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Those words echoed through her mind after she watched him jump down the hole and cut her free with his knife. Without the tongue wrapping around her leg, she was still falling but at least she wasn't going to be tied to Kyrel, who could have caused her to hit the ground without the ability to try and soften her landing. However, she wasn't going to fall — with Kahlil turning his focus to the Force, she was given a boost up to at the very last moment, which allowed her to pull herself back up to safety.
Looking back down the hole in the ground, Valery frowned as she watched her husband fight for her life against Kyrel again. He wanted her to get back home to Vera, and they'd be with the family again soon. But...
"No. We're leaving together, whether you like it or not."
Perhaps she was being stubborn, but she wasn't going to leave him — they promised each other they'd leave together, and nothing could change her mind from fighting to make it happen. But she did understand that jumping down after them wasn't a good solution either, so she tapped a button on her vambrace and used it to summon a shuttle out of here. The Master's Retreat was down, Kyrel was weakened and the people in this area had been evacuated.
Their job was done and with the injuries they sustained, it was time to get out.
It was only going to take a few minutes at most for the shuttle to arrive, but when it did, she'd be in the cockpit to circle around to the depths that Kahlil and Kyrel had fallen into. She could feel their clash raging on down below, but it was unlikely they could keep it up for much longer. They were in rough shape, both of them. So through her bond with Kahlil, she alerted him to her approach, and when the time was right, she'd be there with an open boarding ramp for him to get to.
Vren grumbled as his particle fire was conjured into a damn giant snake heading straight for him. At the same time, a damn sandstorm rose up with it. "Well shiiit." he cursed, evading like mad to stay out of reach of the inferno rushing toward him, the ion jetpack operating without much hinderance in the sandstorm. <How you getting on, Girl?!> he cried to Nag as he sped through the air, the fire serpent hot on his tail.
In answer, another jetpack roared through the storm to reveal an armour the Karjr had seen a few times before on Kestri and Enclave space, blue bolts firing down toward the Destroyer of Mandalore. Fett was the name, if the Karjr remembered right. :: It's a familiar reading. No hostilities noted toward the Enclave. :: Nag said before the howl of her engines pierced the air again and her dark bulk could just be made out through the swirling dirt.
Vren took a sharp dive before turning onto his back, flying backwards to loose his cryocaster on the fire serpent to try and freeze it in the air. <Yeah, he's a friendly for the most part. Now, send those heathens to hell, Girl!> he told her, still concentrating cryo-fire on the inferno. :: Now you're talking. :: She sounded almost excited in her monotone.
Her ions howled away before her capital-ship grade laser cannons as well as the rotary particle turret boomed towards the ground where the two Sith were still standing while she kept circling.
With Fett out of the ground, it was time to go on the offensive instead of acting as a diversion. Whether the serpent was frozen or not, Vren dipped lower and towards the Sith and loosed a concussion missile from one of the two launchers in his jetpack. At the same time, he flicked one of his pistols' settings to loose not only particle bolts from one but sonics from the other while he swooped low over their area before gaining altitude again as he passed.
He would even throw the kitchen sink at the Dark Emperor if he had to.
Oh shit moment
Jetpack still operational through dust cloud so flying like a mad man to stay ahead of the inferno.
Flying backwards while yeeting ice at fire snake
After freeing Boba 2.0 from the ground, Basilisk firing both medium laser cannons as well as 6-barrel rotary particle cannon at Darth Carnifex
and Teresa Zambrano | Darth Pellax
No longer distraction - Vren on offensive now
At same time as the Basilisk, Vren swoops low to fire 1x Concussion Missile at them as well while also firing particle bolts with one pistol and sonic shots with the other before gaining altitude again after shots were fired.
Well if one thing was certain -- the Sith didn't take a beating lying down for long. A clawed, inhuman hand struck out as Siv rained blows onto the Sith to slice through the armorweave fabric that covered Siv's underarm, ripping into the flesh of the Mandalorian. The pain seared through the Mandalorian's nervous system, and his muscles immediately tensed in protest.
The immediate pain caused Siv to lose his focus, and the Sith immediately took advantage of it, grabbing the Mandalorian as they both got to their feet once more. Perspiration dripped from the Mandalorian's forehead as he fought the agonizing, burning sensation in his flesh; though bacta would soon be directed towards the area, it was still slow acting. Then another moment and Siv's besragr had been summoned into the hands of the Sith.
Siv processed the next following moment with lightning-fast cognitive abilities, enhanced by stim and his own instinct for survival. Beskar was essentially the only material capable of piercing beskar, and the Sith knew that. As the spear struck out towards his torso, Siv blocked with the only thing he had: his own hand. With his other hand still held in a vice grip, he stuck out his right hand to try and grab onto the tip of the spear; a futile move as it cut cleanly through the square of his palm.
The stab of pain that followed made his prior flesh wound seem like a bruise; the agony was so palpable that Siv could no longer contain it. Blood spurt like a faucet from the inpaled hand, running down the besragr's shaft as a mix of pain and anger manifested itself an uncontrolled roar from the Mandalorian. He turned away the vibrospear's strike, his hand now sliding down the shaft of the vibrospear as the strike continued up and past his head. His right hand was effectively immobilized, but his gauntlets were still free.
A momentary sacrifice to get where he wanted. Bones and flesh could be mended. Pain -- pain that caught him to roar ferally, his forehead beaded with perspiration despite the environment seals in his suit -- he would abide.
On the left gauntlet, his Whistling Birds launcher activated, launching a dozen small munitions that spiraled up and down in random patterns at the Sith. Coming from a top-down angle, the munitions would be impacting primarily at the Sith's exposed head. At the same time, the flamethrower on his left activated spurting hot flame at the hand holding it. Using the heat to free the hand, he drew his kal dagger with lightning speed, fired his disruptor barrel at the Sith’s head from the side right before stabbing the blade precisely towards the exposed flesh immediately below the Sith’s jawline, the entire attack performed in a fluid swift motion.
Laoth remained static as he watched his foe succeed in her ascent of the mountain wall, her weary form clambering atop the landing where they would once more do battle. His eyes - as vibrant as polished amethysts held under a rising sun - bore down on her with ages of warrior’s intent. Against the burning desire to slay her as he had so many others, so many statistics, it was almost joyous to him to see his enemy again.
After all, it was her face that he first saw in glorious combat against the Jedi upon his reawakening. It was her name that he seared into memory as he desecrated the world of Jedha for mindless slaughter, driven into action by the Brotherhood as if he were a bull being prodded for an upcoming festival of violence. And it was her face that he saw first in the demise of souls and nature after his second entombment. Sacrificing the integrity of death for the resurrection of rot and decay. Yet through these horrors that he inflicted upon her, she remained resolute in fighting him, never backing down, never letting her fear of him get the best of her - for the most part. Proving to be one of the most tenacious of his enemies in the modern era.
Of course, her perseverance had its limits. Though Laoth now identified her so reverently in the heat of battle, he knew that it was her fault he could even do so. He watched as the woman slowly rose to her feet, her lightsaber humming in the air as rain clattered onto its beam with crackling force. She looked upon him with a glare that stood somewhere between shock and fury, with hints of disgust at his new heightened visage.
Was she furious with herself for letting him live and become this thing? He would not blame or be surprised, truth be told. How many men and women had died because of her so-called “mercy” when he was held by the throat for her to swing the sword? How many families had been torn apart because of her indecision on the fate of his life? How long would she let these vile, pointless tenets of Light keep her from knowing her true potential as a combatant, one that Laoth suspected could rival him in unmitigated brutality?
These were questions he had asked himself intermittently after Selvaris, and later after his maiming at the hands of Valery Noble
. These were questions he asked himself now, his blackened tongue flicking against the roof of his mouth as he mimicked voicing them to his foe. Yet, still, he remained motionless, silent, and glaring.
Then, she asked him a question, one he had not taken into conscious consideration for it was not until now that he drew the subconscious conclusion forging inside the hash of his brain as to where he had been held earlier in the day. That prison of untameable Light where Darkness was naught but a splintered wooden chair held in the damp basement of a condemned house. Who else could have constructed such a horrid place where his powers had waned and his endurance was barely hanging on if not for the timely assistance and death of Black Steel? Why else would she be asking the devil-cybernetic if he had killed…him. Michael Sardun. The chief warden, the leader of those Knights Laoth had slaughtered like pigs. That prison was his.
Laoth erupted with a volcanic cackle that nearly buckled him out of his animal posture. Of course, the prison was Sardun’s. Of course, those people who had abducted him on Empress Teta were his. Laoth had long sensed the pure magnitude of Sardun’s hatred for the Darkness, and long-held the belief of an impetuous ability to sniff out corruption. He had not known why he believed this, only that it had just been proven in some capacity.
As Laoth slowed his laughter and returned as best he could to a bellicose nature, he had a new quandary before him. Would he lie to Ishida and have her believe that her master, so patient and caring for her wellbeing, was dead by his hand? Or would he keep their bout undiluted by outside forces and speculations and untruths? Either option would be to his benefit, for Ishida had yet to face the raw power of Laoth’s unhindered-by-flesh form of Mechu-Deru. But which was more enjoyable for his corruptive sensibilities?
The answer came in the form of a lightning flash encompassing the mountainside with bedazzling whiteness. Just as Ishida adopted her reverse grip with the beaming lightsaber and reached to pull out her Katana, Laoth had finally moved. Swinging his dark stolen blade only to clash against her lightsaber, not aiming to kill or maim or injure in any form. Only to startle and see how quickly she could move.
As metal screeched against plasmic light, Laoth leaned his face dangerously close to the young woman’s weapon, pressing his strength against hers enough to keep the blades locked. “I did not kill your Master, Ashina,” he hissed through a horrid mismatch of vocal tones and shift from his vox unit. “But, after this…I will. I will gut him and have him know that you…are dead and that he failed to protect you.”
This was not an attempt to throw her off her game. Nor was it a lie. It was a truth. Something he wholeheartedly planned on doing. For Sardun had imprisoned him. Tortured him. Attempted to weaken him. And that could not be forgiven. And as Laoth dealt with however Ishida responded, whether by talking or attacks, he remained fixedly unaware of the encroaching danger. The shattering of the very fabric they teetered on.
Ran followed Tren Chaar’s example and pushed the B-Wing harder than she ever had. With TIE fighters on her tail she raced through space directly for the Eradicator. Once she came upon it, she let loose all weapons she could on the most vulnerable spot she could find. Pulling up and away from the points of impact, she put herself in the path of an enemy starfighter.
Ran and M7-TA set the B-Wing in a barrel roll and narrowly avoided getting scorched. M7-TA whirred a complimentary tone. “You too, Emm-Seven. Stay alert.” Ran replied as they disappeared from the sights of the TIE behind them.
The fiery wreckage of the TIE that chased them raced over their canopy and smashed against the shields over Ran’s viewing windows. M7-TA beeped and whirred a warning of danger. “I know. We cannot take another hit like that,” Ran shot back. “If we do, that is our end.” She continued. “Give me full control, Emm-Seven. I am taking us to safety. I do not want to be here when the Eradicator goes down.” M7 whistled a confirmation.
Ran sped across the battlefield taking into account every sense she could. Every single warning from their defense system was followed by silence as Ran evaded crashes, cannonfire, and debris, until the last. A stray shot deflected into her engines sent all systems into a frenzy. One engine went down as another maxed out. The B-Wing was sent hurtling toward the planet below and was then pulled into Tython’s atmosphere.
As M7-TA and Ran attempted to right the B-Wing they couldn’t recognize Tython from the last time they were there. It had become torn, fractured, destroyed. They almost had the ship traveling straight until they were caught in one of the planet’s force storms, this one more volatile than any ever before. The B-Wing rumbled, grumbled, groaned, and thrashed about. Ran couldn’t grip the controls properly let alone steer the ship. She thought that maybe this was it, the end of her song, but that was when she heard it. The voice of her ancestor, the Jedi Master Ular Unil. She’d met his ghost once before and now it seemed he stayed with her.
“You are the last of my line, little one. You ain’t dying today.”
Upon hearing those words she grabbed the controls and flew her and M7-TA to safety. She wanted to ask Ular about possibilities but the force was oftentimes a mystery that even the dead didn’t understand. Ran and M7-TA put the B-Wing down in the safest place they could find.
“I can’t stay long.” Ular announced. His form shimmered into being as Ran exited the cockpit. “I’m just here to help, little one. And to tell you this. You can be the greatest of the Unil. Greater than me. You’re a Jedi and You’re royalty. You just have to find our people.”
“I thought I already did. Back on Mirial.” She replied.
Ular smiled at Ran. “There are two sides to every coin. You're one part Serys and one part Unil. It’ll take both legacies for you to become who I know you can be. Be a coin, Ran. When you figure out how to do that, we’ll see each other again.” His form disappeared and joined the volatile force energy that was in that moment all around the planet.
Ran looked toward M7-TA. “Looks like we have another mission to add to the list, Emm-Seven.” M7-TA beeped and whirred in confusion. “Nothing. Let us just get this B-Wing back into the sky. There is something else we have to do.”
Location: Ruins of the Jedi Temple - Tython Objective: Save a Sister Dialogue Legend: <<Technopathy Link>> │ “Verbal” Direct Engagement: Project Uriel
Stroking her daughter’s hair with a broken, mangled hand, Alessandra’s visage was wet with tears. Even now, the Chaplain didn’t know why the Matriarch had made her capable of crying, but such thoughts were far from her mind as she worked to comfort her daughter during what could be their very last…
Feeling open air on her face, and needing to see her Mother's freely. Hug of her mother, tears falling from Alessandra. "it's okay." fading soft words, seeing pictures of her being taught to dance going through her mind, "you g…gave me life," resting her cheek on Alessandra's arm.
“S-stay with me, Ameli.” Alessandra said, through choked tears. Not once had the HRD ever stammered or skipped over her words before now. “I love you.” She added, now freely crying, even as her daughter began to hum a small tune, a familiar melody from the song the Chaplain had shown her. Nevertheless, Alessandra joined in without hesitation, holding her emotions back so that she could enjoy the moment with her daughter.
She was not ready to admit that it could be their last.
"rre..Rem re…" Held there on Alessandra's lap, moments passed, she couldn't say what she wanted, almost desperate as she realized what could be done, her time was almost gone. Ameli's mouth opened, but there wasn't a sound.
Seconds now. She didn't want to look anywhere else or be anywhere else for them.
Goodbye.
Her power source, her synthetic heart, went quiet.
A terrible, grief-filled howl left the Chaplain’s lips, the damage to her vocabulator doing little to minimize the sound, even over the cacophony of Force storms, blaster fire, and reality itself being shorn apart. Her photoreceptors burned a terrible glow, before unleashing their grief into the shards of reality itself, rage, despair, and shock laid bare on her features as the twin beams lanced through the mirrors of existence, uncaring for anything they might hit, save for Ameliora’s now inert form.
At that moment, nothing else seemed to matter as Alessandra cast forth her grief until her photoreceptors were burned out and her damaged vocabulators could no longer handle the stress. It was only by the grace of her self-preservation systems, which overrode her digital-biological cognition matrices and forced the Chaplain into a state of dormancy, was further damage to her chassis prevented.
For now, it seemed that she would rest.
“Chaplain Alessandra Io, this is Gamma Six, closing in on your signature. Can you confirm your status?”
Alessandra snapped back into activity, initially confused from the sudden activation before her cognition systems quickly recalibrated to bring her back into alignment. It had been a little less than an hour since her self-preservation systems overrode to force her into dormancy and already, her chassis was beginning to regenerate, though much of her framework was still heavily-damaged.
“Repeating: This is Gamma Six. Can you confirm your status, Chaplain? If not, we may have to pull back-”
“This is Chaplain Alessandra Io! I’m here, I have someone with me.” She answered quickly. “She’s…my daughter.”
“Confirmed, Chaplain.” The pilot answered, albeit after a short pause. “I’m coming in for my approach, now.”
Not long after, the air itself seemed to vibrate as the Kom’rk-class transport hovered above the island, before the ramp opened to reveal a trio of Model 3 Nuetralizers, with one wielding a healing blaster, while the two others carried elemental carbines.
“This place is a mess! Let’s get you out of here, sister!” The leading Nuetralizer—Mark—said as he fired a dense shot of bacta gas into the Chaplain.
“My daughter-” Alessandra began, before stopping when Mark picked up Ameliora’s inert form and carried her body into the shuttle. “Thank you, brothers.” She added.
The fiery serpent snapped its jaws at the flying Mandalorian, only for the crafty warrior to narrowly escape being swallowed whole by a maw of living flame. It acted almost upon instinct now, moving partially of its own accord. The dark magic that the Dark Lord had suffused through the flame had given it a spark of will, not enough to survive independently of His own, but enough that it could carry out basic commands encoded into the magic that animated it. He had learned such power from the Nightsisters, drinking deep from their collective knowledge and synthesizing it with the Sith sorcery He had mastered. With the teachings of both worlds, the Dark Lord could command powerful magic.
Such magic was on display now, the serpent winding through the air, eager to burn the Mandalorian to cinders. But as it rushed forward to engulf them, the Dark Lord's concentration was chipped as the familiar blue charric bolts from Koda Fett's rifle cut through the dust storm on a direct path towards Carnifex. Rather than drawing His weapon, the Dark Lord reached out with both hands and smacked each bolt down and away from Him, each hand coated in a protective layer of scintillating energy. The ground around the Dark Lord burst as the bolts impacted the ground, sending up plumes of dirt and rock that briefly obscured His vision. In that time, the other Mandalorian unleashed their cryo weapon against the inert flaming serpent, which began to shriek as its fire dwindled away.
Before it had completely dissipated, the Dark Lord reached out and willed the animated fire to combust. The air ignited around the fire serpent, exploding with tremendous force and sending a pressurized shockwave in every direction. Whether that explosion knocked His enemies from the sky or merely rattled them was inconsequential, for the Dark Lord was beset on all sides by His Mandalorian adversaries. The basilisk rushed forward, ion engines screaming, a torrent of blaster fire erupting from around the war droid's muzzle towards not only the Dark Lord, but His apprentice as well.
With the power of tutaminis, the Dark Lord began to collect the various energy attacks levied His way. Scintillating energy surrounded the Dark Lord, the blaster fire launched by His opponents drawn towards both of His outstretched hands. Even the explosive power of the concussion missile, crushed as though gripped by an invisible hand, rushed forward like water through a funnel into the Dark Lord's awaiting palm. Once enough energy had been collected, the Dark Lord transmogrified it into hundreds of small energy spheres, which were then launched back out into the sky towards both Mandalorians and the basilisk in a perverted mockery of the whistling birds the Mandalorians so cherished. When these energy spheres connected with anything solid, they exploded with the force of a grenade.
But as the battle continued and the violence intensified, a dark shadow began to stretch from beneath the Dark Lord's very feet. Reality's veil had been riven, and the mangled spirits of the damned had been roused from their torment. For a man, nay, a monster, like the Dark Lord of the Sith, one could not comprehend the amount of dead that lay beneath His feet and in the shadow of His wake. They reached up through the shadows, gnarled fingers and etched bone coiling around the hem of His cloak.
They called forth His name.
"Murderer!"
"Tyrant!"
"Butcher!"
"FATHER!"
"Bastard!"
"Betrayer!"
"Destroyer!"
The Dark Lord nearly recoiled visibly, the crooked hands that clawed at Him from the darkness a greater surprise than any He had experienced on Tython. His attention was snatched from the living Mandalorians, both of His hands now reached down and unleashing a torrent of lightning at the howling dead clutching at His robes. The lightning pierced through flesh and bone, dispelling spirit, but there were far too many to merely batter away like flies. Some even managed to reach up and grab at His face, their horrific faces keeling the name of the man who had destroyed so much, ruined countless lives, and plunged the galaxy in decades of grinding war.
But the cloven fabric of reality did not serve just the spirits of the dead, for the Dark Lord had made powerful pacts with beings beyond comprehension. As He destroyed another score of spirits, He called out to one such ally. "Voracitos, relieve me of these insects." A deep rumbling drum beat seemed to reverberate through the ground, almost like the sound of laughter. From the darkness came forth a dark energy, it coiled around many of the spirits and began to drag them back into the shadows. They would not disappear as they had appeared, but instead were swallowed up by a maw with far too many teeth and far too many tongues, fleshy protuberances starting to sprout from the ground like grotesque flowers.
Percival couldn't help but take notice of the power the Parliament wielded. Her teleportation in particular was spectacular, allowing her to move freely throughout the field, cutting down foes who hardly had a chance to see her before she struck, then vanished just as quickly.
He followed her lead, engaged in his own whirling dance of death, his blade stained a violent rainbow with the blood of a dozen different species.
The Parliament called out to him amid the carnage. Though he was automatically wary in her presence, Percival was caught off guard by the question. Marry Rebecca? The idea had yet to even enter his mind.
In his reality, she was still dealing with the pain of all that she had lost. Her homeworld, her family, the father of her child. There was no entering into a healthy romance with someone as broken as she was. Not until those wounds had healed. It wasn't hard to figure out that she found him attractive, though he'd filed it away as just a crush. His brothers teased him about their relationship, but he was Rebecca's friend more than her lover. Someone she could talk to and rely upon. Someone who cared.
Certainly he'd showed her some level of special treatment, dropping everything the moment she called to him. If she said she needed him, everything else was going to have to wait. He had even resisted Mother's commands, torn between his duty to the Matriarch and a desire to be there for Rebecca. But it had never occurred to him that he might love her, and not in the way Chaplains are programmed to love every member of House Io.
"Then maybe it's for the best that we don't marry," Percival replied, decapitating a Mawite with his sword. "Then she'll have nothing to lose."
Why was he speaking as if he, too, was destined to die? Maybe being faced with his mortality in an alternate universe was making him fatalistic. Or sentimental.
"What do you intend to do with my severed finger?" he asked, changing the subject.
Location: Outskirts of the Temple Ruins - Tython Objective: Engage Tython Accords Forces Direct Engagement: Hilal Vizsla
SF-3335 grunted with frustration at seeing the Mandalorian dodge the canister rounds from her flechette launchers by flying upward. Without a doubt, this Mandalorian was fast, but the Crimson Velocity had no shortage of speed and was extremely agile compared to most speeder bikes.
It wasn’t a matter of whether the bike could keep up, it was a matter of the strength and skill its rider.
As the Mandalorian maneuvered to evade the canisters, SF-3335 pulled back on the vanes and willed the Crimson Velocity to ascend upward at a sharp angle, until she was roughly 45 meters above the ground. At this height any fall would be painful, though perhaps not fatal owing to the safety systems incorporated into her riding suit. Nevertheless, while she was unused to riding with so much air separating her from the ground, SF-3335 drove her machine with all the daring and moxie that she usually did. She quickly leveled out, now matching the Mandalorian’s altitude as they came back around and accelerated towards her, though not from above, but on an equal plane.
For her part, SF-3335 did not take the bait.
The target-tracking canisters were fast-moving and had a large potential for damage, but they weren’t missiles and as such, couldn’t stay on her for long before running out of momentum. As the Mandalorian accelerated towards her (potentially before she would have broken off), SF-3335 opened fire with the Crimson Velocity’s twinned machine guns at the maximum rate of fire, a salvo of six explosive, anti-materiel slugs lashing out from 15 meters away and closing, to potentially strike her in the chest!
Target-tracking canisters are unable to track Hilal for long before running out of momentum. They aren’t missiles.
SF-3335 ascends the Crimson Velocity to 45 meters above the ground, seeking to match Hilal’s altitude.
Hilal accelerates to SF-3335, but not from above, but on an equal plane. As such, SF-3335 opens fire with her machine guns as Hilal charges (but potentially before she would have broken off), delivering a salvo of six explosive 10.36x77mm from 15 meters away and closing, aiming to strike Hilal in the chest.
Tython knew no fear or pain, not yet. It thought itself invincible. What else could it think, born out of the soul of a dying world, bathed in the cleansing volcanic ash of those fallen below the ritual? It was the height of hubris, surrounded by the very ritual it was born from, twisting this world into a black mirror of what it was.
A multitude of different voices cried out at the same time. The bolt from the skies was coming from ITSELF, the ritual. The storm clouds above wounded it greatly, lifting it into the air. Bound and pulled toward a technological device it could not possibly understand. A net, almost perfectly designed for a creature of shade in Vong-shaped armor. The lightning trap pierced the edges of the crab shell further, blackening it like the form underneath. A restricting claw, and now a living conduit for the force storms raging above their battle.
It was that ritual clouds harnessed, pulled down from the heavens that were a concern, for both of them. Weakness revealed, but also great danger in its now grounded connection to the shade and earth.
Caught in the trap pulled towards its crystalized doom, it tried to teleport left and right, writhing around, almost as if it was attached to something from both ends. Ritual and Crystal. Shuddering and moving against the confines of the cage that tried to pull it inward, an imprisoning eternity cased in crystal awaited it. Much like its creator had once found himself! The dark irony was not missed by those watching.
From above long after the initial bolt, the ritual's lightning, and storm's energy kept coming, burning its armor, inflicting smokey dark wounds which billowed around it from the shade's form. Grounding the ritual above downwards. Probably enough to fry everything here. Thankfully Caltin was somewhere clear, but even so, the impact was significant. The ground certainly bore the scar of rushing winds, energy discharge, and black rain. A dark storm tunnel of the force energies and storms raging above pulled downwards.
A great discharge followed when the energy dissipated, straight into the crystal trap and surrounding earth below. Caltin had captured something, a large part of the sky above, a piece of the ritual, but the wounded shade remained!
A great weakness was itself… the form ahead showed clear signs of wounding as waves of darkness had returned, bleeding from its swirling mass.
Sith Barrage
It was from this carnage that the wounded entity learned to channel energy, and the chorus within channeled it back to Caltin in petrified screams of agony. Building pressure from the ground, drained of life and meaning. A Sith Barrage of lightning, not from its fingertips, but from the ground beside it. Four black bolts struck toward the Jedi Master like thunderous cannon shots. Circular from where the ritual energy had landed. Dead ground, leached, channeled, and fired back at the tiring Jedi Master.
Shards of Darth Krayt's Armor were taken, and stabbed into the crab armor, to provide some stability, like slowly growing glue. It would not even heal the damage within a day but it would stabilize the worst of the cracks for now. The entity began to move left, drifting sideways, looking for fresh ground, lifeforce to consume and replenish itself.
Summary of Actions
Caltin channels a bolt from above. The bolt connects the ritual storms to the ritual shade.
The energy from the ritual's stormcloud grounds through the shade, and discharges a large amount of energy, wind, rain, and lightning.
The shade takes several wounds both to its armor and to its form. The ritual energy proves a dangerous weapon against the shade.
Learning to channel electricity, a sith barrage of four black bolts, fires from the lifeless ground around the shade.
The entity moves left to find fresh ground. Stabbing its armor with Darth Krayt's armor shards, looking to provide some stability to the worst cracks.
Location: Tython Objective: Defend the temple Tag: Erion Justeene
Not too soon after his valiant callout did the Sith finally jumped out of his hiding spot. The Sith didn't respond, presumably far too focused on killing him rather than a shouting contest. The padawan's eyes narrowed when he leaped towards him, his lightsaber raising upwards with one hand to try and prepare the best he could against the barrage of attacks coming his way.
Even though he was injured, the Sith's unforgiving power was still there. The swings he threw at him were still very precise, one that was seemingly going faster than Silas could move. At first, he managed to move his tired body away from a few swings, a rhythm that soon crashed when the tip of his red lightsaber slashed across his cheek. The contact instantly made him yell out and snap his head to the side, eyes widening slightly from the black cut that damaged his tanned skin. It wasn't deep, but it still certainly hurt.
Silas barely even had enough to comprehend what happened when came at him again. The ribs broken in his body were making it extremely uncomfortable to draw breath, it was only a matter of time before it got worse and cost him his life. Wheezing loudly he finally offered a response by swinging his lightsaber against his, locking them together in a fierce face to face. All he could do was stare into the masked face of the Sith exhaustedly, mouth wide and desperate for air.
He didn't know if he could defeat him, his resilience seemed way more hardened than his. Silas was only a mere boy against an enemy who had been training all his life to kill a Jedi like him. No... it couldn't end like this, not when it was only just beginning.
Runi suspected the Sith would leverage the grappling line, but it had been a strategic weakness she'd been willing to accept. Sometimes you had to sheathe the enemy's sword to deliver a killing blow. In this case, it might not have killed the apparition, but it had demonstrated she was not untouchable -- a good start. The only regret she had was in more wrenching motion along her injured limb as Onrai sought to toss her across the room.
The blade of Light began to fade, but Runi used its dwindling power to sever the grappling line. Yes, she would hear words of the intricately carved weapon being burnt to a crisp from manifesting so much power through an otherwise ordinary piece of wood (no matter how well crafted).
As the feather-adorned woman soared through the open air, the field of battle was clear to her. They had all had a chance to prove their worth to themselves and one another. No one could claim any that had fought were weak or unworthy of being Mandalorian. Sith forces would have eagerly feasted on anyone that feigned training in the many combat arts long before the moment the Speaker found herself weightless in the air.
Her boots touched upon the deck with a silence unbecoming of someone that had just been thrown airborne a moment ago. The cloak had helped control the descent. If Onrai chose that moment to strike, she would find the charred blade in Runi's hand suddenly bursting outward in all directions. A cloud of smoke and ash fluttered about in the air with the Shaman nowhere to be seen. A moment later the swirling mist of ruin drew in on itself to take the form of the Mandalorian woman once more.
"Surrender does nothing to benefit the Mandalorian people. To fight a battle and lose is no shame. To stand by and watch an enemy grow fat in conquest, no way to survive. Tell me, Child of Darkness, why do you fight?" Runi reached over to retrieve the second blade from her injured hand. She spun it casually off to her left as she began to slowly move back in Onrai's direction.
"But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government and provide new guards for their future security. " - Excerpt from the United States Declaration of Independence
Tython was not falling under despotic rule…
Tython was not falling at all…
… but he couldn’t stop it.
Could anyone?
Falling to his knees, grasping the ground with his hands, Caltin was in pain physical pain from the exhaustion and beating he has taken. Mental pain from what he has seen and endured up to this point, and the emotional pain of everything going through his mind, are all that is at stake. The massive Jedi Master was wondering if he could take it anymore. All of the torment, all of the weight that he carried, it was… the strain… it was horrible… each and every new threat worse than the last. Could he do it anymore?
That answer was becoming more and more evident as he fought to keep from falling over, ” Why fight it anymore?” he could not help to think to himself as the lava flow began to creep closer and closer. Maybe this was it? He could not see that corrupted apparition calling itself the state of Tython. Maybe it fell. Maybe it was closing in on him. Maybe it was moving away toward Akar Kesh. Maybe none of it mattered as right now there was nothing he could do about it anyway. He was just too weakened. So much effort. So much fighting… and for what? Then he felt something, a brush… a slight, small breeze…
“Get up, Dad.”
I’m at my endgame here.
“No Dad, you’re not.”
I don’t have enough left. I can’t do this alone….
An astral hand hovered as if brushing on and touching over his shoulder, willing him to slowly, painfully rise to his feet. His eyes now closed, Caltin found himself in an “ether: like state. He could hear it. A song… a chorus… so many faint voices, Caltin could not make out one in particular… there were simply just too many to identify…that was not important though. There were souls around him, all staring his way, smiling. All of these souls around him Jedi who had fallen, be it in battle or of age did not matter in the slightest. Those words of that mantra coming from them too. He had never met Mishel and did not know of this being the work of her and other souls, but it did not matter. His call, though not of his purpose of knowledge seemed to have brought a response.
The words kept a mantra in his eyes, faint and transparent, they did not overpower him, but he heard them, and it felt like he was not the only one who did. When the big man stood, he noticed that there were dozens around him again specifically, Jedi… of all ages and time periods… they all looked to be… familiar somehow. He recognized Alyscia his daughter all but immediately. She had grown into the woman she would become. She was there already, but the big man also recognized who would be his niece and nephew Kameron, and Kayla, Jax Thio
was there in the background. Did he fall? No! No, wait he was looking around too and did not look astral.
Two very distinct forms he could recognize were the one of his namesake and that of a former Padawan. The Jedi he was named after, his own grandfather Caltin Antios Vanagor was there as well. Slowly this was becoming more and more clear. All of these entities… these souls… they were here for him, so many were here for all, but these gathered? They were here for Caltin Vanagor and Jax Thio
“Dad, we’re here… we’re here for you… for Jax… all of us. Me… the twins… our kids… their kids… our ancestry. ”
“I was the first Vanagor… Anselmo… to carry the honor of becoming a Jedi….”
“You know of most of us from stories. We have watched each other through the passage. All of us.”
“We will not watch you now though… grandfather….”
The different “Vanagors” and those lives they touched, Padawans and wards through time speaking to him, from Anselmo, to Alyscia, to Vivias his mother. There were more, but to speak of and identify each was a conversation between the two living Vanagors for another time. Right now the only conversation was “why” were they here in this ether right now. The question was not one meant out of suspicion, or malice, not at all. Frankly, he was happy to see all of them in this joyous moment of reunion that few Jedi are able to witness at all in their lives.
“Not watch me?”
“No sir. We are here to help you. To help Jax.”
To what end?
“Dad, all of our life together, you shouldered a burden on yourself so that no one else had to. Call it a character trait, call it a character flaw, call it whatever you like. You felt like everything had to happen to you so that it did not have to happen to anyone else. This has been the way of each and every one of the souls you see around you. We have all held that trait.”
I won’t ask you to fight for me. You have paid your debts.
“As have you, Father. You have more. So if you need us. We are here. We will give you our strength as one final act in ourselves as Jedi. We stand with the Light as we stand with you. With Jax over there.”
You cannot put this on me… on the two of us. It is not fair to you… to the other Jedi.
She smiled.
“You weren’t there for Exegol, but if you were, I would simply tell you that the events of that day were not our end, but our beginning.”
Meaning…
“Dad. You’re going to be you, you’re going to take the fight to them for those who can’t that’s who you are. You’re never going to ask for help either. This time though? You don’t have to. We’re giving it to you. You’re not doing this alone.”
“Each and every single one of us is here for you. Our strength, our will, and our dedication are at your disposal.”
I… can’t ask you…
“You’re not.”
Then he opened his eyes. It was nothing more than a blink… and suddenly… Caltin was on his feet. He was not “back to normal.” No, his ribcage was still slowly healing, but Caltin had broken ribs to slow him down, he had a head injury, not to mention a broken appendage from the deceased Razor Bug in his neck, he should be recovering. He should be resting, but there was no way that was going to happen, so he was in the fight. As he steeled himself, the words of another Jedi came to mind…
"You failed your Highness… I am Jedi. Like my father before me…”-Luke Skywalker
“Just fight him, Dad. Fight him with all that you have. We will keep you strong.”
Those were the last words that the massive Jedi Master would hear from his long-deceased daughter as he looked on the shade of Tython who was already beginning to adjust to his attack. He had already received the closure he did not know he needed, now he was getting the relief he so long thought he would never get. After all of his trials and tribulations, Caltin Anselmo Vanagor WAS.A.JEDI not just by today’s standards by those of history. An intense and blinding aura of light as an old friend turned enemy Raien Keth
once called him so long ago, the big man emanated one that, if done right, could be seen well past Akar Kesh. Would this draw Sith's attention to him, if even for only a moment, and away from the Jedi looking to save the planet? Who was to say? He didn’t know, but he had to try. The Sith already had one that was “out of time” in the imagery of one Valery Noble
, and she was doing marvelously.
It was time to remind them that there are two.
So to adjust to this was to adjust to the shade of Tython slowly acclimating to his lightning bolts it was time for the big man to adjust his lightning to the storm that seemed to collect it. No amount of petrified screams would change or alter, or affect his strategy. He was not just bringing the lightning down now, Caltin was bringing the wind and the rain. Excess precipitation and gusts would (with any luck) have the desired effect to alter the effects of the superheated rock into volcanic soil.
There was something new about him now, it was weird but it felt like for the first time in his life, he was completely at peace. Everything and Nothing at the same time were going through his mind but as he aimed that Toraynor-Henkan more specifically the mind crystal that he himself attached to it, the purpose was to send all of those souls into personal chaos. If there was a hive mind of torment, then he would set it free. The chinks in the armor were set and while it would not falter to a lightsaber, the massive Jedi Master was faster than the bastard. If Caltin could not collect the mace that the shade was carrying and use it himself, well he would have to get it to blowback on him. All the while breaking the armor further and sending these souls outward. They could haunt lands and roam the skies, they could be dealt with that way. Right now? They needed to be stopped.
His free hand, whether he managed to redirect that mace or not (to swing into the shade) was with one singular purpose. The electrical energy encircling anything he reached for, anything he wanted to grab, the very shards that the shade was using, and tearing that armor open. When he had the chance, (and frankly realized whether or not he could), the big man was going to use a “go-to” method of his, grabbing the armor… and crushing it. It should go further into setting these souls free.
Now it was time to start using the natural energy of the planet to his own advantage. The wind, and the rain, were already doing their part, but the waterfalls, and the natural energy there were going to counteract much of the damage being done. The Jedi of the past were there, it was time to call on the planet to help as well.
There was great darkness shrouding across the land that was Tython. The thing is…
The darker the darkness… the brighter the light…
Location: Between Kaleth/Jedi Temple Ruins/and Flooded Plains
"Surrender gives you the opportunity to save yourself and prepare to fight against the true enemy. What you think is the enemy is anything but." Onrai said, the Darkwhip still in her hand as she eyed Runi like a cat, waiting to see what the Mandalorian woman's next move was. "You have no understanding of the greater picture. I fight because I understand the true threat and seek to prepare for it."
The weapon's tendrils were disabled for a bit as a hand was raised towards Runi. "Let me show you exactly what there is out in this galaxy that you should be far more concerned about than I."
"Heyyy, Kai, a little help, please?" Amani smacked her lips. Her mouth was starting to feel very dry. And her body was starting to really feel the effects of everything that had happened this day. Not to mention from the continued blood loss came a growing state of delirium. Which would soon be followed by a loss of consciousness if untreated.
"These uh… these wounds tend to bleed… a lot." She slurred, failing to point a crooked finger at the bloody ravine carved through her leg muscle. A damp cloth was draped over it, but unable to actually be tied around the injury given her lack of functioning extremities.
Meanwhile her gaze lazily shifted to the sky above, "Izzat evac comin' or…?" She peered closer, confused as to whether she was actually seeing an incoming ship or not. The whole 'fracturing of reality' thing was not at all helping her current state.
Kai was gawking up at the sky like an idiot, searching the clouds for an evac that seemed like it was never going to show up. Meanwhile Amani was bleeding out behind him. Her call for help prompted him to turn and look back at her. His eyebrows rose at the sight of her bloodied leg, especially the red rag she had tied around the limb in a vain effort to stop the flow, and while he chanced one last pleading glance up at the heavens as though hoping for divine intervention, it became apparent there was no time to waste.
He hobbled over to where Amani stood, and more or less pushed her into a sitting position on the ground. <Pretty sure this is supposed to be tied a lot tighter than this,> he said, reapplying the makeshift tourniquet.
<Did you have a first aid kit on your ship?> he asked. While the vessel was in pieces scattered all around them, there was always a chance the medical equipment had survived the crash. He just needed to find it.
The older woman’s gaze shifted in relative disbelief as the assembled leaders, much as they had prior to the destruction of Csilla, continued to posture and bicker in the face of an imminent threat. She wondered whether any of them would feel the same if their own sovereignty was under threat. The Alliance – well, the Alliance under her command would have done anything to defend their allies, even if that meant submitting, temporarily, to a central military command. If she Tithe as well as she thought she did, he would agree. She said a silent prayer to Ashla that it was just strutting. When the time was right, they would unite under a single banner… hopefully.
Adhira reached into her handbag again, released a Balmorran poshta nut from its cumbersome shell and discreetly popped it into her mouth. She dusted her palms together once more to free it from any residue. Her head snapped to attention when the Chancellor spoke again:
“And yes Baron, the uhh, professionalism of the Eternal Armed Forces is well known to the Alliance,” Tithe replied to the Overseers, before adding under his breath: “In particular, those of us who were at Byss.”
Her breath came quick… so quick that a bit of poshta nut debris was sucked down her throat. Her lungs burned and she clasped the crook of her arm to her mouth as she coughed violently. The statement by Tithe had been a delightfully rare combination of hilarious and scandalous. It was a callback to the decisive defeat of the Eternal Empire when they attempted to invade the Alliance planet Byss. Up until now, Adhira had begun to doubt that any of her leadership had rubbed off on her former Vice Chancellor, but in an instant he proved her wrong. She almost wished she’d thought of that brilliant retort herself.
“Apologies,” Adhira said as she recovered from the coughing fit, “it tends to happen the older you get,” she grinned. The Balmorran made a quiet apology to the Chancellor when she met his gaze.
When Tithe called the recess, she let out a sigh of relief. The negotiations were going nowhere and some time to regroup would give her time to think through their next move. Adhira was old, she was retired, and she was probably on the verge of irrelevance, but one thing she knew was strategy. She followed Chancellor Tithe closely, the Senate Guard pressing on either side as they squeezed into their suite and listened intently as her Aerrarii spoke. She wasted no time in addressing his concerns.
“Chancellor…” nope, still didn’t feel right, “at the risk of sounding impertinent,” she crossed the room to a tray of crystal bottles holding amber liquid and poured herself a generous portion. “We have made zero fucking progress,” Adhira took a drink of the harsh smelling liquor.
“If we let this go on, the Maw will have another planet notched into their headboard… and millions of lives lost… we need to divide and conquer.” She downed the rest of the drink and set the sparkling tumbler down. “Credits talk… and you know credits better than anyone, Tithe. You parlay with the Mandalorians.”
“I will speak with the Ashlan Prime Minister. The Church of Light has much in common with the Ashlan Papacy, perhaps we can find common ground.” Adhira did not wait for a response from Aerrarii, she turned in a whirl of gold-embroidered robes and swept herself from the room. A few Senate Guards moved to follow her, but she stopped them with a single wave of her hand.
“Do you think the Queen of Naboo intends to have me killed? Stay here. If I see even a HINT of blue, I’ll have you both patrolling Level 1313 until retirement.” With that final word, she left the suite unaccompanied.
The wizened Alliance representative made her way into the sunny courtyard where it appeared the Ashlan retinue had stationed itself. The sun warmed her aching joints and brought warmth to the caramel skin of her face. Her eyes fell on the Prime Minister… the woman named Isla Draelix. Adhira had only ever dealt with Pietro Demici… a deeply religious man and a figure of great prominence in the Ashlan Papacy. He fiercely opposed the Sith during that summit and Adhira hoped she would find a similar enemy of darkness now. The Balmorran woman scanned the courtyard – apart from the natural beauty of Prime Minister Draellix, with her golden hair and fair skin – she noticed that there were few guards. Near the perimeter, she noted the presence of gold and white colored droids who seemed to stand at ease even upon approach. Within the courtyard itself, a few heavily armored ceremonial guards - she believed they were called the Sisters of Ashla maintained watch over their charge. Luckily, Adhira’s slow movement would have disarmed even the most trigger-happy guards. “Prime Minister,” she said warmly upon approach, “forgive me for the intrusion. I was hoping to find a nice spot in the gardens to meditate. I do so love the gardens here on Naboo – I’ve always said if I ever retire it will be to this serene planet.”
The elder woman smiled.
“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you… would you mind accompanying an old woman on a brief walk through the greenery?” Adhira offered her arm to Isla and motioned toward a floral path of stone arches that led off to the west. “It really would be a shame were we not to take in the beauty Naboo has to offer,” her tone was meant to convince and her eyebrows echoed her plea. She hoped that Isla Draellix was as eager as she to conclude these negotiations and come to an agreement.
Javik wasn't expecting the flashbang as he swung at Vorm
the flashbang whent off disorienting him and blinding him in the process dropping him to one knee even in his helmet and beskar armor. Then he felt the lightning hit and feel surges of electricity surge through his body his muscles tightened and nerves screamed in pain. Keeping him in place he could feel his heart rate increase from the electricity he would begin to slowly move his center torso and legs ignoring his bodies demands otherwise turning around he knew he couldn't hit the man firing at him.
So he did his best to go for his gun his body demanding he stop but knowing if he did he'd die. So he'd begin moving his chest hurt unbelievably from his heart pumping blood faster and faster he knew it was going to give out as he reached down and grabbed the rotary blaster it took everything he had to stand back up. Pointing it back at Kralmus Orr
he squeezed the trigger they would trade fire one would eventually go down.
Vorm's jumping kick at Kaz fails and he gets peppered by blaster bolts at close range. He falls to the ground, but two marauders step between him and his opponent to buy him time to recuperate.
The mutant Ren was ruthlessly besieged by not one, but two of the fabled Enclave Mandalorians.
Vorm's plan was a partial success. His jet-propelled opponent overhead retorted with immediate blaster fire before the mutant could even drag him downward with the Force – ultimately cancelling his telekinetic strike prematurely since the Ren needed to deflect those said bolts; however, his flash bomb bought him time and got Javik sudant off his back… for now. His commander, Kralmus Orr
shall undoubtedly enjoy finishing him off, based on the rumors he heard about the man-eater. The Horned Devil is what the others called him in the barracks, though most never met him. It is said he often fights by the side of the Demon Mandalore himself. Having witnessed his ominous battlefield demeanor first-hand, Vorm is inclined to believe even the goriest details about his vicious commander.
The airborne Mandalorian was sharp, nimble and exceptionally trained; to an extent Vorm did not expect. The lightsaber Vorm launched at him got parried, disappearing into the sea of fighting figures in a spinning arc. The planned jumping kick was also made severely more difficult by what came next.
The airborne Mandalorian unleashes a literal onslaught of lethal projectiles as Vorm begins his Force-augmented sprint.
The discharged heat of Vorm's overdriven body blurs the air contouring his spiked body. Leaning forward as he runs, with his saber-wielding hand revolving like a propeller in front of him, Vorm keeps deflecting copious amounts of rifle bolts the closer he gets, hindering him greatly; but in the next moment, he faces an even greater danger. From above, a sizeable rocket is speeding toward him, leaving him no choice but to embrace the risk of disengaging his saber, twisting his body mid-run and practically hugging the floor to end up in a lowslide under the explosive ordnance.
The cacophony of detonating debris behind him drowns out all sound for a few seconds. And although Vorm barely managed to avoid a second rocket in under five minutes, he is nowhere near safe from harm; having lost most of his momentum, with ears ringing, he springs back up on his feet from his flat slide and follows through with his initial idea of a running jump-kick.
Only to be evaded again mid-flight and from close range, getting absolutelypounded by a roaring sequence of staccato blaster fire. Vorm's projected energy shield literally blows up in his face, and three additional blaster bolts slam into his chest and abdomen through the failing-pulsating remains of the absorbent energy lattice. Although his physical frame is nothing if not heavy, he helplessly spins around his own horizontal axis and falls down onto the cold, hard floor – right at the feet of two of his Bloodsworn comrades from before, who immediately recognize the dire situation and step over him to form a shield between Vorm and the flying Mandalorian, opening fire back at the Mandalorian while the Ren regains consciousness.
The return fire's orange discharges repeatedly reveal the determined faces of the Bloodsworn marauders who begin a slow-stepping advance toward the airborne Enclave Mandalorian. The three pitch-black circular scorch marks on the Ren's body release wavy lines of smoke and a stomach-churning stench of burnt skin; an eerie, grey scar tissue begins to creep over the wounds.
Should the two brave marauders be able to buy some time, Vorm would immediately stab himself with his only bacta-adrenaline injection and replace the spent energy cell in his personal energy shield generator.
Fett found a moment of calm for himself. In the air, the Mandalorian hovered as the other made his assault on the Sith. He examined the battlefield from behind his T-visor, watched as the Sith reacted, defended themselves, and found a decision of his own. His small-arms fire was unable to breach their defenses, it seemed, no matter what he threw at them; the Sith could dismiss it with a wave of his hand, somehow. He failed to understand the Force, that much was true, but even those he defeated were more vulnerable than the Dark Lord. Much like a Mandalorian, the Sith had a counter for whatever he could throw at them.
"Hold out," Fett called to Vren, "I'll be back."
He soared over the hill, the flames of his jetpack carried him fast and far.
(Have a round of posting without me, Koda will come back after that)
Kahlil Noble
Kyrel Ren
