Mon Calamari/Dac

[Exodus]

I see you in her.

 

It is never more than a twinkling: a glance, a breath, a dismissive gesture. The way she narrowed her eyes to stare defiantly into fear, easily, naturally; the way her clenched hands would find supreme conviction. Are you there, Malachi? The way the waves of whole planets shifted as she dreamed loudly, the lines of sorrow chasing one another deeply across the paleness of her sweet face as you fell in love with something so terrifying. They return me to the moments that she would stand above you when you slept alone, watching your ruthless slumber, hating the way you slept knowing that one-eye was forever watching. You are so distrusting of others, she knew you could see her, standing there above you. Watching her, blade in hand, knowing that she did not have the fire to threaten your life, to stay your hand from those that you assassinated mercilessly.  If only you would fall asleep, she could end it for you.

 

She would stand there for hours, and wondered if she called on all training you had given her, if she moved just quickly enough, maybe her knife could find your heart before yours found another, if she could quench the burning in her chest with your feverish blood and earn your attention for but a moment, maybe just one word, even if it were words that sealed her life then and there. You were much quieter then. It would have been worth it, to break your bond with the killings and rob them of the heart that they had turned so cold. It would have been so worth it. How did it get like this? When did it all begin, she wondered. 

 

The many moons and the distant stars betrayed her pleading, withholding their secrets in fear that you would tear them from the skies. Nature itself trembled before the black power coming from you. She knew your birth-mother was the key, and that when you had lost her, you had lost your humanity. She was losing hers now, over the years of trying to stitch you back together every night. Your wounds were grave and were many, but many did not become more as you grew older. You became untouchable. Your mouth had forgotten how to widen to a smile, as each encounter left you with less and less to show for it. You smile now though, have you noticed? You were more efficient, arrogantly so, avoiding the mess of your butchering if only to exact an air of cleanliness in your fieldwork. She could no longer bandage what was not there, you became as fierce as wildfire, and that too robbed her of purpose. She had nothing to fix, and the warmth from your body had left, colder than the wintry coals of Ziost.  Did you notice when she parted ways? Did you even blink twice?

 

Do you think of her now? What of your mother, Malachi?

Can you see them, as clear as I see you?

"I do."

 

Silence enveloped his personal stateroom, the keepsakes of his past tried their hands at heart-strings that no longer dangled loosely, from a heart that no longer beat as it once did. Yes, he could see that which the dark wished of him, with an indifference that boldly challenged the constant harping of challenging spirits. He sat cross-legged on a raised platform, his body and mind as hardened as the monstrous plates that shielded the skeleton of the Goliath itself, meditating on all that had come to past, internal turmoil, and the task laid ahead of him. Only when the industrial klaxons blared, signaling the end of his hyperspace journey, did his eyes truly open. Rings of magma burning inside of those eyes, saying what his words would not. The face of the King was flawlessly imperious by all regal meaning, unscathed by the black of the dark side and the rot of war. This storied conqueror had just begun.

 

The dreadful skulk of the Flagship Goliath rumbled through the tumultuous dissonance of hyperspace, extraterrestrial streaks of lambent light dispersed wildly as it settled before the azurean planet. Yawning spaces of black played welcome to a spread of warships that blinked into horrifying formation, assimilating with another division of their naval force that had arrived earlier. The Goliath was chief among them, ghoulishly vast in his dimensions, daunting in comparison to the many others that now fleshed out this grand flotilla. In wicked efficiency, the dispositions of the Sith naval power aligned itself dangerously towards the Rebel planet of Mon Calamari. 

 

Reaver-Lead operation is a go. Drop in T-minus ten.
"Copy that, Goliath. Reavers stations."
Reaver-3, check.
Reaver-5, ready.
Reaver-2, 4, 6 are operational with no errors detected, Reaver-Lead.

"Good. Let's run the operation through before jump, I know you lot are itching for green."
"Fives been doing a lot of itching, Reaver-Lead. Said medical wouldn't een' give it a look!"
Comms filled with laughter

 

Reaver-Lead, a grizzled and towering veteran that passed as more machine than man, brought up the holographic display in his helmet's display and fed the image into his squad's optical sensors. "The city of Morjanssik is under quarantine by what we imagine is a sizable Rebel force, intel suggests that we drop in with no less than eight platoons with three mechanized infantry columns, fifteen vehicles total. The local garrison have marshaled their forces in the event of several terrorist operations, the rest have already laid assault to these buildings here-" At his command a sprawling industrial complex was expanded upon, appearing as a cluster of warehouses to the Dark Troopers dissecting the images. "Oh and Reavers, Looks like we've found some Jedi."

 

 

 

______________________________________

 

 

 

Fleet Command (Flagship)

Taskforce Experience (I)

Commander: Dark King Exodus, Captain Rosa Orsaa

Augmentation: Axial Weapon

Xhendora-Class Dreadnought Goliath |20/20|

The Xhendora-Class Dreadnought is one of the largest vessels in the Sith-Imperial Armada. So far only two vessels of the class, The Goliath, and another under construction. These two advanced warships are designated as Fleet command ships, and form the core of a line of battleships and dreadnoughts intended to counter any direct assault in Sith-Imperial Space by a large scale fleet formation. Dense, cutting edge armor, heavy shielding, reinforced hulls, and numerous other internal and external modifications make the hull one of the most rugged ever constructed to serve under the Imperial Machine. The heavy-set firepower, and thick armor make the Goliath one of the most formidable forces in known hyperspace. Direct and deliberate frontal assaults easily overpower lesser opponents. Under the Goliath's relentless assault most targets break and run, or surrender if retreat is impossible.

 

Sith Covert Strike Force

Taskforce Experience Green (I)

- Assigned Callsign -

Reaver

Vornskr-Class Stealth Cruiser |9/9|

Huntress

Raider II-Class Corvette Tracer |2/1|

Raider II-Class Corvette Pandora |2/1|

Raider II-Class Corvette Spectrum |2/1|

Scythe

Raider-Class Corvette Carver |2/1|

Raider-Class Corvette Blade |2/1|

Raider-Class Corvette Haunting |2/1|

 

Heavy Brawler Escort (Hammer and Anvil)

Taskforce Experience Green

- Assigned Callsign -

Shield

Harrower-Class Battle Cruiser Monarch|20/20|

 

 

 

 

 

Edited April 22, 2020 by Exodus

[Exodus]

Mon Cal Authorities frantically flooded High Command with red-tape legislation, desperate chatter that did little more than breathe undertones of just how fearful these people had become under the guidance of the galactic alliance. Independance, boundaries and trespassings were the moaning of the Quarren people, of a system that had been rattled by the rumblings of war in the past. High Command remained stoical in their speech patterns, unmoved by incessant pleas, hardened in their resolve and empowered by the massive armada that swarmed to their call. A dreadful and swallowing eclipse mourned over the diminutive blue planet, monstrous vessels casting a shadow as black as eel ink across the raging waters. High Command was cold and matter-of-fact in how they addressed the Quarren, unbothered by the dressings of their law. This was Sith-Imperial space now, and with the rumors of a rebel alliance, the sanctioning of this world would be immediate and heavy-handed.

 

The Sentinels prepared for drop as the count measured zero. Sentinel Lead resisted the bile that built up in his throat at the sound of it, the nausea that he could never escape at the head of each drop. The old man relaxed himself within the confines of his armor, praying to whichever God would hear him, knowing that the coming turbulence would be anything but forgiving. Drops never were. But, any measure of the scurrying resistance at this point, warranted such a response. As it were when the presence of the Sith and the Empire of old were under collapse, command almost unilaterally preferred small engagements or hit-and-run tactics, charging in like this was definitely something new.

 

 

DROP COMMENCING. FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE…

 

 

The pod shuddered as sub-light engines kicked on, an almost unnoticeable shift in gravity hinting at the tremendous acceleration the drop shells underwent as it jettisoned from the cavernous hangar bays of the Goliath. Inertial dampeners burned at peak efficiency, graciously. Adrenaline filled them. Everything appeared to be in functioning order, the armored pods beginning to rattle and shake as they abruptly entered the atmosphere, nothing but the sound of slightly elevated breathing coming in over the comms. Hard seconds passed, ambient heat leaking through the shielding of the drop pods and the heaviness of their environmental exo-suits chafing against skin. They would shed these once landed.

 

The metal became too jarring, tremoring loudly before boiling to a climax. With a final starving whine, the worst was over. Sensors cleared now that their atmospheric breaching maneuver was complete, and showing the pods of Sentinel team all roughly where they should be, no more than a few hundred meters out of position which was quickly corrected by bursts of the built-in maneuvering repulsor-lifts. Impressively however, the skies were filled with more than just their brilliant metal. It was an iron rain, a storm of Imperial life and vast machines falling fearlessly from the skies as hundreds and hundreds were making land and sea-fall. A swift scan of their target arrival area, and connection to the local Imperial tac net painted a rather bleak representation of the situation on the ground than had initially been suspected, actual numbers and vehicle designations being provided in a rush of information. The warehouses were in disarray, a fallen complex more rubble than it was intact, and a platoon of Imperial Legion first-responders that began to dig in amongst the wreckage. Secondly, a pair of AT-ST walkers mobilized into transportable sentries, monitoring their coordinates while additional carriers fixed positions. Lastly, Sentinel-Lead turned to see another drop-pod unfastening, his eyes were strangely fixated for reasons he could not naturally explain. Ignoring the tactical displays shooting across his visor, he knew that this pod was not enlisted within their drop composition, and that this one must've blown way off course. 

 

 

But when the devilish burnish of black boots clamored from the armored shell, thick incenses crawling from it in sheets of steam, Sentinel-Lead knew that a Sith had arrived.

[Exodus]

The sound of it was expressively deafening. The full tilt of force that the vessel had crashed with, completely broadsided the patrolmen in their attempt at vehicular escape. The steep impact sucked the wind from their throats, and froze their faces in a shock that paralyzed them with fear. It was a sudden violence so unbridled, that it ravaged the metal framework of the hover-bus, irreparably buckling the transport and layering it in the blood and bones of those that rode within.  There were sickly screams; this was not for the faint of heart. The long screech of broken and brassy steel, twisting against the road, was far worse than dragging nails across a dry chalk-board. Those that heard it, screwed their faces in displeasure, covering their ears from the horrifying sound. 

 

A monster of a creature heaved himself from the braised innards of the drop shell, shoving thick electrical cables aside and rising to meet the carnal smell of petrichor in the air. Morjanssik and its earth would be washed before dusk, a telling omen that meant more than just rainwater. Of note was how his jawline was sheathed in a chilling metal, bearing the keen measure of white fangs engrafted into its side. These were teeth torn from the mandibular bone of the White Wolf, skillfully handcrafted into a demon half-mask, or some would say. The natural exuberance of his dark skin played contrast to how it remained untainted by time and rot, covered by a wild wolfish black mane. He emerged slowly, wearing the kit of an ancient Sith God, accentuated by a lamellar warskirt flinching like thick blades of shadows in the wind. Gloomy, narrow eyes brooded within an imperiously beardless face, bearing vestiges of beauty underneath a depository of brutality.

 

Masked lips, long eyelashes, and eyes somehow without a trace of color stared outwardly. They were tempestuous by nature, eyes painted in blind albinism. The rest of the detailings were soft scars and scowls lined with regal bone structure. He wore plates of armor so dark, that the natural light around him seemed only to serve and feed the oily obsidian wyrmsteel. His all whites, now darkened with a clouded grey mixture at the sight of the rallying opposition. The force of him was so raw and so inevitably uncalculating, that he seemed as pure as natural lightning. Undimmed by compromise and untamed by society, even the best of them felt here would feel trapped, so small when they suddenly  realized the lunacy in that creatures like him truly existed. The gathering crowd slowed before him as if facing down a thunderhead, small currents of electricity swimming in and out of naked sight across his forearms. The primal half-mask suited to his face, looked chiseled from runic images of a wild beast cloaked in symbolisms of spiders, fangs and magnetism. The demon mask clicked autonomously before a second plate shot up to cover the unfamiliar face of the Dark Lord, forming into a completed helm.

 

“Status?”

 

 “...Execution diameter confirmed, these people are disease-stricken. We approximate a safe distance of 1.8 meters from all sentient life. Reconcile ground formations. Quarantine our wounded, advised to eradicate all hostiles." A low voice rumbled through his communications unit.

 

The Mon Cal Defense Forces were a little more equipped than initial intelligence suggested with almost a hundred foot soldiers armed with a variety of military-grade blasters and anti-armor weapons slowly advancing on their positions. Three emplacement weapon crews installed themselves into a cover-fire position, readying to hose down the Imperial positions. Three archaic T2-B tanks churned around the battlefield on repulsorlifts, hoping to make use of their shields and light cannons to ensure that their small infantry could cross open patches of terrain safely. Their hope was dwindling fast as they watched what had crawled from that drop-shell. More of the Sith Empire arrived by the second, hoarding the skies and occupying the land. Additionally, several T4-B tanks and old walkers with worn rebel insignia painted onto its hull, were reported as pinned down by superior armor and firepower with the Imperial Offense slowly closing in on them with their advanced treads and armored feet. Exodus absorbed the atmosphere once more before the rain, this time with his mind far-reaching. And to his surprise, there was a voice, whispering a language unfamiliar.

[Exodus]

KILOMONGERONE

 

 

The Dark Lord lifts his razor-hilt to his lips. He closes his eyes and kisses the sacred metal. Then his eyes open, and the spirit behind them surrenders any inkling of humanity, empty above the slit of his half-mask. When Exodus moves, they begin to die. He skims diagonally across the front rank of the Mon Calamari Forces with such possession of his body that it would seem he was another species entirely, one made of wind and wrath. Quarren blocked his path holding what appeared to be fishing spears, yet knowing them to be far deadlier than what image implied. He sidesteps two of their thrusts and removes the heads of three militiamen, exchanges two parries with a heavy-set mercenary woman, before pulling a second shorter blade from his belt and skewering her stomach, ripping sideways through half her rib-cage. Bodies hit stone with a miserable thump while she stood there helplessly trying to stuff intestines back into her abdomen. She collapses to her knees, gobbling screams from her mouth. The iconic lightsaber spun in his hand several times, deflecting sporadic laser-fire that aimed to bring him down, before heaving the dripping heat of the blade through the mouth responsible for the incessant wailing. The sound of her was unnerving, it distracted him from the dark voice that seemed to bellow through the force nearby.

 

Exodus moved towards it. He continued in demoniac hyper-combat, demonstrating a brutal fluidity across the increasing number of resistances. They were dropping like weeds to a steady mowing. Imperial Legionnaires did their best to keep pace with blade and dance, while team Sentinel and the Dark Troopers entrenched themselves into chokepoints littered across the rural divide. They maintained precision cover-fire to match the march of death, flooding battlefield Intel to and from the SCI. It was easy for the units here to leech supreme confidence when in the presence of their King, even if he said nothing, the language he showed them was battle. It was a surreal invigoration whenever they were in his presence, multiplying their efficiencies across the board with a dangerous hunger. The boon was passive, none of them understanding the power with which they drew on, and how effectively it encompassed their armies when he was with them. This was reflected in the urgency of communications that spread throughout the armies, a flux of vital intelligence that was now mitigated with helpings of static for those below.

 

 

"Break, break, break! Kilo Monger One. Emergency message for Kilo Monger One. Do you copy? Over."

"..Go ahead."

"Darkhand has uncovered tertiary objective. Anomalies are especially evident, exacting coordinates now, over."

"Copy, already inbound. Over and out."

 

 

He separated himself from the battle quickly, dexterously clean even as conqueror in the theater of war.  He eased into the darkness now, swimming through narrow streets toward the beacon of black that ignorantly reached out through the force. The hunt was the pride and joy of the Anzati people. His boots were coupled with the swiftness of air, while he mind cinched the harrowing voice from the deep, trying to decipher it's meaning. He was near. Surface level would only surrender so much lee-way on his trailing of the tertiary objective, but once he completed his rendezvous with the entry point, he would disappear beneath a checkpoint maintenance drain-cover. It was quieter here, and as the King descended, his fingers curiously ran along the concrete underpass. The waters were soil, ordure and wild excrement. Hunting beneath Maggot's Cantina on Anzat, far below the uninviting slums, was doubly worse than this. Yet, the assassin reached outwards, feeling the loneliness of the cement infrastructure and allowing the echoes of the force to track his foothpath. A binding force sheathed the hide of his gloves and boots; a touch of the Kiin'Dray now carrying his weight above the wastewater. His limbs spread wide, gripping the ungraspable, and then not another sound from him could be heard, vanishing as if he was never there.

 

 

"BEWARE OF THE SHADOW THAT ESCAPES FROM THE BODY LIKE AN ANIMAL STARVED."

[Exodus]

SHADOW

 

 

The black tunnels flickered in snapshot framerates while a madbeast of unhinged speed thundered through the old systems. As fast as his natural body could push, the dark rush of the force urged him beyond that. A sonic press carried the assassin over tremendous chasms between strides, carrying the hunter far beyond the highest paces of an Asharl panther. The deep energy buried here was his beacon, a fascination inside of him fueling his turbulence, for his return had only unearthed the weakest of adversaries thus far. This encounter would not yield the same results. Retired sub-oceanic channel systems like these were sullied to the treads with dirt and muck layering themselves thrice over, and tracking the march of many men through these conditions became a thing of ease when your eyes were one with the darkness. The adrenaline of the hunt elevated his sensory perceptions in every sense, almost tasting the threat of excitable air leaking in abundance, savoring the bountiful life force straddled at the front line.

 

Communications rattled off inside of his half-mask, keeping him apprised as the moments between Darkhand and the objectives intensified. Erroneous blocks of static worsened the deeper he journeyed, thankfully stealing his attention from the worthless rabble that echoed through the wide shaft part-ways. None of that mattered now that he drew dangerously close. The Neimodian apprentice that was sent here had found himself in the unforgiving stomach of destiny, signaling the the imperial machine of a presence far superior to that of simple rebel scum. What was of interest was the crackling archaic voice that had rummaged over the waters of Mon Calamari, the one that spoke with an alien tongue unknown and abstract of forgotten dialect, in a tone that seemed more drowned than coherent. That voice had gone quiet.

 

Silence.

 

 

The language of chaos rang loudly, bellowing rifles spit forward in an overwhelming tide of power. Over seventy of his own ahead, enormous in gathering, engorged the underpass wastefully. The Dark Lord shoved passed the Darkhand, titanic in the way his strength and speed carved a path through the formation. As he swept through the masses, their tactical visors synchronized that this was a friendly that had joined them, but their shock and awe of the man was not subdued by any stretch. Too late. The only shed of lighting came from the beaming of glow-rods, and while the first non-lethal volley let loose, an amateurish scramble between the two unidentified creatures became reality. The Blood Prince gave them a choice, therein lies his lesson. Exodus crashed forward noticing the glinting metal of a hand-grenade jar unwittingly from the fumbling woman, only seconds to react, the allfather knew this well, he reached out from two-thirds inside of the shootout and heaved a wolfish telekinectic throw with his left. With his right, he simultaneously yanked his arm backwards, pulling against what he had just shoved. The thermal detonator, and three of the servicemen whipped forward with bone-breaking airspeed, and then as if on strings, the three meat-sacks were wrenched backwards, careening into their comrades. 

 

 

Two, one...

 

 

 

[Exodus]

Exodus considered the arctic seawater that now washed upon his taut-leather greaves of black metal, the falling and spilling over unsettled rock, and the thundering crashes of movement above were the signs that these tunnels would soon drown whole. Darkhand Troopers withdrew from their position as the cold irrigation quickly sharpened senses, swallowing the strange milieu of gases that once stifled their air.  Some nodded as they passed by, shockingly aware that the explosion was moments from eating into their flesh and bone. Those remaining moulded themselves into a rear-guard as they backpedaled, keeping a decelerated pace to those that lead the charge opposite of where they now stood. Even if the majority knew nothing of this, the Dark Lord stood with them now. His eyes fixated on the collapsed infrastructure, almost as if he was seeing beyond the gathering of stone, watching what the rest could not. 

 

 

"Captain. They have spit on your mercy.. When will you show them your rage?"

The voice rumbled with sinister familiarity, dark and convincing,

Spoken with a low voice inside the head-space of Delta-73.

 

  

With arms behind his back, casually poised, the assassin understood how such things would play out. Followers of the Jedi doctrine were marvels of lunacy, they were unsettling creatures of predictable habit. They were abandoning one another, unclear whether they should lash out or surrender in the name of their vaunted peace. The oppression of the Dark Side fell hard as if the sun had suddenly rotted to a crisp, eating away at hope as they watched their world darken. The Blood Prince had shown himself in force, but with merciful hands. A knight of Fear had manifested from the shadows, and the calling of the creature that cried out from the depths of this forgotten place was enough for those of the Light to scatter like flies. If the Captain did not know before, the singularity of his ancient voice was enough to marry the idea that the King of the Sith had come. The six-heeled arachnid crest that overlaid his wyrmsteel breastplate seemed to flare alluringly in that moment, as glow-rods wormed their way passed the colossal man.  Then, the Darkhand clutched their weapons and emptied a ruthless barrage into the beasts that squirmed through the rockfall, igniting the tunnel with thrilling flashes of illumination. 

 

 

Exodus reached for his weapon slowly, drawing for metal with a scratching patience, knowing that these aquatic creatures were distractions. 

A true monster drew near.

 

[Exodus]

The screeching whine of over-strained pipelines and the moan of cracked bedrock, would soon convene into an untenable disaster. Strands of the force reached out to warn of this, catching as they fell before the eyes of the legendary assassin. As still as stone he stood, eavesdropping on the cavernous world around him. Darkhand ammunitions cut into the creatures that fell from the falling stream, tearing their flesh from soft bones and spreading lifeblood into the rising waters. Their squealing corpses heaped over one another in awkward mass, dripping large amounts of sickly pigment into the canal. Mounting death served as little more than a sacramental power source, the Dark King smiled as he noticed that this was a bait-trap for what hid below. The channel filled dangerously, but Exodus just watched, cognitively existing in a place that the ordinary would never know. His mind blossomed like an unbridled nexus, quickly understanding the extrapolation of the fools that surrounded him; they would die without him lifting a single blade. And they did, one after the other. Above the passages was no different, Exodus and his forces brutalized all who opposed, crushing their spirits long before their bones. It would seem that none had ever pushed this weapon to the brink, would it be so different deep down below?

 

“We will soon see.” The chain-reaction erupted all at once, and the infrastructure caved under the pressure at last. There was a rippling realization between each individual when the echoes of collapse roared through the tunnel systems, whole foundations snapping like twigs. Then the invincible tide came. The sheer force of it was tremendous, a buckling flood raging towards the channel-dwellers without the slightest hesitation. The natural world was furious, coming to claim what was rightfully theirs. The Dark King turned to finally face the gargantuan rush, in a way, still unimpressed. Like dominos, the others were viciously swept from their feet, some as soon-to-be corpses that flung passed where he stood. Exodus raised both arms in a brace, spreading his fingers apart at the hands as if to catch the hastening torrent head-on. Just half-a-meter out, the flood tide split down the seams, stemming wide around the body of the Dark King. The divergence was too close, but it kept. Splashing ocean spouted against his black monolithic armor plates, running wild down its brutish carvings. The Anzat was barbaric in his power, monstrous in his hulking calm. The others washed passed him, colliding hard into the cave-in, breaking the staunch column completely free. 

 

Trembling power gushed from his body, wrestling with the herculean tension of multiplying motion. He cut an eye to his destination, knowing his challenge lay just ahead, and then he pushed. There was unparalleled artistry in his movement, such a natural fluency that allowed him to inherit the complete rush of the tide and spearhead himself into the falling geyser. The King of the Sith broke from the spring as hard as a buckshot, skidding across the laboratory lower than a Trithan prowler, unleashing his hoarse-red lightsaber in a wicked guard.

[Exodus]

Their screams, powerfully acute with fear

Was it the enthusiasm of an impending dread,

Or the horrifying nature of their devouring,

the way their armor caved beneath the crunch of crooked teeth?

 

 

It was as if anarchy reached out with ghastly arms, grinning widely from the black veil. The creature thrashed in violence, and everywhere at once, aggressively unfocused to the numbers that contested it. Numbered forces mattered little when a sudden lack of structure paralyzed them where they stood. Lines of communication rotted in disorderly fashion as horror poured through transmission links, a crunching and screaming that was deafening to the audience. This was still war. "Execution above all else. Pull your pins, and quit your squealing. Die with dignity." His voice was impartial yet commanding over the comm-link, but the modulator inside of his fanged battle-mask amplified his every word, demanding that the eldritch sound of the Spider controlled the radio-waves with a true challenge. 

 

Exodus levied a defiance against the rules of physics as he carved with incredible speed, through the feelers of the beast. Thigh-high oceanic submergence did little to stop the master of movement from leaping into action, slashing loose whoever he could in order to reinforce the ranks. Scissoring through low-visibility atmosphere like a maddened butterfly, a powerful blade of furious-red continued to loosen Darkhand from the jaws of death. It was the Way of the Hawk-Bat that found purchase while full-figured spears of flesh aimed themselves towards the Dark King in retaliation. This reprieve would lessen the burden on those that shared the battlefield, and soon explosions from inside the belly of the beast would leave a reckoning if discipline favored the Captain's Company. But, this could not last forever.

 

 

"Formations on my position."

These words, he spoke aloud.

 

The Inquisition was correct about the Neimoidian, and he had survived after all. Delta too, was invaluable to the machine, and now he sourly scavenged for his unit. These two represented note-worthy promise within the structure of the Sith Empire, with no better time than now to shine against the creatures of the deep. In conjunction with the other two unfamiliar elements, the opportunity to uncover the secrets of this lair, was ripe before their very eyes. The challenge of the hunt was here at last.

[Exodus]

Few were aware of how the biting cold slowly transitioned into a crude warmth from the spilling death and the gathering of masses, a peculiarity that the assassin could sense. These arctic waters now ran septic with blood and blackest ink, defiling the very nature of this abandoned laboratory. The armor of the Dark King was not exempt from this; boiling drool beaded the canine lockjaw of his mask, running slick down his wyrmsteel-covered neckline and forearms, igniting the spider insignia carved into his chest-plate with an enriched oily tincture. Exodus heaved his respires purposefully, dialing down the revelry of his recent rampage, expertly controlling his breathing as the enemy seemed to recede and withdraw into the void. His endurance was beyond comprehension so accordingly, the phenomenal stir of force inside of him quickly calmed to a quiet. 

 

 

“At last you have come, heralded by my call.

So quickly do slaves forget their place, existing but to do the will of their masters.

When the master is away, those foolish servants think they are free.

Freedom is an illusion.

For on the day of the master’s return, will they be punished tenfold for their sins.

Twenty for they that sought to lock the master from that which was his own.”

”Come to me my children! Come!”

 

 

".. This creature proclaims master-hood, but then is it confined by the conviction of the apprentice?" For every word that the creature spoke, it became infinitely more predictable in it's nature. There was a grating animosity within the undertones of the supposed cephalopod, a vengeance that stimulated the aggression that the brute organism utilized. Brooding over the particulars lasted little time, as a coughing belch blew a strange wind of rot down the gouge. Exodus slipped his weight low and shrunk into the washbasin of water and muck below. Something was awry, more than what was obvious. Beneath the surface, the assassin used his protracted jurisdiction of the force to map out the rest of this fever ward. Tracing the life forces of the involved congregation, Exodus began to summon an eldritch fount of power only known to the ancestors of the Sith.

 

[Exodus]

ASSIMILATION

 

IM-A-761 Oceanic Garrisons
Aquatic Assault Stormtroopers
AT-AT Swimmers
TIE Fighter Boats
Aquadon CAVa 400s
Aquadon Combat Aquaspeeders
Mon Calamari Shipyards
Mon Calamari Submersibles
Mon Calamari Subworks

 

Terrorism, plague and a violent colossus of a creature drunk on malevolence; What were the Jedi doing here? The expeditionary forces of the Sith Empire were an immovable justice of iron-will, and without them, this world would succumb to disaster. It would seem that the rebellion and the Jedi themselves worked to release blight against these people, while the terrorism of Morjanssik opened up freely in the streets. Darkhand had traced them beneath the rat-holes, grinding the subversive scheme to a halt.

The Sith Empire would take this world into it's deep protection..

But that would come at a price for those that sheltered the seditious.

 

 

They came from almost every inhabited planet drafted to the claim of the Sith Empire. Hundreds of civilized and uncivilized systems had sent their sons and daughters to the trenches of Imperial Naval Boot Camps, where these soon-to-be warriors were set aside for specialized training in the Naval Gunnery Service. Once they graduated their terms with exceptional performance, they were given their uniforms and their parameters with the Sith-Imperial machine. Now they found themselves at their battle stations staring at monitors that unscrambled the hostile water world below. Most of them had been at their stations for hours, whether it was a power feed and modulation control, targeting and acquisition, firing control, or even fuel level monitoring, every Imperial knew their job and was ready to perform their duty at peak efficiency. Then the order came. "Prepare for bombardment."

 

Thousands of safety measures were removed and charging throttles switched to a more lethal charge, the high explosive-low penetration setting of the heavy turbolasers. If necessary, they would wipe these floating cities off the face of the planet below, but still leave it ripe for conquest. Each warship dipped their bow so that every weapon could be brought to bear, like hounds showing their teeth for the world to see. Primary targets were squarely lined up in the sights of the main batteries of the fleet, while secondary targets were secured by rallying Sith-Imperial intelligence.

 

The Xhendora-Class Dreadnought Goliath opened fire, rippling across the atmosphere and punching through the radical regime as easily as wet paper. This resistance was the machinations of the Rebels, a dangerous one that was opening them up to a horror beneath the sea, and their insolence would need to be evaporated from this world. Shielded heavy turbolasers erupted over the regressing Morjanssik. Within seconds, spread out across the planet, nine Imperial I-class star destroyers and a bevy of Kuati destroyers fixed fired upon twenty different target acquisitions across the largest threats on Mon Calamari. Clusters of twin-barreled turbolasers instantly punched holes in the ozone and evaporated cloud cover over their intended targets, before the vessels themselves sunk lower to cast shade across the rabid planet.

 

Venator-Class Star Destroyers made an appearance as well, trickling in behind predetermined formations. Veterans from past wars spread their confidence as heavy weaponry surrounded the target cities that had been selected as Target Dawn and Target Dusk. More than fourteen warships aimed to cut off all access in and out of the target zones. Spread out across the planet, numerous Acclamator-Class Assault Ships floated the great seas and sharpened their turbolasers towards ground and navy bases within proximity, and opened fire wherever necessary for a full minute after the Goliath began his bombardment on the plagued Morjanssik. Alternatively, the Inquisition kept briefed on the position of Darkhand and their Emperor-King, using their new strategic alignment to send for them with impressive haste and machines.

 

At lower orbit the fleet's light cruisers targeted the deep bunkers and submerged aquatic vehicles of the Mon Calamari defense forces. IM-A-761 Oceanic Garrisons unloaded and outstretched like lotuses across the waters, buoyancy attributed to the powerful repulsorlifts embedded deep into the individual garrisons. Project Assimilation was a simple, and thorough integration of the Sith Machine, endorsed heavily by the recently restored Inquisition. Full seizure of the shipyards, and the subworks were heavy-handed and immediate, breeding unbridled access to the unique resources of the planet. Aquatic Assault Stormtroopers were mobilized in the same month that subject Morliss was instructed to conduct reconnaissance and unearth the activities of a planet rooted in opposition. Nok had done more than he had realized, and as a result, these specialized troopers moved to dominate the marines. 

The artillerymen aboard the slew of star destroyers and the escort frigates sited their weapons on the thousands of naval vessels that had reacted to their presence on this world with immediate aggression. They were informed of their treason, and Sith Intelligence had ordered that particular attention be given to the enemy vessels that championed this anarchist movement. Ground squadrons were the first to fall in an iron rain, but there were others that held themselves in reserve for special duties, on high alert for specific instruction. Those orders came quickly enough from the pipeline, ordering them into action against several secondary cities below, committing a loaded brunt of auxiliary force to take key command points of the planet. 

 

Green or red hued plasma and heavy laser blasts seared through the upper atmosphere before smashing into their targets a millionth of a second later. Not a single Imperial in the fleet questioned how many were disintegrated and murdered with each firing of their weapons, for war had let loose again in the galaxy. News of the Kuat battle had reached the forces, and the hate for it spread like wildfire to the ears. Some thought of their own families and friends positioned elsewhere and how they were protecting them. Others remembered the dead at Onderon and Dark Sun Station and felt sheer retribution whenever they pulled their firing lanyards. Most remembered their service to the Empire and knew that any threat to their supremacy had to be eliminated. All remembered their duty to the Emperor King.
 

 

 

And for their strength, Lord Exodus would remunerate them.

 

 

Unbelievable seismic power hummed beneath the feet of the King, spreading faster than the old creature could fall. Those that closed in on his positioned would feel a pressure comparable to stalwart winds pressing against their bodies, while a mounting heat brushed into the shells of their regalia. A gravitational energy began to separate the rising waters around them with tectonic strength, carving a seething spherical force completely around all those wise enough to heed the call. There was such an intensity in the atmosphere, that the broken infrastructure of the laboratory began to wither and melt into dust. From the rear, waters unleashed and threatened to sweep them from their feet, while an invincible surge of ocean down-surged from where the monster had been forcibly released. There was a hiccup, as if a momentary lapse in time allowed realization to settle into those that were near, a merciful premonition to those gifted enough to feel it. Then the flood collided with sheer violence, and the Dark King roared with absolute strain. 

 

The wild repulsive sphere was more aggression than preservation, struggling profusely against the tension of mother nature, biting back so that she knew who it was that she now faced. The sphere etched itself cleanly around those nearby (all are free to include themselves if you move within range), burning with a scorching hiss. It was if an explosive repulse was crudely contained against the elements. His body rattled with an awakening of rooted impulse, super-heating his blood and sweat beneath his pitch-black armored plates. The stress of the ocean was so dense that the color had drained from his eyes without his license, igniting with a brilliance of power as a near-unstoppable force met with an indomitable one. If the Dark King could hold out, the encroachment of the ocean would settle out within these confines as it became fully submerged, and then they could dash hundreds of feet to the surface once more.

 

[Exodus]

Flesh and machine moved in around him, his senses knew this innately, but his concentration stoked different flames. Seething energy flushed them forward, swimmingly through the black lightless depths, motioning them through the gaping hole of the laboratory, towards the flurry of targeted spotlights that powered from above. Exodus was of instinctual mind, channeling his energy to overcompensate for the immense pressure, and then lessening the lean to ease into the natural force of the open sea.

A wild lotus spread of prefabricated garrisons, high in number and function, unraveled above them. Aquatic strongholds began to root themselves with extreme efficiencies. Reconnaissance vessels of all shapes and sizes scurried the parameters and made their way to intercept the uncanny grouping. Each of them were recovered, some in better shape than others, all with their own paths to carve from here on out.

The mystery of the Deep would not be one loosely forgotten however, the research teams here would continue to dig into the monstrosities that the rebellion had let loose on this planet, and discover ways to turn such misfortune into opportunity for the Sith-Imperial Machine.

 

 

 

(Okay everyone, quick post, feel free to make your way from here. Sort out where you want to go, and make the best of it. Exodus boards the Goliath and leaves to join a contingent of the Imperial Navy. There will be a sizable force left behind as the occupation is fresh and settling. Coordinate OOCly if need be. Hope to do this again!)