Campaign Spark of Rebellion: Imperial Twilight | TF vs DE

[Joseph Torson]

S P A R K_O F_R E B E L L I O N - I M P E R I A L_T W I L I G H T
Objective I - Freedom's Fire

DARK EMPIRE
EMPRESS TETA, DEEP CORE

Spoiler: Gear

• Plasma Disruptor Rifle [1]
• Pseudosonic Beam Rifle [1]
• NK01 Fujita Rail Pistols [2]
• 'Streiter' Vibroblade [1]
• Tenebrae Commando Armor Mk. II [w/ Jetpack + Flight Attachment + Ysalamiri Cradle]
• Jūryoku 12 Repulsor Grenades [5]
• Konīde 10 Plasma Detonators [5]
• MK1 Ravenous Grenades [3]

Spoiler: Accompanying Forces

• Red Right Hand Operatives [10/10]

After a few minutes within the armory, Torson and his Squad re-equipped themselves with Anti-Jedi counter-measures know that they knew that a Jedi was onboard the Ship. Once they were fully equipped to face their new threat, Torson and his squad emerged from the armory heading for the hangars once more. As they began to make their final approach Torson was contacted by Rackham again. "Captain Torson, we've lost all visuals throughout the Ship. The Jedi seems to have accessed our Ship's Systems and is trying to cripple our ability to monitor the situation. You must hurry before they start targeting the more vital systems." Rackham ordered.

"It will be done sir." Torson responded. "Split up. Five of you stick with me, we'll move forth to engage the Jedi straight up, the other five will take an alternative route avoiding the possible path of the Jedi straight into the Hangar and find the source of the disruption." the Special Forces Operative said. The rest of the troops nodded and complied as a group of five operatives split off into a separate hallway while Torson and the remaining five pushed forwards. Time was of the essence, and if they didn't act to contain the threat soon enough the entire Battlecruiser would be compromised.

Then, Torson and his group entered the final stretch of the hallway leading into the Hangar, encountering the Jedi Master at the end of it having just defeated the two groups of Stormtroopers sent to confront her in the Hangar. "Cover me." Torson said as he began to charge towards the Jedi with his Plasma Disruptor Rifle firing at her while alternating between normal and charged shots as he slowly walked towards her closing the distance, while the other five Operatives remained behind providing additional cover fire to keep the Jedi pinned down.

[Friendlies] | OPEN
[Hostiles] | Jonyna Si | D1-C3
​

 

[Corin Trenor]

CORIN
TYTHON
TAG: Serina Calis

Like the blast of a cannon, the stone carved a violent path through the air, straight for him. Corin, still in the midst of his descent, had nowhere to go. Fold Space was an exhaustive technique, too costly for repeated use in quick succession.

Palms outstretched, he seized the missile with the Force, muscles tensing with the strain of its momentum. He wrenched it downward, redirecting its force into the ground below. The impact thundered through the battlefield, leaving a deep crater in its wake, sending debris skyward in a thick plume of dust.

She's more than a brute.

Corin landed in the aftermath, boots skidding across the torn earth as he tried to reestablish control. Keeping the fight on his terms was proving more difficult than anticipated.

The sun bled through the canopy above, casting shifting patterns of gold and green over the battlefield. A flash of silver cut through them - Serina, surging forward with blinding speed, halberd gleaming as it swung for him with lethal intent.

He had no illusions about what would happen if it connected.

With a sharp breath, Corin's fingers snapped around the hilt of his lightsaber.

The blade erupted in a violent arc, jagged and unsteady, its molten hue catching in the afternoon light. He held it low, close to his frame, blade pointed downward like an unsheathed sword.

Her strike met his defense in an explosion of energy. The force of it rattled through his bones. Sparks rained between them as he hovered his free hand against the saber's blade, reinforcing his guard with the Force. The two remained locked in place, muscles burning against the strain.

Corin's expression hardened, fiercely glum.

"You're awfully determined," he remarked, voice even despite their struggle. "Just who are you?"

He had no intention of waiting for an answer.

He twisted his wrist and strengthened his push with the Force, with the intent to raise her guard. Then, he shot up and Corin drove a boot toward her core, aiming to create space between them. If even for a moment.

 

[Serina Calis]

Imperial Twilight.
Location: -
Objective: 2.
Allies: -
Opposing Force: Corin Trenor
Equipment: Ebon Requiem, Tyrant's Kiss, 3 CV-1 Gas Grenades (The Choking Veil)

"Tython under darkness? How, exquisite..."​

The impact sent a shockwave through Serina's frame, her arms braced as Ebon Requiem met the unstable, crackling blade of his lightsaber. The clash was raw, brutal—strength met with precision, elegance met with resistance. Sparks rained between them, the violent crackle of energy singing against the phrik blade of her halberd.

Serina did not yield.

She could feel his strength pressing against her, the heat of his saber, the sheer force behind his stance. Yet, she smiled.

A slow, sultry curve of her lips.

His voice cut through the haze of clashing weapons, steady despite the tension between them.

"You're awfully determined. Just who are you?"

Before she could answer, she felt it—a shift, subtle but undeniable.

His pressure against Ebon Requiem lightened just slightly, not retreating but redirecting. A feint. A trick. A moment later, she felt the rush of movement—his boot slamming into her core.

Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate. The sheer force of it sent her staggering backward, her breath escaping in a sharp gasp as her body twisted with the impact. Her cape flared, her armored bodice absorbed some of the blow, but she still felt the full weight of it—raw, brutal, meant to make space.

Her feet scraped against the torn earth as she skidded backward, regaining her stance with a sharp inhale. One hand clutched the haft of her halberd, planting it into the ground to steady herself. The other lifted—just barely—her fingers brushing against her ribs. Tender. Bruised. Nothing broken.

She exhaled sharply. Then—

She laughed.

Low, breathy, delighted.

"Oh," she purred, licking her lips as she straightened, her piercing blue gaze locking onto his, sharp as a blade's edge. "You are a man who does not hesitate."

She tilted her head, golden waves cascading over her shoulders.

Her fingers flexed around Ebon Requiem, and she took a single step forward, predatory, unhurried despite the thrum of battle still crackling between them.

"You hit hard, Jedi," she mused, rolling her shoulders as if testing the soreness left by his strike. "I like that."

Her voice was silken, layered with something far too enjoyed for a woman who had just been kicked square in the ribs.

Then, she smirked. Languid. Licentious. Full of something dark and teasing.

"You ask who I am?" Her voice dipped lower, intimate, as if she were sharing a secret meant for him alone.

Her hands slid along the haft of her halberd, her stance shifting ever so slightly. Not an attack—not yet.

She stepped closer.

"I am the one who will teach you how to enjoy yourself," she murmured, tilting her head as she took another deliberate, slow step. "If you let me."

A pause. Then—

"But since you're so curious, you may call me Serina."

Her grin widened, sharp and knowing, her blue eyes glinting with something deliciously dangerous.

Then, without hesitation—she moved.

A sudden burst of speed, a blur of violet and gold as she closed the distance between them again.

This time, there was no flourish, no elaborate maneuver. She struck low, Ebon Requiem's haft swinging in a brutal arc—aimed not to kill, but to hook behind his knee and rip his footing from beneath him.

If he wanted distance, she would not allow it.

 

[Corin Trenor]

CORIN
TYTHON
TAG: Serina Calis

A grimace twisted Corin's features, a low grumble escaping behind clenched teeth.

Serina was relentless - both in combat and in her flirtation. It was... unsettling. There was something dissonant about her, something off-putting in the way she spoke, in the way she moved. A glutton for pain, a sadist who reveled in the fight - not just for victory, but for the sheer thrill of standing at the edge of death. She treated it like an old friend, something admired, even adored. And now, it seemed, she had chosen Corin as a companion on that path.

He had anticipated her speed. Accounted for it. Measured it. Yet still, he hadn't fully adjusted.

Her halberd cut low, sweeping behind his leg before he could fully react. The sudden pull wrenched him from the ground - but he didn't fight it. Instead, he rolled with it, twisting midair. His free hand hit the ground, absorbing the momentum. With a sharp breath, he coiled his body and snapped his leg upward - aiming a brutal kick toward Serina's chin.

His lightsaber vanished beneath his cloak, its hum silenced. Corin surged forward, his movements fluid and graceful, as if the air itself carried him. He pressed the attack with a relentless barrage of punches, kicks, and elbows - each strike precise and calculated, drawn from the discipline of Echani martial arts. His body flowed seamlessly, closing the distance between them as he maneuvered closer to Serina's halberd, intent on neutralizing its reach.

"You're afraid of distance, Serina..." Corin's voice sliced through the air, each word imbued with the Force, carrying an unsettling weight. His words reverberated, seeming to echo just a little too loudly, too intimately, as if they reached her mind directly with his use of Dun Möch. "Did you think I needed it?"

Corin was a Jedi Knight in name, but the true depth of his abilities transcended the rigid doctrines of the Jedi Order. He battled the darkness, lost, and rebuilt himself within its shadow; treading the line between the light and the dark, wielding sinister powers unbecoming of a Jedi.

 

[Connel Vanagor]

Taking back what is ours!
Annunaki Mk III
Headed to Tython

As Cora gave him a look and protectively chastised him, Connel smirked, nodded, then watched her and the boys move, and waited, until finally he could sense the presence getting closer and closer at an alarmingly high rate. He was going to stand here and wait, Kizash was in for a surprise.

Then, he bailed? Really? He expects me to just let a bike collide into me?

Then there was a weird feeling around his feet, a feeling like they were suddenly bound together. It looks like that is exactly what he wanted. Then it was funny, Farsight is truly an underappreciated skill, it can slow down time almost to a standstill, it can be the basis for use with a lightsaber. It would simply be the savior of his life.

Quickly extending his arm and “catching” the speederbike through the Force, Connel quickly closed his hand into a fist and crushed the careening vehicle into a mass of metal and “pushed” it , all through the Force. He pushed it right back at its assailant. Kizash.

Not today. Not that easy.

Corazona von Ascania • TAGS​

 

[Darth Kizash]

Foe: Connel Vanagor aka "Junior"
Equipment: In sig
​

The screech of burning repulsors and twisted metal was music in the making just another death song screaming toward him. The wreckage hurtled in, jagged edges hungry for flesh, but Kizash? He just grinned.

Very good boy. Very good.

He barely shifted his focus, let his grip on Vanagor's feet slip—let him think he won something. He had bigger things to deal with. Bigger things to break.

His hands found his hilts.

Snap-hisss.

Two blades snarled to life, one a seething crimson, the other a haunting blue. His blue. Stolen. Earned. Blooded and kept. The wreckage bore down, but the Dark Lord? He took his time. Arrogantly and poised, He let it get close. Then with one brutal, precise swing, his crimson blade sheared the speeders remnants in half. The two molten chunks split around his large figure, tumbling into the ruined temple beyond.

And then he was gone! A flicker in the dark. A shadow given form. He leaned in, pushed off, the Force tearing through his muscles like wildfire. The air split around him, the temple's corrupted glow warping in his wake. Everything else faded into a narrow tunnel of speed! A tunnel that ended with Vanagor!

Like a reek charging, His body threatened to hit like a storm breaking. His crimson blade slashed in low, horizontal, aimed straight for the Jedi's midsection. While the other blue blade angled in a defensive posture. No hesitation. No wasted motion.

Just one spoken truth as he advanced his assault.
" I've been looking forward to this, Junior." He chuckled to himself. It sounded like a growl.

 

[Connel Vanagor]

Taking back what is ours!
Annunaki Mk III
Headed to Tython

It would be a lie to say that seeing not only his lightsaber in Kizash’s hands, and being used in an attack against him did not flood images and memories of their last confrontation. It would also be a lie if a part of this did not affect him negatively. However, he was not that broken young Knight, broken before that altercation. He was not that young flailing fool anymore, he was solid in who he was.

For example, his own, new permafrost lightsaber, and violet shortsaber, both now in reverse grip, cut into the ground as he dropped to it. Contorting his body backwards to avoid the horizontal slash at the last possible moment, he threw the point of his boot up into the knee of the Master of Nothing to show him just how true and poignant that statement was.

The desired effect? Little more than to throw Kizash off of his focus, if it worked, Connel would spin away and back into a standing position as Kizash would return to his. He indeed heard the grow of anticipation by the Sith Lord, but ignored it. He was not here to talk. He was not here to bargain. He was here to fight, and he was going to keep this monster’s attention for as long as he could.

He had no intention of losing this battle, mind you, but sometimes things don’t always work out like they were planned.

Corazona von Ascania • Darth Kizash​

 

[Darth Kizash]

Foe: Connel Vanagor aka "Junior"
Equipment: In sig
​

The blade cut through empty air. Kizash's sneer twisted into something between amusement and annoyance as Vanagor dropped, the hum of his sabers carving into the temple floor like claws raking across stone. A smart move. Tight, controlled, and just enough to slip past death. But Kizash barely had time to appreciate it before crack!

Pain. Sharp, real, human.

Vanagor's boot slammed into his knee with enough force to rattle bone. The Dark Lord staggered, his breath catching in his throat, a groan tearing its way free before he could stop it. His footing wavered, momentum thrown off just enough to let the Jedi slip away.

Then Kizash laughed. A quiet, breathy thing at first, curling at the edges of his lips as he planted his foot back into the earth, rolling his weight to ease the throb briefly before forcing the pain to roll over him. Ground him into the present. Pain is power.

Im no fool. I recognized what had just happened. This wasn't the same boy I left broken and maimed on Vendaxa. This wasn't the same reckless, fragile thing swinging wildly, hoping to land a lucky hit. This was a man. A warrior who had grown into his own skin, carved himself into something sharper, something stronger.

All because of me.

The thought hit like a second blow, sinking deep, twisting. Pride swelled in his chest, hot and sharp, mimicking the pain in his knee. He had made this. Molded Vanagor with his own hands, through the catalyst of their first battle and his own cruelty. And now? The result stood before him, blades humming, resolve unshaken. It should've satisfied him. It should've filled him. Instead, something colder crept in. Something bitter. The pride curdled, coiling into something ugly, akin to self-hatred, gnawing at the edges of his mind with one realization.

He has all this power now… and he doesn't even see it. That thought burned more than the wound. With a shift in the Darklords grip, the dualphase functionality of his crimson lightsaber activated. With a flick and longue, the extended blade birthed an extra one meter and easily closing the distance and was poised at Connels right wrist. All the while Kizash's began to build momentum, moving forward with a slight limp. Blue blade coming down like a falling star in the form of a overhead swing.

 

[Connel Vanagor]

Taking back what is ours!
Annunaki Mk III
Headed to Tython

Connel could feel his inner turmoil. Frankly it made him glad he was wearing a mask as Vanagor rolled his eyes at the notion. The thought of someone going through a myriad of conflicting thoughts about what was going on right now just made him want to puke. This monster was not beyond redemption, no one was, but he was clearly not looking to speak, so why stand there? Recruitment? Haven’t thought of or heard that one in awhile.

Well okay, he has a dual phase.

Here we go.

The stab at his wrist was a simple enough block with a lift of his own permafrost blade to block and in a classic “Soresu - Half Moon” he went to pin the crimson weapon down and away.

His old saber, the stolen one, that was the interesting one, coming down on him from overhead, much like his near-death blow on Vendaxa.

Not this time.

His old saber would meet his new shortsaber, its replacement. Connel could sense the calling the weapon was giving him, specifically the crystal. As if the crystal was trying to fight every move the Sith had made. Though he could not, and would not allow himself to be distracted, the thought gave him pause about just how connected everything in the galaxy really was. It would not stay his actions though as the violet shortsaber, still reverse gripped moved upward in a similar, almost mirrored trajectory as the permafrost counterpart but straight ahead and not off to the side. The same “half-moon” move to push the blue blade away he shook his head.

You’re insulting me by holding back. A straight kick at the chest would do little to no physical damage to the Dark Lord, but he could push off and gain some distance between them. Only this time, he went on the attack, pushing off, he tossed his shortdaber into the air, pulled two of his Throwing Lightknives and SLUNG them at his foe, assisted through the Force before catching the weapon again and standing in an almost "daring" stance.

Corazona von Ascania • Darth Kizash​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Obj II
Rath Nihro Lt. Bren Alazar
​

Cora kept her eyes fixed on Rath. There was a slight dip of her head, an acknowledgment of his assent. She sensed no deception, but that did not mean that she could not be fooled.

Especially with the Darkness curling around her like smoke, trying to leech the Light from her soul.

Then, she paced her way to the fallen Master. Cora could not place a name to his face, but the robes he wore were familiar enough. She pressed her hand to the singed fabric of his abdomen. The wound went deep, but he'd been spared an instantly fatal blow. "Try your best to stabilize him," she spoke softly to the pair of specialists as they administered medical care.

Her stomach twisted at the thought of having to leave the wounded Jedi behind, but the Force thrummed with the promise of confrontation.

Cora looked to Lt. Alazar and nodded. Her gaze swept to the pair of fallen Jedi - a Zabrak and Bothan. The loss of any lives were a grim affair, even the ones duty had forced her to take.

"You'd be wise to extract with him."

The Jedi tilted her head in a measure of acknowledgment. "You are probably right."

Those same footsteps that echoed now fell quietly as she left the injured Master to face this masked man. To have taken down three Jedi without any apparent injury was both a remarkable feat and a warning.

Cora ignited her saber, and a blue blade hissed to life at her side.

"I ask you to stand down, Dark One.”

 

[Darth Kizash]

Foe: Connel Vanagor aka "Junior"
Equipment: In sig
​

The saberlock was tight, their blades grinding against each other in a clash of heat and power. Kizash could feel the tension in Vanagor's grip, the subtle shifts in his stance, the way the Force pulsed through his every movement. Then came the kick. A warning flickered through the Force just before impact—just enough for Kizash to brace himself. The boot connected with his chest, but he barely moved, barely felt it. His body held firm, his stance unwavering.

But what came next…

The toss. The shortsaber flipping into the air. A distraction, cheap and obvious. Except it worked. Kizash's gaze flickered up for just a split second, instinct overriding logic, and he paid for it. The first lightknife? Deflected. A flick of his saber sent it spinning harmlessly away. The second? Krak!

It sank deep. The impact was distant at first, more of a dull pressure than pain. His body barely reacted, his feet still moving, his saber still raised for another attack. Then it hit. A white-hot flash erupted in his chest, a sharp, searing agony that spread like wildfire through his nerves. His breath hitched, the scent of burning flesh filling his nostrils. Smoke curled from the wound, trailing up past his face. The crimson saber in his left hand flickered out, the hilt slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. The weight in his arm felt unnatural, like something inside had shut down. Slowly, his eyes dropped to his chest, to the hilt of the knife buried deep in his flesh.

Sharp inhale.
A numb sort of horror.
The pain blossoming.
Hatred flowed.

It filled him, consumed him, the darkness inside surging in unstable waves. His veins blackened, spiderwebbing out from the wound like cracks in shattered glass. The dark side raged through him, unstable and unchecked, boiling over in a silent scream of fury. His cold, dark eyes turned sulfuric, burning with something beyond anger and beyond reason. He clenched his fist around Vanagor's old saber, his body trembling, his breath ragged. His mind screamed at him to move, to fight, to kill. His very will commanding to press on and unleash his hatred.

But it was his body that had failed him. His knees buckled. His vision blurred. And then he fell. The impact was dull, almost distant, like it was happening to someone else. His breath came shallow, uneven. The dark side curled around him, clinging to him, whispering. One last, shaky breath left his lips. And then, the darkness settled in.

...

 

[Serina Calis]

Imperial Twilight.
Location: -
Objective: 2.
Allies: -
Opposing Force: Corin Trenor
Equipment: Ebon Requiem, Tyrant's Kiss, 3 CV-1 Gas Grenades (The Choking Veil)

"Tython under darkness? How, exquisite..."​

Serina's world tilted.

The impact of his boot against her chin sent a sharp jolt through her skull, snapping her head back with enough force to split her lip. Pain flared—a bright, stinging bloom that danced along her nerves. But rather than recoil, rather than falter, she laughed.

A gasping, delighted exhale, almost a moan in its breathy pleasure.

Yes.

This was what she lived for.

He was artful, precise—not a Jedi, not truly. His movements had intent, not just to pacify, not just to disarm, but to dominate. His limbs struck in a rhythmic barrage of force and fluidity, a dance of disciplined brutality that most Jedi would never dare indulge in. Echani. A rare talent. A rare mindset for one of his kind.

And yet, he tried to use her own rules against her.

How utterly delicious.

The next strike came, an elbow toward her ribs. She twisted just enough to lessen the blow, catching his wrist with the haft of Ebon Requiem to slow the brunt of it, but his momentum was relentless.

Her vision swayed from the jarring blow to her jaw, but she found herself grinning—feral, bleeding, enthralled.

"You're afraid of distance, Serina..."

The words curled around her like smoke, sinking into her skin, wrapping tight around her senses. The Force carried his voice, made it feel as though he were speaking not just to her, but inside her. The echo of Dun Möch slithered into her mind, meant to needle, to unravel, to plant seeds of doubt and manipulation.

"Did you think I needed it?"

Serina's breathing was shallow, uneven, but her eyes burned.

A spark of something not just amusement, not just challenge, but pure, unhinged joy.

She allowed the next strike to graze her—a calculated gamble. Let him feel the impact. Let him think he was pressing in, closing the gap, drowning her in his rhythm.

Then—

Her lips parted. Blood from her split lip smeared against the curve of her tongue as she laughed, husky, breathless.

"Oh, Corin," she purred, head tilting, eyes bright with something wicked.

"You can be inside my grip all you like."

The words were not spoken in jest.

They were dripping in that same intoxicating playfulness, that edge of danger, of invitation—and yet, they did not falter.

Not a distraction. Not a deflection. A challenge.

And then she struck.

Her forehead prepared to slam forward, a brutal headbutt aimed squarely between his eyes, the force of it backed by her sheer will.

He wanted to close the gap? Fine.

She ripped away the last sliver of distance between them, tilting her head forward just enough so that their foreheads nearly touched, her breath brushing against his skin as she whispered—mocking, hungry, triumphant.

"But I do hope you're ready."

Her knee shot upward, fast, aiming directly for his gut, her halberd shifting in her grip—not to attack, but to brace, to keep him within her space, to trap him in this dance with her.

"I don't let go easily."

 

[Darth Centax]

Location: Three steps inside the temple.
Goal: Culling Weakness. Raising Strength.
Tag: Talsin Lota
Background NPCs: Shield Wall Codebearers | The Forsaken Host

Onrai | Thal Mantis
"My business is inside culling weakness. Feel free to eradicate him." Thal had at least proven himself worthy of death, one of the only souls willing to test the defenses at the temple door to claim them back.

The shield wall turned to face Thal Mantis , hammering down their proud defiance at his entry, blocking the way. Spears and javelins were levelled against him, sonic concussive blasts now hurled or aimed in his direction, while the magnetic locks of the oath shields held firm in their resolve to hold the entrance way. Centax's first was a Coruscanti with a scar over his right eye, and a veteran at that.

Talsin Lota
As soon as the Darth turned to begin his purge within the Sith temple, he had taken no more than three steps inside the doorway before an attack descended from above—a lethal, precise strike aimed at his back. Rotating his Oath Shield angled downward, deflecting the force of the blow, the saber's edge singeing against its surface. Before Talsin had fully landed, Centax leapt high, Vibro-lance in hand, driving his attack downward then moving around Talsin's left. Turning, the Darth rotated the weapon, bringing the sharpened rear of his spear across the top of his oath shield, aiming for a slice just below his opponent's neck.

Talsin had gone for a kill shot—just as the Darth had. Stance firm, shield forward, spear angled down from above, an impenetrable wall of the Sith Code. Or so he believed. Was he right?

And were they someone worth killing?

"How do you want to die?"

Through the armor of his lineage, its surface carved with the battles of the past, the many dead by the kethenite line immortalized in rune and fire. The Sith's focus fell on Talsin Lota . It was heavy and crushing in its intensity, judgmental against his code. The air around them tensed as if the beginnings of a Force crush were forming.

Gear

Spoiler

Armor: Khan-OSK | Crushgaunts (Permanent)
Weapon: Vibro-lance (Right Hand)
Shield: Runic Oath Shield (Left Arm)
Thrown: SCJ Deadline-B x5/5 (Back)
MK2 Jack Knife (Hip)
Lightsaber (Belt)
WP-19 Incendiary Grenade x 5/5 (Belt)

 

[The Lord of Hunger]

LOCATION: Empress Tetha
OBJECTIVE: Deal with rebel cells and interlopers
IMPORTANT LINKS: Sword | Armor | Jewel | Ring | Necklace | DIII Gluttoneria | The guards | The Enforcer
TAG: Brent Warnel | Vreegan Fett

Beware of the monsters unleashed in war
​

"Sorry boss, the Sith still owe me blood, and I intend to claim it." To the The Lord of Hunger The Lord of Hunger he said plainly, "I know where the rest of your rebels are dar'jetii," slamming a fist against his Beskar chest plate, "They're right here."

"Well, well...a Mandalorian...now this promises to be much more fun than some rag tag group of rebels," The Lord of Hunger's voice was clearly laced with glee when he exclaimed those words upon Brent Warnel 's reveal in full armor. His head tilting ever so slightly to the left, while the Sceleratii seemed to practically mimic this movement, slowly turning their weapons upon the revealed mandalorian.

"Oh..." Not much managed to leave the Monstrous man's lips and through the voice box, when he noticed the Thermal detonators being tossed towards his guard droids. As he himself grabbed a hold of his cloak, allowing the force to run through his body in an attempt to strengthen himself and the armor he was wearing, the aforementioned Sceleratii reacted swiftly by igniting the thrusters in their feet and legs, dashing rapidly aside of where they expected the explosion to occur, yet even so they could not outrun the initial shockwave, with half of them downed and dazed temporarily, one slamming against the wall and experiencing a shock to their system as well.

Only one actually managing to avoid the shockwave itself, with only minor denting from the duracrete floor being strewn about. This one Sceleratis reached towards the side of its chassis, opening a compartment which allowed it to retrieve a pair of thermal detonators of its own and threw those straight towards the space behind the pillar where the mandalorian had taken cover in order to shoot at the Lord of Hunger.

The aforementioned abomination in the force let out a soft chuckle when feeling the shock of the thermal detonators slam against his body in full, with pieces of duracrete ripping through the cloak he had pulled in front of him, dinging off his superbly crafted armor, yet still he had been pushed quite a bit backwards, with the two tears in the duracrete floor proving it. "Thermal detonators, such a tricky little explosive."

The sound of energy blasts being dispersed against his side made the Lord of Hunger turn around, tilting his head a bit to the side when with each blast hitting his body a shock went through it, while his armor was very good in dealing with the blasts themselves, the very impact and the dispersement still managed to push the monstrous being back. "Let's see how good of a mandalorian warrior you truly are..."

With the sceleratis having thrown the initial charge with the thermal detonator, the Lord of Hunger channeled the force in such a way that a shockwave would slam against the pillar, practically dislodging it in order to remove this particular obstacle. "Come on...keep entertaining me, mandalorian warrior... you now stand face to face with a man who has passed through the trials of Eriadu!!"

 

[Jonyna Si]

TAG: Joseph Torson

Elites.

Jonyna knew this would come. She'd studied the reports from Jasper's infiltration mission. Sularen always through the kitchen sink at you, before you could ever get to him. A coward hiding behind stronger men.

Her eyes adjusted, pupils sharpening just as they would in the depths of the jungle. Flashes of blaster bolts illuminated the hallway, as did Jonyna's saber which reflected them. These were different though, pinging off her saber with a distinct thud, as Jonyna scanned her opponents, she had to adjust her grip.

She saw it. On the back of the main trooper, a bulge she could sense in hibernation.

Ysalimari. A creature that was a bane to anyone strong in the Force, but something she knew how to handle.

The issue wasn't the cradle itself. It was the beast inside.

Dropping a hand, she once more drew Liz, and aimed for the shatterpoint of the device, arcing lightning first off the ceiling off the hallway, then down right on top of the cradle itself.

Eliminate the threat, before it becomes one. The old rebel way.

 

[D1-C3]

Indirect Tags: Joseph Torson Marlon Sularen​

Often, droids were overlooked on their own. Sometimes that was out of ignorance, other times it was due to design. Droids were meant to be unseen. D1-C3 knew this. He knew how to get around without being seen.

In this case, it was through using paths normally only used by droids. Air vents, cargo elevators, things most people often forget exist on ships. Things that a droid could slip into without tripping alarms, because those alarms don't usually acknowledge droids exist.

Finally though, he made it to the security office.

23% success rate. Nice.

Somewhere were the elites looking for him. He wouldn't let them find him.

After all, he had dropped the air vent grate right on top of the head of the officer in charge of the small room.

3% Success rate on that little trick. Practically inconceivable!

And now...

He could link in, and wipe all the security footage. They were never there. Ha ha! Oh, and what else can we mess with?

Perhaps...

Turn off all those pesky Laser Gates. That's a start.

 

[Connel Vanagor]

Taking back what is ours!
Tython
In front of Akar Kesh

The knives were not expected to be anything more than a message that he was ready for this. Then it happened. The second knife was buried into his chest.

Taking a life, even in battle, even when it is “them or you” takes a toll on you. Connel realized this more than ever as he realized and felt the true weight of what he had just done. It was everything he could do to remain centered, he was ready to try and offer assistance (believe it or not). He knew though that the Sith in front of him, suffering or not, would push away, or even more so try to “take Connel with him”.

So he stood there, watching, a voice in his head, the Force, telling him to remain on his guard that this might be some level of a trick to lure him into his fate. His instincts were telling him differently though, that this was real.

When the Force left Kizash, his very essence, the only words that could come out were simple…

I guess I was better… He listened…

All that was left was to disengage and return his weapons to their sheathes, then to collect his knives, sheathing them back on his web gear. Then came collecting his weapon, sliding “Alpha” over his back.

He went to leave, but something stopped him. He couldn’t just leave the body there like that, alone, in a heap. Yes, Connel was left like that, by him but he would not play it that way. He was “better” in this regard, he had to be. So the Shadow took a moment and dragged the remains into the center of the room and rolled him onto his back, put the arms over each other crossed, and then closed the eyes of the fallen Sith with his fingers.

He did not deserve (nor would he have probably wanted) a Jedi’s funeral, but everyone deserved a little dignity.

Corazona von Ascania • Darth Kizash​

 

[Danika Leventis]

HALŌSIS
AKAR TSIS | TYTHON
ALLIES: Darth Moskvin | Darth Centax | Darth Kizash | DE
ENEMIES: Mother Askani | Caltin Vanagor | Thal Mantis | TF
ENGAGING: Aron Brood | Phalsi Drynchen
GEAR: In Bio

WHAT'S COMING TO ME​

<Two approach, Danigirl.>

The Lady of Bone had been leaning against one of the dead trees in the warping shadows of dark clouds when the Lady of Night's spectre cropped up once more.
<Finally. My blades hunger for their blood. It's high time they bow.> Danika said as she straightened up. As she stepped away from the tree, Samron joined her.
"Company at last?" he asked as he donned his dread-helm.
"Yes. Two Jedi apparently."
"Where would you need me?" His blades were still on his back but his hands itched to draw them.
"Just stay close, but out of sight for now. You'll know if you're needed." she said, teal eyes suddenly burning with an unearthly light.

Then she marched forward to intercept whatever two Jedi were approaching her area, dropping the suppression of her presence. The full might of her power shone like a beacon for them. Then she unclipped her sabers from her belt and stood ready.

Then a boy made his appearance in her vicinity first, preventing her from igniting the sabers.

"Does your mother know you're out here, darling?"

 

[Corin Trenor]

CORIN
TYTHON
TAG: Serina Calis

It was all a game to her.

She pursued the thrill of battle. She smiled wickedly with the trickle of blood coming down from her lip, and with it that sense of evil only strengthened. It permeated the area like a thick, choking fog. The planet of Tython was once a bastion of the pure and light, and now it was drowning in the darkness. It only made him frown deeper, more so once his braced brow was crashed into.

Corin had learned her name mere moments ago. That moment of her announcing his, maybe, startled him enough for that fraction of hesitation. A Jedi such as himself was best left unknown. Fame or infamy, either served to the end of net negatives.

A sound escaped him, then. His head recoiled back. Despite the Force reinforcing every inch of him, a headbutt was a foul and losing game.

Then, came her swift kick. His braced forearms closed the space to meet it, to guard against it. It crashed against Corin and once more, he felt it echo throughout his whole self. His wordless reply was graceless, with another concussive blast of the Force aiming to send her leg back down. It was as if it came in surging waves, one after another, as the first blast sought to send her leg back down, then the second - fueled only with more power - wished to push her down further, as if into the shattered earth. The third blast, the strongest and most forceful of them, was to see how far Serina could be pushed.

Corin had come to see that her physical abilities were great. The depths of her understanding of the Force was still unknown to him. Young as she was, there were many prodigies that existed in a galaxy that spanned so far; whether she was among them, only prolonging this fight would tell.

 

[Darth Kizash]

Foe: Connel Vanagor aka "Junior"
Equipment: In sig
​

The void consumed him, vast and unfeeling. There was no weight, no sense of self—only the abyss. And then, from that emptiness, came the voices. Soft at first, like whispers curling through the ether, then rising, one atop the other, until they roared in his skull.

"You were always a disappointment."

"Not enough. Try again!"​

"Your no son of mine. A failure."​

His mother. His father. The Sith who had walked before him, their derision unchanged by death. And amidst them, sharp as a blade pressing against his throat.

"I guess I was better."

Vanagor. The Jedi's voice reverberated through the chasm of his being, cold and certain, sinking into his marrow. A death knell. The final judgment.

Pain answered.

It surged through him, crackling like a storm against dead flesh. His body convulsed, limbs spasming, tendons twisting like taut wires ready to snap. Bones ground together with sickening friction, his muscles coiling and unfurling in a grotesque dance. The wound in his chest—blackened, ruined—seared, as if some unseen fire still smoldered in its depths, as if his very essence was trying to claw its way out. He could feel it. Every wound, every laceration, still tethered to his existence, unwilling to fade. His flesh did not mend, nor did it fester—it simply remained, bound not by nature, but by his sheer refusal to relinquish it.

And yet, even through the agony, there was something worse.

Numbness.

A creeping absence across his skin, a hollowness threading through his limbs. A chill touched him, yet he could not feel it. The breeze that should have raised gooseflesh instead passed through him, insubstantial, irrelevant. He reached for breath, but his lungs did not respond. His throat was a wasteland, dry and cracked, yet no air would come. He had no heartbeat, no warmth, no rhythm to tether him to life.

Existence was ash.

And through it all, through the torment and the hollow silence, he saw red. Not just in his mind, but in his vision—an all-encompassing crimson veil that stained the world before him. The Sith who had sneered at him, the Jedi who had left him, the galaxy that had tried to cast him aside—all of it was drowning in the scarlet fury that boiled in his sight.

Something snapped.

His mouth opened, the sinew of his broken throat stretching impossibly wide, and from its depths erupted a sound that defied reason. A Force scream tore through the chamber, raw and all-consuming, not merely heard but felt. The walls trembled, the air itself fractured, dust and debris shuddering loose as the very fabric of the space rippled beneath the weight of his wrath. It was not a sound of sorrow. It was not a cry for help. It was a declaration of agony, of rage, of a will that refused to be known as Master of Nothing.