Dyyr T'Pada
Tenabrak
In the Wake of the Flames
Sudden turbulence ended Dyyr’s stupor of thought.
“We’re closing in on the deployment zone! Ten minutes to arrival.”
The Black Arbiters were en route to a distress signal received from a colony of Vaydralen under attack by off-world invaders earlier that morning. Their living troop carrier was at capacity; the feared Black Arbiters were being accompanied by a contingent of Shaman beast tamers. In their panicked transmission, the Vaydralen had made it clear that their attackers were led by a group of mighty Sorcerers. Thus, the Black Arbiters had been dispatched. They were Warlocks: Aeravalin shock troops specially trained to wield and protect against the force. The Shaman contingent, to which Dyyr was assigned, was only tagging along to provide alternative force sensitive support.
Saying that Dyyr was feeling frustrated would have been a gross mischaracterization of what he was feeling. Perfectly accurate perhaps, but it glossed over so many key details. In the months since Dyyr’s first deployment at the battle in the ruins of Gyn, the Bryn had suffered several defeats. Dyyr’s unit had been deployed all over the continent, frantically trying to stamp out threats wherever they could be found. The signal they were responding to was only a taste of their recent assignments. Sith scouting parties, rampaging wildlife, looting invaders, seemingly random skirmishes, Dyyr’s contingent had seen it all. On the bright side, these had given Dyyr the battlefield experience he had been craving. He was finally getting chances to prove himself. Unfortunately, his developing skills had not been enough to stem the tide of losses the Bryn on Kesh were slowly being drowned by.
Dyyr’s head shook as he pondered. This entire deployment was a strategic waste. A cry for help from an active military colony was by far the best lead they’d had in weeks. Despite this, he cringed as he considered the implications. A steamroller of Sith military might was making its way down the peninsula toward the Superstructure in the Sessal Spire. If they didn’t act quickly, they would be pressed into a siege. They had a limited window to use the tactical advantage granted them by their superior numbers and training. And here they were, heading to answer the call of a contingent which until recently was marked as MIA. To Dyyr, the correct response was simple. Let the Vaydralen perish. Let all these minor threats go unanswered. Coalesce their forces and meet the Sith army head on. Once their head was obliterated, the flagellates would wither and die. A full power direct assault gave them every advantage. The Sith could never match them soldier for soldier. The Bryn’Adul were stronger than the Sith could ever hope to be. Weren’t they?
“No. We’re not.”
The thought came with such percussive force, it blasted a hole in his psyche. Doubts and suspicions began to swarm his mind. Stinging questions began driving him towards a conclusion that had to be avoided at all costs. He had found himself in this mental state increasingly often in the last few weeks, and just like every other time, he fought to suffocate his doubt.
He breathed deep and reminded himself of what he already knew. The only reason the Sith had survived against them was their knowledge of the force. The Arbiters around him had developed the mysterious energy into a powerful weapon, but for the Sith, the force was an obsession. Their fanatical devotion would be their undoing. The force was a mere inconvenience to the might of the Bryn’Adul. Every weapon had a weakness and the force would prove no exception. It was only a matter of time before that weakness came to light, and when it did, so would end the Sith’s petty attempt at conflict over Kesh.
Dyyr checked himself to be sure he hadn’t broadcasted those thoughts through his mindstone. His fellow Shaman would surely condemn him for such thoughts, and the Arbiters would probably execute him for thinking them. He chided himself for letting fear manifest so soon before a battle. The Bryn’Adul had conquered countless worlds. Maintaining this one would be no challenge. Thinking of which, it was odd they had received no off world reinforcement. Certainly that didn’t indicate that…
“Inbound on the drop zone! Prepare to deploy!”
The Zealots and Arbiters all around him began to stir with anticipation for the coming confrontation. One of the Warlocks on the other end of the seating cavity rose and tossed his shoulders with a vicious snarl. He was massive. Almost ten feet tall, his armor gleaming red. He hefted his Dredikast battlestaff and ignited the blade. Dyyr felt a pulse of sheer dread.
As the Zealots began leaping from the craft, Dyyr stood, clutching his own battle glaive. Deploying alongside the Black Arbiters filled him with confidence. Perhaps this seemingly meaningless skirmish would turn up some real results. With the Arbiters leading the charge, how could they fail? If they were being sent to counter force users, this was his opportunity to really investigate the facet by which their enemies held the advantage over them. Now the thrill of battle was pounding through Dyyr’s cold blood.
He pressed towards the deployment portal and looked down at the drop zone.
“Or I might just be burned alive. That might happen.”
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