Invasion Woken Furies | BotM Invasion of NIO held Nirauan

[Amaya Vollmond]

Ground Zero

Witch of Dathomir

Ground Zero

Waymar Geyer | Bastard | Aridius 'TK-1575'


W A R R I O R S

The scent of death and decay filled the air, and throughout the chaos of battle, Amaya felt only silence. Deafening silence in her carefully attuned ears. She lifted her face to the skies, her eyes closing as voices called out around her, filling the air with what could only be described as an idle hum to the forlorn Witch.

Grief still clung to the back of her mind, the shadows of her fallen Sister’s fierce faces, the rustling of grain upon grain in the golden fields outside of her village, images of home whispered along her mind in brief flashes only interrupted by the ever present stench of blood, rusty and metallic. It was in these times, times of war, times of destruction, that these thoughts kept her centered. As the Imperial Knight who had taken her called out to her gruffly, she snapped back into reality, her senses keen and alert.

She was ready.

It would be her first battle alongside the very men who brought death to the fields of her village, but sentimentality had no place in her mind, locked away like a distant memory. Conflict raged in her heart for the briefest moment. Perhaps, if given the opportunity, she could arrange the Knight’s end, avenge her Sisters.

Thump.

A swift blade to the back, through his very heart, as the horde collided with their forces.

Thump.

Perhaps she could trip him up, send him into the frenzied masses to fend for himself till his last?

Thump.

No, she would do it herself. Attack from behind and slice his head from his shoulders, her dual-bladed saber cauterizing the line between his neck and his head.

Thump.

A symphony of silence.

As the shield came down for the last time, Amaya’s saber would slowly ignite, reflecting in brilliant violet against her black-covered form, her ebon hair dancing around her face like inky tendrils of darkness. The Witch emerged from the shadows, and there would be hell to pay.

The first was dispatched with ease, her charge being both calculated and unpredictable. With her blades, she was more than a warrior. She was a dancer, an artist, twisting and turning her body in movements so fluid it seemed as easy as breathing. Again and again, her sabers carved elegantly through the masses, the stench of burnt flesh filling the air. All notions of grief, of rage, of regret and sorrow vanished in the heat of battle. Despite the adrenaline coursing wildly through her veins, the Force held balance within her mind, her focus sharp as a needle and her body as flexible as thread.

A single enemy charged her, her head spinning in deep focus as her hand extended out from her blade. The Witch reached out, closing her hand in a tight fist and pulling towards her in a sharp gesture. The being stumbled forward, her grip allowing him no chance to flee as she sank her saber like a knife through butter into his abdomen. For her, it was the look in their eyes, the hollow shock followed by total emptiness that always stuck with her. It was the image of hope vanishing in a single moment, a realization of finality that in no other situation could be feigned.

The first few kills haunted her, shook her to her core each time she closed her eyes, the image burned into the back of her eyelids as a brand to remind her of her sin. One after the other, it became easier to bear, until the sight was almost a relief, a sign that her mission was done.

However...this time it was different. There was no hope, no fear, no emptiness, only bloody determination seering through their pupils to the very end.

And for the first time in a long time, Amaya Vollmond was terrified.​

“Are you alright out there, Knight?” She called to the man, having but a moment's breath to access the situation before the next of rank charged relentlessly forward.

​

​

 

[Tegan Starfall]

Post: 2
Objective: Golden Eyes
Location: Hand of Thrawn, Heading for Strasza and her snipers.
Equipment: Mind Crown | Black MidNight Duster with Hood | Echani shield suit | Grav Boots | Eltro Life Gloves | x4 red lightsabers | Defender | Forearm Lanvorak | Wrist Laser | x2 FWG-5 Flechette Smart Pistol | Boomer | X4 Daggers | Pack of Death sticks | Various Explosives | Holopad
Allies: Darth Solipsis | Kyrel Ren | Detritus Ren | Darth Mori | Lord Letifer
Enemies: Khroraic | Ragnar Bloodfist | Djorn Bline | Saaveina | Keilara Kala'myr | Rurik Fel |
Engaging: Noel Strasza

​

The diminutive force of pure chaos had managed to cover the ground quickly thanks to the force aiding her. She found herself just below the tower the snipers had themselves perched in, they were neatly tucked a ways away from the main battle like any good snipers should be. Tegan looked up to where she needed to get too next, she could just barely see out of the helmet on her head as it was much bigger than her head. Yet her Crown had done its work, and she was now linked into the Imperials comms and she was getting read out's in the heads up of the helmet. Across the comms came a call for an air strike, which made Tegan curse herself wishing she had called in air strike first but then her hand reached out and touched the building she was standing beside. As she felt the material, she grimaced slightly realizing then even if she called in air strike turbo lasers would have had a hard time penetrating it.


Tegan stood there looking up at this tower as the air strike began to commence. Tegan looked about a fortress like this you couldn't just walk in the front door, her orange orbs glanced up the nearest window was several meters above her head and even then, the blast shield was dropped. Her eyes then began to follow the foundation seam looking for vent or water drainage points neither of which would be big enough even for her to crawl in. That wasn't the point though, the point was at those points the material the building would be thinner. It wasn't long before she found a area where water drained out from the higher points of the tower to the ground.


Tegan drew a symbol on the building and then on the ground next to it she drew her web. She then let her magick flow through the web allowing it to begin to grow. As it began to spread anyone whom it touched would briefly feel like something touched them and their mind ever so briefly but as soon as it was there it would be gone. Everything the web touched Tegan could feel and sense like a fly caught in a spider's web. Tegan then stared at the second symbol the one drawn on the building she smirked as she put her left hand to the build and her orange eyes closed.


The Symbol was a swirling circle and as her magick began to flow into the symbol a swirling portal began to form. It kept going until a whole about the size of Tegan formed, then Tegan stepped through. As she did her body temporarily passed through a slip dimension much like hyperspace, but it was only mere seconds as it opened up to the inside of the tower building. As she made it in the portal disappeared behind her and she found herself in a office, it was dark but the hud in the helmet she was now wearing adjusted so she could see.


Now came the daunting Task of making it to the sniper's nest. Though most of the soldier had most likely made there way to where the bulk of the combat was, she had no doubt a few remained between her and the turbo lift to the sniper's nest. Force speed could carry there quickly but she also knew once there she would need to hack into the turbo lift itself as if the Imperials were smart which she had no doubt they were they wouldn't allow just anyone access to the turbo lifts.


She listened intently to the comms to, and her web spread across the ground as well giving her some idea where the soldiers in this tower were placed. Though her web hadn't yet reached the top of the tower, so she didn't know how many snipers there were exactly. Tegan's heart was beating with excitement as she moved to the door and peeked out like some spy infiltrating an enemy complex which she guessed she kind of was.

 

[Rurik Fel]

E M P E R O R
THE EMPIRE
ORDER OF THE IMPERIAL KNIGHTS
CHAPTER 'IRON CRUSADE'
Iron Skin | Lightsaber​

TEMPEST
HAND OF THRAWN​

The very nature of the Shi'do in this fight drew Rurik into a corner. Vengeance bled through each swing of her blade, each adaption of her form to his attacks seemed as methodical as they were a chaotic, profane mutation sprung to life in the stark contrast in the unforgiving Man of Iron who struck back in harsh reprisal. He attempted to force her off her footing, only for sickening limps to sprout from her flesh in a brace of the impact of his strike. In harsh contrast to the Sith he battled before- who seemed to march onward with a nigh caricature of one another each in their boastful hubris and the heights of the ego they could bound. The creature before him was cut from a different cloth.

The trained and proven tactics he'd utilized against Sith like Prazutis or Caelitus before her would not be so effective now. At the surge of electric judgement from his fingertips, he'd find it thwarted and reflected against an invisible firmament cast around his being. The jagged spears of argent surged against the invisible surface and coursed back and through him once more. The punishment was unbearable had he not stolen his nerves away from the gruesome pain.

He'd mastered the sensory index of his mortal coil long before this encounter. He hadn't any other choice when Kascalion Giedfield pressed Rurik against the gaze of the Twilight that confined Rurik into the Man of Iron he was now. The searing shock bit into his flesh regardless, coursing through each bone and ligament with a grasp of judgement in a stretch of time that seemed to be aeon made instant in the agony it inflicted upon him.

He showed nothing but unbroken steel in its wake, the electric judgement serving to shatter to prison she sought to confine his assault within.

"The fires of your making burn bright, Sith..." He says, his voice sounding more strained than it did moments ago even as he portrayed an undying persistence in his tone and actions.

"You strike with vengeance, precision. Your face...unfamiliar. But you are one of many faces. And I will excise the truest visage. Your fires will not burn brighter than that which burns within me." He said in foreboding coldness as he rose his left hand into the air once more, splaying his fingers before flattening them, jabbing his hand out into the air between them in an attempt to incite malacia within her all the while he surged forward with inhuman speed to lunge his argent blade squarely toward her neck in an attempt to work the two attacks in harmony to force her into a position of desperation and confusion where he could, in his ideal retort- rely on blind, writhing attacks fueled solely by rage and lacking any level of tact.

But Mori had proven already, she would invoke more than met the eye. He struck with fervor but knew well that any blow would hardly be surefire in execution. This would be a methodical dance and a dangerous one at that. One between two who donned a face not truly their own.

Darth Mori​

 

[Aurelian Sigismund]

​

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

​

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

✠ Location: Northwestern Edge Myrmidon Quarter

✠ 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 (10), five imperial/Nirauan infantry companies (400/600)​

​

✠ 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

​

Holding the line

His lancer clicked empty as another magazine run dry, with quick hand movements, done a million times already, he pushed a new mag in, loaded and continue his fire. On the other end of the fire, cultists and corpses exploded after being hit by explosive blaster bolts. The blasters around him just stomped holes into the enemies, cauterizing the wound and usually killing them as well. The Lancers did different work and made sure than not even perverted necromancy would make these figures stand up again.

The force of Aurelian Sigismund was holding roughly three-and-a-half blocks at the flank of the advancing mawites, one major street included. They fought in courtyards, alleys and if the cultists dared to enter the main streets, they would get a proper beating of the Galidrani tanks. It was hell. There were civilians all over who had to be evacuated, behind every corner or door an enemy could loom, waiting to jump and kill.

So far they had to retreat several blocks, slowing down the enemy while the forces around and behind could deploy. The spearhead of the Brotherhood being like a mad dog, trying to bite but being held back before the fangs could pierce the flesh. Aurelian Sigismund was in the thick of it and still coordinating his small regimental-sized force. Aside from one, his Agema Aegis companions acted as commanders of each section of his defence, their shining example would hopefully make the troops listen to his orders unquestioned, afterall he was a foreigner.

"Griff 1-1 for High Command, requesting infantry reinforcements. Requesting immediate support!" DECEASED Erskine Barran

There was no need to fight with pride, if they did not get another few companies here, the remaining soldiers would be overrun within an hour, five super-soldiers there or not.

✠ ✠ ✠​

Along the line the swarms of enemy soldiers came randomly at the imperials. They were no organised force and even appeared from behind, the mess of the situation was a nightmare for anyone who wanted to maintain order.

The High Imperator had put the three platoons of Galidrani tanks on street crossings, free firing arcs in four directions each, with the orders to use their main guns only at fire request of the infantry or for justified targets. They were the spine of the line, backing up the infantry and giving them an armored banner to encourage them, if the fact to defend their capital from some barbarian marauders was not enough. But they were free to use their secondary weapons and that they did. Repeating blasters and occasional missiles eradicated visible resistance.

The infantry was a mixture of the local defence legion, some platoons of the myrmidons and some mechanised infantry of the Galidrani and without a second of thought, Aurelian would wish himself a solid Shield Company of his legionnaires, they would beat up these pathetic raiders. They were spread into four zones, each commanded by one his Agema Aegis, while he himself moved along the front to oversee the lines and inspire, lead, command and do what leaders do.
The infantry suffered heavy losses so far, but they were holding. The lines established were giving them a slight edge and the real challenges lay with the rear-guards. The front by now had established good view onto streets, using windows and roofs to shoot from. The issues were with cellars and lone-wolves. Apparently some buildings were connected below the streets and those corridors had to be defended as well.

One of the companies, the Galidrani, were the rear-guard. They had established a picket line behind the entire front of the force to take out possible cultist attacks from the rear, as well as scouting and fortifying a possible retreat location. Sigismund was counting every minute with another amassed push in which he had to fall back his troops in order not to be overrun.

The locals were brave soldiers, well equipped but they never ventured out to fight the enemy and now they had been shell-shocked by the enemy hitting their perfectly safe world. They just needed inspiration and to find their courage, everything else would come on its own. Even civilians took up arms to support against the invaders, but Sigismund had no place for amateurs in his front-line and he send them to support the Galidrani rear-guard, fortifying and helping with local knowledge.

"Enemy forces are amassing!"

The report came in. The ruler of Vandemar looked up if the scout had marked them yet, waiting as well to give a proper location.

"Three blocks to the Northwest, along Mason Alley. Brigade-strength."

Either they mass to attack us or to move to the starport/pellaeon district. They have to attack us. The thoughts of Aurelian were very clear as he looked at the situation on his HUD. They have to cut off the head of the enemy attack, the cultists were wild and ravaging, without an iron authority they would just go everywhere, but they were led.

"Requesting artillery fire on coordinates ... " The High Imperator hoped that someone would listen.

"Griff for Aegis, gather at my location. Unit commanders in charge now, Captain Teryn of the Myrmidon company is in charge now. Hold the line as long as you can. My men and I will go to kill their commander."

Aurelian and his four companions met on one of the roofs, their shining golden armor untouched by war so far, only dust had settled in a bit, but otherwise they were shiny gold and red. Their jetpacks would be ignited as they moved to a higher building to find Zachariel Steelblood .

Spoiler: Location and Advance

​

 

[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 >> ​

I ran and ran as if my life had passed on this. I just wanted to stay as far away from these creatures as possible, which shouldn’t even exist. Despite my panting, I heard the message exchanges taking place on the communication channel. The noise of bombing, cannons. The sound of explosions, screams, meat crunching in the fire as the bones crack under the heat. I also felt sick at the thought. I had to stop for a moment on the side of one of the houses.

I leaned against the wall, took off my helmet as quickly as possible, while I fell to my knees and vomited. I was still breathing heavily. I would have needed a few minutes, but I could hear the shots from close by, from several directions. I was still on the battlefield, even when no one had just attacked me. But I had a bad feeling as if someone was watching. Or more. Like when that monster with the disgusting tentacles.. Tu'teggacha slipped into my mind with his own.

I wanted to scream at the thought and memory, but I bit my lip hard and hit the ground with my hand to get the pain distracting me. It worked, my head and thoughts became clearer. The uncomfortable feeling didn’t go away to be watched. It was then that I noticed only the red mark on my retina, which indicated a panic attack. This has now returned to normal.

~ Biological records have returned to the appropriate values. ~ said MANIAC.

It took a moment or two for the malaise to go away. I picked up my helmet, got up from the ground, and then ran on. Four or five minutes later, I arrived at the entrance to the complex. At last, maybe I can even benefit my own faction if I get the right task…

 

[Konrad Harrsk]

WOKEN FURIES
BORN TO RULE vol. I
Issue #5 w/ Auria Blackmoore & Jester

engel​

"Shut up." he murmured at the witch's snarky remarks. She was an irritation, an unavoidable one but his grandfather's reaffirming her potential use made her undiscardable. For now. The assassin was well aware that to sharpen a blade much patience was needed; a virtue he did not possess in great quantities. Quite the opposite. "And make yourself useful for once."

Drawing his own blade from its sheath, Konrad met the onslaught of the charging savage. The waves of terror emanating from the man and his blade crashing into the void that was his force-dead mind. Sparks flickered as steel clashed with steel. The strength behind the marauder's swings was far superior to his. Each clash of blades sent shockwaves straining his wrist and shoulder.

The Demon's Head had to rely on speed, agility, and of course - tricks. The trump cards up his sleeve.

"Only one dying here is you." Konrad retorts.

His stance shifts, opting to evade the man's attacks rather than outright meet them with his sword. The tight quarters do not give him much of an advantage but Konrad's not the largest of men, neither the tallest. Backpedalling from an attack, his free hand snaps forward, the vambrace on his wrist coming to life as it fires an electrifying grappling hook around the weapon's hand with enough voltages behind it to electrocute and incapacitate a larger opponent

 

[Ragnar Bloodfist]

KNIGHT OF THE EMPIRE
IMPERIAL KNIGHT ARMOUR | Dual Lightsabres
Engaging: Darth Tennacus

The appearance of the Crimson Saber and their marauder minions led to the battle beginning with great flair. The defenses of the Hand of Thrawn burst to life, lacing the air in a weave of trailing light and explosive force. Knocking invaders out of the sky as they descended on the Imperial Fortress. Both troopers and Knights had come to the defense of the Hand, and the clash was cataclysmic.

Ragnar's blades were a pair of righteous fury, batting bolts out of the sky and back to where they came with a well practiced flair. The slightest bends of his wrists to angle the plasma blade, the snapping off his arms with inhuman speed to ensure that none of the lasers struck him and ended his life prematurely. The Zabrak was a ceaseless form of movement, leaping and dancing through opponents and not once hesitating.

A pair of Sith made their way to where he was, the two crimson sabers shrouded by their black cloaks, faced off against the silver and black of the Knight's armour. Beyond assessing what they were, Ragnar did not hesitate to thrust himself into their midst. The typical tactic of high and low were their opening as the Zabrak approached. One alabaster blade went up to meet it, to catch the overhanded swing and shunted it past him, and the other, angled downwards batted the second away from his knees. All the while spinning into the second's guard, an armoured elbow leaping up in an uppercut to catch the Sith in the jaw and send them tumbling.

Giving voice to a painful cry out, the first Sith's saber was up again, arcing right across the left flank of his body. The crimson sweep brought about a burning brand across his midsection, one that left a burning furrow across the plate as he leapt back away from the edge of the blade. Hitting the ground, the horned Knight landed and then sprung forwards with an explosive fury. His leading blade carving a path from one side, causing the single-bladed lightsaber wielding Sith to swing their blade in that direction.

The mistake was fatal, but to the Sith's credit, they were quick on the backswing as Ragnar's second blade stabbed forth through their open guard. The Sith's blade smacked his blade back with a desperate strength, but all it took was a few inches being inserted before the Sith's own flourish led to the blade being batted to the side, incising themselves and sending the burning brand of alabaster energy out the side of their body.

Before Ragnar could finish them off, he heard a cry for aid in his commlink and turned.

Just in time to catch the second Sith's charging blade plunging for him. They were shorter, undoubtedly the apprentice of this shrouded duo, but Ragnar was taller, experienced. He lurched to the side, the blade aimed for his throat smacking with a burst of sparks across the shoulder plate before he bisected the apprentice.

Two burning halves that Ragnar stepped over without pause. Just another pair of Sith that in another life would've been allies.

"Where?" The raspy voice of the Horned Knight uttered.

But even as he said the words. he could see rapid forms, blacker than night charging through his men's number. He kicked off the ground, quickly closing the distance with Force-aided efficiency.

Each loss of a trooper's life a necessary sacrifice in buying him time to get closer. He could sense the commanding hand of the Force, but that would come secondary as his leaping slash carved half of one of the beasts' heads. Hitting the ground and rolling, another's legs were cut out. The extreme heat of the sabers did not allow the release of bodily fluids from living creatures, on account of the cauterization of wounds. They may havee been fast, sneaky, even smart, but the trained and wielded strength of the Force made it negligible.

 

[Aridius 'TK-1575']

HEAVY TROOPER of the 501ST LEGION
ARMOR - PRIMARY - SECONDARY

Waymar Geyer Amaya Vollmond Bastard

Halketh

INTO THE FRAY​

"Troopers! Taking up firing positions along this street- leave no stone untouched in your arcs of fire. We will keep their focus...you will smite them as they come. Move out!" Waymar gave out the order to the Squad that Aridius was a part of- the others of the group quickly moving to establish firing positions as they moved up.

The sky was on fire; Aridius' helmet being able to filter through the smoke and the burning bodies to view the war above in the sky. Hundreds, no thousands, of TIE-Fighters and Capital ships fighting over the orbit, with millions of the Imperial Army fighting for dominance in-between the streets that the MAW now attacked. The Maw, Aridius only heard about them in passing; survivors of Coruscant, the battle reports. A terrifying force of unrelenting fury that sought to swallow the many planets whole in their swarms. If Aridius was ever to meet his fate, this was one such time.

What is that? A Witch? Amaya Vollmond Aridius' helmet picked up her presence, connecting to her as if she was an Imperial of herself. She moved with the Imperial-Knights, men of honor and reverence within the Imperial Order- an equal. This made Aridius feel uneasy, as if a viper was in the grass and prepared to strike at his heel. It made him pause as the other Stormtroopers moved up; half-tempted to turn his Blaster-Cannon and save everyone the trouble of her betrayal come the future. Dathomirians were either Inquisitors that watched your every move, or foul snakes that played at the darkest corners of your mind. Pathetic, what a waste of space, what a -.. Aridius would blink briefly, realizing that his anger was playing at him- he remembered the Dathomirian Witch that was so ingrained into his mind. He was projecting, attempting to vent the frustrations of the past.

Then the Horde came.

Filth in the hundreds charging toward them- wielding weapons of every variety. The Stormtroopers shouted, "WEAPONS FREE!" as a hail of death rained upon them.

Aridius' special helmet would acquire the multiple targets within his targeting software, the HUD showing the many Stormtroopers and both their vitality and ammunition counts. They were doing good so far- maintaining a sustained volley. Suddenly, a click is heard, his Sergeant speaking forward- "ARIDIUS, LAY DOWN FIRE FOR THE KNIGHTS." Understood. Upon the left flank of Waymar Geyer, he could hear the spurrings of a Heavy-Blaster cannon. Within the moment, THWA-THWA-THWA-THWA-THWA-THWA!

Out rang the Blaster-Cannon, ripping into dozens of bodies; causing a crimson mist that carved an opening; giving them a brief respite should they require it.

 

[Bastard]

Waymar Geyer | Amaya Vollmond | Aridius 'TK-1575'
Metal Hell​

Errant marched forward, his mind locked on the presence of the traitorous Halketh and his entourage. The gnashing horde clawed through the city streets, perverting its essence with their filthy, slack-jawed hunger. He could feel them growing closer with each step. But they were not yet upon him. Savages fell upon him. The first wave of the assault, the marauders took the brunt of the New Empire's fury. Their corpses lined the streets, blackened and charred from blaster bolts and artillery strikes. Some danced through the streets missing limbs, covered in blood. Most of which did not belong to them.

They cackled gleefully as they gathered around the Crestfallen Knight. Perhaps they thought to ambush him, force him into a position where he could not face them all. Take his back, his sides, anything to give them the advantage necessary to overcome him. Knowingly or not, their battlefield was a mound of bodies. Bodies belonging to other dead cultists. Errant sneered as one weaved forward, weapon raised high, only to fall out of sight a split-second later. A leather garbed woman replaced the first assailant, striking out at the imperial's side when his head turned. Errant's hand shot out and took hold of her throat, stopping her in her tracks. She grunted in pain, her eyes widening in surprise.

Jagged gauntlets ripped through flesh. Rivulets of blood rolled down the cultist's neck, painting her fair skin an unsightly red. Errant held her aloft a second longer before flexing his wrist. A sound like shattering stone echoed through the street as he snapped her neck and threw her aside. Her body landed amongst the others. It rolled a short distance before rubble stopped it in its tracks.

Rather than wait for another to strike out, Errant struck first. He swept his blade out in a vast, horizontal arc. It sheared through the head of another marauder. A spray of crimson ichor, infused with pink, mushy brain matter, painted the remnants of a nearby structure. The Crestfallen reached out with his free hand and squeezed a third barbarian's body with a vice-like, invisible grip. Telekinetic power tightened around the invader. Joints popped, skin tore, and bones began to creak. Blood oozed from their eyes and ears as their innards slowly turned to pulp. Errant tightened his grip, and the marauder threw their head back, howling in pain. Gore burst out from between their lips in a geyser of scarlet death.

Blood rained down upon them all.

Errant shifted and turned, his gaze rolling over the remainder of the ambush. He sneered at them, his crimson glare a malignant curse. Images flickered through their minds, images of a faraway place. Millions lay dead before them, while dozens more threw themselves at the black-plated Albino. A sea of blood bubbled beneath their feet. Hands shot out from the murk, clawing at their legs, pulling them down into the thick. They fought to escape, some going so far as to hack at the hands that clamped down on their bodies. But it wasn't enough. More came. Bodies rose from the Dead Sea and launched themselves at the entrapped warriors. All the while, the Albino hacked them down on the material plane.

When the last of them fell, he turned back in the direction of Darth Caelitus. He was met instead by the rot-stricken horde summoned only moments before. He tightened his grip on Grievance and let out a thunderous, primal roar. An explosion of telekinetic energy sent the mound beneath his feet flying in a dozen different directions. Their bodies thudded against the ruined city as Errant cleared the street.

Before he could make for his new foe, a new set of orders echoed out from behind him. Soldiers flooded the street and took up position, rifles trained on the encroaching horde. Errant, covered in blood from head to toe, met Waymar's gaze and said nothing.

Errant turned on his heel and strode forward. He planted himself a dozen feet before the shield wall and buried his blade into the street. This was where he belonged. Alone. If he were to give ground, even one step, he would never be redeemed in the eyes of his brothers. Even though his body ached and his lungs were beginning to burn, he would not falter. Not now. Never again.

Thump.

The Albino tore his blade from the earth. He lifted the two-handed weapon with one, holding it aloft before the men behind him. He was to be their shield.

Thump.

They charged. An incoherent roar burst from ruined throats. The undead howled in a frenzy, enraged by their cursed existence. Their vengeance would come for them all, found in the rip and tear of the Imperials who stood before them.

Thump.

Seconds before the horde slammed into the shield wall hoisted by the Iron Crusade, they swarmed towards Errant. He released another beastly roar and thrust a hand forward. A concussive wave surged and cut a swathe through their ranks. Limbs blew outward while what remained of chests caved inward. Ribs pierced rotted flesh as skin gave way to jagged, chipped bone beneath. Those not stopped by his telekinetic wave fell upon him with blood-stained claws. Grievance flashed out from left to right, sowing the fields beneath their feet with the remnants of once good, honest imperials. For a short time, it seemed as if the Crestfallen would hold them all at bay. The fury with which he moved was more akin to storm than mortal man.

But man he was.

Necrotic abominations surged past the Albino. They met the shield wall with pained cries, soaked in rage. Errant disappeared in the horde, no longer visible to the men behind him. All that remained of him was the flash of a great, evil blade overhead, striking down upon the enemies of the Empire.

 

[Knight]

Allies: Open
Enemies: Open

---

In the distance a flare rose into view although it was hard to see from the distance, Knight looked down to his holocomm and saw that it was still dormanent. If that was a distress signla it wasn't one meant for him to respond to. It was also possible it wasn't even from the New Imperial Order and instead was some nefarious signal from the invaders. The AT-RT continued to stroll down the deserted street. Every now and then Knight would have the walker raise its leg to step over a large pile of debris from the shattered buildings.

His head swiveled right and left, he still saw nothing of note despite the battle raging around the urban center. Whatever forces the cultists had brought forward hadn't made it past the bulwark of Strikegroup Er'kit's armor squadrons. If the Brotherhood was attempting to infiltrate behind the Strikegroup it had either escaped his notice or they hadn't been successful in evading the impressive electronic systems of modern Imperial machinery at the frontline.

Knight stopped the grey AT-RT and rummaged around in a saddlebag until he found a compact set of macrobinoculars and raised them to the thin cut of a visor. What he saw did not surprise him. Far down the street a AT-AT was lumbering forward and firing at an unseen enemy while the rest of his vision was obscured by the same rows and columns of duracrete.

 

[Nukth Kelga'an]

INVASION OF NIRAUAN
OBJECTIVE I | GROUND ZERO
OPPOSING | BROTHERHOOD of the MAW
PINGS | DECEASED Erskine Barran | Knight | The Mongrel

​

TITLE. A BEACH TOO FAR: PART. 2
— 868 ABY, Saffia Sector, New Carannia, Nirauan.

Dub-Fi looked upon the barricade at the battlefield of the 73rd North Street of New Carannia. He and his squad — Guardian Squad — just answered a request for reinforcement in this zone of the city. And now they were here, looking at the three Mawites trying to kill the rest of Hurley Squad.

“We’ve to bring support to them, don’t we, sir?”
“Yes,” the Sergeant nodded slowly, “I need two minutes to make a safe plan.”

Fi quickly analysed the current situation: Hurley had the rest of a half squad and Guardian Squad just had six soldiers, because of Coruscant. Coruscant! This stang planet was the origin of all Anaxsi ills. Anyway, ‘55 tried to concentrate more on the situation. It was bad, but not unsolvab-...

“Sergeant!” ‘62 exclaimed. “We can’t wait here for three years! We’ve to speed up an’ use Hurley as a diversion. Quick!”
“Don’t be that stressed,” Dub-Fi answered. “Just let him thinkin’ for a few minutes an’ we’ll attack this street, but stay calm.”

In fact, all Anaxsi commandos were hotheaded, but not all at the same point. Dub-Fi was one of the calmest, and Sixto, one of the most in-your-face, and this duo was one of the best of all TodHusars’ Brigade.

“Everyone stay calm, please,” Skull — the Sergeant — argued quickly after the last reply of Fi. “We have to split up in two parts: one behind Hurley to provide support to them and one in front of the squad, attackin’ those Mawites, got it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Affirmative.”
“So everythin’s oski, commandos. Dub-Fi, you’ll lead the second team, an’ I’m takin’ the first one. ‘62 with me, the rest where ya wanna be.”

The squad splitted up efficiently and the two teams were built in a couple of seconds. ‘55 greeted his Sergeant and he replied with the same gesture, going on the back of Hurley Squad. Fi ordered his men to follow him quickly. They entered a ruined building and travelled into it to join Mawites’ position. When they arrived at the action zone, Dub-Fi held his blaster more firmly and managed his men to place three of them in sniper position. The two others were with him, waiting for the good moment to catch the Mawites off guard. When Five thought that it was time, the three commandos exited the building and ran into the enemies to kill him as quickly as they could.

Kelga’an got a look at his chrono. Everything was not going as he wanted, but he had no choice and no decision to make in order to change that — no strategy to discuss, just orders to follow. The situation was getting stuck in 73rd North and 26th East streets but his men were repulsing an assault in 85th North.

<Banshee-Leader to Knight. Needin’ support on 26th North. Can ya send a walker at this location? Over.>
​

 

[Alric Árheim]

F I R E S - F A D E
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
BARON OF SÓLRIKE
Durasteel Full Plate [x] | Mandalorian Iron War Hammer [x] |
Eikthyrnir the Kybuck

~ "I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you I will not let the Great City fall. Nor our people fail." ~

DECEASED Erskine Barran

---
​

Alric. The man addressed him by his first God-given name, it was something a bit new for the Baron. He was more than used to a plethora of titles and accolades, none that he wore willingly, ideals and concepts that were just trappings to the title, to accompany his name. There was something about the way that the military man simply referred to him as Alric, just another person occupying the room instead of some giant ruling over the realm that humbled the noble. Allowed him to breathe easier in his company. It was something small, something he wasn’t sure that Erskine would pick up on, but it meant the world to Alric. He felt a good level of stress wash off of his shoulders. Ever since his departure from Irmenu to assist with the warfront, he had been filled to the brim with nothing but worry and confusion about his place in this whole mess.

Perhaps he was a better piece than he realized.

The holographic layout, while something that Alric was made to become very intimately familiar with given his new surroundings, still blinded him ever so slightly when he was forced to take it in for the first time. It was as if he was watching the birthing of a sun every time it flickered to life. It took him everything he was not to assign the idea to the actions of some divine beyond his understanding. No, the men of the New Imperial Order crafted this device with their own hands. Allowing them to manipulate the very light itself to their will. These were the people that could save his world. They had become Gods in their own right, whether they realized it or not. His eyes finally adjusted as he took in the image. Just as he was finding his way around the microcosmic recreation of the city’s layout, did he take notice of an ettin of a man, he recognized him from the Dragon Hunt organized at the barony. Sigismund, wasn’t that the name? Alric barely had a chance to say anything before the man was on his way.

War waited for no one, it seemed.

This was proven even more to Alric once Hell broke through the sky and the demons clawed through the city. The initial strikes of the Maw sent the man stumbling in the room, grabbing the edge of the table as he looked around. Back home? This would be an assumption of the assault of some monster larger than life. Something that the warriors of the realm would have to sally out and strike against. Losing quite a large number of men in the defense of the castle. This? Oddly enough, felt very similar. From what he knew about the Maw, even one of their Knights were just as vicious as any of the drakes, dragons, and wyverns of distant Irmenu. Their flames shone just as bright and their blades were as firm as any claw or fang, sometimes much much worse. The magics they weaved and the playthings they made of reality were some of the toughest sells to the men-at-arms of the barony. What could they expect to do against wizards of their caliber?

Hope.

That was of course, the one thing that had keep the dynasty roaring forward so far, a blind hope in the ability of the Árheim House to guide them forward. Against all odds, against the naysayers, against the Imperius Cult. The only backers he had were some disparate guilds and the peasantry, and now he had to do all he could to defend them from so far away.

They would never understand, but the sacrifice of life here would make all of the difference in the world to the distant world of Irmenu. They would never understand that the soldiers that would give their lives in defense of this Old Imperial Capital would assure that this savagery would never make it to Irmenuean shores.

By his family’s name, he would see that held true.

Alric stepped backwards, listening to the passion of Erskine’s voice carry through his radio into the ears of the awaiting soldiers, how through the chaos and carnage unleashing upon the city, he held his calm, and he held a tactical understanding and superiority above the rest of his more common brethren. Despite the hellfire reigning control of the planet, he still held his own.

“Spoken like a Monarch of Old, Sir Bar-... Erskine. Spoken well. My men are at your disposal. Simply give me the orders and I will relay it to them. As it stands, I also will be acting as your servant during this operation. As you need me.” Alric would say, a small hint of pride in his voice. It seems that Erskine inspires something within the baron. A belief that his people aren’t damned to be left in the dark ages forever.

This is how they would prove themselves.

 

[Ortʹtʹo Mikla]

R E T U R N T O T H E Z O N E
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
REC-DC/02 Particle Blaster Carbine | RD-4 Radiation Launcher | Radiation Zone Assault Trooper Armor

---

DECEASED Erskine Barran ​

The Radtrooper Squads had a habit of acting heavily independently. It was common for them to take roles partially as sappers, anti-infantry, and in general, guerilla warfare experts when on the field. They were all part of the same unit, of course, but situations that Ortʹtʹo had found himself in, distant and separated from the rest of his squad when the nightmare finally began, were all but too common for the members of Ba’al Squadron. It was certainly something that they had to work on.

He watched as the sky burst open with fire, as the drop-pods arched through the atmosphere and fell into the planet’s surface like nails. Hammering through buildings and crushing streets underneath as if they were nothing. Sending up clouds of smoke and debris all around their landing locations. Closer, closer, burning with a hot rage in the direction of the radtrooper, a buckshot of drop-pods came careening down to the operational area that he was within. Even worse yet, the trajectory of the squad of Mawites seemed to be shifting, either from his mind playing tricks on him or some mockery of the Force, sending them directly…

In his path back to base.

They crashed, exploding the rock beneath them and rocking the entire road. They came screeching, in pairs of twos, in pairs of three and four, groups of uncountable numbers came screeching through the darkness and dust. Armed with blades and blasters, sabers and knives, cannons and grenades, there was no possible discernment of their loadout or specialty.

Only that they were their to brutalize Ortʹtʹo in any way that they could manage.

<”Warning, Ba’al Squad and any friendlies operating in area,”> He backpedaled as he spoke, nearly tripping backwards over the wire he had just laid, leading through the roadway of radioactive explosives. If he didn’t trip it going over, they certainly would, and that would be just as much of a fission-flesh-fuzing death as if he had done it himself.

<”Counting twenty plus hostiles, road Besh-Dorn. Do not attempt recovery!”>

He raised his carbine and flipped it to full auto, not even having the time to raise it before one of the cultists were upon him. He wore a mask reminiscent of a skull, with clattering teeth and a blade bored into his own arm as a weapon. The razor carving at the Tognath as he tackled the insectoid to the floor. Kicking and struggling, Ortʹtʹo found purchase and shoved the cultist down further with his boot. A blade dug into the man’s leg, scratching and piercing exoskeleton and making the radtrooper scream.

He wasn’t afraid of pain.

He was afraid of dying.

The powercell on his carbine screamed as he aimed it down by his feet and held down the trigger. Rounds slamming over and over into the skull-helmet and upper body armor of the cultist. The first couple seemed to only upset the madman, before flesh and meat were reached as armor was slagged away, earning high pitched screams of… pleasure?

Ortʹtʹo kicked the corpse off of his body and staggered to his feet. More were coming. More than he could count. Blades begging to peel back his skeletons and play with the soft bits underneath. He rushed for one of the buildings. By the look of it, some form of abandoned hospital. Crashing through the glass-window doors, he reached to his belt and clacked off two of the radfrags, letting them drop from his belt near the entrance. They hissed, loudly, before the fission-snap blast sounded and the shockwave made him lose his footing, grabbing onto the corner of a hallway to pull himself up as he rushed down the wing. His radiation counter clicking wildly with the new exposure.

He threw over a gurney in the middle of the hall, for a brief moment, with how quick the evacuation was, he found himself worrying about the patient that was extracted from the bed.

A moment later?

He was slinging bolt after bolt of yellow-bright energy down the hallway. Watching it zip off of the walls and floor, various bits of medical equipment and patient transport assists that the Mawites were clawing and climbing over. They moved like a plague of diseased rats. A sea of flesh morphing over all that opposed them. They fell in droves, but just as many as the blaster fell, more would swarm forward to take their place. Occasionally, a bolt would come screaming back at him and explode nearby. Even on full auto, there was little he could do to stop the approach of the wall of blades and hate. He began to limp backwards, waving the blaster in front of him like a torch against a beast. Gravlifts down, he forced himself to start up the set of stairs at the end of the hallway. They came closer. He was halfway up. Closer. He reached for another grenade. He could see their eyes now. Closer. He slammed the timer to the safety minimum and dropped it at the base of the stairs.

When he awoke, he found himself on the upper floor, slung over the railing of the stairs. The entire lower section was blown away, with malformed corpses at the very bottom. His radcounter was nearly screaming at him. He could hear the cultists, they were making their way to the otherside of the hospital. To the other set of stairs that also let up to this level. He force himself to stand. He was limping too hard to run, he understood this. He barged into a former patients room. There was a window, letting in plenty of light, and storage closets filled to the brim with this or that.

No where to-

He threw the sheet off of the patient bed and flung himself down in it, pulling it loosely over his armor and forcing himself to a complete stillness.

With hope, he’d look like a proclaimed dead.

They had arrived to his hallway. He heard them going through room after room, tearing them apart. Tossing entire boxed and ripping emplacements off of walls. They were whispering and mumbling in dark tongues. Coughing vile substances from the dredges of their chests. He could smell them even through the helmet.

One was in here now. He could see the nightmare through the thermal on his helmet. Long, metal claws played on the end of fingers. Scratching against the wall as it went. Throwing out entire rows of shelves. The area around the mouth was… abnormally warm.

When it began to speak, it became clear why.

It had taken a bite out of someone.

“Troooooooper!~ We know you’re here… come out and play. We can see what color your insides are! What it takes to crack you open… a hammer… a knife.. How about we just rip you apart, eh? Peel you like a fruit, rip off layer, after layer, after lay-”

<”Mikla, out the window, now!”> His comms exploded. He shot up straight, slammed the butt of his carbine against the jawline of the cultist before throwing himself out of the second story window, shattering it without a second thought.

If it wasn’t for the armor, he was sure he would have broke something further.

He landed on the hard road, only to be hoisted up and brought onto the back of a speeder bike.

It kicked into gear and screamed off into the distance.

Minutes later, he was at the command center, a bacta-patch pressed into his leg wound and standing next to his commander.

He could care less why he was brought into this room to be addressed by Erskine Barran, at least he was saved.

<“Private Mikla, reporting.”> The Tognath said.

 

[Aemilio Valaar]

// Voidwalker-Actual // 501st Legion, Black Hands //
// Objective I : The Great Flank
// ALLIES: DECEASED Erskine Barran - DECEASED Aron Gowrie - Julian Qar - Ortʹtʹo Mikla - Alric Árheim - Kolson Vrask - Aridius 'TK-1575' - Willan Tal - Aurelian Sigismund - Nukth Kelga'an - Sturit Goan - Knight - Raus Garrat
// ENEMIES: Brotherhood of the Maw, New Sith Order, Witches of Rhand, The Mongrel - Halketh - Zachariel Steelblood - Khamul Kryze - Alars Keto
// Engaging :
// Gear : Tenebrae, Tidefall, Left-Handed Grav Glove

​

Spoiler

• Valaar's unit locates a weapons cache and resupplies.
• Valaar meets up with Wildcat Two's Captain Reed.

The vehicles they had seen continued on their way further south, likely as part of the Lord-General's expected counterattack. The Lieutenant frowned, helmet looking up before the Battlemind AI pinged one of the nearby buildings. One of the weapons caches for resupply. Most of the Mawite forces were moving past them, carving savage paths between the Pellaeon District and the Myrmidon Quarters. Waving a hand above his head, with attention drawn to him, Aemilio signaled to the first fireteam formation to head up to the weapons cache down the street.

The rest of them crouched down in the streets and deserted streets and the alleyways.

Not long after, <"Building's clear, Lieutenant. Got eyes on hostile movement a couple blocks to the east."> The troopers voice was filled with anticipation. The levels of unitary patriots within the Black Hands varied to each trooper, but with the majority of the Black Hands being made up of juveniles and delinquents that were offered a chance by the state, many of them just wanted a fight.

<"Understood. Stay put, we're moving in now."> Simultaneously, his arm waved up, and the signal was repeated down the resting unit before they started moving. Heading down the street and herding a few squads inside with Aemilio among their number. The rest remained on lookout and guarded the exterior.

When he descended passed the threshold, he did not hesitate to join his men in swapping his equipment for fresher gear.

For his disruptor rifle the depleted power cell was tossed out, thrown to the wayside as he reached down to collect a handful more from the container. Slotting them into his pouches, the disruptor rifle was tossed up onto his shoulder. Around him, the Black Hands were on a rotation going in and out of the building to resupply. From being lookouts to being on guard to resupplying and then out again.

<"Reed to Valaar! We've linked up with both your rear-guard units and your wounded, with med-evac contingent in sight too. Wherever you are - halt! You are safe to resupply, we're loading your wounded and your fatalities onto speeders an' AFVs, an' we're sure we won't keep ye waiting for long.... Just stay put! Please, man! Clock's ticking an' the western counterattacks are expected soon. Wildcat Two out!">​

"Finish rearming, get ready to move out!" He called over his shoulder as he headed bac to the front of the house.

He exhaled, as if the action was a release for his hostile disposition to the Free States Forces, he patched himself into Reed's commlink.

<"This is Valaar. We are close. Weapons Cache Osk-P7. I've got plans to skirt the edge of the Mawite Host and reclaim their LZs."> A group of troopers began to stomp through the halls, taking up a ready position near the doorway for rapid redeployment. <"The Lord-General has more than enough men to to hold the lines. We box them in, and they'll have nowhere to run."> Of course, Aemilio had no clear idea of how many they truly were on the ground, but he knew that Nirauan was a militarized world, despite being rather independent compared to other worlds in the Empire.

Closing off his side of the frequency, he pinged his lookout to the rear of the building.

<"Lieutenant? They're moving further South. We can cut them off and ambush them before they mount their assault.">

<"Let them pass. We've got a more important objective."> And it was further east, through the embattled city.

As Wildcat Two inevitably closed in on them, the external lookouts in the streets waved them down, herding them to the front of the Osk P7.

 

[Halketh]

FEAST
DARK LORD OF THE SITH
DARTH CAELITUS
The Aegis of Woe | Ace | Lightsaber
The Perished | 6872/7000
GROUND ZERO - NEW CARANNIA

​

The carnage was palpable, the taste riding upon the traitorous winds that his whim commanded into howling gales. Red mist bathed the streets, the city tortured and turned into a vision from a sanguine soaked nightmare that only one as demented as he could envision. Bodies strewn aside and torqued out of recognizable shapes twisted and writhed in bloody puddles, the magics commanding them to their feet effective, even if their ability to obey was hindered by the mutilation which had slain them. Through the clamorous ranks, the dancing, rioting masses, their sovereign waltzed, unbothered by the graven displays of his forces. He strode forth in silence, his blood-splattered visage of indifference flashing between the sprinting throngs as an omen for what was to come.

A surge of wrath washed through his veins, the connections binding his arisen to his own pulse were being severed swiftly, his ranks being culled from the skies above and the forces below in equal tandem, a one-two crash of drumming rhythm that saw his scarred lips twitch beneath his helmet. Horrific machinations crafted overture in the tapping rhythm of the war, the push-pull he knew would endure so long as he permitted it to. He swayed, animating from his position of abrupt stillness, and cast his steps forward to approach the thoroughfare. The sea of undead shifted, parting from his path with a mere flick of his fingers, closing behind him just as quickly to cover his flank.

<"Dark Lord, enemy aerial support is inbound on your location, we advise you take cover.">

He hummed but a note of malcontent, his voice droning a response with a lack of enthusiasm unmatched: <"Copy Prophet."> He reached outward, his black wings unfurling to beckon toward the sorcerers in his company. He relayed the warning in silence, but by then, it was too late. The screaming approach of TIE craft forced the slow breath from his lungs to press outward, and it became all he could do then to weave his tapestry of deception with the aid of his trusted. Hands snapped to in time, the line of dark magicians working to cast a vile illusion which expanded their rank in the sight of the unaware, projecting the hollow image of thousands more on the back line where the incoming siren was the closest. It would not protect them, nor would it spare all of them, but it would muddy the waters and force the pilots to make snap decisions.

Simple minds were the easiest to break with the introduction of new variables.

The crescendo of bombs and laser fire rained down upon The Perished, rumbling the duracrete and forcing the ground to groan beneath his boots. He bathed in the chaos, sucking the carnage in between his teeth to taste the lush iron against his tongue. The words of illusion espoused from him in tune to the collective clustered about his cloak tail, their influence expanding into an insidious web of contortion manifest, exposing the depths of his depraved vision. Hundreds of his damned soldiers were cursed into the afterlife, yet doing as much only served to return the essence chaining their broken souls to their rotting bodies back unto him, restoring his own might. He feasted upon his dead, sweeping a scythe across the playing field to pluck his energy from its fetter, restoring his font until it overflowed.

"Press forward, do not stop moving. Force them to bomb their own if they wish to decimate our ranks once more." His voice coaxed at the strings of awareness strumming the minds of his remaining legions, issuing a command which saw them charge with fervor once more, throwing themselves into the lines. Artillery bellowed from behind him, strikes from his allies dealt forth to clear the path for his overwhelming swell of seemingly immortal soldiers. And nestled within their heart, ventured the Dark Lord. They were a swarm of locusts, devouring and killing everything their writhing horde swept across, leaving little for him to feast upon for himself. He had not yet even drawn the wretched saber from his hip and thrust it through flesh.

Eerie hairs arose on the nape of his neck, his incorporeal focus drawn to a singular glisten of silvering madness thrashing through his swarm. He recognized it, but only vaguely. A Crestfallen Knight, the same who had endured humiliation during an assembly meeting on Thyrsus, where none had done anything to intervene on his behalf. He had called it penance of a sort, atonement for this sins of his ancestors. It had been a symbolic gesture sure, but one which was highly perturbing to the then-reserved Dark Lord. Even still, the aura was familiar, the die cast favorably. The albino had been consumed by his vengeful wrath, culling through the undead with eyes fixated on the gothic statue of Caelitus himself. It made him an easy target, his mindless slaughter.

"Do not kill the Enchani Knight, bring him to me." another command issued over silent network.

From the orgy of ultraviolence, the Dark Lord's chosen slithered from the rank, breaking off to form a task-force with his desire as their only goal. Six troopers adorned in blood-splattered New Imperial armor slipped between the buildings on their right, filing into the alleyway to intercept the Enchani before he could reach the Dark Lord outright. Two broke off, a sniper and spotter team, ascending rapidly the fire escape on the exterior of the building to infiltrate the interior where they would seek a vantage point.

The lead burst from the mouth of the alley, the rattling clatter of a grenade across the decimated duracrete announcing his arrival. Black smoke poured forth, casting a nightly shroud to cover their movement in the chaos. And from the depths of this cloud, the undead task force assembled, chattering amongst themselves to formulate a strategy. It was a simple one, but one which could prove effective if executed properly with little room for error. From the haze on Errant's left, a stormtrooper wielding a cortosis blade lunged. From this soldier's flanks, while the Knight was hopefully occupied with melee engagement, the remaining four opened fire, firing a barrage of lead toward the albino outright.

"Torment follows you, fallen one," Caelitus' voice ignited in the air around Errant, its depraved choir singing in full chorus, espousing from the thrashing undead encircling the Enchani in every direction, their voices shaking the street, "but it will not save you."

The Dark Lord shuddered from his position, his lips forming the next hellish words to espouse from the thousands of tormented puppets he commanded, their reach projecting his words across the city: "Death will release you from this pain."



ALLIES | BOTM | SITH | THE DARK SIDE | The Mongrel Zachariel Steelblood Laoth
FOES | NIO | DECEASED Erskine Barran Kolson Vrask Willan Tal Sturit Goan Enedina Tal Asa Yubari Alric Árheim Ortʹtʹo Mikla Aemilio Valaar Raus Garrat Shai Maji DECEASED Aron Gowrie Alex Eldar Nukth Kelga'an Knight Bastard Waymar Geyer Amaya Vollmond

 

[Sephi Karneh]

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

I'M STILL ALIVE
​

"Remember what command said, Nova, worst comes to worst?" his voice echoed from the flank of her memory. He had picked up a sidearm then, knocking a digit against his temple in tandem. "Better to die than be tortured by the Maw."

Every step she took felt like a mile, every breath a struggle, every burning stream of blood from her wounded arm like lava. But she did not stop, she could not stop, hesitation was failure, and failure here was certain death. The hound masters pursued her relentlessly, eager to avenge the death of their loyal hounds. At the bottom of the tower of stairs, Nova vaulted over the rail and drew a pack of explosives from her pouch to the wall, barely able to manage even that little with her wounds. She plucked the detonator from the opposite belt and ripped the safety from the top, poising to face the stairs with it clutched tightly in her hand. She needed only to wait three seconds before her foes appeared. She offered them no words, no triumphant one-liner, no quip, merely, the mirialan compressed the trigger in her hand. A stark beep projected from the charge planted haphazardly against the wall, yet in the quarter-second before it detonated, one of the stunned soldiers on the stairs whipped his hand.

The ignited wires lashed for her. Before she could even process what happened she was on the ground, howling in violent pain, clawing desperately at the split helmet barely held together around her head. Blood poured from the right side of her face, her vision darkened entirely, and all she could do to remedy it was scream. Electricity coursed through her flesh, blistering her veins and rattling her heart, stuttering its pulse into a wicked chorus entirely unfamiliar to her. Busted fingers tore the helmet from her head, finalizing its destruction, and she pressed a quivering palm over the gushing laceration across her face sucking in rapid breaths to try and stabilize her heart.

The commando struggled to rise to her feet, glancing between rapid blinks to see if her little trap had been successful. It was only an act of kindness by the cruel fates that it was. Yet it had cost her, the price she wasn't entirely sure of just yet, though the pessimist in her told her the right eye hidden beneath her palm would never see again. The jagged lash kept pouring, flooding her mouth with the bitter taste of her iron blood, and it seemed like the stuttering shake of her heart would never end. Rather than dwell on it she claimed her final bactapatch and slapped it onto the split eye socket and brow, stemming the rushing tide before it got too out of hand. The woman jogged out of the stairwell, reclaiming her sidearm, and booked it for the emergency exit on the left side of the entry hall, narrowly avoiding another screaming rain of fire from the Mawites who had just entered.

She slammed into the door, bursting out into the alleyway, and kept running, boots thumping against the broken duracrete. Skidding over a decimated battlement, she rapidly fired off a collective of burst shots from her pistol, shooting a roving band of marauders in the spine, and promptly used their corpses to cross the remaining gap. Blasterfire streaked by her arm, scorching the exposed flesh where her armor had been stripped, but she barely felt it, now. So much had she suffered that her brain had all but cut off the reception of such smaller injuries to her body. She twisted, emerald eye glazed over by the wild light of war, and fired another barrage over her shoulder, forcing those on her tail to cover.

It was the hissing discharge of her weapon that brought her back to reality. Another cartridge spent. She ripped it out and flung it aside, grabbing the last one she had and locking it into place. 'Save one, always save one.' She didn't want it to come to that, but it wasn't looking too good for her. This far behind, on her own, her chances of survival were next to zero. It would be all she could do, it would take everything she had, everything she was ever capable of, to endure. The combat engineer clutched her sonic pistol, that life line, as tightly as she could with her injured hand, and claimed her vibroblade with her right, wielding the two together as her only practical means of self-defense. It wasn't war anymore, it wasn't a battle, it wasn't a mission: it was a fight for survival outright. And the endless horde was hungry for her blood.

The woman slammed into a barricade, narrowly dodging fire from the front, only to tank it to the back. She grunted, thankful the armor plating and magcannon both stationed there were so enduring, but it didn't bode well. She was surrounded. Just when she thought she had escaped the frying pan, she had only been thrust into the open flame. Nova laid down fire to her flank, twisting herself around to press her back against the strength of the barricade to safeguard her rear and steadied her hands to kill the four Mawites advancing on her. Count your shots. Count your shots. Save one. She coached herself through it over and over again, struggling to maintain even that much control over the wild thoughts racing through her head.

Get to the flare.

Get to the flare.

Get. To. The. Flare.

The fizzling object was flickering out now, barely glimpsed over the buildings- time was running out. A war cry burst from her tortured throat and she took to flight once more, dark hair pasted by blood and dust to her tattooed features, trickling from the patched wound on her face to drip from her jaw. She skidded across the rubble, sliding around a corner and leapt to the sidewalk, scrambling after the dying light in the distance. She would not stop, rushing by the engagements in the square, dodging blaster streams to her left and right, rushing like a maddened fool after the one hope she had left.

Sephi burst from the mouth of another alleyway, hissing and spitting breath through her teeth, and all but crashed right into a figure stalking toward the flare as well. Meters away, she stared balefully with her only exposed eye, nostrils flaring with each shaken breath released. She had heard stories of this monster, enough to recognize him by his mutilations alone. It was none other than the wicked hound of The Brotherhood himself, The Mongrel . She minced no words, spared him no remark or greeting. The commando did not hesitate to pull the trigger, firing a three-round burst at him.

'Always save one.'


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 Tor’r Tal’Verda Zachariel Steelblood @IMCAELITUS

 

[Darth Tennacus]

Engaging: Ragnar Bloodfist
Whispering Swarm
​

The concept of vengeance had been absolved from this particular unit of beasts; for the Sith could not have them blinded by feelings of compassion. From the very beginning, their fate had been sealed to an expendable outcome. Their service was to the Sith who governed them, however independent their minds allowed them to believe. So when their cries filled the skies of the battlefield, it was not out of mourning or grief, but rather pain. And Darth Tennacus fed on that pain. Like a photosynthetic flora drinking in the light of the sun, the Sith Lord absorbed the emotion from the air, fuelling the dark side within him.

The temporal boost was sufficient enough to guide his body to exposure in one swift manoeuvre. He propelled himself from the shadows, emerging on the outskirts of the conflict after all his creatures had been slain. The initial observation allowed the Sith to make a mental analysis of his opponent: the Zabrak who cleverly cauterised the wounds of his acidic-bloodied enemy to avoid a lethal droplet in harming him. Most never abused the residual heat of their weapons to avoid such a trait; but then again not many could outlast such beasts, save for a Jedi or Sith. At the moment, Tennacus felt his enemy was neither. The Force did not flow through him as viciously as it did a Sith, and neither did it feel restricted in its limitations as it did in a Jedi.

So which one was he?

Darth Tennacus announced himself as someone possibly questionable. The dark side was undeniably evident in him - he didn't try to hide it - but he never carried himself as a Sith Lord, or even a Sith, for that matter. His appearance came as one associated with an attire similar to an officer: a long, grey coat flailed its tails behind him, the collar folded downward around his neck, all buttons unloosened. A metallic face plate obscured his mouth and nose, bearing some form of ventilation unit which ran horizontally from ear to ear. He currently presented no lightsaber - or any weapon in his hand, for that matter - merely standing with his gloved hands down by his side, and an expression which exuded calmness over exaggerated anger.

"I'd like to congratulate you on your victory," the Sith Lord spoke, his voice calm, demeanour unchanged. "It's unfortunate you choose to side yourself with a lost cause. Had you chose the path of the infinite dark, you might have succeeded in making a name for yourself. Alas, your skill is lost to an authority who will eventually believe they can be successful without it. Are you truly willing to die for such people?"

​

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

THIRD POST
THE_WOAD
IMPAF-COMMAND

OBJECTIVE 1: GROUND ZERO

Alric Árheim Ortʹtʹo Mikla Dante Corvus Aurelian Sigismund

Aemilio Valaar Konrad Harrsk Aridius 'TK-1575'

Kolson Vrask Sephi Karneh Raus Garrat

Willan Tal DECEASED Aron Gowrie Inarin Lsu Shai Maji Alex Eldar Sturit Goan

Nukth Kelga'an Knight Mogra'teksa Keilara Kala'myr

BOTM: The Mongrel Zachariel Steelblood Tor'r Tal'Verda
Maestus Halketh Khamul Kryze

ERSKINE'S LOADOUT
FRAGARACH MODEL DISRUPTOR PISTOL
BASKET-HILTED VIBROSWORD CLAYMORE

HOLDING THE LINE - NEW ROLE, NEW STRATAGEMS: PART 4

Spoiler

Saffia District
The Hand of Thrawn's western far-boundaries
The Myrmidon Quarter
Fort Imperium
The Spaceport outskirts
Pellaeon District
Fiyarro District
Thrawn District
Outer northern suburban districts

FORT IMPERIUM, THE MYRMIDON QUARTER,
NEW CARANNIA, NIRAUAN (868 ABY)

+00:36:15 HOURS INTO MAWSWORN ASSAULT....

[[ VANDAL-ACTUAL //:: HELLION. ]]
A reference to the Second Battle o' Bastion? Now? But why- oh, God!​

*'Dia, feuch an coimhead thu thairis orra. Tha mi a 'guidhe ort!'
**'God, please watch over them. I beg you!'

Having played a small part in repelling the Sith's assault on Ravelin, it was clear to see why the first book Erskine ever picked up in the Great Imperial Library was on the very subject that was turning the Woad's skin paler than normal. Despite the severe disparity in assault-intensity, the Lord-General could see the parallels between the defence of Ravelin and that of New Carannia respectively, intensifying his dismay as Lord Erskine continued recalling what he'd read about Vandal Squad and their rallying cry for all who would sacrifice their lives for the Imperium thereafter. A one-of-a-kind BROKEN-ARROW protocol so perfect it turned the tide of battle for Tavlar's stubborn defence against the Sith hordes, but Lord Erskine wasn't so optimistic about such a brazen, careless will to let yet another Special Forces iteration to go up in smoke like that, he was as far from approving of this action as one might expect of any commander in his shoes.

<"Strikegroup: CATHAR, this is Barran! If any of you survived that first wave, do whatever it takes to prevail! Alternatively, if you can make it back to Myrmidon Quarter, Strikegroup: ARCHAIS will do everything in our power to keep you safe! JUST KEEP FIGHTING!!!">​

But it was dawning on the Lord-General, in all his unwillingness to let such a vital part of the new array die off so quickly, that having to call in a Broken-Arrow bombardment would be required of IMPAF-Command whether he willed against it or not.

A darkening thought, one the Stormchaser would accept for the sake of everyone.

As soon as he was done, listlessly dropping the comm-device onto the wide, flat border of the holographic-table, the war-planning room was once again resembling something altogether more tranquil, but with the hum of comm-links coming to life with the multitude of voices and their requests, orders, and situation reports alike. All that Erskine was hoping for in this situation was unfolding as planned, with setbacks and losses being brought down to acceptable levels as the Imperials finally got their footing enough to fight back eventually, and in this state of focused flow, the Chieftain of An-Cridheachan Province began making his preparations for a few counters to get the ball rolling. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Barran's mood had been effected by the destruction of the Special Forces contingents in the early stages, taking the brunt of the Maw's first, most-aggressive actions in the assault, and with little to no support in the area as requested, their valiant efforts (though certainly costly for the Maw's units who dared strike at them first) had been ground down by the assaulting forces to the glaringly-obvious point that their heroic fight had been too costly to recover from.

My best playing-pieces in the area, gone before I could even react to save them. Brutal, man....​

However, despite the dire situation in the east and in the north, every other front was holding and offering harsh resistance to the quick-striking efforts of the Mawsworn elements in the west and in the Myrmidon Quarter, giving hope that rectification was indeed possible, a hope that Erskine had no time to hold onto. This was a time for action after all, such actions that were expected of,"The Stormchaser", as everyone knew him, such actions Barran could feel clicking into place in the forefront of his mind despite the harsh slap of reality that still stung him in that moment. He hardly knew these people, but felt the sting of their passing as if it were the souls of the Blue-Hearts that were departing as a result of the unexpected; and yet, such stomach-turning, heart-sinking emotion was what made the Lord-General give enough of a damn to go above and beyond, to help when it made perfect sense to let go and admit defeat.

'Spoken like a Monarch of Old, Sir Bar-... Erskine. Spoken well. My men are at your disposal. Simply give me the orders and I will relay it to them. As it stands, I also will be acting as your servant during this operation. As you need me.'

In this moment of silent reflection over the holographic-table, the Baron of Sólrike would be fortunate in his assumption that the Chieftain of An-Cridheachan would be at his most-approachable in such moments, contrary to most in his position once more. Chuckling slightly in the beginning of the Baron's reply, the Laird would still adopt a warm, approachable demeanour throughout, despite the expressed confusion at what rank or title to attribute to the Woad, as the Woad himself was still struggling with the same confusions in titles and ranks in turn. In the act of holding Alric's gaze, Erskine knew his sincerity would be taken more seriously as he said,'My thanks for the compliments, an' from one noble to the next, you'll keep all comparisons between servants an' the perceivable self to yourself for as long as we stand as equals. The fact you're here now is more than enough merit for me to work with, the rest is pressureless proving-ground.... Masterpieces are painted within the Crucible of War we know so well after all, think on what yours might look like when the smoke clears.', bowing his head subtly, though respectfully in consideration of the fact Árheim was putting his life in the hands of IMPAF-Command.

'Private Mikla, reporting.'

Turning round to see the other man that Barran had summoned to Fort Imperium, Erskine responded,'A private, you say? No, radtrooper. Not any more you're not.', still not completely aware of the undead threat Or't'o had personally witnessed before being brought to the Lord-General's war-planning room. As Erskine made eye-contact with one of his subordinates, he snapped his fingers and exclaimed,'We'll be needin' Sergeant chevrons at the double, Gorman! Quickly now!', before turning back to Árheim and Mikla to continue their interaction. It wasn't until then that the smell reached Barran's nostrils, turning his stomach harder than before, knowing the specific scent of the undead like it was second-nature; it was in this moment that Lord Erskine realized that all the reports of undead soldiers were true, trying his hardest not to appear angry, as even anger at himself in the crucible could be taken the wrong way by otherwise reliable subordinates, subordinates as reliable as the likes of Or't'o Mikla.

'I have a difficult ask for you, Sergeant Mikla. An ask I would never normally consider for anyone else in your shoes, but I've been told of what you've seen, what you've achieved in your time on New Carannia thusfar.... But if you achieve this, I'll be incorporating your unit into my new legion at the first opportunity. An' on this matter, I make a solemn, god-fearing promise.'

Seeing for himself the Mawsworn raiders, marauders, cultists and undead soldiers, flashing in the eyes of the newly-promoted Sergeant as the rank-plating and unit-specific Sergeant chevrons were placed in the trooper's hands, Barran knew that Mikla would take no unnecessary risks to achieve his goals that night; even as the sun steadily set into darkness around them, with all the macabre, ghastly elements in play, Lord Erskine somehow knew that Or't'o was ready to move and strike out from within the very shadows that seemingly worked against them. This singular Radtrooper-Sergeant had all the odds stacked against him, but Lord Erskine knew he had only one chance to entice the Imperial forces in the east to advance towards the Mawite landing-zones to the north of Myrmidon quarter, one chance for the contingents in the west to meet ER'KIT in the middle, catching the attackers in something of an unorthodox vice-grip if all went smoothly.

'Cutting it short, I need you to use every resource at your disposal if you manage to link up with Strikegroup: ER'KIT. We've lost too many in the east already, I'm not willing to let the support group go out like that, but the way things are looking - you'll be pleased to know the units there are making a good fight of it, pushing westward from Saffia District's outskirts. So ready your men, an' do what you can to survive the undead on the way.... We'll talk more on that issue when you bring them to Fort Imperium, alright?'

HOLDING THE LINE - NEW ROLE, NEW STRATAGEMS: PART 5

FORT IMPERIUM, THE MYRMIDON QUARTER,
NEW CARANNIA, NIRAUAN (868 ABY)

+00:49:19 HOURS INTO MAWSWORN ASSAULT....

<"Griff 1-1 for High Command, requesting infantry reinforcements. Requesting immediate support!">​

'Ready up the DTs, Frayne. The longer we keep our enemies on the other side of the Myrmidon boundaries, the longer we ultimately last before we have to hold the fort against them.'

Though they weren't a great-sized host of Death-Troopers, it was all that Lord Erskine had at his disposal, what-with having to hold the Myrmidon Quarter's entire four-sided boundary with the forces he had at his disposal at the time, but Barran still had faith that sixty well-organised DTs could present something of a nagging irritation for the Mawsworn warriors assailing Sigismund's contingent. Perhaps it would be enough to buy enough time for the forward-operating Myrmidon/Agema contingent to leave some nasty marks on the Mawite contingent in the southwest, and though the Woad could only strike out from within the Myrmidons' square-shaped boundary, at least other exhaustible options were still open to IMPAF-Command on the western front at that time, options of which the Vandmaran Princeps was more than willing to have the Galidraani Lord-General make good use.

<"Requesting artillery fire on coordinates ... ">​

'Gorman, get the MLVs, the Predator Launch-Platforms, an' the good ol' classics to work! Coordinates were also sent on datapad, so there is absolutely no chance o' missing or code-blues! I want you overseeing this lot personally, so look lively! MOVE IT!!!'

'Yessir!', 1st-Lieutenant Gorman replied, practically leaping out his seat to run out of the room as Lord-General Barran turned his attention back to the holographic-table. It was in turning around to the display that Erskine noticed Alric's sensitivity to the brightness of the backlighting, quickly understanding that it would take time for his like to adjust, being of a purer physical state to that of the technologically-desensitized counterpart, prompting the Chieftain to mindfully turn the brightness down to something a little less migraine-inducing for the Baron's eyes. The line-infantry commander would be needed at his best, especially for the impending attack on Fort Imperium's walls, as the Maw were always willing to try scaling the walls of whatever hold or fort they encountered in their collective rampages, and the sort that Lord Alric had brought with him were more than capable of slicing, stabbing and bludgeoning anyone and anything that climbed over the ramparts.

<"Gorman to Lance One! Target-areas zeroed, all artillery pieces locked, loaded and awaiting permission to fire! Who's going first, sir?">​

'First? Whit? Naaaaw.... None o' that reserved, stoic Jedi caper here. No chances, no mercy. NOT FOR THE WOLVES WHO HOUND OUR EVERY STEP!!!!!'

<"Barran to Lance Three! Permission granted to every - single - working artillery-piece in our array! ALL GUNS WILL FIRE ON YOUR MARK - AN' NO EXCEPTIONS!!!!">​

'FOR WHAT IS A WOLF TO A HUNTER'S IRON SLUG?!?!?! WHAT IS A WOLF - TO A FARMER'S BLOOD-HOUNDS?!?!?!?!'

By the time the Lord-General's metaphor was finished, thudding shots and screeching launches could be heard reverberating from the south, and though none could see the shots ringing out from inside the Imperium Gardens, (the only place within Fort Imperium that had space enough to facilitate well-covered artillery placement) everyone in the command-centre's war-planning room knew that this barrage had the makings of something truly destructive for the unlucky Mawites trying to weather it at the other end. But did any turn their noses up at the seemingly overzealous use of their long-distance payload-reserves? Did anyone scoff at the reckless abandon of it all? None, not a single soul there objected to the barbarity of the Lord-General's disregard for Mawsworn lives, as all knew and understood what Barran had endured in his recent experience on Bastion, knowing that whoever was on the other end had it coming sooner or later. Seemingly obvious to state it aloud, but even the Woad could tell that this hatred for the Brotherhood of the Maw was deep-set enough in everyone around him that they were all exhibiting the very essence of indifference towards their enemies' fates.

A sure sign that only the utmost disrespect would be afforded those who tried their luck on Fort Imperium.

Good. That's exactly what I want for them, archetypal insolence to the very last.

Infuriate them!​

 

[Kyrel Ren]

Location: City Streets near Hand of Thrawn Fortress
Objective: 2
Enemies: Khroraic Saaveina Imp Knights/NIO
Allies: BOTM, Detritus Ren
Equipment: Kyrel's Armor, Kyrel's Necrochasis, Vader's Bane Lightsaber


The Master of Ren had hoped that his force enhanced kick would send the pint sized Knight away from Kyrel in hopes of continuing his quest to meet once more with his spawn. Instead while his opening attack had sent the Dwarf flying in some degree through the city street it wasn't the distance he hoped for. The dead around Kyrel moaned hungrily as they limped along attacking other stormtroopers or anyone in sight to infect anyone unfortunate enough to be within the path of carnage along Kyrel's path. The Dwarf stood up taking the blow like a champ much to Kyrel's surprise standing albeit very angry while a group of the stumbling undead was all but stood between Kyrel and his foe.

What he hadn't expected was the words that came from the small Knight as he started to violently hack his way into his monstrous creations. An eyebrow slowly raised as the Dwarf knew much about Kyrel, far too much then Kyrel cared for anyone to know. Beneath his mask a scowl started to form as the Dwarf started to remind the Knight of Ren that Kyrel himself was and would always remain in the shadow of Darth Vader even as he cloaked himself as his Heir Apparent. Flashes started to incur of his time serving Sieger Ren and while a deadly asset of the First Order used to bring terror to it's enemies, the process had all but repeated itself when he began to serve Darth Solipsis in a way Kyrel had become yet another pawn of the Sith. With each truth that the dwarf began to cut deep into his mind. Deep into it's darkest parts and while what he said was in every way true there were things he did not know that the dead man did.

His fists clenched tightly as he watched while the Knight continued to cut a bloody swathe of his own infected Stormtroopers to get to Kyrel. He didn't even make a move to interfere as he was curious by how far the man would go to say to him. Dun Moch was a tactic all but familiar to Kyrel but never had it gotten to him like this, to the point where all he was pure red as if he would destroy everything in his path. He would make sure that the first person to die by his hand would be the one that spoke such things so bravely and so openly to his face. He waited for the small knight to finish but as he finished cutting down his undead soldiers, only to watch as he saw bits of electricity into the being's own hands aimed towards Kyrel. Soon the flashes of green started to cut through the rest of the undead and reach Kyrel.

The man that called himself Vader's Heir stood and watched the blast of energy come towards him, a gloved hand only reached out to catch the blast. The bolt of energy carried so much force that it shredded the glove of his armor exposing his hand, and even burned his flesh as he caught it. The sheer force even made him be pushed back the ground being crushed as it made him drift for a moment as he used tutaminis to try and catch the bolt absorbing it while the gloomy street was filled with radiant light around them.

He gritted his teeth as he absorbed the energy in one hand, the other that wielded his signature saber known as Vader's Bane was launched towards him in a lightsaber boomerang move. During this lock of energy of Khroraic firing his electric judgement and Kyrel in turn absorbing the great energy that even threatened to destroy his hand, he finally began to speak. "You think you know me Dwarf?! I have survived death itself and created a legacy even more feared than Vader.... Hell has no room for me, for I am death incarnate... You will learn soon enough." He spoke showing a hint of the vitriol within him as the energy lock between the two started to shoot bolts of lightning out onto the street and anyone, or anything around them.

 

[Mogra'teksa]

M O G R A ' T E K S A
IMPERIAL KNIGHT
Armor | Lightsaber | The Twins
// Maestus \\

GO GO DANCER
​

Through pistol and lightsaber, she carved her path of freedom. Through blood and sweat, she had found her rhythm. There was music everywhere, in the 808 drum of her heart, in the droning bass line of her whirling blade, in the thunder of the boots against the duracrete. The pitter patter and sigh of heavy guns. She was feeling it. Blood splattered her face, bleeding into the whites of her eye, stinging with its heated salt. A twirl, the slither of her lekku out of grasping hands. Low, to the floor, back up, step once, twice, and strike. The argent blade was her rave stick, the undead her crowd, and the music too angry to do anything but mosh. She was cut off from the others and had been for some time, though she find herself unafraid, swept up in the tide of grace smiling through every tissue of her body. She felt alive, the most alive she had felt since the first night she had stepped onto the gilded stage in the high class club of the TURBO L.O.V.E.R. Her grin turned to a grimace, a snarl after, and she wobbled down low to avoid a frontal cleave from her latest dance partner.

Lithe agility lent itself to her aid, the twi'lek bending over backward and snapping her pistol to, blasting the meat of the warrior's inner thigh out to expose the bristling bone and the remnants of his stringy muscle. He dropped, her lightsaber arced upward, and she relieved him of his pain with a flash of blinding white. At the Lord General's words to CATHAR, she took a moment to smash the side of her pistol toting hand against the outer edge of her utility belt, activating her location beacon, hopefully lighting the path for any of the survivors of the crash. She could not cut her way to them personally, but with any luck, perhaps they could get close enough for her to aid them.

Plasma splashed against her chestguard, licking at the graceful curve of her jaw beneath her helmet, and she recoiled at the sting. Another shot. And another. Nearly a third came before her reflexes snapped to yet again, tendons jerked by the stimulation she could not see, and her blade whipped the bolt back toward the source. The swarm charged with renewed vigor, leaving her little room to maneuver. If she didn't move, she would be overwhelmed. A glance behind. One forward. Another upward. There was nowhere to go. Mogs bit into her cheek, clipped her saber, and drew her secondary pistol. "Knight! Here!" A static-laced voice projected from a redoubt distant, the twi'lek snapping her focus there. "We'll hold them here!" She blinked those amber eyes and nodded, steeling herself. All she had to do was cross the dance floor. A task easier said than done, even if she wasn't carrying a pair of overfilled liquor drinks. Mogra'teksa set to stride, rapidly firing her pistols in tandem, sliding low to avoid the hail of fire lain down with her sudden animation.

The twi'lek focused intently, pouring her energy into a swipe of her occupied hands, ejecting a wave of kinetic force to blast the undead soldiers away. She only had so much ammunition and so much strength left in reserves, but she sprinted regardless, fixating on the tight group of stormtroopers some meters away. What should have been an easy stroll had turned into a bolted nightmare, one soiled by an endless rain of crimson and the bleak stench of fetid rot. She felt herself gag, but swallowed down the rising bile, tightening the muscles of her abdomen to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged. Another flashing strobe from her weapons. Another line of smoldering corpses put back where they belonged. I can't make it. There are too many. The thought manifested and she swiftly realized it wasn't self-doubt penning the thoughts across her mind, but the very voice of reason.

A flash through The Force, a ripple of exertion, and the Knight-Errant whooshed out of sight, reappearing on the overturned barricade beside the stormtrooper squadron. She took a knee and locked her position down, raining fire as fast as her trigger fingers would allow.