Northeast: The Petrite Front
It was hard to see from the slope, hard to make out anything amid the chaos of the landslide and the bombing runs and the sandstorm below, but Khazzak could
feel what was happening: the vilest of all dark powers was being unleashed. Much of the power of the Dark Side focused on torment, on abilities that inflicted pain and fear, on drawing strength from rage and grief, but all of this was focused on the
living. Death was meant to be an end to that suffering, a final release after so much agony and horror. But the Dark Side, at its most extreme, could subvert even that supposed finality.
Some of the marauders had seen this power unleashed before, during the battle against the Sith Empire's forces on Enenpa. They had seen the corpses of allies and foes alike shamble to their feet amid the poisoned forests, attacking their enemies with unthinking savagery and hunger. Now this horrific vision was repeated upon the sands of Korriban, only multiplied by the planet's pervasive aura of death and unlife, the shadowy power of a place that had been known for its spirits and its tombs for thousands upon thousands of years. For in strange aeons, even death may die...
And even the dead may seek their revenge.
Khazzak had little time to appreciate the vile beauty of the scene, however. Even as Tegan's amplified voice echoed over the battlefield, the hillside continued to rumble. The Petrite forces below had managed to deflect much of the worst debris, stretching their telekinetic abilities to the maximum as they shielded themselves from the rockfall, but it seemed that even they had been surprised by the instability their attack had unleashed. For a moment, it seemed that both sides had been so disrupted by the chaos on the northeastern slopes that the battle could not possibly continue.
But the Petrite forces were more resilient than that.
As rocks and sand finally stilled around the burning hulk of the crashed corvette, Khazzak took stock of his remaining troops. There was no retreat for them, no way back up the churned slope. They could either flee to the sides, abandoning this battlefront entirely and allowing the Petrite forces to menace the southern and northwestern flanks, or they could stand and fight until they were dead to the last marauder. For the zealots of the Maw, this was not a choice at all. Cries of
"War! Death! Rebirth!" echoed out across the hill as the remnants of the Tarar warbands prepared their last stand.
The crimson-armored troopers, accompanied by their deadly Exalted champions, were already moving up the more stable parts of the hill, keeping to either side of the landslide. They were once again met by a barrage of blaster and plasma fire, though this was a mere thunderstorm compared to the prior
hurricane they had tried to advance through. Many of the Tarar were already dead or wounded, and sheer ferocity and determination could not make up for the lost numbers. Still, they would fight hard to reap their tally of foes before closing to melee range... where they would still thrive.
They were big and strong, and carried serrated blades.
In the meantime, Khazzak glanced down at the center of the slope and beheld the enemy commander, rallying more of his Exalted for a push toward the fallen corvette. They would have to be stopped, or at least held back for as long as possible, lest they shatter this defensive front entirely by ascending the wreck and seizing the top of the hill. Drawing on the Force, Khazzak threw himself into an inhumanly-long leap, landing on top of the still-burning corvette. Even with his Force protection, he felt the heat of the metal on his bare feet. He let the pain fuel him, focusing his power.
"Avatars, witness me!" the shaman screamed at the sky, raising his grisly totem-staff over his head. Slowly but purposefully he stalked forward, walking down the top of the overturned corvette as if it was a bridge. Reaching out with one gnarled finger, tipped with a jagged, yellowed nail, he pointed at the enemy commander - a Chiss. How delicious was the man's hate, his desire for vengeance. Khazzak's gesture was clear: a challenge, an offer of bloodshed from one warleader to another. Could he stand against this saber-wielder? Perhaps not. But he would fight with all that he had...
And that would grant him entry into the Avatars' paradise.
-------------------------------------
South: The Galidraani Front
Before Fre'shaa's eyes, the entire southern hillside exploded.
It didn't claim nearly as many enemy vehicles as she'd hoped. Indeed, it seemed that her move had been anticipated, for only two AFVs had approached the impromptu minefield... and she'd watched their crews bail out before hitting the ledge. Not much success in generating losses for the enemy, but there was an upside. Apparently those AFVs had been packed with explosives, too, and the ensuing double-explosion had
obliterated the lower ridge. Where once there had been a clear shelf of rock, large enough for her deathgang - or enemy vehicles - to spread out, now there was...
Well, there was a series of jagged craters, an utter moonscape.
Add to that the bombardment from above, the NIO air attack that the limited Mawite air support had struggled to contend with, and you got one hell of a chaotic scene. Debris from crashing TIEs, shattered corvettes, and blown-apart
Divine Eagles; craters, swoop wreckage, and widely-strewn body parts in the wake of Galidraani airstrikes; the occasional unexploded bomb or grenade, shielded by rocks from the massive explosion moments earlier; all of it made for a truly hostile wasteland on the southern slope, the landscape transformed into an absurdist painting.
That was good news
and bad news for the Mawites. On the one hand, it meant that a massed charge was still impossible; riders moving side by side would be totally unable to negotiate the hostile terrain, unable to keep a cohesive line because they would have to swerve into each other to avoid the countless obstacles. On the other hand, the enemy AFVs would experience their own share of trouble. Much of the good work done by the sweeper-tanks, their prows clearing the rough rocks, had been undone by the ground-deforming chaos. Even for all-terrain vehicles, ascending would be a slog.
So where did that leave Fre'shaa, exactly?
There wasn't going to be a glorious charge down the now-fractured hillside, but that didn't mean she and her deathgang were useless. On the contrary, their small, nimble swoop bikes would use the jagged terrain to their advantage. By breaking off into trios, pairs, or even individuals, they could zoom around craters and zip past wreckage that wider armored vehicles would struggle to navigate. Instead of hitting the enemy in a single, devastating rush, they would harass their foes with their superior mobility, rushing in to jab with their power lances before melting into the shattered terrain.
"Pair up," Fre'shaa ordered her surviving gangers.
"We're going in. Work together to harass their tanks; one rider draws their attention, the other hits them from the side or behind. Grenade launchers for ranged harassment, power lances up close. Go for the engines, cockpits, and weapon systems. We want to slow them down and defang them before they get to the top." It wasn't as impressive a plan, less an all-out grab for death or glory and more a measured, reserved strategy to conserve what forces they had left... but the gangers were eager to go for it anyway.
Circling and tormenting enemy tanks? Sounds like fun.
Nearby, the Rough Riders were preparing a different strategy. Denied their charge as well, they were descending the hill just south of the Ashlan positions, keeping to the cover of the jagged ridges. They were riding hard for the dry riverbed, relatively open terrain they could charge across, and then wheeling back to face the Galidraani positions. With the Wildcats advancing, they aimed to charge along the riverbed, striking the attacking AFVs in the flank as they struggled up the shattered hill. They'd be in the open, so speed and surprise were their best weapons.
If the NIO spotted them too soon, they'd be caught without cover.
With the Wildcats focused on advancing up toward the excavation, though, and on the harassment of the swoop gangs, they might not be able to react to the Rough Rider charge until power lances were already sinking into their flanks and rear. The two-pronged attack stood little chance of
destroying the enemy heavy vehicles, but it might steal their momentum and blunt their advance, leaving them stranded amid the shattered mid-hill battlefield. That was where the nimble swoops and orbaks would be at their best, able to use the uneven terrain to harass and pick off the AFVs.
It was a desperate plan, but it was the only one they had.
-------------------------------------
The Hilltop
The Mongrel was not a trained duelist. His time as a student in elite military academies and learning from aristocratic fencing instructors amounted to zero years total, and the Brotherhood didn't spend time or resources on educating its slave-soldiers in the ways of war; it simply threw them into battle, challenging them to learn or die. He'd been a consummate survivor across the many campaigns since that harsh initiation, and he had indeed learned - the hard way, with countless scars to show for it. For though he was a zealot and a barbarian, he was also a clever man.
He survived by never falling for the same trick twice.
Ultimately, his style of fighting was not informed by dueling theory or rigorous physical conditioning; instead, it was a hodgepodge of well-honed reactions and techniques he'd picked up over the years, mostly by imitation of more-skilled warriors. Between that, his physical toughness, and his iron will, The Mongrel had consistently been able to punch above his weight class, surviving battles against Force-users and elite soldiers with far more sophisticated gear. But his "school of hard knocks" approach had left behind gaps that a trained officer with a holistic education could exploit.
And so, when The Mongrel attempted his feint, Gowrie wasn't watching his arms. He was watching his hips and feet, the true guides of any melee attack, and they clued the Lord-Colonel in that the apparent overhead strike was not what it seemed. The marauder snarled as Gowrie stepped
into his attack, using his rapier to push the Mawite's blade aside at the base before it could spill his guts from hip to shoulder. Indeed, the bold Galidraani officer actually turned the moment around, aiming his basket hilt at The Mongrel's face in an effort to bash his durasteel war mask back into his skull.
At the very last second, the veteran warleader leapt back.
The two men circled a moment, sizing each other up again. The Mongrel could still feel the wind of Gowrie's hilt punch on the last bits of exposed flesh on his scarred head; had it connected, it might well have smashed his optics back into his head, ending the fight with a particularly brutal blinding. He had to be cautious even as he sought momentum and advantage, for it was clear that the Lord-Colonel was adept at reading his intentions... and at turning an enemy attack into an opportunity for himself. He was tempted to reach into his satchel of technological tricks for an advantage.
Against a Jedi, he would. But against Gowrie...
He
had to beat the Galidraani officer fairly, blade to blade, or he would never again be able to respect himself as a warrior. Neither man had sorcery to draw upon, only their particular brands of skill, and The Mongrel would be admitting that his was inferior if he turned to his Jedi-killing tools. Though it
did seem that Gowrie had a bit of sorcery about him that day, for his insubstantial companion was speaking, offering him advice. Truly these were strange times, when the dead returned from hell to behold the battles of the living... but the marauder didn't let it throw him off in the slightest.
"He's right," The Mongrel said, spinning his blade as he caught his breath.
"Give it your all, Gowrie, or this will be over too quickly." He charged in again, his blade kept in a low guard this time; if Gowrie could see through a feint, he might as well disguise the angle of his attack, as Barran had in their duel. Would he swipe upward, trying to cut across the Lord-Colonel's chest or swipe at his face? Would he aim downward, to cut him off at the legs? Neither. He came in half-swording, grasping the blade with a durasteel hand and striking forward with the full force of both arms.
The razor-sharp warblade raced at Gowrie's midsection, ready to impale... but the half-swording pose would also enable The Mongrel to use the blade like a staff, easily twisting it to block swipes and deflect stabs. Running the Lord-Colonel through would certainly end the duel, but the marauder very much doubted that his skilled foe would give him the chance. Instead he hoped to intercept Gowrie's counterattack and throw his guard wide, allowing him to follow up with a swipe or stab and draw the true first blood. His one worry was his foe's offhand razor, which might still strike him...
Pietro Demici
|
Isla Draellix-Kobitana
| AC | GA | NIO
Tu'teggacha
| MAW | SITH
Dracken Pryce
and his protectors
Constantine Oliva
and
Relynia Sorrene
. While some of the ships and their crews may be battered and bruised from the campaign against the Sith, they were well drilled and experienced. The might of the flagship Ouroboros was legendary.
