Invasion Woken Furies | BotM Invasion of NIO held Nirauan

[The Mongrel]

Location: Nirauan, New Carannia
Allies: Zachariel Steelblood | Halketh | SCAR | Maestus
Foes: DECEASED Erskine Barran | Kolson Vrask | Ortʹtʹo Mikla | Aemilio Valaar | Alric Árheim | Sephi Karneh
Nukth Kelga'an | Mogra'teksa | Darth Imperius | Willan Tal | Sturit Goan | DK-03

Spoiler: TL;DR

• The Mawites divide up to attack the spaceport and Saffia District
• The Mongrel is en route to Saffia to pick up smuggled speeders
• The Scar Hounds fight their way through the streets
• Firefang Wardogs are unleashed to hunt infiltrators

For New Carannia to fall, Fort Imperium must fall.

It was a simple and obvious truth... but not so easy a goal. The Brotherhood's crash-landers had been strikingly effective in delivering a force of ground troops to the center of the city, but if a mere horde of howling marauders tried to rush the Myrmidon Quarter directly, they wouldn't stand a moment's chance. The Mongrel could see the clever tactical mind of his old foe Barran at work in New Carannia, directing these well-drilled troops into creating a powerful maze of defensive checkpoints throughout the city streets.

The Maw was already taking losses... and the fort would be even better defended, the great bastion of a former capital.

Massed infantry - the Death Cultists, the rioters, and the newly-arrived marauder horde - could certainly get the Maw a ways, throwing the city into chaos, but it could never win the battle alone. The famous Galidraani armor had undone the Mawites more than once; the massacre on Korriban was always fresh in The Mongrel's mind. And that was just in the streets. The Brotherhood needed something to crack the mighty hardpoint that was Fort Imperium, and it needed to secure that something quickly... because right now, they were outnumbered.

And outgunned. And cut off from reinforcements.

But Barran wasn't the only one who could come up with grand plans. While the NIO troops worked swiftly to lock down the western residential districts, clearing the massed cultists that had risen up there, the Brotherhood would use the distraction well. Rather than a hopeless rush at the city center, they would divide into two main forces, each focused on gaining the strength needed to take on that final objective. The first, led by the Mawite Mandalorian Tor'r Tal'Verda, would destroy the heavy NIO air defenses at the spaceport.

That would allow them to bring in air support.

The second cut across the city to the east, heading for the Saffia District. It was a tactical decision that, on the surface, made little sense. It forced the Mawites to punch through dozens of NIO checkpoints in order to advance toward a district with little military or positional value, a place that would likely have been little more than an afterthought to most commanders. But the area had value to The Mongrel and his Scar Hounds, value that made it worth the losses they would sustain along the way. Losses that Darth Caelitus would raise again in any case.

Why would the Mawites want the entertainment district?

Weeks earlier, in preparation for the invasion, the Death Cults had reached out to local criminals... criminals dissatisfied with the dominance of the Zord Kajidic, the most powerful local criminal syndicate. It was an open secret that the kajidic's leader, Jinnosha the Hutt, had made an agreement with the planetary government to keep vice controlled. The Maw, the Death Cults promised, could offer much more than the meager profits of regulated crime. And so local smugglers had been bribed with the plundered wealth of dozens of worlds to betray their home.

Hidden on the lower levels of casino garages and megamall parking lots was a small fleet of LuchsHai cargo speeders, each of them modified through signature Mawite ingenuity into technicals. These would provide the Brotherhood's ground forces with much-needed mobility and firepower. Some bore E-WEB repeating blasters designed to clear the streets in their back cargo area. Others were even more important. They carried the Mongrel's Howl, mobile Mawite artillery pieces. This artillery would be the key to cracking Fort Imperium wide open.

But first, the Scar Hounds had to reach them.

--------------------------------------

​

"Forward!" The Mongrel demanded, each of his thundering footfalls cracking the duracrete pavement as he tromped steadily on. His massive assault cannon never ceased spinning, unleashing a withering hail of plasma bolts up the street. "Shoot any man who fails to advance!" The blaster bolts of NIO defenders slammed into his armored chassis, but he hardly even felt them, and they did little more than leave black streaks of carbon scoring across his chestplate. He had become so much more than human; it would take more than small-arms fire to kill him.

His warriors, of course, were not quite so tough. Many fell to the disciplined volleys of the NIO troops, forced to advance through their gauntlet of roadblocks and fallback points and sniper nests. But that was what the might of Darth Caelitus was for. The necromancer's sorcery still turned The Mongrel's stomach - or whatever cybernetic organ had replaced it - but it was undeniably effective. Fallen soldiers on both sides lurched back to their feet, taking up their arms once more in service to the Brotherhood. Were they denied their final reward?

The Scar Hounds had standing orders to burn their dead, including The Mongrel himself if he fell. He would not let Caelitus keep them out of the Galaxy To Come by turning their bodies and souls into his puppets, even in service to the Maw. But there was no time for that now, with warriors rising almost as soon as they fell. The Mongrel could only hope that the Three Avatars would look past this desecration and still deliver the faithful to the coming paradise. That was what they all fought for, after all, not for the schemes of the mysterious New Sith Order.

Or so they believed, anyway.

There was still a ways to go before the Scar Hounds and their allies reached the Saffia District. Things would get easier with access to their vehicles, but until then they had to preserve as much of their strength as they could. Scar Hounds and Bloodsworn fought side by side once more, and if all went well, this might be their finest hour since Csilla. But if the NIO armor hit them too early, it would be an Ilum or a Korriban all over again. The Mongrel growled at the thought, his cannon stitching its way across an entire enemy squad. That must not happen.

The approach of his Second pulled him from his thoughts.

His old Second, Hetzen, had died in battle on Lao-mon. He had raised up another warrior, Callym, to the position after that; Callym had proven himself in battle on Coruscant, and was a worthy choice. "Our forces are clearing the nearby office buildings, Warlord," his Second told him. "They've shot down an NIO dropship up there, and there may be additional snipers. Our warriors have requested the hounds." The Mongrel nodded. "Send them in. They will root out the enemy." There were no trackers quite like the cybernetic firefang wardogs.

A great, metallic barking and baying rose up over the streets...

And then the wardogs, these heavily-enhanced cybernetic charhounds, rushed up the alley. To the Scar Hounds, these beasts were tribe members, as respected as any warrior. The tribe lived, trained, and fought beside them, learning to take advantage of their fearsome jaws and their fiery breath - as well as their mobility and tracking ability. If there were crash survivors or snipers lurking in the office buildings along the thoroughfare the Scar Hounds were taking toward the Saffia District, they would surely root them out.

Bad news for Sephi Karneh ...

 

[Dante Corvus]

M Y R M I D O N
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
LORD-COMMANDER OF THE 173RD. LEGION "MYRMIDONS"

WRONG SIDE OF HEAVEN

War never changed, and to the beat of the Empire's drums, the Myrmidons had always followed. When the beat of those drums drew closer to home than many had expected, Dante had realized the error that countless within the Dominion had made.

They had grown complacent.

Perhaps not in the conventional sense, as the warriors under his command were never afforded the opportunity to remain lax in the face of danger. But in the eyes of his men, he could see it clearer than ever before. The shock, if not outright confusion when word was received that their home was under imminent threat of attack. Minds switched from their duties to their families-- and rightfully so, Dante would admit. Though he possessed neither family nor hearth to settle him like it did most of his men, he was not that cold of a bastard to not see their plight.

For so long had they become accustomed to the safety and security that the Dominion offered, and for so long did they presume this fateful day would never arise. Nobody had expected it, except for Dante himself, it seemed. Not even Lord Dooku, it appeared, though his untimely absence from the New Imperial Order made Dante presume that much already.

He could see it even clearer, once the reality of the news given had taken ahold of his men. The anxious feeling settling in the pits of their stomach, the slight twitchiness that followed the occasional movement of an appendage, the darting of eyes amongst each other.

It was fear.

An emotion that carried a horrible stench, and one he would not entertain among the ranks of his men. A hand was balled into a fist, and through the frame of the table beneath him it went, splintering wood and bending screws all the same until his betaplast-covered wrist was all that could be seen.

"Enough."

Dante spoke up, drawing the full attention of the officer cadre settled in the room. He removed his fist, the table fracturing into two parts in the wake of his display of force. In all fairness to those gathered, it wasn't a typical display of their First Captain, the man who became known as Lord Dante shortly after their reconquering of Serenno. Nothing drastic had changed, despite Lord Dooku no longer being the sole individual within the Legion who the Myrmidons would refer to as their Lord.

Dante was among the first, and would surely be the last of the Myrmidons alive if their numbers were thinned to the point of destruction. He'd seen Lord Dooku grow from an inexperienced commander, protecting him during those early days in the valleys and gulches of Aeten II. When their battalion had been ambushed on Mygeeto, he led the remainder of their unit to a surprising victory, staving off the Sith-Imperial forces whilst the soon-to-be Warlord fought a harrowing battle against the Sith. He'd even been there on Dantooine, racing after the brazen Warlord's advance, all to prevent a losing battle from ending in the deaths of those who held the whole Empire together.

There was nobody more qualified to lead the Legion in Lucien's stead, or at least not a single soul outside of Lord Dooku who the Myrmidons would listen to. The veterans of the long war against the Sith held their brotherhood in high regard, after all. It was to a point that many outside the Legion had come to question their loyalty to the Order itself. A fair point indeed, considering their oaths to the Dominion preceded their pledge to defend the Order. Though the Myrmidons had never faltered to face the enemies of the Empire in every theater that arose, there was still a sense of irony that blossomed when Nirauan fell under threat. Nobody could see it, not with their homes under the immediate threat of invasion by some of the most savage fanatics they'd fought as of yet.

His helmet clicked, pressure locks disengaging as he removed it from his head, revealing the war-weary features beneath. It was a surprise that his hair hadn't greyed, whether from age or stress, but that was the least of his worries as of late.

He could smell it again. Another whiff in the air, and the stench filled his nostrils once more. He scrunched his face in disgust and even spat on the ground next to him to the confusion of those gathered.

"Your fear." Dante continued. "If I can smell it, you best believe these savages will be able to pick up the scent as well." He continued around the shattered table, pacing slowly through the veteran officers who formed the core of their legion; they were the beating heart, and from their collective leadership, the Legion remained whole.

"Fear is a weakness-- but to these savages of the Maw, it is a tool they use to defeat their betters."

It was only after the words exited his lips did the unassuming Captain of the Second Company realize what had just happened. In nearly the blink of an eye, Dante had slipped a hand onto the hilt of the man's combat knife, unsheathing it from his hip before effortlessly bringing it to a standstill upon the man's neck.

"...It is a tool for whose sole purpose is killing and destroying, pillaging like the savage barbarians they are. Nothing more, nothing less."

His eyes remained glued upon his Second Captain, cold and impassive to the steel that rested upon his neck after sobering up to the reality that faced them all. Dante could see it in his subordinate's eyes, that sudden realization of where the Myrmidons now stood. Their home was under siege, and fear would do nothing but cripple the mightiest of the Imperator's Legions.

The knife retreated from his skin, and Dante handed the man back his knife. The two men shared a brief nod, an understanding that could only be shared by those who fought together as brothers in arms. Dante resumed his slow bearing around the room, the attention of each and every man now solely focused upon him, and him alone.

"But we must remember the weakness of weapons. They are an extension of ourselves-- the warrior behind the blade, whether we wield steel, lightsaber, or fear. It is not the weapons that make us the Empire's elite; It is we who are the killer and destroyer. It is we who are whole, with or without blade or blaster."

Dante came to a stop, emerald orbs scanning across the room, his nose twitching once more.

The smell was gone.

"We are Myrmidons. If these savages want our home, they can come and take it."
​

---

FEAR INOCULUM

The invasion had come as expected, bringing with it hordes of fanatics and their ilk to test the famously daunting defenses of the Hand of Thrawn, and the Dominion of Nirauan itself. The full might of the Legion, working in tandem with the Nirauan Sector Army, and their parent Knight-Legion, the Angels of Defiance, had been dispersed and divvied throughout the city of New Carannia in the hours prior to the assault. It was an arduous task, to coordinate all these elements whilst still having to maintain a clear line of communication with the IMPAF proper. Luckily he didn't have to move very far to achieve this-- not yet at least.

The invasion was still in its infantile stage, where the forces of both sides were seeking to establish themselves as the dominant force in their respective theaters. Dante knew this feeling well, given his track record for partaking in some of the most formidable assaults upon the heavily-fortified border worlds of Sith-Imperial space. With that in mind, he was under no illusion that the relative equilibrium of battle would remain how it was. The ebb and flow would consistently rock back and forth, flipping from one end of the spectrum and to another until a single side had prevailed over the other.

From his command post within the Myrmidons' Quarters, communication throughout the Legion's elements was clogging up channels with sitreps and reports on the enemy's movements, and their engagements against IMPAF and Nirauan's forces. The Myrmidons were under strict orders to not engage in the grinding conventional battles that were soon to follow en masse, and instead utilize their Legion's mobility to strike outwards as unassuming formations before making a clean exfil from the frontlines.

There were plenty of bodies to grind each other down, in any case. Their Legion's tactics would preserve their manpower, something which was much needed if the Myrmidons were to survive the long war to come. Nirauan was just the beginning, that much was clear for all who were witness to the Mawite's ghastly descent upon what was once a peaceful beacon of freedom within the Empire.

Nirauan represented more than just a planet, after all. It was a lighthouse within a sea of darkness, never to have its flame washed out less the hearts of those it drew near to it would wane as well. Nirauan needed to hold-- it had to hold, for the ideals of Lord Dooku to remain a constant within the minds of the Empire's citizens. As pragmatic as Dante could be, he truly believed in the idea behind the Dominion, and what it brought to the Empire as a whole. To let that beacon be snuffed out without a fight was akin to giving up hope, and he owed it to his men, and the citizens of the Dominion, to remain steadfast against the darkness that bore down upon them.

It was for these reasons that he could remain unphased, where many men's hearts would begin to quiver with doubt. He was an awe-inspiring presence, even if he'd never admit it himself. He represented those traits that made the Myrmidons' amongst the most defiant of New Imperials one could find, yet he carried himself with an air of nobility, even long before he was officially referred to as Lord. Dante would never falter, or rather he couldn't when the lives of thousands depended on his ability to bear their weight upon his shoulders at all times. Even when he was knee-deep in the blood and viscera of his enemies, side-by-side with his brothers, Dante remained a vigilant presence on the battlefield. Exemplar in all ways, and the best of the best, there were few men who could be considered his equal.

One of those few just happened to be near. DECEASED Erskine Barran , a kindred soul with who he'd personally fought side-by-side on more than one occasion. Despite the Lord General and his Blue-Heart's lacking the experience that came with being long-standing Veterans of the Sith-Imperial war, Erskine and his men were counted among those the Myrmidons truly felt were dependable. It was an even smaller list than the former, and an honor bestowed upon only those who earned that right in blood. It was an honor to fight alongside Erskine once more, even if Dante would never outright admit such a thing himself. Stoic as he was, and sometimes to a fault, it was easier to convey what he believed, than to express it outright.

That time would arrive sooner than later, as Dante entered the command room of the Lord General with two other Myrmidons' flanked to his rear. Approaching Erskine at a leisurely pace, Lord Dante was greeted with the disciplined salutes of the officers and enlisted he passed, and waved them at ease at all same. He came to a stop, just shy of the Lord General's presence, and removing his helmet to reveal a solemn gaze that settled rested upon his former equal, now the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Armed Forces.

"Lord General."

Dante offered a half-bow once he entered into view, a fist tapping over his heart in unison with the gesture. It was a sign of respect among the Myrmidons, to signify that one was addressing their brothers-in-arms and not just a fellow soldier. "You have my thanks and the gratitude of my Legion for the...expeditious aid, given the swift nature of our foe." Dante gave a nod, and what appeared to be the briefest beginning of a grin nearly appeared before it was muzzled away. "I've been tasked with coordinating the efforts of Nirauan's armed forces, along with the Legion elements of Lord Dooku's Knight-Chapter, with those who were brought off-world in our mutual defense. As such, I might not be the Lord-General, but it seems we once more stand as equals." ​

 

[Rebirth]

Interlude: The Cultist's Tale​

Three Years Ago

"It's a sure thing, Niall."

"I don't know," Niall Vorshwaithe replied. He was a young man, mid twenties, handsome and athletic. "It seems pretty risky. I just got started at the firm, and I think I'm on a good track for promotion. I don't want to quit. And Val would kill me if I put all our savings into this deal, especially with a baby on the way." Fresh out of his graduate program with a shiny new law degree, he wore a sharp (but secondhand) navy blue jacket. It was a far cry from the tailored shimmersilk suits worn by the senior partners at Dorvahk and Gronn, but it was his, bought with his own money. It was something he never could have dreamed of when he was growing up in the low-income Pellaeon District.

"Listen, Niall," said the man across the table. Kole Tonder was his oldest friend, the neighbor kid he used to run the streets with, the one who'd fended off the bigger kids who'd bullied Niall for his geeky tendencies and weedy build. "I'm happy for you, man. I really, really am. You and Val are like family to me. That's why I'm coming to you with this. It's the chance of a lifetime, man. It's the chance to leave Pellaeon in the dust forever, for both of us." He took a long swig of his beer, then slammed it back down on the dirty table. "I didn't want to have to say this, but I know you know it's true. They're never going to make you a partner, Niall. They don't do that for people who come from nothing."

It stung. It flew in the face of the comfortable reality Niall had built up for himself. It made him want to reach out and hit Kole, to tell him he was wrong, to scream in his face... but he didn't. Because Kole was right. Niall saw the way that those puffed-up Fiyarro District sleemos looked at him: as if he was a bit of refuse blown in off the street. It didn't matter that he'd been top of his class, or that he'd won his first five cases back to back. They were never going to treat him like he was as good as them, even if he was better at the things that mattered. He sighed, looking over at his friend's eager face. This investment opportunity would take everything he had, and then some...

... but when it paid off, he would never have to work a day in his life again.

"Okay," he said, blowing out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, "I'm in." Kole let out a little whoop, grinning ear to ear, and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! I knew I could count on you. Trust me, man. I may not have the fancy degree, but I know how the markets work. We're going in on this together, 50-50 split of the profits. You and Val can send that kid of yours to the same private school those rich chitholes send their kids to, and you can laugh at them still running the rat race, because we fething outsmarted them, man." Niall grinned too, caught up in his friend's enthusiasm. He trusted Kole with all his heart. The guy was a financial genius.

There was no way this could go wrong.


One Year Ago

"It's a sure thing, Niall."

"I don't know," Niall Vorshwaithe replied. He was slumped in his chair, deep bags under his eyes, his clothes rumpled and dirty, his skin sallow from liver disease. A mess of stubble was crawling over his drooping face. Val would have hated that; she liked him clean-shaven, to show off the sharp, handsome lines of his chin and cheekbones. But Val was gone. He could still see her at the door of the apartment they'd just lost, a suitcase in one arm, their baby in the other. I'm going to my mom's for a few days, she'd said. But she'd never come back, and he'd never blamed her for that. He'd lost everything, for the both of them. He'd taken their bright future together and pissed it all away.

He was living with that. Kole had taken the easy way out: jumping in front of the 2:15 downtown hovertram.

"I'm not really looking for a support group right now," he finally added, his watery eyes flicking up from the grimy table to behold the person he was talking to. She was another regular at Grobal's Cantina, a cheap dive in the Saffia District where newly-impoverished casino gamblers stumbled in to drink. Niall hadn't gambled at the nearby casinos, but he'd gambled and lost all the same, so it seemed an appropriate place for him to hang around and spend whatever credits he could beg for. Until they threw him out at closing, and he had to find someplace to sleep in the early hours of the morning. He was sure he stank like death itself; he couldn't remember the last time he'd used a 'fresher.

"I bet I can change your mind," the woman told him. She didn't look like the other regulars. She wasn't dressed rich, per se, but she was clean and put-together, her hair cropped short and tied back in a sensible bun. What really set her apart, though, was the energy she brought with her. In a place that was a mass of misery and lethargic grief, she stuck out for being vivid and intense, her words clipped and deliberate, her eyes shining with passion. She reached into a briefcase and pulled out a flimsiplast sheet, quickly sliding it across the table so that Niall could see it. "Your friend was right, Niall. You both did everything right. But they wouldn't let you. It would've hurt their profits."

He had to force himself to look, to open up his mind again and let everything that had happened flood back in. But the woman - did he even know her name? - was right. It was all there, written out on the flimsi. Kole hadn't missed the trading window; they'd shut it off. The firm had meddled with the market to keep Niall and Kole from calling their short. The company had destroyed their lives, taken everything from them, to keep up the illegal backroom trading that made the rich just a little bit richer. For the first time in a long, long time, Niall felt something other than all-consuming grief and self-loathing. He felt angry. So, so angry. The woman could see it in his eyes, and she smiled.

"You're not the only one," she told him, leaning forward to put a hand on his arm. "They do this all the time. They say that New Carannia is the city of free enterprise, the land of opportunity... but they don't let people like us crawl out of the gutter. They get angry when someone else plays the game they've rigged in their favor. But we don't have to take that anymore. We can hit back at them, Niall, if we come together. We're stronger in numbers, stronger than they realize. We can stop this whole exploitative system if we work together. Like I said, it's a sure thing. " She leaned back, letting him think her words over. But she knew, as he did, that he'd made his decision as soon as he'd seen the flimsi.

"Okay," Niall told her. "I'm in."


Today

"It's a sure thing, Niall."

"I know," Niall Vorshwaithe replied. He stood tall in the alleyway, unbothered by the screams and explosions and blasterfire all around him. He was lean and fit again, his head shaved, his scalp and arms covered in runic tattoos. "I know that my entry into paradise is assured." All around him, the rest of the Death Cult cell laid their hands on him, bowing their heads in prayer to the Three Avatars. Kailyn, the woman who'd recruited him, his mentor in the ways of the Hidden Maw, stood right in front of him. She let her forehead touch his. "I'm so, so proud of you, Niall," she said, and there were tears in her eyes. "And jealous." Everyone chuckled at that. He had been given a great honor.

When he'd started coming to the "support group", Niall had largely kept his head down. It'd been helpful to talk about what had happened to him, and to fantasize about revenge on the rich sons of banthas who'd brought him and so many other people low, but he hadn't really been into the religious mumbo-jumbo that seemed to go along with it. The more meetings he came to, though, the more it started to speak to him. A lot of that was because of Kailyn. When she spoke, everyone listened. She spoke passionately about how this galaxy, the one that had hurt them all so badly, was hopelessly broken and corrupt... but it was also coming to an inevitable end. A rotten system couldn't stand forever.

When she'd preached to them about the Galaxy To Come, that beautiful paradise future, he'd started to believe.

"The Avatars are watching," Kailyn told him, enfolding him in a tight hug. "You'll be the first of us to see the Galaxy To Come, and the first to strike a blow against the Stagnant Ones." She stepped back, lifting a fist over her head and then moving it down over her heart. "Toward the Great Renewal," she intoned. The other cultists copied the gesture. "The Great Renewal," they echoed. Kailyn nodded; it was time. Niall took a deep breath, trying not to look down at the vest he wore. It wouldn't do to lose his nerve now, not when the gods themselves had their eyes on him. He pushed down on the dead man's switch in his left hand, keeping his thumb there with all his might. He couldn't afford to slip.

"The Great Renewal," he whispered to himself. He'd see Val again in the Galaxy To Come. They'd be happy.

The NIO patrol crossed the mouth of the alley, rushing to intercept a group of rioters, and Niall knew his moment had come. He stepped out, the light of the many fires raging across the district playing over his shining scalp and bright metal vest... and charged. "War! Death! Reb-" he never finished the cry. Well-drilled soldiers snapped up their rifles immediately, riddling him with blaster bolts mid-stride. Niall was dead before he hit the ground. His thumb slipped from the trigger... and the pounds and pounds of detonite strapped to his vest went up instantly. The squad, the street, and the fronts of four surrounding buildings ripped apart in a vast ball of flame, utterly consumed.

The rest of the cult cell readied their blaster rifles, crossed the crater that had been Niall Vorshwaithe, and entered the fray.

​

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

Ziare Dyarron
COMPNOR (ISB) Junior Agent, Nite agent​

Objective II: Hand of Thrawn
Location: Hand of Thrawn, Nirauana
Equipment: FS-18-UP2 Omega Phase Assault Rifle | 2x PV-16 "Sunfury" Pulse Pistol | Druetium Armour | Viper Mk. I Skinsuit | 2x Vibrodagger || Stealth field generator || OPBC-01m
Allies: Ragnar Bloodfist | Djorn Bline | Khroraic | Saaveina | Noel Strasza | Rurik Fel
Enemies: Tegan Starfall | Darth Solipsis | Kyrel Ren | Detritus Ren | Darth Mori | Lord Letifer

[ Planet Hell ]
"Galactic Basic" | ~"Telepathic" communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

Under the new order, one shuttle took me to another city and even before the siege and fight began, I had time to take my new seat. This day was already a madhouse; at least as much as it used to be around the enemy house. I was "lucky" enough to experience it first hand. Luckily I arrived soon and had a minute or two to catch a breath. At that time, however, I heard the voice of Noel Strasza , the Lord Executor.

<< Immediately, Lord Executor! >> I answered.

~ Come to MANIAC, join the NIO network and request the relevant data for the SITREP! ~ I instructed the AI in thought.

The connection was made immediately, my codes were correct, and luckily my biochip was also compatible with local systems. As a result, data began to appear on my retina within moments. But the data made no sense. During the siege of the capital, this city was much more valuable, yet the number of enemy forces was negligible. Feth! If I weren’t an agent, I might not even think about that.

<< Lord Executor, this is Agent Z! The number of enemy forces outside the city is minimal and negligible. Based on military movements and tactics, they seem to want us to pay attention to them, but nothing more. To concentrate our forces nn the perimeter and not on the inside area. I will transfer the data. If I may speak openly, ma'am! I have no evidence yet, but as an agent, I would try to get into town as part of a diversion. They may have been here long ago inside the city and going to hit us from inside. >> I said to her.

Don't be right, don't be right. I would hate it if I was right. I looked at the map projected onto my retina again and liked what I saw less and less. I also looked around, I haven’t seen any enemies near yet, yet I had a bad feeling.

~ Watch the surrounding area, I don’t want anyone to surprise us… me. ~ I asked him.

 

[Zori Kapshan]

LOCATION

​

Nirauan

Objective: Complete Espionage. Surveil Hand of Thrawn Library.

​

They paid well, provided plenty of bodies and zero questions. It was a match made in Science for one Zori Kapshan, former tax-evading Imperial Moff, newly christened scientist for his Sith overlords in the Brotherhood. Nobody could blame him.

His loansharks, maybe. A few Hutts, here or there. But very few others.

​

It was perhaps to exactly nobody's surprise that Zori was still floating around the galaxy, up to his usual shenanigans of war profiteering to fund his research at next to little cost. With the Brotherhood, he was perhaps a little over his head - these weren't the guys you evaded or took money from. No, these were the less forgiving "wipe you from all memory existent then and now" types. But, for now, Zori had very little to worry about in the ways of money - in exchange for his weapons, repairs and the work his company did with Damage Control - the wars that the Maw brought had a very peculiar yet familiar place for Zori to naturally sit at their side.

The scientist wasn't a distrustful type, not necessarily. He just pursued science, his projects, and the furtherment of his hypotheses until fruition. Why was it so damned difficult, for a man of Zori's stature - why were there so few of him in the Galaxy? This technology was coming from somewhere, and not everyone could be a CEO of a major corporation. That would be incredibly convenient if he was, though.

So here he was, on a planet serving a interplanetary government assaulting his previous interplanetary government, and being paid for projects by a military that was now at odds with a military he previously reported his loyalty to. There was no going back, however - the exiled Moff's dissolution from the Imperial Order saw to it that his prior assets had been completely frozen. His rank stripped, and bounty pucks placed in every Cantina from here to Nar Shaddaa. The Imperial Order wasn't one to tread lightly near, and you'd be sure as a dead wampa's ass that Zori wouldn't be here without the full might of the Brotherhood towing him along the way.

A precarious position, to be sure, but a position the Scientist Supreme was willing to endeavor. Anything for his next project. Speaking of, it was time to begin unmaking this particular bastion of data. Some several kliks eastbound of the Hand of Thrawn, Zori unleashed his probe droids into the air. They could easily camouflage within the facility, hopefully, and could speak many of the languages needed. But if the Imperial Order was still using challenge codes for some of their droids - as even the lowliest guard on shift would be aware of - they would obviously be doomed to failure. Still, Zori had high hopes that the Imperial minds would be more focused on the... massive invasion the planet was undergoing. More prying eyes surely wouldn't be focused on a location such as...

"The Library," Zori whispered, and the probes began to take off in two's.

​

​

​

 

[Darth Solipsis]

DARK LORD OF THE SITH | VOICE OF THE MAW
Hand of Thrawn
Lucien Dooku

​

The Dark Voice led at the helm of the Sith as the Imperial Knights charged them. His arm snapped out grasping the thin air of the tower heights, his cloak nearly crackled as it whipped out of his reach, revealing his saber hilt at his waist. Seizing his weapon, the Dark Lord brandished his newly constructed electrum crossguard that had been forged to replace the yorik coral hilt he’d lost on Coruscant.

Hiss-Crackle-Pop

The unstable crimson trail of plasma roared out from it’s metallic coating, two vents mounted on one per side released ripples of energy out from the unstable crystal previously shattered in the Senate Chamber.

He continued his stride, unbothered as the other Sith sprung to life to crash against the wave of Imperials. The Epochian felt the cold stare of the Serenno King upon him, he’d made a mistake not finishing him when he had the chance, a momentary error. He would not make that mistake again.

“Your head is mine.”

The Warlord was upon him, with great speed he soared past his Knights and the Sith to meet him in a sudden saber lock as the Dark Lord crashed his blade upon the swiftly imbued warrior-king’s own just before the two forces of Force-Wielders crashed like tidal waves against another.

“Perhaps you don’t understand.”

Eyes glowing with sulfuric stains, his face illuminated by the grinding dead lock between lightsabers. The Dark Lord leaned in, letting his dark visage come into clear view.

“Struggle, resist, defy. It matters not. We will not stop, we will not end.”

He pressed off the lock between them as white hot sparks of plasma jumped out as the blades left another. The Elder spun to his backfoot and reigned in his weapon as he entered a suitable stance demanded by Makashi.

“You fight.”

He lunged forth and followed through with a flourish.

“You die.”

He spun back around and held up a defensive guard ready to anticipate any counter opportunity he could.

“Rinse, repeat.”

 

[Raus Garrat]

A L O N E

NEW IMPERIAL ORDER

1st COMPANY CORSAIRS

TAGS: Kolson Vrask | Sephi Karneh | Aridius 'TK-1575' | Aemilio Valaar | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Ortʹtʹo Mikla | Alex Eldar | Shai Maji | Keilara Kala'myr

BROKEN

//SKYWATCHER TO BLUE-3, ACKNOWLEDGE//
//SKYWATCHER TO BLUE-3, COME IN//
//RAUS?//
//RAUS!?//
//PLEASE...//
​

Broken was he, the man of his people, wretched and sodden with his own sanguine, feeling it leak down the side of his face and chin as he looked on dazed. His men were nowhere to be found, and all he could do was wonder in that sliver of minutes, seconds. Every opportunity given was met with difficulty - to serve that of the New Imperial Order without question, yet it only presented death in spades.

What was he truly fighting for, here? These men that told him he'd be able to restore the glory of his people, to strengthen them, embolden them, yet they now feared Raus for his methods. His existence was that of a backwater drifter - a stranger behind a gun that took names and small victories, not wars. All this time in his service, and yet he finds nothing but more hatred and ire for everyone around him.

He no longer knew who he was, he friends no longer surrounded him with humbled respect for his determination. A disgust layered upon disappointment, and when there were no more words to be shared, all that was left was a cold, bitter silence. He had failed miserably, and all his effort was for naught.

Being beaten rather viciously and yanked around by unknown figures, Raus didn't whimper nor even struggle back. Part of him was so tired of living this life, the days of waking up and staring at the ceiling in a kind of catatonic state, chest pounding and throat clenched shut, only to further compound such a state by watching more and more of his comrades fall to the savagery of Maw and Sith alike.

"Look at you... our new plaything... what is it like? To feel helpless?"

A metal bar struck Raus across the head, blood splattered onto concrete as he was collapsed to his knees.

"WHY WON'T YOU TALK!? GIVE US WHAT WE WANT TO SEE!"

A few more swings, yet there was no breaking the silence. Through his bloodied gaze and cracked face, Raus simply stared with an unknowable animosity burning in his eyes. "Eat shit, Sithspawn." He uttered through coughs and wheezing. His ribs and body in agony as he tried to breathe in. "You'll be sorry soon enough..."

"A fool and a liar. Would you like to know what we did with your friends?"

Raus' eyes cast down to the concrete, tears beginning to leak down his face, mixing with the sweat and blood on his skin.

This was his downfall, his crown of nothing. He failed.

//SKYWATCHER TO RAUS, RESPOND NOW//
//PLEASE DAMMIT JUST SAY SOMETHING//
//RAUS!//​

 

[Kyrel Ren]

​

Location: Streets outside of Hand of Thrawn
Enemies: Khroraic Saaveina NIO/Imp Knights
Allies: BOTM/ Detritus Ren
Equipment: Vader's Bane Lightsaber, Kyrel's Armor, Kyrel's Necrochasis

The street of Kyrel's descent had turned into a bloody slaughter. If his saber was not carving through Stormtroopers as if they were tip yip than they were being imparted with Kyrel's own dark gift. He only stood carving a bloody swathe as the troopers that were infected slowly started to rise not even a half hour later. The corrupted Stormtroopers were essentially walking corpses as all that could be heard was an eerie groan that emerged as they started to walk forward slowly in front of Kyrel. They moved first in engaging the nearest stormtroopers that were in sight, even when shot by a blaster nothing proceeded to phase them. They then proceeded to start taking chunks of flesh out of the fellow brothers in arms.

The dead man himself only continued to walk forward, as he sensed his Son already making his way to the Fortress, Kyrel was eager to meet him. Time was short, and soon realized that if the Fortress was to come down he must be with his spawn for that to be accomplished. His heavy steps kept taking him through the now ruined city block, his troopers made from the enemy his dead troopers shuffled through the streets as they tried to push back the enemy. The Master of Ren was unphased for how could a dead man feel except the constant hate for his enemies.

As he continued to make his attempt to reach the Fortress to get to his son, his sight was beholden of a thing he had never seen before. What stood before him among the dead was something that brought a smile to his lips. It wasn't a happy sight to him, all the more made hilarious that what stood in his path was a little man, not a youngling but an actual little person. His blade was lowered as he tried to assess who was it, or what was it?

For all intents and purposes Kyrel Ren wasn't sure how to take the strange new arrival. If the man if one could call it that was someone worth his time. Still nothing seemed to stop his rising corpses was going past the tiny man. His eyes narrowed as he finally began to speak. "Is this what the Imperial Knights have to offer? A pipsqueak for an opponent. Hahahahaha what a karking joke... I was hoping for someone like Rurik... I'll make this quick.."

He said letting out a laugh more than he had in years at the sheer audacity behind it. Out of all the Knights of all people they send a shrimp. Oh the irony was lost on him it seemed of how this battle could devolve into a more hilarious situation. He approached the shrimp of a man with a deadly intent. "Little man wanna fly?" He said as soon as he finished he brought in his boot in for a kick. Aided by the Force the kick would send the dwarf flying through the air, as he could only watch what would happen next with a look of satisfaction on his face. Attempting to move deeper into the street to reach his son.

 

[Detritus Ren]

Location: Steps to the Hand of Thrawn
Allies: Kyrel Ren BOTM
Enemies: Saaveina Khroraic NIO/Imp Knights
Equipment: Crossguard Lightsaber, Armor


Jin kept a brisk stride watching as others tried to move past him to the top of the Fortress. The stairs were numerous and every so often, Jin watched as the allies of his if he could call them that. To him he only saw them as poor wretches not knowing the power the Imperial Knights carried. Only he knew what his former brothers and sisters were capable of. He didn't rush so eagerly into battle as he once did. Watching as up ahead he saw what looked to be a Shield Sister with four arms, a weapon or shield in each hand as she turned any that tried to pass through the Fortress.

He was in no hurry, his Father would be along shortly, and knowing him the two of them would bring down the Fortress. As he reached out with the Force he could sense his own Father in the middle of his own combat, the link between them allowing him to reach out sensing the Stormtroopers he was facing, even more. This did not stop the young Kyrel or deter him from turning away on his path, if his Father was that powerful in the Force than he could easily surpass what could come from either the Imperial Knights or the might of the New Imperial forces.

He finally reached a point where he was standing in front of the woman. She reminded him that much more of his glory days as an Imperial Knight, her words only caused a scowl on his face to form through the violet illumination. His fingers gripped tightly to the former saber of an Imperial Knight now turned traitor in the eyes of the Knights. He eyed her from head to toe wondering if he had what it took to take her. Perhaps he would kark around and find out if she seemed so eager to deny him access to this once sacred place.

Her gaze was on his, as if her eyes had stared deep into his corrupted soul. Her gaze made him that much angry, causing the crackled crimson blade to emerge from the once elegant hilt. The crossguard blade lowered downwards at attention, as she spoke an eyebrow raised the scowl only deepened as if she had no idea who he was.

"Does the shield have right to deny the Iron Wolf any further or shall the path be marked in blood?"

He spat out the venom evident in his voice, as he raised his saber in one hand, the other the Sith infused alchemic gauntlet fired a violet blast of his magick onto the stone steps causing some of the steps to shatter upon the blast, the free hand forming a ball of violet plasma energy into his hand. His eyes locking on hers, as he prepared to strike waiting to see what the woman would try.

 

[DECEASED Aron Gowrie]

FIRST POST
THE_TUATH
WILDCAT BATTALION

OBJECTIVE 1: GROUND ZERO

Willan Tal Shai Maji Alex Eldar Sturit Goan

BOTM: The Mongrel Zachariel Steelblood Alars Keto
Tor'r Tal'Verda

ARON'S LOADOUT
OFFICER-ISSUE DISRUPTOR PISTOL
VIBROSWORD CAVALRY-SABRE

TUATHA'S WRATH: NEW SWORD, NEW MAN - PROLOGUE

EAST FIYARRO DISTRICT,
NEW CARANNIA, NIRAUAN (868 ABY)

<"This is Feral Actual to Strikegroup Diab, we're bunkered down and ready for fire support missions, over.">​

'Well, that's promising anyways. Active tank-commanders usually makes for aggressive segments o' the armoured static-line.'

'Correct.', the Lord-Colonel replied, waiting on Lord-Protector Tal picking up the comm-chatter slack for a moment before putting his finger up for silence, muttering,'Just a sec, Alun. Needin' this one t'show face an' hop aboard the ACV, gonnae make this a command-centre on wheels, as aw things should be.', as he turned to snatch up the comm-link unit's receiver. Looking north to Fiyarro district, the faint distant outlines of the Imperial Mandalorians' heavily-armoured exo-suit units could be made out in the light of the sun in evening glow, giving even more mobility to the AFV element of the district's defence of the city's poorest, most-vulnerable citizens; all of which would give Lord Aron a good reason to keep a couple comm-link channels open for their commanders, knowing that they'd come in handy for whatever Lord Willan had in mind for his part in the city's defence, though it was likely they would be patching through in their own time anyway.

<"Greetings, Feral Actual. This is Aron Gowrie of the Galidraani Free-State, Lord-Colonel of Wildcat Battalion. Our Lord-Protector will have last minute preparations to see to, but I'd be more than willing to help out with the coordination in the Lord-Protector's stead.... Make your way to the vehicle marked,"The Thistle", you'll coordinate in close proximity with me for the rest of the day. Wildcat One out!">​

Little did the other contingents in Strikegroup: DIAB know, but Lord Aron's need for closer access to their commanders would work to their advantage on Nirauan either way, but the Wildcats' minds were also preoccupied with matters more akin to those of existential nature, for all the mechanised elements from Galidraan knew that the Kellas' battalion of Tuath-born warriors were among the last of their kind still operating in modern battlefield settings. With the Blue-Hearts' beloved brigade disbanded, (and with rumours afoot that the same fate had befallen the illustrious Fighting-First) only the Mechanised Tuath Battalion remained to be old-Galidraan's last hurrah, the only obsolete part of their armoured doctrine's final prayer to excellence and the glory of the Crucible; destined to die out in the Second Hyperspace War, along with all their obsolete weaponry.

'Whether we attain eternal glory for the Goidels, this time, next time or not, we fight each and every time like its oor last - until we die fighting oor last.... I refuse to go out the same way as the others, death over disbandment. Its the only way, Alun. The only way.'

'I know, Milord.', Captain Reed responded, looking through the left-side viewports with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, seen gazing on the city skyline in the distance with a smirk on his face as the sounds of disruptor fire and explosives broke the eerie silences of the battle's early phases. Enemy landings had been made in earnest, but as far as the main events of the battle were concerned, the crashing Mawsworn dropships were yet to set the tone for the following hours of the struggle for New Carannia; and not a minute later, the northern skies were lit by a dropship descending far too quickly to make a safe landing in the end, carrying all the hardest-hitting opposition inside. As he turned his gaze back to the Tuath, the Woad with the scar across his cheek smiled, though it was a rueful expression to see, drawling,'I've known since Csilla, since you healed the man who sealed our fate.... When I heard those orders, I said to myself,"Blood in, blood out.", knowing I wasn't overreacting on the matter.', almost convincing himself to stop on account of the fact he thought it pertinent not to rehash old despairs.

'Aye, but no the-day though. I want to remember what victory feels like, even if only for a while before fate sweeps aw the Wildcats away.'

Catching his reflection in the Cladhan resting atop the ACV's comm-link unit, Lord-Colonel Gowrie would see the scarring across his face, seeing the reminder of what his curiosity cost him in plain view of Commoner-Captain Reed; watching on as his Lord-Commander strengthened his resolve something far more steely than anything he'd seen in the Chieftain of the Tuaths before, the Woad-born street thug from Milton-on-Westcape would find himself moved by what he was seeing, understanding what it took, and how much pain it inflicted on him for months afterwards to sport such nasty scarring on face and torso alike. Reminded both of his most bitter rival on home soil and of the deaths he'd witnessed in previous campaigns, the impending doom of the dutiful Alun Reed had never felt so intense before, a truth the young officer was resigned to accept in the pursuit of eternal glory.

'So be it.... Suppose we better be grateful at the fact we leave sons behind to pick up the karkin' pieces, so be it.'

 

[Aemilio Valaar]

// Voidwalker-Actual // 501st Legion, Black Hands //
// Objective I : Ignore the Galidraani Hold the Line
// ALLIES: DECEASED Erskine Barran - Alric Árheim - Ortʹtʹo Mikla - Kolson Vrask - Sephi Karneh - Raus Garrat - Willan Tal - DECEASED Aron Gowrie - Shai Maji - Alex Eldar - Sturit Goan - Nukth Kelga'an - Knight - Aridius 'TK-1575'
// ENEMIES: Brotherhood of the Maw, New Sith Order, Witches of Rhand, The Mongrel - Zachariel Steelblood - Halketh
// Engaging :
// Gear : Tenebrae, Tidefall, Left-Handed Grav Glove

Fiyarro District - West of the Mongrel's LZ.

​

A minute or two ago the scouts had called out the Maw's Cultists charging down the street. Mindless as they were scarred and ugly, Aemilio raised a betaplast fist.

<"Hold! Ready your arms!">

Typical blaster weaponry was abandoned. Disruptors, particle beam rifles, charrics. Weapons that'd punch through standard body armour and turn insides to mush if not utterly erase a physical form from the corporeal realm. The cultists drew closer to the Black Hands rooted position in the Fiyarro Distract, a fair distance to the west of the Marauder's mass landing to the West.

<"Mortars fire!"

First rank! Fire!">

Miniature sounding pops repeatedly boomed behind him, faintly heard with the helmet locked on his skull. The screeching sound of baradium charged grenades plummeting from the sky screeching down after surpassing their aerial arc. They descended with righteous fury, as if the heavens themselves rained the cluster of grenades down on the invaders.

In the following moments, charrics and particle beam rifles lanced down the road. A trooper beside him took a shot to the face, betaplast smoking, the wearer's face beyond the hole hard to discern with the burn mark scouring their face. Dead. Aemilio didn't even bother to reach out to aide them. The savage hordes of the Maw would give them no time to mourn their dead or give them proper burials.

They'd learned from Carlac. Blind spots in the Force created by ysalamir. They would be employed again to ensure Traitorous Lord did not raise their brethren for their second coming. The Force Dead zones created by Myrkr's infamous fauna would see their fallen dead were not found and reanimated. His own men - their minds had only just eased -he'd like to think - from slaying soldiers with familiar faces in the wakes of Carlac and Lao-Mon.

<"Aella, bring up your support team and get these bodies out of here!"> Tucking down behind the stone barricade, he ejected the spent power cell and reached into the pouch at his abdomen to draw out another. Slotting it in a smooth motion as the Battlemind AI pinpointed his leading Medic's squad in his periphery.

There was a safe spot a distance away, but they didn't have the means of geting their quickly. The Pellaeon District would have to do.

Both his upper and lower rows of teeth sunk into his tongue, cursing silently for what he would have to bring himself to do.

<"Lord-General,"> the Lieutenant spoke into the commlink. <"I hope you've got a ysalamiri body dump ready!"> He tried to mute the line, but the Bastion resident's voice called out over the frequency to the Hands' nearby. "Disruptors! Fire! Send 'em to their gods!" And he turned back to the commlink to finish making his request.

<"I'm requesting med-evac speeders to get bodies off of my line!"> The dead Black Hand beside him was moving, he saw, but not from ethereal means. Its arms were raised in the air, dragged by another trooper that rushed down the street away from the blaster fire. He recalled Mongrel's Hill when they had rushed the Mawite Warlord's defensive position. His first deployment, but his quick thinking had hastened the Mawite retreat then. If that could be recreated here?

<"And AFV transport!"> He muted his side of the commline properly this time, but did not cut it off in anticipation of the General's response.

The animosity of the Iron Youth's for the ground forces new military leader was masked with responsibility and duty. Once these savages were dead, he could see to putting an end to Barran's appointment... If a better opportunity didn't appear today.

 

[Khroraic]

M O U N T A I N - C O L D
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
KNIGHT OF THE EMPIRE
Engaging: Kyrel Ren
Opposing: Detritus Ren
Allies: Saaveina | Ragnar Bloodfist | Djorn Bline | Keilara Kala'myr
Imperial Knight Battle Armor | Contained Energy Axe | Tof Soren Slugthrower Pistol

---

​

Before the Dwarrow even had a chance to retort to the slurry of insults that were thrown his way- which were insignificant in the masterful mind of a proper Dwarrow wordsmith - the Reaper was upon him. The kick, by all means, would have sent any normal person hurtling through the air uncontrollably. For a moment, it did. Khroraic caught some air as he spun over with the power of the Force-aided strike. He only registered what had happened when he saw the cityscape roll by him twice. He slammed back onto the ground with an unnatural suddenness, his vertical velocity stopping on a dime as he channelled the force around him. Groaning with the ache of the effort. The half of the lightaxe was slammed into the ground as he jettisoned backwards, mulching through the durracrete streets like a plough through the mud. Sending up rocks and dirt as it tore through.

Slowly, he came to a stop. Further away from the Reaper than he would have liked, but not as far as Kyrel had seemed to intend to send him.

By all of the things in the Void, that was all you could find? Little man? If there was a God of Insults, he would be rolling over in his grave! Khroraic thought to himself. Eyes burning underneath his helmet as he straightened up from his hunched stance behind his axe. Rolling his neck, the sound of bones cracking and the snapping of stonework sounded. A spike of pain went through the Dwarrow as he registered the new region of calcification. Right side of his neck. It was spreading.

He knew the risks when he signed up for the Knighthood.

“Oi!” He shouted, past the mob of the dead between him and the Reaper, starting to stomp his way to the Master of Ren.

The monstrosities made of his former comrades could only be put down, there were well past saving. He simply had a mind to mutter a small prayer for each of them between grumbles of discontent as he slashed them down. He brought his axe up high before cleaving it through the midsection of an approaching undead stormtrooper, sending the body tumbling in-two pieces onto the floor. The axe turning around and lopping the head from the neck as it went back up. Ensuring the dead stay dead. He was picking up pace as he went.

“Oh, infamous Master of Ren are you! Walking away from a fight? I’ve seen Silver Jedi Younglings put up more of a scrap than you are! What was it they called you and your ilk in the records? The Heir Apparent to Darth Vader, ‘asn’t it? Well, if this is the Heir to Vader, then I assume I’m the heir to the Galactic Empire! Preposterous!”

Another one of the undead lunged for him. He backstepped and drew his pistol on the creature, rolling four rounds off into it’s chest before letting a final one snap through the head. Dead center in between the eyes. The beast lulled, rocking on it’s feat for a moment, before collapsing onto the ground.

“Vader razed entire worlds, Vader was a monster given flesh, he was the desecration of the Living Force given form! Boots far too big for your scrawny little gremlin legs to fill! Poor sod to try to emulate, if you ask me, ontop of that! Nothing but a lapdog to good ol’ Palps, as far as the history goes. Suppose that’s fitting though-” He ran through another of the undead, staining him armor red in crimson as he slapped the blunt edge of the axe against it’s head. “What are you but the lapdog of Solipsis now! Even our records say you were once the most feared of all of the tools the First Order had at it’s disposal, and now look at ye! Another collar, another master! What’s changed though? Went from serving a government to a pack of wild dogs, nippin’ at the air for food!”

He was closer now, gaining feet on the Reaper. Maybe an odd forty-thirty feet out from Kyrel and closing, only gaining speed as he went. A headbutt slammed into the solar plexus of another undead. A sickening cracking sound was brought from the undead before Khroraic slammed a balled up fist onto the back of the monster’s head. He had let his axe shift to a resting position in his main hand, freeing up his off.

“So, sorry you and your motley crew of shrashral are doing nothing but playing dress up at greatness, and the only way you get kicks is by killin’ those that actually manage to scrounge up some happiness in this Forsaken Galaxy! But I am not going to let you slaughter my people, turn my kin into the living dead, and insult me without dying on the words first!”

His breathing settled after he barked out the last dissertation. His left hand slowly raising in the direction of Kyrel. He could feel the Light again, distant, but as close as the sun. The hairs on the edges of his beard sparked with a gemstone green before it shuddered across the Dwarrow’s body. The energy settled in the palm of his left hand, forming into a small ball before arcing across his fingers and connecting between them, like the glow of a lighting coil.

He brought his arm back, as if he was about to throw a thermal detonator. He cringed, the stonework on his palm grew even larger.

He slung it forward, and from the tips of his fingers sparked harsh cracks of electric judgement, hurtling in the direction of Kyrel. A green bolt breaking through the field between them.

“Hear me!”

 

[Darth Imperius]

​

Aurelian Sigismund,
High Imperator, Princeps of Vandemar, Grandmaster of the Legions

​

✠ Objective: I. Ground Zero, Defend New Carannia, Defend the Spaceport

✠ Location: Southwest of Myrmidon Quarter (Starting), Advancing North (Ending)

✠ Gear: Urizen, Mantle, Lancer, Scutum

✠ Assets: 5x Agema Aegis bodyguards (Legion Veterans, armed with Armor, Sarissa, Scutum, Jetpack) (One remaining with the Lord General)

+ 3x Galidrani Tank platoons, five imperial/Nirauan infantry companies​

​

✠ Tag(s):

E M P I R E​ DECEASED Erskine Barran , Alric Árheim, Ortʹtʹo Mikla , Kolson Vrask , Sephi Karneh , Raus Garrat , Willan Tal , DECEASED Aron Gowrie , Shai Maji , Alex Eldar , Sturit Goan , Nukth Kelga'an , Knight , Aridius 'TK-1575'

M A W​ The Mongrel , Zachariel Steelblood , Halketh

​

Moving North, 0:05:14 minutes after the attack

It took only a second for Aurelian Sigismund to start moving. His small squad fell into his job, one on each side, two behind. The Agema Aegis took their duty to protect the Princeps very serious, their duty was to keep him alive under any circumstances. They were the pinnacle of the Legions, peak warriors, trained with their special Sarissa and in single combat to take out any assassins or enemy commanders, but they did not forget their battle training. They were soldiers and guardians, the protectors of the Princeps and Highcastle.

His squad moved North, directly. The map showed very clearly that the enemy would try to make it for the spaceport. In the Northwest the 501st stood under Aemilio Valaar , facing the vanguard of the Maws wild brutes, holding the imperial left flank and protecting the citizen districts. Center and right experienced a direct assault, Sith necromancy and headless zealots as well as beasts attacked the lines, turning fallen brothers into new enemies. Though there was a spearhead aiming directly for the vital strategic port, the force led by Zachariel Steelblood and Sigismund was on its way to counter it directly.

Having taken command of several armored units and local PDF, he once more rides onto a tank into battle. His shield on his back, he holds himself with a single hand at a hatch at the back of the Galidrani tank turret, the commander right in front of him. The forces are pushing a three blocks wide vector, infantry leading the way while the tanks slowly follow. Scouts ahead, support ready to move in.

There is occasional shooting all around. The local dissidents trying to interfere with the advance. The High Imperator ordered speakers to be used during their advance, the voice constantly echoing in the background as the troops steadily advanced.

"Stand down, put away your weapons and go home. Any rebels suspected of collaborating with the invaders will be shot. All imperial and allied forces have the permission to shoot first. Stand down, put away . . . "

It was repeating all over.

Spoiler: Location and Advance

​

 

[Bastard]

Rot.

It came crawling through the city like mold through a dank, flooded crevice. Even the gore-laden scent of blood paled in comparison to the horrific smell of the risen dead. The Men of the New Empire did not turn from their push. Their will to defy was resolute, comparable only to their intent to destroy the likes of the Maw and their ilk. During the fledgling days of the Iron Sun's rise, the New Imperials faced such a threat. Carnifex's legions loosed many unnatural monstrosities on the puny mortals who stood against them. Least among them were screeching ghouls and cackling mounds of flesh, blood, and bone given life through dark witcheries.

The Crestfallen freed his blade from another of the barbarians with a crank of the arm. A spray of blood painted his black-plated greaves crimson, joining the mess of red that covered him from head to toe. He turned upwind to the unspeakable stench. It assailed his sense like a punch to the face. His eyes watered, his nose scrunched up, and he forced down a throatful of bile. Psychic winds roiled through the battlefield not long after. Carrying with it the creeping sensation of doubt. It was soon joined by fear, confusion, and anger. A dark mind wove their will through these many invisible strands that made up the Force.

Errant snarled.

"Stand firm," his voice echoed through the streets, supernaturally enforced via the very same energy used to manipulate the soldiers all around him.

He slid his blade back into its sheath with one, practiced motion. Moving forward, the Albino pressed through the throng of New Imperials, holding their recently reclaimed position within one of many winding roads. Errant expanded his mind beyond his mortal shell. Departing from his marching body, he soared overhead, an incorporeal spirit riding the psychic winds beyond the limitations of both time and space. Darkness crept overhead. It blotted out the sun, casting an evergrowing shadow over the battlefield. Evil pulsed within that darkness. Crackling red energy screeched across the sky, cascading down thin strands.

These threads connected all beings. Interwoven throughout the galaxy for all recorded history, the Force bore witness to all that history had to offer. Acts of extraordinary heroism or villainy. Betrayal, loyalty, indifference, joy, hate. All were a part of some grand whole that no mortal mind could even begin to conceive. Errant didn't bother to try. He followed the baleful energy radiating from something masquerading as a Divine.

His eyes snapped open, his senses returned to his body. An unholy horde descended upon the New Imperial city, commanded by a mass of vile sorcerers and one traitorous mind.

Halketh ​

 

[Willan Tal]

LORD PROTECTOR
GALIDRAANI FREE STATE
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER

DECEASED Aron Gowrie Shai Maji Alex Eldar Sturit Goan Enedina Tal ​

<<"Maw to the north, thousands of them moving in over.">>

<<"All units move into defensive positions until further notice.">>

<<"Let them filter in, prevent probing attacks until the main mass of Maw is firmly into the city.">>

Tal knew where he wanted to have them, let the rabid cultists swarm like they always did until they were too far into the city to be able to respond to a counteroffensive effectively. That was Barrans mistake, letting a force devoted to fighting on the offensive take the fight to them. Barran wasted many Galidraani lives, throwing them into a static defence on Csilla; as good as his men were, they would not last against the Maws swarming tactics by utilising trench warfare. The maw could replenish losses like it were but a mere inconvenience; Tal could not afford to throw his best soldiers away like that. Perhaps it was convenient that Barran was promoted to overall commander of the Imperial army; at least it wouldn't be Tals own boys that Barran would be throwing into the meat grinder again.


Do it, you fools, indulge in that mindless savagery you're chained to and give me my opening chess move.


<<"Sir, Artillery seek permission to fire on the Mawite forces over.">>


Tal pulled up his commlink, smiling to himself as he realised the situation that was unfolding to him.


<<"Permission to bombard don't let them get too comfortable old boy.">>

The Mongrel Zachariel Steelblood​

​

 

[Auria Blackmoore]

ALLIES: Konrad Harrsk | NIO
ENEMIES: BOTM | NSO
ENGAGING: Jester
GEAR: Not a dress and even a gun

Oo~~>WITCHING HOUR<~~oO​

Auria looked down at the helmet in her hands.

It felt odd to hold such a thing, nevermind to have it on her face. She had never needed it before. But ever since Butterbrain threw over her applecart and dragged her all across the Galaxy, the need to invest in one had increased.

Especially since Lao Mon.

Standing watch while Konrad fiddled with something on his armour, Auria sighed before she replaced the dreaded apparatus back on her face. They were in some corridor just off the foyer in one of the central administrative buildings that the witch had forgotten the name of in the rush and confusion of comm chatter.

Then all hell broke loose.

Chaos was in full swing as the Mawites fell on the Hand like a swarm of locusts, some fanning out into the narrow streets while the brunt of the force were headed straight for the centralised location. The sound of Imperial Knights and Troopers engaging the Chaos filtered into the building.
"You done playing with your accessories, Princess? Time's up." she told Konrad before turning her attention back down the corridor.

It did not take too long for some Mawites to slip past the force that met them outside and breach the building. They were then met by Imperial resistance based inside. Blaster fire and saber crashes dueled their way into the corridors fairly quickly.

A sinister Force tugged at Auria's senses and her gaze was drawn to a sword in a menacing Mawite's (Jester) hand. The Presence that pulsed from the weapon sent a chill down the Imperial witch's spine as her visor met the haunting gaze of the Mawite.

"Ah hell." she almost sighed. "I hope you have some of those grenades on you this time, should the need arise. But for now I think we should move." she told Konrad as she kept an eye on the strange man with the even stranger weapon.

She cared little for some buildings on an unknown planet to her. Her first and foremost thought was one that drove her from one battle to another.

Chaos had to be stopped.

No more innocents could be allowed to fall prey to it.

Balance and order had to be restored.

​

 

[Rurik Fel]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
SOVEREIGN IMPERATOR
Iron Skin | Lightsaber​

TEMPEST
HAND OF THRAWN

"Fel."
​

She muttered it as if it was an insult. They all said it the same way. After all, it was a punishing name to the tongue of the Zambrano. The sweetness of victory had long faded in the shadow of past triumphs which had long drifted to irrelevance in the annuls of history. As much as they took pride in smiting their Empire from existence in a generation prior, so too did their descendent make the final strike at an ailing foundation. Even his inhuman restraint could not withhold the smile he held beneath the iron visage, barely translating past the mask clasped over his tortured features as his pale eyes pierced through the dim lighting of the throne room.

The distant rumblings of conflict beat against the Hijarna Stone walls of the fortress, a contrast of cataclysm to the harrowing silence they seemed to honor aside from their spare words in this hall. His mind tranced back to the encounter before. The Gardens of Pellaeon. The Man of Iron in the pit of destiny is opposed to a nigh god of darkness, a demon who reigned in hell with every swipe of his blade. No foe would be too great. No challenge too harsh to overcome.

I will endure.

There was no mistake made in this encounter. Deliberate, methodical. She sought his scalp and prized it over any other. With every step she took, every motion and mannerism- another swing of the hammer against tempered steel, each passing moment- he prepared for the encounter to come. Another tolling battle. Such was his existence now. It was nigh torture- the burden of leadership, the oath of the obligation of crusade. There was no respite yet an oathbound purpose. He would endure.

"You will never forget this."

She muttered before lurching into the fray, blade rampant. He met crimson with argent, a union ever familiar with Fel as the plasmatic sabers scratched and raked against one another in superheated fury. He brought both hands to his hilt into the clash, an uncharacteristic mannerism in what was typically a heavy, single-handed style of which he would march into darkness. He sought to close the space between them into the clash, his hands held high as his blade streamed down and across his body in the heat of the clash, his frigid eyes peering through the iron visage as he spoke in reply to her.

"There will be nothing to remember." ​

He said before he leaned forward into his blade twisting it to allow for his elbow to come to clash against her skull in metal backed slam against her head as he twisted his body and stepped into the blow. His interpretation of the way of the Vornskr called for such. For the constant slams, blows and disruption that'd well the deeply embedded agitation of a Sith to bellow to the surface - leaving them insane, striking at random.

He utilized the faint to cut the blade down and along the side of her abdomen in a 'swift flank' as he sought to seize the initiative of the exchange.

Darth Mori​

 

[Sephi Karneh]

N O V A
TASK FORCE TRACHTA
1st GROUP | 'VANDAL' SQUAD
Equipment listed in char. bio.

SANDMAN
​

The hissing barrel of her rifle was the invitation for the release of shaken breath, the lone commando staring through the cracked visor of her helmet at the smoldering corpses of her would-be murderers. Her rattled senses pin-holed, filling her helmet with nothing but her staggered breaths. She hummed softly to herself in a vain attempt to get her breathing under control, knowing full well if she didn't stop the panic while she was ahead it would paralyze her outright and leave her easy pickings for the wolves closing in. She rose from her knee, her weapon leveled on the pair of cadavers still in the event they were only playing dead. Any sign of motion, anything at all, she could unleash another barrage in response, ensuring they were not capable of stabbing her in the back when she moved on. Steadying her steps, the commando circled around them carefully, keeping herself out of projected arms' reach.

She paced backward, her nerves fried, and kept her gaze squared on the bloody mess until her leading heel pressed against the steel door of the stairwell. A shove from her pouched hip cracked the seal and she stepped within, shoving the door closed just as quickly with both hands. A battered, bruised frame pressed against the flank of the door allowed her rest for mere seconds, it was all she needed. She had to get her head screwed on straight again, despite the disorientation and the fear gripping her ruthlessly, she had to get ahold of herself. Even if Grunge had died, there was still a mission to accomplish. The thought sent a spike through her chest, lancing her veins with an icy ache she struggled not to entertain. She wouldn't know until she found his body. And even then, he would want the mission finished before any glass was raised in his honor.

"Stitch it together Seph, you've got a long way yet," she murmured to herself, pushing away from the door then to turn and face the daunting spiral of metal stairs into the flickering darkness below. It became abundantly clear then just how lucky she had been if she could call it that, as her gaze settled over the rail and into the dark, she could only guess she had been thrown across the tenth floor of the building. Above, more flights rose, climbing up into equal mystery veiled by the flickering power. The only way out was to venture into the dark. No one was coming to extract her. No reinforcements would arrive soon. Hoisting her rifle to ready, the commando pressed on, slipping down the stairs to begin the descent into hell. Every maddening echo of her feet resounded in the stairwell, serving to announce her presence despite her sole intention to remain undetected. But it was a double-edged sword, that sound, as she heard only her own steps, and none of incoming hostiles she would be forced to confront.

In her stride she checked her ammo count, patting her pouches down to ensure she had at least one more cartridge that had endured the ejection from the gunship as she had. That was it, just the one. The heavy weight of her magcannon burdened her shoulders, offering its silent comfort in that she still had options, even if they were vastly impractical for the impromptu situation she had been forced into. Her knife was still sheathed on her belt. Her sidearm slumbered at the base of her spine. Luckily, none of her grenades had detonated either, and though their housings were scraped and damaged, she knew well enough they would still serve their purpose if she called on them. The housing for her wrist rockets was as damaged as her tactical vambrace, and she suspected relying on them would be a gamble with a price too high to chance.

Nova didn't stop her deathly march at the bottom of the first flight, she pressed on, her will solidified only by the desire to find the man she had dropped into Hell with so many times, and to finish the mission they had been given. To sit on the sticky, worn leather seat of their familiar haunt in Ravelin, that back-alley bar that saw the rough-and-tumble patrons of the vaunted planet and all the veterans who found comfort in each others' company alone. She latched onto that thought needfully, clinging to its splintered edges as the sea of dread swept her away from the shore.

"RUN THEM DOWN!" ​

The voice echoing from far below froze her in place, its unfamiliar drone and rasp sending shivers up her spine. She listened intently, sweat-dotted brow furrowed beneath her helmet, struggling to hear over the pound of her own pulse whether or not they were climbing or checking each floor they passed by. Rapid, beastial footfalls scrambled up the steel stairs in her path, steel grating against steel to screech sharply. Panting breaths. Growls. Gurgles. The hounds. 'Move! Sephi you gotta move! Let's go!' Her conditioning claimed her from her paralysis, launching her back up the stairs she had just descended.

Behind her, somewhere below, a blood-curdling howl cried the pack of hellhounds had caught her.

She forsook any notion of moving stealthily then, dropping her rifle to sling against her chest as her hands latched onto the rail and she flung herself up the stairs as fast as her adrenaline would allow, bounding them in twos and threes, each maddened stride carrying her further away from the horrific monsters she didn't care to glimpse. She was fast, but they were faster. The eager chomp of metallic jaws closed in. She could hear them nipping and shoving at one another in their scramble up the stairs, jockeying for the position that would see which pair of jaws it was to taste her flesh first. Only horror stories from other veterans who had faced the Maw gave her any idea what these things were, these wretched dogs of war who had been maimed and tortured beyond their animalistic identities. More machine than beast, she had heard, capable of crushing through armor and breaking bones between their steel teeth.

There was no way she could outrun them, especially not with her cumbersome kit.

Sephi threw her weight into the door of the ninth floor, flinging it open to spit her out onto an office floor of equal measure to her surprise landing zone. The commando sprinted down the perimeter of the cubicle rows, searching desperately for an office, a break room, anything at all she could use to put a barricade between herself and the beasts. Through the same door she had just crossed, four of the monstrous beasts darted, pouring over one another with surprising agility to rush on her trail tightly. She dared spare a glance over her shoulder, catching their wretched, metallic hides and glowing eyes, and all the miasmic saliva slathering between those glinting daggers in their maws. It turned her stomach, and she choked the bile down, cutting a corner to slide into what she could only assume was a conference room. A lengthy glass pane stretched down half the connector wall, giving her a vantage point of the rest of the floor and cubicles. The flimsy wooden door wouldn't stop the beasts on her heels, but it would be enough to hinder them for precious seconds she needed to maneuver around the sprawling table and plant it between herself and the doorway.

She slammed the door and vaulted over the table, sliding across to draw her rifle and hunker down on the opposite side.

The crash of augmented canine into the wood choked the breath in her throat, tightening her fingers around her only lifeline. If her fate was to be torn limb from limb by a pack of ravenous war machines, she would face it on her feet and die having spent all of her ammunition. "C'mon then you ugly fuckers!" the commando shouted in defiance of the fear rattling her to the core, "Come and get me!"

The wood splintered, flaying apart under the mechanized jaws chewing it from the opposite side. Nova didn't wait for a whole beast to burst through, she pulled the trigger, laying down fire into whatever she could hit, praying to whatever gods had long forsaken her that it would be enough.


ALLIES | NIO | Kolson Vrask Raus Garrat Aemilio Valaar DECEASED Erskine Barran Ortʹtʹo Mikla Alex Eldar Shai Maji Keilara Kala'myr Bastard @IMMOGS
FOES | BOTM | The Mongrel SCAR Zachariel Steelblood @IMCAELITUS

 

[Noel Strasza]

BULLETS
THE_IRON_MAIDEN
LORD EXECUTOR
Nephilim | "Doombringer" | Shockgaunts | Sidearm | Grenades
// Tegan Starfall \\

'THE HELLHOUNDS' - 6/6
​

There was no short supply of targets for the nested squadron to spend their ammunition on, and the number of rioting masses only grew with the arrival of one very familiar armored form moving as a mere pin in her scope. Caelitus. The very sight of the Dark Lord stoked the hellish fires burning in her augmented body, sending a wash of wrathful hate into the scarred flesh beneath her helmet. He was out of range for her rifle, and for the rifles of those she had brought with her. It was a cruel realization, one that only spurned her further, so much so she cursed in her native tongue under the bitterness of her breath. The game had shifted, as much as obvious by the report she was given by Keilara Kala'myr . <"Copy that, Iron-Maiden out."> She answered the COMPNOR infiltrator with an agitated growl.

Halketh's presence here meant their target pool had just expanded exponentially, and their value was hindered, as punching a fist-sized hole through the chestguard of an undead soldier did very little to actually cull the rank, and was ammo better spent elsewhere ultimately. There were thousands of them by her reckoning, the dead marched in a driven tide unlike anything she had seen fighting in Doom Division. Grim tidings, it was, for all of them. Not defeat, but it spelled ill for their entrenched soldiers. The Lord Executor took initiative then, patching her voice to project across the comlink of the united front:

<"Iron-Maiden to all ground task forces, if you've got a means to make a fire line, do it now. Stop the march of the dead before they overrun the line, burn or move any bodies you find, cut it off before it gets out of control. Air support will be coming in danger close on the southwestern side of the Myrmidon Quarter between sectors two-four and three-five, watch yourselves, out.">

Strasza turned her focus to the soldiers in prone beside her, relinquishing the propped hold on her trusted rifle to pull the flag laser off her belt. "Mark targets for me, we're calling in air support to blanket that swarm. I don't want to see any of those things up close and personal." She got to it then, uncapping the crystalline lens to flash the precision beam down upon the battlefield, sweeping a section of buildings to be demolished. They couldn't burn all the walking corpses, but they could certainly bury many of them from the air. With any luck the soldiers she had commanded would establish a forward fire line, corraling the undead into a sector they could easily vacate and crush with a strafing run. Fire, as she recalled it, was one of the few things that could destroy the undead with logistical efficiency. She had targeted the rear of the horde, sparing her comrades the hustling hurry of having to get completely clear of their positions.

"Targets locked, sending the request now." one Hellhound said toward her, earning a nod of approval. "Good, let's get this sh*t back under control before we lose it." Strasza capped her marker and returned it to its pouch, her focus returning to the scope of her rifle. She swept wide with a pivot from her elbow, honing in on the approach toward The Hand, where it was her squadron was needed to cover the most.

"Air support is seven-mikes out, ma'am. We're golden."

The cyborg overturned her arm, peering at the synchronized tac-pad bedded into her vambrace, and checked her map, ensuring the proper sectors had been locked. All was well. Back to what she was built for, the Lord Executor locked her focus on an advancing wave and pulled the trigger with inhuman deftness, plastering the charging line of Mawites with the brains of their boldest.


ALLIES | NIO | Rurik Fel Ragnar Bloodfist Khroraic @IMSAAVEINA Djorn Bline Keilara Kala'myr
FOES | BOTM | SITH | Kyrel Ren Detritus Ren

 

[Saaveina]

S A A V E I N A
IMPERIAL KNIGHT
'The Queen of Swords'
Bulwark | Saberstaves | Shield
// Kyrel Ren & Detritus Ren \\
Allies Closeby | Ragnar Bloodfist Djorn Bline Keilara Kala'myr Khroraic

GILDED​

"Does the shield have right to deny the Iron Wolf any further or shall the path be marked in blood?"

It was a stalwart whirl of her argent blade that served as her initial answer to the man's question, and with it, she barred his path further, two hands holding the staff across the forward curve of the shield occupying the other two. "I have heard your tragedy, Iron Wolf," the codru-ji spoke steadily, "these halls are welcome to you no longer. No kindness awaits you here, no redemption, only a fitting end for a tale just as old."

A boot stamped against the stairs, a seismic slap issued from the empyrean threads between them, and the kinetic wave swept down the stairs with the full intention of scattering the traitor to the wayside where he belonged. She followed through immediately, whether or not her stomp had any effect, and lunged with a deceptive swiftness, forgoing blade for the shield, and made an attempt to smash her gilded guard against the man's body.