Dominion Planet-Wide Thunderdome | BotM Dominion of Avidich

[Mikhail Grayson]

The dry irradiated wasteland dusted against his cracked lips.

Water.

His eyes opened, he needed to find water.

The Essionian reached out against the barren earth, sorting through the sand and debris of a dead world to find substance. He felt drained, empty. Who knew who long he had suffered under the captivity of the Brotherhood, how long they had kept him since the Battle of Korriban when the Nightsister Pom Stych Tivé had snatched him from a glorious end fighting the Sith head on. He knew not why they kept him alive, nor why he was spared from the worst tortures the others received at the hands of the Taskmaster Tu'teggacha and his ilk.

Perhaps they hadn’t had the time for him, perhaps he was a nobody. A Padawan who’s only claim to fame was his failure on the Sith homeworld and the legacy he strived to live up to. The Grayson Legacy.

He hoped his uncle was still alive, he longed to see the Ashlans again.

As Mikhail struggled to stand, the high pitched roar of a speeder sounded off behind him. He looked over at his flank, struggling to make out the silhouette amidst the sand and dust kicked up in the stranger’s wake as the grogginess still gripped hold of his vision. He couldn’t make out the figure well, a unfamiliar woman who’s leave was a swift as her arrival.

Mikhail dragged himself up and slowly came to his feet. Gripping his side he took in his surroundings, where in the Nine Corellian Hells was he?

It was then he heard the hounds in the distance and knew the time to run was now.



The Mongrel

 

[Molly Armstrong]

Fell on Black Days
Being hunted by: OPEN

​

The road continued to roll out in front of Molly like a vast expanse of nothing. She had taken to walking along an old road at a brisk pace, mostly because the shattered terrain around wasn't the easiest to traverse. The wind was picking up heavily behind her and a dark, dusty cloud towered over her some kilometers back. So far she hadn't encountered another soul, but after raiding the supply drop she was beginning to catch on. What game was afoot? She had no idea. But her whole life had been playing to win at games like this.

When she first heard the voice calling out her immediately figured the radiation was getting to her. It wasn't one of the voices in her head, no... those were quite clear. This voice was distant, muffled, calling out "!!!!!" over and over again. Though it was getting closer. When she finally turned to acknowledge the voice, coming to the conclusion that it wasn't in her head after all, she saw a man running at his top speed a few hundred meters back. "!!!!" he yelled frantically, waving his arms to seemingly get her attention.

"What?! I can't hear you!" Molly yelled back, slowing her pace as she walked backwards, but walking nonetheless. She still had to advance to her goal after all and didn't have much time for this guy. As he got closer, she saw the pair of dogs chasing him. Their twisted bodies of half metal half meat looked, much like the planet itself, like something that would have crawled out of the hellscape of lower Coruscant.

"RUUUUUUUN!"

"Ohh. I get it now."

Molly watched as the first of the hounds finally clamped its jaw around it's prey, tearing the man's leg clean off and sending him screaming to the ground. The second dog pounced on the man's back and bit into his left shoulder, rendering a massive and fatal whole in the man's torso. Molly covered her mouth in disbelief. While the dog atop the corpse began feasting, the dog behind dropped the man's leg from its mouth and its eyes locked on Molly, who realizing what was about to happen, turned and broke into a desperate sprint. She gripped the vibroknuckler tight in her right hand, readying herself to use it if the dog caught up, which it would.

By the time it did, Molly had veered off the road and made a rocky outcropping she figured the dog might not be able to follow her over. She had never run faster in her life, helped in part by the stimulant coursing through her veins. As she pulled her first foot over a high rocky ledge, she felt the tug of the hound pulling at the leather jacket tied around her waist. Pulling her off balance, the hound dragged her to the ground and lept for her face. A right hook from the vibroknuckler straight to the hound's jaw knocked it off of her with a pained canine whine, not before spraying her with a mixure of its own blood and the gore it had left hanging from its metallic teeth.

Molly scrambled up rock and stood looking down at the dog. "Can't get me up here, mongrel!" she taunted to the creature now pacing in a semi-circle around the ledge, taunting her back as it walked all over the half torn, red and black jacket it had pulled off of her. She happened to really like that jacket. When it stopped pacing, Molly assumed it was getting tired of her. It looked straight up at her, and she noticed a light emanating from its mouth. She wasn't quick enough to realize it was spitting fire at her. Without any cover, her only reliable defense was reflexes, which didn't come in handy enough to stop the cone of fire from scorching the bottom of her left leg.

She screamed in pain, then in anger, both filled with a plenitude of swear words to ease the searing pain. She was shit out of luck for getting that jacket back now. Despite the pain, she pulled herself over a few more ledges of the rocks, certainly out of the way of the dog. The hound began a sickening, pained howl, and in the distance more sounded out in response. She clearly had no option but to keep moving. Taking the blade end of the vibroknuckler, she did her best to cut away the burned area of her pants around her shin, peeling the smoldering leather away and biting into a balled up bunch of her undershirt for the pain. She took the small can of spray bandages from her pocket and used all of it on the wound. Whatever was gonna get her next was probably going to kill her, and no amount of Bacta could fix death. She watched the Bacta foam and film over the wound, slightly stinging but feeling a hell of a lot better than walking on a fresh second-degree burn.

Once the Bacta was applied, she struggled to her feet and continued towards the plume of blue smoke in the distance, and away from the ever-approaching sandstorm of certain demise.

 

[Geiseric]

Oops i don't belong to this faction

 

[Vesta]

So-called pragmatic Sith, the likes of which had been so ready to slow their progress to a halt whenever they ascended to power, would have scoffed at such an affair - pointless displays of violence, contests of survival, and a thinning of the proverbial herd. It was better to have strength in numbers, they'd say, better to raise them all up, they'd claim, but she knew at the end of the day that only the strongest, the most cunning, and even those with the best luck were fit to live - life, like the force and war, did not care about such things as fair or practicality or efficiency, all that mattered were results.

And only the best people could give the best results.

Only the best could survive in a contest between those struggling to punch their way up.

"How quaint." She said, from a seat she'd taken in a ship far out in the expanse of space, as she peered into the blue flames that licked up from the sides of the basin covered in little burning men and women - representations of the ones struggling on the surface so far from where she sat.

 

[Mishel Kryze]

The Princess Leia​

"Got it Lav," Mishel acknowledged, Lav provided her with the details concerning the weather satellites. It meant that her mission would have to move a lot faster now. She was sure that their play at the weather was nothing more than pleasure for these beasts. It meant that playing nice with the light would only go so far. There are days that I hate this part of myself, but not today. Mishel tapped into a part of herself that she traditionally kept on lock. Mežsrožu.​

​

The Darkside... Mishel had been corrupted with it from the very start, between her two biological parents and the education provided by Sieger Ren. She didn't stand a chance, and when she left? Finding the light and staying in it had been difficult at best. Coupled with the torture she endured at the hands of Darth Carnifex? It was all just the perfect storm for the Forceborn. If she had been given time she would have loved to have truly gone through this with the light at her side, but given the reports?​

​

It was time to give maximum effort to her true goal.​

​

Lightsaber at her hand the traditionally yellow blade began to turn a deep blood orange. One leap forward saw her overload the area around her landing, mongrels fell backward over themselves. She cut any that dared come near her, feeding off the raw power of the Darkside that this planet amplified. Mishel paused as more rushed toward her, charged and driven by their instincts they were swiftly put to the death with flames. ​

​

The Force still called to her, called to Mežsrožu. ​

​

There was something of great value still left to be found.​

​

Her personal stashes could wait, after all, they were mostly filled with tea, cheeseballs, and moon pies. Assuming radiation didn't get to the stashes, the Maw could have them. ​

​

Channeling heat into her lightsaber she increased the weapon's cutting power, but not enough to overload the circuits. A note for her nine-to-five personality to invest in metallurgy and circuitry at some point. The Master focused once more on the call of the Force toward the very reason why she had been brought here.​

​

The devastation left by the previous factions had left a wound on this planet, as it had on so many others and yet this one - now, called to her the strongest. ​

​

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ALLIES: TBD
OPPONENTS: Kyrel Ren | Tu'teggacha | The Mongrel
​

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[Romund Sro]

Objective: Hunt
Tag: Zaka

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​

Romund watched with wide eyes as their prey began to rush him. He managed to fire a few more pot shots in their direction but it seemed to be of no use, it seemed as though he’d properly screwed up his chances of a clean capture. No at this point he might just need to try and kill his target, what a shame. However, they bounded up with explosive velocity towards him before launching up in the air towards him. “AH!” He simply exclaimed before tossing his rifle aside.

He managed to roll back some to create some distance. Once he was back onto his feet he pulled out a vibroblade from under his overcoat. The blade itself is about a foot in length. He took some warning slices in the air between them. He managed to imbue the weapon in the Force if only temporarily, just to give it that extra edge. “Well then, I wasn’t expecting to be hunting such an impressive game today. You are a lively one aren’t you?” As he spoke he possibly made it clear, he didn’t see the man in front of him as anything more than a sport for him. Not really an individual with their own needs. But game to be hunted and made a trophy of.

“Have at thee!” He shouted before lunging forwards with a stab at their center of mass. A rather committed attack, and it was rather clumsy too. His leg was still healing after the battle in the heart of the Galactic Alliance. Given their location at the edge of an overlooking ridge it wouldn’t be hard for his opponent to side step and have Romund tumbling downhill.

 

[Zaka]

PRISONER
TAGS - Romund Sro

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​

Escaping suffering from underneath his muscled mass, his would be hunter threw themselves backwards ,just in time for his frame to crash where he had been resting. Zaka gave a spare look to the rifle that was left on the ground, before he looked back to his assailant. Up on the ridge now, it had been blocking his line of sight, and he looked past to the world behind.

Also, in ruin.

"You picked the wrong one," Zaka croaked, his voice hoarse. He hadn't drank anything since he had been captured.

At the sight of the vibroblade, Zaka smirked, a glimmer of excitement in those dark eyes.

He leapt to the side, bringing the charric rifle up and firing one of his two shots into the direct flank of his assailant. Though after firing, he internally cursed himself. It could've been a killing blow, as he noted the hard to miss stumble.

"Ship. Where?"

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Avidich, Surface
Tags: Mikhail Grayson , Molly Armstrong

Spoiler: TL;DR

• The Mongrel begins pursuing Mikhail Grayson
• The wardogs start to hunt Molly as a pack

Of all the prisoners scattered across this blasted wasteland, there was one in particular that The Mongrel wanted to hunt: the Jedi called Mikhail Grayson.

He had encountered Grayson once before, on the slopes of "Mongrel's Hill" on Korriban. The Jedi had led the Ashlan assault up the western slope, charging into the ranks of the Legion of the Leech. With aid from the New Imperial Order's armored divisions, he had helped the various forces of the Bastion Pact utterly annihilate the Mawite honor guard that had been excavating Korriban's lost tombs. There had been no survivors from the Brotherhood side... save for The Mongrel himself. A sudden rift caused by an unstable hyperdrive had pulled him in...

... and delivered him from a messy death.

Now it was time for Grayson to discover what it was like to be alone, outnumbered, and overmatched. To be surrounded, penned in, and hunted down. The Mongrel would have his dire revenge... but first, let the Jedi suffer, cut off from his friends and his laser-sword. Through his magnified vision, the warlord tracked Grayson's progress across the sand and cracked earth. He would not strike yet, for to kill the Jedi before he even got his hands on a weapon would be unsporting. More than that, it would be unsatisfying. He had to let the fool think he had a chance.

Let the baying of the hounds drive him onward.

The Mongrel clomped forward across the wastes, his huge cybernetic legs pounding stones to dust. Miniature repulsorlifts stabilized his taloned feet so that they did not sink too far into the sand, allowing him to move quickly despite the deep dunes. In his left fist he held a trio of chains; at the end of each chain was a baying warhound, howling for blood. He had to restrain them for now, or they would surely fall upon Grayson in a pack now that they had his scent. Instead he simply walked in the Jedi's wake, letting the dogs pull him along.

"Find a crate, Jedi," he hissed. "Take a weapon."

Of course, the wardogs with The Mongrel were far from the only ones. Another pack was circling Molly Armstrong, barking and howling to one another as they closed in on her position. She'd gotten up the rock ledge for now, out of their easy reach... but the wardogs' cybernetic legs helped them to run fast and jump far. They would find a way around soon, and if Molly wasn't careful, they would encircle her, leaving no way out. She had to hurry... but she would have a choice. Go for another crate and get more supplies, or make a beeline for the shuttles?

 

[Rebirth]

​

The blue smoke taunted Kasan. No matter how many hills she crested, it always seemed the same distance away.

At least the razor-like radioactive grit wasn't ravaging her lungs anymore. She'd been half-lucky with her first supply crate, getting herself a filter mask; it reeked of stale sweat, and it fit poorly, but it still provided enough of a seal around her face that her throat and eyes weren't in constant pain and irritation. She'd been less lucky with her weapon... but she'd managed to use the rusted knife she'd found on poor Tylo, who she was doing her best to forget. Now she had his gun, and at least a bit of ammunition. She might have some small chance in a fight.

But Kasan knew that her best for now was going undetected. When she reached that blue smoke, she doubted she would reach it alone, so she needed to save her scant number of scattergun shells for that confrontation. She kept low to the ground, moving quickly but carefully, keeping as much of her body under the camo cloak as she could. That second crate really had been a jackpot, and she was tempted to go for a third. But that was the kind of greed that might well get her killed. Lingering too long at a supply drop was the reason Tylo was dead at her hand.

There were other compelling reasons to keep moving. One was the savage, primal chorus of barking and howling that echoed across the wastes. Kasan had no idea what kind of creature could make a sound like that, but she was absolutely certain she didn't want to find out; it sounded like there were a lot more than three of them, and she definitely didn't want to have to fight one with just her knife. The other was the fact that a sandstorm had kicked up just beyond where she'd landed, and it seemed to be moving toward her. From all sides, actually.

There was no way that was natural.

So Kasan kept her distance from the other plumes of green smoke, and instead kept making a slow and careful beeline for the thick column of blue. She clutched the scattergun hard with both hands, her knuckles white, treating the rusted barrel of the weapon like the galaxy's worst stress ball. Somewhere not too far off, a shot rang out, the pew of a powerful energy weapon. She dropped flat to the ground, cloak settling over her, and listened. It was hard to tell where anything was coming from, but it seemed like that sound might have been from a ways off.

With an unsteady breath of filtered air, Kasan rose and kept going.

​

 

[Tu'teggacha]

​

Location: Avidich, Low Orbit
Tags: Darth Mori

Spoiler: TL;DR

• Tu'teggacha monitors the mayhem unfolding below
• He contacts Darth Mori to discuss the game

Another prisoner had fallen, ripped apart by The Mongrel's warhounds.

Tu'teggacha leaned back in his command throne, savoring the man's last moments, filled with panic and pain. This little game could not possibly match the ecstasies he had tasted at Csilla, Korriban, Rhand, or Coruscant, where tens of thousands had died in terror per minute... but it had its own appeal. Each death was more personal, made more special by being spaced out. The Taskmaster could truly delve into their dying emotions each time one of them fell, focus on the progress of one individual soul as it went screaming to the netherworld of the Force. It was almost like working in his torture chamber to break a single victim...

... only he didn't have to do any work.

Up here, pushing buttons that decided who lived and who died, the Ebruchi felt powerful at last. This was the position he had worked so hard to achieve, one in which he finally had control over others. Never again would he be the lowest of the low, the outcast, the accursed one. Now he had become the tormentor, rather than the tormented. As far as he could see, the galaxy only allowed for you to be one or the other, and he knew which one he intended to remain. Each prisoner his little death game claimed was a reminder that he had risen above his circumstances. Through the Brotherhood, he had finally mastered his own destiny.

Scanning around as he awaited the next kill, Tu'teggacha took notice of another presence in the system, observing the game: Darth Mori. The Taskmaster had never before spoken with Lady Death; though they had fought in some of the same battles and endured some of the same intrigues, their paths had never crossed directly. Perhaps it was time to make that connection; knowing more champions of the Dark Voice's secret New Sith Order could only benefit him in the long run. He reached out to her through the Force, his powerful, slippery mind crossing empty space. "Which of them do you think has the strength to survive?"

 

[Romund Sro]

Objective: Hunt (Failed)
Tag: Zaka

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​

“Gah!” Romund exclaimed as he tumbled past his opponent and was shot in the side as he did. Romend fell hard onto the ground and rolled down the hill some, knocking into a few sizable rocks as he did so. His hand and breath mask falling off her body as well. When he was done he laid there rather limply on his back facing Zaka. He made a pained groan and tried to get up but the pain in his leg, the tumble and the shot were too much for right now. Laying down he heard the demanding question from his opponent.

Honestly Romund figured they knew how to get out of here and if they did they would be granted freedom. Closing his eyes he pondered the right path to lead them out of her. Hoping that if he did they might spare him. Even if he himself wouldn’t have granted such mercy if the roles were reversed. The shot he took to his side stung like fire but he managed to breath out an answer. “South… South west from here, past along the ruins of the city, there’s escape craft for you… and… the other prey…” He confessed, telling them exactly where to go. “They’ll be blue smoke I think, that’s where the vessels are. As for my ship... it's already long gone.” He managed to say before pulling himself up some and sitting against a large rock. He needed to fine a way to heal himself.

 

[Mikhail Grayson]

The Essionian shuffled through the sand and cursed earth, his feet carrying his tired body across the hot desert with renewed vigor. Adrenaline pumped wildly as his heart raced, he spun his head back and checked as he let his legs spirit him away from the sounds of the bloodhounds on his trail. He knew not what sick game they played, why they hadn’t just killed him when they had the chance but he knew whatever reason it was beyond wicked.

He shuffled and kicked through a nearby dune, briefly losing his footing as he tumbled and rolled down a hillside. His arms rolled against rock, his back against hard earth, and his hands as they shielded his face from thorned brush long dead. Despite taking such a tumble, he picked himself back up immediately, springing off the ground into another dead sprint.

He could see the landscape shift downward towards fearsome crags and cliff side. The Earth began to descend the further he got from the hounds. His eyes widened as he saw, dead ahead what appeared to be a crate left behind. A care package left to the elements fairly recently, he couldn’t help but fear now that he truly was in a game. One where he was being hunted for sport.

Mikhail’s eyes dashed from one side to the other, while hesitant the cries of the savage beasts at his rear made him realize he had no time to dally. If a trap was in the cards he’d willingly spring it, he needed to find something anything to help fight off whatever was to come for him. He needed a fighting chance. The Essionian’s hands crashed against the supply crate and ripped open it’s casing to reveal the inside contents. A face of desperation and utter need became stilled, he pulled his arm out and held firm a disruptor pistol.

Two shots.

His eyes stared in frustration and hopelessness. Reaching in he grabbed the last of the boxes contents, a Coolth Backpack. Something to keep him cool in the dry desert. Something to keep him alive. Eyes darted out in the distance, he could barely make out a figure, a large figure.

“That’s not good.”

Mikhail dusted off from the supply crate and rushed downhill towards the broken crags and dangerous cliff side. Maybe he could use this to his advantage or maybe he’d fall to his death. The young Jedi hesitated for but a moment before shaking off the fear overtaking him and continued, unwilling to die.




The Mongrel

 

[Kyrel Ren]

Objective: Seek out a ghost of the past
Allies: BOTM
Nearby: Mishel Kryze
Enemies: Prisoners


The old presence still filled his mind, the more he walked closer, deeper into the wasteland. He saw that the being before him lost within the howling winds. This being was someone who he had crossed paths with before. Many many times that was, once as a Knight of Ren he had made it a personal mission of his to hunt this woman, this thing down. However, since the fall of the First Order he had no obligation nor the need to chase her all over the galaxy. Not when he had bigger ambitions than just one being. Ambitions that would see him in control of the Maw one day to see the galaxy be reduced to a living hell under his own boot.

Instead the more he wandered aimlessly into the land. The more he had sought the woman out, for he did not know what would happen should he find her. He didn't know if he would simply try to impale her with the blade she crafted for a beast of his caliber. He didn't know if he would exchange something as simple as words with her. A million possibilities came to his mind, of what the ironic monstrosity would do when he saw her, and yet neither one he could simply dwell on to really do.

He only wandered amidst the yellow radioactive fog, and the howling winds that tried to lash his very being the more it picked up. He could hardly see a thing, even with the enhanced vision of monsters. He could only make out large forms of creatures, others were those that tried to run, no doubt prisoners simply escaping the murderous wrath of the Maw. While he would have indulged in his own sick pleasures hunting them down, his mind was ever so focused on what little of his past life remained. If need be he would even snuff it all out.

At last after wandering so aimlessly he finally saw her, fighting among the beasts of the land. His undead eyes upon her, a sharp hiss could be heard. The red blade of his saber emerged from the emitter of the hilt. His weapon hand remained downward as if to observe her. He spoke aloud, his voice booming with the screaming winds. "I did not expect to see you again..."

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Avidich, Surface
Tags: Mikhail Grayson

Spoiler: TL;DR

• The Mongrel's wardogs try to encircle Mikhail
• The Mongrel steps forward to confront him on the cliffside

The warhounds made tracking the Jedi trivial.

If he'd still had lips, The Mongrel might have whistled as he walked, feeling sinister glee overtaking him. When had he ever felt this before? A Jedi, one of the hated mage-knights, helpless and alone before him... how the tables had turned! The dogs strained on their chains, and the wasted earth turned to dust beneath the heavy tread of his durasteel feet. Finally he had the power, and it was the sorcerer he hunted who knew fear. Perhaps the warlord could have ended the game right there, charged Grayson with his dogs and unleashed his full fury...

... but he was having far too much fun with the chase.

The wardogs barked and pulled down a hill of sand, toward one of the plumes of green smoke. Sure enough, a supply crate rested there... one that had been opened. So Grayson had managed to find himself some supplies. Good. That would make things a little more interesting, if not much less hopeless for the captured Jedi. The Mongrel stomped past the looted supply drop, letting his hounds lead the way. It seemed that his quarry was heading for the craggy cliffs nearby. A worthy tactic; it would be harder for numbers to work against him there.

Of course, if he waited too long, the storm would catch him.

The Mongrel dropped the chain leashes he held, letting the wardogs run free. They might not be able to get at Mikhail on the cliffside, unable to get all four paws on the narrow ledge, but they could cut off his paths to easy retreat. Then the warlord stepped down to the steep crags, picking his way along the Jedi's likely trail. "Where are you hiding, little mage-knight?" he asked, his raspy mechanical voice harsh and mocking. Each of his footfalls made the spires of barren rock shudder with the impact. "It's time for you to die."

Would the Jedi prove worthy of survival? He doubted it.

 

[Zaka]

PRISONER
TAGS - Romund Sro

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His assailant went tumbling past him, right over the top of the ridge and down the other side. At first he was skeptical that it was over. He was no stranger to these hunting games. He was a fairly decent tracker himself, at least - taking a quick look around - on a jungle or forested planet. This one... Not so much, though he turned after and peered over to eye his would be assailant.

The charric rifle was leveled, aimed as well as he could at the hunter. There was no trusting anything he heard or saw on this planet. Still, to what purpose would the man lie? As wounded as he was, unless it was some final trick to lead him to failure beyond the grave.

"Hmph," he said, looking over his shoulder to the city and past him. He would trust his word, for it was all he had for now, and nodded.

In the distance, close to where his drop pod had landed, a storm seemed to be in full effect. A wall of stone and dirt at shredding winds, he looked down to the hunter and blinked.

There was a chance that he could save him. Half carry, half drag him the distance to the supposed escape craft. But with the weapon raised, he was more inclined to make him one with the Force. He ought to kill him, for the attempted ambush. But Zaka did not fire. If he had been back home, or if it had been an honourable fight, he would've put him out of his misery. Sent him up to whatever gods he believed in.

Instead, Zaka turned without so much as a second look. Already splitting off as both the artificial storm, and the howls drew closer.

 

[Romund Sro]

Objective: Leave

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How unbecoming of someone like Romund, at the mercy of his own prey, beaten and battered so easily and tumbled down a ridge. Laying there he watched his would-be prey walk off without him. He no longer had the energy to go after him, for now his hunt was done and his prey had rightfully gotten away. So long as they were on an escape vessel they were free, Romund couldn’t protest that.

He continued to lay there for a while, his prey now long gone and in too much pain, soreness and lacking energy to pick himself up. It’s not like the maw would come and save him, they weren’t really those kinds of people. His clones couldn’t come and save him since he had no way to know that he was in such a bad situation. Was this aristocrat really just dead here on the bleak, scorched world that he couldn’t even remember the name of. Is this how his story ends, and his collection unfinished?

“No….” he grunted to himself, his internal anger and determination trying to fuel the dark within him. The passion being the only thing that can keep him going. Slowly and with a lot of hard work he managed to pick himself up some but even with all his passion he wasn’t strong enough. The moment he stood his legs gave out and he fell over onto his front into the harsh rocky ground. Grunting in pain he clenched his fists and cursed himself to get back up, yet he couldn’t.

Then he heard something. Weary eyes looked up and saw what it was. It was a large insect, an almost cockroach-like bug, but larger, like the size of a dog that approached. Was he really that pathetic now, the scavengers of the wasteland would come to eat him now before he even died. He despised the bug before him. It in itself was mocking him just by being there. Frowning at him he shot his hand forwards and grabbed it. Not with his hand since it was too far, but with the Force.

The moment the bug noticed it finished and tried to fly off with his large hidden wings. But yet it floated there, fast wings flapping in vain. Romund began to pour his hate out and before he knew it dark strands of energy were washing over the bug and into him. Draining it’s health and adding it to Romund. He was draining it through the force. As he did so he could feel energy make its way back into him and some of his minor wounds begin to heal as well. Soon after he drained the large bug for all it was worth and let off of it. The empty husk of it’s body thumped onto the rocky ground.

With newfound energy Romund managed to pick himself up now. His body still in great pain but manageable now. He began to limp away from where he lay. Beginning to make his way off the planet...

 

[Mikhail Grayson]

The cliff side was steep and the path narrow, the crags were a treacherous road to tread. It would be easy to lose one’s step here and plummet to one’s death or disfigurement. Mikhail had to stay mindful, the sound of the hounds continued to close in on him, they became louder and louder. There was no way back, he had to stay committed to the path he’d taken.

The rock shuttered and the ground shook, the Essionian dived for cover and hid in the shadow of an outlying crevice in the rock face of the cliff side.

"Where are you hiding, little mage-knight?"

The tainted voice of the mechanical titan was one he had heard before, not in person mind you but over battle logs and data files collected on the Brotherhood since the events of Csilla. This was The Mongrel , a Warlord who’s beginning was no more than that of a slave-soldier. He was more metal than man now, on Korriban he remembered seeing him fight atop the hill dubbed in his honor. He’d changed, gotten bigger.

So that was who the massive shadow on the horizon was. The titanic Warlord, hunting him for sport. It all made sense why he was still alive, this was a savage game, a chance to toy with one of his foes and relish the kill.

Not today.

Mikhail steadied his shaken hand, he felt the approach of the man, the near machine along the narrow pass. He checked his disruptor pistol and climbed up the rock face as much as he could, holding himself until the Mongrel passed him by.

Deep breaths and a moment of courage.

He waited and when the moment came leapt with all he had, hoping it was enough, praying he could send the Mongrel down the rocky bluffs.



The Mongrel

 

[Zaka]

PRISONER

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Zaka had a steady pace as he ran. Quick, but not pushing his limits to get to the shuttles as fast as he could. There could be other hunters, other environmental hazards that would spark up, forcing him to expend even more energy. Running the width of what looked to be a wide boulder, before he realized it to be a machine of war. A barely recognizable Chiss tank from years past.

The destruction here was to a caliber he hadn't seen before.

He doubted it had been the Maw who did this, it looked to be this way for years before the first mention of the Brotherhood had even spoken. No, this was older than them. But it was no surprise that they would occupy such a world for their nefarious games. Fitting of the entity that he destroyed an entire planet.

It was impressive though. Not for centuries had such a thing been done. They were truly a worthy opponent, capable of giving him a worthy death. The hunter he had come across... He had been clearly weakened, perhaps from an earlier prey. Zaka could not say for sure. He just relished the opportunity to be free once more. To face them on even grounds.

He had already passed the city. Caught up in his thoughts, he only noticed when the growling was right over his shoulder. In mid-step he turned about, a heavy weight crashing into his flank. Skin and layers of flesh giving way as he hit the ground - his vision filled with gnashing teeth as he struggled to fight the creature off.

 

[SCAR]

Tor’r Tal’Verda | Death’s Hand
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The Hunt. The sport of it, the high from a fresh kill. To walk the True Way of the Mandalore one must be hunter and hunted, predator and prey. He could respect these war games if there had been equal measure, a way to truly gauge one’s abilities against all odds. The sad truth to this sport was that it was entertainment, bloodsport for the marauder hordes and their dark masters.

Tor’r tilted his veiled gaze as his T-Visored helm peered toward the holographic visuals of the hunters and hunted on the ground level below. There were few he’d actively taken an interest too, and even fewer he felt were worth the challenge he possessed. Yet there was a nostalgia here, a calling that made him yearn for the old days of his youth. The days of slavery, not the labor nor the cruelty of his being, no.. it was the arena. The gladiatorial fights he engaged in as a warrior pure and simple before his return to the fold, his rescue by his long lost brethren among Clan Tal’Verda.

He stared at the visuals intently, he wished there was one whom he could face to make him relive those moments. Of a time where the only thing separating you from an early grave was your skill with a blade or a blaster.

“Let’s see what happens next.”

​

 

[Vesta]

She wondered if they knew how fortunate they were, to be in the position they were in - to have the chance to not only prove themselves, but also to collect the experience of something nearing a warzone with not nearly the amount of threat being in one might pose. Survivalism, in a way, offered many more opportunities to better equip oneself than the chaos of war - at least an easier set of lessons to grasp.

Watching the burning figures scramble, struggle, and succeed, it seemed most were taking quite the advantage of their respective positions.

"The Jedi." She said simply, her words spoken aloud but heard through the fabric of space between Tu'teggacha and her. "Frail and stubborn though their teachings might be, they often show the greatest potential when they are faced with the need to survive." The Sith explained, crossing her legs as she leaned back in her seat. She lifted a hand, turning it over as she did, and looked down into her palm where a flaming ephigy of Mikhail Grayson formed, running and moving in place.

"He would have been dead by now if that potential wasn't there."