The Fires of Chaos (Heralds vs CIS)

[Lord Ghoul]

Rodia

A transport streaked through the humid atmosphere of Rodia, following dozens of other commercial and civilian transports as they descended into Equator City, a capital of the planet. Tall skyscrapers and spires rose all about the transport as it slowly settled into one of many spaceports in the city.

The ramp lowered amidst a spray of repulsorwash and down stepped a man clad head to toe in black armor made up of overlapping scales. A gold filigree bordered each scale and the helm he wore. The helm was what drew the eye, for it resembled a crown of sorts, though the man who wore it was king of nothing. The man was not remarkably tall, but neither was he short. He appeared average, but for the aura he exuded in the Force. Darkness swarmed about him, a miasma of seething cold energy that curled up from his body, like the smoke of dry ice.
Despite the roiling Dark Side within and about him, he bore no light saber. A knife hung in a sheath at his back. No other visible weapon could be seen. Behind him emerged others, each as terrible in power, if not more so, than he.

The man stepped forward and raised his palms toward a nearby structure made of glass and metal. The building rose high into the air, at least 30 stories if not more. Pure power rippled from the man's hands, from Mikhail Shorn's hands. For it was he who visited the Confederacy world this day. He had no particular umbrage with the Confederacy, or the Templars. Other than that they existed and that once their leader, Isley Verd, had slighted him.

The Thronebreaker forgot no slights.

For too long had the Confederacy been resting in peace, whilst the galaxy around boiled in turmoil.

For too long, the Templars relaxed in their decadence, thinking themselves safe and secure.

That time was at an end.

Telekinetic energy shrieked from Mikhail's palms with all the force of a bomb blast. The wave of Force slammed into the 30 story building. Glass shattered and metal loosed a horrid shriek that caused bystanders to grip their ears and fall to the ground with yells and shouts. With a terrible groan, the structure toppled, listing away from the Thronebreaker and slamming to Rodia's soil. The ground rippled as with an earthquake and a cloud of dust rose from the debris.

In an instant, Mikhail felt the life forces of hundreds disappear. He was numb to their deaths. His father had twisted him. Yet again he was made into a monster. He felt as though this was his only purpose in life. He would make them suffer for it. He would make them all suffer.

"Where are your guardians now?" He muttered, before gathering the Force into him for another strike.

The Heralds of Chaos had come.

Heralds: [member="Nemene Talith"] [member="Anaya Fen"] [member="Jacen Cavill"] [member="Darth Vornskr"] [member="Evelynn Zambrano"] [member="Darien Cordel"] [member="Christian Slade"] [member="Darth Voracitos"] [member="Silva Talith"]

Templars [member="Isley Verd"] @Phoebe Verd @Ember Rekali @Ket Van Derveld @Manu Xextos @Vorhi Alestrani @Feena Mason @Keter @Curupira Hawk @Salem Norongachi @Serian Loria @Kara Avoyos [member="Astrian Callus"]

 

[Nisha Decrilla]

Anaya drew in a deep breath as the Chaos began. She revelled in it. This was what she lived for, the destruction of order and the reign of Chaos. This was just the beginning, a taster for what was to come. She shot a smirk in [member="Mikhail Shorn"]'s direction. Only he could start a show like that. There was no such thing as knocking, it was far better just to kick the door down and shout to the inhabitants that you were there. Mikhail was inviting them to come forward and die at the hands of Chaos.

Screams rippled through the bystanders as the recovered from the noise and attempted to scatter. Golden tendrils reached out to the nearest, ripping their life from them before they could go any further as she began her feast. Nearby security forces made the foolish mistake of opening fire. Anaya's blades came to life in her hands and she leapt for them, batting blaster fire away like flies and severing torsos and limbs. One tried to run, her lightening caught him in the back, the stink of burning flesh bringing a smile to her face. A child stood, no older then eleven, frozen in fear. Anaya approached her, fingers ran though the girls hair and cupped her cheek, as Anaya uttered her curse, seizing the childs mind.

The girl moved and picked up the fallen officers weapon, and turned towards the fleeing citizens. Tears cascaded down the girls face as she pulled the trigger. Anaya left her there, with clear instructions. Kill anything that moves.

[member="Nemene Talith"] [member="Evelynn Zambrano"] [member="Jacen Cavill"] [member="Silva Talith"] [member="Christian Slade"] [member="Darth Voracitos"] [member="Darth Vornskr"] [member="Darien Cordel"]

[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Christian Slade]

Many Sith filed out of the transport that [member="Mikhail Shorn"] had emerged from first, most of them mere pawns in the grand scheme, but the last man that rose up out of the ship was massive, dawning black from head to toe all except for a plain gray t-shirt. His combat pants and boots were black, the leather harness strapped across his chest and back was black leather and even his duster was a dark black color, weathered and worn to an even darker color than it had been originally. In the holster there hung a saber beneath each arm, carefully tucked away under his duster which tailed him as he stepped out of the ship and turned his golden eyes on a large building crashing down already. When it did, the ground beneath his feet shook and a smirk drew itself across his fair complected face as cries rang out, the rush of wind and energy from the fall of the building billowing through him, snapping and pulling at him wildly for a moment.

The wind whipped up his hair and tugged at it, ribbons of long brunette hair snapping back and forth as his duster came to life, raised up behind him and began popping, but he stood there unmoved. As he did, he turned his golden eyes over to the man that had brought the building down and started walking, the tower of a man glancing down at Mikhail as he passed him with that smirk still written on his face. "We'll have to get a glass of whiskey after this.", he said, long, powerful digits rolling one by one over themselves into his tattooed palms and clenching his hands into fists. "I'm a bit parched.", and when his fists clenched tightly his forearms flexed, and then his biceps, his shoulders and his chest. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a blinding light ruptured through the cracks of his balled up hands and flashed it's purple hue in all directions from either hand. As quickly as it had appeared, however, it was gone.

He walked on down the street, watching as one after another, fleeing civilians fell to Sith cutting them down in a mad, genocidal riot. As they distracted those who would descend upon them as some form of armed resistance, whether it be their army or police force, Christian still ignored them, walking past all of the bloodshed as if unaffected and unentertained by the chaos. Finally, though, as the fighting around him continued to swell, he stopped and turned his golden eyes up at a massive power plant stationed close to the middle of the city, massive pillars reaching up high into the sky set up to oversee and protect the establishment where as lower down there were rows of coils and engine buildings stationed everywhere. It was the epicenter of power, and it was exactly what he'd been looking for.

Stopping there, Christian lowered his head, his arms and upper body still swelling with power from the force that had been gathering into him the moment he'd set foot on the planet. Even then, with all the power he'd been able to draw in and maintain, the very ground beneath him began to shake ever so lightly as the atmosphere around him began to draw inwardly, the very air growing thin of the force itself. As if the area had become stale of life, the energy was sapped, and his body ached for release until finally he whispered, "Naturae elemento invocabo. Praeter terram scindam rogo..." in a deep and echoing voice that rushed over the land and into the ears of all who felt the touch of the force. The very next moment, Christian's voice raised on high as he let out a powerful cry, deep and unsettling to hear, as he clasped his hands high above his head. He then threw his hands down, striking Rodia and drove his hands into the cracking ground beneath him.

A pit of cracked concrete and soil fell away beneath his feet, and from the crater that spread beneath him, massive cracks in the crust of Rodia began stretching out across the land in all directions, the largest of which shot right under the electric fence that was supposed to protect the power plant. The fence was torn open by the massive, growing crack in the ground that weaved it's way, splitting off into many other arms of cracks and webbing through the plant's ground level. Dust and heat shot up from the cracks that formed, and one after another the coils began to sway, the towers each one at a time cracking and snapping under their loss of balance and support only to come tumbling down on top of the streets crushing hundreds of fleeing workers and bystanders. Then the buildings started to shake, cracks weaving up the stone and snapping warped metal as they all crumbled into the planet itself which opened up to swallow the power planet whole, reclaiming the metal and stone that had belonged to it long ago.

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]
[member="Anaya Fen"]
[member="Nemene Talith"]
[member="Evelynn Zambrano"]
[member="Jacen Cavill"]
[member="Silva Talith"]
[member="Darth Voracitos"]
[member="Darth Vornskr"]
[member="Darien Cordel"]
[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Darth Voracitos]

Far away... so far away.

The thoughts ran through the great monstrosity that every Mandalorian despised, every Sith loathed, every Jedi would rather not witness, what ever single living thing needed to avoid most of all other forces in the universe.

But my reach is long...

Chaos on the surface of Rodia. A building shattered, and thousands slew by rubble, and glass, a storm of bloody ends. On the surface of the world, there were the Chaos Heralds. Mikhail Shorn, he who destroyed his beautiful throne and let his Empire to ruin. Anaya Fen, Champion of Moridin and Ashin in the past, Dark Councillor to him afterwards, and an exiled begrudging rogue. Kaine Zambrano, a most feared and tainted Master of the Dark side, a man of information, control, and guile; former Sith Emperor. Jacen Cavill, that worm who had the gall to form the legion hopelessly against him, the man he stripped of the force and watched his true colors fly as he writhed under his terrible grasp, whose voracity was renowned... though not to his extent by any account. The Cauldron Sisters, of whom he could not place, other than that one had been slave to Kaine, and the other who sprang from the loins of Moridin. There was another whom he felt could be Moridin spawn, but information stopped there. Then there were three others of which no information could be gained to him, due to his unfamiliarity with their infamy, such as the apprentice to Shorn, this "Slade" person who seemed to deem them pawns, along with one other to which nothing could be known of. Though he felt the residue of Shorn upon him, and he was made confused by him. In total eleven, but what was this?

On the surface, at least one member was missing from this lip smacking party. A rather self-entitled important person....

...The reach is good...

A deep, inaudible rumbling began beneath their feet. Oh from how far did this quacking originate? So very far indeed, but the sight of the monster was nigh-unmatched, and with sight alone could he conjure his form.

...The land has such plentiful tastes!

The rumbling began to beat a pattern... a familiar one. Slowly, the ground reverberated with a deep bounce bounce bounce bounce. It continued on and on, until the vibrations filled the air. It became clear what it was now...

Laughing...

With out announcement, far behind the Heralds, an unspeakable, unrelenting, unnatural power blasted through the permacrete in a surge of almost unmatched energy. Gargantuan transparent grey tendrils cut through the air so quickly, it seemed to be faster than the vibrations it created. The horde of unnatural things, took up a vast area, twisting unnaturally into some sick form... that dared to be called the likeness of a man.

The Unholy Feast Begins...​

"AAAAAAAAAAWRGHHHHH!"​

​

It was in Voracitos' nature to out do just about everyone else when it came to appearances. He was important after all, he had to look and sound important. The manifestation of energy was massive, and stood as tall as a building or bigger. The weight of the energy itself, took partial form in the effects of gravity, and its stationary place crushed craters where the feet stood... somehow supporting the non-existential mass above it. From this birds eye view, the fat man took on a Wrathful smile stretching from either side of his Gluttonous face. Sloth had taken him in the moments of creation, the great exertion of energy requiring he rest but only a moment, if only to observe all that he would lay waste to. Envious eyes looked to the pretty things on this world, and with a Greed like Lust did he feel that his Pride had been wounded by their mere ugly presence to welcome his undying vision.

With great vigor, the giant thing grew weary of that mere moment of observation of the glittering monuments of fools. The smile opened into a maw, and gripping a nearby building for support, crushing its upper portion under his strength and sheer weight, the hulking apparition leaned over and began to...

Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed

Sickening green, bloody red, dreaded black-violet tendrils of pure drain, descended on to a fleeing population of dozens and paralyzed them with the incredulous pain they suffered at the near immediate loss of life. He left a minority to suffer the consequences of his indulgence.

"HA HA HA!" He 'giggled' even as he fed, moving on to another group of more than a dozen fleers.

Mikhail Shorn, Anaya Fen, Nemene Talith, Evelynn Zambrano, Jacen Cavill, Silva Talith, Darth Voracitos, Darth Vornskr, Darien Cordel, Isley Verd

 

[Nyxie]

Rodia.
It was some pitiful offshoot world in the middle of Gods-know-where, and held no particular interest. Of course, when a group of murderous individuals landed on an otherwise innocent world and began knocking over its buildings and slaughtering its populace, the fact of itself became interesting. They couldn't be let to run amok. Ashe frowned as she looked upon the holoscreen, the reports showing no indication of any official military deployment concerning the matter. Nonetheless, if it managed to get to her eyes, it was something that had to be significant. She was a Templar for not a week, and already, she'd begun to place herself in harm's way. Rolling her fiery golden eyes, narrowing the slits of her pupils on the observation deck before her, she punched in the command for the Diva of Mandalore to plot course for the planet of Rodia and prepare for a hyperspace jump.
Arriving some tens of minutes later from a nearby CIS-controlled system, Ashe began to ready herself for battle. She went to the captain's quarters which was hers as the Diva began to exit hyperspace by the world. Out she slipped from her short, black kimono blouse and platform shoes, and into her armorweave Sith dresses, platemail shoes and metallic crushgaunt. She brushed the sterling blue hair from her eyes, into a neat sweep aside her face. Her leather bracers were ready, with their slugthrowers and flame projectors loaded, the few fitting pieces of her old Dark Armor were in place and all of her blades were sheathed securely on her back or behind her hips.
"Ma'am, we're approaching the city now. We'll be in Equator City airspace in approximately ten minutes. The hangar crew is prepping all of your fighters now."
Lifting her head up to the loudspeaker, Ashe raised her attention to the imminent approach and made her final preparations before heading off to the bridge. Her undergarments and other loose articles were carelessly left lying on the floor.
"No need, I feel like trying something new..." she told the flight officer as she passed through the bridge on her way to the adjacent launch deck.
The man looked back stunned, at a loss for words and unable to express his opinions to his better in any sensible, comprehensive way. Grabbing a loose ceramic plate lying around in one of the maintenance hangars, originally part of an engine vector assembly for one of her own starfighters, she took two steps back and drew three deep breaths. On the third exhale, the agile little thing began sprinting down the launch deck and out of the ray shields, freefalling down to the earth below with nothing but the ceramic vectoring plate to guide her.
At first, all was well, she fell through the sky at a blistering rate. The tufts of her ears folded back against them and clogged her ear drums of the excess whipping of the wind, and her tails danced wildly back and forth behind her through the current. All was well and her mind was fixed on the plate held against her body; that is, until she tried to move the plate. At that speed, the force of air prevented any movement of the plate, which was just causing more drag against her body. When she tried to move it, she lost it and it flickered away far faster than she could stop it.
"Feth!" she yelled, now falling nose-first for the ground, mere thousands of meters away.
A couple of minutes later, a fiery ball almost like a small meteorite engulfed the ground below Ashe's landing, her alchemically enhanced pyrokinesis amplifying and redirecting the flames of her projectors to create enormous thrust that slowed her descent. Her heart was racing, her body now tumbling across the blacktop. She came to a stop several meters away where the ball of blue flame subsided. She sprawled her limbs out, panting in a panicked daze.
"Nope... huff... Never... huff... again... huff...."
She slowly opened her golden eyes to the sight of several blaster rifles aimed down upon her face. Raising her head slightly, she cussed under her breath, dropping down her head against the hard ground again. The fox girl rose to her feet finally, placing her hands over her knees while she regained her breath. With a slight application of the Force, her breath and heart rate were managed to calm down.
"I'm a Confederate Templar," Ashe stated, lifting up her right hand which bore the Ring of Aza'zoth, a Cryastfire amulet and the Templar Signet; the latter, her badge of office. Reaching her ring finger out, she twisted the cross on it to set the beacon inside to the Alert position. Realistically, the hostiles were quite the ways out, but it wouldn't be long for them to see the trail she left or sense her aura. If she was going to get ready, she'd have to do it now.
"Diva, stay airborne and out of range. Oh, and do me a favor, will you. Airdrop my guns!!!"

[member="Isley Verd"], [member="Darth Voracitos"], [member="Christian Slade"], [member="Anaya Fen"], [member="Mikhail Shorn"]​

 

[Ak'lya]

Show offs.

Strask, unlike the Sith, landed, and came to the field, silently. He would be unseen, unknown, and there before the others arrived. The planet was another rock under CIS control, but here, he could hide a safe distance away and belt them all with sniper rounds. The Shatter rifle was in his arms. He loved and hated them, but he still carried one. It was useful here. Across his back was a nightstinger, and at his side was the Stiletto Platform. He was ready.

Finding a suitable ridge out of sight of the Sith Lords, he prepared his sniper position. Both rifles were set on bipods, a camera/telescope to act for spotter, and some extensive camouflage. He was ready, and began to scan for a target. He found his first hittable one in [member="Anaya Fen"]. He lined up his sights on her torso, and squeezed the trigger.

 

[Saera Willamina Savan]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bm_BoaDxhpE​

Sunny, hot, ionized to hell and back; these were the words that described the stuffed and crowded military freighter as it flew a pass low into Equator City's airspace from a system-localized armory depot. It was loaded with only the best goodies.
"Heavy supply drop inbound. Marking ground transponder... clear. Lowering altitude and preparing for drop."
Yellow lights began to twirl in the rear bays as the pilot flicked several toggles and dials on the overhead flight deck. Rock slipped through the loudspeakers into the hangar. The rear bay doors slowly opened with a machining whine, until finally clanking to a locked, open position.
"Dropzone clear and in sight. Commencing drop."
Two helmet-and-jumpsuit clad crewmen began sliding the large crate back on a track. It hurdled down the rails until finally falling free from the freighter and falling aimlessly towards the surface.
"Drop confirmed, now exiting DZ. Godspeed."
The crate deployed an array of disposable chutes and began slowly falling towards [member="Ashe the Reaper"], but with a distinct force. It finally crashed into the ground, cushioned by inflatable airbags, then automatically unsealed itself through registry codes being transmitted from scouters on the drop craft.
It. Was. Loaded.
[ 1 ] Z-24 Dominion Rotary Blaster Cannon
[ 1 ] MMSW-11 Akk Slugthrower
[ 1 ] CZ-838 Sniper Rifle
[ 1 ] BTI-WB Woebringer Heavy Blaster Pistol
[ 1 ] E-60R Missile Launcher
[ 2 ] Ri'essi Moonlight Blade(s)
[ 1 ] TJR-01 Heavy Battle Armor
[ 1 ] BTI-TLD Reckoning Thermal Detonator Launcher
[ 1 ] BTI-CES Retaliator Scattergun
[ 10 ] Thermal Detonators
[ 4 ] DetPacks
[ x ] Enough ammunition for a platoon

Right when it couldn't get better, another crate dropped in the distance...
[ 1 ] MMSW-10 Foxtrot Vulcan Blaster Cannon

The barrels on that one were as long as a man was tall and then some. It was unthinkable what any normal being would do with such a thing, but the one who ordered the delivery added it in humor and had a good feeling Ashe would get creative.
Inside the crates were a little note. "Luv Saera ~<3"

 

[Salem Norongachi]

Some things you can't escape from. You cannot run. You cannot hide. Some things are so invasive, so potent, that they consume you. It was power, it was anarchy, malice, hate, greed, destruction. All of this burned up his mind and for two days it had turned his dreams to crimson. Putrid waves of the Darkside so concentrated, so focused, that it broke the thin veil between present and future.

The Lord Commander had never had visions. In all his days since the killing fields of Talta, he had never believed that the future was written. It could be manipulated by words and deeds, that much he knew. It was his trade, his skill, to bend tomorrow to his designs but the snap-shot of that world, that city and those who befouled it wouldn't leave him.

Rodia would fall and Omega wanted to see it happen. He wanted to stand amidst the ruins, to smell death and pit his power against theirs. The whole world could turn to ash and its people swept away in the maelstrom of their confrontation. It consumed him. The mayhem, the carnage, the glorious abandon that he'd find amongst the bones and the flames.

And now he was here, had been since that brief insight into the future. It could happen in a week, he knew, or a day, or a year. It could be in another lifetime. It didn't matter to Norongachi. Only the bone rending collision of himself and them. Little did the restless Salem know that he would not have to wait very long for his wish. In a darkened hotel, its curtains drawn and its bed pushed to one side he sat alone upon a chair. A bottle of whiskey lay empty at his feet while a cigarra burned between his armoured fingers. Green eyes looked into the unseen, beyond the realms of the material, the majesty of the Force flowing across his mind. He was as prepared as he had ever been. Dark and battle scarred armour adorned his body and its equally black helm at his side.

Upon his belt hung the bronzium finished lightsaber hilt, its scuffed metal catching the light from his cigarra as he set it between his teeth and inhaled its noxious smoke. It was at the exact moment that the growing protrusion of ash finally gave way to gravity that he felt it. Unadulterated power turning the waters of the Force into a tempest and decimating the city beyond the now rattling panes of his window. Armour plating creaked as he stood and strode across to the drawn lengths of pale blue fabric. Gauntlets gripped them and threw them aside, letting the light spill in for the first time in 48 hours. The view, however, was not what he remembered. Gone were the buildings across the street and hello skies of blue. A sigh escaped his lips as he crushed the cigarra between index and thumb. The window in front of him cracked as some load bearing support below gave way under the telekinetic hand of [member="Mikhail Shorn"]. The building rose higher, showering the streets below with the torn remnants of its foundations. A hand rose and the dark faux Mandalorian helm slipped into his fingers before it obscured his features to the world.

The wall before him burst outwards like he had hit it with a wrecking ball, the broken masonry tumbling to the distant ground, a single step sent Norongachi down after it. The wind whipped at his armour before he reached out a telekinetic hand, righted his body and landed lightly just as his former digs exploded. Shrapnel as large as a man pummelled the city, groups of bystanders too slow to move were buried in it while others were thrown like dolls by the force of impact.

A lash of mental power cleaved half a wall in two before it could flatten him, the broken halves cutting gouges into the decimated street to either side of his body. Then he was before them, the air slick and putrid with the Darkside. Monsters. Madmen. He felt like he were home.

"Where are yours?" The Lord Commander of the Crusaders answered, locking helms with the equally armour clad telekinetic that had just saved him a hotel bill.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

The Thronebreaker spared a quick glance for [member="Christian Slade"], who worked some sort of ground related sorcery and promptly caused an impromptu earthquake. Not exactly Mikhail's style, but damn. Shorn glowered beneath the helmet. Someone needed to get out the measuring tape. And then a tremendous roar split the air and all such thoughts of measuring tapes evaporated.

Pale eyes widened beneath the black, terentatek horn helm as Mikhail Shorn watched a being that should have been suffering eternal torment in the Netherworld rise up out of the crust of Rodia itself and begin to feed upon the hapless citizens of the planet. The ectoplasmic monstrosity towered over everything in the vicinity, including skyscrapers, lending new meaning to the phrase "Strike me down and I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." Surely, Tyrin Ardik was sitting somewhere sucking on his thumb and cursing himself for killing the Emperor of Gluttony. By all accounts the death had been something of a spectacle. At the moment, Mikhail was immensely happy he had not been present nor played any hand in Voracitos' demise. But he had toppled Fatty's killer. If there was one law that bound the impossible power of the Ancient Sith it was debts. Among beings who could literally level a planet singlehandedly, there had to be a currency of some sort. And Voracitos, at least partial, was in Mikhail's. At least, Shorn was hoping that was how this worked. Otherwise, after this whole mess was over, he would be facing one very large, very hungry ghost of a Dark Lord.

Such musing was promptly shattered as a man garbed in scarred armor leapt out from the wreckage of the building Mikhail had toppled. Power rolled in waves off of the new arrival and he uttered words that caused Shorn to smirk venomously beneath his helm. He gestured calmly, hands extending to either side to indicate the whole of the group, including Voracitos.

"You're looking at them."

Then Shorn's left hand snapped forward. Say what you would about telekinetic mastery, but there was a clear and definite hierarchy in the galaxy. Siobhan Kerrigan perhaps possessed more telekinetic muscle than him. He'd seen her handiwork once, a thrown asteroid and the ripped off bridge of a star destroyer. Yet in terms of finesse coupled with that raw energy, Mikhail had no equal. He had no regard for the sorcery and spells that other Sith tossed around. He didn't use Force Storms and held no capabilities with illusions. He possessed the faintest glimmers of understanding over mentalism and as such was susceptible to that to the highest degree. He had done away with all attempts to learn lightsaber forms since he was a Knight. He held little skill over unarmed combat, dueling, and even ranged weaponry. But he did have three prominent powers, one of which he had wielded to such a degree that very, very few people in the galaxy could challenge him. It came at the sacrifice of almost everything else, but Mikhail Shorn, Thronebreaker, and Herald of Chaos didn't really give a damn.

A blast of pure, raw and unadulterated telekinetic energy rippled outward from Mikhail's palm with all the power of an overpressure shockwave from a bomb. One could label it a Force Push, but that did not do justice to its ability to shatter walls of concrete like glass and hit the body of the armored Templar with enough force to break bones merely on impact, let alone send him flying like a ragdoll to smash into a building beyond.

[member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Darth Carnifex]

As the fighting and carnage began to ramp up outside of the shuttle, one individual purposefully remained inside for a few moments. This individual was Kaine, and he was content to let his comrades have their fill in the opening slaughter before he partook in all the fun and splendor of murder. He idly rubbed his thumb across the crimson visor of his demonic helmet, staring deep into it's non-existent eyes for a moment before he turned it over in his hands and began to lower it down on top of his head. The helmet snapped snugly with the suit of armor he wore across his body, and a whirring sound dominated Kaine's hearing as the onboard HUD began to power up and become sync'd to the surroundings. With his two lightsabers firmly fastened to his sides, and the Blas-Tech "Rippers" holstered across the back of his belt, Kaine rose to his feet and exited the shuttle to meet the carnage.

His comrades were already hard at work, showing off their skills in telekinesis on buildings, or using mental manipulation to make civilians do their work for them. Kaine would have gladly joined them in their quest, but he was feeling a touch of nostalgia, and with both hands he unclipped both blaster rifles from his belt. He easily flanked the local militia that had come to deal with these madmen and monsters, and he began to unload round after round into their sides and backs. This brought back memories of the war between the Imperials and the Mandalorians, where urban combat was vicious and brutal, and military and civilian personal died in droves.

However; this was all just pointless filler until something better than NPC murderization happened.

[member="Mikhail Shorn"] | [member="Anaya Fen"] | [member="Nemene Talith"] | [member="Evelynn Zambrano"] | [member="Jacen Cavill"] | [member="Silva Talith"] | [member="Darth Voracitos"] | [member="Darien Cordel"] | [member="Christian Slade"]​

 

[Salem Norongachi]

The dark visor took in the scene, moving slowly from left to right and then up to the towering monstrosity of Voracitos before it came back to rest on [member="Mikhail Shorn"]. The scene would have chilled a sane man to the core, the very presence of the ebon Sith Lord alone would have sent any man with half a brain fleeing but Norongachi had lived a life so full of gore and darkness that it was simply a Wednesday. He'd fought Dark Lords of the Sith, lead armies across the frozen wastes of Zoist, shattered the black citadel of Darth Tigon while battling the spawn of the Benefactor, the Obsidian Lord, Izaak Von Schwartzkrieg. The pages of his life were written in the blood of others and Shorn would help him write another chapter.

Any response Omega would have given was lost when Mikhails hand moved and then Force screamed in his mind, a warning that he heeded instantly, the power he wielded rushing into the very core of him as the black gauntlet of his right hand slashed upwards. A geyser burst unseen, rising from the turbulent waters of the Force like a great serpent in his defence. The Telekinetic energies clashed and Force became a nova, a storm the likes of which few would ever know. The space between seconds seemed to stretch into infinity as they fought for supremacy before the assault was ripped in half, the writhing mass of Telekinesis coiling around his body to shield him from the broken shockwave that obliterated all in its path behind him. A single step back was the only victory Shorn would get.

"Impressive." Salem commented, his hand falling back to his side while an armoured boot came forward to regain the ground he had lost. Its sole hit the permacrete and the Force became a riot, a swirling vortex around him as he channeled it into his body and thrust out his arm, fingers curled into a fist. The retort made the very air quiver, the telekinetic burst ripping from his hand. It tore up the ruined earth between them in chunks that became dust as they faltered in its wake. He had unleashed a monstrous show of power that would crush the Thronebreaker.

 

[Nyxie]

The calamity and commotion could be heard dozens and even hundreds of blocks away, echoing through the vast constructs of the city. Ashe quickly brushed past all the waiting officers and tossed her little frame into the crate full of death as thought it were a pot of gold. She shuffled through the many articles inside, inspecting them and lifting them up as though they were trophies and idols. Finally, she dug to the innermost rack, pulling on some part of it, which accidentally sent it coursing out mechanically and threw her out of the crate. She landed on her rear with a hard bounce, getting up only to see the gritty rotary blaster in all its effervescent grace. It didn't take long for the woman-turned-girl to find the note left behind her daughter, which made her pause for a moment to smile warmly. There was still, of course, one last crate. It looked... different than the supply drop. It was bigger and more rugged. Ashe paced over to in like an animal, pushing a couple of digital buttons to open it up. Her jaw dropped at what was inside. She'd known about it - they were on one or two fighters of hers - but she'd never seen it in person and... to be quite frank, she'd never expect to find one raw in a drop. Twenty one thousand credits and almost six meters of unadulterated mayhem laid in her gaze. Yet what would she do with that?
The seemingly-young foxtress grabbed the moonlight blades and slung them firmly on her back. She tucked the blaster pistol in her sash, behind her back. She wrapped the bandolier of detonators around her waist, draping loosely down from her hips. She picked up the rotary blaster in one hand... but then she slowly placed it back down.
I have no real reason to even be here... she pondered. "All of you. Grab what you can and follow me if you don't want to die like everyone else. Do I make myself clear...?"
With one firm sigh let loose, Ashe picked up the heavy rotary blaster with a single arm and lifted it nose to sky, to the surprise of all around her. Her fist clenched tightly around its grip, cracking the plastic, and her left hand finally gripped the sway bar as she swept the gun back to her side, almost like a blade so that it wouldn't hinder her balance. Without a further hesitation, she ran off - sprinted - down the road, where the ringing sounds told her vulpine ears the aggressors of the Confederacy would be waiting.
There was only one person who could hold a candle, no pun intended, to her fire, and he wasn't there....

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Raven brows drew together with alacrity as Mikhail watched the man before him soak up the telekinetic push with a barrier erected of the same will. A step backward was all Mikhail drew from the man. A vicious snarl cut wordlessly from his lips. In all his various duels and contentions with the Force, Mikhail had never once encountered a user who approached his level of mastery with telekinesis. And in all those various duels Shorn had never lost. Be it Anaya, Jacen, Zaiden, or any of the countless others whom he had fought. Not one of them had managed to bring him down. Not one had managed to best him. And now, at the height of his power, this man standing defiantly in battle scarred armor sought to challenge Mikhail with his own greatest strength.

Blue eyes as cold as Hoth narrowed on the Templar. A raging inferno bubbled up inside the stygian darkness of his heart. Mikhail hated the Sith and his father more than anything in the galaxy, but someone who stood in his way to power, barring his path to freedom.... that was something that drove him to fury. Mikhail had his weaknesses, he knew. That was why he wore armor. Especially in the daylight. Especially here. But to have someone test him with a power that he thought would free him from the chains of his father and the Sith? To have the apex of his might revealed to perhaps have a double? Those eyes began to glow with a soft, pale light, as moon gleams off the surface of a glacier.

Power rippled out from his adversary's palm. Mikhail kept his own hand raised. Rather than erecting a telekinetic barrier, he launched his own Force Push that met Salem's wave equidistant from the two combatants. A pocket of air pressure began to build and build and build, before suddenly the ground quaked beneath one of Voracitos' lumbering motions. The pocket burst asunder like a grenade and hit Mikhail in the chest with an echo of power. Mikhail withstood the blast, implacable, then he turned his full attention on the personage before him.

Mikhail made a gesture with his hand and two spherical objects resembling nothing so much as ball bearings emerged from a pouch at his belt to float directly in front of him. They were as big as a knuckle joint and made of pure phrik, a metal that was in the same league as beskar. If he could not win with raw power, he would win with finesse. Mikhail smirked savagely behind his expressionless helmet as he made a shoving motion with his hand. The two phrik balls zipped straight for his opponent's chest at supersonic speeds that would shred ordinary armor like paper and put a large, trauma-inducing dent in another. Either way, if they landed the man would either be dead or trying to recover from a few broken ribs.

What the man did not see was a long, thin piece of rebar from the collapsed building levitate out of the rubble behind him and whip toward the back of his knee slightly faster than a professionally thrown javelin. Shorn aimed it precisely at the back of the knee as he did not know what specific type of armor the man bore. And if he wore phrik, beskar, or songsteel, a piece of rebar would be laughable against it. However the back of the knee is universally where all armors had gaps. Otherwise you would be unable to run and barely be able to walk except with very stiff motions.

A spear of rebar through the knee wouldn't kill him, but given that he was distracted by the two phrik metal balls screaming through the air like angry hornets toward his chest it was highly probable that the Templar wouldn't even know about the rebar until it was too late. Precognition would be of little help when danger was all around.

[member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Salem Norongachi]

It was beautiful. There was no other word for what his mind saw as their powers met. He felt like a god viewing the collapse of the universe before the inevitable spark that would rekindle it and birth stars and galaxies. This was why he played the game. This was why he had been so utterly hell bent upon facing [member="Mikhail Shorn"]. It was perfection given the form of utter devastation the likes of which few had ever come close to creating.

Like all things, even perfection is fleeting and the intertwining of energies ripped the air asunder. Dust and debris showered Norongachis armoured form but his viridian gaze never left his quarry, the woosh of air passing over him like a trickle of water across stone.

Omega watched with some amusement as the balls appeared, dancing under Shorns command and then that mirth died when they shot at him like micrometeorites. Reflexes gifted by his creators and a very healthy grasp of the Force were all that saved him from his demise.Twin tendrils of raw, hurried power snapped out from his body and hit the metal projectiles on the underside. One screeched by his helm, inches from ending him while the other was not diverted enough. It hit the durasteel pauldron on his shoulder, splintering dark shards upon impact as it clipped the metal.

The very force of it spun the Lord Commander and as unintentional an outcome as it may have been it saved him a very costly doctors bill, forcing his body out of the way as the rod pierced the ground where his leg should have been.

Salem was not only a master of the Force but also of his own body. Balance and dexterity learned through intense -brutal- physical training and the countless visceral brawls where the Force gave way to the baser, primal desire to feel fists meeting flesh granted him the ability to ride the storm. A hand struck out into the air as he spun, fingers out stretching as his mind took hold of the jagged half of a window, bricks and mortar still clinging to its base. He wrenched it from its grave, brought it along for the ride. His forced pirouette coming to a stop where it had started and his inanimate companion fired at Shorn like a turbolaser blast.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

A hiss of irritation left Mikhail's lips as he saw his true attack fail, foiled by mere chance. Fickle luck always turned on him in the end. When had her whims ever favored him? No. He'd had to claw his way to the power he possessed. He'd had to do acts that haunted his sleep and left him in cold sweats. Better not to feel. Better to just embrace the image which the galaxy saw, a man with enormous power and not a damn to give. But beneath that veneer of nonchalance burned a passionate river of Shorn's bottled hatred. "Daddy issues," didn't even begin to describe the patricidal rage that burned in him. And all those derisive "elders" who looked down on him, who sneered at him, suffered the full wrath of his displacement mechanism as he projected onto them that which he most hated in himself and his father. The first of those Sith whom Mikhail learned to hate was his one time master, Tirdarius. The condescending bastard had been so proud of his Empire. Well, where was it now?

His opponent's prior comment had not escaped Shorn's notice. It had been the single word he needed to open the valve to the floodgates of his rage and let those rivers of lava flow forth. His father had said much the same thing on occasion. As had the Sith. These beings in power, they were all the same. The names they called themselves and the faces they wore all changed, but the words they used to demean others and strip them of all hope and freedom.... those never changed.

As the window frame tore through the air straight for Mikhail, he uttered a low snarl and unleashed a wave of telekinetic energy in an explosion of the Force. The overpressure shockwave connected with the incoming window frame and disintegrated it. Glass fragments shattered into millions of microscopic pieces, pure concrete pulverized into particles and even metal was nigh vaporized by the blast of pure telekinetic energy. Yet all of those particles still came rushing forward and pummeled Mikhail, washing over his armored form as a sandstorm sweeps over an immovable rock. Several splinters of metal embedded themselves in the exposed portion of Mikhail's thighs, cutting into the Iron Skin suit he wore beneath the armor and causing the Garhoon's eyes to flare wide in pain and annoyance.

Mikhail's fingers splayed flat and he poured all his hatred into a projection of his rage. Tendrils of blue lightning cascaded from his fingertips and crackled through the air toward his foe's chest in the ultimate expression of a Sith Lord's anger. Again, Shorn attempted another devious attack. The lightning, while certainly harmful and perhaps deadly, was merely a distraction from the slab of concrete that lifted up off the ground behind the man and came hurtling toward his back like a freight tram. While raw telekinetic power was Mikhail's calling card, it was not that that let him remain unbeaten. It was the ruthless, pragmatic and deceptive way in which he utilized his comparatively few skills in tandem that spelled defeat for his opponents.

This one would be no different.

[member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Christian Slade]

From a sinkhole about five feet deep, Christian pulled himself out, despite the lack of footing. When he emerged from the cater, the tower of a man straightened up, reached back and pressed both hands into the base of his back, popping his spine in a few places to loosen up. He then started walking around the wide crater he'd created, golden eyes looking around at all the damage he'd caused, an evil smirk streaking across his face as he glanced up at the power plant that was still falling into the cracking and crumbling crust of the planet Rodia.

Stopping and watching the towers fall, the coils snap and topple over and the buildings cave, Christian's eyes then were drawn to nearby buildings that still stood. Lines that ran between the buildings exploded with the surge of electricity from the disturbance from the power plant, and then they fell silent. Sparks ignited the streets in all directions, and a pure and infinite darkness began to wash over every building for miles and miles. Not a spark of power left for miles. That sounded very good to the young Sith Lord who smiled and turned to glance around as he flipped his head to the left and then to the right, cracking his neck before he raised his head back upright and sighed as he felt his muscles relax in his shoulders and neck. "Now...", he whispered, raising his hands up and placing them on his hips for a moment.

"...defense weaponry that ran off of that power plant should be down, and that plant was big enough that the power could be out for thirty or more miles in every direction.", he said, glancing back across his shoulder at the still crumbling establishment that once generated power for the city. "If I were a massive emergency generator, where would I be?", he questioned himself as hundreds of people still fumbled all around him, running in all directions trying to find loved ones, a way out or a safe haven.

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]
[member="Anaya Fen"]
[member="Nemene Talith"]
[member="Evelynn Zambrano"]
[member="Jacen Cavill"]
[member="Silva Talith"]
[member="Darth Voracitos"]
[member="Darth Vornskr"]

 

[Arage Bao]

Ah.. the beautiful planet of Rodia. Industrial Pearl of the Confederation of Independent Systems, and probably owner of a dozen other nicknames that I ain’t aware of. Regardless, here I am, strolling through the inner-city and breathing in the atmosphere.

You gotta understand something. I ain’t Mikhail Shorn, sure I can do a lot of damage at my max. But you won’t see me tossing around skyscrapers or something, that just ain’t my field of expertise.

So, while the rest of the gang was busy grabbing all the attention with their shenanigans, I quickly left the landing spot and mixed with the crowd. To work my own little magic on the population. As I said, I ain’t a heavy-hitter perse, sure I can make people insane with the flick of my wrist.

Extract all kinds of do and thats in a blink of an eye, basically.. anything that has to do with the mind? And you call me. But large-scale destruction? Gotta ask someone else for that, ain’t my focus and ain’t something I really like doing.

Instead… I liked the more subtle approach, a tug here and a push there, and behold a boyfriend beating his girl after a supposed stray look. One more tug, and a different guy steps in… with a knife. Boyfriend gets killed, and the girl goes cray cray.

Best part of it all? I just wandered by, and left the scene before it had even started. No trace to me. Beautiful piece of art.

As I walked down the inner-city I left Chaos and Discord behind me, suicide, rape, mayhem, anarchy. Wasn’t this more fun? To let them destroy their own lives? Just a push, a little on and people turn on each other. They are animals, even if their supposed civilization tries to convince you otherwise.

A girl got beaten to death, and a riot started. A building went up in flames, and ships collide in mid-air.

Chaos.

And I am the origin of it, with a smile on my face I keep walking and walking. Spreading the infliction. Spreading the plague.

How long before someone would figure it out? How many deaths before someone finally tries to stop me?

 

[Ashin Varanin]

[member="Jared Ovmar"]

There are at least three ways of completely concealing one's Force presence. Qey'tek meditation, Art of the Small, White Current immersion. The latter two are plenty rare, and the first was good enough for Palpatine. Also probably the best over the long term. Then you throw in things like presence-scattering, Force diffusers and taozin amulets, and you start realizing that the average high-end Forcer can generally go without being detected right up until they walk into the room. Some can conceal themselves even with a knife at your neck.

Fun fact. There are three situationally applicable ways to track all of them, no matter how good they are. One's Keetael, one's Jedi, one's Dathomiri. I know all three.

This particular situation calls for the Jedi solution: Wake tracing. Darksiders, powerful ones, tend to leave a wake of fear, anger, pain, and/or ambition -- not in the undifferentiated Force, but in the minds and souls of those around them. It comes in pulses, generally; often it's faint, and I sure had trouble wake-tracking the Sith Council on Bosph despite their long-term presence. But every now and again you get really, really lucky and a Darksider decides he wants to make a wake. Deliberately.

It's all a cry for attention, same as the rest of this. Trust me. I raised teenagers.

I aim to travel fast. Full White Current immersion takes a bit of focus I'd rather not spend -- I need that to track the wake -- so I use a lesser bit of Fallanassi art to hide my presence, fuzz the Force around me, keep some enterprising schutta from tin-canning my armor like Kerrigan would if I got on her bad side. Jetpack, average height fifty metres or thereabouts, weaving between the upper floors of buildings. The city's gone dark. Some dick blew the generator. EMS is overloaded; I'm getting the call centre chatter through my helmet comm, prioritized by area. As I move from sector to sector, the call centre reroutes the relevant noise to me. Lets me get a handle on the nature of the wake.

Fether's just walking along. I don't have any proof of that, but the Draethos taught me to trust my gut, and my gut and I are old friends. My old friend tells me I'm catching up with what looks to be a mentalist.

It's taken me half an hour of flight to get here, jetpack's getting low on fuel, and between the fuel supply and the visible engine wash it's a liability against anyone competent. I stop on top of a building, strip off the pack, and pause to get a really good idea of the wake. New traces, new signs, psychic spoor -- he's still at it. My visor darkens as a nearby skyscraper goes up in flames, and two ships collide in midair.

Buddy likes his body count. Yeah. This'll be a fun one.

This close, wake tracking is more a matter of instinct than focus for me. I've got a pretty good idea of the fether's approximate location, so I stop focusing on the tracking, keep the low-level White Current cloak up, and shift to what I do best. Thirty years of tracking and Fallanassi whatnot gives me some edge in that, but that's not what I do.

Just now, I channel the Force through my body, crouch, and jump. Hop off the top of the building, land behind some hedges. Twenty metre drop, and I handle it like going down a staircase. I amp up the Fallanassi effect and vanish from sight, sound and sensor on top of the Force concealment. When I reappear, it's about ten metres in front of some dick with a robe and a mask. Middle of a deserted street, handful of abandoned cars around. So far as arenas go, it's Kerrigan's wet dream.

I'm wearing beskar'gam. Gray, the color that honors a lost love. It's standard aliit'gam, clan skin, but made of beskar. Nothing special beyond that. There's a long lightsabre at one hip and a pouch at the other one. Empty holster on my right thigh fits the Vornskr scattergun in my hands.

"Any last words?"

 

[Manu Xextos]

Without warning, the area around [member="Christian Slade"] reverberated with an impossible Light, the reverberations turning into a battering ram to blast him off his feet. The blast was centred on a burst of light, shaped by the man who summoned. it.

"If you were a massive emergency generator, you'd be singing my praises right now." The panic on Rodia was enough to cause even the relic Master Manu Xextos to descend from his merciful heights on his flagship the Brynjar. In the space around Rodia, a myriad of the Sv'yato Fleet were zooming from hyperspace at their Admiral's calling, but Manu was not in his chair above the planet, nor was he preparing the Healing Tents for the soldiers who would need his medicinal care.

The sheer amount of chaotic forces had the once Jedi Guardian making a rare appearance on the front line. Dressed in robes of pure white, a silver belt secured the Echani's weaponry. A long white handled lightsaber snap-hissed a beam of pure silver light, brandished by the exceedingly tall, yet elusive Master. Swirling around his body, an aura of absolute peace reigned and slowly, ever slowly began to grow round the area. "Scourge. Usurper. Craterous sore! I've got more insults lined up, care to hear them before I take your head from your shoulders? I give you one chance to run screaming. Don't take it? Well, happy days for me."

 

[Christian Slade]

The blow struck the Sith Lord in the chest, who took the momentum of the blinding white force and left his feet. He was then carried a few yards back before his feet touched down on the loosened gravel and duracrete mixed earth beneath him, his right fist plunging into the ground to slow him as a crack split the ground following him. When he stopped, he pulled his hand from the crushed Rodian street and raised up, the massive human man looking on ahead with a smirk up on his face.

Raising his right, dirt and dust covered hand he popped himself in the chest and in the next moment he released a considerably large belch followed by a satisfying sigh. "Thank you very much.", he said as he started walking in the direction of this bright and brilliantly dressed man that stood to oppose him. "That one's been bothering me since we landed.", he said, continuing to taunt them man as he neared him still.

"Resorting to your saber already I see...", he whispered, stopping only a few strides away from the man. "...how cute.", he said as his hands began to glow that brilliant violet light again. His biceps swelled with the dark side that drew inward to the Master of Darkness. It didn't take long for the remnants of the light side around him emitted by [member="Manu Xextos"] to be choked away by the dark cloud of force that carried with Christian Slade every where he went.

All of a sudden, Christian slammed his fist into the ground beneath his feet once more, but this time that same violet light burst through the cracks and crevices all around him as he said, "Natura elementum invocábo. Et suspende ea sues!" Not a moment later the ground beneath their feet shook as the crust of the planet shifted, a sharp pillar of stone shot up behind the man intent on impaling him as it grew in length in his direction. As it did, however, Christian pulled his hand from the dirt and threw it out at the man, a massive burst of the darkness swelling around him billowing out intent on throwing the man into the earth spike behind him in case he tried to avoid it.