Jump to content

All Activity

This stream auto-updates

  1. Last week
  2. The swirling emotions that any form of battle or duel always stirred up the need for control. It was something he found to be true even within spars with padawans, that emotions rose and it was within those emotions that, while more strength and sense of purpose could lend a person, rarely if ever allowed for one to see the entire field at play. Alcmene deployed her shield in a strong array of a defensive maneuver that protected against the kinetic energy that blasted off his lightsaber. A true defensive form, one that kept her pinned to defend. It would break up the rhythm temporarily of a one on one on one and change the field to two on one. Not entirely surprising though, as he would expect for a master to protect their padawan, if Keenava was the padawan. The move for a new or younger padawan would be slow to come around to make a counter. But Keenava was neither of the two, so he narrowed his focus onto the energy that could surround her, which he had to assume whom he was feeling out behind the shield deployment of Alcmene. The Twi’lek sprang almost immediately upon the wave blast finished, making use of the saved Force energy not extended to protect herself. He quickly positioned himself against the charge, only to pick up that such defense was wasted and predicted. The quick strikes to his left arm sent tingles and waves of sensations through, having him quickly change to his right hand as the one to hold his lightsaber- a move that only worked through the fact that he was holding the hilt with both paws. Had he not, it would have dropped his lightsaber. It was a very good move by Keenava, and even better by her quick movement to accelerate out from him, moving well past any defensive saber move. She was good, and there was a small sense of pride in the fact she was as good as she was. His turn to follow her was very much wasted through his inability to keep her close with a saber swing. But she was not out of reach from being tossed even further away from a Force push- to which the Jedi Master used so easily. Not with great force, not enough to hurt her, but enough to either expend Force energy to resist and stop, or to let it aid in her already movement away from him and take her out of any counter strike position. A move though that he almost regretted as he realized his sense slightly dropped to make the move and he had turned fully away from Alcmene.
  3. Rising from her tumble, Keenava felt a shrill peck at the base of her neck. Several small but intense sensations rang on the periphery of her senses, though she could not decipher the source. As she collected her thoughts, she realized—too late—that it was the Force telling her of the Wookiee’s imminent kinetic blast. Waves of tarmac gravel blasted into the air, throwing rocks the size of small pebbles everywhere. Keenava braced herself, tensing the muscles in her legs to prepare to catch herself if the blast sent her flying. However, the blast’s severity was cut short by her new master’s artful adaption. Her shield cut through the blast like a fan blade through a typhoon, sending the gravel and excess force outwards on either side of the pair. Keenava could hear the subtle dings of rocks as they hit the hull of the Bloated Tortur nearby and even more as they struck surrounding objects. One stray piece of sediment successfully grazed the Twi’lek’s cheek, but other than that, she remained unharmed. Keenava was confused. At the start of combat, she assumed they would all be fighting each other. But this tactic left her new master open. Alcmene exposed her back. Her only form of defense was currently protecting them both. It was a gesture of goodwill, and not something the Twi’lek was used to. Some darker parts of her whispered to take advantage of the opening. But they were easy to discard. That isn’t something Jedi do. That isn’t something good people do. While the blast played out, Keenava held fast and tapped into the force around her. She kept inside her mind and relaxed her muscles, pulling energy from their surroundings into her ready muscles. Any excess energy that blew past her new master’s shield, she let wash over her, conserving the blast and fueling her maneuver. Then, after the last rock fell, Keenava shot out like a bullet. The force of her feet on the ground but the barest whisper as she torpedoed out and toward the Wookiee. The Twi’lek aimed her assault straight on, bluffing a full charge at force-propelled speed. Instead, she came in low and used her momentum to aim several precise knuckle blows at key pressure points in Kirlocca’s dominant arm, her fists formed with the index knuckle protruding a little further than the rest. The precision was crucial. The calculations needed to be immaculate. Too much force could cause semi-permanent damage, and too little would not achieve the effect she was looking for. Then add that he’s a Wookiee, and a tricky situation gets even trickier. The force needed to disable a Wookiee’s arm is considerably larger than a human’s. Therefore, Keenava guessed less force than she thought for the blows. Worst came to worst, Kirlocca would be agitated by the attack and distracted, allowing Alcmene to counter, or she'd miss, and her maneuver would've been a waste. But, if Keenava's assault worked, the Wookiee would drop his weapon and temporarily lose feeling in his arm. Afterward, because the Twi’lek was neither stupid nor cocky (not anymore, anyway), she continued her accelerated gait out past Kirlocca’s defenses and retreated to a safe distance. ((2))
  4. Earlier
  5. The Quarren marched slowly, his gilded black robe gliding across the cobbled path as it dragged gently behind him. He was illuminated brightly by cauldrons of deep orange fire, and candles symbolically on each of his shoulders. Robed figures lined the hall, whispering their chants over a flickering flame held atop a candlestick. He spoke from the back of his throat the Prayers of his burning god over the torch flame he carried reverently. “The great flame, the birthplace of civilization…” With each step, the roaring crackle of the fires around him grew. “The birthplace of the spirit…” The chanting became more uniform, many voices becoming one. “The birthplace of the mind…” Their voice echoed in the chasm, their long silhouette cast their solidified darkness in contrast of the flickering yellows and oranges that illuminated the cavern “Around the great flame we gathered, we lived, we loved, we lost…” Slowly the echo balanced, becoming one with their resonating voice. “Around the great flame we found our souls, longing to be awakened…” The sound amplified as it harmonized. “Around the great flame we created, learned, studied, and evolved.” Before the spire, in the dried fountain, a tower of kindling held aloft the body of the Sith. The one that plagued his nightmares, his ceaseless visions of the woman that would restore order, that would humble the galaxy with their message. “With this great flame we call for rebirth. Let us be the instrument of your enlightenment! Bring us the champion of your devouring inferno!” He pressed the torches light to the construction of kindling. The fire took and quickly rose up the grave, engulfing the lifeless corpse. “Let us burn our path to salvation!” The chants rose with the fire toward a great crescendo. The blaze roared, burning its visage into the eyes of all who gazed into it. With a burst akin to a solar flare, sparks and ash rose to the ceiling, depositing a thick black soot above the spire. In that moment there was silence, the powerful gust blew cold each and every fire meticulously placed in keeping with the ritual. From the center of the ash coated spire cracked a blinding light, widening to reveal the shadow of a woman. The black form stepped hesitantly forward into the settling ash. Her summoners knelt silently before her radiance. The Quarren turned, behind him an acolyte offered the crown that bound her to this reality on a crimson silken cloth. He took this artifact, turned back to face the woman and kneeled to her. “My Queen,”
  6. Umbra let the boy talk himself out, watching in silent judgement as he darted in and out of the shuttle to avoid the local authorities. So it wasn't a trap. The boy had sent a broadcast out into the black of space in the genuine hope that a Sith may hear it and come to aid him. What would he have done had Umbra not found the wayward transmission? If the Jedi had found it? Or worse yet, the Sovereign Alliance. The Sovereignty struck down Sith sympathizers with great prejudice, and would have likely killed this boy without a second thought. Still, he was young. These were things they would teach him. "I am Krath Umbra. I work for Sith Intelligence. Before I take you off this planet and on to my ship, I have a few questions. Rest assured, the authorities are no threat to you under my protection. Even if they attack, I will dispatch them. Answer my questions in any way you like. It is my duty to ensure those we recruit are free of the malaise and the hubris of those that came before, to ensure that the Sith Empire will rise again, stronger than it has ever been. If your answers are deemed appropriate, I will take you aboard and ferry you to the Sith. If I do not like your answers, I will leave you here to die by the authorities." He examined the prospect before him. He was fit, armed, and armored. But was he truly worthy to become a Sith Warrior? "You call yourself a terrorist. Violence incarnate," Krath Umbra chuckled. "but what is your doctrine? A terrorist has a goal, a message, a political or military end that their terrorism is a means for. Are you a terrorist, or just a perpetrator of wanton violent acts, lashing out to inflict pain and suffering for nothing else but the joy it brings you?"
  7. What good hath silence ever done? Mandalorian garbed soldiers marched in their blackened armour, the only distinctive marking the slight red glow of their ‘T’ shaped visors. If there had been abundant light there could have been seen the symbol of the Darkwatch, but they moved in darkness. Practising the manoeuvres of war in the barren rain coated canyons of Ziost. As one body they moved. Their blaster rifles spitting bright crimson bolts of tibanna spun energy into human sized silhouettes. It had almost become boring the soldiers had become so used to endless trainings. Endless watching of holovids and docs that outlined old conflicts. Conflicts they had only a small taste of. Perhaps had things gone differently in the many years before, they and their leader could have found respite and redemption. But that was not the fate of the Mandalorian soldier. There had been a time that the mandalorian people had stooped to the grovelling and beggardry of the mercenary life or the disgrace of farming. Or even worse, had bowed the knee before a government that had hated and despised them. A government run by the Jedi. Their enemies for a thousand thousand generations. The Darkwatch would see the end of that beggardry. They would walk beside the Sith as they had the last decade. The beginnings of an army that would sweep through the galaxy like a storm of blood.
  8. Marcson Moonmous was now on the run. The Corellian Authorities would be here soon. No matter what he could not allow that. He made sure to rush down to the coordinates that he had been handed. He knew that the Sith Order had answered his call and that time was also short. Two Corellian Authorities moved around in the corridor that he needed to use. He knocked them dead with his T-6 Thunderer and continued on his run. He soon made it to the coordinates that he had been handed. He looked around and noticed the man named Krath Umbra. That man looked like he stood out in the crowd. He walked down towards where he was located and then removed his Battle Helmet as he made his introduction. "Hello. I am Marcson Moonmous. I want to become the next Sith Warrior." He waited some more and then continued his introduction with even more detail. "I am also known as Terrorist Moonmous. I have been called violence incarnate." Marcson Moonmous saw some Corellian Authorities move around the crowd. "There is not much time. We must move now." He moved into the civilian shuttle and sat down where he would not be seen. Whenever the Corellian Authorities had cleared out he came back outside. He then moved his T-6 Thunderer back into his holster. He calmed down somewhat whenever the coast was clear. However he was still cautious as he needed to be in this situation. His Battle Helmet was back on whenever he had come back out as well. He made some more introductions. "I have no Mother or Father. Those are the basics about me." He was now done with introductions. He then saluted the man named Krath Umbra as he would another warrior. He then made one last comment. "I will serve the Sith Order with honor and I will never waver in obedience to their cause." He meant those words with as much conviction as he could muster.
  9. While Darth Idrija worked on the weapon, Darth Mavanger set about establishing the foundation for the new Sith Empire, and their new capitol of Ziost. He had the manpower- Those Sith that had sworn allegiance to him came with authority, and their slaves. Those that did not had been killed, and their slaves donated to surrounding warlords. And yet, those people only cared about what would bring them power. Armories, garrisons, factories. Infrastructure and spaceports were beyond their care, shipyards were beyond their power, and any form of inter-planetary empire was going to take more than a ragged band of warlords and tyrants. That was what his job was. Motivating those he now commanded to devote their resources to the betterment of the empire. It was a common adage that only two things were certain, death and taxes. It was less common for there to be a choice between them. He wouldn't be able to coerce resources from them forever, but he could do it long enough to show that they were not being poorly used. But first he had to establish his own base of operations on the planet, at the very least so that there was a place to route the upcoming tithe to. He could only remain on his flagship for so long, and while it was fully equipped to serve as a military hub for military operations on a local galactic scale, it was no use on a larger galactic scale, nor was it suitable for an administrative hub. He didn't have the slaves that the others did- He was never one to take slaves. In all his time he'd only ever had one- The girl from his homeworld. His first day. It had been so long ago. She had remained on Korriban until it fell, and had been evacuated- He treated her well, and in time she had forgotten her hatred of him. She was currently on special tasking combing through the fractured data-logs they had evacuated for anything useful. Regardless, he needed builders. The next shipment of slaves would be his. If they worked fast, worked hard, worked well, they would be set free within reason. If they didn't, they would die.
  10. Krath Umbra watched the world below with keen disinterest. The world had been largely untouched in the last war. There had been a minor skirmish for the planet once the rebels had begun to appear in force, but the planet had always held sympathies to boths sides of conflict. In the old Republic, it was staunchly loyal to the Republic and it's values. When that became the Galactic Empire, it's loyalties changed with it. And again when the New Republic took power. It wasn't a place known for it's rebellious sentiment. And yet, in the blackness of space and the annals of hyperspace, the Sith Empire had found a signal. One broadcast calling to the void for any remnants of the Sith that could hear it. Someone was looking to join the Sith, or at least they wanted people to believe that. And now, Umbra was in a race against time. Could he vet the prospect, contact him, and extract back to Ziost before the Jedi or Sovereign Alliance monitoring stations heard the call? Only time would tell. He nudged the ship down, a standard civilian shuttle meant to blend in with local system traffic. It wouldn't outrun any fighters or outshoot any gunships, but hopefully the anonymity it would provide would stop either of those situations to begin with. He sent a message to the relay that sent the message. "Meet me." Attached were the coordinates to the landing pad that he had been assigned. Either he would be met by a prospect, or by a trap. Either way, he was prepared.
  11. Identity Real Name: Marcson Moonmous A.K.A: Terrorist Moonmous Homeworld: Corellia Species: Human Physical Description Age: 25 Standard Years Height: 1.8288 Meters Weight: 82 Kilograms Hair: Brown Recon Eyes: Hazel Round Sex: Born Male Equipment Clothing or Armor: Battle Armor + Insulated Clothes Weapon: T-21 Blaster + T-6 Thunderer Common Inventory: Data-Pad + Comlink Faction Information Force User, Force Sensitive or Non-Force User: Force Sensitive Archetype: Sith Warrior Alignment: Neutral Evil Current Faction Affiliation: Sith Order Current Faction Rank: Potential Recruit History Force Side: Darkness Trained by: None Currently Trained who: None Currently Known Skills: Guerilla Combat Background: Marcson Moonmous was born on Corellia where his Mother and Father were murdered whenever he was twelve. He learned to both thrive and to survive on his own. He made sure to crush those who were weaker than him in order to assert his dominance. Whenever he became seventeen there were terrorist attacks on his Corellian homeworld. He had come to hate the authorities on Corellia and made sure to become one as well. He murdered and assassinated. He marauded and burned. He became violence incarnate. However in several combat encounters he had come to notice several Force Sensitive attributes. However there was no medical center on Corellia that would test him due to his wanted level. He decided to make his next move based on his hunch. He made sure to research the various Force orders that existed within the known universe and the ancient Sith Order was the one that stood out to him the most. He then sent out several announcements directed towards the Sith Order that detailed his wish to become the next Sith Warrior.
  12. Danger sense, though slight, slithered up her spine. It was not the familiar signs that accompanied the roar and terror of a battlefield, instead it was soft and calm and barely perceptible. A sign of the restraint of the great Jedi Master, and a reminder that she still had much to learn about control. A glance to her side told her that the Twi’lek had certainly been trained in fighting before, but whatever the next move sent by the Jedi master might overwhelm the still recovering woman. She reached up with the hand holding her lightsaber and pulled at one of the leather straps holding the shield lattice to her left arm, releasing one of the two points that kept the shield firmly attached to her arm. This allowed her to pivot the golden shield in her hand, the long kitesque bottom of the shield being held horizontally to the landing field. The length when held at full extension enough to cover the both of them from the long arcing attack of the Jedi master. This of course broke her rhythm of defense, over stretching herself as to defend the both of them, but allowing the Twi’lek to attack without having to worry about a defense. A method that many pair duelists on her home planet had perfected over the centuries. Though she had her doubts her father would have been proud at such a move. It was improvised, and nothing like the fluid and beautifully deadly duels of house de Moriès-Outremer.
  13. Kerriwarr

    Salliche

    Betrayal... Hardly a thought of it had crossed his mind in this entire process. It had been mere weeks since he had abandoned his life on Kashyyyk devoid of much thought. His calling had not been a matter of reason, nor logic, but faith. The essence of his being was built upon faith. His faith had always rested in the powers of light and life. Of the Force. He had been confined in his form of service to the forests of Kashyyyk - a place that had been a cornerstone of his life's perspective. All that he knew, he knew from Kashyyyk. Her forests, winding vines and luminous glades, tepid streams and fervent seas had been the essence of his life, but more than that, her people. The People of the Trees. His kin. There were a great, great many things which formed the reputation of Wookiees. Their fur was perhaps their most notable feature, followed by their immense size. These features cemented them as being some of the most formidable, feral-looking beings out of the menagerie of the Galaxy's folk. Their bravery and courage, as well, were well known by many, especially by those with knowledge of history. The legendary feats of chiefs like Tarfful and Chewbacca, and even former Jedi as in the form of Tyvokka had made celebrated examples of the fortitude of the spirit of the Wookiees. One thing many seemed not to notice, however, was a distinct virtue that the Wookiees themselves held in higher regard than any other. Honor. With a roar, the Wookiee surged forward to meet her, the silver blade moving true to his aims, arcing upward in a well-timed blow aimed for her wrists as he pivoted, twisting to the left in order to dodge the lunging attack of the Dathomiri. For once in all his life, the forces of dark would not snuff out his light. He would remain luminous, if not for himself, for the sake of the honor that kept him by the side of his master. He would not forsake that bond, as infantile as it was, for the sake of his own safety. He had been bound to her in his acceptance of her offer, and he would not forget the vow which had been planted in his words mere weeks ago. Loyalty was what the witch had lacked, yet it was all that he had to give. Stalwart he remained, his form ablaze in radiant holy light as they came to blows. He would prevail, or he would find his place by her side in the Force. There was no other option.
  14. Tros stood looking out the window Dralaloriya, his buy'ce still upon his head as he held one of his Wester 75 heavy blasters, cleaning it without looking at it. Behind him stood many of the leaders of the clans that have come to support him in his claim of Mand'alor. The discussion was centered around the battle plan, the path forward if it were. The different targets and movements along the way, but they all pointed and held a single destination. Mandalore. He decided that such debate was not worth his time at the moment. Egos were still at play and many would default out to him and whatever he decided to do. The main uproar seemed to be around the very fact that they now had a very small fleet beginning. Two Crusader-class corvettes, the Revenant and Zillo's Rage. They were about four days from the Keldabe-class Battleship, Colossus being ready for full deployment into action. He allowed for his clan leaders to suggest and debate such starting points of their war path towards Mandalore. He already knew where he was going to strike first. They weren't ready for it yet. Maybe two or three months away. Training and supplies were still being gathered. When a pause hit the debates, Tros put his blaster down rather heavily onto his throne chair that was erected for him. The movement stopped many from speaking until he did. He used the gap to move towards the center of the group. "We are not ready for any first step into our war path. For now, we need to pay a visit to our allies. We have pledged to help the Sith in their goals as well. A mutual agreement of working together. We have not seen them in awhile. You all have two months to prepare your clans for our great crusade. Until then, we do nothing. Kot'dral, prepare the Revenant for deployment to Ziost with a full host of those within Clan Solus. We leave within the next three hours. Everyone, dismissed." Tros then turned around and walked to his throne chair, picking back up his blaster and putting it within his holster. Upon doing so, he then turned and walked back to his quarters. He would visit Mavanger and see what sort of support he could lend until they were ready for their own crusade to retake Mandalore.
  15. Kirlocca found himself grinning rather lightly at the start of the spar. Movements made within the Force spoke clearly to all, and the joining of the presences made the warmth even more so enjoyable. With Alcmene blocking the very first strike and holding to a strong defensive form, made him almost fully engage against her. Keenava on the other hand tumbled and weaved, making the arc strike with more force and locking into Alcmene's shield. The Twi'lek then jumped, or kicked off his back leg. He wasn't sure which one she attempted to do, but the result was a quick pain in his calf muscle. In response, he pulled his blade away from Alcemene and went for a wide swing towards the Keenava, to which failed, as she was out of range. The movement gave him a moment to readjust between both. Taking a small side step, he brought his blade downwards towards the ground and not within any striking distance of either. But as the Jedi Master began to bring his blade back up, somewhere in between the two, his focus poured onto the blade, feeling it's energy buzz and humm with life. As the blade rose, he pushed on the blade with the Force, creating an arc of kinetic energy that seemed to ripple off the blade and outward. He raised awareness of the two, knowing that the energy could do damage if either was not fully expecting it or knew how to defend against such an attack. His breathing seemed to go quiet as the spar went on, something he was told he always tended to do, and it was eerie to those not used to it.
  16. Loyalty… She blinked, pausing for a moment as the audacity of his words crashed over her. The naivety, and utter delusion of them almost made her laugh had she not felt the pent up rage of the last decade show its face. Her thoughts dashing from wound to wound, finding the source of her pain and her anger. Stoking them into a rage. How many times had she proven herself loyal to various great Lords of the Sith? How many had she killed or possessed for the Spider? How many throats had she slit from ear to ear in the time of their grand crusade? But like everyone else in her life he too had turned to leave without a goodbye. When had loyalty ever paid off? All it had ever gotten her was a swift kick in the ribs. The Jedi would find that out soon enough. But her anger bubbled inside like a bile. Her voice was like gravel as she spoke, her hands which held the knife twitching with her rage. “They always betray you.” And without loyalty, she needed power to keep them in line. If she was powerful enough, then they would have never left. She would have stopped them. She would have held them close until all desire to leave had left them. And why would they want to leave her? There would be no reason. And she needed the power of the two Jedi. She needed to drink it from their blood. Only then could she be happy. With a yell she lept towards the Jedi Apprentice, her knife held before her like a spear. Her darkness would cover his light. It would consume it, it would corrupt it and she would finally have the power she so craved.
  17. “I have no intention of killing you, Ninûshwodzakut. I prefer to spend the lives of the dull and mediocre, and you are neither. Is there anything that you want from the corpse of that would be Sith? In the faith of this place murder is an assertion of conquest, and strength is rewarded with the pillager’s bounty. This place is full of weak vessels thinking that calling themselves Sith entitles them to greatness. Cull the weak and bring me their bodies, and I will bestow upon you a boon, as power belongs to those willing to seize it.” Darth Idrija barked orders alloyed with her iron will at the other thralls, and they cried and shrieked as they unwillingly marched themselves to the forge’s kiln. It was once a private dining area, but now the room itself would consume any guests and burn them down into sorcerous coals. The warrior’s arm she took a more precise approach with, rendering it down with alchemical apparatuses. Midway through the process, power returned to the city, her earlier labors coming to fruition. The pyromancer took out another journal, considerably less sealed than the first, and began sketching designs to lay the groundwork for her creation. Her notes were scribed in a coded shorthand known only to her, a flowing script that allowed for her pen to maintain pace with her manic moments of creativity. She wanted to make something that balanced momentum and control, rage and precision, abandon and forethought. With a gesture she opened the kiln door and willed the proper amount of coal to the forge. It was the duty of the smith to take the mundane and inscribe upon it greater purpose. She offered her hammer to the warrior, he still had the one arm and his willingness to accept her challenge had ingratiated him towards her. The journal lay open for him to see her designs, so that he might shape what she had prepared and would in turn refine, transcribe, and ensorcel. Ingots were placed and the shaping began, a dialogue of fire, steel, sorcery, and might.
  18. ((Introspection)) “...Step forward on this path. Those chains do not hold you anymore.” Chains. It always came back to chains. Keenava’s cursed lightsaber hilt, forged from the very first shackles she wore as a slave, hummed quietly to itself from her pack. The Sith maxim echoed in her mind, her former conditioning making it nearly impossible to ignore: ‘Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken.’ But what did that mean? Jzora, Furion, Exodus, and many other Sith before and after them believed that the world—nay, the galaxy—was against them. They felt they needed strength to push beyond the feeble limitations of mortals. Ignoring the glaring fact that not only were they mortal, but they were ripping the fabric of nature apart for their pointless and selfish self-aggrandizing. Keenava used to be one of them, struggling against the universe as it seemed determined to keep her isolated and enslaved. But now that her mind was free, she could see the futility of it all from a new perspective. She grew desperate for the power of the Dark Side but created a new shackle for herself, draping the chains across her pulse point until Ailbasi could tighten the cord and end her life. It was a grim realization, one she'd already seen. However, reminding herself of her past helped give her an understanding of her progress. Her former masters and colleagues would no doubt balk at her for standing at odds with a darkness that claimed her for decades, but she was at peace with it. ________ ((Spar relevant text)) Keenava flexed her bare toes against the tarmac. The pocked, rocky surface pushed against her callused feet as she released and contracted her muscles upon the rough surface. Calluses were hard-won. Each layer was proof of her exertion and a mark of history. Some experiences were difficult to navigate, and others were simple. But every experience was formative. Keenava took a deep breath of the oddly tangy marshy air before the first steps of the spar began. The space between them was thick with potential. And, as soon as Kirlocca's swing began its arc, Keenava felt the hum of battle begin. The rush of adrenaline sprang to her pointed fingertips, but instead of embracing it like she used to, the Twi'lek opened her heart and mind to the force. She allowed her movements to follow its flow and acknowledged Kirlocca's presence amid the ebbing tides. The Twi'lek swept low and tumbled under the Wookie's strike, weaving between Alcmène and Kirlocca as the former closed to counter. Feeling the urge to strike at either or both of their sciatic nerves and bring them down, she decided against it and instead used her momentum to drag a low kick across the back of Kirlocca's inside leg in an effort to trip him. She let the force of her blow push her through the gap between them to the other side, standing a few feet from Alcmène's shoulder and—optimistically—outside of Kirlocca's range. She kept a watchful eye on both and let a smile tug at her lips. ((1))
  19. A thousand voices across a thousand worlds hammered into her senses, converging into a cacophony of static through which she could only make out two Sith. The bloodletting of her past seemed to stream past her in parallel, drawn from her like venom from a wound, malice spilling like vomitous bile to mix with the lifeblood around her. Her fingers twitched and picked at her former captor’s rough garments, wrinkling the cloth and spreading the blood into the intricate stitching. The former mercenary stared at the two Sith before her, swaying upon her kill, and was thoroughly confused; Terra had expected Ziost to be inhabited by far greater people. There was no grand assembly of Masters, there was but two young Sith. She saw something of the nightsister within the man, a pale imitation cast within a mirror, nothing but a bloody reminder of that Darksong whom she buried beneath the surface of Naboo. A smile twitched upon her gaunt features, the scene of the Nightsister’s death reflected upon the Force; the fracturing of skull by a slug, how the light reflected off the brain matter staining the granite. The woman, clothed in the orange and black of smiths, had no lineage she could see. A sorcerer, but without the deeds that made her important. This was no Sheog, no Geki, no Ason. Just a Sith without fame. Terra smiled ruefully, her scarred hands rising from the slaver’s clothing to grasp at her own face. Her blood was running hot and fast, thrumming within her ears with each heartbeat, driven ever on by the bloodlust protocols of the nanobodies that infested her marrow. Geki’s insanity. The girl stumbled to her feet, her unshoed feet slipping in the blood as she fell into a fighting stance. Unsteady, but she would die fighting, as the Sith of old would have bid her. Your commands echo still, Master…
  20. Darth Mavanger pondered the smith's words. In his time studying the Sith Forge he had read about such rituals, and she didn't ring of deceit or treachery, neither in her body language nor her presence in the force. He walked forward, lifting a large cleaver from it's position on a wall rack. He examined it closely- it was a twisted, old thing. He could only imagine the creatures it must have cut to create a fine cuisine. Now, though, it would taste a different kind of flesh. He looked at the smith, a stern expression upon his face. "Then it is done." He placed his arm upon the counter closest to the lit fire, taking only a single breath before bringing the cleaver down on his arm with frightening speed in power. In a mere moment, it had been severed just below the elbow, blood spurting across the counter with a warmth that seemed almost cool compared to the fire of the forge. He withdrew the stump quickly, shoving it into the fire to cauterize the wound. As the fire flared and his flesh melted, his stoicism broke, and he released a bloodcurdling scream. It carried not only the pain of the wound and of the flames, but deeper pain, something more ephemeral. A wound that would not heal with bacta or with time. One that had festered now for years. One that he had pushed down and abandoned for the sake of the Dark Lords before him. Vengeance had never truly been his. But now the Sith were at his command. Not a contingent, not a war front, not the military. The entirety of the Sith Empire was at his back, and he would wield them as a blade. He would cut a wound deep into the same part of the Sovereignty's soul as what now bled him every moment of every day. The Galaxy would know peace only when there was nobody left to fight him. He removed the stump of his arm from the fire with a shuttering breath, steadying himself. Once, he had thought himself able to rest. That if he couldn't find a cure to what ailed him, that he could stop the pain in another way, in the embrace of death. But he was denied his death on Naboo. The Dark had dragged him from the brink with but a single purpose- to burn those responsible for Jarvus's death world by world. And then again, in a moment of clarity aboard that damned shuttle, forced to leave Falleen, he had consigned himself to the same fate. That he would never again be called upon to face these things. The cold expanse of space had consumed him, hidden him- Until the Dark led that damned sorcerer to his resting place. Back into the war. Back into the politics. Back into pain, and suffering. It was who he was. It was what he was. But the time had come to uphold his end of the bargain, and his moment of introspection faded as his arm cooled and the pain began to simmer. Clarity was once again lost. He led the smith to the courtyard, where many already lay slain by an over zealous sorcerer. For a moment, he looked for the offender, intending to bury the cleaver in the chest of whoever had disobeyed his orders. He was pleasantly surprised to see the man already dead, his corpse used as a seat for a militant slave. Something about her seemed different than the rest- The way she carried herself, even here, spoke to him. She was a fighter. A warrior. A predator. It was no wonder that she was who the smith was drawn to. Indeed, had he known such a presence was amongst the slaves and captives he would have done things much differently. "They are yours. Whether you sacrifice them, train them, or set them free matters not to me so long as it does not threaten our position here on Ziost."
  21. Darth Idrija scrutinized the Sith carefully. Her order within the Sith had always enjoyed favorable relationships with the warrior caste, cultivating a shared love of fire and steel. Warriors were akin to sharks in biology, holding close to tradition because their traditions were so effective that there was rarely a need to evolve. Such a person could help anchor the Sith back to their philosophy of breaking chains rather than deluding them into thinking that being a Sith means that your chains are already broken. “I will grant you this boon, on the condition of a black sacrament to prove your devotion to this course. Divest yourself of your arm so that I may forge you a weapon made of your own essence. Or I can remove it for you, I have the means to perform a swift dismemberment. I do not have any intention of handicapping your bid for the throne, by all means replace it as it suits you, but I do require proof of the courage of your convictions.” The Crucible Sage examined the stock of slaves that the man who would be king provided, discerning their worth one by one as potential fuel for the forge. Most of them were the middling products of a world that chained itself to mediocrity and unconditional acceptance, but there were a few notables and one peculiarity. Normally the Force revealed the potential of people to her, but this woman was naught but scars and infected wounds, piled atop each other and draining the soul like cancerous tumors. “These are suitable vessels for my work, but I would like to hold on to this one, its spiritual state is of interest to me, and studying it might grant me greater insight into my craft.”
  22. Kerriwarr

    Salliche

    Firm, resolute, and unrelenting. Such was the disposition of the Wookiee who stood before the dark witch. He had faced the horrors of the Shadowlands, readily and willingly. He was unabashedly unafraid in her presence, and as he noticed her falter ever so slightly, he knew he had the upper hand. Appearances, especially within the realm of dark and twisted things, were ever so often deceiving. Such was the only true power of evil - it's power over perceptions. Kerriwarr knew this, and readied the blade before him. He had some degree of training with Ryyk blades, and such technique would now come to his aid as he assumed a rudimentary, yet cleanly executed, defensive stance. To his dismay, the lightsaber was unwieldy in his yet to be refined grip. He was not used to such an immaterial weapon, and while with good foundation, wielded it somewhat clumsily. Nevertheless, it was with a deep and rumbling snarl that the Wookiee spat a reply, "Loyalty - something you must know little of, witch." He summoned his resolve, his form in the Force now akin a towering Wroshyr tree, a bulwark of light amidst the sea of despair around them. With a deep breath, he began to advance. He would not stand idly in the face of evil - of that much, he was sure.
  23. The changes came in flashes of wakefulness and blessed abeyance; being dragged upon a dias, stripped of all cloth and virtue and sprawled upon a diagram. The earth beneath her was warm, comforting. Screams filtered through, flitting and floating with cries for mercy. There was none to be had, and each in their turn was slain, filling the bloodlust of ancient Sith. It was how it was always done, extraction of dark emotion, be that pain, fear, agony, hopelessness, fed the power of the dark. Perhaps it was the nature of the planet itself that caused a stir within her soul. That warmth was different. Hungry. She had been adrift for so long upon the currents of whim and apathy, but the knife’s edge cut into the fabric of that dream, shredding her drug-hazed world into a bitter reality. She didn’t want to die. Not here, amongst the filth and the sewer rats, to be sacrificed for the edification of mania and ego of some false god. Terra had seen such things countless times; the rise and fall of Sith Lords were a bloody affair. Ar-Pharazon had sacrificed countless Jedi, Geki, legions of slaves. Sheog consumed everything in his Hunger. The knife split into her skin and sinew, causing a trickle of crimson to spill in rivulets down her naked spine. Ason… Oh how the Sith had marked her life. Ason. He had made her something greater and yet worse than human. The Soul of Nagathul had devoured her own. A Pariah. One bereft of life and power. Cursed always to the infeeling insanity that came without that which bound all life together. The consequences had been a rise in her own sociopathy and a downfall of any morality. A bitter narcissistic aimlessness. An assassin who killed entire royal families and Jedi Councils. The knife bit deeper. How did it come to this? Feeling came flooding back as that drug-haze was ripped away. The Sith Sorcerers were here to feed upon her anemic fear, like they had done to her predecessors, but she had none to give. Not even pain. They would never be abandoned to some Sith’s keeping again. They were hers alone. She took a staggering breath and turned swiftly, letting the knife scar her back and shoulders. Ason’s lasting gift, those of teeth of runed darkmetal, ripped into the throat of the priest, slipping easily through fat and muscle, vein and artery. Her mouth filled with the copper taste of warm blood. How it sated her. She had never known she was so hungry. She bore down upon the Sith, her spindly arms and legs wrapped about him like a lustful lover, riding him down to the wet, crour-bound earth as she devoured every drop of his lifeblood. Terra sat upon that drained corpse and smiled towards the Sith audience, her lips revealing something cruel and dark, outlined by shimmering torchlight; blood-soaked runes of darkmetal. The assassin of Lords and Jedi had returned. Crimson eyes, sparkling like a holocron with their palm; A Sith creation, ancient memories of long-dead masters, had returned. A Pariah in their midst
  24. What happened when dread met one unafraid of the darkness? The resoluteness of the wookiee’s defence was so unexpected that the daughter of Ar-Pharazon nearly stumbled in her advance. A single drop of doubt began to trickle down from the nape of her neck, a worry that a sure prey was not the defenceless apprentice she had thought him to be. Other apprentices had fallen to bow and stone knife, but those had been in fear and crying as the jaws clamped onto their necks. How delicious the tears, how warm the blood. It still stained her hands, trembling fingers covered with mottled dried blood which now strayed to the cord around her neck. Grasping the totem that hung there, its crystalline form a blood red itself. Reflecting in the pale light of the lightsaber as she took another step forward. Her voice was the guttural growl of a beast. The predatory form of the nightsisters echoing in the tones of her rotting vocal chords. Blood too was there, leaking at the edges of her pretty mouth. Though dark and discoloured as the rotting flora at their feet. “You dare stand while your master falls? For what purpose?” Oh if only he would run. He must escape. The fear of the sprint, she would let him get a head start, it would make the blood all the more delicious when finally drank from his quivering corpse. The stone knife in her other hand quivered as she took another step forward, her spirit beginning to feed on the pain. The horrible pain of wound and poison. Of the death of the life all around them. That pain, that death, feeding the shadows that stretched out all around her. Approaching the light of Kerriwarr’s foolish stand. For what was bravery in the face of death?
  25. Kerriwarr

    Salliche

    As if a flash of lightning upon the mountains of Kashyyyk, the arrow whistled by him, the hiss and silver glow of the blade arced before his frame, and the sound of arrow hitting flesh rang through the air. He watched with horror as his master's form crumpled into the inside of the cabin of the speeder. Her word of warning, as muffled as it was, was discernible nonetheless. "Run" She had given the command not but moments before, now freshly reaffirmed in the face of the very circumstance which had been its precondition. The Wookiee looked upon her with a solemn scowl now about his face. He stood up fully, high out of the speeder, casting his forest-green gaze upon the mire and grime of the wilting fields. The figure, a slim and feminine human, clad in hues of stygian and sable, approached. Her smile a reflection of the grim malice which radiated from her form in the Force. Kerriwarr thought only for a moment. A split-second hesitation to frame his thoughts. There was no choice. It was self-evident in the Wookiee's scowling eyes. The Padawan looked upon her Master, and upon the first direct instruction given to him within the scope and breadth of his training, he responded: "I would not dare," His form in the Force exploded, a roaring blossom of light and a pillar of peace, springing forth a font of Kashyyykian life in opposition to the Dathomiri plague. The Wookiee's solemn look was reflective of his dedication. His groundedness was certain as he stepped off of the speeder and into the gunge of spoiled flora and grime. He held aloft the long-handled hilt, hands spread upon its haft as the silver plume erupted to life, it's deep thrum as the peaceful rumble of a distant summer storm upon the hills and it's light as pure as the moon. He would not obey.
  26. Mother would be proud. She had no doubt of that. How could there be any doubt? She let the shattered bow drop from her numb hands. Letting the numb fingers work to bring life back to them. As for the bow, it had served for the years required. Much like this current body which had begun to succumb to the ancient curse. The curse that was now infecting the Jedi master and the very ground they all walked upon. She stepped out from the dying trees and walked slowly towards the speeder, a grin spreading across her face as she saw the womans struggles. There would be no running for either of them and she wanted that body. It still kept its youth, its lovely form. And what better face to wear than that of a Jedi Master?
  27. Sandy Sarna

    Salliche

    A sound. Soft as a breath. An inhale. A whispered curse. Danger. As she stepped onto the ground the ominous danger sense that had been growing in the back of her mind was brought to a pique. A screaming sense of terror and anger that flashed up her spine to bury itself in the nape of her neck. Almost by instinct her lightsaber came up in her hand and ignited, flooding the dark tarry earth with its pale grey light. Her eyes and the force searched for that source of danger until it could be pinned down to an object whipping towards the speeder at an incredible speed. Sandy took a step forward to cover the passenger compartment and brought her left hand up. She took a breath. Inhaling and filling herself with the force. Projecting it in a wave of defensive energy that would cover both her and Kerriwarr, her lightsaber coming up to intercept what could only be a primitive arrow. An arrow that changed its course and direction as fast as she brought the sabre up. It slipped to the side at a great speed, as fast as her movements could be guided by the force, so that her sabre only intercepted the feathered end of it. Cleaving through the ashen shaft while the arrow slammed into the force shield she had summoned. Much to her horror It did not stop. Blasting its way through the multiple layers and slamming its dark bodkin head right under her left arm. Its momentum carried Sandy into the sidewall of the speeder where the arrow embedded itself in the durasteel. Having carved itself through her lower ribcage, lung, and out of her back. She gasped. Her breath cut short by the boiling blood that began to fill her lower left lung. She had brought them into a trap. And now there was something else other than the pain. An ebbing numbness that was radiating from the wound. She gasped again and began to draw upon the force. "Run."
  1. Load more activity
×
×
  • Create New...