Nar Shaddaa - Rebel Alliance Headquarters

[Kyrie Eleison]

The air was familiar, filled with the scents of childhood. Of rust and blood, of crime and dispassion. The Jedi Master’s breaths were labored and slow, tinged with the whisper of a rattle. Through her darkening sight, she could see the glow of iridescent lights, sparkling as if the glow had been reflected upon a placid lake and she beneath its surface.

 

A voice came through the water, muffled and nearly imperceptible, even in the stillness.

 

The struggled gasping from the Jedi became a gurgling, pitiful scream. Pink-tinged froth bubbled from her lips.

 

The voice brought a groundquake that birthed ripples, which rose into waves upon the lake and the light became hazy. She could feel the waves move her, contorting her form beneath the surface. She strained to hear the voice, desperate to make out the words.

 

Upon the medical cot, the Exorcist seized.

 

The thrashing of the water felt like a storm upon her, and the voice became louder until it was a scream that shattered the world

 

Time’s up.

 

Kyrie let the water take her, letting herself be washed from the struggling form.

 

Thank you for giving me life once more.

 

The body on the cot became still, the breathing returning to normalcy as the healers continued to work.

 

May we meet again, in this lifetime

 

Kyrie’s spirit recognized the world as her homeworld of Nar Shaddaa, the irony of rebirth was not lost, even on the dead.

 

The Force Provides.

 

The Exoricst focused upon the song of the force. It was filled with the stoic rhythm of Jedi, and the harsh fire of her own Imperial Knights. The melody of the two orders working together was hauntingly lovely. The brightest fire she could sense to be Lok, and the stoicism of a Grandmaster was unmistakably Adenna.

 

Kyrie focused harder as her own power began to wane. There was a pull now, like she was on the event horizon of the Maw. There was a part of her that wanted to let go, to embrace the infinite harmony of the Force’s song, but she knew that was not her path. To abandon the galaxy now, would be to leave it in darkness.

 

Discordant Tones.

 

Living.

 

Soulless.

 

The body was not her own.

 

Breath.

 

Emptiness became numbness. Numbness became tingling electrical fire. Her whole spirit fought to harness each neuron. All was pain. Every feeling was new. Everything hurt.

 

Breathe.

 

The lungs burned as they inflated, as if she was sucking in the soot and smoke from one a Mustafari volcano. For now, only the lungs worked to her command, and it took all her strength to control each breath.

 

The Exorcist let out a soft whimper.

[Kyrie Eleison]

It all hurts. A burn beneath my skin fueled by hunger. It’s a deep and twisting pain, worse than when I was starving on Nar Shaddaa. This is something else entirely, like a command from the force itself. I hunger beyond imaging... 

 

*****

 

A consistent chill ran through her skin as the Exorcist moved through the warmed practice ring. The pungent perfume of exercising soldiers clung to the air and wrapped around her like an arachnid’s web. She was always cold now, even a month out of the bacta her new form’s physiology and nervous system was an enigma that even weeks of training had yet to unravel. 

 

The sand shifted beneath Kyrie’s bare feet as her opponent drove the particles to the side with a wave of the force, causing her to stumble mid-run. She twisted the fall into a roll and brought the long wooden weapon to bear against the rusty-haired man. The leather-bound grip of the polearm wrenched from her hands as the Imperial Knight snatched it with the force. 

 

Kyrie watched it sail away through the musty air to drive into the sparkling sand behind Helden Rave, her weapons-master. It was a polearm of her own design, the handle a meter and a half in length, with a meter-length blade a handbreadth in width, hewn from Shadnalyn briar. The reddish wood reflected the natural light that filtered through the skylights above and seemed to mock her weakness. 

 

In her distraction, Heldon brought his orange-bladed lightsaber crashing into her side, before igniting the weapon’s second blade and batting it across her pelvis, pivoting on his feet to sweep her into the sand. The blades were on a practise setting and left scorching welts upon her skin. He let out a roaring laugh and spoke in his calming Festian accent,

 

“If I must fall, I will rise each time a better man… or in your case a better Anzati.” 

 

He offered her a hand which she grasped with scarred and nail-bitten fingers and jumped to her feet. This form was vastly less strong than her first, but much more lithe and dexterous, another change she was getting used to. 

 

“Always bond your blade to your hands, weave it to you with the Force’s Embrace. You know this.” 

 

His tone carried disappointment but also understanding, but it did not make the hit to her self-confidence any less. Hate of herself rose unbidden, but she confined it again in its cage in her mind. She would work against it later, she could not afford to allow it to undermine her strength today. 

 

The polarm shot into her hands as she focused upon its form. She could no longer hear the song, how she had always found the force before, now all she had was hunger and a Revanchist’s resolve. To place the universe right, to destroy the Sith and their evil. It was a colder view of the force, no more was the life of the song attuned to her, and only through dispassionate focus could the Force answer her. 

 

Kyrie fed her self-loathing into the foci of her resolve and let it form into fire, tendrils of light bound her weapon to her hands and the wooden blade sprang to life with silvered flame. A revanchist’s resolve; to fight until the Sith were eradicated and the torturous enslavement of the dark side was banished into the Maw. Only then could she die and finally rest. In truth she hated the whole galaxy for the burden of it. 

 

I will protect those I hate. Even if the one I hate the most is myself.

 

The Revanchist steaded her feet within the sand, feeling the rough grains bite into her feet. She lowered her center of gravity by bending her knees and began to circle the larger man, letting her natural litheness reset her into the more predatory and aggressive form, Ataru in a way she had modified for her spear-like weapon.  

 

Helden was fond of Niman form, utilizing both his weapon and the Force to overwhelm and disorient his opponents, so she circled him with caution, slinking through the sand like a Vornskr stalking its prey. She held her weapon one handed, the polearm’s handle adjacent to her forearm, steadied against her shoulder, the blade tracing down through the sand, leaving a wisping trail of silver flame. Kyrie breathed in his scent, allowing her hunger to focus on him. 

 

There… 

 

She could almost see his intention, a half dozen combinations of attacks to offset her balance and destroy her. The choices cycled as he turned, starting to narrow in upon her footwork. She answered the intent by slowing her right leg, and he immediately focused on it. 

 

Trap laid. 

 

As the sand shifted  beneath her right foot, the Anzati girl sprang from her left foot, spinning into a crouch and animalistically transitioned her form into a hasty stance of Djem So, lowering herself even closer to the sand, but that itself was a trap. He advanced on the defensive posture with confidence but she bounded into his advance, channeling the Force through her legs, the lower posture giving her more momentum in her vaulting jump. She directed the leap to his saber attacking side, letting his momentum bring him into her blade. The tip of her weapon smashed into his gut, and she passed behind him, driving the pommel into the ground as if to impale the larger man on a stake and leapt on his back. The Exorcist channelled his faltering momentum into his off-foot and rode him into the sand where his pained laughter  began to filter through. 

 

“Godsdamn, Kyrie. I haven’t seen you fight like that.” 

 

He tossed her off of him, and she landed gracefully on her feet, sliding into her true form-stance, that of Juyo, a ferocious spirit rising from her in the Force, tinged with hunger. 

 

“Godsdamn dirty that wa-”

 

An officer pointedly coughed on the side of the practice ring, drawing their attention. Kyrie stood swiftly, embarrassed for not noticing him earlier. 

 

“Message for you, Master Kyrie. Of some urgency.”  

[Kyrie Eleison]

Living is harder than dying, it is my choice to defend life. The Force gives us strength, it is my choice to use it to defend and not conquer. It is what sets us apart from the Sith… Strength to feed chaos, or to set the galaxy at peace. I will protect those I hate. Even if the one I hate the most is myself.

 

*****

 

The Exorcist straightened herself from her battlestance, flipping the spear on her hand for it to rest against her bare shoulder. The wooden handle felt cool against her skin, driving the fine hairs to stand on-end. When she spoke, her voice was gravely but kind. She stumbled over the basic, as the tongue was not her area of expertise, 

 

“Give your message, and stand to ease,”

 

The officer relaxed visibly, running a hand through his sandy hair before speaking,

 

“Trouble again, as always with the Jedi Order. There occurs another fracture. This shard names themselves the Jensaarai, and they are here on Nar Shaadaa.”

 

Helden gave a sigh and extinguished his lightsaber’s blades, stowing it in a leather holster on his belt. He crossed his arms and gave the Grandmaster an irritated smile

 

“The Jedi Order fracturing and crumbling is hardly news, it seems to happen every bloody week. No Grandmaster can keep them together…” 

 

Kyrie shook her head, her dark, shoulder-length hair coming to rest over her eyes. The tie had broken in their skirmish, and she brushed it back with her fingers. 

 

“I would have thought that Adenna would be up to the job, but she doesn’t have a diplomat’s deftness.” 

 

She smiled at Helden and bowed to the blademaster. 

 

“I shall meet with them. Pray to the gods for unity.” 

 

The man bowed back and walked her to the door of the training room, placing a hand on the small of her back, leaning in to whisper in her ear. His breath smelled of juja berry wine, badly disguised by mint tea. 

 

“If we cannot unify against the Spider, then we will all fall.” 

 

Kyrie nodded gravely, and passed from the room, blinking against the brightness of the hallway.  

 

We must unite instead of divide. When did it fall to me to be a diplomat? 

 

Rebel troops and civilians moved in the halls, and she caught their surprised stares. She glanced down to her sandy battle-kama and chest-wrapping, and turned towards her chambers, not wanting to offend the Jensaarai with accidental immodesty. The Jedi Master increased her speed to a trot, her bare feet making almost no sound upon the hallways’ flooring. It was smooth paneling, cold in comparison to the warm sand upon her toes, but not in an unpleasant way. The maze of hallways finally wound its way to her simple quarters and she slipped through the sliding doorway. 

 

Her medical supervision, a 2-1B droid that had the Tranzel Medical Systems name emblazoned on its chest piece greeted her at the doorway with its sarcastic tone. 

 

“Mistress Kyrie, back so soon? Did you break something?” 

 

The woman ignored the droid with a wave of her hand and brushed past him into her bedchamber, and to her drawers to find a more appropriate clothing for her encounter with the Jensaarai. 

 

Kyrie selected a simple black tunic, with a leather belt for her various weapons and a bandoleer upon which her saber-spear could be slung upon her back. As she changed she looked into the mirror. Her skin was ashen, a byproduct of the Anzati form, her eyes a bright violet. There was a slight rise to her cheeks where the proboscis-like feeding tendrils were stowed, but she had yet to use them. She had no desire to give into the hunger of death that was natural to her species. She tied back her long black hair into a series of braids, tied with a leather thong, and a headband of black cloth. She covered her feet with black boots of combat design, but of lighter material to add to her flexibility

 

The Rosary of Il-Andon Rorik caught her eye. It’s onyx beading and ornate design contrasted sharply with her simple dress, but it was her totem. It was her burden as a Master Exorcist, and so she wound it about her ashen wrist, letting the star upon its end hand into her palm. With her preparations in order, she turned and left towards where the Jensaarai were quartered according to her datapad. They were disembarking in the shuttle-bay. Speeding to a run, she made her way swiftly there, her lithe form and dexterity allowing her to weave through the crowds with relative ease. 

 

Kyrie caught sight of the Dorin, Kel, standing before a shuttle where armored and unarmored beings were disembarking. To them, she made her approach. She reached out with the Force first, letting the fiery presence of a Master Exorcist wash over them before she got all the way to them. 

 

Odd armor. Almost look like cultists. 

 

Stepping beside Kel, she placed a scarred hand to her chest and gave a small bow while giving the Dorin a smile of greeting,

 

“Kyrie Eleison, of the Imperial Knights and order of Exorcists, bidding you most welcome.”

[Kyrie Eleison]

The Grandmaster of the Imperial Knights had little interest in receptions and feasts, it seemed like there wasn’t a day that went by without this Rebel Alliance dallying with feasts instead of marching to war. As Kel presented Adenna, Kyrie turned to leave, but her mind wandered to the reports of destruction and the slaughter of a station of innocents. With sadness in her heart, the Exorcist spoke softly as she went, directing her words to the newly come Jensaarai, 

 

“Beware bastions of light, for they cast the darkest shadows.” 

 

Nodding her head, the Exorcist departed in a swirl of dark braids, heading towards the barracks and her assembling forces. The Imperial Knights had been assembling a fleet under the secrecy of the Order of Captains, supported by the treasury, and now they had a destination; Fondor and its vast shipyards. Slipping her datapad from her tunic, she opened the intelligence briefing, staring at the approximated wealth of such a prize. To wrest it from the Sith and their corrupt allies would bring the Imperial Knights one step closer to winning the war. 

 

The war this Rebellion should be leading. Instead they feast.

 

Stepping into the cafeteria, her blackened boots slapping softly on the hardened flooring, the Imperial Knight noticed one of her own dining alongside the Jedi, Sandy Sarna. It was Aidan, the Order’s newly minted diplomat to the Jedi. He wouldn’t recognize her by her features, every time she saw him now she was in a new body, and it distressed her how much she had failed him as a Master. Kyrie studied his features and saw his smile. It wouldn’t be a good time to interrupt him. Instead, she typed a message on her datapad to him while grabbing a handful of ration cubes beside the door. 

Quote

 

To: Aidan Darkfire. 

 

Congratulations on your appointment to the position of diplomat to the Jedi. Be wary of those like Vos, if you get the chance, Exorcise him of his evil. If you do not have the chance to redeem him, kill him. He corrupts this rebellion with the slaughter of innocents. Him and his are a cancer within this rebellion, spreading the corruption of the Dark Side. Keep Adenna safe from his influence. He is a snake in the grass. I depart for Fondor with my order, 

 

Kyrie Eleison, 

 

PS: enjoy your stimcaf with the pretty Jedi. 

 

 

Tapping on send, the Exorcist entered the docking bay for her own people. It was a smaller and separate hanger, apart from the rest of the Rebel Alliance. She had requested as such to keep her Orders operations secret, away from spies and the Dark Jedi that were a part of the Rebellion. The Imperial Knight caught sight of her friend that awaited her, a tall man all in black, with a headscarf and white beard, Al-Afdal Dyrrhachium, Maréchal of the Order of Captains. 

 

He would be her admiral for the fight to come, and to him she jogged, bouncing on the metal plating of the flight deck. Al-Afdal bowed his head in respect to her as she approached, the old man smiling widely. He had just finished transmitting reconnaissance data to the assembled Captains, and was now awaiting her departure order. 

 

“Grandmaster, the fleet is yours.” 

 

Kyrie smiled and bowed back, her tousled braids covering her vision

 

“I will meet you in space, Maréchal, I will fly with the rest of my pilots in our TIE-Uglies.” 

 

The man sighed and turned back to ensuring supplies were being loaded properly by the Dagermends and the Dagets. 

 

“Fly safe among your Watchers, Grandmaster.” 

 

With farewells said, Kyrie slipped into the confines of her TIE-Ugly, a bastardization of a Z-95 Headhunter and a TIE Interceptor. The seat was of worn leather, and formed to her as she began to check the preflight data. Her flight-helmet was worn loose, the breathing apparatus causing her enough claustrophobia as it was. Taking a deep breath of the recycled air through the nosepiece, she smelled the mixture of spices she had placed into the air-flow, bendrak root and crushed harrion seed making each breath taste of fragrance and giving her peace. Preflight checking done, The Grandmaster’s TIE-Ugly cleared the hanger, and departed into hyperspace and to lead her fleet to victory

[Kyrie Eleison]

Kyrie’s black and forest green TIE-Ugly, that disorganized amalgamation of Y-wing and TIE-Interceptor broke from the bonds of hyperspace to soar above the criminal world. The Imperial Knight’s breathing was ragged, each rasping gasp tinged with pain. The wounds of the battle with the Sithling were a heavy cost to bear for the victory of Corellia, but the weight of the soul she had consumed was heavier still. Her song was weak.

 

Gwn Marwolaeth. A wicked name.

 

The residue of what she had burned away from the Sith made her feel wretchedly disgusting. There was an almost inhuman soul that was burning within her still, like a great unidentified beast, unconquerable with even her fiery heart.

There was another name that was filtering through her song.  

 

What are you, unholy darkness?

 

A voice, reptillian and cold

 

…Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr… Draig yr anialwch… Ar ôl difa, nawr am ddim…

 

The Exorcist breathed in another ragged breath, letting the autopilot take her TIE-Ugly towards one of the hidden landing pads of the Rebel Alliance. The ship pitched towards the southern pole as Kyrie began to sweat profusely.

 

She felt cold. Feverish.

 

The fire was burning out.

 

Desperation came then, overwhelming her senses with her consumed sins.

 

Her fire was burning out.

 

Blood leaked from the partially cauterized wounds that adorned her flesh, black and smoking. She tried desperately to summon her flame, to cast it even at her own flesh, but none came. Her song of summer was gone, and with it went the flames. Her mind turned internally as the ship began to shake upon atmospheric entry.

 

Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr.

 

Kyrie could feel it now, a dragon within, writhing amongst the shadows of her mind. The soul of the desert. A Krayt.

 

What did that creature do to me?

 

The TIE-Ugly touched down, and Kyrie dragged herself from the yawning hatchway, half collapsing upon the decking. She cast about in her desperation, but no flame came to her now. It was gone from her, that song that had carried her from Ord Mantell. That song of summer was no more.

 

Steaming tears ran in rivulets down her face, flicking from her probiscis to evaporate on the decking. She was an Exorcist without purifying flame, cursed with the soul of a dragon.

[Kyrie Eleison]

The tears continued, burning trails of pain dropping to the decking. All she could feel was the monster within her, consuming her fire, deafening her song.

 

It burned. Horrendously.

 

Why does it burn?

 

The Exorcist coughed, tasting the bitterness of ash and soot.

 

...Do you think you can purify… Me?

 

The basest touch of sin, the impurity of the dark side rose from her heart to her throat with a surge of bile. She shuddered against the unforgiving decking.

 

…I am a Sin Eater; it is my duty to consume in order to purify…

 

She breathed in a ragged breath, sobbing into the deck as she burned internally.

 

…Redemption is yours if you allow it. Or you have death. 

 

Smoke curled from her lips.

 

There was a warmth. A kindness. A hand was upon her skin, flooding her with life. With the Force.

 

Kyrie channeled the healing warmth inside of her, like a breath upon the coals of a forge. She breathed in a steady breath and it was like a bellows upon that forge, that fire of the Exorcists, driving her eyes open.

 

In that moment she overcame the immensity of the Sin within, and the Krayt’s immeasurable evil burned like straw. It had chosen redemption instead of death. She drew in the living force around her, turning it into silvered fire that wreathed about her, driving through her flesh to burn the Sin into ash.

 

There was her song, changed. More predatory.

 

The Exorcist’s probiscis flicked at the air as she turned towards the Mon Cal that knelt over her, taking in the smile and the kindness of the healer. She raised a trembling hand and touched the skin of the healer, took reassurance from the purity she found. She had been living in the grey for too long, swallowed up by the ashes of what she consumed.

 

Kyrie flashed Leena a shy smile, burning away any impurity of sin around them with the purifying power of the Light Side.

 

There was another presence, one all familiar to the Imperial Knight, that of Sandy Sarna. She was shining in the Force, stronger than the Exorcist had remembered.

 

The Grandmaster of the Exorcists pulled herself shakily to her feet, the cauterized wounds sending waves of pain through her nerves. Her armor was a mess, burned and shattered from the battle for Corellia.

 

…Our triumph.

 

She held her head higher, her probiscis tasting the air in time to her predatory song. Her words were slow, basic never having been a fluid tongue. When she smiled, it was the smile of a tamed Krayt, a reflection of what she had taken into herself and sacrificed for the will of the Force. Before she had formed the Exorcists, she had been leader of the Jedi Guardians, and it was their training of body that she used now to even keep standing.

 

“I apologize for… my appearance.”

 

The briarwood handle of her saber-spear felt heavier in her palm as she hefted it, spinning it like a baton several times until it rested upon her armored shoulder.

 

“Do I… Have time to… Change… before our next… fight?”

[Kyrie Eleison]

Father…

 

Kyrie winced as she felt her father die, the sudden anguish exterminating the joy of victory, washing the confidence from her mind. Harjav Fieldgrey was gone, and with it her last living connection to the galaxy. The grief turned a key and something arose within her.

 

…Did you think we were truly gone, after all this time?

 

The Master of the Exorcists stared into the faces of her compatriots, pain overwhelming her vision with a dark veil. She could feel her flesh screaming as it knit itself together, the natural reaction to something infested with darkness to even the healing touch of the light.

 

…You cannot rid yourself of your shadow…

 

The Imperial Knight breathed out a hiss as the burns reversed themselves retaining their ghostly embers within her nerves. Shockwaves of pain washed up and across her body, but she redirected the expressing of it into a mask, a shy smile. The voices of her youth had returned, blending with that of the Krayt. 

 

The Exorcist took a steadying breath and the colors of the world seemed to shift their tone. Amethyst eyes blinked and her probiscis flicked at the air, as if tasting for the first time.

 

She heard music.

 

The woman passed a scarred hand across her vision and bowed the Jedi apologetically and walked slowly to the shuttlecraft they would take to their next mission, slinging her longbow over her shoulder, a strange smile alighting her features.

[Kyrie Eleison]

The Imperial Knight stared hard at the corpse that lay beside her, a humanoid female with a tangled mess of dark hair, draped in a white sheet. The woman had perished only hours ago in the underworld, a victim of predation slavery, and was kept biologically alive via bacta and artificial blood-flow. The Azanti sighed, her probiscis flicking weakly at the air.

 

She felt it inside, the fire sat like a weight of molten lead in her belly, flaring out through her veins with every breath. The pureness of the Light Side of the Force held within that fire was contrasted with the corroding and corrupted vessel within which her soul was contained. She shuddered, fear creeping its way up her spine.

 

…Why hide from death? Why fear the burial mound?

 

The Exorcist stared up at the candlelit ceiling, at the phantom-eyes of Il-Andon Rorik, and at her own mortality. Pain wracked her in a shuddering cough. She had barely survived Korriban. She stared into the darkness, contemplating the temptations and the shadows of the past. She held her lightsaber to her chest, cradling its worn handle in shaking hands.

 

Why leave us?  

 

This darkness does not bargain. You do not reason. You are rot.

 

The longer you hide from us, the longer our shadow grows.

 

She could feel it within her, wrapping its hands around her heart, tearing into her mind with ravenous hunger. A desire for power.

 

And now you have taken hold. Will you take the seat of my soul, devour me until there is nothing left?

 

Do you want us to?

 

Would all my suffering will be at an end? Would the darkness finally give me peace? 

 

Taste and see. 

 

The hunger became a primal beat, twisting the song until it was all she could hear. She could see the Jedi fighting her now, her silver blade piercing the heart of Sandy Sarna, cutting the life from her. The reflection of a devilish delight with the woman’s fading eyes.

 

No.

 

Horror came to her then, shocking disgust at her own fantasies. Shame. 

 

I will not allow this.

 

She turned her mind to the Sith. To fighting the Spider and its minions. Her fingers twisted the saber spear, her every ounce of strength devoted to one act. She would listen no more to the voices of the underworld.

 

I will go to the bed of demons; I will look them in the eye. I will go to war.

 

Snap-Hiss

 

The Exorcist drove the shimmering, pure, silver blade deep into her breast, piercing the rotting heart below. Black smoke poured from the wound as lifeless fingers dropped the sparking spear. The white sheet moved, and a pale hand caught the falling spear. A tinkling, laughing voice came forth. A new voice. 

 

“In the end we all fall, even the gods from their heavens, but it is not yet my time to rest eternal.”  

[Kyrie Eleison]

The woman let out a small breath and released the string, feeling the thrum of energy through the limbs of the bow as it rushed into its transfer of energy, causing the fletching of the arrow to whistle as it leapt from the string. Emerald eyes sparkled as they watched the arrow split the air, cracking to speed as she passed her own energy into it, blessing it with the song. The shaft glistened with white fire as it dashed into the target a hundred meters away, exploding into brilliant wisps of fractal light.

 

Kyrie felt the air pass about her, whisking with it the sounds and smells of the rusting city. She could feel its life in the air. She could see its spirits. The breeze tousled her tangled braids, obscuring her vision with the black hair, the starshine highlighting its ivory streaks.

 

A moment of peace before the storms of war came again.

 

The moment passed as a commlink buzz beat harshly against her ears, causing the Exorcist to turn on her heel, swinging the wooden bow across her broad shoulders. The bite of the string against her neck caused a swift adjustment as she stooped to retrieve the commlink from amongst her discarded robes.

 

A hunger burned within her for a moment, the darkness that stained her soul, that of the Krayt. She shuddered and keyed the buzzing commlink

 

The voice that crackled to life was that of her fleet commander, Al-Afdal Dyrrhachium, Maréchal of the Order of Captains,

 

“Grandmaster, we are being prepped for Kuat by the Rebel command. Do you wish us to participate? I do not bow to these dikut Rebels, thinking they control our Order!”

 

Kyrie nodded sternly, considering his words. The Revanchists that made up the commanders of her forces rarely played well with others, the natural consequences of the Schismatics. She kept her voice cool and kind, spinning a small braid between her thumb and forefinger. 

 

“Take on their advice as needed, Maréchal, but we are not under their command. Remind the Emp-… Remind… Raven that she lost our fealty when she resigned and are not hers to command.”

 

A small laugh tinkled across her lips, nervous anticipation of the war to come. Kuat had bitter memories. 

 

“Prepare for war, if we need to rid ourselves of these allies we will, but not now. We must unite against the greater enemy, which is, as always, The Dark Side.”