En Route to Surface
Allies: The Confederacy
Enemies: The Galactic Empire
A helmet laid tucked beneath his arm.
It had been so long since he dared to don the crimson armor...So long since he had allowed himself to remotely
feel as though the word Mandalorian applied to his life. They had turned their back on him - on his entire Clan - for a matter of blood. They had forgotten a lifetime spent serving the cause and people of Manda’yaim due to
paranoia and little else. As the culture was now, it was evident that Darth Metus was not wanted by the Mandalorian people; not as he was anyway. And that alone was enough that the man had shut this armor away, locked behind panes of glass. His armor became a reminder of what was...and a reminder of how quickly the tides of life could turn against him. Yet. When the time came and the drums of War began to beat, Darth Metus found himself standing before that display.
His bare fingers graced the frigid surface of the glass. The longing for what
was haunted every fiber of his being. It was there, on the eve of battle, that he made a choice. It didn’t matter that Mandalore had turned its back on him. It didn’t matter that his being sensitive to the Force was the sole cause of his Exile. What mattered was that the misguided paranoia of a people would not define
Him. What mattered was that before there was Darth Metus, there was Isley of Clan Verd. And no matter who wore the crown of Sole Ruler, no one would take the
Honor,
Pride, and
Glory that he had earned whilst slashed in the crimson beskar.
The glass was broken and Darth Metus readied for war.
In the here and now, the Vicelord strode confidently forth from within the confines of the turbolift. Sulfuric eyes swept the length of the Hangar, seeking
something that he had asked to be prepared beforehand. Yet, before the object was found, his helm chimed from underneath the crook of his arm. With minimal fanfare did Darth Metus promptly situate the
buy’ce over his visage, blinking rapidly for a moment as the 360-degree vision displayed before his eyes. Even over the course of decades, one never
truly got used to the sensory overload. As the onboard systems began to rouse from their temporary slumber, the Sith noted the presence of a waiting comm request. The Southern Systems Bazaar had hailed Storm Fleet, and the communication had been appropriately routed to the Vicelord. The waiting missive was…
Ha...It seemed as though the Queen of Trade yet had sense of humor.
”Greetings Baron Administrator, this is Darth Metus, Vicelord of the Confederacy.” he began.
”I do apologize for the intrusion, my forces and I have an appointment with the Imperials present on Tatooine. I’ve alerted Ms. Arceneau of our intentions beforehand, I’m certain she’ll bring you up to speed in a moment.” ([member="Danger Arceneau"])
Although coy, the intent laced between the honied words was very clear. The Confederacy had come for the Empire and the Empire alone - as the Queen of Trade would surely inform of her subordinates.
With that said, the Sith temporarily switched off his microphone with but a bat of his eyelid. The pineal systems within his helm responded immediately, ensuring anything he said prior to the Baron’s response would not fall upon ATC ears. However, the next words that Darth Metus uttered were not even by his physical tongue.
Srina was coming. He felt her presence long before the words echoed within his skull, for a myriad of emotions trickled through their Bond.
Butterflies. The alabaster beauty was right to feel as she did - and the Sith responded as he so often did.
For one another, they were a pillar of strength. And where [member="Srina Talon"] felt discomfort, Darth Metus practically
embraced her. As she drew ever closer to her Master, noting the necessity of acting quickly before the Imperial armada could delay their advance. And, before he “spoke”, his own
Confidence would trickle back.
We can only hope this trend continues. Put a pep in those steps my dear, they’re spinning up the engines. There was a lightness to his “words” - a banter meant to ease her nerves even the slightest before the battle began in earnest.
Chime!
A missive hailing from [member="Amaya Cardei"] immediately opened upon his HUD. Brave words of strength uttered from a woman he had so desperately attempted to forge a bond with. And, as his eyes danced across the words,
Pride bled through him - so much so that even Srina would feel a fire spring to life in her belly. A toothy grin wormed its way upon his face as the enclosed attachment opened...
Isley the Younger she called him. A joyful smile looked back upon the Sith - a smiling toddler with a mass of loose curls upon his head. His grandson had grown up so fast.
”Amaya’ika, Amaya’ika, how much you’ve grown. It is the highest honor a father can have to carve a victory into the backs of the enemy alongside his child. You bring me Pride. You bring me Honor. I’ll meet you on the surface - OYA!” he said aloud, responding to her message immediately.
WHRRRR! Thud. Thud. Thud.
What was once a sentimental expression - a light smile at the sight of a grandchild - turned vicious at the drop of a credit. Darth Metus’ eyes all but gleamed with
glee at the sight of it. Hulking plates of polished beskar. Onyx claws the size of swords. The visage of a Ram’s Skull - insignia of his Clan - emblazoned upon its flank. A Basilisk War Droid lumbered forth, promptly inspiring those within its path to make way. It paused, briefly, when it was within arm’s reach of the Vicelord before lowering its “head.” He, immediately, reached up and pressed one of his gloved hands upon its form. The act, while symbolic of Master & Rider, was much more technological than they let on. For, whilst the beast made what could only be described as a
metallic purr upon contact, the Sith’s HUD began to process synchronization. Weapons systems were linked. Targeting systems were aligned. And, after but a few moments, the War Droid was ready to serve its Master.
Just in time to hear [member="Kainan Wolfe"] address the whole of Tatooine. The bold words of the Shrouded Admiral were but fuel upon the Vicelord’s resolve - for they were not simply acting alone above the desert world this day. Their election to bring battle to the Empire was not an act born of avarice or “manifest destiny”, but rather a desire to see their allies
avenged, their people
safe, and oppression
ceased.
And the only way to do that was through the shedding of
Blood.
With the War Droid linked, a simple click of his teeth motivated the beast into action. Its lumbering strides bore it up one of the larger cargo ramps, securing its place within the Landing Craft straightaway. Darth Metus was soon behind, making his way up an adjacent ramp before finding a suitable place to stand. Reaching up, he braced himself by grasping one of the support ropes which hung over his head. All the while, the roar of the Landing Craft’s engines began to fill his ears. Launch was imminent, but there was yet ample time for Srina and [member="Kilia"] to make their way aboard before they shot into the black. In the meantime, there was but one final check that the Sith had to undertake.
A glance accessed the systems slaved to his helm. A duo of Scimitar-class Star Couriers awakened by his will. Their engines cycled to life within the very same hangar, concurrent with the raising of their cloaking devices. Within the bellies of these silent warmachines were turning points for the battle below - of this Darth Metus was
confident. These were not for use in taming slavers or quelling meager enemies. These were
Carnage incarnate; but he would hold off on deploying them for now. In the meantime, the
Invisible Hand made its move. Flanked by a trio of Recuscant IIs, the vessel unleashed its complement. A small horde of starfighters, Landing Craft - including the Vicelord’s own - and even one of the aforementioned Scimitars raced out into the abyss.
And into the mouth of Hell they flew.
Breaching the atmosphere was the “easy” part, surviving the anti-aircraft weaponry would prove to be the challenge. A Confederate Landing Craft was not the same as a cloaked Scimitar or an agile Vulture. Maneuverability was as thick as molasses fresh out of a cooler. And, as descent gripped the vessel, the calls began to ring out.
:: Mobius Two’s hit and trailing smoke! ::
:: Mobius Seven, what’s your status?! ::
:: Mobius Eight, bank right, bank right! ::
:: Mobius Twelve crashed! ::
:: static ::
Darth Metus gripped the rope.
Fiercely.
