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  1. Past hour
  2. 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.
  3. Last week
  4. “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.
  5. Earlier
  6. ((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))
  7. 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…
  8. 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."
  9. 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.”
  10. 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.
  11. 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
  12. 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?
  13. 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.
  14. 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?
  15. 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."
  16. Kerriwarr

    Salliche

    As the vastness of the decay made itself apparent through the malaise which they now bore through, the Wookiee stifled a cough. The stench of the rot was strong, a great cloud of sickness and death. Kerriwarr listened to the words as he squinted, struggling to see through the cloud as he listened intently and deliberately to the words of his master. As the Dark Side was mentioned, it all fell into place. He felt it, just as she mentioned, the perception of death and decay was not just present within the physical reality of the fields around them, but in the aura of the Force. The ethereal landscape seemed tainted, stained by darkness. It was as if the very light of life were being reduced to nothing, as the leaves of a tree wither in the presence of winter. Listening to her, he met her apologetic gaze with one of warmth and stability, keeping a straight face as he replied, the gruff Shyriiwook piercing over the sound of the speeder. "Yes Master," he said, his voice unwavering, "I shall do as you instruct." Despite his tranquil appearance, a growing concern blossomed from the pit of his stomach. A foul flower, borne of the turmoil and malaise of the Dark Side. He looked down, studying the lightsaber he had only just acquired in his hand, preparing for the eventuality in the case that he may find himself in need of it, and just how soon such things may come to pass....
  17. Darth Mavanger watched the Sith for signs of trickery- and was relieved to see none. She was well built, the time behind the forge shown by her figure. Her spirit was commendable as well- she was not one who would fall to the elements, at least. Not every Sith who had survived the collapse would be able to say the same. How she managed to fend off the warlords, though, remained to be seen. Was she simply too small for them to notice so far? Did she offer her services? Was she dangerous enough that letting her have one building on the fringes of their territories was a minor appeasement? All of these questions he would know the answer to in time. "The extent of complacency within the Sith will never cease to disturb me. You are correct that I seek no such pity. I forged my will on the front lines of war and conflict, in space and on ground. I had thought that I found allies cut from the same cloth, but alas, they have disappeared along with Calypso and those loyal to her. No matter- The Sith were once powerful enough to annihilate any form of resistance to our rule, and with the right leadership, we can be that again." He didn't move as he spoke, watching for signs of hostility. "I would offer that leadership. I don't ask that you kneel if you do not know me, nor my deeds, but I would ask a service of you. My blades have been lost in the throes of battle and chaos and rage. I would petition you for a new weapon. My forge is far from here, and returning to it risks both its' secrecy, and Ziost's. In return for services rendered, I would offer you a fresh shipment of bodies to continue your repairs and your fortifications. They are on their way as they speak." In truth, he didn't know that she was a forgemaster when he had come, but everyone on the planet was looking for manpower. Whether she had been a fighter or a crafter, he would have found use for the slaves.
  18. Where once had been a fierce warrior, upright and strong, with blood as hot as the seven suns, only a sad, feral thing remained. Bronzium hair stained dark by spice, muscles withering under anorexia’s ravenous toll. The girl could see nothing but the pale specks of light that filtered through the course blindfold that rasped against her face. Bruises pained her every movement, coughing in fits upon ruined lungs. The addict strained to breath through a nose packed with congealed blood, and could only smell the ash of deathsticks and the sick-sweet fester of her fellow captives. The girl next to her had sounded younger than her teens, crying for a lost mother and begging for water. The addict judged she had been rotting for three days now as the botfly larvae had begun to crawl the few inches between them, to cover her in their waste. She estimated from the weeklong journey, they had lost half of her fellow captives. Many had been refugees, some addicts or prostitutes, swept up by cultists in the undercity The weight of the ship shifted and shuddered, pitching the former mercenary into the rotting corpse beside her. Pain blossomed from a hundred bruises, giving a sharpness to her mind she hadn’t felt in many months. A few muffled moans came from the bay around her, driven by desperation, stupefaction, or pain. For her own part, the addict spat a mouthful of larvae and putrefaction onto the floorboards, followed by the black bile that had filled her stomach. The hissing of an airlock interrupted the growing symphony of self pity, and every voice fell silent, daring not to invite a kick, a stab, or the ravenous hands of lust. “These smell dead” The voice came from a Weequay, a cruel beast of an alien, with long curls of wiry hair “Even the dead have use to the Necromancers.” That was from a female Twi’lek, skin as pale as alabaster, with dark, cruel eyes and a voice like shifting gravel. Beyond them, fresh air leaked in, pressing into the bay with icy fingers. The world beyond was cold and smelled much as its creator; of purulent rot and festering bogs. She knew it far too well; The Old Slug had fashioned a world in his own image. Into that new world, the addict was tossed into a pile like cordwood, sorted from the dead. And so Terra had come to Ziost, a former Mandalore stripped to nothing but a blood sacrifice
  19. The pyromancer waved her hand over the ink, drying it rapidly, before closing the journal and carefully rebinding and sealing it. Her unexpected guest was a Sith, most likely a warrior judging by the armor he wore, too heavy for any other breed of her kin. She could feel its weight even before she saw him. She rose from her cross legged sitting position with her back to him in a slow and smooth movement, too fast and she might have come across as intending aggression, too furtive and it might have suggested fear. “Just like any young woman looking to find fame and romance in a new city, I used dark sorcery and blood sacrifice. I refuse to die waiting for a shared delusion to birth itself into reality like those other fools who were never weaned off of their mother’s milk. If you seek such succor here, I have no interest in providing it to you, this is a place only for those that find value in their own measure.” She turned to regard him and saw signs of a warrior tested, his armor showing the kinds of wear and damage that suggested having seen real combat. “But you don’t look to be that kind of fool.”
  20. The princess of Outremer gave a soft smile, and lightly shook her head. Her thoughts flitted away to years before, the smells and feelings. The strong embrace of a sister that had always excelled in everything. The star of the planet, of whom her father had placed every hope. Cut down in some forest on Onderon. A failed and fickle jedi assault which had wiped an entire generation of young Jedi Knights from the face of the galaxy when the people had needed them most. “Her death was not by your hands, you carry no ancestral guilt for her death. You have chosen a different road than the one walked before. Keep your chin up and do not dwell on a past that has been left far behind. Step instead forward on this path, those chains do not hold you any more.” She would not force the woman to take the sabre with its intricate carvings and gilding, but the option was there. When she was ready. But for now the first strike would be to the more dangerous opponent. She pushed off her back leg as she brought her left arm up, the lattice work igniting into a plasma shield that she used to crowd and push against the Wookiee Jedi Master. Holding her saber in a high guard.
  21. General Records Full Name: Commando Lance Norman True Gender: Born Human Male Mature Level: 20 Standard Years Blood Race: Core Worlds Human Personal Records Personal Ideals: Real True Neutral Personal Model: Commando Warrior Militant Personal Home-World: Unknown Core World Personal Home-Town: Unknown Urban Town Faction Records Previous Faction: Unknown Urban Militia Previous Faction Rank: Urban Militia Commando Current Faction: The Galactic Guards Current Faction Rank: Potential New Recruit Item Records Owned Armaments: BlasTech A-280 + BlasTech DH-17 Owned Armors: Battle Armor + Battle Helmet Owned Clothes: Survival Suit + Common Clothes Owned Miscellaneous: Sabacc Deck + Pazaak Deck Back-Ground Records Back-Ground: Lance Norman was born on an Unknown Core World. Whenever he was in his earlier times he was educated and trained in their Unknown Urban Militia. He was well educated and well trained until he had become an Urban Militia Commando. However he was not as educated or trained as the Mandalorians or Clone Commandos. He even had an excellent career whenever he had served. He was sent out on some missions that were on other worlds that were allied with his own world. However his vessel had crashed on another world and had made sure to leave him with some new amnesia. He never learned what world he had been born in. However his combat skills were still instinctive. He needed some new reasons to live. He saw the new Galactic Guards and decided that the Galactic Guards were his best chance to succeed in these new times. He has sent in Recruitment Pleas several times now. He now awaits an answer as he wishes to become one within the Galactic Guards.
  22. Kirlocca offered up a smile to Keenava. She, like so many others whom have walked away from the Dark Side have had very traumatic experiences. Another reason why slowly training was a good practice for Jedi to carryout. That and lots of grace. They would help her in a manner that suits her. Opening himself to the Force, he pushed his presence, thoughts and emotions into the flow. He wanted for Keenava to fully trust the process of the training exercise. << We will keep things simple. Do not do anything that could exhaust yourself, no put yourself in any harms way. >> The Jedi Master made sure to look at Alcmene for the last words, as it was easy to put yourself in a bad position when you attempt to care for another in these duels. He didn't want either to come to harm from an accidental misstep. With his words lingering in the air, the Wookiee lunged forward at a good speed, but no where near as fast as if his life was on the line. He made a sweeping horizontal arc with his blade, his long reach able to force a reaction from both ladies with him. It was a very basic move, one that he was sure both would feel within the Force coming and have nothing but plenty of time to move.
  23. General Information Real Name: Vonar Mao A.K.A: Guardian Mao Home-World: Dantooine Race: Human Personal Information Mature: 25 Years Tallness: 2 Meters Heaviness: 97 KG Hair: Blonde Crew Cut Vision: Blue Round Gender: Male Items Information Clothes and Armors: Survival Suit and Plastoid Medium Battle Armor Arsenal and Armaments: BlasTech Marksman Blaster and WESTAR Blaster Pistol Miscellaneous Items: Comlink and Data-Pad Faction Information Force Status: Force Sensitive Model: Jedi Guardian Nature: Lawful Good Current Faction Status: Jedi Order Current Faction Rank: Potential Recruit Historical Information Force Side: LIGHT SIDE Who Trained: NONE Trained Who: NONE Known Skills: COMBAT + TACTICS + MAINTENANCE + PILOTING Back-Ground Information: Vonar Mao was born on Dantooine to some veterans who had become farmers. Those farmers made sure to raise him with the best nutrition and exercise that he could make work. He had the best health that he could. He even received an excellent education where he learned about Dantooine and the nearest locations as well as some basic Galactic information. He learned all that he could in that education. He also learned to hunt the local Kath Hounds and the local Iriaz. He learned how to track animals. He even learned how to use Blasters in the best manners. Whenever he was around 18 he became a member within the Local Militia. He learned about wilderness combat and urban combat. Whenever he was around 20 he was handed a recommendation to a Law Enforcement school. He was taken to the school and learned even more about wilderness combat and urban combat. He learned how to catch criminals. He learned other valuable skills in this work as well. Whenever he turned 22 he was done with the school and was sent to serve in the Corellian Police Force. He made sure to work hard and he received several accolades in his work. He soon had several encounters that should have ended in his death. However an intuitive sense seemed to save him several times. He understood what it could mean even when he could not control it. He tested his Midi-Chlorian count and was found to be Force Sensitive. He made the Jedi Order aware with several audio records that were sent to them. He now seeks to become a member within the Jedi Order. Vessel Information Name: THE DEFENDER Class: STOCK LIGHT FREIGHTER Model: CORELLIAN XS Manufacturer: CORELLIAN ENGINEERING CORPORATION Extent: 101 METERS X 88 METERS X 27 METERS Armaments: HEAVY LASER TURRETS Armor: HEAVILY ARMORED AFT Anti-Personnel Defenses: BOTTOM SWIVEL TURRET Customization: BOTTOM SWIVEL TURRET Personal Looks: Vonar Mao has an immense frame that is both tall and muscular. He has several scars on both his chest and his arms. These scars are from his service in the Dantooine Militia and the Corellian Police Force. These scars are from Vibro-Blade cuts and Low-Powered Blaster shots. His Plastoid Medium Combat Armor is the color Dark Blue to show his Police Force colors. His Survival Suit is also the color Dark Blue to show his Police Force colors. His BlasTech Marksman Blaster has woodland camo. His WESTAR Blaster Pistol has woodland camo as well. He has several medals on his combat armor that show that he had honors in his classes and shows that he has also had an incredible career. The helmet has some extra armor to cover his forehead. The boots are made with excellent faux leather. He seems to intimidate those that cross him with how he looks. While his looks can have an intimidation value to them he is also seen as attractive to those who have less than bad intentions with him.
  24. Azael chuckled- The woman hadn't been caught completely off guard at least. Not great for her current predicament, but a great sign for a prospective recruit. But she wasn't ready to drop the ruse just yet- First she had to confirm that this was the thief, not just some hired guard. She turned slowly as to not spook the speaker, resting her hands on her hips- close to her shock charges, just in case, but she wasn't ready to throw down just yet. Not unless things got dangerous. "Oh I don't think business hours apply to me any more than they apply to you. Interesting security system- Lots of safeguards. I'm gonna guess that I missed one- Motion sensor? Camera I didn't see? Or just bad luck?" She glanced around- She didn't see any signs of other people, but she didn't know if there were more people coming up from where the woman had materialized. Definitely from the basement. Luckily, if this was a hired guard she didn't think she was in any real trouble. She didn't look it, but she was a veteran of two wars, one as a child, and another as a disavowed operative. Getting around people was easy. Worst case scenario she disabled the woman with the shock charge and knocked her out. "The hidden door is a nice touch- did you think of that yourself or did it come that way?"
  25. Darth Mavanger walked through the ruins of Ziost's surface, the planet's cold biting at his being even beneath his robes and armor. He hadn't truly understood the magnitude of the Daith Order's failure to recover from the war in the early days, each still pouring resources into fighting the tide of Sovereign and Jedi forces to hold onto whatever pieces of the galactic stage they could. Instead, they had lost everything, and were left with nothing to rebuild. All around him was evidence of this. Sith who didn't know the first thing about building an empire, only maintaining one that had been built by others. So used to their palaces and offices, they were unprepared for the harsh ice age that Ziost demanded they endured. Most that had the ability had retreated to the ragged fleet in orbit. He had received a few petitions of loyalty himself for such a luxury to be provided, but he had declined them all. They would learn to endure the elements, or they would never be able to retake a galaxy who's populace now resented them. Still, not every Sith had been rendered helpless. The useless had sunk, resembling the beggars and the rabble more than Sith without the support of nearly limitless resources, but the truly powerful and resourceful were starting to rise to the occasion, establishing their own districts and territories that they ruled over like petty kings and queens. He had visited several such places, gaining the allegiance of those that would bend the knee, and gaining the heads of those few who had tried to oppose his rise. He was content to let the survivors continue their rule once they had sworn fealty on the condition that they heed his call when the time came. In truth he could have mobilized them today, struck out for battle in a desperate attempt to regain a foothold. Part of him wanted to do just that, to relish in the simplicity of waging war. But he was surrounded by the consequences of such sentiments, and understood the need to let his people stabilize. This brought him to where he was now. It was a humble place, an old restaurant in the heart of the old capitol. And yet, despite the humble appearance, it was Sith, and a place left untouched by the surrounding would-be warlords. It drew curiosity as to why such a small position would be left unassailed, and warranted a visit if nothing else. He entered fully expecting to be stopped, either by guards, words, or traps, but met no resistance. Curious indeed. He could feel the difference in the air as soon as he entered- Not heat per-se, not this close to the entrance, but a lack of biting wind and the start of a new structure built over the old. It was almost a metaphor for the Sith as a whole, but he wasn't concerned to ponder such things at the current moment. Moving deeper, he could see a familiar glow, a known presence in the force. A forge. He reached the doorframe, his frame blocking out any stray light that may have found its way in, leaving only the light of the fire to illuminate the room. He could see who he could only presume to be the owner of the forge at work, studying whatever tome or manual she had managed to salvage from the fallen empire. "I'm impressed. It took me the might of a hivemind to assemble my forge this efficiently, and yet you've managed to perform such a feat out of the kitchen of a diner. How did you manage such a thing?"
  26. The heat of the forge offered a welcome refuge from the encroaching chill of the frozen tundra, but Darth Idrija was grateful to have experienced the bitter cold first. Having come from a city planet the concept of temperature extremes had once been an alien to her, as every aspect of life was controlled and moderated to be inoffensive. Such unwavering comfort was a soporific for the soul, an insidious numbness that bred acceptance and indifference like vermin. The feeling of one extreme gave perspective on its opposite. While the city’s utilities had long ago fallen into a state of disrepair, the structures largely had remained intact. Her forge was set up in the gutted remains of a restaurant, once the infrastructure was restored the various hookups in the kitchen area would be useful to her craft, and the inherent tiered nature of its design also served her future needs. She had spent most of the day melting down and shaping glass from silicates that her bound servants had gathered, weaving spells and curses into the panes so that they would withstand the elements and rebuke any fool that sought to trespass through them. She could have had the possessed do it, but there were more urgent things for them to address, and the idea of playing a part in restoring the place herself appealed to her. She scanned the room furtively for a moment, both with her eyes and her more occult senses, before taking out a leatherbound journal from her satchel. She carefully unlocked each of the eight seals and in whispered chants subdued the cursed string as she unwound its grasp on the book. Thumbing through the pages to a silk marker about a quarter of the way into the journal, Idrija found the divide between her prior work and the virgin potential of blank paper. While she was no cryomancer the understanding of cold was useful in her work, both as a contrasting definer of heat and as an option for satisfying requests of future clients that might want weapons with gelid sorceries. Her pen glided across the paper in flowing script, although in this particular case static lines and dots heavily presented themself in the transcription, a reflection of the stillness of cold. It lacked the beautiful fluidity and unconstrained energy of fire, instead a buttoned up prudishness that's defining characteristic was lack. It was off putting in isolation, its only value to her in disparity. She turned the page and began a new entry, this time using the interplay of stillness and motion to heighten the extremes. The formula was too unstable, at least in this unrefined form, to be used on a melee weapon but it would be a useful application for lanvarok disks. Darth Idrija was short on enemies to shoot at, but why wait for a fight to get ready for it?
  27. The silence hung awkwardly for a moment. Keenava’s eyelids started to droop, her heart rate rose, and her lekku began stringing themselves across her shoulders in a conflicted heap. She gripped the upper part of her left arm with her right hand, and her forehead started to bead with sweat. Her stilled expression belied the subtle dismay writ on the hard edges of the Twi’lek’s face. No alter to rush to her defense, Keenava was forced to sort through the murky emotions alone. Her whole mind came to call. But the echoes of scarring on its broadside made it a little more complicated to focus on. She was whole, but every experience she had at regulating her emotions was from a place of instability. It was still a new concept. She’d made progress, that was certain, but every step was as if through thickened Corellian molasses, and her recent journey through her mindscape brought everything to the fore once again. She had control. That was an importance that bore consistent repeating, but it didn’t make her issues any less difficult. Keenava had a reset. Someone put her in an alternate reality where she grew to be the woman her mother dreamed she’d be, and she would make the most of every moment. The Twi’lek stood as two suns. One was rising powerfully into the sky, while the other was setting. But both suns tore at each other, attempting to wrest the other from the sky. And yet, they both had a place. They were both essential to stabilize the planet beneath them. Taking a note from their recent lesson, Keenava let her focus drift to Alcmene. She paused and took a deep lungful of humid air. It coated the inside of her body with something she couldn’t place, but she didn’t let that distract her. She took another deep breath, letting each thought drift through the air and into the trees surrounding the landing pad. The Twi’lek stilled her mind, briefly exacerbating the sweating upon her brow. But after a beat, her turmoil quieted, and the only thing that remained was a sweet lullaby that her mother sang to her when she was little. Take me through the mist and stones, in waters that are still unknown, under a guiding starlit sky. We will learn how to say goodbye… A cool sensation brushed the length of her frame, freeing her lekku and allowing her whole body to relax. “My apologies. My apprehension stems from particularly traumatic training exercises. My previous masters—as Kirlocca knows and you can no doubt surmise—were not kind. Every training exercise was with live weaponry. To them, each exercise was a waste if you didn’t attempt to recreate an actual combat situation. They coined the phrase ‘dodge or die.’” Keenava nodded gently to her new master and let her arms shift to her sides, stepping slowly from side to side. “I am beginning to understand that others aren’t so malicious and that practice can just be practice.” The Twi’lek gave a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, Alcemene. I would feel… ‘odd’ doesn’t feel like the right word, but I don’t like the thought of touching a Jedi’s saber when Sith killed them. My hands aren’t clean in that regard. It would feel wrong. I will remain unarmed for this spar. Whenever you’re ready.” Keenava shifted to a ready stance. She put her weight on her back leg to root her body and shifted her hands into pointed tips resembling a bird’s beak.
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