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Junction The Sundering Dawn | Act II: Galaxy in Crisis (Chapter 3 | Mirror's Edge)

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Objective III | Mirror's Edge
Silent Mirror Pocket, Mid‑Rim

Jump‑beacons flickered and died the instant the strike flotilla slipped from realspace. Stars doubled—ghostly twins hovering half a breath out of phase—and the nav‑computers’ chronometers disagreed by three exact minutes. Here, in the Silent Mirror, even time lost its bearings. Ahead loomed the lost convoy: thirty hulks frozen mid‑formation, plating shredded, drive cones yawning open like ruptured lungs. The lead freighter’s name—Chemra’s Hope—floated across the viewscreen twice, the second echo chasing the first by a heartbeat.

Boarding craft launched in pairs. Tractor beams had no purchase; pilots feathered thrusters to drift alongside rent airlocks while Starweird silhouettes flickered at the edge of running‑lights, watching with unblinking hollows. The void was silent until an unexpected ping tremored along hull plates—one note, metallic and lonely, repeating at odd intervals. Every second ping preceded the first, a sound arriving before it was struck. Familiar déjà vu vertigo washed over boarding teams; some muted audio feeds to keep their own hearts from racing three beats ahead.

Inside, the corridors were littered with flash‑frozen crew still strapped to crash webbing, faces frozen mid‑scream. Emergency lighting cycled forward, then rewound. Each bulkhead carried a stencilled beacon code—N‑57, K‑12, D‑34—letters shimmering in reverse order each time the lights hiccupped. Data‑tabs clamped to permafrosted consoles showed corrupted cargo manifests: the final entry on every ship read simply ΔT = –3 min.

At the convoy’s core lay Hold Sigma, once a secure vault for Celestial salvage. Its blast door was half‑sheared, mauled by Starweird claws. Within, the Echo Resonator floated in zero‑G: a lattice of shattered transmitter rings still sparking with impossible fore‑signals. Touching it without stabilizing the cracked focus lens would dump boarding parties into 60‑second recursion loops—time folding, events re‑playing, casualties un‑dying and re‑dying in sickening cascades. But capture it intact and a fleet could read hyperspace threats three minutes before they happen—or spoof a rival’s lane echoes to vanish entire armadas.

The hull ping reverberated again, second note first. Boarding lights flickered out of sequence. Somewhere beyond the viewport, moth‑white figures converged on the breach like dust drawn into a lung. Teams fixed mag‑boots to deck plating and readied grav‑anchors; in the Silent Mirror, the future approached you before you stepped into it, and every breath might be one you’d already taken.

 
Prophet of Bogan

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Objective: 3 Mirror's Edge
Equipment: Lightsaber - Sword - Dagger - Robes
Tags: Open!
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"Well, this certainly looks like a fine place to get lost." A place where once lost one would never be found again. Yet here they were, treading into a grim floating mausoleum that seemed to still house the very creatures that had made the convoy a wreck to begin with. Starweirds were supposed to be simple legends. Ghost stories that spacers and ship crews would regale one another with over some stagnant drinks at a run down cantina on the edge of nowhere and somewhere.

They were creatures that had no business existing at all, adrift in the gaps between the stars to prey upon ships that had lost their way or suffered hyperdrive malfunctions and were cast into the void as a result. Yet here they were as well. Darth Strosius felt something within Himself recoil the moment the strike flotilla had found the lost convoy, a deep primal instinct that urged Him to turn and flee or to slaughter whatever it was causing it with extreme prejudice and efficiency. But neither course of action were what He had come here for.

Hold Sigma lay within the mess of rended metal and floating corpses, inside of it was once contained a tool of divine beings that had long since passed into the Force. A tool not fit to be wielded by mortal hands yet had been stolen in order to make use of it regardless. And now the folly of such blasphemous disrespect had come down upon the ill-fated convoy, with them here to pick up the pieces. That was why He had come. For while the damned souls that had driven this lost convoy onward were already sealed in their fate He could still ensure that Hold Sigma's cargo wasn't desecrated any further.

He felt the pale tendrils leaking from His robes coil and lengthen against themselves in something of a nervous twitch as the boarding craft He sat in made its way towards the wreckage of the convoy, the movement largely hidden behind His back as He pressed Himself into the seat. And resisted the strange urge to bite through His own tongue with His fangs.

 
Too long under the human peace
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HOLD SIGMA
CENTRE OF CONVOY
REPRESENTING: DIARCHY CHANCELLERY OF COMMERCE

Nearby: Darth Strosius Darth Strosius

Various coalition people were coming in now. Merion's mag boots clicked to the deck. Between the vision and the stress of astronavigating here, Merion knew he was having a bad day. He could not shake this knowledge. It felt overbearing and like predestination and he hated both of those things. With his space suit's clumsy fingers, he scribbled on a note tablet.

N‑57 K‑12 D‑34
D-34 K-12 N-57
43D21K75N
432175
571234
Missing digit six?


Recombining the bulkhead markings grounded him. He needed, he really needed, to be somewhere that wasn't here.
 
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ᴅᴀʀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴀᴛʜᴇᴍᴏᴜꜱ

Location: Boarding
Wearing: Armor + XMSS + Circlet + Amulet(hidden)
Allies: Sith | Darth Strosius Darth Strosius Tamsin Graves Tamsin Graves | TBA
Enemies: TBA
Nearby: Merion Oreno Merion Oreno
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"Hmh. Always meeting on a complaint, us two." Anathemous chuckled dryly.

It was not meant to insult Darth Strosius Darth Strosius , just mutual humor, she hoped, to stave off the creeping dread.

She sat nestled into a dim corner of the boarding craft, oxen arms crossed over her armored chest as she peered at the others through a crimson slit-visor. The young Darth was equally unhappy with the situation even if she showed it differently from the Wanosan prophet. She was there when Ashin Cardé Varanin Ashin Cardé Varanin unlocked the prophecy which triggered the very visions that led the sith here. She'd seen it too, and her visions had never been wrong before.

That terrified her.

"
I don't like it either." she admitted, wringing hands which still stung with a phantom frostbite.

"
Tamsin," she turned to her "apprentice", "Stay very close. Once aboard, we separate for nothing."

The knight had made that mistake before, not this time.

As they neared the ghost ship she began affixing tubes into the underside of her mask, feeding oxygen from somewhere inside her armor with a pressurized hiss. A few twists to screw it in place and a glance at her wrist computer prepared her for the void outside, or so she wished to believe.

Finally she stood, footfalls unnaturally heavy even for a woman of her size, made louder by magno-boots, as she approached Tamsin Graves Tamsin Graves to look over her equipment for a second, or perhaps third time.

"
Diagnostics still check out?"




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Theme: Devil Devil
Location: Boarding
Equipment: Twin Omens | DE-10 | Combat Knife | Multi-Tool | Circlet of Projection | Stars Enchained
Tags: Kaila Irons Kaila Irons | Darth Strosius Darth Strosius | Merion Oreno Merion Oreno


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Tamsin stood quietly at her master's side as she listened to the hissing sounds of the ships connecting. She just listened with her eyes closed, she felt her surroundings, an unease washing over her as her master spoke to the others gathered for this mission. Tamsin didn't know what to think of the others that had come here.

Darth Strosius Darth Strosius an enigmatic figure she and her master had run into a couple of times now. If the rumors were true a man who had died and come back to life. It reminded her of the demon inside her and what it was trying to birth itself back into this existence through her. It wasn't the same but still made her thoughts drift to the demon, who had been oddly quiet as of late, but she knew it was listening.

Then there was the other person near them that she did not know at all Merion Oreno Merion Oreno , something about that one seemed strange and off. She wasn't sure what it was, maybe it was the strange robes he wore. Yet she suspected something deeper, darker. He spoke strangely as well, and there was a sense of fear in him.

No there was a strange sense of fear all around them, it wasn't just him. Her eyes opened as Kaila Irons Kaila Irons spoke to her. "Yes, Master." She answered and gave a slight head nod as Kaila started looked over the equipment she was wearing like a motherly figure. "I will stay close, just look down every once awhile you will see me." She said with a little cheeky smirk.

Tamsin looked at her wrist pad on her spacesuit. "Everything looks good." As they began to move forward their mag boots clanking loudly against the flooring of the derelict ship. As they stepped into the tomb ship, corpses of the past floating in there graveyard.





 
Too long under the human peace
HOLD SIGMA
CENTRE OF CONVOY
REPRESENTING: DIARCHY CHANCELLERY OF COMMERCE
Darth Strosius Darth Strosius Kaila Irons Kaila Irons Tamsin Graves Tamsin Graves
"Lord Strosius," said Merion deferentially, adjusting his cultic robes over his space suit with limited success. "I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Merion Oreno Varanin, one of the navigators. I was aboard your ship on the Aing-Tii expedition."

He raised the notepad and stylus and tapped his helmet flashlight with the latter. The beam caught an inquisitive starweird, which flinched back out of sight in a way it absolutely wouldn't have done if Merion were alone.

"I've been compiling details from the vision and comparing them against this ship. I'm eager to unravel this place."

He'd meant to ask to travel with the Sith group, but then again he could move faster alone, solve the puzzle faster, if it was a puzzle.

So he bobbed a little bow as befitted the worst prince of Eshan and decided to head farther into the ship as soon as practical and probably sooner than polite. Matter of seconds, really.
 
The Scourge That Comes After
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Summary Report - 04/19

In the Mid-Rim's spectral recess known as the Silent Mirror, a Sith strike flotilla emerged from realspace—and reality itself bent underfoot. Time faltered. Chronometers desynchronized. Stars shimmered with doubled light, and the deadlight convoy of Chemra's Hope appeared before them: thirty derelict vessels suspended in unnatural stillness, hulls torn open like burst lungs, their crews frozen in death mid-scream.

The flotilla's objective: Hold Sigma, a secure vault buried at the convoy's heart. It once housed the Echo Resonator—a Celestial relic capable of forecasting hyperspace echoes, predicting fleet movements by minutes, even manipulating them to erase ships from existence. But the artifact had fractured, warping time within the wreck. Boarding teams risked being caught in recursion loops—death and resurrection repeating in sickening waves—unless the Resonator could be stabilized.

Among the Sith dispatched were Darth Strosius, revenant and prophet of the Bogan Flame; Darth Anathemous, armored and unshaken, guiding her apprentice Tamsin Graves with a fierce maternal vigilance; and Merion Oreno Varanin, a strange-eyed navigator of Echani descent, muttering equations and prophecy fragments alike. Each felt the dread pulsing from the wreckage—not mere fear, but the signature of something watching from beyond. Starweirds—mythic predators of the void—moved at the edge of lights, their forms pale and insubstantial, reacting not to presence, but to intent.

The corridor walls bore shifting codes—N-57, K-12, D-34—their sequences reversing with the emergency lighting's stutter, challenging Merion to decode the logic of the place. His notes hinted at a deeper pattern, one tied to the vision that had brought them all here. Anathemous, haunted by prophecy, demanded her apprentice stay close, for separation would mean oblivion. Tamsin, touched by an inner demon of her own, tread softly, the silence amplifying the gnawing awareness of other presences—both without, and within.

No orders had yet been given to breach the Resonator chamber. Not while the future continued to arrive ahead of the present. In the Mirror, a man could take a breath he hadn't yet drawn. A ship could scream before it was struck. And whatever haunted the graveyard of Chemra's Hope was not finished.

The mission proceeds. Outcome uncertain. Echoes growing louder.

 
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Mirror's Edge
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"The Key to Joy is Disobedience"
- Aleister Crowley -

Location: Boarding
Gear: In Sig
Tags: Darth Strosius Darth Strosius / Kaila Irons Kaila Irons / Tamsin Graves Tamsin Graves / Merion Oreno Merion Oreno
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They're Coming to Take Me Away


Deep in the bowels of the transporting vessel, away from the prying eyes of the others, and engulfed by utter darkness Zanami sat on the cold floor, legs folded over one another; a blank stare twirling majestically in her eyes. Collectively, her mind was focused, and void of those whispering voices who sought her mental ruination, to take control of her faculties.

This was a different mission than the usual dispatches, and one rumored with monsters. Starweirds, she thought they were called. But she, too, was a monster and briefly she wondered if they would accept her, where others mocked her existence for being different. No, they would not accept her. They were the enemy, her enemy because They said so. And she would kill them, because that's all she was, all she would ever be: a killer.

Chattering voices rang from up above, drifting down through the slotted vents to her perked ears. It was time. Reaching down, Zanami plucked the femur bone that laid next to her; draining the skeletal remain of its last drop of marrow before casting it aside. Slowly she uncoiled herself, stood up proudly, and stretched to complete the three-prong process. With the Force, she called her hilt and daggers to herself, placing the hilt and one dagger appropriately to their designation areas: sliding down the mask to cover her facial, yet abomination in form, features; holding the other dagger in her right hand.

Emerging from a mythical Underworld, the young Sithspawn began twirling the lone dagger in her hand as she passed by those mocking figures, who she knew where silently curing her existence. Smiling, she began twirling the dagger in her palm, as if she was foreshadowing to those men she was passing, they were not beneath gelding. And to the women, a far cruder castration awaiting them. She had snapped, lost something of her morality back in a Temple on Dathomir during a mission; she had changed, sinisterly.

Zanami arrived at the others, just as the beginning sounds of one ship connecting to another promptly began. She stood there; quiet, focused, and unnerving. The last of her fears, abolished in that Temple. She no longer held the fears of a teenage girl, nor did she allow herself to be subjugated by those ghostly voices in her head; she was in control, and when she wanted playtime, she relinquished control of her mental state to them. Zanami fully embraced her re-creation, accepting the girl she once was now lay dead, rotting in the ground of dead memories.


 

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