Invasion Death's Sting: SJC Invasion of BotM held Lao-Mon

[Tren Chaar]

C R U C I B L E

LAO-MON ORBIT
B-WING HEAVY STARFIGHTER​

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Revenant Squadron One Flight [Assault] Leader: CDR Tren Chaar Four Two Flight [Strike] Seven: FO Leon Gallo Three Flight [Intercept] SCAR Squadron One: Commander Ewan "Raider" Isaacs Brotherhood of the Sith Tu'teggacha

The tide of battle was shifting back and forth between the two belligerents. One of the Silver Jedi Concord fleets, helmed by the Emerald Undertow, microjumped up against the Brotherhood’s orbital bastion and began unleashing on the station. Turbolasers, missiles and sabotage droids rained down on the enemy installation, which responded in turn by launching its own boarding pods. Elsewhere, the Maw forces confronting the SJC fleet under the command of Home Reef surged forward through a gas cloud projected by the Jedi to claim their prize.

Despite the momentous clash of the two massive fleets, the larger space battle was far from the front of Chaar’s mind.

Right now, he was simply trying to survive.

The horde of Brotherhood starfighters had regrouped in the wake of the missile-blast gap Chaar and One Flight had used to get Two and Three Flights in behind the enemy ranks. While the Alliance X-wings and A-wings were carving heavy lines through the enemy formations, they were now also cut off from the slower moving B-wings.

A fresh alarm blared from Chaar’s console as his shields dipped below 50 per cent, an alarm which he quickly silenced. Few things could help the Umbaran survive the next few minutes, and a klaxon was not one of them. He let loose a proton torpedo followed by a stream of stutter fire at a Divine-Eagle which strayed into his kill box while chasing down an SJC starfighter.

The Divine-Eagle must have been part of a larger formation - moments later, two Brotherhood strike craft locked on to Chaar’s tail and refused to be shaken. The enemy vessels subjected the B-wings reinforced shields to a withering barrage of fire. Revenant Two and Three, flying with Chaar as a flight triplet, broke left and right to try and get behind the pursuers only to pick up their own tails.

The commander grimaced as the integrity of his shields continued to tick down thanks to heavy beam-weapons fire. While all pilots had a sixth sense for flying, the Maw pilots seemed to have an additional seventh and eight. Every maneuver Chaar pulled off was mirrored perfectly, the enemy firing into the space he was about to occupy.

His shields ticked down past 25 per cent.

The B-wing shook from a shockwave. Chaar braced himself for the impact, assuming it had been a proximity-detonated missile or mine.

The hail of fire pounding his ship was cut in half. Looking at the scope he saw SCAR One streaking clear, having blasted one of the Divine-Eagles off his tail.

“SCAR One, Revenant Lead,” he announced through gritted teeth, as if the words were painful to utter. “Thanks for the assist.” So the SJC could fly, but he still didn’t trust them.

Chaar brought his B-wing around to regroup with the two other B-wings of One Flight and dove back into the fray.

 

[Mrurh'en'lase | Hel]

Equipment: Hel's Lightclub | Robes
Objective: Engage the Brotherhood
Targets: Darth Tennacus
Enemies: BotM | BotM Allies
Allies: SJC | SJC Allies

​

The man's skill in defense could not be stated without any form of an understatement to the true level at which it stood. Each movement he had made thus far when not caught off guard by the young woman's raw speed and power was concise and sharp, able to deflect or dodge her strikes with an offensive mastery. Actions that were tucked into a bed of planning on the fly that made it seem like they were everything he had expected to do from the start before they even exchanged words. In a disturbing way, this impressed the subconscious mind of the Hybrid in spite of the hatred that burst through the walls of her core.

As the Shroud itself had stated: the woman felt almost nothing but pure loathing for things such as this man. Diseased abominations of a disordered evil that served to remind her of the pain and suffering she had felt for over two decades. How could such a hatred give even a sliver of the road to begrudging respect for the man's skills in combat? Even the Shroud had questions for this, wondering where in the twisted head of its host could thoughts like this even begin to form.

But this was a wondering that would have to wait. The bout continued, tempers flaring with unrestrained embers and choking fumes. The man had expected the strike of the lightsaber, moving his own to deflect it once more in a clash of heated magnetized plasma. Instead of that, however, all he received was a sharp punch to the stomach that brought the air out of his lungs. He gasped, struggling to regain the oxygen that he had just so suddenly lost. He received the uppercut to his rebreather as a reward for his efforts, cracking the vents open. This made way for fizzing air to escape back into the world, unable to aid its captor anymore. The Shroud smiled at the sight of the man suddenly backing away, fumbling with both mask and lightsaber, swinging wildly to defend himself as he struggled to maintain the equipment's position on his face. It was an opening, the one of the lifetime. At that moment, perhaps due to the dying down of frantic swings and charges, the voice of the man - distant and curdling - rang in the joined mind of the Hybrid. If you want to be absolute in your power, you need to enforce yourself upon this Jedi who longs to hold you back. Only I can bring you salvation. You only need to make her let me in.

There was a click - remote in the base of the Hybrid's skull. A growing awareness of the situation at hand came with the offer of training, to let the Shroud retain control over its host. And with that entered sensations of worry, regret, confusion. Overloading synaptic responses filled her brain, each slowing down the passage of time like hallucinogens. Coalescing into an urge to regain control of herself. The voice of desire. Of an alternate path. A darker path. I am awake again. How long has the fight been? Time is slow. Weak. Unimportant. Never important. The man before me is important. A foe, a villain, a monster. I despise him. I want him dead, but...what have I done? Not like this. I am failing. Falling again. I accept the consequences, I said I did. I await the punishment of using you, but you should not consume me. I let you consume me to beat him because he wanted to see you. Cocky, overconfident, lost to the sensations of justice, implanting freedom. Achieving vengeance for the lives lost. Allyson taught me to not let that happen. To not let my hatred of him - you - grow like weeds too quickly. Have to get away. Away.

Yes, away. Away from the rules of the Jedi, away from the prejudice and the constant training to reign in your emotions. Why should you reign them in? You are strong. You are mighty, Hel. Think about it. He wants to mold you. To teach you. I want to kill him as you want to kill him. So let us kill him, but...later. Use your hatred of the Sith to learn how to destroy the Sith. Become one of them so that you may annihilate them. Csilla will never happen again if you destroy them from within. You can be the hero, Hel. A dark knight anointed with rulership, who can rule over her kingdom with power untold.

Yes, the Shroud would fulfill its purpose here and now and show its host that it was stronger than the Halo, wiser than the man from Krayiss, and more perceptive than Allyson Locke . And so, it went to strike, waiting for the perfect moment in between the man's aimless swings. Using its uninjured leg to bound forward in a single leap and preparing to strike - gripping the handle of the Hybrid's lightsaber with both hands - the Shroud was intent on cleaving the man in twain vertically.

No!

The strike was sent off course at the last second, arcing down at a diagonal angle across the man's face, the tip of the blade dangerously close to one of the foe's eyes, reaching for it with cerulean hands to char it to cinders. There was a sound from that moment, but the Shroud was uncertain what it was. Feet connected with the hard earth and pain soared through the open wound of the shin and calf, bringing a cursing grunt through the Hybrid's bared teeth. Crackles of scorched dirt and rocks crinkled in her ears like burning paper, the blade of her weapon now deeply lodged into the ground - almost to the hilt. The Shroud's own gaze was locked onto its host's hands, watching with mounting disdain and violence as it struggled to lift the weapon from the ground to finish the job. But, it could only curse in vain and eventually beg, screaming at its host to listen to reason and accept the man's offer.

The Hybrid stepped away from the weapon, all the same, lurching and groaning with eyes clenched so tightly shut one would expect the skin of her eyelids would tear off. Surges of energy - chaotic and warped - prompted her to beat her right hand against the temple of her head, furiously attempting to thrash the ringing echoes of her foe's words out of her ears. Words that were laced with the pleading of the interior darkness that filled her soul. Dark red spears encircled her cursed like a bracelet made from teeth of a Kraken - invisible to the eyes of those unattuned to the Force but wholly magnificent to those who were. Launching forward with each blind and mindless thrashing of the arm cursed by dragon's fire, the spears targeted the man who created this chaos, guided towards his body with an ugly speed. They roared alongside their host as she raged through the vicinity. Untamed bestial weapons cast with the fires of a soul's division. The last action of darkness unwilling to go back into hiding.

 

[Sakadi Marathi Sinvala]

Location: Dungeons of the Central Keep
Objective 1: The Goshen War Camp.
Opposing: The Mongrel

Her lavender ears lowered in defeat. "All that servitude leads to is suffering. Not just the suffering of others." She shook her head as she 'spoke'. "But yourselves too. " She didn't need to illustrate what she meant. His synthetic muscles, mask, and even his ideology, all were carefully chosen to induce fear, intimidate, and to hurt. Considering people's choices tended to reflect their past, his spoke volumes.

That was also why she should've known that he wouldn't lay down his arms. Although that hadn't stopped her from trying. Call it a Jedi's vanity.

A sigh escaped from the elegant Jedi Master. "You just wish to fight me so your cause feels justified, don't you? To have something to oppose, and to tell yourself you're doing the right thing in the name of the brotherhood?" She couldn't stop him. Not the way she wanted to.

The Sephi sighed. "I am Master Sinvala of the Jedi High Council." She rose to her feet, lightsaber igniting to meet his sword. "And my cause is much greater than yours." Fine. She would fight him on his terms.

Defeat him on his own terms.​

This time, she immediately sought to seize the upper hand. She lunged, her blade moving lightning fast for his chest, shoulder and head in a series of three rapid strikes. Sakadi had to force him back. Constrain him somehow, for she still believed killing was not the right option. Only twice had she ever considered ending her opponent's life. The first was Darth Carnifex. The second? Tathra Khaeus .

No, against the Mongrel, there had to be another way out.​

 

[Starlin Rand]

Objective II: Tip of the Spear
Tags: The Man in White
Location: Wouldn’t you like to know, Mawboy
Gear: Lightsaber | Shoto

Zabka’s lame joke was met with an eyeroll from Starlin. Oh great. I lost my father for half my childhood, but hey, at least I get dad jokes as an adult.

The background noise of Shi’ido war chants grew steadily louder as the two made their way back toward the camp, cutting down all in their path. By the time they slipped through the gap blasted in the wall, the chants were all around them, along with the rhythmic beating of spears against shields. The Ku’sharnan Shamans were still at it, ensuring this primitive form of psychological warfare was the last thing their enemies heard.

Starlin wondered why they did it. Surely making this much noise would only draw attention to them, make them an obvious target. They couldn’t bang their spears against their shields and fight at the same time. As the sounds surrounded him, however, he thought he understood. The chants weren’t meant to frighten the Mawites—they were meant to impassion and inspire the Shi’ido. After all, they were the only ones who could understand Shi’idese.

“Man, all this chanting is making me want to murder somebody,” he remarked, then quickly added, “... but like, honorably.”

The dead-serious tone in which he spoke actually made it sound funnier. There was, perhaps, a bit of Starlin’s old sense of humor poking through all the doom and gloom.

***

In a locked cell deep below the Central Keep, Mithras knelt on the floor, cradling the unconscious body of his wife Shala in his arms. Both were badly wounded. Black blood leaked from his wounds made by her claws and teeth; her flesh was ionized by multiple stun shots from his blaster.

“You can make it through this, if you fight it,” he whispered in the dark, cradling her face in his hand. “Your wings can grow back if you survive. Please, Shala. Survive.”

Elsewhere in the dungeons, the Cytherai freed the last of the Shi’ido prisoners. Astarte had taken over the role of leader in Nimdok’s absence. Still carrying a severed head in one hand, she turned toward the others. There were so many of them, practically an army unto themselves. But so many were broken, their minds half-gone, crushed beneath the Taskmaster’s wheel of progress. They were no longer fit to fight.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said, her mouth set in a grim line. She tossed aside the severed head, her battle trophy rolling out of sight, forgotten.

***

Pygar awoke lying in the dirt, his body so wracked with pain that he could barely move. Somewhere nearby lay the puddled corpse of the Mician who had carried him away from the Keep, a victim of the Wretchedness.

They had fallen from the sky. Pygar didn’t remember much, for he had blacked out in midair. That was probably the only reason he was still alive, unconsciousness relaxing his muscles and allowing his bones to take the brunt of the impact. His delicate, breakable Changeling bones...

At least he was away from the fighting. No one would come and put him out of his misery. He’d either die a slow, painful death lying here in the jungle, or he’d be eaten by one of Lao-mon’s many predators. Feth.

A rustling noise distracted him from his pain. He shut his eyes, expecting it to be a hungry beast. But instead he heard the snap of fabric being unfurled. His eyes flew open when cloth touched his mangled body, and he found himself staring into the face of a woman.

Sort of. Green and brown-striped tentacles sprouted from her head instead of hair, undulating and curling in the air. Her eyes were the color of amber, her lips a dark purple, and her skin a paler shade of green than the things on her head. She wore a gown that looked like it was made from barnacles, or coral, or mushrooms, or dead leaves—whatever it was, it mimicked the appearance of dead organic matter, or organisms that fed on death.

He opened his mouth to try and speak, but she hushed him. “Relax. It’s just mediweave,” she assured him. "It will help you." After wrapping him in the cloth, she scooped him up with hardly any effort and started to carry him away. The position meant his head lolled against her shoulder, giving him a clear view of the gill-like slits along the sides of her neck.

“Congratulations. You’re going to live another day, soldier,” she said, heading deeper into the wilderness. “Now you can rest.”

Grateful that someone had been there to rescue him, Pygar let sleep overtake him. The woman smiled, exposing sharp white teeth.

I’ve had my eye on you for a while, Sithspawn. And now that no one is around to stop me…

 

[Michael Barran]

POST 11
OBJECTIVE 2: TIP OF THE SPEAR
WRATH_OF_THE_WOADS

ALLIES (NIO): Noel Strasza

ALLIES (SJC/GA/AC/OTHER): Starlin Rand Sergeant Omen Damsy Callat
Artemis Lu The Dark Inquisitor

ENEMIES (BOTM/NSO/TFD): Khaostra Devoid Romund Sro The Mongrel Dakrul
Halketh Marlon Sularen Zachariel Steelblood Eldervine Glossa

MICHAEL'S FORCES

THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD
ARGYLL COY. - INFANTRY
LARGS COY. - INFANTRY
FARRIN COY. - ENGINEERS
ISLAY COY. - ANTI-TANK

BLUE-HEART BRIGADE
196 XT-62,"CATAPHRACT" TANKS
32 SCOUT-AFV'S
9 MLV'S (NAKAIOMA)
5 PREDATOR LAUNCH-PLATFORMS (NAKAIOMA)
1 COY. OF GUARDSMEN
1 COY. OF MEDICS
1 COY. OF QUARTERMASTERS

MICHAEL'S LOADOUT
PRIMARY WEAPON: PALE-BLUE LIGHTSABRE
SECONDARY WEAPON: FRAGARACH BLASTER-PISTOL
SECONDARY BLADE: VIBROSWORD CAVALRY-SABRE

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 20

GOSHEN RAINFOREST, LAOMON (867 ABY)
HOUR TWO OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

<"Alright boys, get your presents on your faces. McBain went to great pains t'get these specific mask-filters for us, wouldn't want us muddying the Shaman's waters after all. Cataphract One out!">​

The rainforest was exhibiting changes around them, but it wouldn't stop the New-Imperials on the ground from moving back and forth in their parts of the Wanderer's static-line, and though the rising fog, smoke and fire in the central parts of the engaging battle-lines would cause problems in some form or other, the Blue-Heart/Highlander contingent on the ground were in no way compromised by the issues that would arise from the new environmental challenge. Owed to the lengthy-but-engaging briefing given personally by Lord Michael, all the leadership positions within their mobilised Free-State contingent would be on the same page as the Wanderer in this rather-risky strategy, though their respective companies, platoons etc. would be well-assured they'd be issued the right equipment before everyone's personal battle-kit loadouts had been readied for combat; an interjection that was made by Leftenant McBain in particular, resulting in a promise to the other group-leaders, then in proof of his good word within hours of said promise.

'Now the fun part begins, bai!'

Readied and raring to go as the unseen parts of the Cataphract line halted and widened out, the shooters under Captain Baird's direction would be opting to coordinate and aid in a hard oblique push as the rest aided Scope Platoon with Operation: MELARRIA somewhere to the northwest of his part of the line. Knowing the far sides of the line would need to move first in order to get any semblance of flanking supremacy in their attempt to encircle Devoid's lines, Baird fully-understood what his second-in-command was referring to, and realizing in himself that he'd enjoy this part just as much, the Guard-Captain responded,'Only if ye dinnae get motion-sickness, mate.', as he signalled for the others to hop inside their ACV. With at least forty walkers reported to be waiting at what appeared to be the weakest part of the Mawsworn static-line, Baird would be given plenty reason to believe these AT units had mobile-support and something heavy-hitting to provide a true counterweight to such tactical choices, and thus had called on the help of the brigade's holy man; still reeling from being denied self-sacrifice on Carlac, Captain Brand would bring the Scout-AFVs in adopting his usual role, though his disappointment was clearly audible in his voice whenever he spoke.

<"Brand to Guardian One! Moving to your wings so we can do what these tyres were meant to do.">​

'Copy that.... An' though ah have nae possible clue o' how it happened - pretty sure they would've had their reasons, Brand. Guardian One out!'

With the Scout-AFVs moving to either side of the New-Imperial left-flank, the general movement orders to advance at speed were given, comfortable in the knowledge that Brand's small contingent could catch up and overtake the Cataphracts if needed, though worrying that the brigade's unofficial chaplain was in yet another of his infamously-dangerous frames of mind. Phillip Brand was never usually this quiet on the comm-link, and especially not whenever he was conversing with the other captains, so deducing that his general foul mood was capable of further darkening (and to dangerous degrees) wasn't all that far from the truth of his intensifying volatility, and even closer with the fact he hated the Wanderer's,"Unholy", plan for the eight and final day as well. If ever there was someone going into battle that had genuine reasons for wishing to be somewhere else at that time, it was fairly obvious to all in the 2nd that this particular exemplary factor would be none other than Phillip,"The Rooster", but the fact he chose to charge forth in,"The holiest part of the Free-State's static-line today.", spoke plenty of his stalwart character in battle.

'Aw'right.... Here-we, here-we!'

<"All Guardians in the south, this is Baird! Whether yer slapped wae roles in vehicles or on the ground, encourage supreme aggression in every man who fights with you. We go with God, making us perhaps the only ones who won't be relying on the Shaman's magic today! Don't know about you lot, but ah'd say that gives me something of a comfort just knowin' that, at least this way oor Sinn'Searann might still smile on us an'aw.... Ancestors stand with gods native only to the blood of their home-world, and ours are smiling on us still - so steel yer hearts, lads. That's an order! Guardian One out!">

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 21

GOSHEN RAINFOREST, LAOMON (867 ABY)
HOUR TWO OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

'Lawson! Pass me that comm-device, bruu. We've got company.'

The Scar Hound tribe would be making their efforts to cleave through the New-Imperial lines on the eighth day as much as they had in the week before, as their genetically (and in many cases, cybernetically) enhanced Firefang Warhounds had been running amok until the ceasefire had been ordered for both commanders' parley, though they had admittedly incurred plenty losses in the process also; and as a result, a general consensus on the best tactical response had been established by the time the sun had risen on the eighth day, devised steadily as pointers between the non-coms until the best tried-and-tested methods were brought to the Wanderer's attention at the five captains' briefing. Like most loyal hounds in the Galaxy, if any Firefang's master is seen being mauled or executed by another beast, all semblance of effective organisation would be abandoned for bloodlust and rage instead, such wild abandon the rifle-toting weakest links in the chain felt could be used against the Scar Hounds' barbaric pet-experiments in particular.
Mawsworn, man.... Be it Shi'iDo or Firefang, nasty way to go out either way.

'Here, sir.'

'All northern infantry, this is Proost! Fix bayonets and unfasten your Fairbairn sheathes! Firefangs have pinged on the Holographic display, approaching hard from the west, so keep your wits about you and get some payback if you can! Cataphract One out!'

Fewer than three kilometers away and fast approaching, it looked as if the warhounds had been let off their lines beyond the smoothbore's effective range, though this also meant that the Scar Hound handlers had passed the point of caring about where on the frontlines their final actions would venture to assault; such a play also hinted that the Scar Hounds had more Firefangs reserved for later on in the battle, a prospect that troubled Arman deeply, angrily recalling what befell those were unfortunate enough to be caught between the teeth of the Maw's particular variant of warhound. 'We best get to the top o' that rise soon, at least then we can catch a few under our tracks on the way down.', the Archaisian started, stopping to clench his teeth as Surgeon-Captain Coyle (with his AMV-crew following closely behind Proost's XT-62) worked to close the cuts on his face, wincing as the work neared the top of his head. Then, as soon as Brandon had moved on to the brow and the left temple, Arman sighed relief at the pain-redirection, then looked back to Lawson to conclude,'Might as well see what these,"Hei-land Charges", are all about, eh? I dare say I've spent enough time with Lord Erskine's ilk to embrace it at least once.', to which a wide-eyed nod of affirmation was given in reply.

'Then that settles it, Lawson. Let's push to the hilltop and charge downhill as planned.... Chit! Get out the way, Coyle. I dropped the comm-device. Kark!'

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Wait what... WHAT! What is she actually believing this nerf? Oh my... She was really trying to save him... He didn't know if he was thankful or disgusted. Once the Padawan had placed the lightsaber on the ground and the sniper, a short alien who species he did not know came into the open, picking it up, saying a few words and vanishing into a cloud of smoke.

It was a few moments before Omen tried to choke out anything. I.... I'm... sorry... I failed you... NERF!" His hobbled scream echoed throughout the plaza before he gestured for a hand. "Should have just let her kill me... Kyber is more precious than a clone is... Plus now she has a key to any bank vault she wants... And what will the masters think... Ni or'parguur ner life..."

He gestured for her to help him to his feet. "Help me up so we can get undercover in one of the buildings. I don't want to be in the open when the raging wookies fight their way in."

The Dark Inquisitor , Glossa

 

[Darth Tennacus]

Location: Goshen War Camp Surface
Affiliation: Brotherhood of the Maw
Equipment: Lightsabers - 2
Nearby Allies: Darth Senthral
Engaging: Mrurh'en'lase | Hel
​

It had been too long since Tennacus had been put in such a compromising position. It wasn't embarrassing, but instead painful. Painful to his pride that he had been reduced to panicking flurries; hateful of himself that he could ever let such a thing happen again. Each blind swing reminded him of such unforgiveable aspects; each swing followed with a breath that bombarded his lungs with shrapnel pockets of air rushing to soak into his body. There was history to such dependency on that machinery, and each time he looked upon his reflection, he reminded himself of how it had made him stronger. How a thousand years and more of dormancy could not stop him, even when death so eagerly emerged time and time again to claim him. His situation was inexcusable, and the Force would see that he suffered for it.

Blind swinging would never benefit him - Tennacus knew that. He had trained to try and live without his mask, in situations such as this, where he would suddenly be exposed to the possibility of death. He had starved his body time and time again, throwing the mask into the seas, casting it down the slopes of deep mountains, only to chase so eagerly after it. Given that he was stood there now, it went without say how the outcome manifested. So what had gone wrong, this time? Had the Force favoured this girl? This. . . thing he had still not come to understand? He couldn't hear himself think through the hissing and mechanical whirring, but he asked repeatedly for the Force to show him the potential of this being. And so it had answered.

The answer came not as any words, whispers or vision. It came in an opening from his blindness, to which the streaking hot energy of plasma came down across his flesh, winking like lightning before his eyes. He did not fully realise what had happened at the conclusion of that swing. The Sith stood there, as if he had been slain and his brain was only now processing it. A hot, searing pain moved over the side of his face. And then it was cold, like each breath he took in under the dependency of his breathing apparatus: sharp, aching and swelling. Then, as if he had been suddenly rammed by a speeder, his body had thrown itself around, spinning him to face his back to her. The mask had dropped from his mouth, splintered, but still intact, its brackets and braces severed before his eye. His eye. Tennacus blinked, and then he blinked again. His palm rose over the right side of his face, but there was no change. It was black, and he saw not the grey of his gloved fingers tracing beneath his eyeball. But his left eye saw blood which stained the fabric of his digits. A graze down his face told him that he had suffered a grave injury: his right eye had been split diagonally to utter blindness!

Impossible. No, it is never impossible. Your actions brought you to this; the Force ALWAYS plays it part. You underestimated your enemy; you were convinced she was different, and she is. If you truly wanted to kill her, you would have cut off her head. But you are trying to subjugate her; not every enemy is as weak as a slave. The Force is strong in her; the Light and the Dark hold sway over her abilities. She fought fire with fire, and you got burned. Now, you must reclaim yourself, Tennacus. Burn her, as she has burned you.

MAKE HER BLEED

Tennacus reached down for the cracked respirator. It was damaged - too damaged to sit simply on his face, the pressurised mechanisms shattered so it could no longer cling over his mouth. The Force twisted itself; the Sith heard disorder sound behind him. But in that moment, he could not look. He brought the lightsaber's crimson plasma over the metals, heating the elements until the sides of the mask were white hot. He needed penance for his disappointment; a reminder that fuelled him to see this through; and so he willingly brought the glowing, searing mask up over his mouth, groaning almost inhumanely. Smoke rose out around the sides of his head; flesh seared as the metal cooled and melded itself into him. The pain was excruciating, but it was expressed in anger, rage, and hate. The Dark Side fissured the ground beneath him. When he finally turned back around, he looked almost as if he was something different. Black, charred streaks stretched away from the mask. His right eye glowed with a diagonal slash through its shape, to which the remainder of its hue had been swept away. The wound cut deep, and had carried itself down under the scorching metal.

Revenge would come swiftly.

Against all that he had suffered, his motions were calmly executed. He walked in a linear path towards her, unfazed by the circular ring of projectiles mounted around her arm. He walked towards them head on, crashing his blade down, swinging it left, and launching it right. When it came to the last one, he only ducked before he suddenly threw himself towards her like a gliding wraith, converting his boiled emotions into a hardened motion through the Force, to which her accursed arm was thrown down against her side, frozen in place. His breathing was crackled, and each breath felt like liquid fire; but the pain only fuelled him. He didn't know what had happened her, but he could feel the conflict, and he had abused that conflict to temporarily halt her. As much as he wanted to study her in her entirety, she needed to be reminded of exactly what came of full commitment to the Dark Side. He would not halt her for long, but in the time he had brought her to stop, he would serve the Dark Side to remind this girl of its strength, and the consequences that came of trying to overpower it.

Tennacus did not say anything. With his mouth beating like a drum in a chaotic surge of pain to which his nerves pulsed wildly, it was best to save his strength and convert the emotion into it. He stepped out of her path, staring directly at her, and then released his hold without warning, urging her to fall forward past him. His hand caught her untainted arm, in that moment, grabbing her by the wrist, while his foot planted itself over the base of her neck. To kill her there and then felt tempting - justified. But he was a Sith Lord; he knew better than to let such talent - such possibility - go to waste. As he held her there, only then did he decide to speak. His voice was calm, but it didn't sound like him. It sounded. . . inhuman.

"One of us." He paused. "You. . . are one of us. Let what isn't of us. . . be purged."

His leg came off her, but what happened next was almost too swift to acknowledge. The sound of his lightsaber humming through the air sounded itself before it came down against the ground - with both hands grasped onto the hilt. Something plumped against the dirt, thudding and squelching. She only needed to turn her head to see what it was. The hold he had on her had been severed - quite literally. She should have felt her body lighten - be free of restraint. Perhaps even the restraint from the Light. Tennacus didn't attune himself to figure it out. He wanted her to be enraged that he had. . . cut off her arm straight from her shoulder.

​

 

[Darth Solipsis]

​

DARK LORD OF THE SITH | VOICE OF THE MAW
Tartarus-Class Battlecruiser, Throne Room


P O W E R​

Red sparks leapt to life from his fingertips in a deadly salvo that threatened to swallow whole the Jedi Knight Bernard before him. His other prey, the Grand Master of the Silver Jedi Order twisted and dodged his first lunge into the fray, only briefly did they meet blade against sacred blade before his weapon was cast overhead and thrown, guided by the Force to Rurik Fel . It spun freely, guided only by the will and hatred of it's wielder as the negative emotions that empowered him released into it's arc as metaphorical fuel. The saber throw was skillfully deflected, it's energy rebuked and sent back tenfold by the harnessed flow utilized by the rare technique of Vaapad. A wise stance and mindset against one such as he.

The crimson saber returned to grip of it's master like a loyal dog, it's momentum slowed just enough to seize the weapon and not fall prey to a severed limb. The Force was a powerful tool, one he wielded as it's master with his control over the weaponized hilt crackling with plasma as it flashed toward him with immense speed. He was already in mid-motion when the weapon returned to him, his half-cocked spin immediately leading to another clashing of sabers as he met the Grandmaster Kiara Ayres spraying her weapon in, his eyes shifted back too little too late. They revealed only what he could not avoid as he shifted his body to take the blow coming to him.The ethereal blast of self-contained energy sent a shockwave as it crashed into his abdomen, the Dark Lord already crunched with arms crossed as he felt the blast rock his body back, uprooting him from the marble flooring. Solipsis soared through the air, nearly in a ball stiff as can be until his feet touched down, sliding against the smooth flooring with a light trail of smoke rolling off of him.

The black high collared cloak flowed freely as he rose, eyes filled with hate and grimace. There was nothing in his visage, a void consumptive and empty, it sucked in all the light that touched upon it with cruel intent. He felt.. hollow. Letting the pain sink in, letting it damper his energy instead over rule it. He felt in control, he felt as though the pain gave him his edge. One arm folded back, the other extending his saber outward with stance of extreme precision and guile belonging to Form II. A streak of crimson followed his arm as he cast a wide swing in a battle ready charge, he launched his body forward with the Force augmenting each step. His right hand gripped the yorik coral tightly, squeezing down as he closed in on his prey, his left hand however betrayed his empty mind, his in-control attitude as he closed his fist violently.

Above head, large chandelier like objects swung forward violently in a pull towards the Sith'ari. The imposing masses broke free from their roots in the ceiling, dismounting and hurling forth like falling boulders. One for Fel, One for Kiara. The Dark Lord dove in, without a care or worry, seeking only to do that of which he had promised them and to that end he would deliver. Expecting to meet blade upon blade as the debris would fall and crash around them or on them. The Elder let his weapon scorch against the white hot blade of the Iron Imperator as his left hand rose up, calling upon the empyrean energies of the Force and dashed down with a thunderous discharge of crimson bolts that ricocheted against the smooth marble towards his midsection.

Rurik Fel | Kiara Ayres | Bernard​

 

[Darth Tennacus]

(My apologies, wrong thread.)

 

[Khaostra Devoid]

Post: 6
Objective: Forged in Fire
Equipment: Red Midnight Duster | Red Sith Armor | Sith Mask | Grav Boots | CrushGaunts | x2 White lightsabers | Forearm Lanvorak | Wrist Laser | Variety of Explosives | RSKF-44 heavy blaster | X-21 shock glove (Stored in her coat pocket)
Allies: Halketh | The Mongrel | Darth Tennacus | Bendak Crail | Romund Sro | Marlon Sularen | Glossa
Enemies: Michael Barran | Starlin Rand | Amelia Venthyra | Sergeant Omen | @[Liram Angellus | Noel Strasza | Thurion Heavenshield | Zoraya Ives-Ayres | Damsy Callat | Mrurh'en'lase | Hel | Lyra Vent | Artemis Lu
Special Tags: Michael Barran | Eldervine

Forces:
150 99- Raider walkers
25 - Spider Cruisers
30 - Firefang wardogs
1 coy. - Kitiakira Warband
1 coy. - Scav Kings
1 coy. - War Shamans
12 - Sorcerers of Rhand
24 - Flesh Stalkers
12 - Drengir
Magma Elementals

---

All around her from her little cabined island a Magma river that was forming from the sessile and the way she shaped and made it come into being. It was growing into a monster far beyond it’s summoners control now. It cut throw the forest floor and tree both those ablaze and those still standing like a hot knife on butter. Khaos looked on from her island as she saw her men just getting slaughtered and it hit here then. She had called herself a General though no such rank real existed in the Maw, arrogance a way to look important to the enemy. Yet her she was realizing just how out of her depth she really was, dread crossed her face as she saw the Maw, the contingent of the force she was give just fighting but failing so hard.


She had put so much emphasis on trying to get the upper hand in the Parley that she hadn’t really planned out descent strategy or contingency plan if her game of intimidation or one upmanship failed like it had so spectacularly. This thing of war that had never been her calling before the maw she hadn’t been much more then a thief and a pirate one with a little magickal and force training. Hell she was barely good enough at that, in this moment she had to wonder what the hell she was good for. The orange in her eyes began to calm to a light glow as she felt at a loss.


Her Shaman summoned up steam first and it began move across the battle fields in all directions flowing with the river of Magma that seemed to be gain speed and momentum. The reason for steam rather then calling up more smoke was that steam carried with it moisture, the steam itself could obscure vision but moisture would also build up on device and seep into areas you would rather not have water be. It became a nuisance and even damaging to a degree that and if temperatures rose so would the temperature of the steam heat itself could cause tons of issue not to mention if that steam became hot enough and touched exposed skin. Steam on exposed was more dangerous then putting your hand directly into fire because steam boiled your skin instead of burning it and your nerve ending stayed intact making you feel ever second of the burn until you passed out or died.

Steam rolled out and Khaos could only now see the shadows of her forces getting cut down. Then her shaman and Sorcerers called forth the elementals and ten-foot-tall lumps of magna began to pull themselves from the ever-growing river. Then moved out on all sides it was hard to tell how many had been summoned hundred maybe more they moved out to bolster the ranks of the Maw forces, to attack lines on the other side of the river the Maw could not reach. A few started headings for the Tanks that walkers were opening fire on.


It was Madness all around in the moment these elemental beasts could eat flame and soldiers ballistic fire like it was nothing. They easily could take out swaths of soldiers on the battlefield. Yet still this had not been a part of the original plan this was all a last ditch effort just to survive the day with at least some of the army she had been given to survive. The Imperial Michael had more then proven his prowess here, he not only overcame her silly little mind game but had out maneuvered her every step of the game.

Then came shaman and sorcerers calls for hail and hail it did begin, The skies began to grow dark and stormy overhead and hail the size of golf balls began to rain down however these were not normal ice balls of hail instead frozen methane balls that ignited on contact with he fire in the sky. The jungle was starting to feel more like a plain of hell then a wonder of nature. The world was ablaze, and it didn’t matter who one this war in totality Lao-Mon would never be the same.


Khaos stared out across the Lava flowing river that surrounded her into the steam where she could see more and more shadows of the elementals rising to take fight. She looked up in the sky where fire hail rained downed, the green had fade into shade of red, orange and black. In this moment Khaos knew this was her trial by fire she would emerge from this battle a true soldier no longer a with, thief, pirate, or archaeologist as she had fancied herself before or she would die. Csilla had hardened her gave her the will to do things she didn’t want to but needed to be done but this fight would truly forge her into something new.

In that moment she stretched out her own mind up until this point she had let her soldiers and spell casters do the heavy lifting. “I’m with you!” echoed in all their minds. With furious roar and the elements seemingly on the reside the started to push back no longer were they retreating towards the river of lave but pushing forward towards the uncommon fires started by the materials. She knew a great many of them would die in this push but those that emerges from these fires would go on to become her elite the Fire Born.

 

[The Dark Inquisitor]

Objective; Tip of the Spear
Tags: Glossa Sergeant Omen

---

Omen: It was a few moments before Omen tried to choke out anything. "I.... I'm... sorry... I failed you... NERF!" His hobbled scream echoed throughout the plaza before he gestured for a hand. "Should have just let her kill me... Kyber is more precious than a clone is... Plus now she has a key to any bank vault she wants... And what will the masters think... Ni or'parguur ner life..."

Kinhaes listened to Omen's shouts and should haves could haves, her own head thumping. Turning to face Omen, she jogged over and knelt beside him. "My masters are not my concern right now. And unlike some out there, Kyber is not as important as any living being. Even a Clone," She told Omen, her voice serious and stern, like a healer to a stubborn patient. She knew she'd have to get new sabers, and it would be a pain, but she could replace them. She couldn't replace him.

Omen: He gestured for her to help him to his feet. "Help me up so we can get undercover in one of the buildings. I don't want to be in the open when the raging wookies fight their way in."

After checking over his wounds, Kinhaes obliged the soldier in his strategic request. Placing a hand under his top back and another to sling his arm over her shoulder, she began to quickly hoist him up. Once they were both up, Kinhaes looked around and after a bit saw an outcrop of building that could provide shelter and protection. "There's a good spot. We can wait for the Gunship I called," Kinhaes said, pointing with her finger that was holding his arm. Her mind rushed through what had happened in the last few minutes. She had started proud and confident, not killing anyone, simply disarming then knocking them away and out. But, after that one flash grenade, it all changed. She had taken shots as well as Omen. She had lost her weapons and him, his arm. Her feet moved, supporting his weight as they moved to the cover from all assaults. Her eyes were forward, focusing on her new objective. Saving Omen and waiting for EVAC.

 

[Tegan Starfall]

Post: 6
Objective: War is no Place for Heroes
Equipment: Mind Crown | Black MidNight Duster with Hood | Echani shield suit | Grav Boots | Eltro Life Gloves | x4 red lightsabers | Defender | Forearm Lanvorak | Wrist Laser | x2 FWG-5 Flechette Smart Pistol | Boomer | X4 Daggers | Pack of Death sticks | Various Explosives on person and in backpack | Holopad
Allies: The Mongrel | Halketh | Darth Tennacus | Bendak Crail | Romund Sro | Marlon Sularen | Glossa | Jaedec Ren | Zachariel Steelblood | Ves Fett
Enemies: Starlin Rand | Amelia Venthyra | Sergeant Omen | Noel Strasza | Avenger | @hurion Heavenshield | Zoraya Ives-Ayres | Damsy Callat | Mrurh'en'lase | Hel | Lyra Vent | Artemis Lu
Special Tags: Aemilio Valaar

---

Tegan didn’t even get a chance to gloat as she took out his Jetpack the combustible liquid inside spilling to the ground as the tank disintegrated around the spear. He shifted his momentum and the hand which he grasped his weapon pivoting to face her. The lackluster non explosion was disappointing to be sure but at least she stripped him from some of his speed which would make it easier to keep her distance rip him apart. Yet as he spun around time seemed to move in slow motion for Tegan. He reached out towards her with his glove, immediately she saw it for what it was.


“Noooo!” She screamed as her crippled left hand came free from the spear and reached out for the Grav Gloved hand. She knew this was going to hurt in that moment she knew what she was in for it wasn’t the first time she had been hit full force with a blast from the force or even a gravity weapon. Hell she was master of the force headbutt that could shatter a mans skull inside helmet which used force blast principles. That was the purpose to crush your enemy she knew just how devastating they could be at extreme close range. As the glove went off Tegan released her own force blast in counter at near the same time. “aahhhh!”


The two energies collided Tegan got blasted back her left hand and arm take the brunt of the blast every bone in her left hand, arm all the way up to her shoulder shattered as she flew back through the air. Though her own blast mitigated damage to the rest of her body, her arm was a mess. Aemilio would have a hard time avoiding bones breaking in his own arm though probably not as sever as Tegan due to his heavier armor. The sheer force of both he blast igniting on one another would knock them apart in any case.


As Tegan flew the threw her spear with her right hand the aim wasn’t extremely accurate given, she was flying through the air the moment she chucked it. If it hit him, it most likely would catch him in a foot, leg or if she was real lucky his side. After the spear was chucked at him she slammed into a near by wall and fell tot the ground again this time landing on her knees. Her right-hand landing on the ground catching her from face planting into the ground.


She looked to her left arm that just dangled there lifelessly shattered. Then the Gremlin pushed herself back to her feet and reached to her belt and pulled one her sabers free. Not only was her left arm shattered and useless she was also bleeding from the ears and nose from the extreme whiplash she had just experienced. Her hair was wild and a mess as she looked in the soldier’s direction, her orange burning eyes peering through strands of hair straight through him like he wasn’t even there, but she knew he was there.


The Saber in her right hand ignited with a snap hiss into a red glow, so cliché for a darksider. Then she stretched the blade to the ground and etched symbol into. She then licked at her lips towards the blood running from her nose. “Your Foreplay is weak, is that all you got?” She began to laugh like a damn maniac at the soldier. Tegan was a complete mess it was clear from looking at her, her left arm just hung there, and there she was like a so crazed lunatic looking to continue this fight.

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Lao-mon, Goshen War Camp
Tags: Amelia Venthyra

And so it came down to this: was Varkas willing to betray the Brotherhood, turn his back on his entire life, in order to save Androk? He wasn't sure the proud tribal warrior, who believed much more deeply in the Three Avatars than the slaver ever had, would ever forgive him if he did. The two men were close, had fought together on a dozen battlefields and more, but they were like brothers, not perfect copies. For Androk, the Avatars had replaced his tribe's primitive gods, and his faith in them justified everything he did. For Varkas, it was all just about survival - and having a good time along the way.

"He'll never accept that," the marauder finally said, and Amelia could hear a note of regret in his tone. Varkas himself would have been a good bodyguard for some Outer Rim crime lord, and probably a good bounty hunter too... though Androk was the tracker of the pair. They could have done it together, could have carved out new lives for themselves, but Androk would kill him for treachery and heresy before they ever got the chance. So what could he do? What could he possibly offer to escape the three grim options before him: death, imprisonment, or treason?

Maybe a smaller treason could save them.

"I'll make you a deal, Jedi," Varkas finally said, mind spinning with schemes and remote possibilities. Slowly, to show that he wasn't reaching for a weapon, he put his hand into the pocket of his leatheris jacket and pulled out a keycard. "This controls access to all of the punishment cages in Goshen, where slaves that talk back or try to escape are kept. Your allies might have hit the slave quarters already, but they won't have been able to get these open yet." He held the card up, letting the firelight from the burning war camp illuminate its shiny metal surface.

"It's yours if you stand aside and let us go."

Location: Lao-mon, Goshen Keep Dungeons
Tags: Sakadi Marathi Sinvala

She looked at him, this ruin of a man, rebuilt again and again with the cold durasteel and whirring gears of advanced cybernetic machinery. She looked at him, and she judged him, and he hated her for it. "Life is suffering, Jedi," The Mongrel shot back, unconsciously clenching his mechanical fists harder around the hilt of his dread blade. "Of course we suffer. Hardship is what makes us strong. The Maw was able to take me because I was a victim, a weakling, helpless in a dark and cruel galaxy. But look at me now! I am no longer easy prey. The Brotherhood has made me powerful."

She sighed, as if this battle - one that had nearly maimed or killed him several times already, straining his resources and augmentations to the limit - was more sad and tiresome to her that a true challenge. His blood boiled at the thought... then froze. "I am Master Sinvala of the Jedi High Council." It dawned on him then just who he was fighting, just how powerful she was. A cruel realization crept into his mind: she was toying with him. Someone powerful enough with Jedi magics to be on their High Council could probably have killed him with a wave of her hand, let alone her lightsaber.

He was alive only because of her principles... the very principles he had been mocking all the while.

Well, so be it. If a foe more worthy of the Dark Voice himself would fight The Mongrel on his terms because she didn't want to kill, he would accept the advantage she granted him... that advantage being the slightest fighting chance. But all the confidence he'd felt earlier, stalking her through the burning halls with his big iron in hand, swiftly evaporated. If he pushed her too far, she might decide that he was deserving of death, that the galaxy would be better off without a mass-murdering marauder of his caliber in it. And if and when she did, he was truly fethed.

He resented her Jedi arrogance, her certainty that hers was the greatest, noblest cause. If the Jedi could truly have kept the peace in the whole galaxy, he would never have watched his half-forgotten home burn, would never have become The Mongrel. There would have been no Maw, for it would have been smothered in its infancy by lightsaber-wielding justice. But the galaxy was vast, and the Jedi, though many in this era, still could not be everywhere at once. They could not stamp out injustice in the Core Worlds, let alone out here, at the savage edge of known space. They were fools to try.

The Mongrel could look down on her philosophy, but he could not deny her skill. She came at him, unleashed at last, her gleaming laser sword a blur as it struck again and again. With his mechanical arms he was fast and strong; had he landed a solid hit on her, he could have torn her apart with a club, let alone an energy blade. But he could not match the speed her magic - combined with her well-honed fighting talent - gave her, even with all his gifts. He got his sword in the way to parry her first and third strikes, the contact of the weapons throwing off a shower of sparks.

The second one, however, slipped through.

Very little of The Mongrel had been left as ordinary human flesh and blood, but it had been a gradual process. After the conquest of Mar'Zambul, when a Gundanbard mace had shattered his ribcage, the bones had been rebuilt with unyielding durasteel. That was the only thing that had saved him when, in the war-torn city of Asoport on snowy Carlac, he'd taken a shotgun blast full in the chest at point-blank. Somehow he'd dragged his half-shredded body from that battlefield, and this time the organic mechanics had stripped away all his flesh. Every last ragged scrap.

He now had a metal torso to house his organs.

If not for that particular augmentation, the smell of burning flesh would have filled the torture chamber - and not for the first time, given the brutal Mawite methods of breaking prisoners. Instead, a slash of Sakadi's lightsaber melted through the durasteel of his outer casing, nearly striking the nutrient vat that held his left lung. There was no pain, only a dull sense of impact that drove him a step back between parries... and a drizzle of molten metal that ran down his front. He brushed it away with one hand before it could reach his still-organic groin, spattering the wall.

He had to turn the tide before that too-fast assault came in again, find some way to fight back against someone so much more powerful than he that it was laughable. But that was what The Mongrel had always done: survived against the odds, against opponents who wielded magic he could not match. Dropping one hand, he reached into his satchel and produced a cube of detonite. Leaping back, he slapped the putty-like explosive onto the doorframe, then dragged his dread blade across it as backpedaled through the door. His goal: to collapse the doorframe, the only exit...

... and bury the Jedi alive in the torture room.

The electrical energy of the dread blade ignited the explosive, and The Mongrel's world exploded in a burst of stone dust and rumbling foundations. "Choke on that, Sinvala of the High Council," he spat, though he had no idea whether his plan had succeeded; he'd used only a small amount of explosive, placed to collapse the doorframe rather than to directly hurt anyone. If he'd tried to blow her up outright, he'd have blown himself up too. As the dust began to clear, he held his dread blade high, trying to illuminate the corridor with its crimson glow and see what'd happened.

Had she made it out? Or was she trapped?

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Objective: Defend the Warcamp
Allies: The Mongrel | BotM and Allies
Enemies: Jacen Nimdok | Keilara Kala'myr | SJC and Allies
Engaging: Zachariel engaging Errik, marauders Ziare
Links: Sword | Axe
Post 9​

The disruptor shots had taken him by surprise, but still he chose to focus on Tammuz. He believed the beasts allies wouldn't shoot so close to a friend. But as he ducked and closed the range, his blades swung through empty air and ash instead of flesh. Stumbling at the lack of resistance, Zachariel went forward another step before halting himself. Glancing up to the ash now flaking down, some landing on him, Zachariel was truly stunned. The first time in a century or longer, but that shock turned into a dark appreciation. Then he grinned, before he laughed, even as he straightened himself.
"Such ruthlessness, I'm impressed. Who knew..."

Trailing off with a laugh, Zachariel began turning towards the pair when he was suddenly struck again. Both with the flamethrower and the psychic headbutt. Grunting and raising an arm before himself, he raised a Force barrier before himself. It stopped the worst of the flames, though it still licked around the edges, further scorching his already burnt armor. But it did save him from the worst of the disruptor shots, taking a full eight shots before shattering.

Raising his sword, Zachariel blocked a further two shots, spinning towards a side alley as he did so. The move left him open to the final shots though, which both slammed home. One against Zachariel's shoulder pauldron again, the other striking his arm. And then he was in the alley taking cover. Holding his sword before him, he watched as it disintegrated in his palm. Snarling at that, he pulled some rubble free of the building, using the Force to form another wall to the alley. It wouldn't stop them of course, but it'd prevent any further harm from coming to his armor.

Chuckling low then, Zachariel called out. His voice a mixture of anger and amusement.
"Normally I would kill you, especially for destroying my prized sword. But I think letting you live will be more painful." Pushing the rubble out and throwing it towards Errik and Jaina, Zachariel laughed as he moved away, calling over his shoulder once again. "Live knowing you killed your friend!"

Having saved Ziare once again, the silent marauder watched on as she begged for death. Frowning, he jerked his head towards the other two maruaders. They simply held her tighter, one even hugging her waist and arms to prevent movement. Nodding at that, the silent one walked towards the medical station once more.

The two marauders held Ziare tight, not daring to move themselves. Meanwhile, the silent leader continued his research as he waited for a response. Eventually he received one, taker her to a holding cell and keep her there. They were to protect her as well and ensure her continued survival. Along with that, a trained medic would be along to help heal her, though only a bath in a bacta tank would truly heal her internal wounds. Turning from the terminal with this information in hand, the silent one was just in time to see Ziare make her move.

Slamming her foot down towards the marauders own proved unsuccessful, as he was wearing combat boots and the angle didn't lend well to a powerful strike. Her strike with the head though, was far more successful. Rearing forward, she slammed her head back into the mans nose, smashing it with a crunch. He let go of her with a scream, hands immediately going to his nose, giving her an opening. The second marauder was shocked, before scrambling to grab Ziare as well.

Once again, the silent marauder had to step in. Drawing his pistol, he loosed a shot against the wall before pointing his gun, switching settings as he did so, towards Ziare, even as he advanced towards her(whether she had begun to run or not). This time when he spoke, his voice was louder, and annoyed.
"Stop it girl, or I'll stun you. Your fate is sealed, so save us all the trouble and come quietly."

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

Ziare Dyarron
COMPNOR (ISB) Junior Agent, Nite agent | Slave of the Maw​

Objective: Try to escape from captivity
Location: Goshen Keep Dungeons, Lao-mon
Equipment: 3x dogtag || OPBC-01m
Writing with: Zachariel Steelblood 's hunters
Allies: Konrad Harrsk | Auria Blackmoore | Jacen Nimdok
Enemies: Tu'teggacha

[ Dream of home ]
"Galactic Basic" | ~"Telepathic" communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

As the silent looked at us, the arms of the marauder holding me held me even tighter. I feel like I’m running out of strength, my attempts to escape have become increasingly weak. I just gasped for air, which hurt a lot, I cried, my head hanging weakly forward. I wanted to go home, I just wanted to go home! My Loong-cat was waiting at home, who will take care of him if I don’t get home?

"Please… just let me go… just let me go…" I whimpered crying.

The last attempt; maybe I was surprised that it was a success. Stepping on the armoured leg wasn’t successful because I was barefoot and he was in armour, but the man’s head wasn’t protected by anything. True, neither is mine. When my head met his nose, I heard a crack. I was dizzy for a moment, but his arms were no longer around me. The other was also quite surprised so I was able to free my injured hand and I was able to move away them, before he could catch me again.

I started running, though my legs were less and less willing to obey my will and I felt my movement sluggish. I screamed as the shot flew past me and hit the wall. I paused for a moment. I didn't turn back, I just ran on. I heard the words of the silent. No, my fate was not sealed; no, they will not decide my fate. It's mine, they can't take it, they can't take away my free will.

However, I did not get too far. My soles were "muddy" and slippery from my own blood, getting harder and harder to balance and move. I was dizzy and stumbled just ten meters later while running. I couldn’t stand on my feet and I fell. Instinctively, I tried to protect myself with my hands, which was not the best idea. One of my hands was already cracked on Carlac, the other had the bite.

I slid at least a meter on the ground, getting more and more new wounds on my knees, elbows, my thighs, legs, sides, belly and arms also getting wounds as I slid on the ground. Everything burned, it hurt, my wrists and bruised wounds started bleeding again. I hit my ribs again, due this I coughed up another dose of blood. The air also squeezed out of my lungs, I couldn’t scream again. I tried to get up from the ground to go further, but I fell back to the ground twice, weakly.

I didn't have the strength to get up. Someone come and save me. I heard the battle's sounds, they were nearby.

"Somebody… please help…" I whimpered crying again.

I pulled up against the wall, hugged my legs in a foetal ball on the floor, and then I started sobbing loudly…

 

[Jaryg Syn]

Objective: Score with Zoraya and co. Be loud and obnoxious
Equipment: In bio
Tags: Vella Forte | Zoraya Ives-Ayres | Lyra Vent

Jaryg felt his armour tighten against him, creaking and groaning as it started to collapse in on itself. Judging from her outstretched hand, he didn't need to be a Jedi master to know what was happening. His two pistols came to life with roaring malicious intent while his own augmentations resisted the compressing armour. One aimed at the smoking hot babe. Moving against her power, he made quick work of any hounds trying to turn him into a tasty snack™. The other kept hurling deadly bolts at his new interest with dangerous accuracy as his fingers spammed the triggers. She proceeded to try and throw him aside like an empty can of cola, but this gave him all the opportunities in the world.

Using his jetpack for a second, he regained his balance before darting off in a blur towards her. In no time at all he was behind her once more with one pistol firing at her and the other firing at the remaining hounds. He kept moving and side-stepping, trusting his own unfair genetic and cybernetic advantages more than his suit. The last thing he needed was her using his own gear against him.

Continuing to fire round after round at her, he let out a groan. "Come on! If you wanna kill me, stop using the force! Just come sit on my face and take my breath away!" he called out to her over the chaos around them. He hoped that such a distasteful comment would get her attention... but he doubted it.

His own strength and the suit, while a bit damaged, allowed him to absorb the recoil and maintain accuracy as he moved around her sporadically to keep her busy. He figured that his bolts would, at the very least, cause enough of a headache for her to focus on him. As long as Zoraya and her friend escaped, that was all that mattered. Hopefully her friend wasn't too difficult and he could make the coming evenings a lot more interesting.

 

[Jacen Nimdok]

Objective I: Collect the ashes
Tags: Zachariel Steelblood
Location: Somewhere in the vicinity of the Slave Quarters
NPCs: Tammuz Hoole | Jaina Grayson

“Feth your sword! Buy a new one!” Jaina exclaimed, reloading her disruptor. Evading the rubble Zachariel flung at her with superhuman reflexes, she started to chase after him.

“Jaina, stop.”

Nimdok’s voice stopped her in her tracks, her obedience programming overriding her desire to give chase.

“Come here.”

She turned around and walked the short distance back to where Nimdok stood. There was a strange look on his face, his fists balled at his sides as if he were about to hit her. Instead, he shut his eyes, overflowing with hate and hot tears, and sighed.

“Help me collect the ashes. His family will want them.”

 

[Rurik Fel]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
KNIGHTS OF THE EMPIRE
NIV ANTARES DRACO
Iron Skin | Lightsaber
Allies | NIO | SJC | GA | Kiara Ayres Bernard
Enemies | BOTM | NSO | Darth Solipsis

SHADOWBRINGER
​

The rage. Solipsis didn't utter a word through his rampant dervish of calamity and destruction. He was a force of nature more than he was a man at all. A shard of darkness rampant. An errant chandelier plunged from the ceiling, snatching Rurik's focus and initiative with it. A moment to readjust only for the Dark Lord to continue his brutal assault of the Iron Imperator.

Endure.

No...no, there was a time where Rurik would have move past this expectation. Since he was placed within his suit of Iron- there seemed to be a relenting fragment of his soul that seemed nigh cowardly or relenting the position it was thrust within. That the only way to achieve victory at all, was merely to survive this encounter.

Eliminate.

Rurik entered this chamber alongside a select few valiant souls, he cared not what emerged- but Solipsis would be skewered upon his argent blade. There was no outcome which would otherwise be acceptable, no result for which Fel could be content. He would kill the Dark Lord of the Sith. Jagged crimson tridents of lightning vaulted from the floor and into Rurik's chest plate- the Iron Skin only serving to surge the electric stream through body. He concealed his pain away, utilizing the same trained method of controlling its flow through the Force as he always had. To hone his ability to endure these encounters.

But he was one with the Vornskr now...the darkness flowing through him would not be his poison...but his fuel, his rejuvenation.

Endure.

He crucified those burning nerves by his own ethereal will and force through his innate connection with the Force, numbing them firstly before soothing them as he clutched his eyes tightly close- that pale visage dimming for a moment. The pain is an illusion. The only thing that was real was the Dark Lord, the Imperator and the blades between them. This was his arena and he stood alone within it. Only one between them would depart this engagement. It would not be him, it would not be this parasite. Not that he could well and truly spit down on his stature. He'd done well to best the rest of his dark creed and claim dominance among the sickened heretics.

He shirked his blade from the clash in order to block the coming flow of electric fury from the Sith before cutting it forward and toward him in the hopes of creating distance so that his allies which- he was still unsure if he could rely on them to execute would seize their own initiative in striking at vulnerable corners of the Dark Lord's guard.

Eliminate.

Creature of darkness he might've been, Rurik would make him taste his own venom. Continuously channeling the Vornskr through his blade and stance, he sought to lash back at him. Though strained still by the lightning's vicious pull on his mortal form- he would not be brought low so easily.

Taking ahold of one of these fallen fixtures, he wrenched ahold of the chandelier with an unseen grip before flinging it with a valiant pull toward the Dark Lord as he veered into the clash with another riposte aimed at striking his argent blade into the Dark Lord's neck and face. if not to break flesh- to throw him from his position of ease and comfort. To make him adjust and adapt, second guess each subsequent decision.

"The wolves linger among your flock, Sith. You'd best hope to kill me...for a fate worse than death...is the perception...of weakness." He said to the darkened figure, narrowing his eyes.

 

[Michael Barran]

POST 12
OBJECTIVE 2: TIP OF THE SPEAR
WRATH_OF_THE_WOADS

ALLIES (NIO): Noel Strasza

ALLIES (SJC/GA/AC/OTHER): Starlin Rand Sergeant Omen Damsy Callat
Artemis Lu The Dark Inquisitor

ENEMIES (BOTM/NSO/TFD): Khaostra Devoid Romund Sro The Mongrel Dakrul
Halketh Marlon Sularen Zachariel Steelblood Eldervine Glossa

MICHAEL'S FORCES

THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD
ARGYLL COY. - INFANTRY
LARGS COY. - INFANTRY
FARRIN COY. - ENGINEERS
ISLAY COY. - ANTI-TANK

BLUE-HEART BRIGADE
196 XT-62,"CATAPHRACT" TANKS
32 SCOUT-AFV'S
9 MLV'S (NAKAIOMA)
5 PREDATOR LAUNCH-PLATFORMS (NAKAIOMA)
1 COY. OF GUARDSMEN
1 COY. OF MEDICS
1 COY. OF QUARTERMASTERS

MICHAEL'S LOADOUT
PRIMARY WEAPON: PALE-BLUE LIGHTSABRE
SECONDARY WEAPON: FRAGARACH BLASTER-PISTOL
SECONDARY BLADE: VIBROSWORD CAVALRY-SABRE

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 22

GOSHEN RAINFOREST, LAOMON (867 ABY)
HOUR TWO OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

THE SHAMAN​

Changes all around them, changes in shadows, the trees and the very air they breathed, but the Blue-Hearts and Highlanders were no strangers to fighting through increasingly-apocalyptic conditions, and the Goshen deployment would be no different, and especially not to the likes of Yorunarr ahan-Yan'Sharlim. His father's,"Wicked Infliction", had given the young Novanian a fighting chance at surviving the Lao-Mon wilderness, but in driving the tormented one towards it's last-remaining obstacle, the Shaman had given himself leeway enough to invade the minds of the remaining Drengir; and in the act of doing so, the infliction would more-easily work it's way into the minds of their lesser kindred, an end-result that would yield unfathomable amounts of strategic options in the early hours of the fight. Only the Novanian knew how visibly noxious the tormented Drengir had become, oozing with purple sap and letting off spores that could be seen with an almost-phosphorescent afterglow for almost an hour after contact with the plant-life around it.
Feasting on his kin, consuming everything around him.... Good.

FOLLOW YOUR TORMENTED FRIEND!!!!

FOLLOW YOUR FELLOW DRENGIR!!!! FOLLOW THROUGH FIRE, AND PAIN!!!!​

Whether the tormented one would survive or not, the final part of Yorunarr's plan would be attempted one way or the other, and nothing was stopping the Shaman from attempting the impossible on Lao-Mon, not after his experiences on Ziost and Carlac. Not after meeting his gods, not after defeating voices of the dark, and certainly not after the success of inflicting the worst of his father's magic on the most difficult playing-pieces Khaostra Devoid had at her disposal. And yet, as Yorunarr had no intention of stopping there a desire to drive it all into the flames overcame him, in an urge that somehow put the Woad's mind in perfect alignment with his own, these urges brought out a nagging compulsion to further fan the flames from within them both; and in the moments when it seemed like it was still possible to use either source of fire, the Drengirs' oozing insanity, and the Shaman's overriding desire to prevail above all things against the ritualistic raising of Khaostra's own, Michael's extraordinarily-resourceful bodyguard would make sure that he would act on such opportunities as soon as they arose.

'Here goes nothing....'

The cleansing flames wrought by the Novanian were growing more and more vast with time, but nowhere near in comparison to the destructive potential of those wrought by Devoid and her own brand of Shaman, and the magma itself would continue to eat up the ground around the old parleying-shack on No-Man's-Land; the Free-State's hand had been forced as a result, but whether this would be detrimental in the long-run or not, Yan'Sharlim's only son was decidedly ready to accept any consequence that was fated to befall him in the attempt to redeem the spirits of the Goshen rainforest. However, before long, the screams of the next tormented Drengir-telepaths began erupting like the fires of Lao-Mon's very core, though not anywhere near as loud as the first, heard roaring will-breaking rage at his true opponent. It was time for the titans of their forest-consuming ilk to battle each other, and Yorunarr needed his monster at their wildest, as the astral-traveller knew his first victim wasn't needed to fight; no defensive or offensive strategy was needed, nor would any need for it to survive be present either, only a need to spread the rage, anguish and fear everywhere.

INFECT YOUR BRETHREN!!!!! LET YOUR VENGEANCE INFECT - THEM -

AAAAAALL!!!!

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 23

GOSHEN RAINFOREST, LAOMON (867 ABY)
HOUR TWO OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

THE MONSTER

INFECT UNTIL YOU CAN INFECT NO MORE, FREAK!!!! INFECT -

that one.....​

The voice's intentions were clear, but then again, so were his own, and for the first time since they came into contact with one another, the tormented telepath agreed. In the tormented one's mind, (whatever was left of it) the largest obstacle between himself and the Vinesworn did deserve it, and if the voice didn't feel too pleased by the sight of it, a chance to quiet the voice for a while would be perceived as the possibility of gaining some small peace before committing himself to the scorching flames of the hottest fires in the area. Saddened was the Shaman's monster, but at the same time, relieved to have somehow found his way out in all of it, the telepath's way to end the psychological and physical agonies, once and for all. And all that the monster needed to do, with all the complexities of war raging all around the giants' fighting arena in full fervour, was bite down on the towering Drengir standing in the way; slow and lumbering though the telepath's opponent was, but in that moment, none ever appeared as invincible as their chosen champion did in that moment.

Sooooon....​

The urge to kill the pain felt more real than ever, for the flames, once a symbol of the death the telepath feared, had become an avatar of temptation; and if consuming the Vinesworn couldn't quell the pain, or if they were to remain out of the tormented one's reach, there would be only one other option left to Yorunarr's victim by that point of the battle. But first, there would be a very large obstacle to feast on, and such an obstacle was standing readily to meet the challenge with arms and claws bared, flapping wings made of the very earth it had consumed to meet the Drengir's existential threat. No such solace would await any of the naturally formed giant's kindred, but in the forest somewhere behind them, the other telepaths were bounding southwards early; hoping to catch the magma first, but well-timed detonations by the men of Scope Platoon would bring the Shaman's contingency plan to inconclusive ruin, surrounding the Scopes and Guardians with the noxious spores - and with no way to safely traverse it without succumbing to the Shaman's despair.

BUT NOT YET!!!!! NOT WHILE YOU STILL STAND, TRAAAAAIIIIITOOOOOOR!!!!!​

Even with all the explosions behind him, the visible sight of magma rising in the distant valley, and the screams of the other Drengir, the tormented one's resolve was much too strong to let any of it serve as fatal distractions. All that was left, in the mind swimming with insatiable wrath, was the unquenchable need to consume the largest, and most-irritating feast in the entirety of it's miserably-short lifespan; nothing would draw the telepath's eyes away as it broke into a sprint with the mightiest roar it's fraying voice could muster, nothing would keep the bared teeth from sinking into the opposing giant's stomach as the tormented one closed the distance with frightening speed. Then, as the Vinesworn's defender's massive height advantage was negated by sheer force of will, and only then did the telepath notice that the Shaman's voice had fallen truly silent in that moment, letting out a roar of a contrastingly ecstatic nature as the spores spewed out over the taller giant's wounds.

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Objective: Defend the Warcamp
Allies: The Mongrel | BotM and Allies
Enemies: Jacen Nimdok | Keilara Kala'myr | SJC and Allies
Engaging: Zachariel engaging Errik, marauders Ziare
Links: Axe
Post 10​

Sneering as Jaina cried out to him, Zachariel simply kept moving, hearing their voices fade as they spoke. Ducking off into another alley, the gen'dai took a moment to pause and listen. The sounds of combat all around still echoed, but there were no sounds of pursuit. Taking a moment to sigh, Zachariel grinned as he glanced back towards his foes. He could only imagine the pain and hate running through the both of them, hopefully it would cause more divisions between them.

Still grinning with satisfaction, Zachariel turned and walked back into the deep of the camp, once more walking into the shadows to disappear. Some may consider it running away, and partially Zachariel was doing so. Another part would say this was smarter, as his armor was damaged and not even he could survive a disruptor given time. More than that though, there was also the thought that this division may break his foes. It was a satisfying thought, one he chose to put as his main objective.

Hooking his axe once more to his hip, Zachariel vanished into the commotion and darkness of the camp.

The ignored her cries, her pleas for freedom. There was no escape from such a place as this, no chance of rescue. Sure the Jedi and their allies would save some, but they wouldn't save everyone, they couldn't. Those they failed to save would eventually be those they fought against. And one of them would be Ziare Still, her strong willed spirit was why they had chosen her to become one of them, even if it was annoying in the present.

Thus, Ziare escaped and ran from them, fleeing all the harder at the silent marauders order. Scowling, the silent marauder switched his weapon to safety even as he aimed it at Ziare's back. Before he could shoot however, she slipped and fell. Her slide brought her somewhat further, now around eleven meters away from where the silent marauder stood, watching impassively. His scowl turning into a smile, the marauder marched past his fallen compatriot without a second glance. The other marauder however, he quickly rose and followed his leader.

Calmly and silently marching towards Ziare, the silent marauder held his pistol by his side. He all but stalked forward, eyes never leaving the now fetal positioned woman. She sobbed, quietly crying out for help of any kind. Stopping around half a meter from her, the silent marauder knelt as he looked at her, and when he spoke, his voice was once again that silent calm.
"No one is coming Ziare, no one cares." Motioning towards the distant sounds of battle, the man shook his head slowly. "They can't save you, no one can, that is fate. You are destined to join us my dear, willingly or not." Holding his hand out, the man offered Ziare a chance no one else would or could. "Join us Ziare, become what you were always destined to be. A warrior fighting for the renewal of a corrupt and stagnant galaxy."