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  1. Today
  2. Sheog the Mad

    Kuat

    The Mountain of Gluttony’s anger increased, paired in equal with his mounting hunger. Even the lifeforce of the child could not whet an appetite for long. Not even the Jedi Master before him would satisfy him now. Perhaps not even all the lives of Kuat, of the paired and dueling fleets above, would abate that which drove him, that unyielding greed. Yet the Jedi still lived. Jedis and their shields… Name a more twisted pair. Preserving themselves and accepting the deaths of the innocent. Uriel’s heartbeat contorted again, lust sated for the moment as an ear was taken from his prey, but as always with lust, it was never calmed for long. The handle of the great bearded ax, Armalite, found its purchase in the awaiting palm of its great master, leaping and jittering with the excitement of a Kath hound treeing an Ewok. Pain came then to the Great Hutt, shearing against his flank as a vibroknife bit into his tender, rotten flesh. It tore into the muscle of his great tail, causing it to spasm and weaken, and the Hutt felt unsteadiness seize his overlarge form. He turned his pain to rage, forcing it upon the child as he sagged backwards, the wave of acid subsiding, for there was no joy in the digesting of a meal before it was eaten. Blackened blood slipped into ash as life was consumed, transformed into the energy of hunger. A heartbeat faded, a last high mewing scream, one of pure pain, and the Child was past the event horizon, her fate sealed by the acceptance of the Jedi. The pale canvas of flesh, so torn with holes, melted away to reveal sinew and muscle before that too was transformed into the energy the Hutt desired. There was no longer breath in the child’s lungs to scream, but the soul reflected her torture until its end within the Force. Her heartbeat was now that of the storm and her body was no longer but bleached and gnawed upon bone scattered upon shattered decking. The Mountain of Filth was bleeding puss and ichor, pain seeping deeper into the storm that brewed in the Maw, but still the Hutt stood in all the glory of his filth and hunger. It was hard to move now, to propel himself, but he would not break to some Jedi girl. The electric fire began took on the hue of crimson, and the hum of its creation took on the screams of the broken child. The Hutt chortled a mimicry of the child’s death knell, a gasping withering laugh that echoed against the crackling of the electric fire that was the storm that brewed. Arcs of green and amethyst curled across the greasy staff, for it was the heart of the storm; that soul reaper with its wicked blade humming the reflections of death. The Maw was feeding, engorging itself with the life of the child as an aperitif before the main course of Jedi Master. The Jedi’s silver light came, but the flitmoth was ready and it was met in its turn by the orange fire of the Hutt’s lightsaber, streaming from the storm that was his ceremonial staff. He drove the silver light from where it desired to strike his throat, allowing it to furrow along the side of his great mass instead, to split the skin and boil away excess fat. It burned as it passed, burning away ichor and puss, but it was all madness now. The silver light was locked with the orange fire of his own. Pain and desire matched together as the great parasite moved to devour his prey, driven so by the Maw. The storm was unleashed. Driven by his hand, Armalite beat down towards the hilt of the Jedi’s blade, at that heart of the shield, to smash away the pain and to utterly defang his prey. The great ax whistled as it flew, its heartbeat in the Force leaping with pain-filled lust; the howl of an uncaged demon. From the tip of his staff, on the opposite of his great lightsaber, from that soul reaper itself spat the curses of the darkside. The storm erupted into lightning of crimson, amethyst, and malachite, reflecting in the spilled ichor and slime, brighter than even the Jedi’s lightsaber. The power of the Master of the Krath spilled into the night, arcing in one cataclysmic blast aimed for the seat of the Jedi’s soul, her heart. He would consume her, the world below, and the fleets above. ((3)) ((Took slicing damage to the Hutt’s tail, lightsaber damage to the side. Attacked with a blow from Armalite followed with Sith lightning. Great duel, loved it.))
  3. Kadi followed him deeper into the craft, taking her time as to not knock over anything volatile. She followed his lead, taking a seat across from him as he spoke. He was jaded- maybe he had the right to be. She didn't know what his life had been since he left the Order. She didn't even know who he was before his temporary tenure as a padawan. She listened for a moment, letting him finish before contemplating how to continue. "The council didn't find you. I did. On their behalf, sure, but under Grandmaster Adenna things were... Stagnant. I grieve her loss, as does every Jedi, but the new Grandmaster and her council have made massive strides towards rebuilding the Order to what is once was. We finally have the Jedi to tie up loose ends like this. Despite that, you must understand that there is no 'little ol' you'. The previous leadership thought it best to save lives where they could, as is the Jedi way, but that meant respecting your decision to lead. I was tasked to find you so that we could learn what happened, and if you were willing, to take you back into the Order, but our stance is still that you have no obligation to return. I truly just wish to learn. So, I ask that you tell me- Why did you depart the Order? I've heard a myriad of reasons, so nothing will shock me. I met one former Padawan who simply didn't wish to be involved in the conflict, and another who had grown disillusioned with the Jedi. There were a few who fell to the Dark Side... I think it best to avoid that topic for now though. So tell me- What drove you away?"
  4. Ryu ruminated on the words, unsure how to respond. The Sith he had fought was the Dark Lord? And He had Survived? And now they wanted to make friends because he did such a good job of it? This all seemed like nonsense, deception. His knowledge of the Sith order was still hazy at best, but the idea that he might have earned their respect by surviving a fight with the Dark Lord rang true. Ryu knew that he was once a Sith, and for all anyone else knew, he was still the man he was back then. Perhaps the way to survive this situation was to go along with it, feign memory of his past and let the Sith treat him as a lost brother. At very least, it seemed more possible than bludgeoning a platoon of soldiers to death with a bed rail. He watched the soldier approach. If Ryu was going to have to fight him, he would have to do it at close range. And so as Delta crossed the roof to approach him, his hands up in a gesture of surrender, Ryu stood still. He still suspected a ruse, but at least at close range he would would be able to counterattack when the situation turned hostile. "What exactly do you want? Do you really mean to say that you evacuated a hospital and stormed it with a legion of soldiers because you wanted to be my friend?"
  5. The seasoned Duros watched his apprentice through pupilless red eyes. He had long since changed from his Jensaarai armor back into the space suit he preferred to be found in. Sitting at the controls, the hum of the engines distance in the background mingled with the waivering gauges and occasional blips from the console. To a being born, and to many intents, bred from the mysteries of the cosmos, this was as peaceful and serene as one could hope. Even here the force buzzed gently, at peace with the world around them and whisked away by the alternate reality through which they traversed. Yet, all was not at peace. Svata’s words revealed his troubled soul. The darkness of Dathomir had taken her toll. Like many a spacer, The Sarlacc was numb to the demands it could place on one not seasoned to it or prepared for it’s probing tendrilled reaches. Had he assumed too much of the wizened Ryn who now travelled with him? He probably had. The man had lived a full life, yet even now was expanding his understanding of the universe as the shroud was removed from the existence he had known. It had to be hard and the Defender kicked himself for not having seen or thought it sooner. The Defender let his comrades words hang in the air for an uncomfortable period of stillness. A stillness only broken by the automized machinations of the ship about them. He turned his friend’s words over in his mind, chewing on them as if testing them for a hidden bit of gristle or fat that did not belong. And then, after nearly a minute of solitude within his own mind, he spoke. His words carried with them the weight of his thoughts and he spoke each as if it were a complete thought unto itself. “So too were we.” The Sarlacc fell silent. The world about them returned to the embracing silence of the tomb that was hyperspace. He knew his words were enough. The Duros had spent enough time with Svata to know that the Ryn would take the words to heart and turn them over in his mind as he thought on them applying all their experiences and his knowledge of the Jensaarai to the comment. Turning back to the console, The Sarlacc left Svata to his thoughts; his own mind turning to their future. The galaxy was in turmoil and while the Jedi and Sith made grandiose maneuvers to try and wrest the state of the galaxy towards their chosen ideologies, The Sarlacc knew it was in the small details, the daily acts of kindness and compassion that was where true change awaited. Regimes rose and fell. Truth lived on, held fast in the hearts of all who treasured it. And so, the duo would set off to enact small change as they had on Darhomir, where even now the forces of truth and knowledge steamed forward to keep the word of the Jensaarai and offer glimmers of hope and light in the shadowy underbelly of the grasp of darkness. The Sarlacc’s fingers sailed over the console with precision expertise, diverting their course mid-jump. Turning around, he regarded Svata. “Perhaps some lightsaber training to help recenter your mind?”
  6. Zendrin

    Kuat

    She couldn't keep herself from pacing as her anticipation rose. Typically she was well reserved, but just standing around and waiting for something to happen ate away at her. Kahla focused on that gnawing feeling, she started tapping rapidly on her thigh as her nerves grew. Ambushes had started waring on her, and her impatience was slowly becoming a far worse enemy. Blasterfire echoed distantly in the halls, starfighters screeched by and the unmistakable boom of ship batteries shook the station. But finally, a new sound entered the room, boots lightly thumping against the plating. Her heart raced as she darted her attention to the hall where the shadow entered. In cover well enough that Kahla knew she couldn't do anything from here, not yet. And so she continued waiting, watching diligently. But nothing came, for long enough that she felt safe in revealing herself. She turned to the wall behind her and let her voice bellow and bounce off the walls. "A little lost, Friend?" Her voice like a rolling thunder, neigh omnipresent in the giant space. She turned back, her heart ready to explode out of her chest, her muscles more tense than ever. Do something! Her mind repeated in her head as she continued to wait.
  7. Sandy Sarna

    Kuat

    Dark Sun had come from a man disgraced in her order, a shadow of a man she once had known. Who had followed the much treaded path from Kuat, to Kamino, to Dark Sun. If there was a hell, like the Corellians had surmised some eons before, Sandy was sure it would be filled with Jedi Masters. But she was not one of those Jedi Masters. She had sinned enough to get into hell, everyone had, and she had long fought that part of herself, but she was no mass murderer. She had never stood on a lonely bridge of a battleship and watched orbital rings melt into a planet's surface. No one in her order had. All of them were long dead. And nothing the Sith Lord could say would shake her of the convictions that had brought her to Kuat. And so, like before. She said nothing in response to the Hutt’s taunting words. Even as his orange blade leapt from his great staff and tangled with her own. But he did not press his attack. Instead, the force moved like fire through him and he opened his great mouth. She gasped as she pulled her lightsaber back and threw forward her wounded arm. A blast of stench presaged the eruption from the great Hutt. And she let the force flow through her in return. She stretched her arm out, biting through the pain, the fingers streaked bloody from the shoulder wound, as all calamitous hell was birthed onto her. Instincts and resolve brought the force to bear in front of her. As she had done before in the cavernous depths of Scarif. The force flowed from her fingers and palm as they were coated with the bile. A shield forming itself in the air in front of her, its curving sides awash in white energy. Pain, a hot as fire and deep as coal played itself across her palm as the acid made its mark. But it did not coat her body, instead flowing on either side of her as if she was a rock in the Scarif tides. Caustic bile breaking and flowing against the curved shield as she pushed forward against its mass. She could not last even an hour against the waves, and the dulling pain in her hand told her that it would not even be a minute before she would have to yield to the great sith lord. She took a staggering step forward, the shield pushing the vomit apart so she could get within reach of its source. Then as she planted her foot on the decking against the horrifying vomit, the right side of her hearing became a whine of tinnitus. As the great axe spun its way from behind her, cutting through her soft blond hair, and taking her right ear along with it before it returned to its towering master. Leaving the side of her face covered in bright red blood. But she did not need to hear to feel the force. And as His storm grew, so did hers. And she did not not to feed of the deaths of children to survive. The shield at her hand crackled with expended energy as it fought its own duel with the Lord of the Krath’s great hunger. And she moved that hand, the pain shrieking down her arm in jolts. Perhaps she was screaming as well, and she could not hear herself if she did. For there was nothing else but this fight, for if she failed here, the armies, the fleet, and Aidan would all be lost. Slowly the fingers of her hand parted as the vibroknife that had once cut the Sith began its quick return. Beckoned by the mind of its wounded Jedi Master. Its red covered blade flicking for the Sith Master's back as she made her last attempt. Little specks and filaments of the acid began to emit from the hole that was opening between her middle fingers, splashing down her tunic's sleeve. THere was a reason for the opening in the barrier-shield, one that Sandy sunk her hopes into. With a cry of determination, Sandy brought the lightsaber up, twisting her arm until she could push it through the small hole between her parted and burning fingers. The saber coughed and sputtered as it made contact with the bile and vomitus of the great Sith Lord. But it stayed true and she pushed it up and up, until both hands met behind the shield. For she had weathered his storm. Though blood made long rivulets that dripped from her chin and jaw. She had survived his hunger. And if her aim was true, she would cut his gullet with the silver-white blade. ((3)) Summary: Hand half melted, ear cut off. Vibroknife at the Hutts back, lightsaber to his throat
  8. Mavanger

    Kuat

    The dropship shuddered as it neared the hangar. The Krayt's Fury was in the midst of an engagement with the Rebel fleet, and it showed. Fighters and bombers streamed through the stacked hangars of the Harrower, and as Mordecai maneuvered his shuttle to the lower hangar, he could see troops streaming past his Honor Guard into their own shuttles and starfighters. He wasn't an expert pilot, far from it, but he'd landed on Korriban at the beginning of this journey. It was fitting that he landed his shuttle now, as an end to Lord Xahl's. As the shuttle's landing gears locked into place and the rear of the shuttle split open to reveal its contents, he stood. Moving from the pilot's seat, he carefully lifted Xahl once more. His brother, the first true family he'd had since he defected. His steps bore a weight beyond that of his physical body, sounding off through the hangar with the intensity of his grief. Sergeant Yolan, the man in charge of his guards, shouted a command, and they moved from a rest to attention, before giving a crisp line of salutes. He walked forward, flanked by the elite fighters of his powerbase, his presence carrying a looming darkness with him that all could feel. He wish he could tell Xahl that he'd had his vengeance in the end, but he hadn't. Not yet. Not until the Rebels and their Imperial allies had been wiped off the face of the Galaxy. He's kill Hunan for this. Then Cassandra and Ismael, and then the damnable leader of their order, Kyrie. None would survive his wrath. none would dare stand against him now- if they did, he would kill them himself. The time for mercy was over. His crusade renewed, he vowed vengeance of his own. This wouldn't stop until he had the False Empress Raven's head at his feet, severed by his saber. Captain Maran was yet to appear- he was still needed to command the fleet. Grief wasn't a luxury that the Captain could afford right now. He would break the news to the rest of his commanders in time- for now, he suffered alone, his soul isolated from anything that could possibly save him. There was little goodness left in his heart. His stoic facade was crumbling, and his control of his emotions, prized within as the iron chain he used to control the Force, was rusting. With each step, his hatred grew. Everywhere he turned, the Excorcists would stand in his way. They stopped his ascension at Borleais and scarred him permanently. In the last battle of Kuat, they stood against him once more, Cassandra taunting him with her escape. And now, again, one of their knights slipped through his grasp after slaying Lord Xahl. He vowed revenge against them all.
  9. The orchestra of battle drew alive with each second. Warships spewed quickly from the black of space, dangerously organized in masses of dreadful firepower. The Fondorians native to the planet understood that the anarchist rebellion would surface soon, as their treasonous campaign had unraveled predictably. It was still surreal to them, to see so much death across the holo-networks, just as the Imperials had wrestled order and justice from the indolent hands that had held them falsely before. The trembling power of the fear-wrought Dreadnought Goliath, and the herculean Gladiator-Class Minotaur, brushed through the footbridge of hyperspace with something to say about such sacrilege. Accompanying the formation was a hungry host of fighters and an infamous Star Destroyer that had not appeared since the fall of Master Qaela. The Herløv, dressed in full glory alongside the forward command, roamed supremely onto the scene. “The Emperor would have us remove this scum. What say you, brothers and sisters of the Imperial High? Let us show them the consequences of their treachery.” The voice purred cooly, swimming through the command channels, coercing his allies to dangerous ambition. Formations settled sure-footedly, as was the way of with Imperial discipline and efficiency. Their punishment would be swift. Fleet Command (Flagship) High Command: Exodus, Inquisitor Barca Augmentation: Axial Weapon (MK-I), Ultra-Heavy Flak Cannons (MK-I) Xhendora-Class Dreadnought, Goliath |25/25| Battle Line Escort: Tradition of Excellence Commander: Exodus, Inquisitor Barca Task Force Experience: Veteran, 2XP Gladiator-Class Star Destroyer, Minotaur |25/25| Sith Empire Destroyer Group [Turbolasers]: Focus Fire Assigned PC: NPC (Qaela) Task Force Experience: Veteran, 2XP Assigned Callsign: Herløv Kyber-Class Star Destroyer, Herløv |25/25|
  10. As the Jensaarai ship flew through hyperspace, Svata stared out the viewport. The blue light played across his weathered features, making him seem washed out. Faded. Svata turned away, and his eyes met his teacher's. "Sarlaac...I had forgotten. I had forgotten what people were capable of." He shook his head. "Fear, pride, it all ends the same. We seek truth but...what are we supposed to do with it? Teach? They won't listen. Protect? The fight never ends." Leaning against the wall, he took out his saber and looked at the carvings on it. He remembered the rancor on Dathomir. "There's so much potential out there. And it keeps gettin wasted by folks who can't see past the shadows under their beds. What are we supposed to do?" He slumped, tired. "What are we even doing?"
  11. The 237th defensive response armada exited hyperspace, joining its brothers and sisters in arms in the defense of Fondor from the rebel terrorists. The Myrmidon began spewing out clouds of TIE Hunters, while Catastrophic Oracle and Wayward Serpent moved into attack positions. Promised Razor: 9/9 Lamia: 3/3 Cassandra: 2/1 Sibyl: 2/1 Egeria: 2/1 Pythia: 2/1 Temple of Vipers: 9/9 Coiled Hatred: 3/3 Nidhoggr: 2/1 Moin: 2/1 Goin: 2/1 Svafnir: 2/1 Myrmidon: 25/25 Green Advanced Warfighter Cadre (Cruiser, one frigate, four corvettes, 1 XP) Catastrophic Oracle The Promised Razor is an Insidiator class Xian'tii cruiser using state of the art components seized from the Mon Calamari shipyards. Its captain, a man of Onderonian stock, is said to consort with necromancers who provide him with grim auguries. Rumors abound of a significant portion of the crew being undead raised from crew lost at Corellia. The Lamia, an Ardent class frigate, and the Vigil class corvettes Cassandra, Sibyl, Egeria, and Pythia serve as support vessels providing cover from enemy fast movers. Green Tactical Support Escort (Cruiser, one frigate, four corvettes, 1 XP) Wayward Serpent The Temple of Vipers is a Gladiator class imperial cruiser whose command crew was handpicked by Karalynn Ladrimayne from her former academy classmates while she was in recovery from wounds suffered at Corellia. The officers are hungry and eager to prove themselves, especially after the standard that Ladrimayne set in her first battle. The Coiled Hatred, an Ardent class frigate, and the Raider class corvettes Nidhoggr, Moin, Goin, and Svafnir offer antifighter support. Green Precision Strike Carrier (Capital ship, 1 XP) Unforgiving Rebuke The Myrmidon is an Impellor class carrier crewed by clones from the recently restored Kamino cloning facilities. The ship's hangar bays are primarily occupied by slews of TIE Hunters carrying heavy ordnance. Sith commanders are hoping that swarm tactics will allow more successful contact than slow moving bombers that are often picked off by the more agile rebel craft. The ship is currently playing host to a team of Imperial cloning science officers who are evaluating clone performance. The Myrmidon's captain is a falleen specifically selected for a low empathy rating due to expected pilot losses.
  12. As Nok watched the man...creature descend the ship, the first thing that became apparent was that this was truly the source of the entity he'd sensed puppeting the corpse a moment ago. As if opening a door to a symphony, Nok was a struck by the coils and surges of the Dark Side orbiting the figure. Nok had spent years studying and practicing to attain his grasp over the Force and his own emotions, but this man was different. He seemed to exist within the Force, as if his own body was merely an afterthought, the Dark Side his reach and mind all in one. Nok couldn't help stepping back. He had seen warriors, like Darth Akheron, and the nexus of power that radiated from him like a sun. He had seen possibly the greatest Sith assassin yet alive battle on this very planet, moving through the Force and drawing it along the edge of his will like a cloak. But this man was like Nok. He did not wield the darkness, or move with it. He understood it. He lived in it. And he was better at it than Nok. His feet would not move as the entity in robes and the tapping cane came closer. Fear clutched at him, a deep fear with no logical source. It was...death. Dead in the cold and dark. Nok stopped, then calmed, his fear radiating out in his own aura of will. This planet was his. His. He might be challenged, but he would not surrender here. He stood calm and poised as the dark warlock spoke his peace and handed him the bag. Much of what he said Nok did not understand, but Nok recognized the familiar clink of coins. What could he have in one bag? Fishing out a single coin and holding it between his fingers, Nok realized they weren't metal. Then he saw it in ripples of the Dark Side. It's...a soul. Nok only recognized the entity of a living creature from the soul snares he'd already seen. This was refined though. Concentrated and without the presence a soul snare allowed the occupant. A jade soul coin. Nok had heard of such things but never thought he'd see one. "...My lord, a hangar is hardly the place to do business. Please...this way." ______________________________________________________________________________ Inside a large, plush office, Nok placed the bag on the desk before seating himself behind it, another set of attendant droids wheeling in an elaborately cushioned hoverchair for their master's guest. "Now...what can I do for you, my lord?"
  13. Inquisitorius

    Kuat

    Failure. The Sith noticed the trap at the last second, and Hunan had sacrificed his knee for nothing. The terrible sound of the heavy turret ripping through the deckplates and plummeting downward only echoed a cacophony of chaos, not an overture of triumph. It was strange, here, at the end of things, even despite the ruthless pain of his shattered knee, Hunan was at peace. This was the will of the Force. As the Sith charged, Hunan lowered his guard with arms outstretched, and closed his eyes. Instead, what rang true was the unexpected sound of a heavy repeating blaster canon, the same one mounted to the exit ramp of the shuttle he'd landed on, meant to give the troops covering fire as they disembarked. In an instant, it was over. There was no winner, only the brief turbulence of war, two dancers separated on a crowded dance floor, two ships passing in the night. Aidan's hand was the next thing Hunan felt, as the young man braced the Lasat on his smaller frame, helping him hobble back to the shuttle. More reinforcements from both sides were on the way, it was time to leave. This fight, their fight, was over. Silence hung in the shuttle on the return flight, save for the low moans and groans of the injured. It gave Hunan time to think, to reflect on the skirmish. He wondered if he would ever see that man again. He imagined it would be very different the next time they fought, if there was a next time. As they left the shuttle back on one of the medical frigates near the fringes of the fleet encounter, Hunan told Aidan something very important, something the young Knight had been waiting to hear, but was prepared to wait much longer to do so. "I absolve you. Go, rejoin the ranks of your brothers and sisters. Join the fight only if you desire, there is no shame in tending the wounded, and my report will be filed after regardless." This time, Aidan didn't say anything. He gave Hunan a smile, not particularly wide or exuberant, but content. War was ugly, but in its fires fine warriors were forged, and today Aidan was tempered. He helped Hunan to the medical ward, and began healing him like Sandy had once taught him. ((I have enjoyed writing Hunan immensely, but now it's time to jump back to Aidan's story. For the time being, Hunan is now an NPC, and Aidan is back to being a PC. In the future, I may bring Hunan back to a full PC, but for the duration of this battle it would be unfair.))
  14. Yesterday
  15. Mavanger

    Kuat

    Mordecai had won. Or so he thought. The Lasat fell to his kick, his knee shattered, but before Mordecai could sate his bloodlust his attention was drawn to an ear-piercing cacophony above him. He glanced up just in time to see the slagged remains of a turret rocketing towards him. He sneered, darting back and out of the way as the hulk of metal tore through the durasteel floor and into the hangar below. Snarling, he glanced up at the knight who nearly killed him, charging the wounded fighter. His chance was over, though. The turret aboard the dropship swiveled to face him, firing his direction. The explosion beneath him sent him tumbling towards where he'd made his entrance, and as he stood, he saw the rebel troopers rallied, pouring from the safety of their dropship with a hail of blaster fire. This, combined with the newest set of burns from his most recently survived explosions, meant that he couldn't finish the Inquisitor. He roared with frustration as a second volley forced him into cover, the hangar shaking with the explosions. The victory had been his, he's defeated the Knight, he'd been ready to claim the fool's head. And now, it was stolen from him. Rage filled his soul even as Sith reinforcements arrived to battle the Rebels. It didn't matter- by now, Hunan would have retreated with the help of his forces. Even he couldn't fight through those forces fast enough. Instead, he glanced back at Xahl's corpse. It wasn't smoking anymore, but the awkward angle at which the body lay told him everything he needed to know- Xahl was dead. He limped to the man's corpse, picking up his lightsaber and placing it in the dead Sith's hand. He lifted Xahl's body in his arms, grief coming over him. Xahl had been more a mentor to him than any other Sith, and after his ascension to Lord, had been like a brother to him. His own family had cast him out, and yet, amongst the Sith, he had found a true family. Lord Valinor, Lord Xahl, Captain Maran. Even Kahla, his apprentice, had earned his respect. And now, he'd lost one of those bonds. Before, his snarls and battlecries had been out of rage and anger. But now, as he held his fallen brother, he let out a wail of grief and loss. Tears fell, the first time he'd genuinely wept since his induction unto the Sith. When he'd left his family, his heart was hardened. When he'd killed his former allies and friends on his arrival to Korriban, his heart had been hardened. With every victory and defeat he'd remained stoic and strong before his allies and enemies. He stood, hefting the corpse with him as he walked towards the shuttle they'd arrived on. He would not leave Xahl surrounded by rebel scum, discarded on the hangar floor like an expendable slave. With a hiss, the shuttle sealed behind him. He gently laid Xahl's body on the ground, moving to the pilot's seat. He keyed the comms, his voice quiet. "Captain Maran, prepare the hangar. Retrieve my honor guard. Lord Xahl has fallen. He will receive the honors he is due."
  16. Nok Morliss

    Kuat

    Wow...this was a hard one. On the one side, you have a Sith duelist whose preferred style is pure aggression, enhancing his blows and speed with the Force. On the other side you have a Jedi of equal rank whose preferred style is Soresu, the defensive style a Jedi would pick to repel such aggression. Both sides played their preferred styles to the hilt, with Mordecai throwing everything at his enemy while Hunan stayed on the defense, only mixing in a few attacks here and there as he instead played the long game. Mordecai upped the stakes by seemingly getting stronger with each injury as he channeled the pain into his attacks. Also, both sides did an excellent job of respecting the other. This felt like a respectful duel between two competent RPers, with no bad feelings on either side. I would have liked to see some acknowledgement from Hunan that Mordecai was enhancing his blows with the Force. It wasn't heavily emphasized in Mordecai's posts till near the end, but it would have been good to see that it was having an effect. Mordecai also didn't do much to acknowledge his opponent or his skill. These aren't requirements, but I would have enjoyed seeing what each opponent thought of the other's unique/unusual attributes. Just as an aside, neither side godmodded that I could tell. I don't believe Hunan's positioning of Mordecai was godmodding, particular since Mordecai made it clear he was going straight for Hunan and was therefore leaving Hunan to control their positioning through strategic retreating. I'll say it again, this one was hard. Hunan's sacrifice of his own knee to create a trap for the Sith, a trap built up over the fight, was excellent and exactly the gambit I'd expect to see from a Soresu using Jedi. Mordecai's pure aggression and constant flurry of attacks, turning pain into power, was the blend of passion and skill that make Sith such monsters in a fight. The turret that Hunan dropped wasn't mentioned previously in the duel or preceding posts (at least nowhere I could find), which I frown a little at. It works better here because Mordecai was so single-minded on attacking Hunan and acknowledged he didn't care what kind of trap Hunan was setting up, which was entirely in character for the Sith and his style. Final ruling… TIE I'm not a big fan of ties in duels like these, but here I didn't really see another way, including a sudden death round. Both players did an excellent job playing to their character' strengths and staying in character. Hunan was the more creative of the duelists with his trap, and Mordecai's willingness to acknowledge that his character wouldn't metagame caution when his player knew a trap was coming but would instead continue to throw himself at his enemy was a maturity you don't always see in duels. It will be up to each player how they leave the area of the duel. Excellent writing on both sides.
  17. Oculus

    Cathar

    Darkness has always and will always be a bittersweet existence, the edge of fear with the embrace of the unknown. It held many realms and had many faces, from the lonely shadow casted by one's form to the enveloping depth as one shut off the lights and even more terrifying in the hearts of the wicked. And yet, it was also a idol of worship, long held in prestige by followers of the darkside and even those whom knew it in primordial cases. It was to be feared, to be known and understood, to be embraced even in death. Such was it's nature. Darkness, oh how little Shiro knew of it. Shiro stood upon it's precipice as it battles to consume him, battled to claim him, and in the end, battled to defy him. What he felt was strength was soon turned to fear, anger, and pain to which he had never known before as Hayley thrusted the blade into his flesh, the sheer acknowledgement of his form to it's pain threatening to claim his sight to the darkness beyond. And it only grew stronger as the Force thrusted it's will upon the mechanized arm and shoulder as it binded man and machine, nerves burning scorching hot with a chilling cold, the flesh of his brow sweating upon the passing breeze as the air cycled against his consciousness, and bone fracturing as metal replaced his disfigurement. And then there was silence.... The gaping maw of Chaos opened wide for the conscious of the Apprentice, craving to swallow him as a treat, the echoing of screams and shadowed figures twisting within his darkened mind. He had fainted amidst the pain of his convergence and the darkness within saw its opportunity to strike. It's eye pierced the veil of his mind, gazing upon his soul with utter intrigue, insatiable hunger wanting to claim him and the chaos he rought. And in that moment, Shiro knew the truth of fear and horror, a sensation he had never comprehended truthfully, and in his weakness, begged for the life he left unfulfilled. And it was granted... Pain surged through him again, waking him from his faint as if guided by unknowing hands, his flesh and bone alit with fire and ice as his body convulsed with fever and release, the anger within knowing no restraint, the wrath within knowing no release. For this is what he asked for himself, the moment he had wrongfully wished for, a strength granted without the knowledge of consequence. This was Shiro's desire. This was his pride. To become what he was meant to be, even if he did not know what he would bring upon himself. And as the darkness once again battled to claim him, he could not resist. Over and over again, he would feel the consequences of his wish, echoed by the Force that flowed through him and from him, the twist of the fate, until he laid in utter relief as his body fell to the numbness of the ordeal. He would be left laying unobserved, in his own fluids and blood, broken and repaired, until his consciousness grew enough strength to move. His body steamed against the cold he felt all around him and within, his flesh aflame with sensory. And in that waking moment, he understood what the darkness meant, the imagery he for seen and felt with his own senses: Power came through suffering. His voiced echoed throughout the hold as he spoke with strained breaths. "My Master..."
  18. “Finished?” “Bit of polishing work left, but everything is functional.” Closing down the lightsaber and attaching it to a clip on her belt, Armiena took a few wobbly steps towards McShipface’s mess. The scent of something processed and peppery was guiding her to the promise of sustenance, and she found her mother closing the clamshell casing around yet another programming spike. Armiena wearily took a place at her mother’s side at the plasteel table and waited for the dehydration-induced shakiness to subside. Her mother wordlessly offered a mug of caf and a bowl of some unidentifiable porridge. Armiena glanced down skeptically--some pitiful green vegetables and chunks of processed meat were floating around in the cream-colored slurry. It looked like something that the worst of the supply-starved mess hauls in the Rebel Alliance would have served--not this new Rebel Alliance, but from the bad old days when the entire operation seemed to be held together by hope and duct tape. Still, the sensation of warmth and the peppery smell were vaguely comforting, and constructing a lightsaber was draining work, so she dug in. “It’s something I learned to make during a stint on Taanab. Quite invigorating after pulling a night watch.” As though prying classified information from her daughter was casual breakfast conversation, she sipped at a mug and continued. “What will you do next?” “Back…” Armiena swallowed back an indecently large spoonful of porridge. “Back into the field. Recruitment, insurgency, sabotage, fieldcraft; just like old times. Wherever Genesis is now, I won’t be able to help him.” “He’s a decent young man. But he’s not you.” “No. He’s not a soldier. Never will be. I need to accept that.” There was an uncomfortable pause as Armiena reflected for a moment on a potential failing in her teaching. “There’s… something that I’ve been getting nervous about. I’ve been feeling a… quickening in The Force. Something is coming, something big. I”m sure you’ve felt it?” “Something has indeed escalated. I’ve been asked to consult on a matter in the Rim.” The Draygo matriarch sipped at her tea with a casual air. “I felt that it would be advisable to visit for a few days before I embark. I have a peculiar feeling about this mission.” Draygo’s set down her spoon and stared. Had her mouth not been stuffed with half-chewed porridge and a massed of minced meat, her mouth would have been agape in horror. The ancient Miraluka was actually smiling at what seemed to be her encroaching mortality. Reading her daughter’s eyes, Misal’s smile faded and her expression grew more serious. “No. I’d prefer not to think about it. I’ll find out when the moment arrives. For now, I’d like to spend a short time with my admirable daughter, and perhaps embarrass my adorable grandson if those creatures don’t whisk him off to another engagement in your war. We so rarely have a chance to enjoy a normal moment.” For a moment, Armiena’s pale-green gaze shifted past the midnight robes to view a collection of data-spikes dangling from a chain, almost like the keys to an expensive landspeeder. She tore her eyes away. Something about the moment--something about every moment, in the last several months felt irrevocable, as though precious moments were slipping away. There were few enough people from her past as well. “This is good, isn’t it?” Asked the black-clad Miraluka. The younger Draygo just looked at her mother for a second. The cloth, as usual, betrayed little expression, but she understood her mother well enough. It was not a peaceful death that she would have preferred. For her, it would be out in the field, her feet in boots, her enemies wasting their final breaths to curse her name. Quietly wasting in a sterile medcenter bubble would have been undignified, and more importantly, contrary to her wishes. “Yes, It is.” _______ Armiena had had few private moments alone since elevating to the rank of Jedi Grandmaster. It was an unwelcome aspect to the task with which she was familiar; the time of the Grandmaster was so valuable that it could rarely be spent on family or personal trivialities. In this case, the time had been wholly wasted. Armiena and her mother discussed nothing of significant importance. No great mysteries of The Force were unraveled. No crucial strategies were discussed. It was two women sitting with warm, caffeinated beverages, chatting about worthless gossip and personal relations, occasionally dipping into technical minutiae. It was one of the most rewarding conversations that she had ever had with her mother. But it was soon over and Draygo was faced with her duties as Jedi Grandmaster. There was a revolution to fight. Armiena re-entered the Rebel Headquarters, making her way to the marine proving grounds. This was a noisy, utilitarian sector of the base, constructed almost entirely of spartan steel and plastoid alloys. It needed to be, as this sector housed the base’s firing ranges, Its portable corridors were continually rearranged, based on the needs of the marines using it, to simulate a variety of potential facilities that they might assault; from planetary barracks to light cruisers to the engineering spaces aboard Kyber-class Star Destroyers and larger ships. Draygo watched from an overhead balcony as a platoon of Imperial stormtroopers--or whatever the grey-clad, plastoid-armored shock troopers called themselves now--breached the corridors of a Carrack-class Light Cruiser and assaulted the bridge. To most, the continual whine of blaster fire, grenades, alarm klaxons, glaring lights, and muffled commands was an assault on the senses. Armiena had the trigger-calluses on her fingers and the scars from blaster creases to hint at her experience in these matters, however. To her, the din was just tactical data. The course’s current configuration was of little importance. More important was the noise, activity--and the distraction that they might pose to a novice Jedi Padawan. Tobias Vos was busy preparing for their mission, but to her recollection the Kiffar had two Padawans: that massive Trandoshan she had briefly seen and a Zabrak that had passed her notice. One of the Jedi clerics had been shadowing Armiena’s footsteps ever since the veteran Jedi had disembarked from her freighter. Waving the cream-colored Caamasi over, the Jedi Grandmaster asked him to locate Vos’ Padawans, and to guide the two to her location if they were not otherwise preoccupied.
  19. Banebridge

    Kuat

    Banebridge adjusted her plasteel armor, tugging at the manufactured strapping to get the fitting tighter on her lithe frame. She felt dwarfed by the ARC-Trooper armor, an antique handed down from the Clone Wars that had been issued to her by Pelltaen, the Armorer of the Order of Captains for the Imperial Knights. The assault shuttle shook beneath her feet, and the Rebel forces about her surged forward, causing her to stumble. The soldier hit a bulkhead, knocking her helmet askew and the shuttle’s interior darkened before she ripped the oversized helmet free from her head. She was younger than most of the soldiers that had rushed ahead of her, and her auburn hair was kept long, in defiance of the normative Rebellion fighting style. She didn’t much care for the Alliance itself, a longstanding hatred from the Rebellion’s actions under Saikat and Starlisk had killed her entire family at Coruscant, and the tattoo that adorned her lower lip and chin spoke to her mourning. The Imperial Knights had taken her in after the fall of Coruscant, and she had grown up amongst them, passing into their fighting ranks with her seventeenth birthday. The girl hefted the CZR-9001 rifle in her hand, a relic even older than her armor, and retrieved her flask with the other, her fingers playing across the pair of fragmentation grenades that were beside it. The bitter tang of lukewarm stimcaf made her grimace, but it focused her mind. She spat a stream of the dark fluid onto the decking as a salute to her fellows and ran into the maze of hallways before her. Kenna heard distant blasterfire, the sound grating on her exposed ears and causing her to grasp the medallion she wore about her neck. It was a simple piece of silver, engraved with the symbol of the Jedi mirrored on the other side with that of the Empire, and was the first gift the Imperial Knights gave their acolytes, be they blessed with the Force or not. Out of habit, the girl placed the silver onto her tongue, biting it softly as she pressed forward, the taste of the metal bringing her to a place of peace. Raising her rifle, the girl stepped slowly to the door of a large assembly hanger, peaking out behind the yawning blast door to observe from a place of relative cover. It was mostly empty, but for the scraps of half-assembled TIE-fighters, but something felt off and she was ill-at-ease. She bit the silver harder, setting her jaw and stepped out into the hanger, her boots clicking softly on the decking. …So loud… So much for stealth. Where is everyone?
  20. It had taken a long two weeks for Aziza to arrive at her destination. The voyage necessitated three transport transfers, and stops at twice as many spaceports. There had been nothing she could do about the delays, so she had not let them frustrate her; nevertheless, she was quietly relieved to reach the temperate jungle world. At least, it's galactic database profile had claimed it was a temperate jungle world. As her final transport approached the surface, all she could see was torn up soil, destroyed jungles, massive chains, and a floating sphere of some sort that defied normal technology. The city of Iziz was ringed in a massive wall; partly defensive, she assumed, casting a critical eye over it, and partly for intimidation factor. The database profile had spoken of a long and bloody history of a strong and proud people; it would therefore necessitate that for this to be the modern seat of the Sith Empire, a heavy hand would be needed. In the center of the city, she spotted an immense palace: her ultimate destination. She doubted not that it would be difficult to gain the audience she had come for, but persistence and patience were not the anathema to her that they were to so many others. Once the ship had landed, she set out, carrying nothing but her small satchel, clothed in a simple black traveling dress, and turned her feet towards her goal: finding the truth behind the rumors of Master Kakuto Ryu's return.
  21. Sheog the Mad

    Kuat

    The Great Mountain of Filth felt the subtle change in the light before him, a feeling of resolve, of detachment. A feeling of acceptance. The Jedi’s eyes were always turned from life. Always focused on a peaceful utopia, occupied by only the insane and robotic. The Hutt gurgled a laugh at the mockery of life it showed. Acceptance… they pretended to care, but always referred their emotions away. Inhuman. Words came, a whispering, devilish thing of grime and grease, sputtered through a haze of spit. Cruelty, the mockery of the light. <<I’m so glad you can accept the deaths of others, I’m sure it makes them feel so much better that you’re okay with it. Just like the victims of Dark Sun Station...>> He twisted the force and the child’s screams intensified, broken by tears and choking sobs to form into a pained frenzy. She tore at her flesh with nail-bitten fingernails as crimson blood blossomed from a hundred gaping holes, which had been punched through the freckled skin by the force. Her blood wept from the skin, turning to blackened ash as its essence was consumed by the force, giving the child the appearance of a molting, shivering insect. He let the pain of the child wash into him, fueling his hunger into a feverish pace which was matched in turn within the conjoined heartbeats; those of the primitive worm, the shattered soul, the afflicted child, and his many own. It was delicious. The metal decking within the Hutt’s locus of control twisted, shifting to meet his starvation. The air echoed the child’s shrieking with the tone of contorting metal. Uriel’s heartbeat contorted, a maniacal lust reflected into the Force, for he had tasted the Jedi’s blood. Armalite had found a target. The blood that flecked the darkmetal of the blade absorbed into the alchemical matrix, bonding into the Force and into the void that was the Hutt’s hunger. The purity, that faux innocence within the blood whet the Hutt’s palate and it was like a sweet, dessert wine. It reminded him of the Snevrain Hajan Vintage he had once tasted at Ar-Pharazon’s table, and it had paired well with the roasted Ewok that had been the center dish. As the Hutt relished the aroma of Jedi blood, the light struck at the flitmoth; the Jedi’s lightsaber swung at his bulk. The first strike drove a molten line across Sheog’s thick gut, puss and ichor weeping and burning against the heat of the lightsaber. The scent of boiling rot filled the air, and the Hutt hissed venemously, reeling back, off balance from the pain. Metallic decking crashed from where he had held it, passed from his control, falling away from the heartbeat of hunger. The Jedi’s other strikes were met by the orange fire of his lightsaber, and a new heartbeat joined the hunger, that of his former master, Ason Antilles, from whose body and soul the lightsaber’s crystal were created. Light burned through, a beam of silver against the shadows of his mind, and in his momentary weakness it startled him, The Maw had not held such a bedazzling star since before the recording of time. Multi-lidded eyes blinked and narrowed. <<What are you... All the Jedi?>> Beyond the brilliance, rage blended into the pain, bleeding into the madness of hunger to form ravenous starvation. He had tasted the Jedi’s blood, now he would have it all. He passed his own pain into the child, enraptured by her sobbing cries. She held her own eviscerated stomach, her fingers tearing at bowels that felt as though they had caught fire. Her heartbeat was fading. He fed upon the child's pain, reveling in it, casting it about the paltry light, focusing his hunger upon the Jedi before him even as pain rippled through his body. He would sup from her energy like a ravenous parasite, just as the Maw devoured the stars of heaven themselves. Nothing had ever escaped the event horizon of the Maw, and nor would this Jedi escape his. He wanted all of it. All the light would be his to consume, to pervert and to defile. A storm was growing within the Maw, crackling with the energy of pain and madness. Ason's heartbeat twitched along, the orange light throbbing to waves of the oncoming storm. Electric fire crawled about the handle, leaping in arcs from the Soul Reaper. From his churning stomach blossomed a fountain of corrosive acid, propelled by the madness of the Force. It spewed forth between malformed lips, given a life of its own by the pain and starvation. The Hutt had given birth to a hypercaustic wave of bile which aimed to strike against the Jedi who had made the mistake of coming so close to a mountain of filth, so close to the Lord of Gluttony himself. It would consume and destroy all in its path. From the decking into which its blade had bit, Aramlite leapt, driven then by dual madness of both its master and the soul that had been laid into it at its creation. Uriel wanted to taste of her again, to apply his lust. The bearded ax whipped through the air in a high arc, aiming to smite the head from the body and to feast once more of the Jedi’s blood before it returned to Sheog’s awaiting, greasy palm. The storm grew. None would escape his hunger. ((2)) ((TL;DR: Took damage from the lightsaber strike, planned metal-plating based telekinetic attack disrupted. Attacked with Force-Vomitus and with Armalite in a pincer maneuver))
  22. Once the freighter settled itself from the jostling on the waves of hyperspace, Leena unbuckled her safety harness and hopped out of her seat with a smile to the squabbling squibs who were happily blaming one another for the rough take off. Soon enough, the trio of pint-sized squirrels would be climbing around, and through, the ship in effort to fix, improve, or alter for the good of the group their jostling ascent. Leena made her way to her Chiss traveling companion with a warm smile, “Definitely have had smoother rides; but there is nobody more useful than the Squibs. They’ve helped me out of a lot of pinches and they can get me into places formal Jedi approaches cannot. Don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to give that book a looksie over did ya? I know it can be hard to concentrate when you feel like your teeth might get rattled from your skull. Maybe some formal training of some sort to get you started? I must confess, you are the first person I’ve taken to formally train. Oh well, you’d think with a lifetime of being trained I’ve probably picked up a thing or two. At the very least, we can see how you do with the force. I felt you reaching out and touching it back on the planet. Nicely done. I was able to feel you reaching out. It definitely caught my attention.” Leena rattled on excitedly, her talkative nature becoming clearer by the minute. She was excited to help this newfound hopeful on his way down a meaningful path of goodness and light; but even Leena knew that was easier than it sounded and was wary of the dangers that lurked ahead. Still, as one of the minority of classically trained Jedi, she hoped that her own experiences would impart a meaningful means of helping her fellow force user along his own path. “Do you know the Jedi Code Orpheus? Yes, Mantis told me your name,” she winked. ”It goes, there is no emotion; there is peace. there is no ignorance; there is knowledge. There is no passion; there is serenity. There is no death; there is the force.” Leena paused as she finished reciting the mantra of their order. She could feel the sidelong glance that The Mantis was giving them from the doorway. It echoed on the force itself. Reaching behind herself with a hand, she shoo’d the Jensaarai Defender away. The still-armored being shook his head softly and turned and disappeared into the battered Naboo built ship. “You must understand. While the Jedi and Sith are like two sides to the same coin, we are not the only views of the force. There are others who view the force in their own way. Some with dark intent and desire, seeking only power and to better their own lot in life. Others, like the Jensaarai to which Defender Mantis belongs, who focus on the light with a dedication and zeal unmatched by even many Jedi. They are not wrong, nor are we. Just different. They trod what we see as a more dangerous path. So too do the exorcists and Knights of Empress Revan. Still, they are our brothers and sisters in the force and we respect them as such. We still ascribe to our own ideals though for the good that we believe comes from them.” Leena’s voice had grown uncharacteristically serious compared to her usual happy demeanor, signalling just how serious of a topic they had wandered into. Catching herself, she turned the conversation back to training, her telltale singsong pluckiness returning with a twinkle to her eye. “There are some things that Defender Mantis can teach you better than I, but we must start with the basics before we go delving into swordplay and such. Come on, let’s go to the main room. We’ll have a bit more room there.” Leena led her companion towards the circular central hub of the ship. Boxes and crates were stacked all along the sides, strapped to the walls. It did not fee like a ship for royalty or even esteemed dignitaries; but they were neither, and the ship served their purpose. Settling to the floor near the middle of the room with her legs crossed beneath her, Leena rested her wrists on her knees, her palms facing upwards. She gestured for Orpheus to take her hand and join her on the floor. “I am going to teach you how to use the force to effect the world outside you. In time, you will be able to use this within your own body as well, when you are quiet and at peace. In fact, with the force, you can move mountains. I will warn you though, this is not to be delved into lightly. The dark side calls to us all and the temptations to use such a power tempt us all. Temptations to take the easy way out, gain power, show off, or control others. As Jedi we are servants of the force and to the galaxy. A Jedi does not use the force for such things and must respect the free spirit of all.” Leena paused as her mind caught up with where her mouth was guiding them. “Maybe, we better do that first. Here, take my hands and close your eyes. Let your spirit find peace. Search within yourself and find that which is true and good. Grasp it, stoke it, and with it’s light seek out the darkness of yourself. Use that light and expel the darkness.” Leena closed her eyes and opened herself up to the force. She was at peace. Here amongst the stacks and boxes, hurling through hyperspace, her traveling companions about the ship; she was at peace. It flowed from the light that she carried inside, radiating out of her. It sizzled from her fingers to Orpheus. It surged in gentle waves around the room. Metaphysically, it illuminated every darkness and pressed it away, containing it and cleansing the area about them in warm energies of light. When it was gone, Leena opened her eyes and smiled at Orpheus. “Any questions?” ((Feel free to post doing, feeling, reading, whatever prior to this post, from us departing. Then just post what Orpheus feels, does etc with a focus on the force and the force dark side purge that we went into at the end.))
  23. Last week
  24. Inquisitorius

    Kuat

    ((3, Good fight)) This was it. Everything came down to this one moment, strategized from the outset of their melee. The strikes had served to distract and focus the Sith on Hunan rather than his surroundings, and as far as he could tell, it had worked perfectly. The obvious danger in the hangar was the shuttle with its repeating blaster emplacements, but there was another large hazard: the slagged automated turret that now hung from above by a single cable. As his opponent lunged for his heat, Hunan blocked, fully aware of what would need to come next. As the Sith dove deep in the Force to injure him, Hunan dove into the Force to reach out and snap the cable at the same time as he sacrificed his own knee, his leg twisting sideways with a blindingly painful POP as he limped backwards a half step. His tonfas remained close, guarding his body from what would likely be the Sith's final strikes. Light-tonfas excelled at blocking, and Hunan relied on his knowledge of Soresu to keep him safe in these final moments. The turret fell.
  25. Zendrin

    Kuat

    Her masters words resonated in her very being, Pride, honour, ambition, and utmost respect filled her blood. She grinned wide as her chin lifted, her chest puffed and her heart raced. "And may our victory be swift, my master" As Mordecai left, Kahla paused to look out to rising battle. Her thoughts stewed, she was fixated on two truths. She had vowed never to once step foot on the damnable ring above her home world, lest be trapped there for eternity. But it seemed her fate was sealed, and her presence in this conflict demanded her... personal, intervention. Like a great impenetrable wall she used the emotions instilled in her by Mordecai to keep back her fear of being lost to the drive yards, and her pride would serve an ally, a bridge for her connection to the force. She turned her back to the yards one last time, internally signifying the last brick of her wall, now immovable. Her chin high, Kahla strode to the hanger, where awaiting her she would find her trooper squad, they awaited orders hesitantly. As she approached the Staff Sargent stepped forward from the group of six. "Squad is ready on your order." His voice was plain and uninspired. He was under her command, but did not look up to her. Kahla's head tilted, but she had little time for this conversation. Later she thought to herself before she spoke. "Get aboard, on our arrival at the drive yards, you're to sweep for ambush, then get a strong foothold deeper inside. Our previous ambush worked, but I can't be throwing lives at the enemy like droids." She intentionally left the malice and sternness out of her voice, hopefully she could earn the squads respect, rather than make them submit to her rule. Before them resterd her interceptor, a true symbol of the Sith, and soon the silhouette of her dominance over the battlefield. As she and the troops stepped aboard they could feel the dark atmosphere glooming over them, as if the very air oppressed them. The squad tensed, but Kahla embraced the great weight of the evil dripping form every plate. Slowly she drifted, floated almost to the helm, taking in each step as if she were lifted and pulled by the force. As she sat at the helm, her hands hovering over the console, she felt so at place. She gripped the flight stick, squeezing it, she felt the blackish energy course through her as the engines ignited, and like the rising storm they were off. Great tension was in her muscles as she slowly forced the throttle forward. She opted for the scenic route, to really appreciate her newfound love of flying. She moved the ship with grace and intent, touring her new fleet. That thought, that she had her own fleet of vessels, let alone The Phantom's Spear, her very own Dreadnaught. A prideful thought poured into her heart as she passed the bridge of the Harrower, I, Am, Sith. She'd left Harris in command of her fleet, and with it almost every ounce of her trust rested on his shoulders. Though there was some relief, their maiden voyage, and first combat would be closely overseen by Captain Maran. And if Mordecai trusts him so well, then so could she. Finally, her attention turned to the docks, most specifically a fighter construction yard. It was quiet, relative to the surging battle, and so to there, Kahla pressed. If there was nobody there, then surely a Fury Class interceptor would draw more than enough attention. She placed herself on a pedestal in her mind, A True Sith landing here? Who wouldn't take that bait.. They set down and the ramp burst open and her troops stormed out. Like clockwork they swept the abandoned docks. Hunks of Tie Fighter in various states of completion coated the landing. Up the walls, wings still in production, and hanging from the ceiling, two completed Ties. Kahla was curious, concerned maybe, that the two hadn't launched when the rebels arrived. Defective, maybe. The Staff Sargent gave the all clear, and the squad pushed further into the yards. Kahla strode off, finding her way to the the catwalk at the back of the massive room, overlooking her makeshift hangar. Now, all she had to do was wait for her catch.
  26. Mavanger

    Kuat

    Mordecai, while smaller, was build like a tank. In heavy durasteel armor, he was already large for a human, and with the Force bolstering his endurance, he was hard to stop. His bicep was lacerated by the saber strike, and as he pivoted to avoid the strike to his kidney one of the Tonfas just ever so lightly grazed his face, leaving an angry red welt across his features, something that was sure to add to his plethora of scars. the fourth blow was blocked by his saber, and he continued to press. It wasn't lost on him that his opponent was trying to control the environment around him, though to what end he didn't know. It didn't matter- he would kill the knight here and now in a final combination of blows. He flourished briefly before diving back into the combat. His pain drove him, and he embraced it. What was a normal man's grievous injury was his flesh wound. The pain drove him, kept him on his toes. It fed into his anger, with further strengthened his blows and heightened his senses as he relied less and less on practiced maneuvers and more on the raw power of the Dark Side. He snarled, his first two blows aimed squarely at the Lasat's head. His third was a Force empowered kick from his durasteel-coated boot towards Hunan's kneecap, intending to snap it. He followed up with a furious strike from his right saber, intended to sever an arm, before finally swinging both blades in brutal tandem towards the Lasat's abdomen, seeking to cut the Knight in half, This was it. The final strike, positioning himself where the Dropship couldn't shoot him without hitting Hunan. The culmination of his brutal frenzy- He'd defeated Jedi and Imperials with less- This was the culmination of his abilities, his each move augmented with the Force, the lightsabers in his hands extensions of himself, as he drew on his rage, his pain, his grief. Rage at the gall of these Imperials to dare strike at Kuat yet again. The pain from the injuries received during this duel. Grief at his friend's death. And one more emotion. One deeper, more carnal. One that drove him to battle any chance he got. Bloodlust. ((3))
  27. Inquisitorius

    Kuat

    ((2)) The Lasat's assumption was confirmed: this Sith was not ignorant to saber combat. Wisely he struck out at the larger framed Lasat's legs, an area a larger creature would naturally have difficulty protecting. In response, Hunan lowered his stance, catching both thrusting blades as he could, the lower with a reverse block, the upper managing to graze his unprotected neck before Hunan parried it off, cooking the purple skin to a charred black. The wound stung, but Hunan knew pain, and it was a flesh wound. There were larger concerns, bigger machinations at play. The Force would see him through this, as it had many times before for much worse injuries. The swipes at his abdomen were easy enough to meet with vertical blocks, the yellow blades carving the air with delicate but meaningful thrumms, only to meet in a crash with his opponents'. Hunan maintained his economy of movement, never letting his gaze leave his opponent, even though he saw with more than just his eyes. This Sith would wear himself out quickly attacking in such a frenzy. Yet even before that happened Hunan knew that it was strategy, not perseverance, that would win the day here. Hunan backpedaled as his opponent pressed the attack, knowing that he had total control over where to lead his opponent in the expansive room. The tonfas lashed out for the first time, whipping around in blindingly fast arcs, striking at unorthodox zones on his opponent. The upper left bicep, the right kidney, the forehead, the right calf. As fast as they leapt at their opponent, they seemed to be back to a guard in the very next instant. Nothing fatal except for perhaps the forehead, nothing incredibly powerful or strong, each strike coming as Hunan fought on the retreat. But they all had their purpose. The pieces on the board were poised, the music of combat began to swell. All that was left of this fight was the finale, and after, the victor would simply walk away from the corpse of his once-rival.
  28. Mavanger

    Kuat

    Mordecai was, in fact, thrown back towards the jagged metal, catching the boot to his abdomen with gritted teeth as his armor absorbed most of the impact. He twisted as he moved, his cloak catching on the metal and tearing off as it sparked against his own armor, a jagged piece of metal creating a shallow cut across Mordecai's left arm. He sneered, the pain sharpening his senses as he repositioned, making sure to keep the shuttle and its turrets on the other side of Hunan. He knew the rebels well enough to know they wouldn't risk killing one of their own, not this early or in this manner. He roared, leaping back into the battle with little hesitation, his respect for the opponent lost save for that he was a trained fighter. There was no honor to this duel, no banter between the light and the dark. His only purpose now was to kill this knight, and then, if he could, kill every rebel aboard that craft. Another flurry of blows, fueled by the Dark Side as he poured his emotions into each strike. First, a lunging upward thrust towards the Lasat's chest. His second saber met an opposite thrust, looking to impale the Lasat's knees, seeking to cripple the giant knight. Two more quick slashes flew towards the Imperial Knight's abdomen as Mordecai pressed the offensive in a hatred and agonized frenzy. This... Creature would die. His cowardly apprentice, watching from cover, would die. The rebels trying to flee aboard their ship would die. Every last Jedi, Imperial, and Rebel he saw this day would die a thousand painful deaths before he stopped his onslaught. Defiance and simmering hatred bloomed in his chest as he embraced the pain for his cut arm. Is wasn't a debilitating injury, far from it. But he could use it, draw on it to enhance his blows and his movements. The beast had over a foot on him, but that didn't matter. With the Force bent to his will through his emotions, he would overshadow anyone who dared try to stop him. ((2))
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