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A calculated risk? An acceptable loss? A military blunder? For weeks to come the First Order's defeat at Skor II would no doubt be the focus of many investigations. Already data recorded during the encounter had been transmitted back to High Command, the tapes and recordings being meticulously combed for intelligence and evaluation. Like any other major government, the bureaucracy could take weeks, even months to fully comb through the data - but there were some things which required immediate action, the information irrefutable at a mere glance.
Along the horizon a crimson crescent could be seen rising, a biting edge of cool breeze gently blowing through the streets of Avalonia. A rustle of banners filtered lightly across the large square, broken up only by the quiet breaths of men and women gathered there. These were no mere citizens, not simply the people of Dosuun gathered for a public address - the men and women gathered in the square stood in line. Their disheveled uniforms clung to their bodies as if they'd been worn for nearly a week, their eyes haggard their features gaunt. Upon further inspection it could be discerned that those gathered here were not entirely here by their will, soldiers belonging to the Shock Trooper Legion, affectionately referred to as "Fortan's Fist" stood watching from the edges of the square, their weapons held tightly - the gloss white of their armor glinting as it caught the sun.
In formation they stood, their heads held high - their bodies yet retaining the traces of discipline which they'd so clearly lacked. This was no mere address, this was no simple parade or gathering - this was a reckoning.
It wasn't often true disciplinary action was required past assigning extra watch duties or working in the mess hall for a stint but this was something different entirely. During the hostilities on Skor - actions had been taken that were not easily reversed, orders issued by those without command to do so, and those orders followed by further yet - those unauthorized to carry them out. It is commonly said that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. That may be true, but all must pay for their actions.
Silently the soldiers of Fortan's Fist arranged themselves about the square, their weapons at the ready should some officer or trooper step out of line, try to escape. Above the square atop the Capitol steps themselves stood a lone podium, a highly complex network of holo-camera's and microphones arranged at its corner. As if a silent cue was given, the doors to the mighty palace would open, a small group of figures there began their slow walk towards the open podium, their faces obscured by the long shadows cast by the rising sun.
Ranulph's eyes took in the long shadows played out on the ground. He watched them dance for a moment and then he shut his eyes. His memories played and he felt the death of the four under his command, Maddessen, Kowalski, Dancause, and Waterford. The officer's thoughts interrupted by the sounds of flags and banners as they fluttered in the wind. In the distance his eyes laid upon the Palace and his heart sank, they had died in vain. Viramontes with her shoulder paldron secured fixed Ranulph's.
"Formation, lieutenant." She reminded him gently, prodding the man to adjust his posture as he secured his helmet. His helmet he thought for a moment. The entire platoon had to go scouring Skor II for their armour. After having chunked it out of the bus in the hopes of gaining the advantage on the Vong and the Alliance Marines. Of which he had to give them credit they were fierce, and still his thoughts weighed back to the four he lost.
Quietly his boots walked across the grounds, as he listened to Viramontes give the orders. "Column of files from the left, forward! March!"
Ranulph watched as they marched out in a single file heading to join the legion. Their legion, Fortan's Fist he could feel the wreckoning that awaited them. Of course he had only heard the reports and could scarcely believe it. It wasn't his place to question those in his own unit, his own legion he was just a soldier. Do as you're told, don't ask questions, show up when you're ordered and do your job which fell in line with the first order he supposed. He marched on the outside ensuring that his men and women were on step, and fell into their place. 10th Company, 3rd Platoon otherwise known as the Bloody Banthas. The ragtag men and women who had spent the majority of their service in the Western Reaches who now stood along side their brothers and sisters in armour.
[SIZE=11pt]It was early spring in Avalonia.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]The air was sweet with the smell of the cherry blossoms that were emblematic of the season in the capital, carried along on the gentle breeze that, with the fountains and water features’ merry trickling, served as the only sound as Natasi Fortan descended the steps of the Imperial Palace. [member="Asharad Graush"], the newly appointed Supreme Commander was a step behind her, a step to the left. [member="Dante Calgar"], Minister of Security, was a step behind and to the right. The trio had spent the last several hours in discussion about the debacle at Skor II, and hadn’t slept. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]This, they had in common with the hundreds of men who stood silent and still, motionless like statues in Victory Square. Natasi’s dark eyes scanned the crowd as she mounted the small platform in front of the steps. Around the perimeter, keeping order, were squads from Fortan’s FIST and the Eighth Company, with [member="Torian Pierce"] overseeing his platoon nearest to the stage. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]The square should have been filled with noise -- with cheering crowds celebrating another First Order victory, flags waving, patriotic hymns ringing off the buildings. Instead, it was very nearly silent. The atmosphere could be described as [/SIZE][SIZE=11pt]funerary[/SIZE][SIZE=11pt]. The Grand Moff stood to the side of the podium that has been erected and glanced behind her at Graush, then Calgar. On the horizon, the sun was beginning to appear, casting blood-red rays of dawn across the city. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]It was time.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]She stepped up to the podium and settled her notes on the top. She touched the control for the microphone and leaned in. There was no preamble, no artistry to her words as there would normally be. She simply went into it: “We are here to discuss a breakdown in the discipline of the Supreme Leader’s forces. This lack of discipline led directly to the deaths of innocent people, embarrassment to the Supreme Leader and a stain on the as yet unquestioned honor of the First Order.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]She paused and adjusted her notes. “The nation -- and the galaxy -- will know that the leadership of the First Order will not tolerate these actions. The First Order will not now, nor will we ever, accept disobedience and insubordination within the ranks. The First Order will not now, nor will we ever allow the actions of the few upend the established policy of this nation. Let today be a lesson, not just to those present in this square, but to every single individual who wears the uniform of the First Order, everyone who acts or speaks in the name of this nation. It will not be tolerated.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]She cleared her throat. “The unauthorized use of an orbital airstrike against the people of Skor II represents a failure of discipline in our armed forces. The vessel which performed this unauthorized orbital airstrike will be remembered as a warning to those who would act this way in future. The names of the dishonored will be remembered, if at all, for being weak, foolish, and disobedient to the will of the Supreme Leader. In his name, you will be punished for these transgressions.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]Natasi looked out across the formation of men standing in rows. She wanted to capture the scene for posterity; she would never be able to see Victory Square in the same way again. “You will separate into groups of ten and draw lots. You will then use the weapons provided to execute the individual who drew the short lot. Anyone who refuses to participate will be executed.” [/SIZE]
[SIZE=11pt]Natasi hesitated. This was the end of her prepared remarks, but she didn’t quite feel she had said her piece. She again cleared her throat, hesitating halfway between leaning into the microphone and standing straight. Her heart was in her throat. Natasi was mother to the nation -- she wanted to say something to inspire people, to encourage them. But no words came. This was a national sin, and there would be no hiding from it. So, she simply leaned forward and ordered: “Begin.”[/SIZE]
Agent Falkrowe monitored the event unfolding before him from the shadows as an unimportant officer to the side. The elite of the elite were here. The Grand Moff, the Minister of Security and the Sith General among others.
His eyes moved from the Grand Moff, while she was speaking, to the men sentenced to a brutal ordeal. Jude felt his heart pace as horror filled him at the words that Grand Moff Fortan uttered.
This was certainly not something he expected. Not something he could believe his nation would do.
The agent knew he was no saint himself. Being a field operative you often build trust with people you end up backstabbing. Yet, this was something else.
Through the Force, Falkrowe felt the horror of those that were ordered to slay their own brothers. Just a few days ago they were supporting each other, encouraging each other as they went into battle believing to fight for a cause and idea that was above them. They'd shed tears, sweat and blood for that idea. They would give their lives for that idea.
Brothers in arms were now thrown in a pit against each other for that same idea.
Throughout the meeting between the trio while hundreds of their armed forces stood at attention outside, A'sharad had pushed for the deaths of all those present aboard the ship. An extreme that would assure that all those who had undermined what the Order stood for would know. A lesson that would shake every trooper, every marine, every navy man to their very core. Undoubtedly, it would also be killing those that were innocent, those that hadn't even known they were firing at all. In this way... It meant that there was a chance that those innocent would get away free... Though the weight of their next actions will shadow them for the rest of their lives.
A'sharad's amber orbs flicked over the assembled forces. Through the Force he could sense the reaction to [member="Natasi Fortan"]'s words. It was as if the calm water that was the Force came alive, building up. And when that sole command came, it crashed as the reality of the situation set in.
It's monstrous in its own way.
The Sith Lord's gaze watched as some went to work immediately. They knew the gravity of the situation as multiple circles began to form throughout the Square. If they didn't kill the one that was picked out, then they would all die. Others were slow. They were friends, after all, at least, one would think so. They had fought side by side, likely on multiple occasions. And here they were... Nine out of a group of ten would take rock to skull for their own survival.
There was a difference between killing someone with a blaster, let alone firing from a ship in orbit of planet, and killing someone with a rock that you yourself held.
The lesson will be learned.
Besides, the Sith Lord had his own unit to deal with.
As Suravi watched the gruesome display unfold over broadcast, she saw that she had been correct in her decision not to integrate her forces in with that of the First Order. She would have been damned if their direction had ever been left to the whim of one of those reckless Ren, glorified hatchetmen. If there was anyone that should have been on that square for execution, it should have been the Ren who had ordered the orbital strike.
Connor Harrison. How far the former Jedi Master had fallen. She could remember a time when both of them had railed against the so-called 'Butcher of Korriban' for performing similar atrocities against orders. Now he had come full circle in his corruption.
However, as Connor was MIA, all those crewmen would have to stand in his place as the blood sacrifice for this grotesque pageantry. She doubted most of them even had a full picture of what had been going on down on Skor, each operating their own stations as a tiny cog in part of a greater war machine that was a Star Destroyer. Interestingly, not a single one of those designated for execution included any flag officers from central command, who were ultimately responsible for instilling discipline within the lower ranks. The rank and file would be made to suffer for their incompetence.
Dosuun was far from Seoul, but the powerful adept could use the display as a guide to focus in on the square. Distance meant nothing in the Force, as every object and being were connected as one within its great tapestry of mystical energies. She could then feel the great waves of fear and anguish that collectively coursed through those throngs of doomed men and women. As she became fully in tuned with the scene, she would close her tawny eyes and experience the lives of dozens being snuffed out by their brothers in arms.
The cynic in her kept going back and forth on the motivations of this event. Was this just an overreaction by zealots, or a craven move by the desperate? Either way, she didn't care much for how the First Order acted in defeat. She feared a backlash, that their enemies may become even more resolute as they saw how the First Order treated its very own. Had the First Order just blasted itself in the foot?
Moff Calgar followed closely behind the Grand Moff and the Supreme Commander. As the Minister of Security, it was pertinent he be here - in fact, in many ways it could have been said that he had instigated the very purpose for this show of force. Seemingly creeping up from the shadows, he'd made a bold move - immediately replacing several of the advisers of the previous Moff - people he'd known from his time in service of the Stormtrooper Corps and the FOSB. Many of the latter weren't exactly the most above level individuals. That was all behind the scenes talk - what was happening now... this was very much up front. An ugly business to be sure, but as Minister of Security, ensuring that the First Order's military stayed in line was of the utmost importance.
It had cost them dearly, their lack of adherence to protocol, their visible display and utter disregard for what it was the Supreme Leader fought so hard to achieve. Order. Order would be had, at the end of a sword if necessary. The crew of the vessel which had rained down plasma on the already ravaged Metrobig had earned the very wrath which they now found themselves the object of. Dante was no stranger to the atrocities of war, the collateral damage, the bonds that held men together as they waded though streets awash with blood. So also was he versed in the realm of the shadow. Officially his record read much like a college transcript. His posts were always the most obscure of worlds, eventually terminating with a stint on Sump - wholly uninteresting.. but nothing could have been farther from the truth.
As he stood there on the platform his eyes fell on those before him - the Grand Moff's voice carrying across the square with an echo. He could feel the chill of the air through his fitted uniform. The gray fabric cut him a slim figure, his hawkish features accentuated by the high collar. As he breathed he could almost see the small cloud of steam escape his own lips. As the woman's speech progressed, his mind was made.
The Minister of Security was a new appointee - his name relatively unknown among his peers, even those above him in the hierarchy would have had trouble naming him. After this... they would know his name - in fact some may even come to fear it.
With the Grand Moff's address coming to a close, her words hung in the air. As the farthest reaches of the square echoed Natasi's voice, members of Fortan's Fist would be seen, their stark white armor a contrast to the grays and blacks of the naval officers and enlisted splayed across the square. Standing, they would be witness to the discipline - should any fall out of line, they would be dispatched with impunity by the weapons of the FIST. While the majority of the crew had been arranged in groups of ten, the command officers of the vessel had been set aside, front and center. It was now that Dante made his move. Words were unnecessary.
With powerful and direct strides he made his way towards the podium - and then farther, passing it as his steel blue eyes locked with that line of officers, their faces pale as the horror of the overall situation began to sink in. Oblivious to him, their nervous glances remained on those soldiers who were under their command, hesitant whispers as they watched ten after ten draw lots - watched nine after nine turn on their former crewman and begin their bloody sentence. The sound of bricks shifting as they were picked up, dropped, hammered - it was a brief one for the line of officers gathered there, their eyes drawn to the imposing figure of the Security Minister.
Dante stopped, exactly three meters in front of them, his eyes appraising each and every one for several seconds before passing to the next. It was as his eyes fell on the final one that his voice was raised, an outstretched hand towards the nearest trooper of the FIST.
"Your sidearm."
Several seconds passed, the Moff's eyes now moving, landing on the figure of the trooper as he spoke again.
"Your sidearm Sergeant."
As Dante spoke the man's rank indicated by his shoulder pauldron, his voice was stressed as if through clenched teeth. The Moff's hands trembled not as the no doubt bewildered soldier began to put the pieces together. A brief inspection of the pistol seemed to satisfy Moff Calgar, his eyes rising to meet the first in the line of officers. Once more - no words. A simple expression that could only be read as despair crossed the officer's features. In one swift movement, a stomach churning second, the blaster barrel was raised and without hesitation the trigger pulled as it centered in on the man's forehead.
The blaster report echoed - causing some of the soldiers to look up from where they carried out their mandate, the officer beside the now deceased jumping. An expression of hope briefly as he thought perhaps they too would be merely decimated as their subordinates then turned to terror. Dante stepped squarely in front of the second, again raising the blaster and without hesitation - fired. The Moff's features showed no emotion, his cool blue eyes boring into each officer's before terminating their commission. They had broken their oaths, they had brought dishonor to the First Order and the Supreme Leader - and their sin would be paid in full.
Kyrel could feel nothing but cold unrelenting darkness. He kept clinging to life throughout the entire journey back to Dosuun, as both the damage to his life support armor was extensive and very severe. He kept trying to concentrate more on his rage, on the darkness within to save himself. He had cursed himself time and time again when drifting in and out of consciousness. He had hated everything, and could feel death crawling on his doorstep, he couldn't move his metal prosthesis, and his breathing was shallow. He only concentrated on his fierce hatred towards the Galactic Alliance to keep him alive long enough to reach the medical center, even such time seemed lost to him in this bleak hour that was hanging in the balance.
He could not remember much after passing out on the shuttle, but in the moments of drifting in and out of consciousness, he was dragged by several stormtroopers to the med bay, where he was thrown in a bacta tank for the rest of the trip home, in hopes of saving his life. Now he was out and he was on his way towards the capital of Avalonia. He could hear sounds of speeders going by, and even some of the troopers chattering and all he could think to himself was. 'I will not die, please do not let me die like this. I won't have it, I won't. My hate is never ending I am a Knight of Ren and I shall not be defeated so easily.' He said as he drifted into another bout of darkness.
The next time he awoke he could hear the droids speaking, and could feel movement as if he was moving rapidly. He could hear a droid speaking in the background, it's cold metallic tone reflecting no sympathy or even a hint of emotion as it said. "We must get him to the reconstruction center immediately, have the armor ready.' He knew what was going to happen as thought to himself cautiously. 'I see it will finally begin, I am ready.' He said as he was rushed into a dark room filled with dim lighting, and quite a few med droids. His armor was peeled slowly, and all he could feel was needles poked into his charred flesh, he screamed in pain as the needles were injecting fluids to prolong his life long enough for the armor to be put in place, but all Kyrel did was scream that it could be heard through the walls as he felt every remaining nerve in his body catch on fire, and causing his metal limbs to stretch out hoping for some type of relief through the agony.
He was present largely for the symbolism. In his now characteristic dress whites atop the platform with the Grand Moff and Supreme Commander he gazed down on the assembled ranks and watched the massacre happen with a distinct impassivity. The violence did not bother him in the least, he had done worse personally, but it did make him wonder about it all. The One Sith had been fond of mass executions, public displays of humiliation, and other excesses to display their power and authority. Then the purpose had been to cement in the heads of all observers that the Sith were in charge, and there was no way around that. There was little passion in such displays, except that exhibited by those Sith who took a particular pleasure in violence.
Back on Axxila some house were known for acting similarly towards traitors or those who had displeased the Chair. The Tregessars themselves were no strangers to public executions, but every action there was carefully planned and viewed through a political lens, with an eye towards what could be gained and what might be lost.
But this? This was different. There was certainly some of the rage and demand for authority so common amongst the Sith, and also some of the far-reaching view towards political backlash, but the core reasoning was utterly alien to either previous example.
The Sith punished failure to cover their own inadequacies. It would have been a mistake to assume that the same process was occurring here. There was an ongoing analysis back at Central Command as to the failure of the invasion at Skor, and none of the conclusions had anything to do with orbital strikes on the space platform. This was something more, and while perhaps wasteful on a material level (the offending vessel was to be scrapped in its entirety, the surviving crew reassigned to other ships, and the name stricken from the record) the outcome would resonate, would build in intensity, and in the end the Order would be stronger for it.
In the eyes of those around him, like the new Moff, this was treason, betrayal, no different than aiding and abetting the enemy in war. Simply executing the commanding officer would not do, it must be made clear to every soldier and spacer that the very ideal for which the First Order stood for was threatened by gross insubordination and this treachery.
It was not a concept Cyrus believed in himself. Loyalty to a cause was meaningless in war, so long as one obeyed orders. But for those he served it was the very fabric of their society. So he would witness, to make it clear to all the unforgiven that all facets of the First Order had signed off on the punishment to be delivered.
One of the officers looked up and their eyes met. He recognized the man, albeit only barely, a glimmer of a face he had seen once before. But the accused clearly recognized him, and what it meant to have him standing there. For a moment Cyrus wondered what the man thought, seeing the Grand Admiral watch the proceedings without a hint of emotion and caring not even remotely who lived and died.
Then the officer looked down with a stern resolve painted across his face. In the ferocity of his gaze Cyrus saw only acceptance and... approval. They understood, and they would carry out the orders assigned to them, acting as they had failed before.
Ranulph had never stood so still in his life. Fear gripped him, paralysed him and what followed made him only glad to have had the helmet conceal his features. He watched as the Grand Moff, the Supreme Commander what seemed to be every brass officer from each and every branch of the military had been there. We did what? He thought to himself, had his platoon been so blinded by their own work to have not... No. Ranulph thought he steeled himself. His fist clenched in rage, how, why? WHO? Were the questions that went through his mind immediately. And suddenly he was no longer gripped with fear, it had been replaced with rage. He kept his bearing, he kept his rage. The man's eyes flashed with a fiery glare and then it was gone, he could see the text messages on his HUD. His platoon wanted answers just as well, he issues his own order and it was quite simple.
:: Sear this day into your mind, for if you betray the very tenants of which our nation is so founded, balance help you. ::
Treason. His blood continued to boil, he lost four good soldiers on Skor II, Ranulph had to sit down and write to their families. He had to explain that their children were gone and that the only solace a grateful nation could bestow upon them was a bloody flag. A flag would not bring them back, a flag would only serve to remind them for whom their children died. In this moment forged a new thought into Ranulph's mind, a new will and the blood of a Tarkin. No longer were his men and women to be simply the ragtag unit. The unit of mischiefs and those cast aside from the other companies, they would show the legion, their brothers and sisters what it meant to wear the uniform. To wear these white plastoid armors, to secure the galaxy and bring order to it once and for all. Disobedience will not, and would not be tolerated, another text would be issued to his platoon.
:: Report to Faldos Training Facility, Tomorrow 0500. ::
He would double down on their training and prepare them to face the Alliance, to face the Coalition forces of the Outer Rim. Ranulph Tarkin and his platoon were soldiers, servants of the First Order's might military machine and they had one ruler, the Supreme Leader and it was his will that they obeyed. They had their Supreme Commander Asharad Graush from whom they would receive their orders and would not question them. They were the 103rd, of the First Legion, Fortan's Fist. Bearing the name of the mighty and gracious Grand Moff who had served on Castameer, Kaeshana and Mustafar and they served their nation and countrymen. Private Dancause, Private Waterford, Private Kowalski and Corporal Maddessen - the four he lost, their names haunted him and reminded him of his failures. Ranulph would not let it happen again, not on his watch. No one dies in vain, no one. This is the last day that we are to be the joke of the Legion, the age of our reckoning is upon us and once again, a Tarkin shall be at the tip of the Imperial's sword.
At the edge of Capitol Square, outside the armed perimeter, Ashin blended in with the civilians. Their emotions - anger, fear, shame, cognitive dissonance - remained as muted to her as the horror of the troops. Sooner or later, any Master of the Force needed to choose between power and insight. In one old record, Luke Skywalker had compared it to trying to hear a whisper when you were shouting all the time. A very long time ago, Ashin had chosen strength over sensitivity, and the emotion of the scene washed over her like water over smooth rock.
In her time as the Dark Lord of the Sith, Arbiter of the Confederation, and even more obsolete titles, she'd made the occasional example for similar reasons. In the cold light of twenty or thirty years’ hindsight, those examples had failed as often as they'd succeeded. The failures had been the arbitrary ones, and nothing said arbitrary like literal decimation of the guiltless. What fraction of these people had made any choice remotely related to the bombardment? A tenth? Easily determined with precision, and without randomness. Fear might be more reliable than love, as the old politician’s adage went...but Ma’kavel had also said to choose both whenever possible.
She could almost - almost - attribute this mistake to a knee-jerk reaction by decision-makers new to the dictatorship process. A gesture on this scale, though, could never happen without the express permission of Sieger Ren. And if there was one thing she'd learned as a citizen of the First Order, an avid watcher of grand strategy, Sieger Ren knew his business.
Clearly enough, the Supreme Leader had a problem. He'd never have authorized something like this otherwise. The bombardment at Skor Two had to be symptomatic of a more pervasive issue, maybe in discipline, maybe in messaging. Having faced the same challenges in the same situations and the same regions of space, Ashin could admit that bringing law and order was tricky when some fraction of your people just wanted murder.
First things first
I'ma say all the words inside my head
I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been, oh ooh
The way that things have been, oh ooh
The breeze brushed across the stonework of the square, whipping banners into a frenzy, the red and black fabric snapping in the winds, like hounds hungry for the hunt, howling for the taste of blood that was to come. An occasional shift of weight or nervous movement caused the sea of men and woman gathered before the stage to shift and swell, never enough to break ranks under the watchful eye of the Shock Legion, standing guard.
Second thing
Second, don't you tell me what you think that I can be
I'm the one at the sail, I'm the master of my sea, oh ooh
The master of my sea, oh ooh
The Knight cast an eye across the space, failing to spot any of her brother or sister Ren, but she was unconcerned by their absence for the most part. The edges of her cloak fluttered in the breeze, the red and black colors nearly the same as the banners hanging high overhead, armor having been traded for the dress robes she wore to any official function, her borrowed helmet still present to keep her identity disclosed. The Grand Moff approached the stage, the figures surrounding the girl shifting subtly to attention, backs and knees straightening ever so slightly, the Knight’s mouth twisting slightly into a vicious smile as her gaze was drawn to them instead of the woman on the podium.
Shock and fear spread across the square as the sentence was passed down, the men and woman slow to comprehend and even slower to act. Eventually, a group drew lots and began slaying their unlucky comrade, fear and survival instinct winning against any moral qualms they might have. Like the ripple of a tone in water, the rest followed suit, lots drawn and bloody reckoning coming to pass.
I was broken from a young age
Taking my soul into the masses
Write down my poems for the few
That looked at me took to me, shook to me, feeling me
Singing from heart ache from the pain
Take up my message from the veins
Speaking my lesson from the brain
Seeing the beauty through the
The Ren never moved, helmet turned to survey the square and its proceedings with the calm of one who felt neither surprise nor disgust for the choice of punishment handed down. The First Order could have chosen to decimate the entirety of the crew of the ship who chose to follow the orders of a disciple, the battle on Skor II a failure in no large part thanks to the actions of those involved.
Fingers clenched into a fist as anger washed over her, the empty emotion still shocking her with its lack of potency, the wash of power and darkness that usually accompanied it gone, leaving her the empty shell of a powerful warrior. Resolutely, she avoided feeling for the metal hilt of Ba’Vanim, knowing the blade was no longer hanging from her hip, instead fused to the hand of an ally of the Galactic Alliance, her prized blade to be turned against her in the tides of war.
Shots broke through her reverie, the line of commanding officers falling one by one as a blaster was fire into each forehead, snuffing out each life with the flick of a finger. Still she watched dispassionately as bodies fell, each shot ringing through the silent crowd, some of the onlookers reacting visibly to the display, others staring as she was, without emotion or reaction. Behind her visor, eyes burned with anger and determination.
You made me a, you made me a believer, believer
(Pain, pain)
You break me down, you build me up, believer, believer
(Pain)
I let the bullets fly, oh let them rain
My luck, my love, my God, they came from
(Pain)
You made me a, you made me a believer, believer
Standing surrounded by so much death, anger, fear, and pain and she couldn’t feel even a drop of the Force that must be boiling and reacting to the rising tide of emotion in the square. Each death would echo and spark in the blanket of power, the emptiness within the Knight growing with each new life returned to the Force, her fingers clinched so tightly into fists it was a wonder her knuckles didn’t break from the strain.
Third things third
Send a prayer to the ones up above
All the hate that you've heard has turned your spirit to a dove, oh ooh
Your spirit up above, oh ooh
Here she was, reduced to nothing, a shadow of herself, rendered useless to the First Order and to the Ren. Was she destined for a future such as theirs?
Eyes skimmed the square as the action slowly died out, the gruesome executions leaving rivers of crimson to stain the brick beneath, the watchful sentinels of the Shock Legion continuing to do their duty with every passing second. Would she be left to fight for survival as one of them? A trooper broken down and reprogrammed to follow orders without hesitation, her once proud status as the shadowy hand of the Supreme Leader wiped away in an instant, a sacrifice made to secure victory for their cause.
Third things third
Send a prayer to the ones up above
All the hate that you've heard has turned your spirit to a dove, oh ooh
Your spirit up above, oh ooh
Turning swiftly on one heel, her movement drawing rapt attention from the guards surrounding the square, she took a step followed by another, moving away from the scene before her, uncaring as to the loss of life.
You made me a, you made me a believer, believer
(Pain, pain)
You break me down, you built me up, believer, believer
(Pain)
I let the bullets fly, oh let them rain
My luck, my love, my God, they came from
(Pain)
You made me a, you made me a believer, believer
No. She wouldn’t accept that her journey was over as quickly as it had begun. She would reach out to the one person who she could trust explicitly. Another whose name was on a list of casualties she could only hope would not also be joining the list of the dead. Hands reached up, the clasp on her helmet snapping open with a click as she pulled the armor off her head, hair falling out to trail over her cloak, the auburn wisps picked up by the wind and wiping behind her.
Hushed voices and shocked faces met her burning gaze as the crowd parted before her, her stride never wavering. She’d survived much worse and would continue to do so. And when she met [member="Bryce Bantam"] again? The lost saber and revenge would belong to her.
Last things last
By the grace of the fire and the flames
You're the face of the future, the blood in my veins, oh ooh
The blood in my veins, oh ooh
But they never did, ever lived, ebbing and flowing
Inhibited, limited
Till it broke up and it rained down
It rained down, like
You made me a, you made me a believer, believer
(Pain, pain)
You break me down, you built me up, believer, believer
(Pain)
I let the bullets fly, oh let them rain
My luck, my love, my God, they came from
(Pain)
You made me a, you made me a believer, believer
Standing among a quite surreal event, Syra attended this ceremonial punishment from afar. His face to the backs of a multitude of citizens all resonating with one another in their empathy of melancholy. Cloaked heavily and with features obscured aside from a noble's head-wear and mask, Syra must have looked quite out of place and even more bizarre to those that did notice his presence.
The devilish nobleman did not care for the circumstance of the predicament that this grandiose spectacle adhered to. This was a drama, a show in which he relished the passion - the shock, and the atmosphere. Hands urged to clap together in excitement, Syra restrained himself from making a foolish intrusion. It was difficult to not sway and flow with what bitterness and heartache that occupied the very air.
The nobleman was feeding from the emotion, harnessing it to sate his own twisted ego. A banquet of flavor, only hinted by the occasional sweetness of iron pervading the breeze. This was well worth the trip, and it would be even more swell to engage further with the First Order's line of perspective.
They were an institution of brilliance, and their political system nearly made the nobleman swoon from flirtatious admiration. A fine example of power and control.
Oh, the lust.
The fire that burned within to increase with utmost fervor.
A grin cracked the lips of Syra as he gazed onward, taking everything in.
