering her strength to allow her what it was she set to do. A cry of wrath erupted from her, smothered by the battered helmet she donned, and her blade rocketed towards the wall- punching through to gain another anchor. Then came her toe. Then repeat. Over and over, Strasza set to repeat this process, slowly crawling her way back from oblivion. Shaking with terror, she hoisted herself back up onto the roof, shoulders rocking with each heavy breath.​

There was no grace to this type of war. No poetry nor prose. No delicate dances nor coaxing hands to guide. It was a brawl, plain, and simple. An ever-churning, starving maw of endless will clashing head for eternity. It was chaotic, messy, with no winners left standing at the end of the day. Yet despite this, the major paused.​

A moment was offered for her to regain her bearings amidst the new surge of adrenaline racing through her veins. She saw Captain Agrippa on the ground with a wounded Sith Lord going for the kill. The others of Gladius wrestling and squaring off with the Sith. Doom Division, having spent their ammunition was down to fighting the Sith as it was they did best- tooth and claw for survival. Sidearms were a luxury spent far earlier in the push for the fort. Her fear, untempered by the sight, burned brighter. It seethed, threatening to rip her apart from the inside out. Hotter and hotter it burned until the sweat saturating her frame felt cold.​

Her dull, damaged blades were spun about, flipping around to aim both jagged edges forward.​

That was the only direction she was going.​

An unnatural howl tore its way from her gut, spurred on by the transformation of her cracking trepidation.​

Fear had become lethal.​

Reforged by the realization that this was it, she had succumbed to the animalistic urge beaten into her from birth- kill. Fight. Or die screaming and bloody in the process.​

She surged forward with such wrath it was a wonder that fire didn't lick her heels. And yet, try as she might to intervene and rescue the captain; she was too late. The distinctive fizzle and pop of plasma scorching flesh hissed through the air. Too little. Too late. Strasza snarled beneath her helmet, bruised face contorting and twisting with something inhuman. A possession, perhaps, leaving the woman a hollow shell of what she had been only hours ago.​

It wasn't fair. It never had been. Another feral wail erupted from her lips and she threw herself onto the Sith- lunging vibroknives first to seek any purchase she could find. The ember-licked tail of her bloodied cloak cracked as defiant thunder against the motion. The force of her weight crashing into him sent the man sprawling backward, losing his grip on his saber. He defensively threw a punch, rattling her skull with the reverb of the swing, but she would not be dissuaded. The major straddled him, violently plunging blades into his stomach with enough force the very knuckles of her gloves joined the wound. A muffled wail broke the bubble of silence which had enclosed her from the world, echoing through the irritable whine as music. ​

It wouldn't bring him back. It wouldn't bring any of them back. But it was catharsis, all the same. "A good life for yours. Ain't that some shitty math?" Strasza hissed through her teeth, twisting and swiftly ripping the knives apart from one another, eviscerating the man on the spot in a bloody shower. When she was sure he was to die, she twisted her head back, looking to the unmoving captain. He had died instantly- sparing him the fate of suffering on that rain-pelted roof.​

The charging whine of another battery blared lights across her glitching HUD, screeching alarm.​

Strasza slid off the twitching corpse of the Sith, rolling up onto her feet to avoid the hail of blaster fire that came her way and paused in one last moment to lament over the captain's body. "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la." The phrase slipped between her lips in a moment of odd calm, lending her the strength to grasp the hilt of the lightsaber plunged through her comrade. She tore it free, tossing it off the edge of the roof. "Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur..." Her eyes shot forward, finding Ravraa Vyshraal and the discarded banner closeby. ​

"Let's finish it!" She cried, rushing in to guard the new flag carrier.​

"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Agrippa ." ✞ ​

 

[Madelyn Lowe]

Madelyn Lowe, NIO custody,
Grand Vizier’s Flagship NIV The Sentinel,
Command-distance from Bastion
With Tyrell Paxxus

​

The viewport opened with a shudder, and Madelyn did her best to sit quite still. She accepted the drink without so much as a smile and quickly turned her eyes back to the window. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it, an arc of light streaming in through the viewport, illuminating the pair of them, and revealing the distant form of Bastion and its sun, as well as the battle between them.

She was silent for a few moments, merely gazing at the laser fire, prismatic bolts sailing through the void, at the distant explosions. She blinked, and glanced back to Tyrell.

"I can't help but be a little disappointed." She said slowly, her gaze once again drawn back to the spectacle outside. "I thought, even with everything that has happened over the last months, I thought it'd never come to this."

And she hadn't. As much as Madelyn had prepared against the worst, and planned in accordance of an eventually NIO victory, as much as she had shored the defences against the NIO and warned against underestimating their foe, she'd never actually thought they'd get here. Perhaps the hubris of the Sith was rubbing off on her.

Taking a long sip from her drink, she let the beverage take the chill out of her, and deliberately let the tension out of her shoulders, doing her best to ignore the image of the megacity burning that was running through her mind. Her eyes flicked across the battlefield, identifying the lines of capital ships by the occasional lances of light arcing out from their positions, and the occasional flare of an explosion.

"You won't win, you know." She told Paxxus, leaning back. "I mean, if you and the New Imperials do manage to take Bastion, that will certainly be an achievement." She turned away from the battle, looking the man in the eyes. "But, in the long run, it won't last, and ultimately, it means very little."

Her hand twinged with pain, and she adjusted it on her lap with a grimace, taking another swig from her glass and enjoying how it dulled the sensation. She continued.

"Your achievements thus far have been commendable. The New Imperials have exceeded all expectations and taught our Empire a lesson in humility we won't soon forget. You should congratulate yourself. But, you, and your Imperator, you are blind."

Madelyn gave her own slightly smug smile, but a glance out the viewport quickly stifled it. The holotable flickered to life and she was momentarily taken by the images of the Order's double-cross, taking a few moments to understand the significance of what she was seeing.

Madelyn whistled between her teeth, keeping the rush of thoughts on the scenes to herself, and went on.

"Let me tell you something, Paxxus, one Imperial to another." Madelyn said, swirling the glass and finishing the last of her drink. "Once, I considered my own Order the pinnacle of progress, a force for change that would remake the Galaxy in its new, efficient image. I imagined a united polity within which people could be free from the petty struggles of Jedi and Sith, of Republics, Alliances and Free Worlds. I knew, more than I had ever known anything, that the First Order could make it real, that we could reforge the Galaxy. For a time, we did."

She paused, resting her head on steepled fingers, watching the holotable display, then Paxxus, then the battle outside.

"It felt like we won every battle we fought. Every campaign against the Jedi, against the fools in the Alliance. They were crushed beneath our boots, reduced to dust by our might, by our dogma, by our will. An unstoppable power of change."

The chill had returned, having won its battle against the warming of her drink. Madelyn suppressed a shiver.

"But then began the rot. It all slowly fell apart, the dream of prosperity slipping between our fingers as the Galaxy spiralled into darkness and war. And then, when we were weak, a shell, the whole thing came crashing down, and, once it started, there was nothing that could halt the collapse."

She focused on Paxxus, her eyes glittering in the sunlight.

"Do you understand? You are not new." She gestured widely out the viewport.

"All of this has happened before."

 

[Caulder Dune]

​

// Location: Thaumaturgic Tower, The Conduit – Control Room
// Objective: What Is An "Unreasonable Number" Anyway?
// Equipment: Adekon Nanogene - Type 1, Imperial Mk. I "Dooku-Pattern" Jedi Armor (but, you know, more stylish)
// Associated Acts:

• FN-999 (Disengaged), AMCO (Friendly), Aren D'Shade (Friendly), Ingrid L'lerim (Neutral), Shade of Decay (Friendly)

// Nanogene Troopers: 20/20

Adekos blinked, mystified, at the transformation of Darth Prospero into… That. It was a sleek and spindly humanoid thing, the line of a mouth barely visible in the smoothness of its features. It was long. Too long by half, but he let it – Adrian, he supposed – march ominously past him.​

​

Barely audible beneath the background noise of the control room, Adekos muttered: “What.”​

​

No matter. The battle that was to come would be fierce, brutal, and bloody. It was better to have this shapeshifted version of Prospero on his side of the fighting rather than against. Darth Adekos followed him out, joined by the gorgeous-homunculus Sith.​

​

---​

​

It was over before anyone a single shot had been fired.​

​

A wave of Dark Side energy melted the approaching Stormtroopers before they could understand what was going on. Partially melted, that is. They were groaning and screaming in their armor, confused and dying painfully by this work of sorcery.​

​

Stemming from Darth Chiseled-Jaw, of course. Adekos shuddered in disgust. More like Darth Thunder-Steal. Not that he would voice any complaints of that sort after a display like this. Darth Adekos deactivated his shamefully underutilized lightsaber.​

​

Conversely, the Nanogene Troopers did not appear at all bothered by these events. They moved methodically among the Stormtroopers who had failed to die outright, ending their suffering with short, controlled bursts of blaster fire. An unnerving staccato of blaster-fire echoed through the Conduit. Gradually, the chorus of death throes died away... ​

​

The Commander of this Dispatch approached Darth Adekos, and presented Lieutenant Startop’s datapad.​

​

Adekos plucked up the datapad. “And where has our Lieutenant gone off to?”​

​

“Fled, sir. Down the maintenance tunnel shortly after Kyber Dark was issued.”​

​

“Prudent man, but foolish,” Adekos swiped the screen with a finger, scrolling through the contents. “Did you have the droids collect him?”​

​

“Yessir.”​

​

Good. He had not yet tired of the Lieutenant’s company. Adekos handed the datapad back to the commander, who tucked it diligently under his arm.​

​

“I think I will depart this place now, as I mentioned earlier,” Darth Adekos announced, “It has been an honor and a pleasure doing battle alongside you all, gentlemen.”​

​

That was perhaps a generous way to describe the outcome here. He noted one New Imperial corpse in particular: Dead from a particle shot to the face, dark ooze still seeped from between the cracks of the armor. Destabilized matter. The human form reduced to pus and gore, sludge and waste.​

​

Adekos concluded that an unreasonable number could, in fact, be zero. Depending on who you asked.​

​

“Truly.”​

 

[Vaylin]

Equipment: Armour | Sith Lightsaber + Shoto | Dwomutchwûq
Allies: TSE - Kascalion Giedfield (Elsewhere)
Enemies: NIO - Dorian Sicarrio (Engaging) | Mavia (Engaging)

“Then you’re both fools, and blind to the truth. The New Imperial Order is nothing new, just the same thing as always, a different variation, a different shade.”

Vaylin was forced on the defensive again, unable to really get an upper hand against her opponents. It wasn’t exactly surprising to the Zabrak, as sheer brute strength was not her forte. She was much more agile, focusing on a duelist mindset rather than simple force. It allowed her a degree of flexibility, blocking Mavia’s attacks while dodging Dorian’s. The two of them were a force to be reckoned with, syncing up with each other.

The Mirialan was the shield to the Human’s spear.

Both were forcing Vaylin back into the tower again, the blast doors sliding open as they continued their attacks. Vaylin knew they’d soon reach the main elevator, and then their room would be much more limited.

She had to get rid of one of them, preferably the spear user.

As the battle continued, the building sense of dread and fear continued to grow. It stemmed from Vaylin like a tide, forming around her towards something unseen. Drawing ever closer to the elevator doors, the Zabrak made her move.

She lashed out with her free hand, a streak of yellow-white fire flying from Vaylin’s palm and striking the floor before Mavia’s feet. Dorian came in for another attack, but with his partner not up front and center, Vaylin took advantage. She twisted her body to avoid the spear thrust, but before he could draw it back, the Zabrak grabbed it. Almost immediately she felt something within it, something...interesting. But she quickly put that thought aside.

“You’re not going to need this where you’re going.” The foreboding words were followed up by Vaylin pulling Dorian closer and slamming a boot into his stomach. A Force-imbued kick sent the spear user flying backwards towards the opposite wall. But just as his body was about to collide, the air itself suddenly tore open, widening enough to consume Dorian before snapping shut seconds later.

“I do hope you weren’t too attached to him.” Vaylin began, her tone mocking as she looked over at Mavia. “Because the Netherworld is about to detach him from his soul.” The revelation seemed to stun the Mirilian for a bit, allowing Vaylin to glance at the spear she had taken from her partner. “You know, I might keep a hold of this. Nice little trophy…” The Zabrak grinned beneath her mask when Mavia lunged towards her, shifting into a much more aggressive stance.

That's more like it.

 

[Ravraa Vyshraal]

Attero Dominatus

​

Location: Atop The Summit
Task: Bring Down The Sith Empire | Purge the Sith Order - Objective One
RP Partners: Dorn-2 PCs, OPEN
Faction: New Imperial Order
Narrative NPCs: Dorn-2
Ammo Count: --- BUSTED | STOLEN LIGHTSABER | STOLEN JUDICATOR
TAGS: Agrippa FN-999 Irveric Tavlar Darth Bellum Asharo Madar Sion Alar Halketh Noel Strasza


The first Sith that dared to challenge him came to match him blow for blow. Saber coming in low, clashing against the unwieldy and untrained arm of Ravraa. Theoretically, the Sith should have slaughtered the upstart stormtrooper wholesale, there was no feasible reason as to why a grunt without a proper understanding of the finer arts of lightsaber combat should have even been able to keep up with the unrelenting fury of the dark side.

Perhaps it was adrenaline.

Perhaps it was the fact he was unafraid of death. As long as his friends made it.

Clash, slash, parry. Over and over the blades danced, Rav coming in low with short, chopping motions directed at the Sith’s gut. They were easily tossed aside by the more trained hand, but the constant shifting nature of Ravraa’s stance, the odd angles he made his strikes from, and how quickly he shifted his grip and reset his stance after every response the Sith gave kept the dark sider backpedaling.

Then came the rage they were renown for, the earth shattering hate and despair manifested itself in heavy handed overhead strikes. One, two, three. Pounding into Ravraa’s stance, threatening to break his block. Again and again the Sith came from above. Blade slamming into Ravraa’s. Bluntly trying to overpower the smaller man. A fist shot out, directly into the Sith’s throat as his blade rose. Plated knuckles met bare flesh and sent the sentient stumbling backwards. Coughing, his off hand coming up to his neck instinctively. Ravraa moved forward, slammed the blade through the Sith’s chest, pressing up against him before slumping the form off of the saber’s blade.

Snaphiss, another approaching peon of the dark. An onslaught of blaster fire, whether it came from Dorn-2 or Gladius he had no proper idea. The only register that it had ended his would be assailant would be the dissipation of the saber they would have held. Blaster fire was exchanged between the few Legionaries and the stormtroopers that had stormed the roof. It was, at it’s heart, simple math, simple reasoning. They were running on fumes, the last of the Grand Legions. The old, the sick, the dying. This felt less like a war and more like putting down a wounded animal.

The fall of Agrippa, however, was the shift of the tides.

It wasn’t proper, not the true way someone like him should have gone. Falling onto his ass, Sith Lord bearing down on him, the banner falling from his grasp.

As we all were destined, life held innumerable ways to make your struggles seem like nothing against the waves of time.

That would not be the fate of Agrippa. Not the fate of his cause.

It would have been, if it hadn’t of been for the acting of Strasza. Throwing herself onto an encroaching Sith, blades drawn, bringing down the dragon. The final word in Sith Imperialism.

These Gods were fallen by simple men.

It was the way of men to bend Gods to their will.

Ravraa clipped the saber, reached down, gripped the banner in both hands and rushed forward. Each step felt like a mile, inching closer and closer to the edge of the building. The brave fighting men of the 501st had gotten him this far, and even now he heard their blasters ringing out. Again and again. The Sith, the Legionaries, whoever remained on this damned rooftop would meet their end at the hands of well placed blasterfire.

He didn’t even register if he was safe as he slammed the flag into place, the resplendent banner catching in the wind instantly. The burning lands of Bastion, the endless waves of men still funneling into the tower and through the streets, all of it.

Had led to this.

He waited for the saber strike, for the blaster bolt, but it never came. Instead, a quiet settled.

If only for a moment.

Then the cheers, not only of those on the roof, but all of those that were scattered within eyesight, the cheers rocked the very foundation of the Empire.

The city was theirs, victory, finally, was here.

---​

He was unsure of how long he stood there, the wind battering off of his face, nor how close he was to being cut down during his planting. But in the quiet, in the serenity of this new peace, he felt a presence next to him.

He reached out, lacing his fingers around those of his squad's marksman. Never taking his eyes off the horizon.

“Don’t you go leaving me, now.”

“That an order, Sarg…?

“Shut it.”

They raged against the dying of the light, as did every last trooper in service to the NIO.

They had won.

They would have peace.

Ravraa reached into his chestplate, pulling out a small envelope of durasheet. He looked down at it, thumbed over it, before letting it go. Falling, falling, catching in the wind and into the burning streets of Ravelin.

 

[Cara Dorniarn]

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________​

Location: Datacenter
Opposition: NIO | Amon Vizsla | Tulan Kor
Allies: TSE | Nida Perl
Post #5

​

Along the walls of the datachamber servers shrieked in exploding cacophony as electricity overloaded failsafes and major systems. Any attempt to reroute the excess power was overcome with waves of snaking static, all born from the emotion tapped into by the Zeltron. With the unscripted crescendo of the galvanic choir another chorus arose.

Betrayal.

Pain.

Hatred.

Discord had risen. Cara felt it as she threw each punch. She felt it in the connection between herself and the hands she'd designed, the ease of which the tiles twisted into thin-bladed daggers, and the widened surge of electric voices which spoke to her in hastened tones. The sensation, though exotic, was felt once before. On Mandalore she had once experienced the manifestation of the darkside. What had brought this sudden outpour of energy? Between the clamor of commands and positions in the comms cautious yet encouraged voices garbled in, piecing together a scene of treachery wrought by the "New Imperials." They'd abandoned their own, the Sith who had defected with them. The betrayed Sith were founts of anger, their pain permeating the atmosphere to a degree where even Cara, sceptic of the mystic turns of the Force, felt their rage burning the landscape.

Though the miasma of darkside influence threatened to be intoxicating Cara fought its influence. She wanted control of her own faculties. She remembered Mandalore, the way she’d been so quickly swept into a rage. The person she became was not the person Lori had respected, the one she’d chosen to love and marry.

”I won’t. I won’t.”

Cara wouldn’t let it slip, she wouldn’t let go of that expectation. She wouldn’t let go of the person Lori had thought her to be.

We're more than just a people or an army, dar'jetii. We're a culture. We're an idea.

And you can not kill ideas...

...but we certainly can kill you."

​

The bolts from the Mandalorian’s vambrace were plentiful as they lanced forward. Cara felt them splash onto her arms, slam into the armor’s breastplate, and burn into the greaves. Cara braced her arms, catching those that threatened vitals.

But something was missing.

As she tried to pour focus toward the onslaught there was a static filling a part of her mind.

Static that turned into a jolt, then a flatline.

The jolt caused a delay in the defensive swing, allowing a blast to claim purchase to her helmet. From the edge of her visor glasteel sprayed backward as Cara's head followed suit. Weight from her cybernetics made it unable to recover, the momentum sending her to the ground.

Blood from her forehead seeped into the scarred socket of the missing eye. Cara was awake, her single eye catching the remnant of Mandalorians and troopers clashing with those left of the legion. Glass grit between her clenched teeth. How could she have let that bolt through?

In the moment the battle flashed a soldier, the trooper from before, ran back into the fray. His leg struck a blow to a piece of small debris on the floor. It ricocheted off a terminal, clattering to the ground and stopping with an uneven roll.

Her whisper was small, cracked, and disbelieving as fear gripped her mind with an icy palm.

“Aidee.”

Twenty-five years had he stayed faithful to his master, a gift to her from the one who mattered most. She’d given him the order to begin the sequence. She told him to perform her job.

It should have been Cara at that terminal.

It should have been Cara at the main office decades ago.

She’d failed them.

Darkness had begun to permeate the cracks in her resistance. The fear which held her started to wane as the furnace of her rage soared.

No, it wasn’t her fault.

“It’s theirs.”

If it hadn’t been here she would have performed the job.

If they hadn’t come she wouldn’t have lost Lori.

If the Mandalorians didn’t exist neither would her pain.

Everything that mattered was gone and so were the expectations. The dark power she’d curbed she now allowed to take presence. It was time to dispel the ghost of what she had held onto and progress.

Cara wrenched herself from the floor with a violent twist, her eye burning with the amber flames of hatred and despair.

“Enough!” The floor groaned with the clenching of her fists and the servers exploded, sending down a waterfall of sparks that pooled onto the floor.

“Your masters are any who provide you war, your minds too feeble to understand any other existence. A dying breed that worships a dying creed. Welcome to the future, to your extinction!”

With her final sentence she dipped her posture then sprang up, arms whirring a sharp song as they gripped the air. The matter which laid beneath their feet shuddered, rasped, then exploded upward in a malleable wall of metal, stone, and dirt. Terminals were uprooted and servers crushed as the creation was wrenched from below. Cara roared as she propelled her fists into the back of the wall, deforming it into a cascading wave, a tsunami built from the wrath it's creator had now accepted.

The Breaker of Beskar was unleashed, the past fully consumed as fuel for her anger. She would foster hatred unrestrained, its presence the tool for crafting the end of those who'd taken everything she'd held dear.

She swore it.