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  1. Today
  2. Ruling on the Terra and pals vs Shimsinblimp and Zalis duel Reading this duel really felt like reading two adjacent fights, and in the interest of coming to the most accurate ruling for what happened I'm going to treat it as such. In the Terra vs Zalis part of the fight, it was clear that Terra was in her element in this fight, and Zalis's attempts to compromise her visibility weren't landing. This culminated in a final charge by Zalis on Terra's position that left Zalis exposed to significant fletchette fire with little to mitigate it. Terra vs Zalis: Terra In regards to the firefight between Shimsinblimp and Terra's squad, both sides gave and took punches well. I do know that we have an updated set of retinue rules under construction, but what I saw here felt unbalanced, especially against an NFU with no squad of their own. The retinue often felt like five additional PCs each with specialized gear for handling specific problems rather than a small squad of NPCs meant to support their PC with additional fire, and a number of the weapons they use were laid out in a way that traditional damage mitigation options like armor were not plausible. I believe that everyone was acting in good faith, but that the retinue was being used in a way that exceeded the mechanical role that it is meant for, even moreso given that this was not a duel vs an FU and I am evaluating them without the contributions of their PC owner. Terra Retinue vs Shimsinblimp: Shimsinblimp All that being said, I think that it would have been better to have avoided the 2v1 format to begin with, given how things clearly turned into two distinct firefights, and I'm wondering if the setup of the duel factored in to the portrayal of the retinue.
  3. The galaxy’s worst brings out our best ----------[maroon] Founded shortly after the infamous Shield Incident of Coruscant, the Survivor’s Foundation is dedicated to assisting worlds rebuild after they have been ravaged by war, terrorism and plague. Originally just one of the many non-governmental organizations that assisted in the rebuilding of Coruscant, the Foundation rapidly outstretched its original mission after a public endorsement by Jedi Master Armiena Draygo, soon obtaining the finances and materiel necessary for the rebuilding of entire worlds almost on its own. This promotion could not have come at a better time for the galaxy, for during the climax of the Galactic Civil War, numerous worlds had experienced terrible ravaging by the war: Coruscant’s cities had been flattened by multiple raids by the Galactic Empire and Wartide’s pirate gang, Mon Calamari had experienced an entire ecosystem collapse after its orbital shipyards were blasted into its oceans, and Gateway Station had been afflicted by a virus that transformed its inhabitants into drooling, shambling, flesh-eating drones. After peace broke out, its operations shifted towards the Outer Rim to help those neglected worlds rebuild after decades of resource exploitation and pirate raids that exploited the military struggle in the Core. Its mission has remained constant: to heal the depravations of war, to rescue those in immediate peril, and to combat the creeping forces of decay and pestilence. On paper, the Survivor’s Foundation has jealously guarded its neutrality. In reality, it will inevitably be tied to the activities of the Jedi Order, who supplied it with a number of ships and whose endorsement secured it with a steady supply of liquid capital. This conflict has manifested itself in tragedy on a number of occasions--Foundation craft have, from time to time, been fired upon during planetary invasions. But the Foundation has attempted to at least maintain a status of legal neutrality. Its ships are bear number of universal symbols of neutrality, and the few weapons that are mounted by its ships or present in their arsenals are strictly nonlethal. An Armada of Mercy ------[maroon] The Foundation favors small, light ships--corvettes and frigates, typically--for the initial response to emergencies, though a number of capital ships are kept on stand by for situations that require a prolonged staying power and deployment of planetside hospitals. In truly dire situations, requiring both vast influx of materiel and transport of refugees, the Foundation maintains a number of droid-piloted transport barges. These ships spend most of their time in hyperspace, maintaining an automated patrol until they are diverted to a system-wide crisis that requires their resources. A number of ships have formed the nucleus of its relief fleets, providing both enormous hospital space and command facilities for system-wide crises. Esperanza (flagship) MC90a Cruiser Length: 1255 meters Armaments: 8 tractor beams Modifications: Heavily upgraded shield generators The “Cold Labs”--a modified pod on the dorsal surface of the ship that house the most sensitive laboratories in the Foundation. If needed, the entire pod can be jettisoned from the ship and self-destructed. Martyriai and Serendipity Venator-class Star Destroyer Length: 1137 meters Armaments: 6 tractor beams Modifications: The ship is gutted to make space for more hangar and cargo capacity. Sanare and Organa Victory I-class Star Destroyer Length: 900 meters Armaments: 10 tractor beams Modifications: Landing struts for in-atmosphere deployment to local landing strips. The ship is gutted to make space for additional cargo and hospital space. Very few starfighters are present in the Foundation’s fleet, and even those have been equipped strictly with non-lethal weapons such as ion cannons and ion-pulse warheads. The majority of vessels within its hangars are light and medium freighters for cargo transport, and passenger shuttles modified for use as field hospitals. The same attitude applies to the stocks of weapons within the armories. While the Foundation keeps a small stash of blasting agents for the rare occasions when demolition is required, the few small arms that the Foundation keeps on hand for self-defense are almost entirely stun-only. On the rare occasions when brute force is necessary, the Foundation is far more likely to dispatch security personnel equipped with heavily-reinforced combat armor than it is to exercise lethal force. The present commander-in-chief of the fleet of the Survivor’s Foundation is Niklas Vandro [https://jedirp.net/topic/4196-the-survivors-foundation/]. He is an obscure figure to most of the galaxy, but characters who are exceptionally well-versed in the history of the Imperial Navy will be familiar with his background. He was a commander of minor repute who served during the Empire’s expansion into the Outer Rim, operating on a shoestring budget during the Galactic Empire’s attempts to spread law and order into the anarchic territories that had been exploited by the Confederacy of Independent Systems. And this he achieved with aplomb, pulverizing pirate gangs that operated out of CIS battlecruisers with only a handful of Carrack-class Light Cruisers, picket ships, and one obsolete Dreadnaught-class Heavy Cruiser. The atrocities that characterized the Empire’s reign of terror in the Core were wholly unknown to his command--in his territories, the banner of the Empire represented security, stability, and prosperity. It suffices to say that Vandro is nothing but proud of his service to the Empire and views the current regime as a blot on the record of the Imperial Navy. Equipment[in progress]
  4. With a soft thud, The Sarlacc’s boots magnetized to the hull of the loading dock. He was secure from the void for the moment. Dropping into a weightless crouch, the Duros cautiously made his way along the exterior of the station until he came to a loading port. It took some time, but if one could say anything positive about the mechanization of a world, it would be reliability. It took the better part of an hour, but a shipment from the surface inevitably arrived for loading into the massive spacegoing craft docked to the station. As the transport approached, the massive doors of the station rumbled open; temporarily exposing the inside to the void. With a simple, yet specific twist of his ankles, The Sarlacc disengaged his magnetized boots and launched himself through the open bay alongside the transport; rolling to safety on the cold deck plating out of the way of being crushed as the ship settled. Breathing deeply, the Defender extended his very essence on the waves of the force. He felt the transport, the deactivated droids, the mechanized Life that hummed all around him. He allowed his very being to blur as his mind melded with everything from his suit to the platform to the void beyond. The cosmic energies of space carried the presence of The Sarlacc far into the upper atmosphere of Mechis III and out deeper into the cold void of space. Like his namesake, The Sarlacc stood like a sentinel, another piece of the scenery to anyone or thing that might detect him. Yet, even so, his arms swayed in the microgravity of the station. His eyes scanned the all but dark interior, illuminated only by the occasional flash of light from a piece of machinery or the wayward flash of stars or the planet as the station slowly spun in orbit. Then he saw it, there, jutting from the wall adjacent to the conveyor that shuttled the offloaded packaged droid-soldiers through the platform to the waiting droid-controlled delivery ship; a dataport. Slowly as if without rhyme or reason, The Sarlacc’s arms waived, a datachip identical to Svata’s materializing in his hand from the folds of his suit. With a sudden, nearly too fast to be seen by the naked eye, flick of his arm from elbow to wrist, he sent the chip spinning through the barely there atmosphere that developed within the station. It sailed through the air on the invisible waves of the force before it connected with the port, a slight click and a flash of green all that indicated success. The inner workings of the station, linked to that of the droids within it’s possession, the delivery ship and even, remotely, the mechanized world below, carried on, as if unaffected by the programming that had been intricately crates to download itself and replicate, bypassing the beyond state of the art security systems ever-present. Carefully coded and crafted for a specific target, the code would seem like little more than errant code or programming orders to any other that it attached to; but to the droid army of the Jedi, the program would rewrite the processing capabilities; transforming them from a highly programmed force of slaves minds to a highly programmed force of free thinkers, unable to be ordered unto certain oppression and death without consent of the very mechanics commanded. For several minutes, the dataport spun, clacked, and whirled. Finally the green light flashed blue, indicating the download was complete. Just in time too, as the transport grumbled and growled, it’s engines humming to life again. The heavy doors that separated the ship from the void of space rattled and groaned open again. With a jump, The Sarlacc propelled himself back into the void of space. Once clear of the station, The Sarlacc turned and with a push of the force, caused the datachip to crumble to dust; floating unidentifiable within the void to be dispersed upon the solar winds. Propelling himself back towards the Jensaarai stealth ship, The Sarlacc returned to the safety of the hold. There and only there, in the safety if the ship, did he remove his bulbous helmet with a hiss. Seeing Svata nearby, the Defender offered a warm nod of greeting and approval. “Indeed. Sometimes a Jensaarai’s work is simpler without extra entanglements. I only hope that we can have the same luck on Dathomir as we seek the knowledge to be gained there.”
  5. Yesterday
  6. Necromancy Among the Necromancers are found the wisest and most arrogant of the Sith sorcerers in equal numbers. Necromancy is a shared path by both those who seek to command death and those who seek to understand it. Knowledge of death offers sorcerers a variety of abilities, though often at great cost to their mind or body. Necromancy is also one of the most common disparities for Dark Siders outside of the Sith tradition to learn. Many powers listed are designated as belonging to one of the two subtypes of necromancy, tied to the two opposing factions the Necropolis Kings and the Forlorn Veil. The two groups have a murderous rivalry that has spawned from their competition over a vital common resource, the dead, and even masters can find it difficult to force the cooperation necessary to learn the opposing faction’s necromantic secrets. Echoes in the Flesh: Early on in a Necropolis King’s studies, the first steps of reanimation are discovered. This spell turns corpses into basic subservient automatons that rot away quickly from saturation of death energies. Simple minded and slow, these zombies are best used as menial labor or to scare civilians. Unlike more advanced spells, this incantation is using imprinted energy of the person’s life rather than overturning death. Invocation of the Remembered: A highly advanced ritual to bring about the return of a departed individual. First, the body is ritually rendered down to bones, lacquered, and laid out on an altar amidst items and trinkets of personal significance. The necromancer and his or her assistants write down memories of the person on strips of cloth anointed with oils and begin laying the strips over the bones. If the early stages of the ritual were performed properly, the cloth will hang in the air suspended, clinging to a form that no longer exists. The more strips that are provided the more substantial the revenant will be, and variation in the memories is also important to create a complete picture. For example, a widower seeking to bring back his dead wife who only uses romantic memories will create a revenant only capable of being a lover and having no concept of existence outside of that framework. Madness often awaits such fractured creatures. Upon completion of the ritual, a Nin’tash is created, a sort of Dark Side ghost but with greater physical presence than is normally associated with specters, something like a hybrid between a ghost and a ghoul. Sacrifices and offerings allow the Nin’tash to maintain its corporeality and sanity to a degree, but if the altar is neglected, or the Nin’tash is drained to the point that the offerings are not enough, it may go feral temporarily and attack the living to gain sustenance. The consumption of raw life energies is highly addictive, and even carefully restored Nin’tash may devolve into Derriphan spirits if they develop too much of a taste for it. Regardless of how well fed they are, Nin’tash skin is always of a deathly pallor and room temperature. Their words echo unnaturally, although the degree to which this happens is dependent on how complete the ritual was and their current state of fulfillment. If a Nin’tash can exist long enough without devolving into a Derriphan while still accumulating energy, it can reach a critical mass where it ceases to be a simulacrum created from memories and is remade as a sentient being. Such spirits are coveted by necromancers like a gardener with a prized rare orchid. Nin’tash dislike being far from their tombs, and as such serve better as guardians of temples and laboratories than traveling companions. Some Sith will create Nin’tash of hated Jedi enemies known for their compassion and peacefulness, and intentionally starve them to turn them into blood crazed killers, although admittedly without access to the Force. Dark Jade Eyes: By attuning themselves to the energies of death, necromancers can gain insight into the past, at the cost of awareness of the living. While this spell is in effect, the necromancer can see artifacts left behind by Force use, observe emotional moments that occurred around a death, and discern the value of souls. While the first use of this spell requires a ritual to open the mind’s eye, later uses are just a matter of refocusing perception, a process that takes one to two minutes. A Sleep Like Death: The necromancer enters a comatose state of deathly stillness, with their vital signs becoming undetectable and their presence in the Force distended away from their body. While in this torpor the Sith becomes akin to a Dark Side spirit, although tethered to the area around their body. Soul Extraction: The highest quality soul material comes from extraction at the point of death, which makes this spell’s ability to finish off defeated opponents with soul theft invaluable for soul connoisseurs. Soul extraction requires that the sorcerer be focused on the victim, but not necessarily the one to deal the killing blow. Sometimes powerful Sith will have necromancers accompany them into battle to ensnare the souls of their fallen enemies, offering a cut of the reaping in exchange. Some souls are too powerful for this spell to extract, in such cases a shard is obtained while the rest disperses into the ether. (This is to explain PCs returning with souls post soul extraction) Gravemist: At the Veiled’s command, ethereal fog pours into the area, dampening long range visibility, but making it easier for the restless dead to manifest as apparitions. The effects are felt particularly in areas of conflict and past atrocities, where the dead are both angry and plentiful. These specters are not capable of harm on their own, but they make it hard for enemies to distinguish living threats from echoes of the past, even with the Force. Bleak Eviction: With a series of slicing finger motions the Veiled attempts to seize the soul of its enemy with spectral threads and temporarily tear it from its fleshy confines. This spell sends forth necromantic distortions through the air, as if the gestures are emitting echoes of where the fingers tore at reality in cutting lines. Should the attack land, it tries to rip the soul out of the body, but against more competent threats it’s more likely to temporarily paralyse a limb while the soul is knocked out of alignment. Just like with normal attacks, getting hit in the head with this spell is worse, temporarily reducing the victim to a vegetative state. Realignment for a nonfatal hit is quick, rarely lasting more than a couple seconds, and some people recover even faster. Claim the Empty Vessel: With dark rites and sinister incantations, an apprentice necromancer can leave their own body to inhabit a recently deceased corpse. The necromancer’s own body is unconscious for the duration of the effect, and if the necromancer is slain while in the new host body it still takes three days for them to their original body as per the rules. Having their own body destroyed also initiates the three day respawn process. The deceased body will appear relatively alive until the next sunrise, at which point a build up of necrotic energies will putrefy the corpse into obsolescence and the necromancer is expelled back to their body. The necromancer cannot use the Force while inhabiting the body, outside of necromancy spells that involve perceiving or interacting with spirits. If the necromancer is in space, the duration of the effect is roughly half a standard day. Cursebound Sentinels: The necromancer can bind the restless dead to a location or object, allowing their wrath to be triggered by trespassers or thieves. Necropolis Kings often use this spell on cadavers in and around their tombs to animate corpses to strike down would be grave robbers, while the Veiled protect their most valuable relics and libraries with bound wraiths that torment the uninvited into madness. Soul Shatter: Such is the power of a Necropolis King that they can disassemble the inner bindings of a restless dead in the palm of their hand and then launch the unstable entity at their enemies with implosive results. The effects of this spell are equivalent to a fragmentation grenade except in reverse (imploding instead of exploding, and the shrapnel coming from the objects in the area around the implosion instead of the soul itself), and the necromancer can only destabilize one wraith per round. Furthermore, once destabilized the time to implosion is only a rough estimate and cannot in anyway be stalled or combined with any catalyst for greater yield or area of effect. Once destabilized, the former ghost is visible to the naked eye and can be spotted and avoided like any other attack. The Kings have a reputation for intentionally casting this spell in front of the Veiled to spite them. This spell cannot be used on PC souls. Prison of Jade: The process by which Necropolis Kings convert large quantities of soul stuff into tradable currency. The ritual is not an efficient or delicate process, and a considerable amount of the total energy harvested is lost, along with most of the defining traits and qualities of the souls, but it allows the Kings to convert entire battlefields worth of corpses into easily portable wealth. The origin of the jade coins came from Sith finding regular currency of little worth when dealing with other Sith, as amassing great wealth is a trivial matter for the Sith. Jade coins, on the other hand, can fuel the construction of relics, temples, rituals, and machines of war, making them a representation of meaningful power to the Sith. As such, the Kings are financial powerhouses in the Sith Empire, controlling the flow of new currency. Gravetide: With this spell, the Necropolis King roughly animates corpses to blindly charge (or otherwise move towards, limbs are often not a guarantee on Star Wars corpses) their opponent and tackle or otherwise lash out at them. The corpses will not use weapons even if they are still holding them, and after the initial attempt they will decompose into obsolescence and be untargetable to raise again. The number of corpses that a necromancer can simultaneously animate is dependent on their rank, an apprentice can only raise one at a time, a lord can muster between two and four, while a master can raise all corpses within their immediate locus of control. Sepulchral Resplendence: Necromancers who treat death as an unexploited resource from which they can draw armies and commanders from are inevitably drawn down this path of defilement and grandeur. Constructing massive tombs to serve as places of power with which they raise silent ranks of undead soldiers, the Necropolis Kings essentially stripmine graves to build sprawling armies of corpse minions. The dead are not cunning or skilled warriors, but they are many and relentless, and have no qualms about obeying even the most psychotic orders of their masters. Most of these undead are unarmed, but warriors and soldiers who were buried with their weapons still clutch them on these new battlefields. Sith tombworlds such as Korriban were known for burying armed guards alive with their lords to serve them in the afterlife, and so armies that are raised on such worlds have a higher percentage of armed warriors. Sith Lords who walk this path are instrumental to the process of directing and sustaining their forces, but Sith Masters can weave incantations that allow their armies to outlast their own mortal span as long as there are other Sith(PCs) to direct them. These mass resurrections destroy any traces of individual hauntings, making certain grave sites a massive point of contention between the Necropolis Lords and the Forlorn Veil. Unlike traditional NPC soldiers, the presence of undead swarms should be treated like an environmental hazard that ebbs and flows through cities and battlefields. They aren’t fast(they can’t move faster than walking speed) or skilled enough to threaten even marginally competent PCs on their own, but their sheer numbers press in on a character’s ability to maneuver and interfere with their actions with grasping hands if left unaddressed and allowed to close. Necromancers that are focused entirely on controlling their forces to the point of having no weapon readied can fuel them with dark vigor, allowing them to run and respond to basic commands beyond murder everything. Masters that are using this approach can passively raise corpses that haven’t already been raised and are in their direct locus of control. The Dark Side corrupts the Necropolis Kings by consuming their minds with an obsession regarding their legacy, driving them to build great temples, statues, and monuments. They demand carefully scribed personal histories and detailed portraits so that their greatness may be remembered in the coming eras. This maddening fascination with posterity ages them rapidly, turning their hair grey, their eyes dull, and their skin sallow and loose. Most Necropolis Kings will never see their grand designs completed, or the truth of how their legacy has been recorded, as their eyes fail well before the rest of their bodies do. But they are too vain to concede or even imagine such a defeat, so their minds deceive them with visions of ages past, during other times of Sith glory. Masters of this path are often deluded into thinking that they are fighting the wars that they once read so eagerly about as apprentices, completely oblivious to current events. Implements of the Old Hatreds: The Necropolis Kings are obsessed with the collecting of ancient relics, and the Sith swords of bygone conquerors are a particular favorite. Their most prized pieces will drive them to do the unthinkable, willingly conduct business with the Forlorn Veil. The Veil can bind a wraith of considerable skill in swordsmanship to the blade, allowing the necromancer to wield it just like a real Sith Lord. Relying on the wraith’s expertise is dangerous, as the spirit is contemptuous of any Sith that lacks the training to use the sword properly on their own. As such the wielder must focus on resisting the influence of the wraith while fighting, effectively reducing their rank for casting by a level. Wielding such a weapon while maintaining control gives the wielder sword skills equal to a warrior a rank beneath them, but offers no benefit to Sith that are already trained in the warrior arts (For them it’s treated as just a regular Sith sword). This does not allow players to subvert the rule regarding canon character relics, players should instead reference non canon historical Sith. Toll of Ages: The Necropolis King taps into the energies of decay and entropy, manifesting them into orbs of unmaking that swirl around the sorcerer trailing sulphuric dark smoke clouds. The general area around the necromancer begins to erode and rust over, with anything coming into direct contact with the spheres degrading at frightening speed. The necromancer can widen the orbit of the projectiles to effectively launch orbs at enemies, or keep them close as a deterrent. It should always be possible for an attacker to reach the necromancer, but a direct charge of unbroken momentum is likely to end poorly. The higher the rank of the sorcerer, the harder it is to detect and pursue an opening. People that are touched by the orbs are aged rapidly wherever contact is made. Ancestral Jade Conqueror: Many necromancers are obsessed with studying and documenting the lineages of Sith warlords and generals, in the hopes of finding the most capable and powerful warriors to resurrect as servants. Braving tombs brimming with curses and traps, the necromancers bind the spirits into canopic vessels that are placed within carefully constructed effigal bodies. Enslaved to the necromancer’s will, these dark slaves serve as their hands on distant battlefields. Mechanically speaking, this is a flavorful way for necromancers to use the Champion rule to create a Sith Warrior golem or a Sith Empire NFU general golem. The components used to bind and maintain these creatures are of equal sturdiness to a human body, with internal components that are as vital as organs for the living. Alternatively, these golems can be constructed to serve as a means for the necromancer and their more useful allies to cheat death. Without the narrow focus of bound servitude though, occupants of these bodies often quickly succumb to madness as their minds fail to properly adjust to their new artificial bodies. This offers an alternative to respawning through cloning. Power Behind The Veil: While the Necropolis Kings seek power through innumerable mindless servants and vast sepulchral temples, the Forlorn Veil prefer more subtle methods. Seeking out the most bitter and observant wraiths, these necromancers entice them into dark pacts as hidden agents in the dark places of the empire. Acting as spies and saboteurs, these ghosts often serve to enforce loyalty and punish disobedience and failure among the necromancer’s living agents, although some serve the Dark Lord as spymasters keeping watch over the higher echelons of the Sith Empire. The necromancer can bind loyal wraiths to objects and locations that are attuned to the Dark Side, making them blend in rather easily in the Sith Empire and among its operatives, but absurdly noticeable amongst the Jedi and rebels, making them far less useful for spying in enemy territory. A necromancer can hold active contracts with a number of wraiths equal to twice their rank. The necromancer can summon wraiths to deliver reports on what they have observed, regardless of distance. The wraith’s awareness is limited to the general area of the object it is bound to or the area of the building it is haunting. Renunciation of Mortality: One of the greatest seductions of the Dark Side, this profane ritual is synonymous with the Forlorn Veil, and counted as one of their greatest triumphs even in its imperfect state. Upon completing this dark rite, the Sith is removed from the mortal coil, becoming a static presence that does not age, hunger, or die. Both unliving and undead, the Sith now exists in a twilight state on the threshold between worlds as a transient wraith that steals bodies. There is an indifference about the Veiled that have undergone this transition, being so distant from pain and death, that allows them to treat wounds with utter disregard. While this is often a boon, it also has a tendency to make the Veiled apathetic towards defensive measures like armor or vampiric healing in combat, and unlike other Sith they cannot boost their spiritual strength through physical pain. A necromancer can still be dismembered sufficiently enough that they abandon a body, which is treated as a normal duel loss death, and they are treated as looking for a new host body over the next three days. Mechanically speaking, new bodies should be found on Sith held worlds or neutral worlds that hold significance to the character. In the darkness of night and deep places where the sun cannot reach, the Veiled have an ethereal glamour to them, akin to how romanticized works portray ghostly figures. In direct sunlight though, their true ghastly nature is revealed. In places attuned to the Light, their reflection can also reveal them for what they are. Given their immortal state, the Veiled also suffer from a deep paranoia regarding other wielders of the Force, seeing them as the only potential threat to their deathlessness. Pact of Vengeance: Sometimes the bodies that the Veiled inhabit still have a wraith anchored to them, a harrowed soul with similar aims or at least trauma that can be subverted to the whims of the necromancer. The spirit can be coaxed or coerced into offering up details of their life and context regarding people they knew and places they had been, but that’s only the beginning. Necromancers have three paths that they can pursue with regards to their involuntary cohabitants. Some necromancers simply use the wraiths as a quick fuel reserve, sacrificing them at the earliest convenience for a quick boost of energy. Others might use the wraith to get their bearings in the new body and plot revenge against whoever killed them, leading the wraith on with false promises of aiding them in finding resolution. The third and most time consuming option is to embrace the wraith’s suffering as the necromancer’s own, internalizing the pain and hatred while feeding the wraith’s vindictive nature. This last option creates a codependent relationship where the Sith and wraith fuel each other's worst tendencies and behaviors. The necromancer becomes, for lack of a better term, haunted, and the wraith can reach across the veil into the physical world to interact and make its presence known (In terms of affecting a duel, the extent of the wraith’s potential would be at most simple tasks like turning on or off lights, closing or opening doors, temporarily manifesting or moving objects with enough bludgeoning force to disrupt or hurt someone, but not majorly wound them, and not striking with any particular accuracy or precision.) Dark Passenger: The Veiled imbues a nearby wraith with a small measure of their power and attempts to propel it onto an enemy. During this phase of the attack the wraith is visible and avoidable, moving at the same speed as a charging humanoid, and able to move through walls (the necromancer still needs to know where precisely the target is for it to connect). While the wraith can do simple course changes, if the opponent can dodge it then the wraith will be distracted and stop its pursuit. For anything outside of their own psychodramas, most ghosts have less of an attention span than goldfish, so the spell’s range is not indefinite. The effects of this spell should it land vary depending on the target, with Force users finding their concentration threatened by alien thoughts and emotions, and non Force users finding their more sensitive gear like comms, sensors, and scanners heavily disrupted and behaving erratically. When the ghost departs, it takes a measure of the victim’s vital essence with it, a spiritual wound that leaves them cold, nauseous, and often irrationally panicked. Death Touch: A spiritual scalpel in the Veiled’s toolkit, this spell tugs a touched victim’s fears regarding death to the forefront of their mind with startling intensity. When used in combat, the intent of the necromancer is generally to disrupt their opponent’s concentration or hinder their ability to react effectively. Outside of combat, the effect is more subtle and insidious, with victims potentially being unaware that a spell is being cast on them. Light siders often see the emotional fallout from their death and how people would be left to suffer should they die, with the specters of those potential futures blaming them for their woe. The war against the Dark is cast in a futile light, a fool’s crusade that sends people to mass graves instead of their proper place in the galaxy. Dark siders see everything that they’ve worked towards fall apart or be forgotten as “lesser” individuals surpass them in their absence and mock their legacy, and underlings that they believed to be faithful raise glasses to the demise of their former master while furthering their own plans. Amoral survivalists are confronted with amorphous dread and the terror of non-existence. Burden of Regret: Another of the Veiled’s more subtle powers, this spell discreetly foments the idea that the victim needs to do or confess something before it’s “too late”. While the necromancer can choose a fabricated and unlikely desire, doing so has a very real chance of undermining the curse, as the victim might realize that an outside force is at work. Ideally, the necromancer wants to leverage a plausible desire to manipulate the victim into acting a certain way. Skeleton Key of Despair: Whereas Burden of Regret focuses on the fear of leaving things unfinished, this curse tries to encourage self destructive and short sighted behaviour with the embedded notion that the victim is going to die soon so they might as well act without inhibition since the end will come for them before the consequences do. If applicable, the victim will attribute their sense of foreboding to an appropriate upcoming event such as a major battle. Cistern of Sorrow and Chains: The Veiled can transform a location into a place for keeping wraiths that they have collected during their studies, much like other sorcerers construct libraries to house their collected lore. Generally speaking, places that are already conducive to haunting work best, particularly places that have an extended history of pain, misery, and hatred. Like the Veiled themself, the place and any objects within it(including deceased bodies) become caught in a liminal state, tearing at the edges but not neglected beyond usability. Wraiths have increased potency within the bounds of the location, and are able to interact physically with the living if they choose to. If the Veiled has already completed the Renunciation of Mortality rite, then they can move about the area in either their possessed body or their wraith form with ease, and their physical body will not decay while they are out of it. Emotions in the cistern well up and saturate the area, moving through people’s skin in currents as if they were permeable and things like woe and anger were like weather phenomena. Wraith infection is also significantly easier and potent. The place itself often becomes a sentient Dark Side nexus that inherently desires to claim more dead within its bounds as wraiths, and people that die within it are more likely to leave behind restless spirits. Death Masque: The Veiled can manifest the appearance of a dead person, either someone they killed or even just is known to them to be dead. In this way they can confront the living with specters from the past, eliciting dread, regret, and loss. For some, the experience can shatter the mind, and these people become convinced that a dead loved one or slain enemy has come back to haunt them. The form manifested is clearly dead, this is a tool for psychological warfare, not infiltration. Alternatively, Death Masque can be applied to a place that the necromancer has used Cistern of Sorrow and Chains on to temporarily conceal the rotting and tumultuous nature of it. For a few hours to a few days, the place will seem deceptively welcoming and definitely not crawling with angry ghosts. The unwitting people that enter it feel a false sense of belonging in the place, as if by staying there they could be part of the location’s gilded legacy. As the blood begins to seep through the walls, the false notion that something of value could be found here or some innocent soul could be saved if the victim stays replaces the initial lie within. Haunted Blade: Forlorn Veil necromancers can bind wraiths to their lightsabers, imbuing them with unnatural quietude and grisly aura. The blade’s energies seem to subsume all other light, casting the world around it in brutal subdued (usually red) tones that devour all other colors. The weapon does not emit the standard lightsaber sound, instead sounding like hushed whispers and dark chanting. Dark Side wraiths and grisly specters are drawn to the crimson beacon, and find the veil between the realms of the living and the dead significantly more thin. They use this opportunity for mayhem with gleeful abandon, lashing out at the enemies of the necromancer by throwing objects, disrupting technology, and should the necromancer be of significant power such as a master, inflicting physical wounds that look like the flesh was torn at with feral mania to such a degree that unseen fingernails rent angry furrows into the skin. These attacks are by no means lethal or incapacitating, but they can be incredibly distracting, and sometimes quite painful. Furthermore, these attacks are not being performed by the Necromancer directly, allowing them to focus their power on other fronts. If necessary, these weapons also prove effective in dispatching unruly or rebellious ghosts, shattering them into a spray of broken echoes and incoherent memories. The Veiled prefer to preserve their toys if possible, but that doesn’t always stay their hand, especially if one of the restless dead is foolish enough to directly challenge their authority. Hellweaver: While the Veiled may be reluctant to admit it, certain problems require a more firm hand than what the restless spirits they command can employ. In such cases, the Veiled find themselves dependent on assistance from the Necropolis Kings to undertake a ritual that creates an unholy champion through a fusion of Sith relics, ancient remains, and a wraith bound to the Veiled. Resurrecting ancient Sith is a notoriously risky prospect, most of them are more interested in restoring their own power than following orders, and would only feign loyalty until they were ready to betray there would be masters. Like any true Sith however, the Veiled figured out a way to cheat the system. The Hellweaver ritual consists of making a rigged contest of wills between the dead Sith and a bound wraith, with the living Sith feeding massive amounts of power into the wraith to allow it to overpower the ancient Sith ghost. Once the dead Sith is subdued, the two spirits are merged into one being that has the Sith’s power but also the wraith’s bond to the necromancer. The amalgam is bound to a Sith mask which is placed on a physically bound person wrapped in bands of cloth bearing elaborate spells and curses. The darkness within the mask begins to seep into the person before taking root on their face with an evil that slowly burrows through the rest of their body. When the ritual is finished, the Veiled now has a bound agent of significant power to act as their hand in the mortal world. In mechanical terms, this is a way for the Veiled to gain a Sith Warrior or Assassin champion. Haunting Condemnation: The Veiled can infuse a restless spirit with a measure of its power so that it can confront someone that it blames for wronging it. Sometimes used in battle to undermine the focus of an enemy, but primarily used for psychological warfare and to punish enemies. This spell does require the necromancer actually tracking down the ghost in question and binding it, and the ghost actually having a grievance that it believes to be true. Sith masters, however, can summon smoke demons to assume the likeness of the dead and make whatever false claims that they want. Eye contact must be made, the victim must be marked in some way, or a cursed object worn for this spell to begin. The duration of the curse varies depending on how it is afflicted. Eye contact is brief but intense. A marked target remains cursed until the mark is removed. Someone that wore a cursed object remains cursed until the object is destroyed or cleansed. The longer duration curses tend to be more active at night, but the victim might catch the spirit watching them during the day out of the corner of their eye. The Peculiar Madness of the Veiled: With great power comes an exceptional amount of neuroses, and the Veiled are no exception to this rule. The further along in their studies that the Veiled progress, the more its conceits affect their minds, particularly after the completion of the Renunciation of Mortality ritual. The ways that this can express itself are many and varied, but certain key traits remain consistent. First among them is that because much of the Veiled’s power lies in making deals with specters, and because the dead are always watching, the Veiled are obsessive about keeping their word and honoring contracts, even if it requires them to go against their own nature or work cross purpose to their own designs. Granted, it is a position that they had to put themselves in, but it can still become rather problematic at times. They do however draw a very distinct line between keeping their word in an official capacity and lying in casual statements. The second consistent trait is a deep and overwhelming paranoia of being watched at all times. It’s not an entirely unfounded fear, given that the dead are always watching, but in most cases the dead that are present are not bound to any master and are only around because they’re stuck there. In the mind of the Veiled though, every restless spirit is a potential spy, and everything that they do is being, observed, reported on, and judged. This paranoia heightens as the enemies of the Sith weaken and scatter, allowing Sith the freedom to pursue buried vendettas. A third common consequence is fear of the loss of self and falling to the influence of others. Many Veiled work so closely with some wraiths that they notice traits and quirks infecting their own personalities, sometimes accompanied by alien thoughts. As time goes on, especially after the Renunciation ritual, the Veiled begin to question more and more what thoughts and feelings are their own and which ones are only echoes of past lives. The fourth flaw is an obsession with connections between the Veiled and people, places, and things. Since so much of Sith Sorcery is based on occultism and pageantry, most veiled believe (incorrectly) that strong connections enhance their necromantic powers in the same way that ghosts are empowered by their fetters. This draws many of them to seek out and remain in unhealthy situations because they believe that it will enhance their otherworldly power. Granted, some might consider this standard Sith modus operandi, but it’s more pronounced with the Veiled, and more akin to extreme apophenia as they pursue scenarios that by insane metrics they believe will yield the greatest power. After all, every ghost they find is defined in its power by how broken it was in life. Bleak Usurpation: The Veiled can perform a rite similar to Claim the Empty Vessel, but instead of putting their own consciousness into a corpse, they implant a specter into a subdued mortal of weak will, often having been drugged or otherwise made compliant. The specter can temporarily live again, using the body as its own, but they have to kill and consume a person at some point in the first night and every three nights after or else their borrowed body will rot away until it cannot sustain their spirit. Jailer and Savior Alike: While the Veiled have extreme difficulty in developing and sustaining positive emotions like love, obsession and fixation come readily to them. This spell binds a specter to someone that has had the misfortune to catch the necromancer’s eye. It’s dormant during the day, but will actively protect the victim at night, both from threats and the (perceived) romantic advances of anyone other than the necromancer. If the victim, who may not even know that their hidden admirer exists, continues to court others and be receptive to advances, the psychotic ghost will begin lashing out at them just as it does to “threats”, angry that the victim is slighting its master. The curse requires seeing the victim, but most Sith wrongly believe that it also requires marking the victim in some way or secretly hiding a curse bag in the victim’s home Forlorn Talisman: The Veiled can, with careful study and laborious incantation, crystallize a wraith and its final moments into a synthetic jewel of considerable beauty and power. Each jewel radiates the emotions of the wraith’s final moments, and the Veiled are known to keep carefully curated collections of souls that they feel best embody the emotions of the Dark Side. It takes significantly more time and effort to manifest such an object compared to the jade coins that the Necropolis Kings mint en masse, making them both significantly more valued and more coveted. In terms of intrinsic value, jade coins are often significantly more valuable due to the sheer bulk of souls that they can hold, but master artificers needing souls of specific quality and traits pay exorbitant fees for the jewels, along with Sith elite who see them as symbols of status. Non Force users that wear them tend to go rather mad if they subject themselves to extended exposure.
  7. To see her was a true sight for a sore eye as I entered and she stood upright with a new strength in her stature. It was almost overwhelming when she brought me into her embrace, but nevertheless, I returned it with what little strength I possessed. To be honest, I did not want to let go, but when I felt her pull away, I released, her words of encouragement falling upon a beaten heart. "Thank you for the kind words Master." I spoke genuinely with a disheartened tone, the echoes of my defeat playing freshly upon my mind as if they happened a mere few days ago rather than the week and a half that had passed. "But to be honest, I'm lucky to be here before you right now. I feel like crap knowing I left you and Ryu behind like that." My mind played back to my thoughts as I departed the Goliath that day, unable to get to her and Ryu and forced to flee against saturated numbers of Forces. If I had stayed, I would surely have perished and the thought still haunted me even as I gazed upon her and nearly brought me to tears. But that wasn't the most devastating and lingering ghost from that day and my gaze upon her echoed within my iris. "But between my escape from the Sith Lord and his Apprentice, my injuries, and incoming Forces, I was forced to flee the Goliath entirely." As I spoke, my voice cracked a few times, holding back the choking of my despair as I debriefed her. And yet, as I spoke of the Sith Lord I faced that day, a hint of anger flared in my mind unknowingly. "I was unable to defeat the darkness I faced. He was too strong. I failed Master. I failed the Force. And it forsook me." In my moment of debriefing, I had failed to grasp her own circumstances that day, and as I glanced around the room, I did not see the one she swore to protect. Stopping my own debriefing as I gazed around, I questioned her. "Where's Ryu?"
  8. Sirena was a Seductress, an Assassin of Pleasure and Desires, lethal combinations of Beauty and Wit, Will and Lust. So to sneak up on one was a feat few were capable of. As she awaited Aliss' decision, Sirena gazed out upon the open Valley, taking in the surround sights of the Tombs. Yet, she could feel the approaching presence, the bile of disdain in its cold thoughts and heart, emotions read so easily. When she made her approach and spoke, Sirena remained looking opposite and reached over her shoulder for the communicator with a smirk across her beautiful face. "This is Lady Sirena..." She spoke coyfully, the playfulness in her soft tone alluring to her interest in what the newly attained Darth was contacting her for, his prestige proceeding him despite their paths having crossed a few times during his time here. "What can I do for you Lord Mordecai?" As she spoke into the communicator, she spun in her spot, batting her eyes as she played with her cheek from inside her mouth with her tongue, her smirk turning into a playful smile. Her gaze briefly shifted to the makeshift hut to see if Aliss was going begin her journey or if Roshan was present, before turning her attention back to the small device held within her soft hands.
  9. [artwork for the Jedi Order here] Look beyond the words of the face words of the Code. Knowledge based on emotion is nothing more than superstition. Action based on ignorance leads to disaster. Justice based on passion is just vengeance in a uniform. A society that thrives on chaos inevitably crumbles. We have to accept that the most important missions of our lives will outlast our own existence. Civilization isn’t a natural state of being--it needs to be built, actively sustained, and defended by sapients who have accepted that their own lives are less important than what they protect. -- Armiena Draygo, Master of the Order It's been a long road. Welcome to the Jedi Order. INTRODUCTION ------------------ Not very long ago, in a galaxy very dear to us all, the Galactic Alliance was at peace. Of course, there were the little conflicts and skirmishes that inevitably flare up in solar-state of hundreds of trillions of sapient beings--raids by pirate gangs looking for plunder or worse, criminal gangs making an easy credit on corruption or short sightedness, the occasional breakout by a group of Sith Lords wanting to practice their depraved whims on the galaxy. Perhaps peace was a relative term, but even the most embittered Republic and Imperial diehards agreed that nothing was worth shattering the stability of the Galactic Alliance for a return to the war that they had been fighting only a few short years ago. With CoreSec, the Jedi Order, and the Alliance fleet working in concert to keep the peace, it seemed as though the galaxy had finally settled down for a period of much sought after quiet and stability after decades of horrific war. All of these expectations failed to take into account the predations of an organization that thrives on conflict and exploitation. The Sith came roaring back from the Rim. One hesitates to name the losses we suffered during the years of ceaseless combat that followed. Even as the Galactic Alliance cracked under the onslaught, the Jedi Order never broke. We were on the front lines from day one--spearheading every counterattack and pulling the leaders of the broken governments out of the fire to rejoin them into a new Rebel Alliance. The Rebel Alliance succeeded at blunting the encroachment of the Sith Empire at Corellia, but the war continues. While batteries of turbolasers and fusillades of proton torpedoes have their place in liberating the galaxy from the predations of the Sith Empire, sometimes a pair of daring Jedi Knights, some choice words, and a well-placed lightsaber can turn a front as effectively as a fleet of warships. Such will be the role of the Jedi Order in the battles to come--while the Alliance controls the cruisers, the training of a Jedi prepares them to serve anywhere, whether it be in the cockpit of a starfighter, a cushioned seat in a negotiation table, a sterile bench of a medical bay, or leading a boarding action on the fortified deckplates of an enemy warship. Wherever the war takes us, we will see the Republic restored and the volition of justice-loving people freed from the tyranny of the Sith. THE JEDI ORDER ------------------ “There are times when the end justifies the means. But when you build an argument based on a whole series of such times, you may find that you've constructed an entire philosophy of evil.” --Luke Skywalker, Jedi Grandmaster Nobody is born a Jedi. The raw potential might be there, the call to service might inspire them to do great things for their communities, but every Jedi arises from a flawed person. Despite common knowledge, our training doesn’t erase the personality of those that come to the Jedi Order. The training and discipline does, however, have a way of hammering out the flaws and idiosyncrasies of a thinking, breathing, misbehaving individual and transforming them into someone truly extraordinary. Those flaws--anger, impatience, timidity, mischief--can be harnessed into something more constructive--passion, wisdom, cleverness, or temperance--but the training merely supplies an individual with the tools and the wisdom to act for the benefit of the galaxy. Ultimately, the Jedi Order is comprised of imperfect but extraordinary individuals who have dedicated their lives to the service of civilization and the defense of just governments. The times and languages and species of those people will change, but the mission of the Jedi remains the same as it was thousands of years ago. Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet The Force. So are the words of the Jedi Code, or one of the many attempts to clarify it. At the heart of the Jedi Code is an emphasis on discipline and altruism, of setting aside the needs of the individual to perceive the sensations of those around them. Ironically, the intuition that attunement to The Force provides is not exactly intuitive, as most societies place an emphasis on individualism and analysis--an antithesis that the vast majority of Jedi are forced to unlearn in their training. This intense training to perceive the surface impressions of those around them makes Jedi supremely competent fighters and civil servants. In battle, where virtually all sapient beings are experiencing a significant emotional event, only the most thoroughly trained soldiers are capable of hiding their intentions to a Jedi and broadcasting themselves as a threat. At the negotiating table, when all parties are intensely focused on achieving the most advantageous possible outcome for their people to the detriment of those on the other side, an unbiased mediator dedicated to the service of all sapient life can be the eye of the storm when chaos reigns around them. Ultimately, the mission of the Jedi Order is to protect all sapient life, all civilizations, and all just governments; for only a just government can create civilization. Our service is not solely to the heirs of the Galactic Republic or the smaller democracies of the galaxy, but to any just government. Someday, even the Sith may require our protection. The service that is at the heart of the life of a Jedi has ironically placed us among the leaders of the free galaxy. During times of crisis and uncertainty, during war, during plague, people call for the assistance of the Jedi Order. This has necessitated something of a nomadic state of existence to the life of a Jedi. No one will deny that it’s not an easy life, but I would defy any sapient being to name one that is better. JOIN US. OOC INFORMATION ------------------ Master of the Order (Faction Leader) ObliviousKnight (Armiena Draygo – click for character sheet) Jedi Council Sandy Sarna (Click for character sheet) Wookiee Jedi (Kirlocca – click for character sheet) Leena Kil (Click for character sheet) Kyrie Eleison (Click for character sheet) If you’d like to join, feel free to post here. Alternatively, Here is our Guide to the Jedi Order: Click Here [in progress] Here is a link to our Discord Channel: Click Here [in progress]
  10. Last week
  11. The conversation took a turn as a furry Jedi Master entered the room. Kirlocca made his way across the room and to Tobias. Only as the @Wookiee Jedi closed in did Tobias turn to face the Former Grandmaster. It wouldn't take any sort of Force aptitude to see that he was beyond delighted to be in the presence of the wookiee once again. The man had taken great pains to figure out what had happened since they last saw each other, on Carida, just before he was murdered. Then their conversation on Rhen Var,,, Tobias cataloged how much had happened since those events... He had figured out who had dealt the death blow against the furry alien, found his holocron, led Adenna to purge the last of the darkness inside her then becoming Grandmaster, the Kashyyyk Battle, Dark Sun Station Battle, his temporary exile from the Jedi after that, the exorcism Tobias inflicted upon himself and the subsequent healing of the Force Scar on Gala... and now here they were. The Kiffar felt... tired. That and a bit of the pain from the Force scars that were branded into his skin. Holding his staff in place with his left hand, he reached to his friend and gripped his shoulder with a firm but gentle grip. "It is great to have you back with us, my friend." Tobias released his grip on the shoulder and retrieved his cane. "Indeed- but this is a new direction the Force has been bent to take. This new path is troubling. There is something out there maliciously bending the Force to this new path. Adennas... state is most troubling. It's as if a bratty child was allowed into a forge and ruins a blade simply because of its ignorance of the proper process of creating something useful." Vos chuckled and shrugged, "Metaphorically speaking. At any rate, we are here now and must figure out what to do... again. It seems every few months we have to find a new Grandmaster to lead us. I'd roll my eyes, but the effect is lost with this bandage..." Vos chuckled once again, at his own expense. "How are you feeling? Healthy, tangible, corporeal, connected, sane?" A sly smile indicated he was trying to joke around about a serious topic, in typical Tobias fashion
  12. The lightsaber passed by R3-M0's head, missing by centimeters as the droid came rolling down the ramp...no, the wall! The wall... Nok's hand flicked again, and the lightsaber spun midair and came flying back down the hall. Except this time it wasn't aimed at Remo. With one more flourish, it twisted and buried itself into the wall...and the active plasma conduit behind it. Blue energy, hidden from Nok's blind eyes, exploded out in sparking, crackling force. The little droid was flung headfirst into the opposite wall, a single, high-pitched beep accompanying the sudden blast of power. Bolts of electricity played across its surface even as its metal frame blackened under the flood of raw plasma. The moment was over as quickly as it started, Naboo safety features kicking in to close off the leaking conduit, but the damage was done. The droid lay on the floor, lights off, smoke rising from between its joints. Nok got up, face still alight with pain, and shuffled over. He extended his hands, and the shotos flipped into his palms. He weighed them absentmindedly before clipping them onto his belt, adding his own stolen lightsaber after a moment's thought. His pain echoed in the Dark Side, and Nok focused and felt along those currents until he sensed the droid's inner workings. The power core, the fuel reserves...and the cognitive module. Nok gripped the little device with the Force. "Good fight...lord of Black Sun... I wonder, what would you have done to the universe had you lived?" Nok paused, for how long he couldn't have said. Eventually, he shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He crushed the module. ________________________________________________________________________________________________ "Sir! The shields just dropped!" Kelzin took his eyes off the fierce dogfight. "How many landing craft do we have left?" "We've lost one Sentinel, and one of the Gozanti dropped its Juggernaught!" Kelzin cursed. The rebels weren't even supposed to be here! "Wait, the Juggernaught...the troops..." "As far as we can tell, they're still alive inside. Do you want us to turn back for them?" "No, if we break formation these scum will take us apart!" Whoever these fighter pilots were, they were deadly. "Commence our landing run!" With a single command, the formation of House Sovros ships shot forward, weapons quieting even as their thrusters flung them towards the planet at top speed. Fire peppered their sides as they disengaged, and one of the Sentinels erupted in smoke, only to emerge trailing the black plume but still airborne. The Empire had built things tough back then. The ships only barely vibrated as they breached the atmosphere, the thin air providing little friction or obstacle. The fearless, brainwashed clone pilots pulled away to their designated landing zones, intent on the atmospheric factories and the key to victory over Kessel. "Sir! We've detected a flare! It's...two miles from atmosphere factory 2! Looks like a rebel ship crashed. That's Captain Hoat'te's target. Shall I redirect him?" "Negative. He is to proceed to his target." "...Sir, Captain Hoat'te just changed course. He's headed for the ship." Kelzin, teeth gritted but without a trace of surprise on his face, activated the comms. "Jol you son of a kriffing-" "Save it H'nabro! Glory to the Hoat'te line! Glory for the Sith!" The line cut. Kelzin pounded the dash. "Sir...what should we..." "Leave him to it. Hoat'te's wife will shoot him herself when she finds out about this stunt, unless that's an important rebel he captures." "And if it's an important rebel?" "Then she'll congratulate him in public and slit his throat when they're alone. Focus on our own factory. Bring us in for a landing." ________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Sentinel-class shuttle, garishly marked Hoat'te's Legacy, touched down 100 yards from the crashed rebel ship, it's rear facing its target. The ramp lowered, and 10 zabraks, clad in green and gold armor, marched off in near mindless unison into the dusty terrain. Blaster rifles pointed towards the enemy vessel, they slowly approached.
  13. There wasn't much for Raven to respond to, as the two clearly needed to part ways, at least for the time being. Without much of a bow, Kirlocca began to walk towards the familiar presence of Tobias, and only slightly gave an acknowledgement to him within the Force. He did his best as he moved to keep out of main sight, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, but as a Wookiee, there was only so much he could do to avoid being seen by others. And as it was, not many Wookiee's became Jedi, so many were quick to know of him upon their eyes seeing him. Regardless of such looks, he still managed to remain rather hidden. He arrived within the briefing room and casually placed a paw upon Tobias' shoulder. Even as he did so, he could feel the emotions within the Force of the man, many of wonder, hesitation and perhaps a small bit of regret of some sort. Without much of anything, Kirlocca allowed for his own presence to fill the room, but made sure to provide a soothing feeling. << It does not do well to linger upon the past Tobias. Every action taken, every appointment made by the Force has lead us to this moment, and it will continue to lead us to the next moment. Trust in the Force, and everything else will lead us to where we need to go. >> The Wookiee offered up a half smile to the man. He knew that his own words would only provide little, yet he wanted to provide them anyways. It was the least he could do to bring a balanced mind to him.
  14. Tut and Tom chatted together, relaying the events of the past month. The pair even chuckled for a brief moment. Tobias smiled to himself, he was seated behind them and resting his right hand on his staff. The Kiffar wondered about what the circumstances were that was bringing them all together- and just the galaxy in general. Why was it always in turmoil and why were the supposed good guys always back peddling and stalling like a malfunctioning actuator? What could he do to- The thought paused before it finished. He had tried- and he had been shunned by the leadership twice. Deep down he knew he should feel frustration both at himself and the leadership, but the Jedi Order kept changing leaders left and right, and now with Adenna in the state she was currently in- that was what this meeting was going to be about. Sighing, he adjusted the cloth wrapping around his eyes. There was nothing more he wanted than to be back on the front lines and even the little sparring match he had just went through proved he could fight, even while maintaining the ruses. His right hand moved to scratch the stubble growing on his chin, and then he rested his head in his hand. From there, his mind wandered and questions came in and out of his mind in such a rapid pace he was caught up in the mental hurricane, he almost didn't feel when Tut tapped his knee. If half his face wasn't covered up, his eyes would have blinked rapidly and it would appear as if he dozed off , right here in the briefing room. But since he was blind at the moment, he was spared all that. Stretching his back, he leaned forward to whisper with Tut and Tom- and about old plots and schemes. It seems they were feeling rambunctious as well- and with Tut still injured... ~~~ Pim winced with the Trandosian words. She realized that her master was helping her pull the essence of the words from Vox's mind, despite being in another language. She played over what he said in his mind and the attitude behind the words. Face value, she understood. He was an experienced warrior it seemed and would probably obliterate her in any sparing match. "Perhaps not physical combat... you would out class me in a heartbeat." She explained, hesitantly. Then her eyes brightened as sudden realization came over her. Then with an excited tone- "Do you want to learn how to do this?" Her Zabrak smile spread across her face as she held up her hand and the spheres swirled around her hand. With her other hand, she held out a black rubber sphere. "If you want..." she added, as her confidence faltered for a moment.
  15. Bas’ar, mad with his broken love rushed ever onwards towards that two-headed beast. Towards the robber of his happiness, the killer of his joy. He was a madwolfe embodied, beyond care or concern for his fate. He dashed the Heavy Charric to the stones at his feet as he ran, disgusted in its inability to even scratch his enemy. He could see his fate. With his right hand he pulled a heavy vibrodirk from his belt, and with his left his heavy blaster pistol. He could see Aorn now, as he was meant to be, smiling and alive, not broken in the dust on a forsaken world. He was farming the fields of Kald’retham with the starlight of Chald’edha reflected in the sweat on his brow. It was lovelier than any sight he had beheld in his mortal life. As the missiles came, Bas’ar fired again and again, throwing the dirk end over end at the beast’s giant head. He would walk with Kad Ha’rangir at long last. The last of his thoughts were of his honor and his love. --- Arna nestled the butt of her marksman’s rifle into the armor of her shoulder, feeling its rubberized stock sealing into the beskar. Her shot had found its mark in a way, but the anti-material round had not incapacitated her enemy like she had intended. Setapoite began running the calculations for a follow-up shot, the data scrawling in crimson aurebesh across her magnified vision. She settled the targeting reticle on the beast as it rose to engage her comrades. One of its heads seemed to dangle like the paralyzed appendages she had seen growing up in the trauma-wards on Ord Mantell with her sister. It disgusted her, much like the patients had. “...No reticle compensation required…” Arna watched in growing dread as the beast burst into missile fire and a resounding warning began to blare in her ears. She started to let out the rest of her breath and took up the slack in the trigger. Longkra’s mute tongue was given voice by Setapoite, and the grief and worry was apparent “...Get out of there ner’vod!” Arna whistled a single defiant note, turning it into a feline hiss as she fired one last time as the missile came, sending her sniper’s round towards the beast’s center of mass. --- Longkra’s boots dashed sparks upon the stones as she sprinted after Bas’ar, knowing all too well the rage she had heard in his bellowing roar. The mission had gone all to the Seven Corellian Hells, OpFor was much stronger than anticipated, and Terra had been separated from their side. Without Mandalore amongst them, they were fracturing in the face of only one lowly beast. Longkra’s breathing echoed inside her buyce as she pushed farther west, trying to flank the Troig and cut it to pieces. Her AI barked out a warning in her native Huttese ...Missiles... The woman leapt without a second thought, activating her jetpack in full burst as she did so, her cybernetic unit transmitting her thoughts of warnings to her sister through the mouth of Setapoite. She twisted her body, the heat of the missile’s backwash burning away part of her exposed plait. The scent of burning hair was nauseating. Longkra’s slugthrowing carbine barked out a stream of durasteel FMJs as her jetpack brought her away from the missile’s explosive wash, directing three bursts of slugs at the beast’s chest and face. There was no time to mourn now. All that could be done now was to fight on or embrace death with dignity. --- Terra watched her shots pass through the haze of the battlefield, cursing her own bad aim. Her crimson eyes flicked up to her ammunition load on the HUD, analyzing the ammo stack, assuring herself in her nearly full magazine. There wasn’t time or need for a safety reload. Her hand gripped the leather that adorned the pistol’s grip, the familiar feel of it a reassurance for her troubled mind. She could tell her team was beginning to lose. Life-sign displays for several of her team were displaying dim readings. Hades was roaring. The haze of the battlefield showed the form of Zalis, unphased from the flechettes and on the attack. A flurry of crimson stiched across her cover, searing through the splinsteel container, charring a line of carbon across her darkmetal. The container groaned as it began to collapse, the weakened metal shrieking and failing. Terra staggered from the sparse and reducing cover that the splintsteel container had provided, grinding her teeth against the pain that coursed up through her leg. Her eyes widened as she saw Zalis’s roll again, and the Mandalorian brought her pistol up. Spast. A line of pain seared across her ribcage, as Zalis’ vibroknife skittered across the seventh rib, slicing through flesh and fracturing bone before reflecting into the dusty stone with a shower of sparks. The Mandalorian let out a serpentine hiss of pain, pushing on her injured left leg with as much strength as she could muster to close the distance and sidestep the oncoming kick. She would not fall now. She could trust the left leg to push her off, but not to catch her in this final step.She separated her hands, bringing the vibro-tomahawk in an arc to her left with all her strength If this is to be the end, may I die with honor. As Terra stepped around the kick with her right leg, she brought her flechette pistol closer to her own body to maintain control, leveling it at the Zalis’s oncoming abdomen as she moved past the kick. With all of her momentum applied to her strength, Terra angled the tomahawk’s arc in an attempt to catch the woman just under her right clavicle. As she swung, she hammered the trigger of her flechette pistol, a last desperate attempt to put down her former friend. ((3)) ::TL;DR::
  16. Draygo glanced up from the datapad. A quick glance at the screen showed that she had left fairly sensitive information open to view from anyone who stopped by--for example, the Rebel who had abandoned a high-yield bomb in the briefing room--but she suddenly had much more important priorities than infosec and rose from her seat. The wear on her Padawan was obvious--heavy bags under the eyes, signs of dehydration and a strip of adhesive residue on the boy’s wrist. Either Genesis had been significantly injured at Corellia or he was having difficulty dealing with the aftermath of combat. “You look terrible,” Armiena said, offering a sad smile just as she drew him into a hug. She felt bones on his back. “You’re not weak for this. Weakness has nothing to do with it. It’s decency.” The veteran Jedi said in some attempt to reassure him as she allowed the half-Miraluka to draw away. “I killed for the first time when I was about your age. I felt sick for days. It wasn’t the smell. It was the thinking. He was a stormtrooper, masked--obviously--nothing to identify him except a yellow pauldron and the fact he was a few centimeters shorter than the rest of his column. I didn’t know him from Tarkin. He never saw it coming. I couldn’t stop thinking… what did that say about me?” Draygo didn’t know what had happened to her Padawan aboard Goliath. However, he was alive, and presumably whoever he had faced could not say the same.
  17. Only seconds after that statement, the pall of an ysalamir fell over Master Sarna and there was a knock on the door. It slid open to the medical ward, revealing an astoundingly tall woman carrying an ysalamir on a backpack harness. Her musculature and camouflage uniform suggested that she was among the Rebel Alliance’s marines, while the vibromachete worn on her back confirmed to those with an eye for details she was among the Galactic Republic’s Talon shock troopers. However, upon realizing how very small this medical ward was and that she had just walked in on three Jedi bearing an ysalamir, her brown eyes flitted to view the reaction to her arrival and lines of mortification spread across her expression. “I am so sorry.” The color having fled from her face, she backpedaled. Sche could be heard speaking to a medical droid just outside the ward, muffled by the walls. “Medic--keep an eye on this for me?” There was a dull thud as she released her ward into the custody of the medical staff, where it would hopefully be taken well out of range of the Jedi. No longer bearing an ysalamir, the marine rectified her aborted attempt at introductions, striding back into the room and offering a quick, perfunctory salute. She did not expect that it would be returned. “Masters, Master Sarna,” She did not know the Jedi Master personally, but she at least recognized the Jedi Master from her briefing. “Captain Johanna Bryce, Thirty-First Republic Talons. A pleasure. I understand that we are to be working together, capitalize on this sudden change in our fortunes.”
  18. As Svata's feet touched down on the edge of the orbital platform, he let himself sink back into the "now". He was a part of this moment, indistinguishable at a casual glance from anything else. Sure, these platforms were supposed to be unguarded and without crew...but Svata had heard that one before. A few silent moments passed as he pried the hatch control panel off, a minute as he exploited a backdoor in the obsolete system, and he was in. No telltale whoosh of air accompanied the door opening. So the inside wasn't pressurized. Good sign so far. Quietly, his mind half awake as he remained "invisible", he propelled himself down the weightless halls. Bits of electronics lay exposed where the plating had been removed or rusted away. Mechanical components stuck out at odd angles where they'd clearly been patched on. Whatever this platform had been originally, it clearly had bee customized for things that didn't need gravity or air. Svata got his answer as he rounded a corner and got a view into the control room. Floating through, numerous arms manipulating multiple panels, was an Imperial probe droid, or at least what had originally been an Imperial probe droid. Sections of plating had been replaced with different materials and colors. In some places it looked like it had been spot welded together. Extra antennae stuck out from every angle, making the thing look something like a junkyard sea urchin. Photoreceptors of different colors spun and reoriented constantly all across its "head". Svata held perfectly still for almost a minute. After he was sure the droid had looked straight at him several times, he crept forward. He half propelled, half crawled along the ceiling, staying as far away from the droid's shifting mass of arms and rigid antennae as possible. Soon, he hung directly above the mechanical creature, but it was blocking his reach to the dataport he needed. Frowning, he reached out with the Force and tugged on one of the exposed electronics down the hall. It sparked as the circuitboard shattered, and while it couldn't make a sound the sudden, dim flash was enough to catch the precise machine's attention. Svata held his breath until the droid was well and truly focused on the anomaly before reaching down and plugging in the data drive. Several long seconds passed before the indicator light turned green and Svata pulled out the drive. The droid never even twitched as Svata crawled back along the ceiling above it. _______________________________________________________________________________________ "Well," Svata said back on the ship with a grin, "that wasn't so much of a chore."
  19. Mavanger

    Korriban

    Korriban. The ancient homeworld of the Sith and the ancestral capitol of their empires. While no longer a capitol of an empire, it was still the heart of their order. The Korriban academy stood tall, relentless in its oppression and untouched in its darkness. It was here that he was trained. Where those from across the galaxy would seek power and fame. Where countless would fall in that pursuit, and countless more would grow into Sith. This was the purpose of his visit. If he was to build support for his plans, he would need to start here, where the young apprentices and acolytes served and learned. What better way to learn what a Sith is, than to witness conquest? The rust-colored world loomed in the darkness, his fleet drifting ominously towards it. He glanced towards the captain. nodding. "Get me a secure line." ~ On the surface, a woman moved along the sands, her tattered clothes barely worthy of a slave. She'd had a name once, long ago. Served the Imperial Navy with distinction. Now it was stripped from her, through physical and mental torture. She was a nobody, loyal to one Sith. She hated him, but she survived. He fed off of it, nourished it. It was hardly a life, but she would escape. Eventually. For now, she bode her time. Gathering information. She'd become an adept at remaining undetected. Most Sith would go out of their way to beat a slave. She was better than them. She'd reached her goal, a small metal device in her hand and she stalked towards the Sith. a Hapan woman, teaching her apprentice. She sneered. The slave closed the distance silently, speaking only at the last moment. "Lady Sirena, my master, Darth Mavanger, requests your time." she said, presenting the communicator in her hands.
  20. Sandy let out a laugh as she let the embrace of the Exorcist fall away. Perhaps it was a laugh at the shocked expression on the Anzat’s face, or the roiling shock she could feel from Leena. She moved her hands so that gripped the slender yet muscular shoulders of the Master Exorcist before she stepped back. The woman was strong and full of life, and it would seem the Force had much more to teach them all. For she could sense a distant presence, one of the old grandmaster. Returned to life. She glanced to Leena and smiled, the creases of her upturned lips cutting across a slew of freckles. “You should not be shocked about seeing love and joy in the Jedi Order. The Force does not call us all to be passionless mystics, and Love and Joy have their bedrock in the lightside. While we should not over indulge or make idol any of these emotions, it does not hamper us on the path to express the goodness of your heart.” She glanced down to her armour and ran a hand along her belt, ensuring all was in place. “Though that is my belief, other masters might be more keen to voiding all that makes them alive.” She broke into a grin before she extended a datapad to the Exorcist and proffering the other to the Healer. “There is of course another reason I am here. We strike to find the heart of the dark order and need strong recruits for this scouting mission. The rebel Alliance are sending their best, and we Jedi should also.”
  21. Vox listened intently, clearly his full attention now on the pair and not just the Master Jedi. He noticed a very obvious thing upon the man, Vos, that his eyes were wrapped in cloth. If Vox didn't know any better he would assume that the man was blind, and yet he performed beyond what the Trandoshan had ever seen. No, he couldn't be blind lest that mans senses were heightened to some extremes... These people were strange indeed. The Trandoshan nodded as the orbs left his palms, his hands now falling to his sides. He accepted the thanks, no words needed for it however an odd silence befell upon the trio until moments later the doors opened with a hiss. A blue skinned man walked in, surveying the area then to the three, his red eyes falling on Vos, the Master Jedi. He spoke for some meeting with other masters as well, no patakhans or whatever those were. And then Vox realized the man must have meant trainees, recruits, or apprentices. That also meant strangers like himself. As the older pair left, Vox watched as the doors closed again then turned to the young woman's words. Vox simply hummed in agreement, not much else to say, and clearly her excitement was what he could best remember the girl as. Excited and young. The armored Trandoshan then raised a scaly brow and replied, "What kind of spar? There are not a lot of light weapons I can use without breaking them." Vox's warning was of his strength. He'd practice with wooden sticks when he was a child, and always going hard, he was notorious for snapping them in half. That was when his mentors gave him metal of some sorts, weak but strong enough to handle such abuse.
  22. A message chime buzzed from Vos's chest pocket where the datapad was kept. He waited to check it though as the Trandosian spoke in his native tongue- and he produced two orbs. Pim let loose a silent gasp as she realized what had brought the Trando here. She reached out her hand to call them back to her. "Thank you for returning these, I'm sorry about before- you see why I was in a hurry, but that's no excuse. These are my training spheres..." As her hand extended forward, the spheres glided through the air the others she had, of various colors and textures, spun around her forearm slowly and under control. There were six there at the moment, and she added the two others. She tilted her head to Vos, he knew she was embarrassed to lose some spheres. Then, as the awkward moment set in the door opened with the usual swishing noise. A blue skinned, red eyed humanoid stepped in, surveying the scene before him in a calm and collect manner. The man, a Jedi Master, surveyed the Trandosian carefully and then the Zabrak female before turning his attention to Vos- "You got the message too, I assume, but you can't read it. Let's go. Masters meeting now, no padawans." Vos was looking at the Jedi Master, well, he was facing him. There was a ripple of unease within Vos, and he nodded then let his head hang down for a moment, concentrating. "Alright. Pim, help our new visitor around the temple, should he need it. Spend some time in here sparring if you wish- I will find you in a bit." Vos turned to face the Trandosian, probing the aliens mind for name to come to the surface of his thoughts. Another warm chuckle and the blind man addressed the alien by name, and in his own tongue. "Vox, is it? I'm afraid I have to cut this short- but if you need anything, Pim here will give you my comm codes. I would like to speak with you later if that is acceptable. I'm sorry for this interruption." With that, Vos hobbled his way across the room to the blue skinned Jedi Master, and the pair left. Pim watched them go, then slowly and awkwardly turned to face the Trandosian. "So..." was all the further she got with her sentence... "That was pretty cool, right?! I can't wait until I am skilled as my master. Anyways, you're new here- are you trying to become a Jedi too?" She asked the only other being in the room. "Want to spar?" ~~~ "You picked up a new apprentice, and maybe a second?" Tomin’titu’quis, the Chiss Jedi Master asked of Tobias as they walked down the hallway. Tobias responded in cheun, and the two conversed until they reached the rotunda- then he reached out to Kirlocca, questioning if he had gotten the message as well and hoping to see him at this meeting. Tense conversation continued in the Chiss language, touching on what happened on Corellia, what had been happening since the Black Sun Station and Tobias's exile, supply chains, Corusant, and general filling in of gaps. Then Tom asked about the scars and subsequent blindness- Tobias waved him off as they got to the briefing room. Tobias was glad to see that the Nautolan Jedi Master Tut Maris was here as well, injured but well enough. The two exchanged a greeting, and they sat down, There were a few other Masters here, and a few Knights. Knowing he was going to see Sandy in a moment too brought a smile to his face, but only for a second.
  23. While Zalis got a very small glimpse at Terra through the mess and hazy that was being created. It was going rather well, all things considering. She wasn’t dead yet and the Mandalorians seemed flustered to some degree. She could really tell what was going on with the others who were in the mines with her any more, only Terra. But that was because she was attempting to stay alive herself and to keep Terra from doing something stupid. The initial charge didn’t truly flush Terra, so much as the explosions she had created around her caused her to move. It forced the former assassin to change her own plans and make a hard stop and bolt run at her target’s new direction. In the heat of the moment, Zalis crushed and wished hell upon Terra for a quick moment for the next move, but when she gets a chance to look bad, she’ll thank whatever deity she would need for the pure insanely lucky non-fatal strike that almost could have killed her. With a sharp pain in her right calf, the turn and charge made her stumble and begin to fall in a weird and crazy lurching forward like motion. It was that sharp pain that had her catch a flechette shot in her left side of her stomach, followed rather quickly by a grazing like shot in her upper left shoulder, causing her to hit the ground into a tumble roll, dropping one of her blasters. The roll took her to come rather close with Terra. Close enough that if she wasn’t in the midst of a firefight, she would have noticed the upgraded armor since their last meeting. But such a luxury was not available to her in the moment, just survival. Instinct took over and she forced herself to stop the roll to gain a good position to open fire with her right hand, nothing major, just a spray of fire to get Terra to move, even if it was towards her in a fist fight. Through the pain, with nothing but pure adrenaline to keep her moving, she withdrew her other vibrodagger and flung it at Terra, followed by a kicking motion. The fling was designed to only put the blade in the woman enough to get her to stop. The kick was designed that the vibrodagger would penetrate the armor. It was her best move she could provide, at least from the stance of not trying to kill Terra. She wanted her opponent to live through this, along with herself. ((3))
  24. Shim had hoped the electronic lock of the miniature concussion missiles would have dissuaded the Mandalorian hostiles. Apparently it had not. The beastial charge spoke as much. The animalistic cry of pain and fury not quite lost in the din of battle as it escalated spoke volumes as to the Mandalorians’ resolution and decision as to how the battle would proceed. The chaotic spray of maser rounds filled the air about the streaking armored two-headed saurian-like being. Even if the majority of the rounds zinged by as harmless blue streaks, some still found their mark, jostling the inertially aggressive Troig up and off target slightly. It was nothing that a simple shifting of legs and computerized calculations could not account for; even if it left the Sith-aligned criminal gritting his teeth as he felt the dull thud of each maser round impact through his armored suit. Onwards the alien Troig pressed, the cover of the next pillar closing fast. Cover was within sight. The whine of the targeting array indicating what eyes could not see in the dingy dusty dimness, two Mandalorian life forces blinked out of sight; fallen foes. Another had disappeared far off to the east, undoubtedly going to assist their comrade who was fighting the final mysterious combatant that Shimsinblimp seemed to have become allied with in the heat of battle. At least, that was the hope. If all faired well, perhaps the Troig would find a new ally in the world of less-than-legal enterprises. Just before he made the pillar, the world changed. The crack of a rifle would have echoed throughout the battlefield had this been a holofilm. In the chaos; however, the moment passed with little acknowledgement. That is, until the hefty round, propelled to lethal velocities, impacted the armored spice jacker in the side, just below the hip. Searing pain coursed through Shimsinblimp as the round found rest in the Troig’s buttock and thigh; slowed by the dense armor, but not stopped. The dropsuit had been designed to withstand debris and airborne particulates ravaging against it as it attained near terminal velocity upon entry to a ship or world. Such a massive round exceeded those specifications. The hulking suit crashed, not into the pillar, but the aged flooring of the warehouse as the Troig spasmed and flinched in response to the sudden fiery jolt of pain that had suddenly come upon him. Shimsinblimp’s forward momentum plowed him into the floor, Shim’s head first, and carved a furrow as deep as it was wide for several yards before the resistance of Kessel’s surface brought the two-headed creature to a halt. The rockets sputtered to silence, the onboard computers having registered that continued use was futile. Shortly after grinding to a stop in the chewed up floor, four-armed pirate was already starting to move. His movement was a bit slower than it had been as Blimp blinked several times, his red lips twisted into a tooth-baring snarl. That had hurt. A lot. Truth be told, it still did. Shimsinblimp’s entire body had felt the crash even as the dropsuit did what it was designed for and absorbed the brunt of the impact. Head first into the floorboards was not quite what the designers had intended. The EMP launcher was scattered somewhere in the chaos of the torn floor, lost forgotten in the darkness. With his four arms, Shimsinblimp picked himself up, the whine of the targeting computers mixing with the ringing in Blimp’s ears and the grating of servomotors as the armor responded. Something was wrong. Not with the armor; but with the Troig himself. The pain in the his side was sharp and everpresent, but that was not it. Blimp could feel his limbs. They all sang a dull throb in protest to being lobbed into the floor. They were all functional though, mostly. “Shim, you alright?” Silence. “Shim? SHIM!?!” the red head of the Troig bellowed, unanswered by his calmer more logical half. The response in the moment remained. Silence. The blindspot to one side that Blimp instinctively felt within his core only confirmed it. Something was wrong with Shim. The awkward angle that the elongated armored neck of the green-headed Shim hung told enough. Was his neck broken? That remained to be seen. At best, the green-headed half had simply been knocked unconcious by the impact, Shim’s side impacting the ground first. In the moment, it did not matter. Shim knew one thing. His other half, the keeper of his soul, was not there. If one could imagine having their heart torn from their body, the void that was left was how Blimp now felt. That void quickly filled however. Sadness, worry, and darkness, all swirled together into a volcanic font of rage. With a beastly snarl, like that of a wounded Ronto, the Troig used his arms to shove himself upwards to a standing position at the end of the ditch his own body had carved. He stumbled slightly, his powerful tail serving as an anchor to brace with so as to not fall over atop his wounded leg. The whine of target lock buzzed in Blimp’s ear like an ever present sand flea unknowingly taunting death. Gone was the desire to preserve the spice. Gone was the desire to make money. Gone was the plan to build a galaxy-spanning empire of ill gotten gain. Those had been Shim’s specialty anyway. It now had been replaced with a single overwhelming boiling desire for revenge. Without Shim, there was nothing left. Without his more more reasonable lighter half, death and destruction, pain and suffering, the oaths by which Blimp lived by, and those which Shim tempered, were all that remained. And there, in that moment, Blimp struck. It was simple, and yet he poured all his pain and rage into it. The whine of the targeting array said that the offending Mandalorians still existed. More so that they were still locked on to. Even the one that was still charging forward. Yes, Blimp saw him. He did not care. It did not matter that the Troig was in the potential blast radius. With a simple guttural command, “Fire. All targets. Override confirmed,” the tone that reverberated in his helmet changed, eleveating in creacendo as the missiles deployed and took off after their marks. A half dozen miniature concussion missiles sizzled forth from their launch tubes, undamaged from the plunge into the floor, and whispered forth on trails of whispy vapor towards their prey, his prey. With a concussive blast diameter of 5 meters, Blimp knew he was well within range of being swept off his feet by the missiles that should impact the rapidly approaching Mandalorian. He simply did not care. If his suit protected him, so be it. If it failed, he would welcome the eternal dark peace. It did not matter, so long as these zealots paid with their lives. He had seen the boxes and single pillar that separated him from them. With any luck the impacts, even there, would provide devastating results. If he had to bring the entire section down on them, he would. ((3)) tl;dr: -Shimsinblimp was struck by several maser rounds, the damage of which was mostly absorbed into the armor or readjusted for via armor/computers. -Shimsinblimp was hit by the sniper round in the area of his left lower hip/buttock/thigh, causing him to crash into the floor. -Shimsinblimp’s forward propelled armor carved a furrow until he came to a stop. -Shim was knocked out (not dead, but Blimp does not know that) -Fired 6 miniature concussion missiles (5 meter concussive diameter) 2 each at Arda, Longkra, and Bas’ar *Troigs can fully function with only one head
  25. More days had passed as I laid about in my hospital room, the bacta and introvanial fluids finally beginning to take as I felt my strength slowly returning despite my mental state far from it. It wasn't long before my wounds began to heal through application of my own healing skills and the skills of the other healers and I was able to get up and move about, an aid always in tow. I still held trouble sleeping, pills given to aid me in my endeavor to rest, but it only subsided it momentarily for a few hours here and there. So I often took long strolls through the corridors just to clear my mind. So many were there with me during my stay, some from Corellia, others from other numerous battles, and it only hindered my hope inevitably. Still, it did help that I often stopped in certain rooms if only to chat and check up on those who did not need constant or critical care just as I'm sure my stopping by aided them as well, if only to distract one another. We all needed the simple things in life, and I was open to give it often. The rest of the time, I spent searching for ward of my Master, whom seemed all but lost, listed as MIA for most of my days here over the past week or so, with no word in sight. At least, until yesterday when one of the nurses mentioned her name coming across the wires. But other than that, she knew little to nothing. Hope seemed nearly bleak and for the rest of the day, i spent much of it looking out the viewport overlooking Nar Shadaa in depression. War had taken so much of my spirit, but at that moment, I felt broken. And then came her comm. When I received it, I thought little about it at first. It took my awhile before I even reached over to look at it. But when I saw that it was Master Armiena, something came over me. I felt almost energetic. Before I even knew what I was doing, I had gotten up and dressed, pulling out my IV and was leaving the ward. Even despite the nurses and Doctors advising against it, I cared little for it. I just wanted to see her, even in the state i was in. Reaching out with the Force, i found her through the bond we shared and blindly headed her way. When i arrived, i knocked at (@ObliviousKnight) her door politely before opening it and walking in, ignoring the fact that I looked like hell walked over. My eyes had severe bags under them from my lack of sleep and the nightmares of Corellia I dealt with, my skin was pale and looked anemic, and I had lost considerable weight and muscle tone due to my inability to eat and living the past week on introvanial fluids to keep my strength up. But the most important distraught look I held was the look in my hazel eye, the look of depression and hopelessness, as if I blamed myself for my failure. And yet, despite all that, my smile was genuine as i perked up. "Master."
  26. Tros found himself on his back under the pilots station of his ship, Swift Justice attempting to reconnect the main circuits of the sublight engines and deflector shields to be somewhat operational again. From the main hold, he could hear sparks fly followed by curse words from Larkin. “I know it’s damaged, but if you damage it any more, I’m going to push you out into the vacuum.” There was a distinct pause followed by “I know you’re joking, as this ship has seen much better days.” He could only roll his eyes as he moved to stand up now that he officially connected everything underneath. Luckily, Larkin was only working on the mainframe of communication, which was truly needed for what she wanted them to accomplish. He slowly walked into the main hold to see her sitting awkwardly upon the small food prepping station as she was closing up the panel above her head. He allowed for himself to study her for a moment. Blonde hair with dirt through it, her own armor was that of a modified power suit that she had collected from a variety of sorts. Echani, Zabrak and other cultures were clearly mixed in. She somehow pulled it all off. In all of the years Tros knew her, Larkin had always been a great sniper but lacked heavily in hand to hand combat. Her weapons of choice were always bigger and better than what anyone else would have on a mission, almost as if she chose to buy the latest and greatest tech to say she was on top. She turned and looked at him, letting her greenish eyes speak that she was trying to read him. Luckily, he still had his buy’ce on. “Review the mission again.” Larkin didn’t look pleased that he was quick to push off any form of questions to come his way, but she clearly decided that it was better not to push it. Letting out a sigh, she let her shoulders fall. “Tatooine, Mos Eisley spaceport has a few locals requesting muscle, as the Hutts and Black Sun have almost left it alone. We go in, take the contract they give us, meanwhile helping set up a new guild front out there.” She then shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t have much faith in her own plan. “I know it’s not a lot, but right now the guild across the galaxy has been hurting. Credits are sparse and fewer people are willing to exchange currency from Empire to Republic. Unfortunately it’s just where we’re at.” Tros tilted his just slightly. “Unless we pick a side and take only their credits…” Larkin looked directly at him. Her face was slightly unreadable. “Just speaking options out loud.” Larkin nodded her head but didn’t say anything. It was weighing upon their minds, clearly both had considered if things had come to that. Why else would two rival hunters join up to find credits and work. The two then worked quietly for the next hour before they were off and headed towards Tatooine….
  27. Kirlocca did his best to stay out of the way, mainly because he wasn't sure what else he was supposed to do. He hadn't been resurrected for very long, and while the Force was beginning to aid him, the last thing he wanted to do was to rely upon it so heavily that he couldn't do anything else without it. He watched for a moment during entry the cityscape of Nar Shaddaa come into view. Even without leaning into the Force, he was able to feel the life currents flowing so heavily upon the surface. There was also a strange somber feeling echoing off the entire planet. As he looked down, not wanting to reach out too heavily, he began to fully understand why Raven did what she did. Knowing that his life, second life that is, was about to get very crazy, he took a final swig of his caf and began to prepare himself for what he had to do. As the ship landed and the personnel began to disembark, the Wookiee held back for a moment, not wanting to be apart of the official Imperial standard group that normally came with high officials or the Empress herself. But Raven made it very clear to him that such a modest hanging back was not an option for him during this time. So he now walked slightly behind her, as he knew the traditions of the Empire were something that would take years to break, so he didn't want to insult anyone by standing as a complete equal to the Empress. As he came down the ramp with Raven, he was a bit surprised to not see any Jedi, outside of the Imperial Knights. It was then that he fully allowed for himself to reach out into the Force to feel those present. Almost immediately he could feel some presences that he knew from long ago. Armiena Draygo, Tobias Vos, Aiden Darkfire, Kyrie Eleison and Sandy Sarna. There were others, but none that had memories flood him like those. << I'm almost afraid to ask, but this facility doesn't feel like... You're holding back your own Force connection. Why? >> The question wasn't really directed as an insult, but more of curiosity. Raven was keeping herself in check, but Kirlocca could not fully understand. Even now, he could feel the Force slowly moving through her, but she was only observing it. He doubted he would get a direct answer from her, at least not today. For now, he believed that both knew Kirlocca would be sought out by other Jedi who could use some morale boost. So for the moment, the Wookiee let his question sink in with Raven. Kirlocca knew that she would make a far better Jedi then an Empress.
  28. The cloning bays were a lonely sector of any Jedi facility. Aside from the fact that they tended to be several degrees colder than the rest of the structure, everything was made of sterile metal and plastoid and glass, and the staff consisted almost entirely of steely-eyed medicine men who spoke exclusively in many-syllabic terms and… many other aspects, the mere existence of the cloning vats raised uncomfortable questions about uncomfortable subjects like the disconnect between the hypothetical soul and the body, memory and existence, to say nothing of the handy workaround concerning death and its significant mention in the Jedi Code. That, and after perishing under violent circumstances, some Jedi awoke in their new bodies in a state of extreme disorientation--sometimes in a violent state of mind. Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Don’t beg. Don’t look away. Don’t ignite. This is that his choice. You’ll be back. You’ll be back. Don’t…. The last few seconds of that disastrous boarding action were something of a haze of red pain and black unconsciousness. If asked later, she would recall something about forcibly clenching every muscle in her body in an effort to not allow Ryu to distance himself from the fact that he was killing someone who had deliberately placed themselves at his mercy. But at the moment, that recollection was as dim as the lights aboard Goliath. What she knew now was cold air, flurry sheets, flimsy overalls on her body, and concerned murmuring about her. “Careful, Antilles, the notes say to keep your distance while--” “Shavit! Draygo! Draygo! You’re… hurting me!” For at that moment, Armiena had sprung from the cot in an avalanche of bedsheets, knocking over a tray of medical probes. The reborn Jedi clasped onto the medtech, squeezing onto his shoulder and arm with all the strength that her newly-formed hands could muster. It took a few seconds for the glare of dim lights to fade against her unused eyes, for the sensation of horrific agony to give way to the mild annoyance of a room that was three degrees colder than her preference, and for her hands--both flesh--to register that she was clasping onto skinny arms and bone, rather than the freakish strength of a berserking Sith Lord’s muscles. “Draygo?” The pale green eyes looked from side to side. “Where am I?” She sensed her Padawan nearby. Her son was nearby. “Nar Shaddaa, We’ve been--hurk!” At that moment, Draygo had drawn the thoroughly frightened medtech in for a painfully-tight hug. “Thank you.” ____________________ Several minutes and a few routine scans later, Armiena was allowed to change into her robes in the company of the other med tech, a female Mon Cal. “No, it’s alright. I need to know. What happened at Corellia?” “Not really my field of expertise, but… scuttlebutt is that the planet stands. The entire base was cheering only the other day--” “--oh, hey, you kept the scars!” Armiena glanced at her partially-naked torso, eyes tracing the fractal-like pattern of scars that followed a network of surface capillaries on her torso, neck, and right arm. That was a souvenir of absorbing a lightning strike on Coruscant just after its moon had grazed the planet. And then there were a number of less spectacular but more easily-displayed souvenirs from less memorable occasions--minor blaster grazes, a miniature notch on the left side of her jaw--the only remaining mark from her first appointment with Master Organa... “We debated that--but you always expressed pride in the scars you kept--but it’s simple enough to erase them if you prefer.” “No, I’ll keep them. I want people to know what I’m capable of. Anyway, back to…” “Right. Corellia. Sith fleet withdrew, apparently heavy casualties on both sides but much worse on their side--” “--The robes are tighter than I remember.” “They’re the same size, actually. We added about ten kilos of muscle. I hope you don’t mind our license, we were operating partly on scans from six years ago and right after Coruscant--” “I was training back up. Hmm. There’s probably going to be a quiet, lonely night where I’m going to be asking myself some uncomfortable questions, but…. Armiena watched the muscles in her shoulder and arm ripple as she flexed and smiled. “This will work. Good. We’ve earned ourselves some time. We need to move quickly, gotta get to the Grandmaster. We have a chance to finally turn this around, scatter the Sith fleet…” At this point the sudden silence of the Mirialan had become poignant enough that even Draygo, despite her preoccupation with her vat-fresh body, had taken notice. “What’s happened?” “Grandmaster Alluyen hasn’t yet, that is, we haven’t yet received instructions to begin… Would you like to view the body?” “Oh.” Draygo sat heavily on the cot. She felt the warm leather of a set of boots on her bare feet. Reinforced shafts, slightly tight around the ankles--just as she preferred. A belt with a standard-issue comlink and a datapad awaited her use. “No. Not necessary. I need a walk.” ________ Several minutes later, Draygo was pacing the ring of one of the military base’s briefing rooms. An enormous holoprojector occupied the majority of the room, the emptied seats taken up only by a tidy pile of small arms and what appeared to be a high-yield ion pulse bomb. What to do? Her Padawan was clearly distraught--her son was closed off--and the Jedi Grandmaster was dead. Only the fact that the Sith Empire wasn’t hanging over their heads like a broadsword from an ancient adage made this situation less dire than the month at Borleias. The advice she had been given was simple: Work the problem. Solve one problem at a time until you run out of problems…. or you run out of time. Armiena leaned on the holoprojector pit and stared into the glittering array of projectors and lights. For a moment, she thought she had felt the presence of one of her old friends, as reassuring as a hand on her shoulder. It was almost as though Darex was encouraging her to fight past the pain--that the sensation was only temporary, but purpose lasted forever and she would soon be past it. Were there even any Jedi still alive from that class of Hopefuls still alive? Or had they all spent their lives fighting the war? Why had The Force discriminated against her own existence, allowed her to claw her way back into the war to be ground up and spat out once again? Her right hand drifted to a plastoid mug of synth-caf. Pain jolted from contact the steaming beverage. Whatever the cause was, Armiena knew that she owed it to her friends to not wallow in loneliness. Her hand drifted to the datapad and comlink at her belt--worthy weapons even for a Jedi Master--and went to work. Four messages would suffice at the moment. The first message she sent went to her Padawan. “Genesis, it’s me. I’m sorry. Things didn’t go as I’d hoped. I need to know that you’re ok.” The second message that she sent went to her son. “Aidan, I’m sorry. Boarding action at Corellia went badly, I hope that you’re alright. I could do with a hug if you want to see me. I love you.” The third message went out as a general signal to any nearby Jedi. “This is Draygo. If you’re here on Nar Shaddaa, then you’ll know about the Grandmaster. We need to see to succession quickly and counterattack while the Sith are still recovering from Corellia. Briefing room…. one of the ones right off of the rotunda.” The last went to an encrypted channel to a disused base in the Mid Rim. “I need a favor. Aryian is dead. I need some serious firepower. Can I ask for your help in--Force!” At that moment, a deafening metallic roar emanated from the comlink and caused her to jerk the device away from her ear. It was always difficult to understand her Wolf Spiders when they were enthusiastic about a summons--but she had come to appreciate that a deafening roar was typically an answer in the affirmative. She continued sending messages and tapping away at the datapad, dispatching messenger droids when Holonet channels couldn’t be trusted. Draygo would continue working until someone finally snapped her out of the reverie.
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