Public Tendrils of Darkness || SO Raid of Vassek

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Vassek - Outlying Settlement
| Objective | A dance no more; fire and blood
| Focus | Serina Calis

With this return to form, the Kryz'alor felt her unassailable confidence returning to her, her soul armored in purpose. Life just made sense with this mindset; there was no fear to be had here, no apprehension. Only the next strike, the next motion, the next few seconds. Nothing else mattered, not even the droids taking up formation around them. Why should she worry about them? Why think about the end of this duel, the possibility that they may very well just hose her down with overlapping fields of fire from every direction if she won? All she cared to think about was the struggle. The impenetrable fortress of her mind, made all the more unassailable for the moment of weakness she had felt.​

​

The dread foe spoke well, that much was undeniable. Her words held a forbidden allure within them, a tender caress dragging against the edges of one's mind, just as her fingers seemed to lightly err against the Duchess' armored shell, barely perceptible. This... was a different kind of intimacy altogether. Jenn had never asked for that which she needed, for if she ever took this chance, her allies may yet lose faith in her, knowing of her selfish desires, but this one? ​

​

She knew. ​

​

This loathsome adversary, this whisperer of so many tender words of adoration - she understood just what the Kryz'alor hid beneath beskar, calm fury, and ironclad will. The downright maladive need for recognition, for praise, for the acknowledgement of her superiority, of her raw and unquestionable might.​

​

When Jenn all but seemed to pass right through her, she realized how dire the situation was. Locked in a deadly dance with one who read her with far more clarity than she had ever thought possible, encircled by adversaries, and with increasingly daunting reports coming in from her helm's communications, barely heeded as they were as she sought to keep on moving, keep on letting her blade sing-​

​

<Duchess, come in - we can't hold this position any longer, we have to leave now!>​

​

A familiar voice. It belonged to Ryk, honorable and courageous in spite of his young age; where so many had dismissed the gentle Pantoran as a soft fool, Jenn had seen potential, her heart aglow with pride at the sight of him once he returned from the final trial for one to become a fully-fledged Hastatus, dragging the body of a hunted predator behind him. He was dependable, in all things.​

​

<Don't worry about me! I'll fight my way out and back to you; just get our people and the locals out of there!>​

​

And with that decisive response, she cut all communications, and turned her attention towards her foe once more. ​

​

Her disbelief in the face of her adversary's understanding of her words uttered in Mando'a was short-lived. There were too many things for her to keep track of. Too many words, too much pressure, too much daggers shaped with unwelcome truth, slicing deep within her. Gouging away.​

​

With very step the alluring temptress took, she felt her words dissipating from her mind, her blade held in front of her. Not quite slicing away furiously, but simply keeping her at a beskad's length away form her, if only that, for she feared what may come to pass, should the insidious creature be allowed any closer.​

​

She was already doing so much in so short a time.​

​

Read like an open book. Her deepest desires unveiled, her intent laid bare. This frustrating needle stuck within her, this prickling fool - Jenn not only wanted her dead, but soundly crushed. Reeling from her strike, regretting ever opening her mouth. That was why she had chosen the shield, and not the sword. Why she wanted to see her broken before her.​

​

"What do you want-"​

​

Before Jenn could rasp out the rest of her sentence, Serina struck. ​

​

The Redeemer was all but dazed, overtaken by the dance, the rhyhm, the steps. Though she raised her blade in time to redirect the flow of the halberd, her motions lacked the deadly flow they possessed before then. At last, it seemed that she had lost her footing, swept up in this dance she now realized she could not keep up with.​

​

Though she retreated just in time to avoid the skillful strike, reading into the feint in spite of her difficult, the Kryz'alor stumbled.​

​

There lie her foe's opening.​

​

---

​

"What in Hod Horan's name are they doing-"​

​

Death. Chaos. The New Mandalorians were rapidly losing control of the situation, overwhelmed by the sudden ramp-up in enemy activity on all sides; just as it seemed they had fended off the air support howling overhead and started their final push to send the mercenaries running, an unexpected contingent of droids showed, sending them to scatter into cover and re-assess the situation. And, although this new element seemed mercifully uninterested in driving them out as much as relieving the beleaguered mercenaries and laying down suppressive fire. ​

​

Then, Commodore Helix brought his flamestaff to bear, throwing their battle line into disarray and making a ruin of a section of the village. The situation was becoming untenable; long-range scans were picking up inbound vomiting their reinforcements close by, and just as Lokir opened his mouth to bark a seris of instructions, crimson rain began to fall, staining the placid blue of the armor worn by the Hastati. When the dead lying strewn about the village bolted back upwards, their course of action became clear.​

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<Necrotics spotted - all units, switch to Flamestrider protocols!>​

​

Echnos had been a complete and utter disaster. A massacre. But so too had it been a valuable lesson to the strategists and warriors of House Kryze, and the conclusions they had drawn left them prepared for the sorcerous display on this fateful occasion. This was exactly as they had drilled; the risen dead would not rest until their bodies had been sufficiently savaged, a task they fulfilled superbly well through the rigorous application of the Flamestrider doctrine. Rather than putting down opposing forces with single, accurate shots of their A257s, the Hastati switched to automatic fire, hosing down their targets until entire chunks of their bodies had been blown apart, stopping their frenzied advance dead in its tracks; those reanimated farmers, mercenaries and New Mandalorians too close to be eliminated in such a manner were handled by the more heavily armored Mandalorians among the strike force with the application of skillful melee, dismembering their targets and crushing their heads into pulp with frenetic stomps of their boots. ​

​

All the while, larger formations of undead assailants were dispatched with the most overwhelming use of force at the disposal of this small, if elite strike force; explosives and fire. A Mandalorian staple, really, seeing how many of their kind carried both within their vambraces. But this special ammunition would run dry eventually, and by the time it did, droids, mercenaries and stormtroopers alike could simply rush in and finish off the proud defenders of that no-name hamlet. Faced with the prospect of encirclement or a sweeping advance, the decision was taken. Not by Lokir, far too busy struggling a reanimated Mandalorian trying to skewer him with a blade. ​

​

No. Ryk had been at Echnos, seen the horrors that came with defeat at the hands of the Sith. The armor ripped from the bodies of the fallen by automated machines, their honored dead spitefully defiled. Rushing on over to the backpack-mounted radio carried by Orion, the Hastatus keyed in his helmet's comms frequency into the New Mandalorian battle net.​

​

<Break, break; this is Ryk, transmitting to all ground assets! Forget about the evacuation - we are abandoning Vassek. Take whatever civilians you have with you and report to your secondary rally points; otherwise, get the hell out of there. Repeat; we are pulling out and commencing airstrikes. Fall behind, left behind, over!>​

​

Turning back to the rest of the formation, the young hero pulled his grenade launcher from its resting position, magnetically clamped against his back, and took aim towards the open space lying between the mercenaries, droids, and their own strike force.​

​

"Deploying smoke!"​

​

With every thump, a grenade went sailing through the air in a calculated arc, adding more and more to the building smokescreen. Nothing to stop plasma bolts, but visibility was greatly reduced thanks to the maneuver; the use of thermal smoke may limit the effectiveness of thermal imagery enough for them to get the chance to make a run for it. With all six rounds expanded, the Hastatus pointed his arm towards the exist of the village, leading further inland and on the opposite side from where the droids had entered the battlefield.​

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It would just have to be good enough. As the rest of the battle formation went about their evacuation, carrying the bodies of their fallen comrades over their shoulders, the young Hastatus helped Lokir back to his feet and patched into the private communications of the Kryz'alor.​

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<Duchess, come in - we can't hold this position any longer, we have to leave now!>​

​

A moment passed... and then another. Fear gripped at his heart, then. What if he had been wrong? What if this sudden retreat had cost The Redeemer her life, leaving her stranded behind enemy lines and locked in a mortal duel, still? The Sith were not the sort to honor the unspoken codes held by warriors, and so he held little hope that they would allow her to leave, triumphant or otherwise. After an agonizing wait, her voice carried through, strained as it was.​

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<Don't worry about me! I'll fight my way out and back to you; just get our people and the locals out of there!>​

​

Biting his lip, the young man turned to Lokir, who simply shook his head, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him along towards the evacuation route.​

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"She knows what she's doing, boy! If something in this Galaxy can kill her, I am yet to lay my eyes upon it!​

​

Ryk spared one last look at the village. ​

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Stars, but he hoped the smith was right.​

​

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| Vode An | Haliat Kryze Itzhal Volkihar Stevru Klamat
| Dar'jetii | Commodore Helix Darth Imperius Lirka Ka Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Vaserk countryside.
Tag: Jenn Kryze ​

There.

The moment Serina had been waiting for.

The crack in the foundation. The stumble in the storm.

Jenn Kryze had fought with unshakable purpose, with a conviction so absolute it could have withstood a thousand lesser warriors, but conviction was not the same as invulnerability. Conviction was a fortress, yes, but even the mightiest walls could be undermined—not with force, not with brute strength, but with understanding.

And Serina understood her.

She had unraveled a piece of Jenn that no one else had dared to touch, threading her way into the spaces between armor plates, between thoughts, between certainty and doubt. She had seen into the storm, into the boiling, beautiful need that burned beneath the steel exterior—the hunger for recognition, the yearning to be seen not just as a warrior, but as the warrior, the legend, the one whose name would echo across time.

And now, as Jenn stumbled—just for an instant—Serina moved.

Not to kill.

Not to win.

To take.

Her feet whispered against the dirt as she surged forward, closing the distance between them before Jenn could fully regain her footing. The halberd moved with her, Ebon Requiem flowing in a tight, controlled arc—not a reckless swing, not an overcommitted strike, but a coiling of energy, a presence pressing against Jenn's guard, pinning her, keeping her from regaining control.

Serina did not use the phrik blade to strike her down.

She used her body.

Her free hand reached out, gloved fingers sliding over the ridges of Jenn's cuirass, over the curved edges of her pauldrons, her grip firm but not violent. It was not an attack—it was a claiming, a possession, a physical reminder of how close she had come, of how little space there was left between them.

Jenn could feel it, even through the beskar, even through the layers of armor that separated them. Serina was there, pressed against her, with her, like a shadow in the firelight, like a whisper against the skin.

And then, she spoke.

"Oh, my Duchess…"

The title fell from her lips like a sigh, like the promise of something deeper, something darker.

Serina could feel the battle raging around them—the chaos, the Mandalorian forces struggling, the air support coming and going in bursts of explosive carnage. She could feel the desperation creeping into the fringes of Jenn's thoughts, the reality of her situation pressing in.

And yet, in this moment, in this tiny, enclosed, intimate space—there was nothing else but them.

"You're trembling."

She let the words slither between them, her fingers still resting lightly against the Duchess' armor, her breath impossibly close.

"I can feel it."

A pause. A pulse of something in the air, charged and dangerous.

Serina tilted her head ever so slightly, her lips curving into something too indulgent, too knowing.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

She let the silence stretch, let the weight of her words settle, let the meaning drip slowly into the cracks she had carved into Jenn's certainty.

"This fight. This battle. Not just the war, not just the duty—but this."

She leaned in, her voice lowering into something meant only for Jenn.

"The struggle. The challenge. The recognition."

A slow exhale.

"The praise."

Serina let her fingers drift lower, ghosting over Jenn's gauntlet, tracing along the contours of her vambrace with a lazy, languid confidence.

She could feel how tightly Jenn was gripping her blade, how rigid her stance had become—not out of discipline, but out of desperation.

She was winning.

Not in the way warriors measured victory—not in blood, not in death—but in the way that mattered.

Serina was in her mind now.

And that was so much sweeter than a simple kill.

She let her grip on Ebon Requiem loosen just slightly, let the halberd's haft rest against Jenn's own blade in a mockery of a clash, as if it were nothing more than an idle afterthought.

Her focus was entirely on the woman before her.

"Tell me, Redeemer…"

She let her fingers press just slightly against the Mandalorian's chestplate, the barest suggestion of contact, pushing, taunting, tempting.

"…what do you want?"

Her lips parted, just barely.

The question hung in the air like a noose.

 

[Magdalena Bloodscrawl]

To be a clone soldier on Vassek was to essentially going in with the knowledge that inevitably your defenses were going to fail.

It was the price of being a shadow army. You could never be at full strength. Your presence has to be just large enough to affect the enemy in a meaningful way, but not large enough to make either your allies OR enemies think you were anything more than some sort of rogue mercenary unit operating on the remote fringes. It was half true.

The front lines collapsed. They lost half the LAAT force in the severe lightning strikes, TIE attacks, and Bombers and Storm Troopers doing whatever it took to crush the frontal positions with utter ruthlessness as Nefaron's magic temporarily overwhelmed Magdalena's.

Crushing Death and Destruction was everywhere for the Clone Offense Troopers, engineered for fearlessness to the very last moment of their lives. Even as they were brutally cut down they were calmly targeting and shooting legionnaires and others in the face to the last possible instant before they were gutted, choked, shot, stabbed or burnt. They lost half the turret traps and most of the Droideka's buying time for fleeing civilians many of whom got cut down despite their best efforts.

Vassek was a lost cause and they knew it. Magdalena knew it. Even with all her power she knew with the sheer number of Dark Siders present, even her magic would not be enough.

But she wasn't trying to win. She was trying to buy as much time as possible.

All that mattered was saving as many innocent people as possible, what he thought of her willingness to use her Blood Alkahest (An inborn, heretical Light Side skill employed by the creature she was copied from.) mattered not at all to the alien thought processes of Magdalena Bloodscrawl, and though her adopted son was human, not all of her own thought processes were. It was what made Light aligned Force Spawn sometimes as much a threat to Jedi as they were to Sith; their thinking tended to be Black and White in weird, oddly specific ways when it came to dealing with Dark Side threats, and were much more willing to kill them as a first resort. (Most Light and Dark Force Spawn of the modern and Gulag era have origins as weapons, and Magdalena was one of the very oldest).

She knew the situation was bad when the blood rain started significantly dampening the effects of her counter curse as well as her ability to cast her spells quickly. But it was even worse when the dead arose.

But Magdalena was nothing if not intelligent. Though they were destined to lose Vassek, Magdalena wouldn't hesitate to make his forces fight for every last square inch of it as much as it was in her power to do so. And neither would the Clones. Even as they were shredded, even as they lost a quarter of their tank force in the next few minutes, they fought on savagely and ruthlessly, now in an organized retreat. They fought with a ferocity that made it seem like they were the last defenders of an entire sector to buy civilians time to flee the corpse legion. They would fight as ferociously here as they would anywhere else. None of the clones, despite clearly being in a loosing position, panicked or broke ranks, even when their own clone brothers rose from the dead. Outnumbered clones were reduced to savage hand to hand combat in some cases, Legionnaires finding they had to spend numbers to take down clones in digits bordering on ridiculous, even though they were clearly winning the battle and driving the clones back in a infuriatingly controlled retreat from their initial lines, often having to literally dogpile insanely hostile clones that had chucked their sense of self preservation out of the window the moment the battle started in order to finally kill them Clones died surrounded by piles of dead, often setting off grenades they had still on them when fatally wounded and diving on the largest pile of enemies behind. The Sith present, though slaughtering clones by the dozens, found it was generally fatal to be surrounded by them all firing their rifles or carbines and did all they could to avoid getting 'Sixty-Sixed' by the clones.

The Battle Cruiser had had two hundred of its Fusion Accelerator Cannons knocked out. The pounding it was receiving was so savage it's shields had dropped to 88 percent, and had lost two of the Corvettes and most of its TIE-Bombs, but those guns it had were potentially enough to cripple a star destroyer if you hit it in just the right spot. It strategically pulled back slightly, it's heavy starfighter force withdrawing to attack the bombers and other dangerous fighters. Those ended up having to be left to interceptors. Exploiting their own natural resistance to gravity to make sharper turns than normal could only take them so far, and risked damaging the space frame if done too much and too often, forcing them to rely on their clone discipline and uncanny aiming ability even with their laser cannons, though they had lost up to thirty percent of their starfighter force, though they now swooped in after the drone attacks had done what damage they could to exploit already significant damage, even though it was a suicide move: the action of an opponent who didn't care if they made it out alive. One more destroyed shield array, one more knocked out gun was one less problem for the battle cruiser to deal with, even though the act would cost them another ten to fifteen percent of their squadrons....

Meanwhile...

She had faced Sith Zombies before. It was a practical tactic, but she would have to wait for them to get good and going. She had a few tricks she really, really didn't want to employ until the absolute last moment. Nefaron had to think things were completely in his favor.

She did not whisper a counter curse this time, even though she could have. She needed her batteries intact to pump out powerful attacks his and his apprentice's direction. Her light sided flesh burned the blood away with the help of the protective effects of her gown. As the dead rose, she sent a telepathic message to the defense clones that it was time to get ready to trigger the remaining booby traps. Nefaron's spell made it more difficult to concentrate and send a message in to the commander in the Corporate Heavy Cruiser hovering above the battlefield, it's relatively weak guns nonetheless trying to pound other nearby enemy vessels into a state of at least severe damage, but she managed to get through;

*Focus on wiping out or damaging all smaller vessels of the enemy fleet as much as possible with your main weapons. Use the Anti-Starfighter Lasers on the surface to target what threats you can spare a few for."

The Cup of Thirsts ancient guns began to reserve a portion of their guns in all categories to hammer away at the smaller transports, even though this somewhat compromised their ability to damage capital ships. The surviving corvettes sent half their surviving number (3) to Harass the prefect with potentially devastating torpedo and railgun fire, even as their anti starfighter systems fought off their own harassment.

Meanwhile, the Ancient Battle Cruiser directed all four hundred of its own plasma rail guns and two hundred of its battleship ion cannons at the Devastator solely, the remaining two hundred battle ship ion cannons doing its best to knock out any transports, it's fusion accelerator guns, numbering only 550 at this point instead of eight hundred, launched their own Alpha Strike at the Devastator, with 400 out of that number.

But it was a stall. All a stall...

Magdalena, as her ships fought for their lives, used her own blood magic as she belched light sided fire as a powerful green ball of flame that rushed and homed in on him...though to try and throw him off at the last minute, the ball would split in two and try to hit his apprentice, while her green lightning focused on hitting the living and the risen dead, aging her a full year from the exertion of fighting so many...

Darth Imperius

 

[Stevru Klamat]

⠀

Location⠀ Minor Village, Vassek
Objective 1 Evacuate Civilians
Tags⠀ Jenn Kryze Itzhal Volkihar Lirka Ka

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀There was no time to look on at the honor duel in which his ad hoc ally now engaged. He had his job. The lone commando had his own. Even as the fighting intensified overhead, as the fires spread amid the village, he marched from building to building, searching room by room. His foot collided with a barred door and it exploded inward. The beskar clad warrior loomed in the doorway as civilians, three children, two adults, shrunk away from him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Frustration born of urgency and combat drugs welled in his chest. Stifling a sigh, which would have come as a growl through his helmet's speakers, he instead grasped the his helmet at the front, depressed a button, and tugged it free. His haggard features felt crisp night air, and his nose filled with the stink of blood and smoke as his voice rang out, soft rasp cutting through the din by way of careful diction than strident volume.

"You need to leave. Now. We cannot hold this village."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Outside the sky darkened. The first fat drop of red rain struck the shingled roof above them. Then another. Then another. A crimson deluge broke above them, drowning the world in blood. Gripping his helmet, he crammed it back over his head, gasket locking it in place.

"Gather only what you need! Gather others! We rally at the rear entrance of the village. GO!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Outside it was utter bedlam. Civilians ran and screamed, slipping in the sanguine mud. The silver beskar of his armor was slick with blood within moments of stepping into the downpour. A shambling figured approached down the alleyway, and he grasped at his aid kit on reflex. But something was wrong. No heartbeat. No brain activity. Dead. But walking. He processed the new information in a fraction of a second, coming to his conclusion even as his hand closed around the blaster at his hip and drew it free. He shot the shambling corpse twice in the heart and once in the head, and watched it fall, just in time to see it replaced with another. And another. And another.

Shab.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He cranked the external speakers of his helmet to maximum, voice roaring from his helmet, tinny and distorted as the coils within thrummed with the volume.

"WE ARE LEAVING! If you don't have it, you don't need it!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Lifting his rifle, he flicked the selector onto automatic and unleashed a flurry of blaster bolts into the coming hoard, backpedaling at the same time. Switching grip, he slid his gloved finger around the trigger of his underbarrel slug thrower, the weapon bucking in his grip as he unloaded four shots of combat buck into the pressing wall of living flesh. Drawing out four rounds from a shell caddy on his hip, he lined them up with the loading gate and slammed them home, two at a time.

"FOLLOW ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀His cousin would have to see to their own safety. His duty was to the innocent of this village. Where there roles reversed, he'd want him to do the same. This is the Way. Drawing a sidearm, he continued to pour fire into the oncoming dead as he adjusted his comms, transmitting audio on an open channel.

{""Birov aru'e, ba'slan oriya. Ganar neverd. Linibar senaar.""}

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Despite the circumstances, the Mandalorian's voice was steady through the comms. Even as a corpse lunged from the press and his foot collided with it's knee, a gush of flame exploding from the underbarrel slugthrower, setting the corpse, and those around it, alight with crackling flame. Adding to the conflagration with a sweeping burst from his wrist mounted flamethrower, he didn't bother to slow down as he maintained his momentum and spun on the spot, drawing a vibro-hatchet in a swift motion and swinging it through the bar on the small, rear gate of the village. He slammed his shoulder into it and it swung open.

"Move Move Move! Quickly now! Stay together. Nobody falls behind!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Firing his rifle on full auto again, slowing more in the interest of slowing the horde up with fallen bodies than engaging them outright, he urged people through the doorway. As the last passed through, he backed through the gateway, rifle spewing automatic fire. Hitting the slide release on his slugthrower, he pulled the pump back, letting the round in the chamber fall to the ground. Slamming another shell home, he simply held the trigger down as he pushed the pump forward, the weapon firing the instant the bolt was in battery. The explosive shell sailed through the air and into the top of the gate arch, collapsing it in on itself and burying dozens of the dead under rubble.



{""Tatugir! Ganar neverd. Linibar senaar!""}
⠀⠀⠀⠀

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
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| Location | Vassek - Outlying Settlement
| Objective | Power
| Focus | Serina Calis

There is no greater betrayal in this world than betrayal of the self. ​

​

Words once uttered by Jenn's mother. One of the two, at any rate; whether the one who wore beskar or the one whose tenderness still lived within her, she could not recall. Not when she found herself so defeated, in mind rather than in body. What a novel concept, to find her killing-stroke failing not because of a lack of martial expertise, but through the slightest of cracks found within the indomitable bastion of her mind. A new way to be defeated only begat new tactics, should she survive this engagement. Mercifully enough, her foe seemed... disturbingly uninterested in such a proposition. Had she longed to merely kill The Redeemer, she would merely have pressed her advantage and delivered an overwhelming assault she could not answer against in her current state.​

​

For some damnable reason, this Sith, or whatever else she truly was, intended for something the Kryz'alor could not quite grasp. To understand her, yes, but not with the same cold detachment an enemy commander might adopt for such a maneuver. There was far too much intimacy in the way she reached out to gently drag her fingertips against the gorgeous, shimmering blue of the Ersansyr's beskar'gam. ​

​

Lifting her gaze just in time to meet her opponent's own, the Mandalorian perceived the passage of each fraction of a second with frightening precision as the halberd-wielding temptress moved in. Though she reacted in time to raise her shield and block the strike, she realized it had never been aimed with lethal intent. It was far too languid for that, merely meant to keep her in place, to keep her pinned long enough for-​

​

When the title slipped from those lips, her eyes grew wide, if but for a moment. Naught but a heartbeat...​

​

Were she in any other situation, Jenn would not have hesitated to draw her knuckleplate vibroblade and sliced off the woman's fingers for daring to desecrate her holy star-metal with the filth of her corrupted touch. Alas, she lacked the opportunity and the reach to do so, not to mention the drive. Damnable be that voice, each and every syllable permeated itself past the pitilessness of the warrior's visor, the words uttered leaving her near-desperate for more.​

​

It was only when those fingers trailed along her gauntlet that she found the resolve to silence the discord within her, to end this pitilessly enthralling song spun by a deadly singer of woe. With anger came power, but so too did clarity come from the calm fury her mothers exemplified; from beneath her visor, she blinked at regular intervals, activating the lock-on of her whistling birds. ​

​

Halberd resting against her blade, finger pressing against her breastplate - the time had come. ​

​

Serina would get her answer.​

​

"Power", answered The Redeemer, her voice trembling with something far greater than desperation, fear of her own desires, or even doubt. The raw determination that had shaped her from a humble metalsmith of the Mandalorian Enclave, contented with her existence, into a leader of warriors, a Reformer, a vanguard of renewal and hope. By her sheer will had a loose confederation of Mandalorians been turned into knights and heroes, and by her will would she crush all who stood in her way.​

​

Twelve whistling birds flew from her gauntlet, then, the micro-explosives flying with speed and grace towards the one who thought to corrupt, to tempt, to tease. In the same breath, she pushed the fingers of her hand outwards, calling upon the unexploited, yet grandiose well of raw power within her to send the temptress back. Hopefully, crashing against something to daze her.​

​

"The power to save these people. The power to crush you. The power to transcend flesh, bone, beskar."​

​

Mustering back to her feet, she deactivated her shield, and lifted her beskad towards the woman in a wordless challenge. An affirmation of her ironclad will.​

​

"The power to become a legend among mortals."​

​

| Friendly | Haliat Kryze Itzhal Volkihar Stevru Klamat
| Hostile | Commodore Helix Darth Imperius Lirka Ka Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Vaserk countryside.
Tag: Jenn Kryze ​

Power.

Oh, what a delicious answer.

Serina saw the shift in Jenn's body before the first whistling bird fired. The resolve, the raw force of will crystallizing into something sharp, something unyielding. She heard the tremor in Jenn's voice—not of fear, no, but of something greater, something darker, something still half-formed but no less intoxicating in its potential.

Jenn Kryze had reached into the depths of herself and found the truth.

She wanted.

And oh, how beautiful that was.

The micro-explosives shrieked through the air, a chorus of death and defiance, and Serina moved.

Not in panic, not in desperation, but in grace.

The Force carried her in a twisting, fluid motion, her feet barely touching the ground as she slipped between the streaking missiles. They detonated behind her in bursts of kinetic force, shrapnel slicing through the air, but Serina was already gone, spinning with effortless precision as Jenn thrust out her hand and pushed.

The wave of power slammed into her chest, sending her skidding back across the battlefield. She did not crash—no, even in retreat, she was poised, her feet catching ground just as she came to a halt. The impact rattled through her bones, but Serina did not waver.

She laughed.

Low, sultry, utterly delighted.

Oh, Jenn…

She had so much potential.

Serina lifted a hand, fingers brushing her lips, as if savoring something left lingering there. Her blue eyes gleamed, drinking in the sight of Jenn standing there, her beskad raised, her stance firm, her conviction radiating off of her like heat.

A warrior queen, a goddess of battle sculpted from beskar and unrelenting will.

Serina wanted to taste that power.

To claim it.

To ruin it.

But not tonight.

No, tonight she would leave something far more insidious than death.

She let out a slow, languid sigh, one of mock regret, her lips curling in the most knowing, most wicked of smirks.

"Oh, my Duchess, my Redeemer," she purred, the titles like silk against her tongue, "look at you."

She took a single, measured step back—not in surrender, not in fear, but in certainty. In control.

"Power… how deliciously honest of you. And such a beautiful thing, coming from your lips." Her gaze raked over Jenn's form, unapologetic, drinking her in, consuming her without ever touching her. "Oh, darling… I felt it. The way your voice trembled with it. With need."

She let her free hand trail over the smooth shaft of Ebon Requiem, her grip slow, suggestive, as if imagining something far more sinful beneath her fingers.

"And here I thought you would be more bashful, more reluctant to admit it." She tilted her head, biting her lip just so, amusement twinkling in her gaze. "But no… you said it so boldly, so deliciously, so… brazenly."

A breath.

And then she whispered, voice dipping into something decadent, something that slithered into the ears like warm honey, something meant to haunt.

"Did it feel good?"

She let the words linger.

"Did it feel right to say it? To finally admit what you crave?"

Another step backward, slow, teasing, her body moving with a serpentine ease.

"To hold power in your hands, to feel it pulse through your veins, to command the will of the galaxy itself? To shape it, to bend it to you? To be adored for it, to be worshipped for it?"

Serina exhaled, Ebon Requiem rolling lazily in her hands, the faint glow of its etchings reflecting in her gaze.

"You want that, don't you?"

A pause.

Then, a smirk, sharp as a blade.

"You want me."

She said it so simply, so certainly, with such confidence, as if it were not even a question, not even a possibility—just truth.

Serina tilted her head, as if considering something, as if savoring something that had yet to be spoken.

"You want my words, don't you?" she murmured. "You want my voice whispering against your ear, telling you how magnificent you are."

She took another step, letting the distance stretch, letting the hunger she was planting inside Jenn grow.

"You want my hands…" her voice dropped to something breathy, intimate, "…tracing over every ridge of that gorgeous armor, reading the story of your strength, of your deeds, with every touch."

She let out the faintest of sighs, one of mock longing, of promise.

"Oh, my dear Redeemer… You ache for it, don't you? For adoration. For submission—not yours, no… but theirs. Theirs to you. Theirs to your name, your legend."

Another smirk. Another step.

"You want to hear them whisper it. 'The Redeemer. The Unstoppable. The Reformer. The Unconquerable. The Legend, the one they all desire to follow, to kneel for, to offer themselves to.'"

She let the words curl between them, wrapping around Jenn like a lover's embrace.

Then, with a slow, deliberate wink, she turned.

"Oh, darling…" she called over her shoulder, that syrupy, sinful tone still lacing her words, "I will see you again."

A final glance, smoldering, searing into Jenn's mind like a brand.

"And when I do…"

A smirk, slow and wicked.

"You will beg to hear me say your name again."

And with that, Serina melted into the darkness, leaving nothing behind but her words, her voice, her presence, echoing in Jenn Kryze's mind like a siren's song that could never be forgotten.

 

[Commodore Helix]

Equipment: Same as prior.
Tags: Serina Calis , Jenn Kryze , Darth Nefaron​

Helix kept an eye on the two duelists as the Mandalorians were driven into retreat. It was time, then. Best to capitalize on their momentum now. "Open a hailing frequency to Darth Nefaron " He snapped at one of the commandos. "And deploy what we have in support. Let us end this and return to our business."

In space, the scant few fighters that his frigate could support shrieked from their hangars, zipping down toward the surface.

He lifted his weapon as the mercenary woman vanished. Only Jenn Kryze remained. The squad raised their weapons, as if in anticipation. Helix spoke up, finally. "Did you enjoy your bout, Mandalorian?" Unfortunately, the mercenary he'd come to relieve was gone. That meant his remaining move was to simply assist Nefaron's forces, and seize what salvage he still could. This woman was merely in his way. He decided to attempt reason. It seldom worked, but it was worth a shot.

"I certainly hope so. I am going to resume seeking salvage. You may attempt to stop me. Or, you may go, as I have no direct quarrel with you. If you could not defeat a simple mercenary, I calculate your odds of survival as being negligible, should you choose the former. Besides, you currently have larger problems. I trust you will make the correct choice." The droids spun on their heels all at once, and began to stride away. Still, Helix diverted some of his attention behind him, just in case. Mandalorians weren't known for taking the peaceful option.

Helix spoke up across an open channel to the Legion. "Greetings, Lord Nefaron. It would seem we possess a common enemy. As such, I am instructing my forces to show you all due courtesy. We will be on our way, when the mess is cleaned up." Granted, with all the meat now standing up and shuffling away, much of what he'd come here for was gone. Still, there might yet be scraps left, and it never hurt to do his allies a good turn now and again. He'd stick around briefly, stack some more bodies, and be on his way before long when the AO was picked clean.

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Vassek - Outlying Settlement
| Objective | A dance ends; the melody echoes....
| Focus | Serina Calis Commodore Helix

The Sith had gotten the better of her this day. A bitter truth to accept, perhaps, but only a fool would deny the result of her confrontation with the temptress. That damnable girl and her her eyes, her words, her motions... truly, she would have made for a far greater Ersansyr than Jenn ever could be, when she could already accomplish such results on a first encounter, without the use of sorcerous suggestion nor alluring song. For hers was a different sort of beauty than the Mandalorian was used to, crafted in the subtle intricacies she seemed so expertly skillful with. ​

​

Even as she moved to avoid the swift retribution dealt out by the aspiring legend, the whisperer of disquieting (yet alluring) truths remained nimble, graceful, all but dancing her way through the swarm of micro-explosives. Had Jenn taken the time to let them lock on a little longer, they would have simply banked right around and slammed into her back; more than one foe had dismissed the gracefulness and speed of the whistling birds in the past. Even when faced by the raw, untamed power of The Redeemer, she kept true to her poise, calling upon the Force to attain a supernatural level of fleet-footedness. ​

​

There was so much hunger in her gaze. Though largely unaware of the many complexities surrounding the ancient arts of the Force, she knew, if only through the careful study of those texts valued by her foes, of the inherent power and danger associated with the touch of the Dark. Where some fought against it, others embraced it wholeheartedly, giving themselves over to the corrupting influence all too readily... as the young woman before the Kryz'alor most ostensibly did. If she could not see it in her eyes, then her voice would have betrayed that truth, sinfully soft as it was, her lips wrapped tenderly around each and every syllable utter from her lips. A silken touch for a warrior who deprived herself of such indulgences.​

​

Worse than her voice, still, was the way she appraised the living incarnation of the New Mandalorian ideals of yore. Admiring her, drinking in the sight of her all so greedily, as if the figure before her stood neither as threat nor person, but a sublime work of art. Truly, the experience was both elevating... and disquieting.​

​

As was the sharp accuracy of her words. ​

​

Oh, this seductress was right. Power felt good... though not nearly as much as what it would allow her to accomplish. She had known love, once; eight siblings and two mothers had made for a loving home to grow up in, but after the Sith robbed her of that joy? There had been nothing but emptiness. A single warrior making her way across the galaxy, as so many others had before her. And when the heavy mantle of leadership became hers, she began to long for something greater, something more. ​

​

The adulation of the masses, the devotion of a great many warriors, the worship of those she saved. Love, if after a fashion, manifested in the way a ruler craved. ​

​

This, she decided, was her due. ​

​

"You will not find me so ill-prepared for your tricks, when our paths cross anew. Savor this victory, Dar'jetii. It will be the last time you triumph over me."​

​

Let the temptress' voice echo within her mind, even now that she had become one with the shadows. Let her think of herself a greater foe than she truly was. Her hubris would be her downfall, just as it had been the doom of many a servant of the Dark before, annihilated before the mettle of those who walked under the righteous path. Not as soldiers of Light, like the Ashlan Crusaders or even the Jedi fashioned themselves after, but simply as warriors. Conquerors. Indomitable.​

​

The Duchess snapped back into the present when a synthetic voice filled the air. She was still surrounded by droids; an unenviable position by any measure. She could take down a fair amount of them, but the concentrated and overlapping fields of fire would eventually bring them victory, if not the intervening hand of the one among them possessed with true sentience. Turning her T visor to regard him in silence, she considered her options... only to tilt her head to the side in the face of the droid's offer. A Sith could not be trusted to honor their word, as the Excision had proved, but this was no Sith; merely an opportunistic salvager, no less sentient than her or the people of this village. A tactician, free from dogma and illogical hatreds. Ironically enough, a figure she could respect. ​

​

Besides... the villagers had been evacuated - those they could get to, at any rate. Let this peculiar adversary take whatever loot he desired from this place. Her duty was to save others, and that objective had already been met. Without another word, she sheathed her blade, gave the mechanical figure an upnod of acknowledgement and respect, before letting her jetpack flare to life.​

​

It was time for her to leave. The New Mandalorians' window of escape from Vassek was rapidly closing.​

​

| Vode An | Drego Ruus Itzhal Volkihar Stevru Klamat
| Dar'jetii | Commodore Helix Darth Imperius Lirka Ka Serina Calis ​

 

[Karrys]

What a fucking day.

Beneath the wings of Karrys' dropship, all manner of evil unfolded. The risen dead, the heavy boots of an empire's vanguard, the dread corruptors of life itself venturing forth to claim what was theirs. This kind of pressure, this challenge... brought only sweet ecstasy to the Nite Owl. The years came and went, friends and rivals alike swallowed by time, but the promise of the struggle remained. Another field of warfare to explore, to master, to perfect. The many different variables she found herself dealing with when it came to the chaos of airborne combat made for the exact conditions she thrived in. Alarms blaring in her cockpit, enemy forces locked onto her dropship, her skillful maneuver seeing another heat-seeking missile narrowly missing the fuselage-

It made her smile, made her laugh, defiant in the face of what a lesser pilot would have found to be their end. What was there to enjoy in life, but cheating death? Adrenaline coursing through her body with each moment, letting her taste the air and experience every last minute detail of all that surrounded her? Endless, rapturous bliss, chasing another high, another kind of pleasure. Power, in a different way than her old friend the Duchess did. Barely able to outmaneuver an interceptor who thought her craft but a juicy dropship for them to prey upon, the Mandalorian fired her last two air-to-air missiles as it shot past, a fanged grin pulling at her lips as she watched the enemy craft reduced to a flaming ruin, rapidly hurtling along towards the ground.

<Bloodhound, this is Skyfury. We're receiving a call on short-range comms; someone is asking for an evac in Mando'a. No credentials, though; their helmet is not logged in our systems.>

<And you figure I'll be the one to risk my neck for what might be a Sith trap, I bet.>

<Affirmative.>

<I'll see what I can do. Send me the coordinates.>

<Coordinates sent. Stars be with you, Bloodhound.>

<Whatever you say, Skyfury. Over and out.>

Rolling her eyes, the pilot redirected her charred and battle-scarred dropship towards the provided coordinates, raining down supporting fire along the way with the nouse-mounted rotary blaster cannons. Mulching up the dead didn't feel quite as gratifying as reducing the Empire's best into a ruined mess, but it appealed to her desire for slaughter nonetheless. Quantity over quality, carried over into bloodthirst. By the time she came within view of the haggard band of civilians led by a single Mandalorian fighter, she groaned. Definitively not a New Mandalorian; her HUD would have lit him up as a friendly, then, instead of an unknown variable. White instead of green.

Still, she dropped her air-to-ground missiles onto the hungering horde, seemingly uncaring of the danger close nature of the maneuver, before engaging the VTOL capacities of the craft and landing nearby, if a little abruptly. The ramp lowered with a thunk, and her voice thundered over the speakers, heard even over the chaos of the desperate evacuation.

"You've got thirty seconds to hop in before I get the hell out of here, so you'd better make them count!"

At least this momentary pause allowed her to look down at the copilot seat, always kept empty in her craft, and reached over to grab a bottle she'd secured against it, bringing it over to her lips after raising her helmet halfway. The wine was too warm to be really enjoyed, but it helped her think of something a little more pleasant, nonetheless.

Stevru Klamat

 

[Lirka Ka]

Poor Itzhal Volkihar . It was unfortunate for the Galaxy at large that Lirka’s incessant insults and grating yells were not just a negotiating tactic, rather unfortunately…she was just like that. Loud, boisterous, angry, murderous. A real piece of work.

For each of the risen her Kainite seemed to kill, another took its spot. Her raiders were in near disarray, far busier with keeping themselves alive rather than pouncing upon the beleaguered villagers in front of them. Their mistress offered no help as they screamed and died, her glowing lenses locked entirely on the warrior in front of her. With the disorder Stevru Klamat would be allowed to continue his evacuation unbothered by her minions, only the dead would offer obstacle.

And with it, Lirka was forced to accept that Vassek was a failure for her missions. Their coffers light and the raw material of the villagers would live another day. But she intended to take a great personal prize, the blood of one of the Mandalorian rats. A reminder of the good old days. A reminder of her boundless and irrational hate.

As his blade slashed up, her armor plates whined with the distinct noise of Beskar. The butcher of Moridinae seemed to like to keep her momentous of those dark days. And she’d be sure to remind them of it, for such was her way.

“Beskar. Such a wonderful thing is it not?”

A metal fist, whirring with servos, lashed out intent to stagger the man and break his concentration. Her other raising her blade to defend her neck, hot plasma and crackling electricity following it up. No reason to let the rat take the satisfaction in drawing her blood just yet.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

"I am the death of your people, Mandalorian. But you won't live to see that day."
​

Now Nefaron was truly angry. His schemes were disturbed, and the Mandalorian menace that plagued him was preventing his ultimate victory. The ritual had done its work, no Force Spawn or mere Mandalorian warrior could save Vassek now. The dead would rise, and those who lived would watch as those they loved perished and rose again, servants of the Corpse Lord and the Dark Side. Darth Imperius had come, his forces made landfall and entered the fray with each passing moment. Though momentarily distracted, Nefaron had heard the call of the monstrous machine who had chosen a temporary alliance with the Corpse Legion to ensure victory.

Nothing could stop him. Nothing.
​

The Dark Lord watched as the sky grew black and the cruel glee that crossed his face was palpable. The Corpse Legion was spurred forward, certain of victory now that Darkness had fallen. Those fools who attempted to get in the Mandalorian's way were dealt with, leaving only the Dark Lord, the prize, to deal with. The next grenade that came his way was, with careful timing, swatted aside with the force. It appeared as if the warrior was indeed set on taking him alive, obvious as he switched his weaponry to engage in close quarters.

Nefaron was a storm. He fed on the darkness that claimed Vassek, rushing forward to meet the Mandalorian in combat. So certain of his own power, Nefaron wielded no lightsaber, instead using the raw power of the Dark Side to his advantage. Though his body was not capable of withstanding much damage, Nefaron turned instead to the speed granted through the force as he dotted around the impromptu area the piles of corpses and upturned earth had created.

With a raised hand, Nefaron ripped chunks of rock from the spoil, a closed fist crushed those rocks into jagged razors. They were sent forward, hurtling like spears toward the Mandalorian. Undoubtedly he would manage to slip through the torrent of rock, but the Corpse Lord wasn't quite done.

Next came an unexpected boon. The very viscera, the bloody remains of those who had fallen around them, was sent forward like a tide. If he was not buried in the corpses of the fallen, the Mandalorian would be caked in all varieties of organs and blood of all who had perished so far. Even better, a few of the corpses were still animated having risen from death, their slashing arms and gnawing teeth all sent forward to attack the Mandalorian.

"This is my world now, Mandalorian. The Darkness here bends to my will and all you can do is stumble hopelessly in the dark."

Direct Tags: Drego Ruus Veradun Sharr Darth Imperius Commodore Helix
Indirect Tags: Magdalena Bloodscrawl Itzhal Volkihar Lirka Ka Jenn Kryze Stevru Klamat Serina Calis Karrys ​

 

[Drego Ruus]

Tag: Darth Nefaron​

"This is my world now, Mandalorian. The Darkness here bends to my will and all you can do is stumble hopelessly in the dark."

Drego's only response was one of dark, determined bluntness. His ragged voice robotic, yet purposeful.

"Good. I plan to drag you out of it, kicking and screaming."

The back shield, split in two and strapped to his arms, was thrusted forward as Drego brought his arms in front of him to form the sheild into a single piece, stone shards pinging off it as he pushed forward towards the sith lord.

The limbs and flesh buried the mandalorian, and for a moment...

All fell quiet.

Until the scream of a mortar round hit right into the pile of gore. The airburst round rained napalm on the pile, melting all but Drego himself, as the jelly like substance dripped down him.

"You're lucky I don't want to kill you, darjetii. You're coming with me one way or another."

The bounty hunter once more opened fire with his ion pistol, wanting nothing more than to pin the mad bastard down.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

The deluge of crimson tears fell from the twisted veil of unnatural night, seeping into the mud-soaked ground and staining the armour of all those who fought amongst the realm of nightmares. As the land itself rose to fight both hero and villain alike, a terrible infliction of the restless dead awoke from their peaceful slumber, bodies desecrated for a conflict that wasn't their own by invaders from beyond the stars. It was here, in a place twisted by vile sorceries, that a lonesome knight stood alone against the dragon forged from steel and a hate so deep it transcended the release of earthly bonds, a chain that they would dare call power.

Itzhal's blade, gifted in defence of a village that he knew not the name of, hummed with a shrill flicker that shorn the blood from its edge before it could settle, untouched by the sickly copper-heat that splattered across his arms and pauldrons. Tormented beskar screeched as it defended the hide of the terrible monster, loyalty twisted and torn to lay at the feet of a butcher. It did not yield as he scraped the defender's blade across its surface, one strike flowing into the next just as the enemy brought their own blade to bear.

Their weapons clashed with a resonant clang, sending sparks of electricity dancing across the sky like tesla coils crackling in the darkness. Streams of iridescent plasma dripped down the length of the butcher's blade, seeping over the humming blade of the Mandalorian, an unnamed weapon untouched by the weight of legacy and great deeds but with a purpose just as grand.

To protect... or avenge.

"You take joy in this."

The metal fist that had followed crashed into the Mandalorian's shoulder. A sharp crack of metal and the ringing ding of aftershocks tremored through the air, and his arm as Itzhal stumbled back, his footing displaced with disturbing ease. He responded with instinct as he fell back, turning a stumble into a twist of his torso and a defensive slash of his blade to buy time as he whispered the hissing words of flight, and the thrusters of his jetpack flared to life.

Sending him straight back into the belly of the beast just as he tilted the tip of his blade, scorched and whining in pain, towards the towering foe. His left hand kept a firm grip on the hilt, the other tilted for impact as he roared. "Buurenaar."

It also happened to be the voice-activated code word for the repulsor in his right gauntlet.

Tags: Lirka Ka​

 

[Veradun Sharr]

Tags: Darth Nefaron // Darth Imperius​

The moment the flames changed color, Veradun knew that he had done the ritual properly and events that he couldn’t stop were underway. Now all he could do was watch the ancient Sith ritual complete its dark purpose, and he watched on with a mixture of disturbing glee and wary uncertainty.

Icy blue eyes lifted to the sky as silence fell over the area and dark clouds began to gather above - as if a storm of great strength was making its presence known. Darker and darker the clouds became, muting the light that poured from the planet’s sun beyond - until eventually it was completely dampened and shut out.

The boy was still looking up into the growing darkness when the first drops of blood rain began to fall. The Nagai blinked in surprise, wiping away a trickle of bloody rain as it dripped down his face, and a part of him wondered - almost lamented - at what he had done.

His Master would hopefully be pleased with him, and right now that was all Veradun cared about. Anything to get out of the slave pits, though there was a vague pang of sadness at that thought, that desire; he would be leaving the only companion he’d made behind, a man who’d become a sort of anchor for him in that dark place.

The blood rain began to fall harder around the Nagai boy, around and upon everything in the area. He stood there, letting the blood soak through the clothes he wore, feeling its dampness against his skin underneath. Already his black hair was dripping with the red substance, and he could feel the Darkness swell and shift around him. Veradun closed his eyes and simply…existed…in that moment, locking it away in his memory banks forever. A smile formed on his lips, one of sadistic satisfaction.

He’d done the ritual. Of course his Master had guided him but still, he was responsible for this and he was going to take the credit for it.

Movement filtered into his ears, and his eyes snapped open to behold a sight he thought he’d never see - the results of the ritual’s success: the dead rising up once more.

Dead soldiers, Legionnaires, village folk…men, women, and children. All rising up under the power of the Dark side. At first, the boy felt a pang of fear as the first zombies turned their attention towards him…but then they went past him to charge after the nearest enemy that wasn’t aligned with any of the Sith. Awe filled the Nagai; he was surrounded by death and destruction, and yet none of it would touch or harm him.

He felt almost invincible - but he knew better than to let that get to his head.

Movement from somewhere else pulled at his attention, and the boy turned his head to see armored Sith warriors who were not connected with his Master, approaching his location. He turned to face them, cold eyes staring at them as he waited to see what they wanted from him.

 

[Darth Imperius]

• Objective:
  • II. Head of the Snake - joining Darth Nefaron .
  • III. The Great Game - Purge the world of enemy presence and build a garrison and listening post
• Tags:
  • Allied: Darth Nefaron | Veradun Sharr
  • Adversary: Magdalena Bloodscrawl
• Theme: Battle over Vassek | Descent

Battle in Orbit
| 1x Devastator-class | 2x Harrower-class | 5x Terminus-class | multiple freight and escort ships [ Darth Nefaron ] |
| 28x TIE/ss | 7x TIE/hac | 5x Eradicator Bombers |​

The captain of the Obsidian Trident had seen several campaigns, not only against pirates, but other imperial warlords and bickering Sith, he knew his strengths but more importantly, he knew his place. And with the forces of Darth Nefaron becoming more or less a liability to the battlefield of the Sith, he issued a command that was certainly one of the most fateful of his career and either secure his future or doom his existence.

With his own damaged ship focusing its fire on the next Corvette, the much smaller vessel not even having close to as much offensive potentials as the potent destroyer, he sent forth the smaller ships of Nefaron to try to ram whatever they could. Their blind obedience becoming an asset before it turned into a weakness of tedious micromanaging. They flew towards the Corvettes and Battlecruiser, aiming to simply crash into the enemy and either forcing the enemy to focus fire on them to survive or to ignore them and suffer the consequences.

The remaining Terminus Destroyers and the Hammer maintained their fire, focused on one Corvette at a time which now would be pressed by the combined forces on their front and on their flank, having drawn them into a devastating crossfire. Their shields were hard pressed, but held against the firepower of the small escorts. The fleet screens were still engaged in their extensive dogfights, but with the retreat of some of them, seeing it as a withdrawal rather than a relocation to counter the attack runs on the Battlecruiser, they pressed even harder, smelling blood their spirits were reinforced with the taste of triumph.

The Eradicators and Scorpions were facing strong opposition, with their speed being the only saving grace of not being entirely obliterated. Two entire squadrons though were lost the returning interceptors while the rest managed to get off a single attack run on the battlecruiser with their heavy missile payloads.

On the bridge of the Devastator, the Vice Admiral was gritting his teeth as the ship was rocked by being hit. Its shields were only holding because it had redirected all engine power to them and was therefore now more or less unmoved in space, its heavy weapons hammering away at the enemies flagship. Its Reductors using focused blasts to rip through shields and armor plating alike, seeing to end the miserable service of the wasted enemy ship.

The Righteous Prefect had gained speed, its fighter screens defending against those that were sent after it, but it ultimately would reach the stern of the enemy battlecruiser and its guns, while having previously been firing, diverted engine power to the weapons as well and aimed to overload the shields so the Devastator could blast right through its weakened defences.

​

The Extremis Paladins entered the village, their shields covering most of their body as heavy blasters lay on them and aimed around the place to figure out what is hostile and what not. They did not seem to lock onto the single Sith standing there and approached with steady steps in their heavy armors, seeming to be completely sealed and unaffected from the insane hellscape that the surface had turned into. While silent they with a simultaneous move, they came to a halt. They did not speak to Veradun Sharr but their purpose was obviously not to harm him, but to either protect or escort him, maybe even depending on his decision.

Meanwhile Darth Imperius walked up to the field where Darth Nefaron was engaging the Mandalorian and the woman, whoever she was. But he did not join the fight, he did, in fact, do nothing but observe, his lightsaber in his hand and waiting. Curious to see what was going to happen.

Equipment
| Lightsaber | Greatsword | Armor | Amulet | Shuttle |
​

 

[Lirka Ka]

It was here in chaos that Lirka felt most at home, the anarchy erupting on Vassek was a near-holy thing for her. It was as though she could feel her foul god calling out from the death, the destruction, Primordial Dark beckoned her name: and it beckoned her to fight, to kill, to destroy. Fiery zealotry raged in her heart, she would fight this Mandalorian Itzhal Volkihar whose name she did not know, merely because he was there. Because he had dared to stand against darkness.

When his words reached her ears, Lirka let out a rancorous laugh. How observant these Rats of lost-Mordinae could be.

"Of course, I take joy in this. You know what they say, Little Rat: it's not work if you enjoy it."

Such was the callousness of Lirka Ka. This was just work, this was just fun. Lives would be changed, suffering inflicted upon the masses: and she simply didn't care. Crushed under the heel like one crushes a bug. She cackled again as her fist made contact, the savagery of it all brought a deep pleasure to her heart. This was fighting, she may have despised Mandalorians but she could never deny that they offered a good fight.

But it had been a long time since she had been given the opportunity to fight one: as Itzhal flew towards her in that burst of speed, Lirka raised her blade in preparation: and was completely caught off guard by the blast of the repulsor, sent flying back like a metal missile as she kicked up earth and crushed an "unfortunate" zombie under her bulk. She rose up from the muck, snarling like a monster before she lunged right back in: sent forward with her own burst of speed by the servos in her thick metallic legs blade raised high in the air to strike down upon his weapon. Intent to use the raw strength within her being to hopefully knock the weapon right out of his hand.

 

[Stevru Klamat]

⠀

Location⠀ Outside Minor Village, Vassek
Objective 1⠀ Evacuate Civilians
Tags⠀ Karrys

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The civilians he'd managed to gather were huddled atop a rocky outcropping, pressed against one another to weather the slashing, blood red rain. Flashes of lightning and flashes of blaster fire threw insane shadows across the granite tor.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Grit your teeth and stand against it. Clad in beskar. Made of beskar. Unbreakable. His beskar clad fist struck out in a tight right hook, staggering the corpse that had ripped the blaster from his hand. Bringing his left around, he activated his plasma shield, bisecting it's head and cutting a gash in it's shoulder. Deactivating the shield just as swiftly, he let the body fall away, sidestepping it as he hooked his toe under his blaster and kicked it up into his hand, slamfiring the remaining three incendiary shells within the underbarrel slugthrower into the crowd of undead scaling the outcrop.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Sparing a glance to the sky, he witnessed the flash of a fireball above. His eye tracked thrusters. He consciously switched focus between his human eye and his cybernetic, turning the human one down to the crowding undead. He backpedaled farther up the outcrop as he unleashed a jet of fire into the horde. In the meantime, his cybernetic eye tracked the object, isolated it, and enhanced the image.

"A ship is coming! You need to be ready! It can't stay long."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The flash and thunder of repeating blaster fire was to him, in this moment on a blood slicked outcrop of rock, beset by the dead, more beautiful than any music yet devised. He spent the last of his flamethrower fuel, setting a vast swath of the horde alight. All the better to guide their transport in for pickup.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Villagers were already swarming down the outcrop when the missiles hit. There was a collective gasp, and the majority of them froze.

"MOVE IT."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The exhortation had it's desired effect. Villagers, eyes wide with the early stages of shock, soaked in blood, clutching whatever possessions they could carry swarmed the ramp. The lone Mandalorian did his best to shepherd them aboard, going as far as to physically lift and toss the slow or unsure of foot aboard.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Someone was screaming.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀A young girl, no older than four, clung for her father, who struggled to free his ankle from a fissure in the stone outcrop. He looked from the transport, to the two stragglers.

["If I'm not back in time, leave without me."]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The thrusters of his jetpack flared to life, and he sprang from the ground in a quick, lateral jump. The dead were already nearly upon them when he arrived. His hands closed around the man's ankle, moving it one way, then another, his gaze snapping up to the incoming horde. He dropped two of the frontrunners before returning to his work, attempting to free the man.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The countdown timer he'd shunted into one corner of his heads up display was ticking down. He wasn't going to be able to free him in time. He could sever his leg with a vibro-hatchet, but he could never carry them both. A decision needed to be made. He lifted the girl into his arms, snatching her away from the grasping hands of the dead.

"I'm sorry."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Tucking the girl against him, even as she struggled and screamed at him to save her father. His thrusters kicked and they were airborne. Vectoring the nozzles, he turned himself about to face the outcrop, drew a bead with his sidearm, and fired. Only once.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The commando came in for a skidding landing on the ramp, turning around with the child still tucked against him to fire a volley of blaster fire at the encroaching zombies, retreating only as he began to feel the craft lift. Turning his head away from the child he carried, who by now had just about screamed herself out, lapsing into a sort of gasping sob as she caught her breath, he activated his comm again.

["There's one more down there. Think he's one of yours. Out front of the village. Some Sith freak challenged him to a duel."]

 

[Magdalena Bloodscrawl]

The Cup of Thirst's shields were down to seventy percent. It lost fifty of its Ion Cannons and an hundred of its Main Fusion Accelerator guns. But even with the terrible damage it had taken, this thing was still going strong, and the suicide ramming maneuvers from the expendable forces sent from those of Darth Imperius mostly collapsed, with only two getting through, but even they had been badly battered by the auto targeting guns and smashed apart when they hit, though those impacts rocked the ship and damaged sections of certain decks, knocking out life support.

But the remaining guns were still going strong, all remaining accelerator cannons and surviving squadrons (Sixty percent had been eliminated and only two Corvettes remained in the fight, coordinating with the Battle Cruiser as it's rear was fired on. The shields shuddered, dropping another five percent from the battery. Some of the energy got through and hit some of the rear engines, but those were as tough as the rest of the ship.

The Commander, a Clone Officer, knew the final part of Magdalena's plan was upon them.

What was the plan? Well, without giving too much away...

...it was simple...

Pick up all the survivors...

...and then take them back down...

He gave the order. Throughout the decks, surviving Ashlan Healers began the disturbing blood rune ritual, taking from samples of Magdalena's blood. She had linked her own body to the ritual in question. The Light Side Magic began to spread through the ship. Fires on decks were ruthlessly put out by venting them into space. Many managed to get their survival gear on. Some didn't.

The Battle Cruiser suddenly cut the power to half its weapon systems to boost the shields back up to eighty percent. Only the fusion accelerator cannons were still firing at the Devastator as the Battle Cruiser began to deliberately move closer to the planet...

...and seemingly on the faintest start of a collision course...

Meanwhile, the Surviving Corvettes directed all their weapons on the rear of the prefect itself. Most of the crew on those ships were dead and the Captains had decided to direct all their remaining possible firepower into the rear of the Prefect before ramming the Rear of the ship at point blank ranges.

On the Surface...


In the tunnels. It had already become crowded. Already filled with the sick and the wounded when the signal for the female Clone Healers, many of whom were wounded in the retreat, to begin the Blood Rituals Magdalena herself had instructed them in.

A spell connecting an area of these tunnels, to completely cleared out sections of the ship, opened a portal connecting the two spaces. But because of the Dark Magic Nefaron had released into the atmosphere, some of the portals outright failed and it took extra strain to keep the ones that hadn't opened. But their hope was strong. In spite of the terror above and surrounding them, they held hope of escape that reinforced the efforts of the clone witches. Survivors frantically begin to pour right through the portals to a ship starting to head right back to the planet nose first.

There is a reason Force Spawn are often among the most powerful Sorceresses. They are an entire coven, a community in one body, each approaching, combining their different strengths in the Force. Darth Nefaron himself was strong enough to affect a planet. So was Magdalena.

Except Magdalena wasn't looking to affect a planet.

In truth...she was just looking to affect her own battle cruiser...

The Clones Situation became increasingly desperate. All the LAAT's had been shot down as they fell back to the tunnel entrances, where they were fortified strongest. The retreat was ruthless and organized, but their ammo was starting to run low.

But though their situation was dire, it was still punctuated by moments of savage valor in the face of insurmountable odds. And inordinate amount of Sith had died at the hands of the Clones, successfully corralling them into getting sixty-sixed (Surrounded from all sides by Fett Clones and shot at repeatedly). Even some of the Sith Forces were deeply, deeply surprised that that tactic was working as well as it did. It made them start gunning for the ones getting too good at it. You couldn't let those ones walk away alive.

Half the Clone Forces had been wiped out by this point. But they had chewed through utterly insane numbers of the enemy despite their crappy armor and outdated weapons. The kind of quality one can only get if one is Legit. One Clone died getting impaled by like four different Sith because he had come that close to squad wiping all of them with his carbine and his grenades. And even then he managed to yank one of them down and blow their chest open when he made the mistake of getting too close for a taunt.

The Ghost Army's soldiers wouldn't know what 'chill' was if it walked up to them wearing Nefaron's face and tickled them. They had been born treating every moment like it could suddenly become the ending of Death Wish 3. Or John Woo's A Better Tomorrow.

The Ghost Army, in short, was out of damns to give. The programming was burned into their brain even as they met their ends a thousand different messy ways:

KILL THE ENEMY. KILL THE ENEMY. KILL THE ENEMY. KILL THE ENEMY. KILL THE ENEMY. KILL THE ENEMY.


Magdalena, for her part, let green lightning erupt from her flesh as she finally began to wade her way to Nefaron, chanting strange spells in that relic language that wasn't Sith to attack Nefaron's Dark Side infused muscles.

Her green, double bladed lightsaber came out in tight spins, slicing through zombies as she got within striking distance of the rotting monster. She hoped Drego Ruus didn't mind her help, because all that mattered was letting Nefaron think the day was his and that there was nothing she could do to stop him except confront him physically.

If possible however, she would absolutely gut Nefaron like a fish if the opportunity presented.

Magdalena rushed the Sith with tight, green lightning infused spins for his chest...

Darth Nefaron

Veradun Sharr

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

The thunderous roar of Itzhal's repulsor gauntlet tore through the air, shattering aside Lirka's guard as effortlessly as they did the endless storm of crimson tears, sending her armoured body flying as the Mandalorian landed in the sludge of mud. His booted feet squelched against the ground as he marched forward, flecks of churned earth tumbling in his wake. Itzhal pushed forward, aware he had only a moment to strike as he side-stepped the scattered remains of a fallen foe, crushed by his opponent's passage.

Straight into the pathway of another, one arm outstretched towards him as the other twisted off towards the sky, their face a bloated mess of scratched skin and weeping wounds. Another word activated the flare of his flamethrower, bright as a newborn sun in the darkness, before his blade removed their grasping limb, leaving only the flaming effigy behind.

It had stalled him, though.

Long enough for Lirka to surge upward like a fierce, snarling beast, her armour marred by grotesque streaks of refuse that clung to her armour like a second skin yet did nothing to impede the fluid violence of her metal joints. His blade sang as it flew across the air, headed initially toward her elbow, but with a twist of his wrist, supported by his second hand, he brought it up in a guard as he watched her weapon descend.

The unnamed weapon, an unspoken hero of the defenceless, cried; a melody of pain and suffering passed, a promise of safety and the hope that followed in the aftermath of terrible horrors and monsters at the door. It hummed a sound that carried over the screeches of the dead and the crackling eruption of plasma superheating the air through the charred atmosphere of a world lost to darkness.

And as Itzhal raised his weapon, a bold knight, his presence mainly lost to the records of time.

The butcher's blade, The Soul of War, descended.

And the defender's soul, the prosperity of peace and protection.

S h a t t e r e d

Into pieces, the glowing green consuming through metal as the humming blade internals turned upon itself, and the shards ruptured outwards, spread across the ground like the bodies of the innocent. Their sharp points pierced off beskar and past unarmoured segments of the bodysuit underneath, leaving fine lines of red to seep into the dark, as Itzhal twisted out of the way of the coming blade, narrowly missing his shoulder as his hand dropped to his hip and he unsheathed the pistol at his hip.

His barrel aimed at the foe's faceplate; without a moment's hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

Tags: Lirka Ka​

 

[Lirka Ka]

Lirka relished in the chaos, feeling the weakness of the undead squished under her bulk like bugs. Like a shark in the water, the bloodshed motivated her to further slaughter. The flames of Itzhal Volkihar weapon illuminated her in the unnatural darkness of this world as the Once-Sephi came crashing down back to the earth.

The shriek of blades clashing in the air, and the thunderous crack of her machete ripping its way through the Mandalorians blade. Accented by the cackling laughs of the monstrous slaver, a mixture of mockery and true amusement.

“And here I thought Rats were famed for their craftsmanship!”

A noise came out of her helmet as if she were to say something more, before being quickly interrupted as her head snapped back once the blaster bolt dinged into her face plate. In pure Sephi melodrama she held the pose for a time. Before her head snapped back down to look at her foe, letting him taste that briefest glimpse of victory before her mocking tone rumbled out of the voice modulator. A blaster scorch mark right in the middle of her faceplate where his weapon had made contact

“Come on now, Rat. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”

Itzhal had come to stand as a beacon of hope for this place, a village unnamed and assailed by darkness. But Lirka was the death of hope. Hope was heretical before Primordial Dark, and she would never allow such a foul heresy to stand. Her blade lashed out again, intent to slash the mandalorian across the chest. He would learn. There will be no hope, there will be no peace, there will be only Darkness on Vassek. And they would crumble and weep before its majesty.