The Fires of Chaos (Heralds vs CIS)

[Salem Norongachi]

Emotion rolled off the Sith Lord in choking waves, smouldering negativity that [member="Mikhail Shorn"] wore like a shroud to his senses. The usual suspects all in a row; Hatred, anger and rage. They fuelled the enormity of the mans power, as they did for all Darksiders the universe over. They were the good time girls, ready and waiting for the call. The Jedi on the other hand were numb, robotic creatures adhering to traditions meant to stop the creation of the very monsters that were laying waste to Rodia at this very minute. If Palpatines best and brightest hadn't forgotten to splice a sense of humour into his genome, he might have laughed. Instead, he watched as his generous gift was scorned.

The next heartbeat was a ferocious pandemic of Force manipulation. The world slowed to a crawl, time caught in a mire while he drank great draughts from the reservoir. It came unbidden from beyond the veil, driven by his will and desire; To take what was Shorns and make it his own. The electrical devastation inched closer and closer as Omega worked to turn his very body into a living conduit to accomplish his design.

Time found its feet again and the lashes of crackling electrical currents hit Norongachi square in the chest before cerulean threads spiralled out across the metal of his armour. The initial impact jarred his upper body, snapping his neck back with such force that his helmet flew off into the distance. A boot crunched into the ground behind him, steadying him, as his body half-cooked, half-ingested the manifestation of Shorns ire. The air frazzled around him, green eyes blazing while his mouth opened in a smile and lightning entered. It sizzled across his tongue, licks of it leaping between his teeth. He was laughing, the pain although much lessened was still potent, but he didn’t care. The dam inside him was filling, its walls cracking, the monster raging, the chains of his will straining, fighting against the behemoth as it thrashed and bellowed its intent.

The world became an explosion. A telekinetic apocalypse as his own power joined his transmuted foes. It didn’t ripple from him, no, that would not have done it justice. It was a tsunami, a god sent storm from the ages of myth. A spherical expansion that tore out from Omega at its center, atomizing the ground under him and the cunningly thrown concrete hurtling for his back. If the Thronebreaker was hit with it, he’d know what an insect felt when it met the boot.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

A tidal wave of destruction rippled toward Mikhail Shorn. He watched, eyes wide beneath his helm, as the translucent sheen of Force energy caused the air to shriek with power. He cut off the lightning and hurled a counter blast of telekinesis that took his opponent's wave head on. Their might contended for a brief moment, but with a flash of panic Mikhail felt his projection crumbling before the explosion of telekinetic strength. One moment Mikhail stood on the ground, hand outstretched before him, the next the shockwave slammed into him, picked him up off the ground, and hurled him through the air like a hurricane.

A roar of anger tore from Mikhail's throat as he flew through the air before being impaled on a piece of rebar jutting from a concrete slab. Roar turned to scream, a scream of curdling pain. Crimson showers sprayed into the air as the bit of metal twisted between the gaps in Shorn's scaled armor, piercing his thigh and emerging out the other side. Mikhail hung affixed to the slab of rubble like a tacked bug. He looked as one dead, unmoving, then his helmeted head snapped up.

Groaning in agony, Shorn tore himself off the rebar, leaving a scarlet smear on the concrete behind him, and began stalking toward his foe. A whirlwind of telekinesis began stirring about him, lifting up shards of glass, debris, and metal slivers. He stood at the center of his own personal cyclone. Already, he could feel the wound in his thigh begin to heal itself as his body repaired the damage. He had made sure to feed before coming to this planet. His human "snack" filled him with an inner strength that did not stem from the Force, but from within his own being. He was both Sith and Garhoon now, twice damned.

Mikhail's nostrils flared as he sucked in deep breaths of air that did nothing to alleviate the atramentous rage that billowed forth from him, fueling the cimmerian thews of the Dark Side. Power. He held pure power at his fingertips. The man before him contained a skill set Mikhail hadn't anticipated. Namely, his own. Shorn's cards were all out now. The simple fact that his opponent had forced him to reveal his hand really pissed Shorn off. He was done playing games.

So, the man could use telekinesis and tutaminis. What had he done with it? Had he flayed Jacen Cavill alive? Had he held Anaya Fen's life in his hands? Had he shattered the Obsidian Throne and tossed an Emperor on his ass? Had he ever brought the very Republic to its knees by slaughtering their Senators? Had he extinguished the Jedi's brightest lights time and again? Had he defeated an entire squad of Mandalorian Supercommandos? Had he slain one of the foremost mentalists in the galaxy? Could he rip the bridges of star destroyers off with a thought? Did he have the power to level the Senate Dome itself?

"I have done them all," Mikhail seethed inwardly, "and I will do so much more. I will hunt down and end every last Sith. And anyone who stands in my way will burn."

Blue eyes shone with a murderous light behind his helmet.

He raised both hands toward his opponent, noting that several of the fingers on his right hand were missing, blown away by the telekinetic shockwave. Rage traveled through him, squirming through the knots in his stomach and forming a hard fist in his chest that he drew in and expelled with a rush of aphotic might. The cyclone of death whirled forth to enshroud his foe in a whirlwind of a thousand cuts. Glass shards, rocks, and bits of metal all whipping around with enough force to shred flesh.

Suddenly, Shorn's fingers curled and he wrapped his telekinetic will around the man like the hand of a giant. The man's arms would be pinned to his sides, unable to move in the throes of Shorn's calling card Force Crush. Oh, he had the power to shatter men like melons, but all he sought was to bind his foe in an inescapable grip whilst the man was still in the midst of the cyclone, then Shorn raised his hands up and whipped them back toward the ground as he attempted to lift his opponent into the air and then body slam him into the ground with the velocity of a meteorite impacting Rodia's crust. Any other foe would disappear in the wake of the impact, absolutely disintegrated into unrecognizable scraps of flesh and bits of armor. This was how he had shattered Jared Ovmar's legs before slaying him and it was how he had defeated countless foes before and since.

This man.... this man would be no different.

Shorn growled out a single word amidst it all, "Boom."

[member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Ember Rekali"]

Maybe a brave man would have said something in reply, a taunt perhaps. But I never saw myself as a brave man, I did what had to be done considering the situation. I stayed alive, when others did not and I paid the price for that. Hence, I am content.

So when this guy suddenly appears roughly ten meters in front of me, with a big shotgun in his hands aimed at me. Asking my last words.. I never spoke a damn word.

Instead I focused my thoughts, and created a dome of Force Energy around me. A Force Barrier, if you will. As it erected itself all around me (with no trace, mind. It was an invisible Force Barrier, seems that can happen sometimes) I crouched, and the barrier shrunk itself accordingly. Though I suppose a Master of the Force could sense it.

Target was smaller, yadadada. You get the drill.

Then, again without speaking, I started to draw in the Force. I wasn’t sure who this guy was, or his specialty. But one thing was for sure, when in doubt? Hit them with a mental blast.

Hopefully it would work out now.

 

[Louise]

Here I come to ruin the day, and change the perspective back to third person for a moment.

Like a moth to the flame Evelynn had been following the trail of chaos. It was subtle, much beyond her ability but most of all it was brilliant. To get a touch of perspective in, if there was anything that the Silent Sister loathed it was ego, ego and show-boating. In the words of a very wise sage:

That don't impressa'me much. Sure you've got the ability to devour planets but have you got the touch?*

The Sister Queen of Rattatak kept her distance, having commanded her sister to leave her be for this jaunt. Nemene would be allowed a shred of fun, after all it made the facade of normality that they were keeping that touch more exhilarating. The very thought caused the sickly blonde's face to crack into a sickening smile.

Above Evelynn soared her feathered companion, Merisi the Valrain (after all why should birds be denied the pleasure of chaos?).

When Jared stopped his merry way, so did she. Wait, was she stalking him? Is it still stalking if you don't hide it? She would never mask her presence, just stroll along in admiration of the destruction that had been littered around her. The madness. Brilliant. Beautiful. However Evelynn was not going to encroach upon his scene, at least not so blatantly. Limping off with her staff into a quiet alleyway, she slid her back down against the wall, and tucked her head in-between her knees as if she were a homeless girl searching for a moment's rest.

It was a technique that left her vulnerable, should anybody hostile come across her prone form...

However the danger was ultimately worth it, as her mind melded with that of her bird's. She became the valrain, flying towards the location of [member="Jared Ovmar"] and [member="Ember Rekali"] where she would circle the skies above them. Watching. Waiting.

*Sorry Shania.

 

[Darth Voracitos]

Lumbering step, a booming crash, an itchy stomach, and the rolling of imaginary fat being lifted from the ground in an unnatural wake of desolation. As would be imagined, the unimaginably monstrous form of the specter waddled one ectoplasmic foot after the other. He didn't need to be fast, speed was never his trade for obvious reasons. He lumbered forward with a happy face, happily squishing speeder cars parked on the street as his bulk squeezed precariously between buildings. Minor telekinetic force, crushed the buildings away from him as all seeing eyes took a view of the running masses, saw their life forces, and then waited until they thought the were far enough away, before tearing their life from them.

"Huh huh huh!" His booming voice rumbled through the air. Omnipresent. The tendrils hung out of his mouth like a sickly tongue split into multicolored strands, as they extended and stole lives before returning back to the maw to deposit the life energy. The roiling energy of the beast was apparent within his massive stomach through the transparency of his form. Droves of innocents continued to die as he went seemingly unchallenged. He was one with the environment of carnage, just an added piece of destruction. Surely no fool was stupid enough to try single combat on a spirit so jacked up on power that sheer size became no object to produce. There were only three powers in use right now, though each was of a different skill tree. The first was the most obvious, his form was most likely produced from a palpable illusion merely willed into existence, combined with telekinesis to simulate presence, and a massive amount of Force Drain to sustain his presence here.

So long as the masses were around, so too would be this monster. As soon as there was nothing left for him to absorb in this city (down to the smallest microbes), then his form would vanish. But for now, it did not seem many were attempting to do that at all. In fact, it felt like they thought they could save the city by combating the other Heralds. The gall of them to think they would not face such an important person!

Oh well, they are the ones to suffer... The fat man thought.

 

[Ashin Varanin]

[member="Jared Ovmar"] [member="Evelynn Zambrano"]

So he's trusting his shield to keep him safe against the shotgun while he builds up strength. And given the nature of the show the fether's put on thus far, I'd put money on an upcoming Je'gan flashback. Illusion, direct mentalism, something like that. Something big and nasty. But Fallanassi immersion isn't just for concealing warfleets and walking unseen through roomfuls of Sith Lords. With a mental shrug, I go back to what I was doing a second ago, it's just that I immerse only part of myself-

My mind vanishes from the Force. Ever tried to mind trick someone who's using Art of the Small or something like that? Ever tried to mind trick a Fallanassi? Yeah. Can't even find the mind to grab it. Oh, it costs a bit more focus than I'd like, don't get me wrong. I'd prefer to just Force Light his face off. But that'd take a moment I don't have, and leave me exposed to whatever he's got in - heh - mind.

At a guess I've just bought myself a couple of seconds while he adjusts, shifts his focus from one variety of big nasty committed Force effect to something else. I spend those seconds pulling the trigger as fast as humanly possible. Both triggers -- my Vornskr has one of those Rancor underslung modules, and it coughs a couple of miniature sonic grenades while four twelve-gauge rounds hammer at that invisible shield. I don't expect the shield to drop, but I do expect to occupy the full fething attention of the masked, robed flavour of the week. And I've yet to see the Force shield that'll fully block weaponized sound sufficient to drive most folks to vomit.

Rule number one. Mandos cheat.

 

[Lira Dajenn]

Unlike the other members of their ragtag little group Nemene did not exit the spaceport in a furor of force activity or even with a confident stride matching that of an Emperor of the galaxy. No, Meek little Nemene left the spaceport cautiously, one foot slowly placed in front of the other, baby steps. She did not wear her usual fine dress either. Oh what she wore was still leagues above what anyone else would be allowed to wear, but there was subtle hints.

Instead of silk inlaid with gold she wore leather run with bright green slashes. Instead of clicking heeled boots she wore regular shoes. Nemene in fact seemed almost...pedestrian. It was something so subtle that nearly no one would have noticed, but Evelynn did, and more importantly Nemene did.

She felt disgusted with herself.

Meek steps lead the Sith Lady to the front of the spaceport, roaring crowds and fleeing refugee's tried to pour past her. They struck her, hit her, ran into her over and over again.

Each time Nemene felt them touch her, each time she felt a rush of anger, of pure unbridled rage. Her hand twisted on her lightsaber pike, and then she remembered her Mistresses words.

The Lightsaber pike sprang to life in a deep blue haze, its short but wide blade slicing through a woman that had been rushing past her. Nemene swept the long handle around herself in a long sweeping arc. Half a dozen fleeing civilians were bisected almost immediately as the lightsaber blade cut through them with little to no effort. Renewed screams of terror ran through the crowd, and Nemene couldn't help but smile a bit as she returned the butt of her lightsaber pike back onto the ground.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

Boots hit the shattered ground the second after his outburst. A sigh escaped his lips. It had been so long since he’d been this close to the Force, it was like coming home and the scream of pain from [member="Mikhail Shorn"] only made it sweeter. A ghost of a smile flashed across Salems lips as his opponent pulled his body from the rubble, his steps leaving a crimson trail behind him. He’d never been so pleased to not have killed a man.

A shiver ran across his body at the Throne Breakers approach. Finally, he thought, he’d driven the point home that nothing short of everything the armoured Telekinetic had would best him. The question remained; Would it be enough?

A fell wind stirred from the ether, catching the collateral of their confrontation and lifting it into the air. It encircled Shorn, twisting and dancing as his gifts seeped out into the world. Shattered bricks, twisted metal, shards of glass half as big as a man. None were spared, all were gathered to him as the tempest began to form. The sheer power of it crashed against Norongachis resolve, fight or flight flaring ever so briefly before it diminished. His choice was made as soon as he’d met the Sith Lord and nothing bar death would dissuade him.

Time held its breath while the world around them was put to the sword and crushed beneath the feet of a giant. The attack was sudden, the tornado around Mikhail catching Omega in its grip. Metal dashed against his body, even with the armour he felt muscle cry out in pain. A gauntlet collided with a shard of glass that would have decapitated him and it fragmented, slipping into the calamity spiraling around him while small pieces cut across his bare cheeks, letting his blood meet the air. His gaze solidified into laser fire green and it was all for the Throne Breaker.

The hands of a deity were upon him then, a crushing vice that sapped the air from his lungs and pulled his body taunt. The dervish continued to batter him, a rock clipping him across the forehead that opened a gash which immediately ran red. Teeth gritted themselves against the storm, a dark inferno beginning to broil up inside him and then he was airborne, tossed like a ragdoll by a titan that was invisible to the eye.

Wind stole away the sounds of battle. How high was he? Twenty-feet? Thirty? The skies were blue and marred by thick plumes of black smoke from the burning city. It wouldn’t be long now, he could already feel his body slowing as it reached the apex of his ascent. Soon Shorn would rip him from the heavens and dash his body upon the earth, another nameless pretender that had challenged the crown.

He was Salem Norongachi. He was Omega, the first of them, the template from which a whole army had been born. A galaxy of the past had feared him. Heroes had arrayed against him; villains had aspired to be him. He’d clawed and fought his way up a mountain of corpses to stand above it all. Bloody, triumphant and without remorse.

When the sun finally set upon this bloody day, Mikhail Shorn would know his name.

A tug of the telekinetic hand, just the smallest movement set his counter into motion. A veil dropped around him, a slithering transparent skin of mental power that stood between himself and Shorns iron grip. A grunt of exertion was lost in his downfall and the cold fingers ensnaring his body began to loosen before his parry expanded outwards with enough force to dislodge them.

While many practitioners of the Force prefered the more iconic lightning as their go to element, Omega was more fond of the flame. It was deadly, beautiful and it consumed everything in its path with a gluttony that matched the lumbering force spectre rampaging through Rodia. They had an affinity for one another and like the Lord Commander himself, it could dispel the darkest nights or turn to rampant devastation on a whim, taking life as easily as it saved. It came to him in a burst of colour. The very air torn and devoured as Norongachi conducted his symphony of fire, a column of reds, yellows and orange roared to the ground below from his outstretched arms.

Stone began to bubble and spit under the unnatural heat, discarded metals turned to slag and all the while his descent was slowed. Ten feet from the ground that very same fire turned upon the Throne Breaker, spilling out across the ground toward him at speed it rose up higher than a man, churning and snapping at the air as the licks of fire fell over one another to be the first to taste flesh.

A few feet more and he would be grounded, a nod of his head and a thought were all it took for the bronzium saber blade upon his belt to zip into the air and its green blade to ignite. A mind like steel guided it, sending it in a pinwheeling arc to Shorns right side and then he was grounded. One hand working the flames, keeping their speed and intensity optimized while the other guided his saber toward his targets neck.

“Yes,” He said quietly. “Boom.”

 

[Lord Ghoul]

A cruel sneer bore all the disdain Mikhail could muster for this man, this supposed Templar who sought to conquer him. Idiot. He could not do what an entire Empire had failed to do... and he would die for it. In Shorn's heart there were slivers of sadism. Sometimes, he wanted to make them suffer. Others, he just wanted gone. Obliterated from the existence of creation and hurled into the Nether to burn. One day Mikhail would meet them there and he would laugh; laugh at those whom he sent to suffer; laugh at all the monsters he had slain. They shaped him, molded him into a Sith. They wanted him to be like them. A murderer, addicted to the Dark Side. They had made him strong, but their leash had snapped. And like the unbridled wolf whom so many sought to tame, Mikhail would tear each and every one of their throats out.

This man was one of them. He could feel it. The Dark Side knew this man like it knew Mikhail. Shorn stared at the armored figure who rose into the air, the whirlwind around him dying as Mikhail devoted his focus to this sole task. Suddenly and without warning, the man became invisible. Before Mikhail could switch the optics in his helmet to thermal vision, Shorn felt his hold over the man dissipate. The counter came, he could feel the waves of the Force ripple with the impending approach.

A pillar of fire as thick as a tree tore from the skies, ripping across the ground as Salem fell. The crackling flames roared toward Mikhail with a fury that mirrored the rage in his heart. He could hear the hunger of the inferno, whispers of ash and a blinding pain that would sear away skin and nerves. Shorn would feel nothing then, absent of flesh. He didn't want to feel nothing.

Mikhail put on a show of apathy, but that was only for those whom he couldn't give a damn about. In reality, Mikhail felt more than most. No one could ever accuse him of being empathetic. He was highly selfish, hyper-aware of his own emotions. That didn't mean he understood them, or knew how to control them. It just meant he felt them more powerfully than most thanks to the Dark Side's corruption. Those primal urges filled him up: lust, rage, sorrow, and joy, to some extent. Underlying all of these was the tenet of nature. Survive. And Mikhail was good at surviving. He had survived his father. He had survived the intrigues and assassinations of the Tapani Courts. He had survived the Sith Empire, even given it a little shove on the way down. You could be assured he would survive a single man with his own skillset.

In place of lightning, Shorn found flame. The man reflected him, but Mikhail rejected the image. Mikhail flattened a palm to shatter the offending mirror that dared proclaim an equal image.

Fell fire met Mikhail's now glowing, golden left palm. The pyromancer's flame washed over Mikhail. All else blotted out save for a blazing inferno that seared his very eyes. Hot. So hot. The armor Mikhail bore, though strong, was not immune to flame. The plates, heated by Salem's inferno, gave Shorn's chest burns of the first degree. Fire seared across his right hand, burning away the leviathan skin little by little and melting the cybernetics beyond until nought was left but a blackened, charred stump. But the rest of Mikhail burst forth with vibrant energy and he thrummed audibly in the Force.

Fire roared about him, but the flames could not burn him any longer. No, he absorbed them, taking them in until he practically burst with the amount of energy he was holding. So much power. He had to unleash it. He could not hold it all. Mikhail's features snarled beneath the mask. He felt as he once had in the halls of the Imperial throne room when confronting Tyrin Ardik. Two Sith had poured their energy into him then and he had felt as though he could rip the planet itself apart. He felt that way again. Godlike. But no, he had killed a god, once. A god who had forgiven him. He bore a power beyond.

The well of the Dark Side flowed about him, a miasma that permeated the very air. The power he had in him now, stolen from and still stealing from Salem's own made him feel refreshed. Tutaminis was an odd power. You could absorb energy with it, but the human body is a fragile thing. Hold too much and it will explode. "Good thing I'm not human," Shorn thought wickedly.

Fire is mercurial. Once ignited, the actions are unpredictable. Mikhail would teach his foe a lesson that the Sith had failed to understand for, like fire, Mikhail was a force of nature and not prone to the control of mankind. He sought a place to unleash the well of might within him before his body imploded. Through the red-orange blaze Mikhail noted that his foe had finally landed, seemingly unhurt. Eyes like the surface of Hoth, cold, inhospitable, and treacherous, watched his foe. A lightsaber spun end over end toward Mikhail. Around and around, the whirling green blade caught his eye. A smirk lit up Shorn's features beneath the helmet.

With a thought, he stopped the lightsaber mid-flight. The blade hung suspended in the air, virulent length humming with an eagerness to sear through Mikhail's flesh. Mikhail's eyes narrowed. The hilt exploded, shattering into a thousand fragments that pelted Mikhail's armored figure. Manipulating the crystal alignment inside a lightsaber was not so hard for a master of telekinesis. It had been done to him once before, resulting in a similar explosion... and costing him a hand. It felt good to use it against someone else.

Mikhail's attention returned to the man who sought to burn him alive.

"Thanks for the sunburn," the cold, derisive voice issued forth, slightly muffled by Mikhail's expressionless helmet.

Then he tore at the man's feet with a vicious pull of the Force, aiming to throw him off balance. Immediately following, Mikhail brought down a hammer blow of telekinesis toward the man's chest that would shatter bones beneath armor. The attack was as inelegant as it was ruthlessly efficient. If the man could not be put down by body-slams and Force Pushes he would succumb to raw telekinetic battering.

Fueled by Salem's own flames, Shorn's abilities were amplified twofold. His body was merely a conduit between Salem's energy, which he transformed, and the method in which Mikhail chose to express that energy. Obviously, telekinesis. Whatever strength had been sapped from him during this fight, Salem had just given it all back.

[member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Salem Norongachi]

Norongachi’s face was crimson. A dozen cuts across it sent tithes that turned his visage to gore. Pain thumped like a second heartbeat across his body but it only served to remind him of one thing; He was still alive.

“But so is he..” Were his thoughts as his flaming offence became a feast on which the Sith Lord engorged himself. Then his blade, older that most sentients in the Galaxy, became another casualty of war.

The wounds upon his body were beginning to heal, the lacerations, graciously gifted by [member="Mikhail Shorn"] , already clotting and in a few hours they would scar over tarnishing an unblemished face and bringing it closer to the body he’d been born with; Battlehardened and fit for a creature such as he.

Feet steadied themselves, boots crunching in the dirt to find the best purchase for the counter that would surely come. It was hard to look upon Shorn with the Force, his own energies mixed with the mans more than potent presence was enough to burn retinas, like gazing into a sun from a half dozen meters away.

Salem knew fear. He’d known it when he’d gazed into the cold grey eyes of Strife before the kiss of carbonite. He’d known it on Zoist when the unstoppable Thralls of Obsidian broke their lines. When he and Darth Tigon -Impossibly out gunned and impossibly outnumbered- had met the New Republic fleet to ring the funeral bell of their corrupt establishment, he’d felt it. Fear was healthy, it reminded you of your own frailty and mortality. The trick was never letting it overwhelm you.

Fear was with him now but it would never best him.

Coiling serpents of insidious energy ripped his legs from under him, as balanced as he was and as agile as he could be there was no regaining his footing. He was falling backwards and he knew what would come next, so easy a target it; so ripe to be crushed. A web of energy blossomed in his mind, telekinetic threads interweaving around his mortal shell. It was a race now, the shattering fist of the Throne Breaker was almost upon him, the near imperceivable ripple of the air above him foretold its coming. His back hit the ground and in the next heartbeat he felt as if a starship had fallen upon him at lightspeed.

His hastily constructed barrier began to crack as Shorn began his siege. The tight mesh of Telekinesis snapping and unravelling under the solid battering ram bearing down upon him. The world seemed to grow quiet for Norongachi, a moment of calm clarity that were few and far between in life. He looked over to where Mikhail stood, the Throne Breaker, the most powerful Telekinetic that he had ever had the pleasure of testing himself against. For a moment he thought he could see blue eyes beyond his helm, a trick of the mind perhaps, and then his ward atomized and he was pounded into the ground by the attack.

A jet of crimson expelled from his mouth by the force fell back down and ungraciously splashed against his chin and jaw. A hiss of static ran through his mind, something was broken, several things in fact. Ribs, he felt, at least four and one had been pushed inwards. What damage it had done was beyond his medical skill to assess. Another mouthful of blood hacked its way up and he coughed it out into the air. He would have been dead, dead if it weren’t for his defence.

“Sure you aren’t?” Came a quiet thought before his nerve endings gave a response in the form of agony. Despite his best efforts a scream of pain filled the air and then his hand rose from his side and slapped palm down onto the brutalized earth beneath him. The screams of his body were now a fact of life, he had been trained to work beyond them and so he was. Eyes unseen permeated the crust of Rodia, down and down until they found what they were looking for. Piping, cables and wires, the very veins of the city. Binding lashes of Telekinesis ensnared four arm thick metal pipes and ripped them upwards, guided by his mind and driven to speeds through the dirt they broke ground around Shorn. Two in front and two from behind they sought to impale him where he stood while the Lord Commanders other hand reached out toward him as he struggled to get his torso semi-upright and closed a fist of the very same energy around Mikhail's body.

“Salem Norongachi…” A thought sailed into the ether and toward Shorns mind. “Lets play again sometime.” The message ended and his vision began to darken, a body no matter how well constructed could only take so much before the mind called it a day.

And what a day it had been.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Scarlet blossomed from his foe's mouth, rich and red. The sight sent a shiver of power through Mikhail. He remembered the feel of the man's bones breaking beneath his telekinetic hammer fist. His breath came, deep and shuddering. Powerful. He felt so powerful. He felt... alive. Part of flames Shorn had absorbed just moments before still kindled inside him, giving his body a soft glow. The rippling flows of aphotic might, intoxicating and alluring, racked him with excited tremors.

The adversary lay on the rubble strewn ground, permacrete around him shattered by the force of Shorn's dolorous blow. Mikhail raised his hand again to end it all, when the ground around him exploded. He saw piping, long tubes of merciless metal, rip up from Rodia's crust and hurtle toward him. At almost the same time, the foe's grasp wrapped around him in a telekinetic grip that squeezed his body terribly. Mikhail could feel his muscles straining, bones bending. In moments he would be crushed to death or impaled.

A thought whispered through his mind. "Salem Norongachi... let's play again sometime."

"No!" Mikhail thought, furious. The pale blue of his eyes began to turn a yellowish hue as Mikhail gripped the Dark Side and drew it into him, becoming the axis of the universe. At once, those eyes burst golden, tinged by red at the edges. The eyes of a Sith Lord. One who would not be defeated by a Lord of Nothing.

The Garhoon expelled all the leftover energy of the tutaminised flames and used that to amplify his own power as he unleashed an omnidirectional wave of telekinesis that repulsed out from his body. The one thing one never did to a master of telekinesis was throw something at him, yet time and time again they did. "Idiots," Mikhail thought.

Metal pipes mere inches from impaling him behind and before, took the blast wave of overpressure and bent aside, blown backward as though by an exploding bomb. The pieces went hurtling off far, far into the distance. But Mikhail was not watching their flight trajectory. His eyes were fixed on [member="Salem Norongachi"]. He knew the name of the man now, not that he cared. The name meant nothing to him now.

The power of the ten or so Sith Lords surrounding Mikhail's recent excursions had affected him in ways he did not know, nor care to admit. Mikhail hated pointless violence. Especially when it came to slaughtering innocents. He silently despised Kaine's genocides. So why then was his first act upon Rodia to knock over a skyscraper filled with innocent civilians? Because he did such acts when under the influence of the Dark Side, when his lust for violence and blood consumed him. He had killed younglings once, when the Soulsaber had controlled his actions. He tried to present himself as someone invincible to empathy and without remorse, but nightmares still haunted him from that night.

The apathy of Mikhail Shorn was just a mask. Yet right now, in this moment, both a newly minted Garhoon and feeling the emotional projections of all the Sith Lords around him, Mikhail craved nothing more than to rend apart everything within reach. He wanted to hear the snap of bones, feel the crunch of bodies beneath his grip. There was something so... intimate about feeling your enemy's windpipe break beneath the pressure of your hands.

Salem's grip on Mikhail's body began to take a toll. Hairline fractures spiderwebbed across the black scales of Mikhail's armor - armor that could withstand lightsabers, blaster bolts and grenade blasts. He could feel those akk wolf scales and the stygian polymer start to shatter. Shorn's golden gaze fixated upon the body of Salem.

"There won't be a next time," Mikhail hissed.

A blast of telekinesis rippled from Shorn and coalesced into a Force Push that screeched straight for Salem with enough power behind it to pick his body up and hurl it through buildings like a ragdoll. Shorn wanted to see him gone.

 

[Manu Xextos]

"Like to be helpful, me." Manu said, strengthening his grip on the lightsaber. The man before him wasn't shaking, which gave Manu the idea that this was either going to be a load of fun giggles, or the worst kind of fight. Or one of those in between gambles that made life direct & catastrophically worth living. He shrugged as [member="Christian Slade"] came closer, keeping his feet grounded and his muscles ready - but he was in no way standing dormant. The Light of the Force surged around Manu in a constant set of waves, enhancing the Echani's body and getting it prepared for activities beyond physical endurance. He shrugged as Slade came closer, "Echani. It's my go-to. Also, the most fun."

He eyed the purple energy, vaulting above the construct zooming in from the ground and feeling the pull of Slade's grab. He threw the bands of light around his body, pushing against Slade's pull and taking the pillar of rock on the meat of his back. Spinning forward, Manu raced toward the Sith and closed distance at a force-embued run, swiping a downward angle with his lightsaber.

 

[Christian Slade]

Christian watched the scene with careful eyes, taking in every movement the man made as he avoided his attack and raced towards him. He'd managed to dodge the pillar of stone he'd summoned out of the crust of Rodia and had even managed to push through Christian's force push without a scratch. This man was strong and he used the light side of the force, which Christian had never really been bothered much by. Most Sith couldn't stand the touch of the light side, but Christian had been indifferent to it all his years. It never hurt him and he never relied on it. Even the elements that he employed were partially fueled by the light side of the force. He could have even seen himself using the light side energy if he didn't so heavily rely on the dark side.

The Sith Lord watched the man as he neared him with blinding speed, but he knew in an instant by the way the man moved that he was faster. In the blink of an eye, even with his durasteel scaled duster, Christian moved with such speed that he was almost unseen completely. His form dashed to the left as the man barreled through where he'd been standing, swinging his lightsaber where he would have been only a moment before. Raising his right hand, Christian didn't even watch as while the man passed by him he let a plume of force energy burst from his palm which he was holding up towards the man's head.

Depending on how tough the man was, if he didn't manage to avoid the attack it would certainly snap his neck. If he were a stronger man, however, he might be blown away by the push and manage to keep his life in tact. It all depended on him in that moment. Could he avoid the blast? Could he live through the blast? Christian was eager to see what the outcome may be.

[member="Manu Xextos"]

 

[Manu Xextos]

The man was fast, as fast or faster than Manu himself and Manu couldn't help but feel this duel was going to be the stuff of legend. I see the hand toward my head and fling one hand from the lightsaber hilt as the crackle of energy lashed toward him.

Many thought the lines between Light and Dark were mutable as water in a stream with two passes, with the proper application of time and talent one could pander to both sides and be somewhat better off. To Manu the idea was absurd. Having experience with both the Light and the Dark of the Force, Manu knew to be fact the origins of energy. A Jedi or Light Sided practitioner received their energy from the forgiveness and delight of the Force, from letting go and allowing themselves to be guided, bonded and brought forth. There was no passion, nor fear, nor anger. Peace reigned absolute not because troubles could not abide them, but because they lasted through it and overcame. The Light was a brilliance, a constant sea in which Manu Xextos became a wave within.

The Dark was a force of anger and emotion. It was obtuse, cruel, power-hungry and despicably immoral. To join the Dark Side was to acquire power, to search for anger, to let chaos and misery for others reign. It was an internal becoming of a bitter end.

The Dark did not foster the Light, nor could one do good with evil actions. Likewise the Light did not foster the Dark as one could not do good deeds of moral value and selflessness and end up on the bitter pill of murderous and vicious coil of selfishness. Jedi were to be selfless and in that emptiness came their presence. Sith were to be selfish and in that fullness commanded what they could. As it was, Manu could not abide the Dark, it was a sore on his chest, a bit of energy to transmute and one could not switch from one to the other without being of two minds in a schizophrenic melee of fractured allegiances.

The swathes of Light round Manu collided in his hand as the energy blast thundered in, and he caught it. Pulling into his Tutiminis abilities, Manu absorbed the energy nearly in totem, flickers of it lasting to lash harmlessly against the fabric of his clothes. The cloth singed, Manu laughed threw his hand back at Christian with a powerful Force Push releasing Christian's transmuted energy back at him, accented with more of his own.

Master to Master, this was to be a treat.

 

[Christian Slade]

Christian hopped back with a grin in his face after he watched his force push get absorbed. He was eager to see the reaction on the man's face when this man realized just what Christian was. He'd never been a true Sith, but he did use the dark side of the force and strongly relied on his emotions to draw out the most potent form of the force in it's darkness, but the light did not punish him for that. How could it? The light side of the force was pure, soothing, forgiving, and it did not hurt him. It would not hurt him. Not when he'd employed that side of the force under his will more than once in his life. Not when he'd used the light to his will. No, he wasn't a true Sith, he was something in between. He was gray. He did not rely on the darkness in him or the light, for he was well aware that there was a measure of light and darkness in all things, it only mattered in which way you chose to act. He chose to use the force for selfish gain, a far cry from the evils his allies would have played party to, but he'd done good things as well. He'd used the force to save lives just as many times as he'd chosen to take them. That was why these men were more alike than [member="Manu Xextos"] would have ever imagined.

Landing a few steps away, Christian raised both hands and spread them open, palms showing a pair of intricate spell circles tattooed into either of them. They glowed with a vigorous violet hue as the light side energy rushed out at him, the energy rushing at him like crashing, overlapping waves that slammed into a shoreline. It was intense, a massive expenditure of energy that must have taken a considerable portion of the man's energy that would have surely swept the Casino owning entrepreneur away had he not used the spell circles in his palms to absorb the power. As the wall of power struck him, his feet dug into the ground, the energies snapping and writhing wildly as they were drawn into his glowing palms like a snake being consumed by a larger predator.

It was violent, but all together intense and eye catching, the bright bursts of light that rippled through the streets as the light side was drawn in and contained by the Alchemist. Finally the light was choked out abruptly, that brilliant light growing cold and dark like the moment that light left the eyes of the living. It was numbing and awestriking to experience such a thing, almost a sin to destroy something so beautiful, but Christian wasn't interested in it, and so it would suffer. It wasn't money or women or alcohol or [member="Katarine Ryiah"], and so that light, as long as it was being employed to try and destroy him, would be choked out until it grew cold and died, reborn into something dark and chaotic.

Shivering lightly, Christian slowly rolled every one of his digits into fists, violet smoke rising up through his clenched fingers as he opened his once brilliant golden eyes to reveal pure white. Slowly, but surely, he suppressed that light in him, and eventually the golden brown color faded back in. They burned bright as they found Manu's form again, swells of the force rushing through his body, every muscle swollen with an anticipation that he could not control. Waves of the darkside were rolling off of his body now, so potent and infectious that people running back and forth around them trying to find safety began stumbling to their knees when they came to close. Some tried to crawl away, others tried to stay on their feet, but they couldn't breathe and none of them got far. The tickle of the dark side was in the back of their throats, and at an alarming rate their lungs began to wither, their organs shutting down one by one as cancer spread through their bodies like wildfire.

"Let's get started... shall we?", Christian finally said as pools of red began to form in his eyes filling them to the brim. As if blood had actually began to seep from his eyes, his eyes were pure crimson. As he walked towards the light side user, Christian's body continued to swell, a visible heat rising from his back and shoulders from the raised temperatures inside him. His skin was on fire now, and he loved that feeling. The mixture of adrenaline and the dark force running through his veins was a feeling that could not be replicated or matched, and it gave him a feeling as if he'd finally been able to breathe for the first time. It was a soothing feeling, and it was not one that he would trade for any unfeeling, numb touch to the force. The force was not his subject. It was not meant to be used or told what to do. It was his strongest ally. It meant something to him. It was his lover, his brother, his child, his family, his life, his death, his heart, his soul. It was everything, and in the grand scheme, as the Jedi and the light siders prance about practicing nonsensical uses for the force and ways to manipulate it, he grew closer and closer to the force. It was a symbiotic relationship that he did not want, he craved it, and to him the Jedi was a parasite to the force that offered itself, it's trust, it's energy, it's very being, yet all the Jedi did was use it like some whore, never to get to close for fear that they could actually feel something for a lesser.

It was DISGUSTING, and the more he thought about how sickening the light users were the angrier he became, a grimace was now displayed on his face as he stopped and clenched his entire body tight, the dark side rushing inward to pool in his core. Raising his hands, Christian finally spoke again as he said "Invocabo elementum ignis! Adjuva nos uris, catulus!", his hands clapping together as a piercing violet light rushed out from between his clasped palms. Instantly his hands burst into dark violet flames that rolled up his very skin and up to his shoulders, and as eye catching as the sight must have been, it would have been unwise to break concentration in that moment. For the very next second, with all the light side energy he'd drawn and molested with the dark side, Christian employed force speed to a blinding degree. He was a master of the technique, but with this much energy struggling to break out of the man like a damn about to give way, it was as if he were simply stepping through one end of the void and out the other, no longer a human being but a god.

In an instant, Christian appeared behind Manu and threw his right arm out in an overhanded punch aimed at the dead center of the man's back. He wanted to tear a hole through the man's chest and with his flames melt this man's organs from the inside out so that he could feast on his force signature when life finally slipped from the Jedi insect.

[member="Manu Xextos"]

 

[Salem Norongachi]

A hand reached into the air while [member="Mikhail Shorn"] blasted away the rods of metal meant to punch through bone and sinew. A dark blur zipped through the air and then his discarded helm was in his hand. Amused eyes looked to the Throne Breaker before he slipped it over his face.

It was all a game. One that could only played when you knew the level of your opponents skill. Now he knew, he knew the extents of these Heralds power, the depths of depravity they were willing to force upon a Galaxy barely holding itself together.

He had no love for the CIS, he had no love for the people falling in droves upon Rodia but what Norongachi did care about was the balance, that precious and precarious thing that could be upended and spell ruin for one and all by the actions of a single man. It had always and would always be his mission to assure that balance protected. Whatever the cost.

Omega wasn’t ready. He knew that now as the battle they had just fought played out with clarity and precision through his mind. Points were noted, mistakes catalogued to be rectified, strengths and weaknesses on both sides filed away.

Whether Mikhail did not have the strength or the constitution to finish the job Omega couldn’t say. All he knew was that he was airborne, caught in the wake of a Telekinetic shove that cast his body into the air. It was a pittance given what he had just endured, the mental armour that served him well held true and so he suffered little in the way of damage.

“Are you really so naive?” Was his parting shot through the Force, a smile spreading across lips unseen as he let the wave take him. An application of the Force kept his course true, riding Shorns power he let it take him far from the battle. The low rooftop of a warehouse was his final destination, his dark form punching through its metal roof and then he was rolling across the ground inside.

The Lord Commander came to a rest upon his back. His body aching from toes to cranium, his breathing rasping and laboured. A coldness fell over his mind, taking the pain and the fatigue and putting it in a dark vault where it wouldn’t bother him any longer.

He had seen all he needed to see of Mikhail Shorn and his ilk. The only question that remained was; What should be done about them?

“This is Lord Commander Norongachi, I require medical assistance. I’m activating my beacon.” And that was it. The nightmares that had brought him here had been faced. All that was left was to prepare for the next encounter.

 

[Darth Metus]

Spaceport, Rodia

The news was the definition of alarming and was the sort of thing that resulted in the dropping of absolutely everything. Carnage, for the second time in the Confederacy's history, had been brought to the front door of one of its sovereign worlds. The first was an onslaught by a sect of Yuuzhan Vong...and now this? A rampage of Force wielders on Rodia? Those rolling about the stars seeking to make a name for themselves through the shedding of innocent blood had to be stopped...and the Mandalorian was going to help put an end to this madness once and for all. When word first reached his ears, Isley Verd was going about business on a planet relatively close to Rodia. Therefore, after scrambling aboard his personal vessel, the Blue Krait, a simple jump into Hyperspace ferried him to the site of the battle in an incredibly timely manner. However, he had already missed quite a bit of the fighting...and many lives had already been lost to the attackers.

With as much swiftness as his feet could possibly lend, Isley bounded from the Bridge of his vessel the instant it emerged from the depths of Hyperspace. Down through the halls he ran, headed for the hangar of his ship and immediately he climbed aboard one of the Espada-class Stealth Transports awaiting him. The pre-flight list was ignored, protocol was forsaken, and the dropship quickly lifted off from the hangar and surged forth for the planet below; kicking on its cloaking device as it made its initial approach. Moments later, the vessel did a fly-over of the Spaceport, allowing Isley to see the totality of the decimation first hand. Buildings had been destroyed and the rampaging enemies were still commencing their onslaught...but fortunately there were Templars on the ground to help quell the decimation. As the pilot continued to guide the dropship through the air, Isley saw a flash of blue out of his peripheral vision. Whipping his head about to the viewport clearly, he witnessed the wanton slaughter of a group of people by one wielding a lightsaber pike...

These...Motherkarking... he growled to himself, unstrapping from the seat in a huff. Between the stealth countermeasures of the dropship and the Taozin hide literally built into the totality of his armor, there was minimal means for those below to know that Isley had arrived; save if they were specifically tracking him and had such upper-level experience in the art. As such, the Mandalorian decided to take advantage of this particular situation. Centering himself with a deep inhalation, he reached out and commanded the Force. According to his will, the energies manifested themselves in a rather potentent mental assault, known as Mind Shard. Much akin to a spear, Isley hurled this invisible offense across the distance between the dropship and the wielder of the pike, relying upon his mastery of mentalism to wreak the unfortunate soul with unimaginable sums of mental anguish. To some, the experience was akin to the literal splintering of one's mind; a fact that would extinguish the focus required to utilize the Force effectively. "Give me a decent circle around the spaceport. I want to make this queen suffer." growled the Mandalorian to the pilot, who promptly complied.

Spoiler

Opponent: [member="Nemene Talith"]​

Heralds: [member="Mikhail Shorn"], [member="Anaya Fen"], [member="Christian Slade"], [member="Darth Voracitos"], [member="Darth Vornskr"], [member="Evelynn Zambrano"], [member="Jared Ovmar"].​

Templars: [member="Salem Norongachi"], [member="Manu Xextos"], [member="Ember Rekali"], [member="Serian Loria"], [member="Phoebe Verd"], [member="Feena Mason"], [member="Astrian Callus"], [member="Marek Starchaser"], [member="Vorhi Alestrani"], [member="Ashe the Reaper"], [member="Atretes Rhoujen"], [member="Matsu Xiangu"], @Tricia.​

CIS Personnel: [member="Strask Ak'lya"], @[member="Lancer Damar"], [member="Galaar Tal'Verda"], [member="ARC-247"], [member="Aella Cadeyrn"], @...Yeah, I'll just bug y'all on Skype >.>​

 

[Lira Dajenn]

Spaceport
[member="Isley Verd"]
Isley, had chosen the wrong opponent.

While mentalism was a powerful set of techniques and skills against most people, able to devastate minds and tear apart thoughts at a whim, against Nemene Talith it was all but useless. You see, Nemene had never been particularly powerful in the force. Her skills in nearly all areas of the force were lackluster at best. She was unable to perform Sith Magic or Alchemy, she was unable to conjure powerful storms or great waves of destruction, and with telekenisis she could barely lift a rock the size of a fist.

But what she did have going for her, was her simply natural ability to resist.

Her upbringing under the Dark Lord Moridin and her constant exposure to the darkside of the force had bred an interesting effect into her mind. After years and years of being surrounded by the force, her mind had simply built a natural barrier against its invasive tendencies. This barrier made mental attacks all but useless. Those who tried to touch her mind, whether peacefully or with malicious intent found that the force simply melted away when it grazed against her, as if their effort was swallowed up by an Abyss of nothing.

There was only one being in the galaxy who could touch Nemene's mind, and she was connected to her by a bond of the force.

So, when Isley sent his powerful mental spike towards Nemene's mind, it was met with the abyss. The attack melted away, flowing into nothingness and driving an almost unspeakable sensation throughout Nemene.

Her eyes widened, goosebumps pimpled her flesh, and her head seemed to flash hot and feverish for a moment. Orange orbs darted around the courtyard of the spaceport, eyes searching and fluttering as they sought the source of the attack on her mind. When she found nothing the girl huffed, slamming the butt of her lightsabter pike onto the ground.

She knew what she was looking for, a man in the distance. She scanned, eyes darting all around.

 

[Darth Voracitos]

"Someone kill me already!" The huge voice boomed. "Hahahah!"


The Monstrous beast of a man continued to waddle through the city, his every step an expression of carnage. He decided that draining the life force of the city must not be enough for the Confederacy to realize they have a skyscraper sized nexus of the darkside literally eating all of its citizens, dozens and now droves at a time. Thirty people running? Just a bite! Fifty people hiding under debris? What a snack! Eighty people trying to escape a collapsing building? Their souls were locked up in his stomach before the first support beam gave away and allowed the building to collapse.


Every moment he was not dealt with, the more his devouring of the city increased. Soon, hundreds would fall in the blink of an eye, and if not attended then... thousands would parish every second. He would eat this entire planet if he had to, until something dealt with him.


To give him notice, he decided that absolutely everyone needed to suffer his appetite. He halted his "charge" a moment, and began feeding on all life within his very immediate circumference, to charge up a very different ability:


Force Plague.


He was going to unleash everywhere within two kilometer radius. It was an artificial sickness designed to lower mental acuity, and damage the health of an individual over time enough to make eating them easier. Consider it like the enzymes in peoples mouths and the chewing involved in breaking it down to the simplest sugars in a meal before swallowing it and fully digesting it with stomach acids and other processes. That was akin to what was happening here, he was chewing and salivating on everything, so he could swallow more easily. It was not yet unleashed though, another moment and it would be.

​

Spoiler

Opponent: The City​

Heralds: Mikhail Shorn, Anaya Fen, Christian Slade, Darth Voracitos, Darth Vornskr, Evelynn Zambrano, Jared Ovmar.​

Templars: Salem Norongachi, Manu Xextos, Ember Rekali, Serian Loria, Phoebe Verd, Feena Mason, Astrian Callus, Marek Starchaser, Vorhi Alestrani, Ashe the Reaper, Atretes Rhoujen,Matsu Xiangu, @Tricia.​

CIS Personnel: Strask Ak'lya, @Lancer Damar , Galaar Tal'Verda, ARC-247, Aella Cadeyrn, @...Yeah, I'll just bug y'all on Skype >.>​

​

​

 

[Kiyala Demont`]

Oh, how long had it been since Kiyala has been able stretch her legs. About since the time of her battle versus Lord Zambrano. And here she was despite all irony about to face what could be his daughter, wife or some other relative. It wasn't as if Kiyala knew the Zambrano lineage or what their lives had been like but she knew from battling Kaine not to underestimate from any from his loins. While her disguise was one of note, the only reason Kiyala was able to suspect her was not only because of the now confirmed sighting of her apprentice but the fact of how she stalked [member="Jared Ovmar"] in plain sight rather a more subtle route.

Kiyala stood on a low reaching roof-top gazing at the battle between [member="Ember Rekali"] and Jared. Oh how Kiyala would love to sip a cup of tea and watch their battle. So in fact that is exactly what she did, she had her eyes on her target and [member="Evelynn Zambrano"] seemed comfortable with simply watching for now so Kiyala would as well. Reaching into her small waist bag and pulling out a bottled version of Alderani Tea for her to enjoy.

Despite of the death and smells of decay, it was a rather nice day outside for a good battle but that would all come in time. She opened herself to her force sight as she placed in her headphone and began to bob her head to some light r&b. Kiyala had spent months without any real action, so she had the patience to wait a little longer and have fun. As she thought about that she pulled out a rather sizable chocolate chip cookie to begin munching on it.