The Path for Vengeance

[Dravek]

Kresh sat alone in his home town. Or, rather, the remains of it. Grass and dirt were winning the painfully slow struggle against created structures; lower levels of houses were completely underground. Black splotches painted the walls that still rose above the earth, a testament to the burn marks from blaster fire from the battle that destroyed Kresh's village. The battle that took his parents. His friends. Everyone he loved. The battle between Jedi and Sith: the ultimate magnification of scum in the galaxy. All he was left with was a hellish wrath, a wrath that fed him and fueled him on his hopeless quest. Kresh's fists clenched at the thought of the past.

Kresh was "gifted" with an extremely good memory. That's what everyone had told him. It was a gift. Yet being able to recall his father decapitated by a rampaging Sith lord kept him awake almost every night. Not a gift. A curse.

Each year he made a pilgrimage to the place of his birth to remind him of the pain that the pathetic Force-users had brought upon him. To remind him of his eternal mission: to hunt down any Jedi or Sith he could find. The hot wind pressed against his face as he slowly gathered himself up. It was time to get moving. Hefting his electrostaff and securing it on his back, Kresh grunted and gripped his blaster rifle in both hands before trudging away down what was once the main road. Astoach would be waiting for him with the Vengeance.

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Astoach]

[member="Kresh"]

Flesh.​

​

It was the fetter of his egg, the pale opaque shell that warmed his naked body beneath, cascading him in smooth skin that cooked his battered bones in the midst of incubation. Astoach stood amidst the swinging stalks of grass that composed this golden field, blackened only by the cold, stagnant bonfires of roaming hermits, dethroned from their shelters by war abroad. They were gone now, dead, likely devoured by the gnawing maws of starved beasts, the once docile pets turned ravenous, abandoned, and feeding on the flesh of their former masters. It was upon such irony that composed this tragedy, which Astoach would often feed upon, chewing delectably like gum, in a savory, sweet refreshment that garnered his attention and accelerated it forward, like a bullet, cascading his attentive eyes across the abandoned fields of ruin.

Ruin.​

​

What a turn on, that word. It was that of desecration, or robbery, of forcefulness. The sweet taste of denial being caved away, it sung to him like no voice ever could, the vibration which strung from his wrung cord, the twang of defiance, he swallowed it whole in the midst of the fathoms of his musings. It was all to be savored by him, these cravings were to be sated, the intensity of this passion, this defilement, it was all his food, his delicacy. The ghosts of the slaughtered only stagnated the air as they sat ripe amongst this field, their cries thrown out in ethereal woes to the deceased for mercy in time lost echoes born only long ago. But, they were not real, serving as mere fabrications to Astoach's sick amusement, ticking his imagination only to pass the time.

Kresh's titanic silhouette finally budded in the distance, blooming ever greater as his padded footfalls thundered like tank fire as he lurched ever closer. It seemed like it was time for Astoach to go and from the depths of his twisted mask, his Polyp, his eyes glittered with faint amusement. Kresh was a pawn, a plaything, and the time to execute his toy's latent potential was coming yet again. As a brief ripple of wind swooned over the fields of golden grass he could not help but indulge in the vision one last time, imbibing the sight greedily and arousing himself in the susceptible fantasy of it all lit aflame. It would be intense, returning his closure upon that sense of irony that composed this dramatic way of life. He could do it, if he wanted, he was a god after all (or so he thought) and thus what he willed would be birthed from the womb of imagination into the breathing realm of reality.

However, it was late evening now and the sun hung low over the plains of Lasat. He only grimaced beneath the shroud of his leather mask, its soothing embrace caressing his brow as it furrowed, resisting his face with stiff form. It sought his emotional neutrality with its opposition to such an expression, stepping in where he had yet to succeed, but time would trickle away and so too would his body's resistance to his intent, but now it was time for games and games called for attentiveness. As his partner, his toy, came closer, he raised a steady hand, gloved in black cloth, dark as midnight, to greet him. There was a special game beneath the game that exposed itself in moments of social conduct, one which people called posture. Posture was the expression of oneself through body and as Astoach concealed his face beneath his Polyp he was forced to dignify himself solely through stance, and now was the tone of seriousness, one he certainly did not feel, but his toy would certainly recognize the distinct absence of empathy in his bearing.

His poise was stiff by the time this creature approached, hulking nearly twice his height and practically blotting out the setting sun. What a toy he was, a pawn above all pawns; Kresh was a monster, certainly, and one Astoach controlled with cords of vengeance bitten deep into him, or so he hoped, dearly. No, there was no hope in this god of war, he knew he would have him, if not now, soon. He waited not for him to speak the first word and approached the beast on his own with a gentle step forward, swishing his cloak about, fluttering about his figure like a fluffed, downy coat of raven feathers, exposing little of his body beneath save for his E-11 blaster, hitched to his hip by a clip and tapping against the leather with a faint rap. "Kresh," he began in that cold, dead tone of his. The mask was like a magical sepulcher, a wizardly crypt, sealed taught beneath candlelight for the séance which culled the watching dead, summoning Astoach's voice from beyond the grave. "Have you finished your visit within the ruin?" What a turn on, that word. "I've got a location on our next target when you're ready, a Jedi Knight too. A Jasper Clover."

 

[Dravek]

Kresh felt the cold anger as well as eagerness simmering inside him, bubbling almost out of his flesh when [member="Astoach"] mentioned that he had found a new target. A Jedi Knight. Perfect. The last two had been measly padawans. Simple prey, more panic than fight, more bark than bite. But Knights... Knights were qualified creatures. Knights were dangerous. And Kresh liked danger. But more than that, he liked the feeling of triumph after besting a Knight, Jedi or Sith; the begging for mercy, the screams of agony, then the blissful silence. It was almost as beautiful as the sunset.

"My visit is finished." The bitter emotions of sorrow and pain mixed within him again. "I am ready to hunt this Knight. He will feel true pain for the first time," Kresh roared. Not roared exactly, but the normal sound of his speaking voice was in fact a deep, booming bellow that made lesser creatures quiver. Astoach was no lesser creature; he was unaffected. Kresh didn't even really know who Astoach was. All he knew is that Astoach provided him with targets that Kresh was more than happy to destroy. It was a wonderful symbiotic relationship.

Kresh looked back one more time at his home, then turned his massive body around and began walking towards the ship nestled in the grass nearby. "Let's not waste any time then," he said, heading towards the lowered ramp. "Jedi don't kill themselves."

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Astoach]

[member="Kresh"]

"Let's not waste any time then," he said, heading towards the lowered ramp. "Jedi don't kill themselves."

Words like this were harbingers of slaughter, sweet-dipped nuggets of socialization that sunk into the heart of the matter and weaved the raging intensity of reality, born of flesh again and again into the merging mass of eternity. Astoach willed this to happen, another simple instance of enacting his godly powers, biding the beast to slaughter once again, ever furthering his intentions. His Polyp, oh such a beautifully pestilent creature which nestled upon his face, would soon expand in bulbous mass and pop, spraying his Galaxy his blood, oils, and seed, conjuring the rebirth of his ideals through the many. Yet, now was the moment of the game, the slight step forward in the midst of ecstasy and how he would indulge upon such rushing of adrenaline simply observing the sight. Blood, there would be much of it, for Kresh was animalistic where Astoach was voluptuous and hedonistic, and there was no grace to his assault.

Jasper Clover, a young Jedi Knight, exposed within the far reaches of the Outer Rim, a ripe fruit for plucking, juicy and sweet, and marked by Astoach's gaze. There would be nothing left; Kresh would decimate the corpse, leaving the decaying cadaver for Astoach to pick at his leisure on board the shuttle, the Vengeance. "I'd keep the heart," Astoach thought in wistful lust at the concept of such blood, drained away into his emerald bottles and stuffed away beneath the floorboards of his personal prison. An average humanoid body contains roughly five and a half liters of blood; the corpse subsequent to Kresh's onslaught, however, contained only a splintered fraction of that numeral, filling roughly a single jar in total.

Astoach composed his collection nonetheless, containing it within an obsessive order of organization divided between blood type, species, ethnicity, and Force alignment. The blood was that of Force-sensitives of course, for those were who he hunted, and was primed with the midi-clorians of the deceased. Upon the completion of a set of jars, about three or so within a month long period, the pair would often pay a visit to the nearest gas mining colony and pay for their substances to be frozen in carbonite. Even now after years of practice, many, many tubs of carbonite remain resting within their hold, brimmed with the living, hibernating blood of the Force. Every so often, as one would inch closer to expiration, Astoach would unclasp one, unfreezing the blood, and would commence to drink every jar within. He would imbibe in the rotting Force, to take it within him in intimate sessions of indulgent love, and expand himself beyond mortal capability -- another delusion, which would often leave him sick for days after.

He marched up the boarding ramp, washed over in a cool, depressurized mist that stemmed down from the various copper piping that lined the incline. "Jasper Clover," he began, his knees rising and falling in gentle silence whilst his arms fluttered useless at his sides, swallowed by the grim robes like light the vast frost of the voidly shadows. His mask sunk over his eyes, leaving the gaping holes of his damned visage to serve as windows the the Gates of Hell, speaking mysterious lengths of his malevolent intent in silent watchfulness. "He's a human, a male, and twenty-nine years of age. He was born on Coruscant, but fled to the Jedi Academy, and was taught by the Jedi Master known as Osa'daai. He currently finds himself on Mustafar, attempting to secure peace between a tribe of southern and northern Mustafarians as a form of diplomatic training. He is excellently trained in Form III: Soresu, so taking him from the front would be unideal. We'll need to cooperate strategically to gain the upper hand in addition to avoiding his proficient ability in Force Speed, where he accelerates his velocity with the assistance of the Force."

As he boarded the ship he entered the storage hold, filled with the decrepit crates of narcotic spice -- which the pair use to trade with pirates -- and freeze-locked food designed to withstand the months of independent living aboard the ship. It was a YT-2400 light freighter, the Vengeance, internally modified to suit the needs of their hunt. Compromised of Kresh's captain quarters, Astoach's quarters -- if one could consider that room livable -- directly linked to their prison chamber, Kresh's trophy room, in addition to the necessary storage holds, refreshers and hygiene stations, engineering and droid docks, a lounge, additional quarters, and other necessary compartments, controls, and turret access. The Vengeance served not just as their beast of burden, but as their home as well. "Go to the cockpit and take us into orbit, Kresh. I'll get the hunting gear ready and prep the probe droid, GLE3-S0."

 

[Dravek]

Mustafar. A rocky, volcanic planet, filled with lava rivers, volcanoes, mountains, and much more. All of which Kresh hoped to use against the puny Knight. Clover apparently was in diplomatic training. Bah, Kresh thought. Let the strong survive and the weak die. Diplomacy is a trick the weak use to live. It's pathetic. This Jedi Knight surely deserved a painful death.

Kresh plodded over to the cockpit after entering the ship. It was nice to be on the hunt again. Sitting down in the custom pilot's chair that was able to fit his exceedingly large frame, Kresh surveyed the array of controls and buttons on the panel in front of him. A decade ago, he wouldn't have known how any of it worked. But due to the barbarity of his quest, he often found it hard to hire pilots to help him hunt down Force-users. Thus, he had to spend an entire year away from the hunt to learn how to fly spaceships decently. It was a painful year.

Noting that Astoach had gotten on board, Kresh started the ignition and pre-launch checklist. The hum of the engine and ship systems felt soothing to Kresh's ears, like the growl of a mastiff. At least, Kresh liked the savage howls and cries of mastiffs. The Vengeance was a dear friend to him; it carried him to each new target, each thrill of a kill. And now they were going to Mustafar to get another. Beautiful. There truly was beauty in the pain of Kresh's eternal journey.

The Vengeance rose above the ground steadily, then punched forward into the skies like a fish bursting up towards the surface. The hunt was on.

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Astoach]

Revere the membrane of clasped bone, flesh turned taught over the sands of time, trickling down their crystal hourglass as the skin shrunk thin over the structure of bone, mummifying the corpse. Tickling hairs ran down the neck of the remains, greased in rot and stiffened like crow feathers, draped from a balding, shriveled head and shrouded the black sockets of the eyes in a shadowed mask of its mane. Its arms spread wide in crucifixion, the body swung low from the ceiling, stiffened feet refusing to dangle and instead shed flakes of skin like leaves in autumn. The dead body was cuffed to a railing, intertwined with electrical wiring that interconnected it with pale, flanking lights, and hung down from above, its feet lightly brushing Astoach’s hair as he entered his private prison, accidentally snapping off its bony pinky to in the midst of his thick locks.

He plucked the digit from his hair, offering it a queer, hidden expression before snipping up the chin of his mask and stuffing the free hand beneath, plucking the toe into his mouth and chewing it gingerly before a loving swallow. How delicious, it tastes like jerky. The body showered down fractured light from the hung lamps, blocked out by various translucent tubes that spindled down from the mummy and sprawled across the floor like dead plastic worms and glass snakes, faintly trailing the blood of its victim throughout its translucent innards. Within the depraved chamber Astoach often practiced his dominance upon what would largely be considered by the pair expendable targets. Often consistent of younglings, padawans, and innocent bystanders who happen to be in the way, Astoach, in his lascivious amusement, insisted on playing with his food, often suspending them from the high-hung rafters and exposing them to the various instruments at his disposal.

At this particular moment, this beautiful mummy here was a delectable servant girl of a Sith they previous slew, a Phoebe Something-or-other. Astoach hardly bothered with names, for to him, their ensuing intimacy was all that mattered then. From the ceiling she hung and there he drained her of blood, encapsulating it within a tub and bathing in it. It would be the only moment in which he would remove the mask, the Polyp, a moment of reflection in which he would soak in the life of another, and feel himself renewed with their dying liquids coaxing his own flesh into rebirth.

Cen stepped to the far end of the chamber, snapping his thumb against a large, fluorescent switch which flicked alight, sparking green before a hum emanated. There was a beep, a shudder, and from some unseen corridor GLE3 emerged (pronounced as Glee Three) and hummed over to Astoach, propelling itself via repulser to his flank and honked with delight. Glee was a Prowler 1000 Exploration Droid, painted black, of course, and served a very, very important role among the team. He was the scout, the spotter, the one who established an omniscient presence above the field and allowed the pair of hunters to control the ground. “Beep,” exhausted Glee with a small shudder before he levitated off to join Kresh at the cockpit. Glee had little more than indifference to Astoach, a reason never quite clear to the man in the first place. Perhaps it disliked being stored within the vessel’s madhouse with him.

Astoach followed shortly after, snatching his shuttle keys with a snapping hand, like a patient viper assaulting its prey, and stepped into the pilot canopy. “Kresh, I’ve already implemented the coordinates, did so shortly after receiving the data. Jump to lightspeed and accelerate to the Mustafar system, I want to get there before the Jedi.” He sunk a hand into the spine of Kresh’s chair, the masked nails of his fingers poking holes through the fine leather coat. “No charging off on me, understand? The meeting is taking place in a village, near the equator. Glee establishes the perimeter; we can’t use infrared to spot our targets with the volcanic terrain. The tensions are high here, they’ll be bringing weapons and the Jedi will have his sabre, a weapon which we will be incapable of withstanding without cortosis-weave."

[member="Kresh"]

 

[Dravek]

"Of course he'll have his sabre," Kresh growled. "The Jedi are useless without it. Can't do a thing." Sabres could be a problem; Kresh's electrostaff would fare well enough against it, but he preferred to incapacitate the Jedi and Sith at a distance before obliterating them up close. He checked the hyperdrive; it all looked clear. Pulling the lever unceremoniously, the Vengeance roared and lurched into light speed. The stars blended from single points into interminable lines of white light. Verifying that the course was set, Kresh rose out of the pilot's chair and headed to his trophy room.

The trophy room consisted of a wide array of miscellaneous objects taken from Jedi and Sith he had bested; there were lightsabres (Kresh had collected several blues, greens, and reds, a yellow, and his most coveted, a purple sabre), padawan braids, torn Jedi robes, things of that sort. He liked to come in here to reflect on his successes and prepare mentally for the next hunt. Would this Knight have an unoriginal blue, like all the rest? Or would he be more unique? Kresh licked his lips in anticipation. "The more sabres the merrier," Kresh mumbled to himself.

Walking out of the doorway to the trophy room and locking it with the control panel, Kresh lumbered out into the hallway and entered his private quarters to gear up for the hunt. He grasped his E-17d sniper rifle and a rag and began to clean it. This rifle had taken several Jedi lives, and one Sith, too. It was a beautiful weapon, perfectly matching his beautiful mission. Wiping every speck from the gun, Kresh slung it over his shoulder and started strapping on his mismatched armor. His electrostaff was strapped on his back; his hand cannon on his holster; and a small belt pack was filled with thermal detonators. Kresh was ready for the end of lightspeed.

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Cen Tessek]

[ACCIDENTALLY POSTED AS THE WRONG CHARACTER. ;_;]​

 

[Astoach]

[member="Kresh"]

As the Vengeance departed hyperspace with a grumbling roar, Mustafar blotted the distance as a great molten sphere of crimson magma and black volcanic stone, composing a single orb of hellish light that served as their ominous destination. Calculating his response carefully, Astoach approached the computer around Kresh, snapping a button or so for him to input the complete sect of coordinates, and prepped the shuttle for atmospheric decompression as they would steadily descend. “Excitable,” he commented, a lackluster tint to his voice that glinted with distaste, quickly masked, however, by the drawl promises which poured forth like tar from the hidden maw beneath his Polyp. “You’ll have your prey soon enough and your coveted lightsabre prize.”

He stepped away to the bulkhead door, twisting the old lever, serving as its manual release, and with a hiss it caved in before sliding away with a grinding flash of sparks. Glee swooned in, balancing above his antigravity array like a cheery bubble, or a happy squid, blooping happily as he surfed the air overhead. “I want you to follow my lead this time, Kresh,” said Astoach, hands calmly curling behind his hips to straighten his composure into a more official, professional stance that disclosed his serious demeanor. “The village is centered around a magma mining complex, dug into the sulfurous rock at point A2-0Y. That is where they will host the meeting and that is where we will direct our efforts. We need to move quick and clean this time, we both like to play with our food but this time we don’t have the luxury unless we want to starve, or worse.”

His hand snaked from behind the cool concealment of his backside, swinging a curving slice of his finger through the still air in a commanding gesture. “I’ll take up position among the outer watchtower, the structure we designate as T2, some steel obelisk, and wipe out the resistance there. I want you to infiltrate the station itself and deal with our Jedi friend yourself, whilst I use the control panel available to override system controls and manage the security level within the building, effectively dominating the structure from afar. I’ll be able to support you better this way, rather than in person... and remember, refer to me only as Goblin openly in the midst of our assault. We don't need more bounty hunters after us."

 

[Dravek]

Kresh twisted the handle of the hefty electrostaff in his hands and nodded. He set it against the pilot's chair and sat back down into it, adjusting the load of gear to fit around him. He guided the Vengeance as it entered the planet's atmosphere. Heat and flame coated the ship for a moment as their entry accelerated; the shields of the ship easily kept it away from damaging anything. With a shudder, the ship was in; the easily visible orb that was Mustafar now turned into a wide expanse of mountains and lava, stretching as far as the eye could see. Lava flows dashed upon the rocks. Only the strong can survive here. I like it.

The village was in view. Kresh set the ship down on the closest thing to flat land that seemed stable enough. The landing pad was quickly lowered and screeched against the black volcanic rock that covered the ground. Kresh stood at the edge of the ramp and pointed to the tallest structure around, the watchtower. "There you are, Goblin," Kresh said with a smirk. Code names were for the weak, who couldn't handle their own reputations.

Kresh strapped his electrostaff on his back and disembarked. "I'll wait for you to get a head start on the tower before I enter the village and destroy the Jedi," he said, scanning the bleak village with the scope of his sniper rifle. "Reach me on the comms when you're set."

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Astoach]

The sheer ignorance of the lasat was briefly infuriating; his audacity to address Astoach with such sneering disapproval would only interrupt his thought with brief flames of rage before it was cooled beneath the swallowing shadow of haunting cruelty. He would make him suffer for that, assuredly, for all toys must be reminded of their place now and again, but with subtle affection; to have them in pain because of you directly would be disastrous, and the toy would break, but to save them from impending harm would only garner further fondness. Yes, the toy would be fixed, and [member="Kresh"] would fall in line as directed. “Comm frequency set to 831.071; I’ll give you a shout how things go. Don’t wait for me to approach it though, head in yourself. Glee is remotely jamming channels for them, they won’t be able to receive or send calls for help, just be stealthy. Infiltrate the station and by that time I’ll have locked down the meeting.”

He stepped onto the slag surface of their plateau, overseeing the small desolate mining village coated in sulfurous smog and ash, with the occasional gaunt figure or stocky dwarf toddling from the shelters to waddle into yet another. He snapped free his rifle, aiming down the iron sights to flex his shot, and descended the craggy hill step-by-step. The watchtower was a good twenty meters above the ground, built above the molten rock in solid structuref steel, with conditioned plastoid forming the interior. It would be unlikely he could just ring a doorbell and crawl inside, naturally, since the attackee is rarely in a friendly mood, so the necessary path for his ascendance to the control station, located at its peak, would be along the side. Since the watchtowers were dedicated almost solely for spotting a potential fatal lava flow, the exterior was webbed in a network of exposed ladders, circuitry wiring (spun inside plastoid pipes and tubing), and grating, granting Astoach a firm grip upon the exterior of the turret.

Gloved fingers sunk into the ventilation shafts, exhausting cool air filtered from within, layered with particles of dust. His next hand sunk into the layers of uncovered piping, which he pulled his body to and shimmied along the girth of the pylon. Ten meters, halfway to go, and now Astoach was really beginning to feel the soaking heat of the exterior metal. Initially, his clothing had protected him, largely in part to the double-stitching of twin layers of cloth, but now it had become quite apparent to him that they were beginning to smolder away, leaving his hands bare. He would have to be quick and climb the final ten meters with flaming fingers dancing along the heat, or he would be certain to retain permanent scarring. They would be identifiable markings, which cannot be allowed. He dove to an exposed antenna, which snapped, naturally, beneath his inertia and weight, and collapsed, Astoach nearly with it until he collided into an additional ventilation shaft. This one, he noted, seemed large enough for entry and thus he followed suit, forcefully peeling away the shell covering and slunk into the outlet.

As he subtly slinked into the pale, dirty interior of the tower he came across the staircase itself, a thin, tipsy flight of steps spun around a single, dented support, giving way beneath the weight of a decade’s worth of footfalls. A blast door contained the final ascent, obviously locking off the control room itself, and remained the final true obstacle, but a simple knock bade the inhabitants of the tower to open the door for him, staring expectantly for one of their own. They were met instead by a hail of blaster fire, biting into their bodies with sizzling sparks and the smoke of burnt skin. As the survivors desperately hammered away at the computers for reinforcements and help, they were met solely by the very apparent symbols of no signal -- thanks to the blocked frequencies -- and with nowhere left to run, Astoach shot them in the back, leaving the corpses to slump over the terminals. He clicked his comm to activation, tied into the sole frequency left untouched by Glee’s block, and began to establish communication with Kresh. “I’m at the tower now but they’ve locked me behind a blast door.” It was a fib of course, for the correction facilitation was to begin soon. “I’m going to break through soon and they won’t be able to call for help, but you better be in that facility.”

 

[Dravek]

Stealthy. Bah. Kresh did not gain his fighting prowess from stealth. How could a beast over 11 feet tall even be able to use stealth? There had been rare situations before that he had to be a little covert, but Kresh was always at his best when he was flying into action head-on. Grumbling to himself, Kresh swept the village through the sniper scope, noting a few guards stationed at various points, but nothing really spectacular. Should be easy enough.

Slinging the sniper on his back, Kresh hopped down the rocky slope, a few meters at a time. Scaling walls and buildings came easy to him as a lasat. In mere seconds, he was down the slope and at the base of the village. Unsheathing his ceremonial knife, which he preferred to use to take the lives of the Jedi and Sith, Kresh crouched his hulking frame and pressed against the wall of a small building on the edge of the village. Waiting a few moments to hear for activity, he leaped up on the wall of the building to grasp a large pipe running horizontally across it. The pipe groaned under his weight, and he had to hurry and scamper up to be on top of the roof. There. Nice and high.

The first guard he saw was about 20 meters away, idling leaning against a building and lazily looking out onto the nearby mountain ridge. First victim. Moving slowly to reduce noise, Kresh crept to the edge of the other side of the roof and gazed at his prey. Tightening his grip on the long, curved knife, Kresh dug his feet in and jumped, sailing through the air and landing directly in front of the now startled guard, pressing a dent in the walkway. "Bye bye," Kresh said as he rammed the guard with full force and lunged with his knife, effectively cutting through the man's entire body. Kresh smiled and tossed the limp body on the rooftop he was just in. Now for the station with the Jedi scum. It lay directly ahead.

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Astoach]

“Glee, free up the watchtower to citadel systems, I need wireless control over the complex immediately. Also initiate system wipe over the events following the last twelve hours, I want your memory as clean as a whistle when this is over.”

There was a soft beep of frustration that emanated over Astoach’s communicator, then utter silence. This was only to be broken, like sharp glass, by a whistle as the computer software rebooted, displaying a vast array of luminescent holographic screens that buzzed to life across the platform. Astoach smiled grimly beneath the mask, his Polyp, stretching his fingers to the point of dull cracks that sung from his knuckles, and stepping forward to the largest of the troupe of computers, the primary control station. He initiated security footage, establishing a scene in which Kresh stormed to building with subtlety of a large tank, cutting down the poor guard with his knife, and heading towards the station itself. It worked like magic, how perfectly his vision played out, the powers of his godhood bleeding fantasy into reality as the world clicked like clockwork to his fancies and whims. He typed again, accessing the support lockdown that rose the vast structure up and above the interchanging tides of lava, and lowered it to levels capable of mining the ores to be found flowing within the shores of magma like a massive piston. The complex contained encrypted mainframe software that locked the piston-like raising machinery to provided tide charts, effectively serving as an almost primitive A.I. that overlooked the structure’s controls based upon appropriate predictions of the height of lava flow.

Astoach released a small chip from the folds of his cloak, plugging it in to the hardware dock found on the underside of the system. A decryption module, outfitted with high grade and expensive software capable of cracking the firewall which protected the structure controls. As the tool began its ethereal assault upon the programming, Astoach twisted away, directing himself to a secondary computer mainframe, from which he exposed the bulkhead manager. As both programs, the control scheme and the support commands, began to load into existence, he rose his wrist-mounted comm and began to speak again. “Kresh, there’s something wrong here. They’re locking me out of the tower through the manual control somehow, so I’m going to have to hack the complex's bulk controls wirelessly through Glee. Get in and out quickly, I'm not sure how much time I can buy you.” He smiled as the lie passed from his mouth like toxic breath, the bulkhead computer igniting bright green and the control panel exposed the various trappings of the metal door fetters. Astoach’s hand levitated forth, his fingers hovering over the touchscreen command present on the holographic board labelled [INITIATE LOCKDOWN PROCEEDURE].

[member="Kresh"]

 

[Dravek]

Apparently, Kresh did not have the luxury of time on this mission. That was okay. Kresh never did like sneaking around slowly anyway. He advanced upon the target building; the Jedi and the others should be directly inside. Missions had been much harder than this before, but Kresh felt no need to complain for an easy kill. "Hey, you!" Oops. A guard stepped out of the shadows; Kresh hadn't noticed him. "This area is closed to visitors. Get out!" The guard held a small pistol at the huge lasat.

Kresh smiled. He could take a small blaster like that as if it were a fly. "I'm so sorry, good sir," Kresh said, hands raised, slowly taking steps towards the trembling guard. "I'll leave right... away!" Lunging like a demon, Kresh tackled the guard, taking a shot that deflected off of his armor. The guard must have broken most of his bones after having been slammed into the wall at full force. Stabbing the broken guard with the wicked, gleaming knife, he straightened and sheathed it. Hefting his electrostaff, Kresh smashed the door control panel, opening the metal door and revealing a narrow hallway with a door on the end.

Kresh moved to the door and braced himself for a kick that would most likely crack the door in. The prey was so close. This was it.

@Astoach

 

[Astoach]

“My pet,” clucked Astoach, his fingers rubbing across the holographic panel and engaging external lockdown procedures. “You are going to find yourself falling further into my embrace once more.” He twirled, hands outstretched, and he danced away like this from the panel as distant sirens blared about the mining complex. From the corners of his spinning eyes he noted the security camera terminal, the boxes now outlined in red and the blastdoors began a wireless override, slamming shut behind the lasat and locking him within the complex. Astoach gasped in feigned surprise and raised his comm to speak again, “Dammit, you tripped security! I told you to be stealthy!” He snapped off speech again with the flick of a button and laughed, turning away and collapsing into the comfy command chair situated behind an ashen oak desk. (Heh.)

“I’m trying to break through wirelessly outside the bulkhead but you’ve alerted them, they’re trying to lock me out of the system! Hurry up and take out Jasper so we can escape, this place is about to turn into a hornet’s nest!” With that he leisurely sunk into the custom seat, sighing in relaxation and glancing at the support control computer, whose encryption crack rested at a bright red, blaring [38%]. “Give me about… ten minutes at the most, by then you should be able to kill that knight.” I hope. He thinks it but he does not say it, there is no room for doubt in Astoach. “I’m almost halfway in past the firewall, get moving.” Oh, this would be so grand if only he had a holographic map of the complex, so he might witness it in its entirety firsthand. These mustafarians were primitive though and denied him such comfort, to which he swore to shoot about five or so of their children come mission completion. It was a simple measure of course, for such provocation creates a rebuke and a rebuke requires action. Though, undeniably, if they came after him, they would only be killed.

Oh well, that's how vengeance works.

[member="Kresh"]

 

[Dravek]

The blast doors extended so suddenly that Kresh froze for a fateful moment until it was too late to stop them or escape. The entryway he had just come in was sealed; it would take a lot of firepower to get through it. Kresh had to focus on the target, for now. Apparently he had tripped security, so he had to hurry. Launching himself into the door to the meeting room, it cracked and gave way with a horrible, screeching sound that pleased Kresh's ears. Barreling into the room, he was greeted by the sight of shocked Mustafarians, both subspecies, and the Jedi target, Jasper Clover, leaping to his feet in surprise.

Bellowing in a primal, gibberish, roar, Kresh surged to the nearest Mustafarian, taking its head clean off with a powerful swing from the electrostaff. Kresh kicked sideways at another, sending it flying into the wall. At this point, Clover ignited his lightsaber and sped towards Kresh with fantastic velocity. Deflecting a lightsaber strike, he went on the offensive, swinging hard and fast at the Jedi, pushing him back. The few remaining Mustafarians panicked and tried to escape, only to find the blast doors down in the small building.

There would be no escape. Only death.

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Astoach]

Only death.

Indeed, there would only be death, and as the decryption module beeped to completion Astoach reactivated his comm for communication. “Dammit, they’re locking me out of the mainframe. What are you doing in there, they might be drastic if you keep doing-“His fingers pressed down upon the holographic screen, and a crack erupted across the horizon. “Kresh, what the hell is going on over there?!” He turned off his mic, lounging into his seat and scooting off to a nearby window, overlooking the distant mining station.

There’s a curious flux involving the upraised stands, hovering such an obese structure over the flows of lava and essentially dangling the building by a thread over certain doom. It turns out, if you override the system, they have a particularly queer tendency to collapse. There was a brief flash, oddly visible despite the very prominent backdrop of neon-esque lava burning red and orange, as the support circuitry began to detonate in chair reaction along the port side of the structure. Steel and iron shards were cast like shotgun blasts into the smoke-ridden air and a vast groan of collapsing metal moaned throughout the volcanic landscape.

Astoach kicked up a foot and slammed it down on the keyboard panel, cracking the glass and denting in the metal with ease. It was now a performance, a theatre dedicated to the obsessive embodiment of the inferno, for not only would the structure dissolve into flame, but it would unleash a tide from the lava flow, and flood the village. It was like a chain reaction of giddy slaughter, roasting countless lives like marshmallows in the flame of Hell’s wrath. And how he had willed this into being, for it was a true display of Godhood here, if not anything else! “Kresh, talk to me,” Astoach croaked in feigned concern, providing a good display of voice acting overtop the rampart eruptions that shook the distant architecture, casting the building up into flames and heralding its collapsing descent.

“The security lockdowns are still in place, I can’t get to you. What’s happening? Is a volcano exploding?”

Taste cinders and sneer again, would you? Sneer at death, composed in the fury of God, brought on the platter of twisting steel beneath the heat and served hot, hot as hell, melting your skin to bone and mummifying you in ash.

[member="Kresh"]

 

[Dravek]

Kresh subconsciously noted his comm buzzing at him, rippled with static, but he was currently a bit too busy to respond. The Jedi had gained the upper hand, and Kresh had taken a blaster to the shoulder by a stray Mustafarian (right before its skull was crushed by Kresh). With his lightning fast attacks, Clover was keeping the huge lasat on his heels. Hmm. Time for a trick. Countering a vicious saber swing, Kresh pushed with both hands on the elctrostaff against the Jedi, sending him backwards a little, then jumped back and pulled out his hand cannon. Rapidly firing it a couple times, he forced the pesky Jedi away from him, as Clover frantically tried to swat away the surprise blaster fire.

Kresh's hand cannon specialized in spread shot, so Clover had taken a couple minor hits on his arms. Good. This would tire him and give Kresh the upper hand. And so the tables turned in his favor. Just as Kresh smiled, signifying the Jedi's doom, the entire building rumbled violently. The supports creaked and groaned as alarms began flashing. "Something's wrong with the lava shields! There's no point in fighting; we'll both die if we don't get out of here!" Clover yelled across the room at Kresh. Lava shields? Isn't Astoach supposed to be in charge of keeping all the systems running? Kresh frowned and hesitated.

Clover took this chance to will the Force to push against Kresh, tripping him backwards. Frantically, Clover dashed over to the door controls and tried to open the blast doors. "We'll both die if we can't open these doors. Lava will flood the village quickly," Clover glanced out the viewport at the rumbling lava flows. Kresh hesitated again. The Jedi were weak. Pathetic. Evil, even. But if what the Jedi said was true.... No. The Jedi cannot be trusted.

Rather than replying, Kresh roared and lunged at the Jedi again, electrostaff swinging.

[member="Astoach"]

 

[Astoach]

No response. Astoach shrugged it off, lounging back into his new favorite chair and eyeing the chaos from the safe distance of the tower. Even if the flow of lava was to reach this distant point on the far horizon he would easily evacuate before it could eat through the steel beams, latching onto the nearby cliff face so that he might not catch aflame in the river of molten flame below. Kresh, on the other hand, was not as fortunate, for the brief crackling of pipelines revealed all hell was on the verge of breaking loose. The lava shields were down and the hydraulic lines were evaporating, bursting the pipes in pressurized clouds of steam the popped the valves like whistling bullets. The walls were visibly shutter, expanding under the intense heating resonating from the molten rock lashing fiery tongues against the pumice and obsidian beach beneath.

Well at least he tried to put on a good show, but if Kresh would not even appreciate his acting why bother sending home the blow? Astoach’s fingers danced along his knees, his lap, and up his chest and against his throat, tapping along his Adam's apple impatiently for the real show to begin. His eyes glanced off to the remaining security camera footage, catching Kresh’s batter-blow slamming into the Jedi’s temple, sending him flopping across the room and hitting the ground in a star-seeing daze. “That’s my boy,” chuckled Astoach softly, arms interlocking together with peaceful serenity as the world seemed to depart to Rapture around him. “Kresh,” he said, speaking into the now active mic once again. “Hurry up in there, I’m trying to undo security measures but I think they’re up to something. They’re desperate and afraid up there, I’m fearful they may do something… extreme to stop you.”

[member="Kresh"]

 

[Dravek]

Caught up in his blood rage, Kresh couldn't stop himself from sending Clover flying across the room. The Jedi appeared beaten, groaning and slowly writhing on the ground. Not many survive a direct hit in the skull from the electrostaff. This Jedi was a tough one. Towering over the wounded Jedi, Kresh strapped his electrostaff on his back and pulled out his long, curved knife. the hilt was covered in ancient lasat symbols, and the blade, constantly sharpened, had taken the lives of many. "Please," the Jedi moaned. "There's no point in this." Kresh plunged the blade into the fallen warrior quickly and brutally. Clover's moaning ceased and blood pooled under him.

Now was time for escape. Eyeing Clover's lightsabre, Kresh picked it up and ignited it. These could cut through blast doors. Remembering his comms, Kresh activated it and contacted Astoach. "The Jedi's dead. But you've gotta try and get the shields back on or something. This building won't last much longer." Growling to himself, Kresh stabbed the glowing blue blade into the blast door he had come in, sending sparks flying and slowly turning the hard durasteel to melting mush. The effort to move the sabre and cut a hole in the door was tiring; Kresh's muscles bulged as he started sweating. The hole was now halfway cut. Just another minute more. But did he have a minute?

[member="Astoach"]