Virion Blackwood
LOCATION: Starport, West Access
OBJECTIVE: Hold the position
ENEMY: Corellian Terrorists, New Republic, [member="Amari Deechi"], [member="The Elder Kashi"] (?)
ALLIES: [member="Jorryn Fordyce"], [member="Ravik Munin"] and the Munin Monsters, Sith Allies
GEAR: Zelroth's Rest
"Instruct my hand, dear Zelroth. " The Maenan breathed, with passionate adoration. "Lend me your Wisdom. " Through ashen smoke, aglow with nightmarish imagery, the Pale Maenan haunted this macabre Battle. Ghoulish and unyielding, he prowled, his fingers tamed to wage war. Guided by beloved friend and ally, he'd placed a blade through the back of.
Strobing beams, feverish with hunger, stabbed outward from haze and shadow. Men and women died screaming; whittled down to glistening cinders of crackling gore. Strangled until rendered still and lifeless. Littered with cuts and stabs. Heads bludgeoned by stone, rifle, helmet or club, until whatever they had been, was now no longer recognizable.
The Streets were raving, made delirious by the bloodletting, to be an Imperial of the Sith Empire here on this day, was a cruel sentence.
From every direction of this hellscape, the Empire was under constant threat of being overran - beaten backwards until they would be forced to retreat in to the West Access point of the Starport. That bleak option looming in the minds of every Stormtrooper; perhaps the very stark probability of which, stirred such unmovable courage, in the face of these overwhelming odds. For now, Heavy Repeater Canons blared on in endless, shrill, screams. Chewing bodies down to viscous rags, eliminating flanking angles, and haphazardly hammering the Frontal Assault with staggered and sudden displays of massive, coordinated bursts from the fog of conflict.
Aerial Assault Craft, made ragged and useless in the battles above, showered the streets. Dislodged engines and shield plating, bursting bodies to splinters before they shattered the ground with ugly thuds. Buildings that stretched upwards and became shapeless above the haze of smoke, stood with grievous scars. Yawning wounds, scorched black, with willowy flame. Wounds that could be mended, but for now, they whined and cracked painfully; as equals with the agony unfurling through the avenues they curtained.
Belphaegor, afloat in the silver-white glow of the blazing Blade of his Lightsaber. Made masterful strokes upon his enemies, wrenching and thrusting through every soul he came upon. Ferocious artistry, ceaselessly chained, from one attack to the next. For as long as Zelroth's Rest remained within his hands, there was no target he would not engage in the swarming melee.
These were mostly mere minded fodder for an Inquisitor, lacking definition and nuance. The nameless many, of a writhing horde, until worthy foe would find him within the chaos.
A Blaster Rifle emerged to meet Belphaegor, a blast of sapphire extending to touch his pearly blade, before it wandered off wildly and without aim. Another shot, this one laughable miss, as the Rodian villain stumbled backwards upon the sudden and rapid approach of the Maenan. From left shoulder, rushed his Lightsaber, maneuvering the pommel with the right hand, the Inquisitor swept a smoldering cleave through the barrel of the weapon. In constant motion as his left leg stepped in line, roughing the bottom of his hilt backwards and up while both arms raised, point always present and threatening. Until a rushing thrust drove the burning the blade through the chest creature.
Molten wound, searing loudly below shrieking sob, whistled over the gore drenched Maenan. With right forearm he shrugged the beast to the side, blade cutting effortlessly through meat and bone. Another came, as that one fell. His right hand clenched violently in to a fist, and the body of the charging Twi'lek crumbled in upon itself. Head meeting feet. Flesh splitting outrageously, as cracked bones, transformed in to fractured razors.
Absent touch, the mass of flesh, split by a thousand dripping seams, splattered over a pistol wielding Aqualish. Clinging loose and grossly upon it's frame; hastily, Belphaegor twisted a Scalp Cut from his Blade. Triggering it's Dual-Phase Length to ensure he met proper measure. The cap of amphibian's skull required very little coercion, none in fact, for it's removal. The rim of a bone basin glowing fiercely in the gloom, as the thing it was stooped down upon dead knees, curling roughly and fetal to the side.
"Inquisitor Belphaegor! " The voice of the man's Runner crept up, huffing and coughing in the smoke, his helmet long since tossed after shrapnel rendered smooth function useless. "Inquisitor Jorryn. . " He coughed, black snot oozing from his nostrils, "Implores us to hold for as long as possible, Main Access is being battered by the Siege also. I crossed [member="Ravik Munin"] on the way, he is sending Mandalorians to reinforce our effort. "
It was the last message the man would ever run, he died well. As the guns of [member="Amari Deechi"]'s Gunships began to open and howl with destruction, the Stormtrooper became little more than a fountain. Spraying crimson streams from a dozen wounds, as shrapnel strode through his armor and body. It'd be a lie, however, to say he did not suffer.
However, if this Elite Liberator thought his ships would conduct their symphony of death, unmolested. He was sorely mistaken, and soon TIE's and Imperial Aerial Craft would swarm them.
The Sith would not surrender so easily.
OBJECTIVE: Hold the position
ENEMY: Corellian Terrorists, New Republic, [member="Amari Deechi"], [member="The Elder Kashi"] (?)
ALLIES: [member="Jorryn Fordyce"], [member="Ravik Munin"] and the Munin Monsters, Sith Allies
GEAR: Zelroth's Rest
"Instruct my hand, dear Zelroth. " The Maenan breathed, with passionate adoration. "Lend me your Wisdom. " Through ashen smoke, aglow with nightmarish imagery, the Pale Maenan haunted this macabre Battle. Ghoulish and unyielding, he prowled, his fingers tamed to wage war. Guided by beloved friend and ally, he'd placed a blade through the back of.
Strobing beams, feverish with hunger, stabbed outward from haze and shadow. Men and women died screaming; whittled down to glistening cinders of crackling gore. Strangled until rendered still and lifeless. Littered with cuts and stabs. Heads bludgeoned by stone, rifle, helmet or club, until whatever they had been, was now no longer recognizable.
The Streets were raving, made delirious by the bloodletting, to be an Imperial of the Sith Empire here on this day, was a cruel sentence.
From every direction of this hellscape, the Empire was under constant threat of being overran - beaten backwards until they would be forced to retreat in to the West Access point of the Starport. That bleak option looming in the minds of every Stormtrooper; perhaps the very stark probability of which, stirred such unmovable courage, in the face of these overwhelming odds. For now, Heavy Repeater Canons blared on in endless, shrill, screams. Chewing bodies down to viscous rags, eliminating flanking angles, and haphazardly hammering the Frontal Assault with staggered and sudden displays of massive, coordinated bursts from the fog of conflict.
Aerial Assault Craft, made ragged and useless in the battles above, showered the streets. Dislodged engines and shield plating, bursting bodies to splinters before they shattered the ground with ugly thuds. Buildings that stretched upwards and became shapeless above the haze of smoke, stood with grievous scars. Yawning wounds, scorched black, with willowy flame. Wounds that could be mended, but for now, they whined and cracked painfully; as equals with the agony unfurling through the avenues they curtained.
Belphaegor, afloat in the silver-white glow of the blazing Blade of his Lightsaber. Made masterful strokes upon his enemies, wrenching and thrusting through every soul he came upon. Ferocious artistry, ceaselessly chained, from one attack to the next. For as long as Zelroth's Rest remained within his hands, there was no target he would not engage in the swarming melee.
These were mostly mere minded fodder for an Inquisitor, lacking definition and nuance. The nameless many, of a writhing horde, until worthy foe would find him within the chaos.
A Blaster Rifle emerged to meet Belphaegor, a blast of sapphire extending to touch his pearly blade, before it wandered off wildly and without aim. Another shot, this one laughable miss, as the Rodian villain stumbled backwards upon the sudden and rapid approach of the Maenan. From left shoulder, rushed his Lightsaber, maneuvering the pommel with the right hand, the Inquisitor swept a smoldering cleave through the barrel of the weapon. In constant motion as his left leg stepped in line, roughing the bottom of his hilt backwards and up while both arms raised, point always present and threatening. Until a rushing thrust drove the burning the blade through the chest creature.
Molten wound, searing loudly below shrieking sob, whistled over the gore drenched Maenan. With right forearm he shrugged the beast to the side, blade cutting effortlessly through meat and bone. Another came, as that one fell. His right hand clenched violently in to a fist, and the body of the charging Twi'lek crumbled in upon itself. Head meeting feet. Flesh splitting outrageously, as cracked bones, transformed in to fractured razors.
Absent touch, the mass of flesh, split by a thousand dripping seams, splattered over a pistol wielding Aqualish. Clinging loose and grossly upon it's frame; hastily, Belphaegor twisted a Scalp Cut from his Blade. Triggering it's Dual-Phase Length to ensure he met proper measure. The cap of amphibian's skull required very little coercion, none in fact, for it's removal. The rim of a bone basin glowing fiercely in the gloom, as the thing it was stooped down upon dead knees, curling roughly and fetal to the side.
"Inquisitor Belphaegor! " The voice of the man's Runner crept up, huffing and coughing in the smoke, his helmet long since tossed after shrapnel rendered smooth function useless. "Inquisitor Jorryn. . " He coughed, black snot oozing from his nostrils, "Implores us to hold for as long as possible, Main Access is being battered by the Siege also. I crossed [member="Ravik Munin"] on the way, he is sending Mandalorians to reinforce our effort. "
It was the last message the man would ever run, he died well. As the guns of [member="Amari Deechi"]'s Gunships began to open and howl with destruction, the Stormtrooper became little more than a fountain. Spraying crimson streams from a dozen wounds, as shrapnel strode through his armor and body. It'd be a lie, however, to say he did not suffer.
However, if this Elite Liberator thought his ships would conduct their symphony of death, unmolested. He was sorely mistaken, and soon TIE's and Imperial Aerial Craft would swarm them.
The Sith would not surrender so easily.
