Dominion [NEO] Tales from the Frontier | First Servile War | Open

[Hakon Fett]

For countless ages, ER'KIT has been shrouded in a murky history of political intrigues, violent militias, and slave trade. In more recent times, the iron grip of the now-dissolved New Imperial Order had tightened upon this world, yet even they could not escape the weight of its storied legacy. With the Empire's collapse, the negligence of its former rulers seeped into the very essence of Er’kit, intertwining with the fate of its people.

In the chaos that followed, former imperial officers shed their uniforms to don the mantle of warlords, each seeking dominion over the fractured world. Some among them turned to the rich trade of enslavement, while others wandered as mercenaries without banners, their allegiance as transient as the shifting sands.

Yet now, a new force stirs within the desert—the Mandalorians. True to their storied ways, they do not merely seek conquest; rather, they endeavor to weave the fabric of local cultures into their own. Thus, the tale of Er’kit echoes those of yore: the Basiliskans, once proud and sentient, found themselves stripped of their very essence, their legacy brutally forged into the fearsome Bes'uliik and the mighty Kyramud battleship. The Fenelar, too, met a tragic fate at the hands of the Mandalorians, their extinction giving rise to the notorious Kandosii dreadnought.

Now, it was Er’kit’s turn—to give everything, to take nothing.

OBJECTIVE 1: 'LIBERATION' OF SLAVER'S BAY​

With the majority of the Mandalorians’ forces engaged with solidifying their control of the Lantillian Trade Route, you are part of one singular force tasked with taking control of the slave trade on Er’kit – a great source of manpower, credits and free labor for our needs.

As twilight descended upon Er’kit, the Mandalorians dispatch an ultimatum to Colonel Balin, a once-noble officer of the Imperial stormtrooper corps now corrupted by power, demanding the surrender of his dominion over the slave trade. Yet in defiance, Balin had crucified a hundred captured Mandalorians along the grim path leading to Slaver’s Bay.

In answer to this provocation, the Mandalorians sent forth a clarion call—flyers unfurled from the skies, proclaiming in bold letters: “Join the Mandalorians or remain our slaves forever.” As the last light of day faded, the skies were lit in the fires of a hundred jetpacks, surging downward like a tempest, ready to confront Balin’s legion of former stormtroopers, a thousand strong yet trembling in the face of the storm.

Fight in the tight quarters of Slaver’s Bay, a town carved into the bedrock of a nearby canyon that connects with the sea. But also be wary of the cunning blade, many of the enslaved are not too keen of the two choices given by the Crusaders – at any opportune moment, slaves may turn on you in the chaos of battle.

OBJECTIVE 2: I AM SPARTACUS​

Elsewhere, you have found yourself ensnared by the Crucible. Days, weeks, perhaps even months have passed as you fought in their gladiatorial pit on Er’kit, struggling for your freedom. Yet as time drags on, a bitter truth unfurls: freedom cannot be bought in the ring; it can only be claimed by the slice of your master’s throat.

You and your fellow gladiators rise in insurrection, fueled by a shared yearning for liberation. The chains that bind you are not mere iron; they are forged from despair. Now is the time to carve your destiny, to shatter your yoke, and to spill the blood of those who seek to keep you shackled. The arena will bear witness to your wrath, and you will reclaim your freedom—not through glory, but through vengeance.

OBJECTIVE 3: BYOO​

The absolute classic.

 

[Kehl Thraxx]

___________________________________________________________________________

[Theme]​

Kehl Thraxx

| Location | The Crucible, Er'kit​

| Objective | [OBJ 2] We Shall Serve No Longer​

​

The large Morseerian grunted as they were offloaded from the transport alongside several other slaves destined for the pits, being guided to the Crucible after they had arrived on Er'kit. Unbeknownst to the natives though was the fact that the Morseerian known as Kehl Thraxx was no slave, nor were the other slaves alongside him, nor his handler, but in fact they were all marauders posing as slaves being gifted to those who watched gladiatorial matches for sport. ​

​

They had been moving from one system to the next, seeking out planets who enslaved others and watched them kill one another for sport; a personal vendetta as all those who came with Thraxx all came from similar backgrounds. Each planet they came to subsequently had its slaves liberated and their masters summarily executed, and Er'kit would be no different. The day of reckoning had come to the Crucible, and it would be a bloody day for those who trampled upon the meek, and a day that those who had known nothing but chains would remember.​

​

___________________________________________________________________________

[Open to Tags]​

 

[Domina Prime]

​

ᚨ ᚷᛁᚱᛚ ᚹᚺᛟ ᛞᚱᛖᚨᛗᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚠᛚᛟᚹᛖᚱᛊ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚠᛁᚱᛖ
​

LOCATION: Er'kit
ATTIRE: Primes Beskar'gam
OBJECTIVE: Conscripts of Slavers Bay


As the twin suns of the slave planet Er'kit dipped below the horizon, casting eerie shadows across the land, the skies above roared with an unearthly fury. Neo Crusader Mandalorians swarmed the world, their armor glinting menacingly under the fading light as their jetpacks ignited the skies.

The Imperial Noble officer sought to break their resolve when The Crusaders offered an ultimatum. Mandalorian prisoners, butchered and displayed like grotesque trophies, hung from the spires, a chilling testament to his cruelty. Instead of quelling the Mandalorians' spirit, the sight stoked an inferno of righteous indignation.

Then, the heavens themselves seemed to boil. Domina Prime, Daughter of the Destroyer, descended upon the planet atop her draconic warmount. The beast's scales shimmered like molten metal, its eyes blazing with primordial rage. Domina's eyes burned brighter still, reflecting the searing wrath within her bones.

"Ashes upon ashes, our souls never silent. From death to life, the flame remains vibrant~" She'd echo a lost scripture from the Majestic Flame of Manda that fit the situation almost all too well.

With a thunderous crash, Domina collided with the surface as her massive warmount stomped and barreled through structures. Sending shockwaves that toppled formations and sent stormtroopers sprawling. Domina stood from atop her Dovahdrake. her figure a terrifying silhouette against the roaring flames. Reaching up and adjusting her Mandalorian Mask and hat, she exhaled deeply and twisted her neck and shoulders causing them to snap, crackle and pop like the blaster fire and explosives in the distance.

"Flee before Primes Might or perish, little lambs~" Domina would coldly command, her five eyes scrutinizing the stormtroopers as they re-collected themselves and took aim at Domina and the Dovahdrake.

"Take em boys! Fire at will!" The Troopers shouted, causing Azura her Warmount to wave it's massive tail in the path of their fire to shield its rider.

And then, the beast hissed as fire gushed from the dragon's maw, scorching earth and flesh alike into ashes and dust. In Domina's wake, stormtroopers fell like scorched leaves in the wrathful autumn of the gods. Flames consumed everything — the ground quaked with tremors of unholy retribution. Each step she took left charred remnants of the Imperial forces behind, a testament to the vengeance of Mandalorian kin and the cleansing fire of the Old Gods. Once the beast had dispatched their enemies The Xeno stepped down the spine of its tail as if they were stairs, brushing her shoulders casually and scoffing in disappointment at their decision.

"We are, all of us, Stardust...and to dust we shall return~" She chittered lowly with a purr, peeling off her hat and fanning the smoke and embers away from her face as she proceeded to move deeper into the belly of this wretched beast. Her path was one of absolute destruction, a phoenix trail heralding the rebirth and liberation of the shackled. Domina Prime's vengeance had only just begun, and with every stormtrooper felled, the blaze of Manda's justice grew ever fiercer.

Once a landing space was cleared, Domina gestured to the skies and the mandalorians descended. Alerting them that a drop zone was clear and ready for them to proceed with their infiltration.

 

[Caeos Prahl]

Caeos Prahl
Location - Aboard Imperial Galleon, Er'Kitt Orbit
Objective - 1 Slaver's Bay

​

<”Vod, don’t you think you’re a little to wisen to be making runs like this?”> the muffled voice of the older man floated over her receptors, he questioned or better laid his concerns bare for all to hear. The man-Dyain who had once been nothing more than a snot ridden child once upon a time and one of many of her vod’ika.

Caeos emitted a thoughtful sound from her perch at the night cast helm as she flipped through a series of switches. Her amusement was to hide her scoff, it was not unlike him-still hungry and tired of her at the same time. Parts of Er’Kit were already facing incursion from the Neo-Crusaders, even from the exosphere the bridge window showed the darkening planet. The desert world would be spared nothing and the smoke plumes were telling enough of the violence over different sectors. Ketra would of been the first to suggest the very idea, sitting at the helm herself had she lived. That was the pain they felt deeply between them and seperated them, she had never been meant to assume the mantle of the Clan.

Caeos reclined back, her vod loomed over her still silent, watching-waiting. From her post at the controls, Caeos only reached out-planting a hand on the side of the Trooper helm he donned and shook it in good nature. Her vod could only grunt and relent, but she understood.

She was old, both of them were.

Had she been bolder in her youth maybe theses questions would not of been raised. Flying in under such guises was to leave one to as much chance as a cast out dice. Empires rose and empires would fall, and so too had the New Imperial Order but with that long sowed chaos it was just another opportunity. This had been their mother’s ship, the worn Imperial insignia still emblazoned on the galleon. It was no one’s fault it had been broken and battered, left on Echoy’la for repairs. When those resources dried up, who was to say what became of it but it’s own keepers.

<”ETA is five minutes, comms-patch us in to the Colonel, run Hade-Actual over the channel and proceed with the plan. We’ll see if Imperial loyalty is blind enough.”> Caeos spoke slowh, weighed down as her gaze met the younger verde to her side. Her vod, unsatisfied made another sound of disagreement, but the ship’s vessel already burned as they closed in. The galleon descended from the North of the infamous Slaver's Bay.. The sun was setting and the fires of the engagement burned on the horizon. In there rapid descent-separate channels, encrypted for the Crusade warned others to steer clear of the Imperial vessel until it came in range of the city. They’d put on a good show of it, but not before their audience was there to see.

<"If the ships blown apart it'll be a waste of a good craft-">

<"And if we're not, we'll have plenty of hangar space for what ever slave casts their chains aside.">

 

[Sinestra]

OBJECTIVE 2: I AM SPARTACUS
TAGS: Kehl Thraxx

A scarf, wound tightly about the lower half of her face, lent a shadowed mystery to her form, as it fluttered faintly in the scorching winds. It served not only to shield her from the relentless fury of the desert sun, but also to conceal her identity from prying eyes. Her armor, light yet sturdy, glinted dully beneath the worn folds of a tabard, the subtle movements of its fabric shifting with the heat.

Her eyes, pale and tinged with the hue of brimstone, gazed keenly across the sprawling amphitheater. There, in the pit below, the hot sands were stained crimson with the blood of the unfortunate, while a chorus of laughter and raucous cheer rose from the high-banked seats above. The clients, arrayed in opulent attire, feasted upon the sight of battle, their faces alight with cruel delight, eager for yet more blood to soak the earth.

Sinestra, seldom one to join in the Crucible's more public dealings, had nonetheless found herself thrust into its operations after the bitter defeat at Coruscant. With a cold and ruthless hand, she had whipped the organization to its limits, commanding them to raise a mighty slave army in haste. Naxus, the Magister Protector, served as the visible face of the Crucible, administering its day-to-day workings, while she, hidden in shadow and mystery, ruled as the elusive Magister Impressor. Yet the news had reached her ears—warlords of Er'kit, remnants of a fallen Empire, had captured numerous Mandalorians, and such a prize had drawn her swiftly to this forsaken world. To bend these barbaric warriors to her will would be a triumph beyond measure, strengthening her growing force.

Seated apart from the revelry of Naxus and the privileged slavers, who feasted in the oppressive heat of Er'kit, she watched the blood sport below, yet her thoughts were far from the arena. Dark clouds rolled in her mind's eye, shadows of ill portent.

Something was stirring in the Force, and she knew not yet what.

 

[Feydrik Munin]

OBJECTIVE 2: I AM SPARTACUS

CHOSEN


​

He had sworn an oath to his brothers and sisters to fight in the crusade.

And Feydrik had been chosen, to rise. To be captured, to be lead down willingly into the pits, into the confines of the darkness below. To be bound in chains. For a great cause, for a great mission.

They had deemed his service worthy, and gave him a special task: to inspire change, to rise from the pits, to win, to fight, to lead the captured ones to victory. So he had been here for some time, initially, a slave. But his identity removed, his armor gone- taken in the process of his 'capture', and he was only left with himself. But his cause remained, his crusade holy and devout, and his faith to his people unwavering.

They would come for him. He knew that.

Feydrik Munin- was a monster.

A fighter. A warrior.

The Gladiator pits suited him. But he drew the ire of those around him, due to his lack of... dying. He had not been defeated, in single combat, with blade, with hand, against many foes. He marched forward into the fighting pit as the gate rose, stepping into the light. He stood tall, he stood proudly, he stood without equal in the pits. The match was hand to hand, a crowd favorite to watch whelps bludgeon each other to death.

But the Mandalorian was without equal in that regard. Another slave, one that matched him in tenacity, stepped forward. A Trandoshan. He sneered, licking his reptilian lips. Feydrik approached him, his feet bouncing, readying himself as he put his hands up. The Trandoshans were fiercely strong, his opponent was as tenacious as he was.

But Feydrik was born for combat, and had spent the nearly 30 years of his life in some capacity, training for this type of combat. The Trandoshan may have had the will to win, but without the training and discipline, the will to win would only carry you so far. Tempered by training and devotion to your craft, was the key to victory. Combat and fighting was a game of who-cared-more. Believing in your cause was not enough. You had to believe in it enough to train for it, to practice, to hone thyself.

And as the Trandoshan felt the earth-shattering kick to his ribs from Feydrik- not a punch, not a tackle like the other whelps in the arena had, the Trandoshan may have understood that. It was a powerful opening move, and Feydrik kicked harder than any human the Trandoshan had ever encountered- and probably ever would. Once a bipedal was kicked in the ribs, they instinctively leaned over, to try and compensate for the pain.

But Feydrik was without mercy.

He brought his elbow down on the side of the Trandoshan's head as he fell to the side, and brought him to the floor. Merciless and cruel, Feydrik began to violently beat him on the ground, each impact of his fist- covered by gloves, at the least, drawing blood as he battered the Trandoshan, screaming.

A right hand came down.

A left.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

He beat the Trandoshan, who lay helpless on the ground, overwhelmed by Feydrik's sheer display of brutality, violence, and the result of years of training.

Feydrik stood up, having reduced the Trandoshan to a mere sack of scales, blood, and teeth laying on the arena floor. Feydrik walked over to the opposing slave pits, pointing at them, covered in not his blood- but his arms, up to his elbows, soaked in the blood of their former comrade.

He pointed at them.

They were next.

 

[Hakon Fett]

OBJECTIVE 1: 'LIBERATION' OF SLAVER'S BAY
TAGS: Caeos Prahl

A final, pitiful gasp escaped the stormtrooper's lips, a whimper of agony, before he collapsed upon the cobblestones, a gaping, smoldering wound seared through his chest. Above him, Hakon Fett loomed like a dark shadow, suspended by the hum of his jetpack, the muzzle of his Mandalorian ripper still aglow, casting thin tendrils of smoke into the cool night air.

Unlike most of his fellow Mando'ade, who craved the thrill of a hard fight, the Field Marshal chose the simplest route. He moved through narrow alleys, unseen, climbing over abandoned rooftops, avoiding any unnecessary confrontation. His eyes were set on the Citadel. The Colonel was there, but that wasn't the real prize. The real prize was the knowledge—how the slave trade was run, the details and plans. All of it had to stay intact. If it was destroyed, rebuilding it would cost too much time, too much effort. Storming Slaver's Bay with a force a fraction of the defenders had been risk enough. Starting from scratch would be far worse.

Fett hovered onto an empty rooftop, using the high ground to survey the Mandalorian forces' advance. Below, he could see the enemy's positions, scattered and entrenched, the defenses forming around key choke points. From his vantage point, he issued new orders, guiding his warriors through weak spots, flanking where the enemy left themselves exposed.

This time, he saw something unexpected. An Imperial Galleon cutting through the night, its engines roaring loud over the bay. The sound echoed across the city, shaking the rooftops. A transmission crackled in his ear. He listened, eyes narrowing, then hailed back:

<"What are you doing?">

 

[Sinestra]

OBJECTIVE 2: I AM SPARTACUS
TAGS: Kehl Thraxx Feydrik Munin

Sinestra could hear the cruel laughter of Naxus, his grim smile spreading wide as the clients watched in awe the brutal combat unfolding below. The human gladiator, the underdog, had struck down the towering Trandoshan with merciless blows. So, this was one of the captured Mandalorians, she mused. The thought stirred something within her—an army of such savage warriors, even she could not deny the allure of such a force under her command.

Yet, as her gaze fell upon the Mandalorian, a shadow moved about him, unseen by others. The Force wrapped him in its mysterious folds, and there, within her mind's eye, she saw the gathering storm. The clouds blackened, thunder rumbled. Her brow furrowed, for the portent was clear—an omen dark and unavoidable had taken shape.

 

[Zhulghua]

OBJECTIVE 2: I AM SPARTACUS​

For the second time in his life, Zhulghua was a slave. It had been a while now, not the decades he had spent in slavery as a child, but it was still too long. And it was all because of those damned Trandoshans. Well, he had actually been defeated by a dragon unleashed by Mandalorians, the only survivor of the group that had taken on the beast. He still carried the scars on his left arm where his fur would never grow back. But no, neither the dragon nor the Mandalorians had been the ones to take him captive. That had been the cowardly Trandoshans, who waited until he was unconscious. And, ironically, there were Trandoshans now in this gladiatorial pit that he could take his anger out on. He had already torn through twenty or so of them. He had not really counted, because no number would ever be enough.

There was also a human man out here giving it to the Trandoshans with an intense ferality. He seemed a bit familiar to Zhulghua, not his face, but his bearing, the way he carried himself. As the man walked past, the Wookiee spoke to him in a low voice so that only he would hear, "You fight like a Wookiee; you are a true warrior." The man would undoubtedly be taken aback by the fact that a Wookiee had just spoken in Basic, which should have been impossible. It was a secret Zhulghua did not share, but something about the man inspired him to share it with him.

As the rough-looking Wookiee exchanged a silent conversation with the man though eyes alone, he knew that today he would find freedom again. And this time, he would never let it go.

Feydrik Munin​

 

[Caeos Prahl]

Caeos Prahl
Location - Aboard Imperial Galleon, Slaver's Bay Airspace
Objective - 1 Slaver's Bay

​

<"What are you doing?">

The comms blared with precedence over any other transmission and the elder’s fingers thrummed against the console as she considered the..tone. It had been mentioned surely, and her cracked visor turned to her vod who gestured frankly. With heavy exhale, Caeos pressed the switch-

<“Oya Fett, there was a sign said no landing galleons sign outside the city, so I thought the palace was the next best option,”> age laced the woman’s words, and she did well not to let her mirth trickle over the radio as she flicked another switch. The madness of it all was far to much to own up to now. The verde at her side’s helm turned with some swiftness hearing her speak with such casualness, only when the link severed did the elder laugh, gesturing to the young warrior to start their next transmissions.

<“All units, now accepting pot shots and friendly fire, respectfully.”>

<“This isn't going to work”> Dyain griped, trooper’s visage shaking. He paced at her back as Caeos settled back once more, the open invitation to play roving target to sell the façade came with such enthusiasm as the bridge support reported the shields-rippled over taking the port view as blaster fire in the night engulfed the city.

<“At this rate I at least won't have to walk the five miles to the palace brother,”> the woman quipped, happy at least-until the galleon shook violently. Kriff those trigger happy banthas. When the young warrior’s helm turned to face her again the woman gave them her full attention, three fingers held high as they signaled to her; counting down.

Silence, an electric static filled the bridge’s comms again and the woman leaned in-

<“Colonel Balin this is Captain Prahl of the three hundred and seventh, relaying our codes now. The General wants to see your operation still standing. Requesting permission to land.”> Caeos spoke, conjuring some image of her mother in her mind. Balin was younger perhaps, and had not had the chance to meet Beocca during the height of the Imperial affairs.

<“Captain Prahl..has the Empire not been dissolved? I would be a fool not to doubt this auspicious timing of your arrival. I do not answer to whatever puppet has been propped up. Turn your ship from my city or be fired upon.”>

The slow movement of turrets rotating were illuminated by the faint lights that lined the sandstone palace and that alone certainly struck a chord.

<“General Voi’kryt has arranged for arms and armament for the defense of the bay Sir, respectfully you need it more than us and the General will pay well for the labor you supply when the dust has settled.”> Caeos pressed on, elbows dug painfully in to her knees as the comms fell silent. The ship rocked again from some careless misuse of ordinance from their own, and another update upon their diminishing shields met her ear.

When no immediate reply came, and Caeos reluctantly took the controls in hand, what ever lightness was to be found in the whole charade tossed aside as she prepared for evasive maneuvers.

Hakon Fett

​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

Objective 1: 'LIBERATION' OF SLAVER'S BAY
Allies: Hakon Fett | Caeos Prahl

The Rally Master was once again leading upon the front, thrust headfirst in the fray. Others had gone ahead, through more subversive routes. He would’ve joined them, but someone had to spearhead the assault to take advantage of the openings they provided. And that they did - the initial descent had begun, and swiftly drove back the initial defenders to more fortified positions, deeper within the town. All the while, he was receiving intelligence from Hakon Fett where best to push and prod. All the while, they diverted attention from Caeos' bold gamble.

Theirs was a dying people. The Crusade’s numbers had swelled, but they were still not what it once was in the days of yore. There needed to be more Mandalorians, if they were to survive. He would see these Imperials drawn and quartered for their spite. The slaves today would be liberated, brought into a culture they would no doubt welcome with open arms compared to the alternative. He would’ve worded the declaration meant for the slaves a bit better - a simple removal of the word ‘our’ would give a bit more lenience. Regardless, only cowards would refuse a life of glory and battle. They had little use for those in the Mando’ade.

“Push towards the slave pens!” He decreed, surging forth with the tide of shock troops. “Let us give them the opportunity to earn their worth in battle!”

Tight alleyways eventually saw him having to keep his trusted weapon upon his back. Instead, a bayonet flashed against crimson red bolts, the heavy blaster in his hands firing to suppress a soldier in cover. The next moment, he jetted forth to charge the blade directly into another’s throat. Gore glistened against steel, as he used the body as a shield against a volley of blaster fire.

His troops were steadily carving their way through, though this was only the beginning. The real fight would be the fortified interiors they were no doubt retreating to. Though with luck, his allies on the inside would make it the slightest bit easier - minimizing casualties in these opening wars across the galaxy seemed important to him. He wanted every good soldier saved for when the true battle against their foes surrounding them had kicked off.

 

[Hakon Fett]

OBJECTIVE 1: 'LIBERATION' OF SLAVER'S BAY
TAGS: Caeos Prahl Carduul Akahl

For a long moment, Hakon Fett remained in silence, the cold static of Prahl's severed transmission lingering in the hollow of his helmet. He scoffed quietly to himself. Trickery. Many of their vode, steadfast in honor, would scorn her for such artifice. But not he. Hakon Fett had never shied from the dark arts of war, for in his mind, victory was the true prize—not the manner in which it was won. The glory of conquest lay in its triumph, not in the tumult of the fray.

As he watched the Imperial galleon cleave through the smoke-filled skies above the city, Mandalorian blaster fire licking at its hul, Fett's rangefinder zoomed in upon the movements below. There, among the shattered streets and broken walls, he spotted Carduul's host pressing towards the slave pens. Wise. To loose the slaves first, driving them forth like a tide of desperate fury to assail the fortress of their oppressors. At least that is what he would have ordered—though it would earn him the ire of those who craved the bloody honor found at the tip of the spear.

His gaze shifted toward the distant Citadel, measuring the breadth of the land that lay between the pens and Imperial stronghold. It was then that his eyes narrowed, caught by the slow, yawning of the massive hangar doors. Through his helmet's enhanced sensors, the distant hiss of pneumatic pumps reached his ears—a harbinger of something long concealed.

AT-ATs.

Two of them.

The monstrous walkers emerged from the shadows like ancient leviathans, their titanic frames of steel almost towering above the Citadel itself. None of the Mandalorians' earlier intelligence, gathered by meticulous scans from orbit, had revealed the presence of anything larger than the odd cargo vessel and a dozen or more AT-STs. The Colonel had hidden them well, proving to Fett that the he was not just some pompous, arrogant Imperial careerist whose ego and confidence was built on by simple treachery and deception that oft were the tools the aruetiise used to climb the hierarchies of their people.

What else did he hide?

Fett's thoughts churned as he watched the walkers split apart, each one taking a different flank of the Citadel, their thunderous steps shaking the earth beneath them. The narrow, cobbled streets of the city would hinder their advance, but they had no need to tread upon the paths of infantry. From their lofty perch, they would rain down destruction equivalent to air strikes, and even more precise.

In a minute or so, heralded by the subtle shaking of the ground, the deadly gaze of an AT-AT would bore down on Carduul's host and bid him adieu to the afterlife. Hakon Fett could only wonder if this was the final card in Balin's hand—or if darker things yet lay in wait.

 

[Kehl Thraxx]

___________________________________________________________________________

[Theme]​

Kehl Thraxx

| Location | The Crucible, Er'kit​

| Objective | [OBJ 2] We Shall Serve No Longer​

​

Thraxx's fingers twitched in anticipation as he and his cohorts were led to the preparation rooms below, numerous slaves lined against the wall as they awaited their fate of life or death in the arena. The faint sounds of the crowd above echoed through the halls as the fresh wave of gladiators were taken in for processing, Thraxx's handler standing by his side, small in comparison to the massive Morseerian. Thraxx growled as a guard prodded him in the back with a staff, pausing as he turned to stare down the guard who seemed to shrink back in response, before promptly activating their electrostaff to dissuade Thraxx from any further action. The Morseerian backed down as he turned and continued down the halls to enter the processing room, lined against the wall with the rest of the group that he arrived with.​

​

A supervisor soon arrived to take notes of the fresh wave of slaves, holding a datapad as he scrolled through the list, passing by each individual and inspecting them with great scrutiny whilst muttering to himself, "Meh, half of these fighters look like they'll be dead in the first day in the pits." He paused as he got to the group that Thraxx was with before looking up, "This lot however... Yes... I think they'll make a fine roster for the crowd...Especially this one." The supervisor paused in front of Thraxx as he looked up at the daunting Morseerian, "You'll make us a lot of money it looks like." ​

​

Thraxx stared down at the smaller human before him as his vocoded voice spoke, "A pity you won't live long enough to profit from our shed blood." Thraxx's associate, posed as his slave handler pressed a small button on his vambrace as the locks on all their cuffs clicked and released, falling to the ground as one of Thraxx's larger arms lashed out in a blur and grabbed the supervisor by the throat, lifting him a full foot off the ground as they grabbed at his forearm and started kicking, flailing like a fish as he tried to wriggle free. Thraxx squeezed as he effortlessly crushed their throat in his grip before tossing the body off to the side. ​

​

The guards in the room immediately activated their electrostaffs in an attempt to quell the masquerading slaves, but they were vastly outmatched by the veteran gladiators present. Little time passed before all the guards in the room were killed, Thraxx reaching down to the datapad that the supervisor had as he tapped a button to release the restraints on the actual slaves before tossing the device to the ground,​

​

"Time to make the most of your newfound freedom brothers and sisters. Kill your captors. RISE, RISE UP!"​

​

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Sinestra | Feydrik Munin | Zhulghua​

 

[Domina Prime]

​

ᚨ ᚷᛁᚱᛚ ᚹᚺᛟ ᛞᚱᛖᚨᛗᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚠᛚᛟᚹᛖᚱᛊ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚠᛁᚱᛖ
​

LOCATION: Er'kit
ATTIRE: Primes Beskar'gam
OBJECTIVE: Liberation of Slavers Bay


The sky roars with the relentless symphony of jetpacks, blaster fire, and explosive ordnance as the Children of Mandalore storm the skies like a foretelling of woe. The roaring cacophony above is a testament to the fury unleashed by the Crusaders, reverberating through the atmosphere like a thunderous war drum. The cries and shouts of conflict sang to the primitive beast of a xeno as she emerged through a hellscape of smoke and flames with the glow of her mask radiating menacingly in the dark as she made her way through the city streets. A formidable four-armed warrior renowned for her unyielding destruction and unparalleled violence.

The air around her crackles with tension as she strides menacingly towards the objective, her presence a beacon of hope for some and a harbinger of doom for others.

Undeterred by the stormtroopers who try their hardest to impede her, Domina moves with the brutality of a tyrant and the ferocity of a hungry predator. Her spartan-like shield, an impenetrable barrier forged from beskar, gleams ominously in the firelight, deflecting blaster bolts with ease and she charges through their formations like some kind of battering ram. With the raw power of her four arms, she shield-bashes the stormtroopers aside in a ruthless display of Mandalorian might. Each swing of her muscular arms sends enemies flying, their armor crumpling like paper under her relentless onslaught. No guns, no gadgets, no jetpack—just the primal force bestowed upon her by her god Kad Ha'rangir. Prime was a living weapon, a force of nature wrapped in beskar plating, clearing a dark and bloodied path of carnage for her Mandalorian brethren into the heart of darkness with unwavering resolve.

"C'mon! More! Prime needs MORE! All these sharks in the water but not enough BLOOD IN THE WAVES!" She roared ferociously like a feral beast.

The Stormtroopers stumbled over themselves as they broke formations and attempted to flee from the slaughter unleashed upon them. The devilish cackles of delight radiating from Domina as she snatched one of the troopers by their wrist and HOISTED them up to eye level.

"Woah woah woah, hey hey hey, whats all this now? You think you can run away?! What happened? You were fine stringing up our kin up like meat. Whats the matter? Not having fun anymore?" Dima barked at the flailing soldier trapped in her claws as she DRAGGED him kicking and screaming, eventually grouping with other Mandalorians who stormed the city as well. Namely Hakon Fett , Caeos Prahl , and Carduul Akahl who ripped through the enemy forces with their own displays of might as the soldier in her claws begged.

"P-please! I was just following orders! I didn't do anyth-"

"Orders, orders, orders, yada, yada, yada~ Must be fulfilling to be an imperial grunt, Dima swears she can't tell if your a human or a fucking droid." She cackled in deranged amusement as she just rattled and shook the poor man violently as if checking to see if anything rattled about inside of him. "Every time it's the same tired excuse. No fire in your blood~ Go on, get the fuck outta here. Go on get!" She purred before just letting them down, dropping them and watching the Trooper feign his arms upward as if she were going to strike him.

"The fuck you still standing here for? Run little rabbit run!" She barked, sending the poor boy scurrying away as Dima skipped towards him and lifted a leg and delivered a cruel kick to the stormtoopers backside making him abruptly jump and hold his rear end while fleeing. It was very likely they'd get shot by whoever they ran into next, but Dima saw little glory or satisfaction in killing a mouse. Shifting her sight towards the other mandos in her presence as Dima opened all four of her arms dramatically and stepped towards Carduul Akahl as he fought through the streets of the city pushing towards the citadel, telling the others to get to the slave pens.

"Cousin! Beloved Kin! Sweet brother~" She would announce, then going back into battle stance as blaster fire kept flying towards them. Diving into cover and activating her beskar shield to hold the line with him. "Primes strength is yours brother!" She assures him before leaving cover. Shield held up as she proceeded to charge through the fireline like a titan. Blaster bolts bouncing off the shield as she moved ahead bit by bit.

And with Hakon Fett orchestrating things on his end, they might first to breach the enemy lines to the target, her entrance breaking the Imperial defense like a spear through a brittle wall as the flames rage around them and the chaos of battle swirls like a maelstrom, Domina stands as an unyielding sentinel, taking the front line and the brunt of enemy attacks as she moved through the streets to make herself the biggest target she could to allow others to further the objective.

 

[Caeos Prahl]

Caeos Prahl
Location - Aboard Imperial Galleon, Slaver's Bay Airspace
Objective - 1 Slaver's Bay

​

The resistance as she pulled back on the controls could be felt through the entire galleon, the creak, the weight alone. Caeos did not mind their exit path but the turrets-the guns charged in quick succession and a brilliant azure of plasma hurdled past their portside. Shields skimmed by the blast of energy, the sudden maneuver sending those that stood scrambling for footholds.

<”Gunnery to your stations!”> Caeos was brisk in her orders, a hand clamping down upon her shoulder. Be it to steady her or a simple act of solidarity, her vod remained beside her. The rumble of the engines filled the silence as the deck’s crew rushed to their positions. The second volley was expected, but no alarm sounded as the galleon rounded slowly-the plazas were the consideration. There would be enough room there to land surely, but and unknown force or enemy..

<”Alor'ad, shields have dropped below sixty percent.”>

The comms flared again cutting them off and she half expected the elder Fett on the other end-

<”Captain after deliberation, Colonel Balin will receive you on landing pad Cresh at once. Please proceed.”>

<”It’s a trap now surely-”> Dyain hissed, his voice distorted by the likes of his helm. His hand digging in to the leathers of her shoulder-

<”Desist and turn your weapons down at once, any other actions will be taken as aggression soldier.”> Caeos responded as she questioned what the procedure was in truth? Her words at best a mustering of some position her mother had lived, but she had only heard a tall tale surround. If they did not have to abandon course now she thought...The comms link fluctuated and signal whined before the upstart’s man responded.

<”The galleon is approved entry to the palace grounds, turrets are trained on our mutual targets ma’am-apologies.”>

Caeos’s helm craned to her brother Dyain and tapped one leather clad finger to the center of her own visor out of habit. The renegade weapons system is a source of concern for the greater assault and would be his mission now. Wordlessly Caeos took control again, the hydraulics strained at the series of tight maneuvers in such a short space. The rear engines roared as she guided the ship past the stoic walls, stray fire dogging the stern but the turrets did not fire again purposely. All comms cut from the Crusaders, and she in part stood as another warrior inserted themself at the Captain’s helm.

<”We play along until it doesn’t suit us, if it doesn’t suit us at all-we start shooting.”>

Hakon Fett Carduul Akahl Domina Prime

​

 

[Ines Pen-Ar-Lan]

OBJECTIVE 1: 'LIBERATION' OF SLAVER'S BAY
Location: Slave pens
Tags: Open
Vicinity: Carduul Akahl Domina Prime ​

Just a few hours ago, the Agent had watched as the shuttle she arrived with departed. The helmeted uniform she had worn upon arrival had now been replaced by the same rags that the other slaves wore. Her hair which had been tied into a tidy bun was now drying from having been soaked in a nasty bath. The same bath that dirtied her skin and made the dust stick to it just a little easier as she perfected her cover.

Ines had been trained to wear any identity and was skilled at forging new ones. Still, the prospect of moving among Mandalorians was new to her. She was well versed in the core belief systems of the Jedi and their democratic allies and had moved among them on numerous occasions in the past. She was equally well versed in the underworld and its inner workings. This, however, would be something entirely different.

The Mandalorians had made their presence well known. Jetpacks, blaster, explosions and destruction could be both heard and seen from the pens where she finally found herself. Even the distant AT-ATs made their presence known, with each step causing the floor to rumble and cheap metallic plates to clirr. The Agent, and the slaves she now found herself with, were little more than leaves in the storm that had just brewed up around them. Or at least so they thought. The Mandalorians had different ideas.

Fliers had been scattered across numerous cells. “Join the Mandalorians or remain our slaves forever.” they said. A thick greenish hand grabbed the one Ines was holding. The massive Gamorrean offered a backhanded smack whilst grunting at her to get back to work before moving on to the next slave to have been so bold as to pick a flier up.

Dazed and in pain, the Imperial held a hand over her cheek until a fellow slave moved over to offer her a hand up. "Can't stay down for too long. Call me Kim" there was a certain strength to the voice - the sign of someone who had not been broken by the pens just yet.

Ines offered a meek smile and accepted the hand. "Thank you, Kim"

A tired and weary smile was offered in return "Those Mandalorians sure like to fight" The comment was delivered with a suppressed sense of longing. From the way the man was built, it was clear that he had a past doing a bit of fighting himself, for his frame featured broad shoulders and strong hands - but chances were that he was a mere shadow of his former self. His matte beige shirt hung loosely over his arms and the parts of his legs that were visible looked thin indeed.

Ines produced a slow nod and was quiet for a bit, waiting for him to talk. When he instead looked back to his work station, she spoke up "Do you think we'd stand a chance?" - the questioned earned a puzzled look. "If we fought too, I mean"

The man chuckled and raised two amused brows. "Naah, they're distracted but they're armed, and we're not."

She leaned her head to the side with a nod - he made a good point. Even if he made it with a bit of reluctance. She kept fanning the small flame that lived within him "What about the Mandalorians? When's our next chance?"

He shook his head with conviction "We'd be even more screwed." He looked down to curious, almost encouraging eyes. A few moments of consideration passed "This is likely our best chance of ever freeing ourselves. We'd need to organise, many would probably perish, but at least it beats working ourselves to death." The Agent noticed how a few more slaves were gathering, listening to what the man was saying. Her fist clenched to cheer him on. "And I, for one, would rather try to make it, than to remain here, either under the yoke of Balin, or of the Mandalorians. I'd rather draw one breath in freedom, than ten more in here. This, this is my chance." he looked out over the small crowd which was gathering, and those who listened whilst still working "This is our chance. We can't count on it happening again. This is our time to seize control."

Sometimes, all it took was a spark. Sometimes, it took more than that. This time, the spark was accompanied by a Mandalorian invasion. Things were starting to move in the pens - at least the one nearest the Agent and her newfound ally. They were no longer docile - a revolt was brewing.

 

[Feydrik Munin]

OBJECTIVE 2: I AM SPARTACUS

I AM UNBOUND


​

Covered in blood and scales, Feydrik turned to the Wookie. His expression was cold, eyes narrowed. The adrenaline hadn't quite worn off yet, so the reality of the Wookie speaking Basic- something not unheard of, but exceedingly rare, didn't escape him. He did, however, nod.

There was work to be done.

There were flickers of it. Guards moving about. Radio chatter. Panicked expressions on those guarding the slaves. The reports of their attack was coming in. Feydrik walked to the bars of his cage, looking up to the sky.

He smiled.

He heard their shots, their fighting.

Boom-boom.

Rat-tat-tat-tat of exchanging gunfire.

He held his fists out at his sides, turning to the nearest guard. And went for him, being swarmed by many guards at once. They were off-guard, off center. It allowed him to close the distance, press him against the wall by his neck. The guard was overwhelmed, and caught in a clinch. Feydrik wrapped his hands around the back of his neck, raining blow after blow with his knees. Armor may have been armor, but it didn't stop kinetic energy, not at exposed joints. He punched him in the shoulder, in the ribs. When a fighter held back, there wasn't a lot of people that weren't trained as they were to stop them.

Feydrik couldn't get at his face- he had a helmet on.

So he bit into his neck, tearing out a chunk of flesh- and squirting blood. He wrapped the man's head up in his arms, turning him around- and pulled, then jerked. He broke his neck, letting him collapse to the floor. The security system was biometric, so Feydrik walked around him, other guards poised on the opposite side of the door. He grabbed his bloodied hand, pressing it on the scanner. The other slaves began to move, standing.

The problem with having trained fighters in an enclosed space- is that there were fighters in an enclosed space. They had to move quickly- the guards at this level had non-lethal weapons and pacification, but beyond that, he knew, from stints in some prisons, that the higher levels of guards were armed with lethal weapons.

Feydrik looked to the Wookie as the slaves poured on, engaging the guards. He held his arms out, as if to say "come along", turning, laughing. Feydrik walked out of his cell, wiping blood from his face, and spitting the man's blood from his teeth.

His purpose had begun to be filled, but the Gladiator Pits were currently not free, not yet. No. The Mandalorians were on the move, however.

 

[Sinestra]

OBJECTIVE 2: I AM SPARTACUS
TAGS: Kehl Thraxx Feydrik Munin Zhulghua

Thunder echoed in Sinestra’s mind, reverberating through her very core, mere moments before the sharp crack of blaster fire shattered the reveling joy of the amphitheater. The riotous clamor of the crowd—once alive with raucous cheers and laughter—fell into an anxious, murmuring quiet. The stillness broke with the heavy thud of a body, a slaver, hurled from the pits below onto the arena floor. His form, riddled with blaster wounds and charred holes, smoldered in the dust. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, their eyes snapped wide with sudden dread.

Then it came: a fierce roar rising from the depths beneath the arena. The cry of the enslaved, the howl of the oppressed. A hundred boots struck the earth in unison; a cadence of defiance. The amphiteater shook beneath the force of their cry for freedom.

Naxus, seal all the exits! Sinestra’s command seared through the Feeorin’s mind.

“Already ordered!” Naxus growled, his yellow eyes never leaving hers as his clientele—the slave masters—began to shuffle toward the exits in hurried whispers. Their guards, too, were slaves, and it would be no surprise if the winds of rebellion blew them into treachery now.

Yet the Crucible slavers moved fast, cordoning off the great gates, the pathways through which the crowds had once joyously poured. With rifles raised and whips at the ready and vibroblades unsheathed, they showed no mercy to those who sought escape. Another group rushed to the pits, where the only path out led through the arena itself. There, beneath the gaze of a thousand anxious eyes, the slavers formed their ranks, bracing themselves to contain the coming storm.

Sinestra’s hand found the hilt of her lightsaber beneath her cloak. Her fingers itched to ignite it.

 

[Kehl Thraxx]

___________________________________________________________________________

[Theme]​

Kehl Thraxx

| Location | The Crucible, Er'kit​

| Objective | [OBJ 2] We Shall Serve No Longer​

​

Thraxx's hulking figure lumbered to the front of the growing crowd of slaves and fighters, his ensemble of warriors taking the vanguard and ruthlessly killing off any guards they encountered and leaving their weapons for their newfound comrades to take up. The masters were quick to catch wind of their insurrection and uprising as doorways were already sealing themselves off one by one. Thraxx dragged the corpse of one of the guards with one of his lesser arms as he stood before a doorway that had abruptly slammed shut in front of him, his vocoded voice hissing through his helmet, "Tarne, get this door open. Now!" ​

A female Gank stepped forward, already midway through a slicing routine on the door as Thraxx issued the order. It was not long before they had gotten through the door's controls and it hissed open. On the other side, several guards were waiting with their rifles raised opening fire at Thraxx as soon as he became visible. The Morseerian raised the body in his hand up, shielding himself from the incoming fire to save his shields the trouble of having to bear the full assault. His helmeted head tilted, the large circular sensor targeting the enemies before several needle shaped warheads emerged from left shoulder pauldron. Shortly after several whistling birds flew out as they impacted the guards, falling to the ground in crumpled heaps. ​

​

He was a gladiator, and had many tools at his disposal that he integrated into his own armor to make him a threat. Not to kill other slaves or gladiators any longer unless they gave him a reason to, but to liberate them as he had. He tossed the blaster bolt ridden corpse to the side as their growing cadre of warriors continued forward, his fist raising up in the air, "Kill the masters! Seize the freedom they denied you! LET THEM SUFFER!"​

​

___________________________________________________________________________

Sinestra | Feydrik Munin | Zhulghua​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

Objective 1: 'LIBERATION' OF SLAVER'S BAY
Allies: Hakon Fett | Caeos Prahl | Domina Prime
Approaching Location Of: Ines Pen-Ar-Lan

They were making good progress. Once they had turned out the Slave Pens, their attention would be turned upon the deeper defenses. He had other squads on standby to hold off any enemy counter-attacks while they busied themselves with this endeavor, but he doubted the imperial remnants would foray from their holdout.

A strange figure had appeared - though clearly on their side, a tell-tale T-visor borne upon her visage. Still using an impaled body as a meat shield against blaster fire as the aforementioned auxiliary squadrons took up defensive perimeters amidst the urban battleground, he was only able to briefly acknowledge Domina Prime with a gritted statement; “To glory, we march!”

That was when the deep, reverberating sounds of metal against tone thudded from afar. PWOOM-PWOOM - he didn’t have time to get eyes before the artillery-like blaster fire had struck into a nearby building, crumbling part of their cover immediately and kicking up a massive plume of dust. He already knew well what it was, as he shoved the body off his bayonet, and jetted backwards from debris falling where he stood moments before.

A low, frustrated growl. “Pull back to better cover! For those carrying the extra weapons, we keep moving to the Pens!” He called. It would be suicide to charge deeper, where the Imperials would no doubt have fortifications that were not being overwatched by the towering steel behemoths. He could skirt around the sides to the pens, where the individuals he was aiming to liberate and induct into their way would be toiling away. Still - if he couldn’t deal with the AT-AT’s quick, the small victory from that would be short lived.

While his target was not the Citadel, the AT-AT’s impressive range allowed them to begin offending the outlying area of operations - and the intelligence they uncovered hadn’t allowed him to prepare for it. They would effectively be harassing his forces as he made his way to the Slave Pens before being able to do anything significant. A curse to himself, as he assessed the situation best he could with the tenuous condition.

“I want charges on standby,” He ordered to the comms officer, who acknowledged him with a nod as they pressed at their vambrace. “Get those with modern armor take up overwatch on whatever buildings are left standing - we’ll need their rockets.” If they could stoke the drivers forward, just a bit away from the defensive line, they could have more ground to work with. They could likely do that just by gunning for the Pens. If there was one key difference between here and the Battle of Bimmisaari, it’s that there was no contention of fleets in the stars above. They had air superiority. No need to worry about being struck from the air - which would’ve been the primary concern of taking up a defensive cordone.

A daring idea came into his head, just with that thought. Hardware like that was too good to destroy. Perhaps… “-And get every aerialist readied. For the best result, we’ll have to take a risk.” He added, with a glance back to the squadron with him as he pushed away from the Citadel and towards the Slave Pens - right where the AT-AT's likely would've tried to intercept them..

“We’ll be bringing more than just people to the Mando’ade, today!”