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It was something straight out of holovid horror that was wrought this night upon Mon Cal. The Heroes seiged onward with hopes of Victory, of Liberation, only to have the horrific reality to swipe in and squash such dreams and hopes. Screams erupted across the silent city, the night driven darker by the blinding fall of snow as abled bodies struggled against frostbite and the undead. SaberCats stood as beacons of light for those brave souls who wished to aid in the liberation and those unfoul ghouls who hungered for the lives they once lived, the Rebellion's pride growing into nightmares. As MoonCall's elite unit threatened to separate the Deepguard's from their hollows and free the homes of the oppressed, soon found themselves fighting on two fronts: against the hidden machines and the undead as they clobbered to claim life they could never succeed. Forms of both enemy and ally alike would find themselves in pieces against the unholy plight that pilgrimaged through Coral City, the undead claiming no true allegiance and only adding numbers to their growing masses. It was chaos, and it was beyond what Mythos could have imagined. Strobes of silver would dim and reignite as fallen members became the enemy, and Mythos standing near it's center could only hear the howl of the wind, his gaze fixated on the tower above. He had arrived at the City's center, his intentions set upon the spire that housed the King and his captors. He grimaced and tossed aside the comm that echoed the screams of the fallen and the gnarls of the condemned. He stepped forward, the weight of his boot crushing the exoskeleton of a Deepguard unit as more appeared before him, his gaze shifting to the seven that followed him and then back to the Deepguard that secured the Palace. "These Sith have no gall nor morale." He spoke with disgust, his memory of Nyrys and now churning his stomach at the concept that even death wasn't a formality to their desecrations. It was sickening. "We need to end this now." Across the City, enmasses of SaberCats, Rebellion's Soldiers, Mandalorians, and Civilians continued their efforts despite the horrific death that awaited them. But that wasn't their care anymore. It was the fight for others to survive that begin to matter, fate being accepted as a price. Silver Blades took blows from Silver Blades, crimson and emerald bolts met both living and dead flesh, ancestors fought descendants, and brothers in arms fought brothers in arms. Even though both sides hungered to live, only one was perverse and defiled. Finally, the Mandalorians had their Holy Crusade, but not in the manner they had once prayed for. And for the Rebellion, life was meant to be cherished and fought for, not hungered and deprived of. Death was the ultimate sleep, and these poor souls could not find their rest. Mythos unsheathed his jagged saber, his mask fixated on the enemy before him rather than the ones that surrounded him. If death wanted to claim him, it would have to chase him, right up to the bastard that claimed to command it. Eight stood at the gates of hell and presented themselves. And as the battle of the Palace commenced, only time would decide the victors. It was time to end this, to let sleeping dogs lay and the dead in peace. It was a firefight...