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Calypso smiled. It would seem she had an apprentice. Her first apprentice, and he was as hungry and passionate as she could ask for. She laid her hand on his shoulder, saying nothing, but letting her pleased expression show him her approval. She turned to Dictum. "...and you have my attention, Lord Dictum. I look forward to seeing what you will become." And she meant it. Her eyes swept over the group that had begun to gather. Some had clustered together, while others spread out, some close and some far enough that they were nothing more than silhouettes against the white of the snow. The Force itself subtly shuddered and twisted. Many wills drew upon it, and the silent conflict of such strength quickened the Dark Side. Calypso imagined it as a beast, straining at the leash, yearning to turn this silent congregation into a chorus of passion and death. All these powerful individuals who had been drawn here, by her call or by fate, were now waiting. It is enough, she thought. She walked to the base of her crude pyramid, the cold wind and the rapidly diminishing snowfall whipping her torn clothes about her thin frame. Her mundane, vulnerable appearance contrasted with her calm and assured posture. Only the glow in her yellow eyes betrayed the anticipation that was growing inside of her. This was the moment. This was the start of everything. When she reached the base of the pyramid, she leapt. With the Force buoying her up, she effortlessly cleared the 25 feet to the top of the lowest layer. From there, she pivoted to face the gathering figures in the snowy wasteland. She raised her hands. "SITH!" she called, her voice echoing through the air and through the Force both. All here would know what she had to say. "I have called you here! Your challenger stands before you!" She swept her gaze across the crowd, gray shapes in the cloudy twilight. "I am Darth Calypso. I was born from the depths of the Old Republic's decrepitude, over 1000 years ago. I have awoken again, and I emerge to see the Sith truly returned. In the time since the fool Kaan and his Brotherhood of Darkness, the Sith have clawed their way back to the blood and iron they were founded on." She paused. "...And yet, once again the Sith Empire...has fallen!" Her words echoed out across the landscape like the crack of thunder. "How many times has our order been beaten back? How many times have the weak, the ignorant, and the cowardly united to smother a truth they know they cannot hope to control? And yet we always return, as perpetual as the spinning of the galaxy!" The slate gray clouds above her began to spiral, centered over the pale woman in ragged clothes. "So why have we failed again?" She fell silent for a moment. "...Because we have ignored what we are. We are not generals or admirals. We are not kings, queens, or emperors. We are not politicians slinging words to fool the masses, or knights fighting loyally in the service of a lord. We are gods! We ARE power! There will be no great conquest. There will be no empire. We will not unite the galaxy under our rule, as the Sith have attempted so many times before. We will SHATTER IT!" As she shouted these last words, arms upraised, her passion escaped her control, and the ground vibrated almost imperceptibly. "This new Alliance will fall before us. Always the Sith have come as a conquering army, but this time we will come as the monsters we truly are. We will not ape our enemies. We will not try to bring about peace under our rule. We will plunge the galaxy into fire and death! The time of republics, alliances, and empires will come crashing down! The lies of the Jedi will be torn away, and the truth that the Sith have always known will finally be made evident to all! Everyone, Sith or Jedi, soldier or civilian, weak or powerful, will finally understand that a being is only entitled to what it has the will to take and the strength to hold! When we are finished, the idea of a unified galaxy will be laughed at by the survivors digging through the ashes, and the hypocrisy of the Jedi will be seen for what it is. It will be a new Age of the Sith. And in this age...the strong will finally receive their due. They will carve out their realms by their own hand. They will defend what they have, while taking what they wish from those weaker than them. All beings, not just the Sith, will follow our Code! All will fight for victory and freedom, because there will be no other way!" She gestured at the crowd. "Is this not what you want? Do you truly wish to serve under some distant ruler, content with what you've been given? Don't you want the opportunity to prove your worth to a galaxy that has denied you what you deserve? I will give that chance to you. I will give that chance to everyone." Then, Calypso lowered her arms, the animating passion of her speech dwindling. "But these are only words. Sith are not ruled by words." She took a breath. "I declare myself Dark Lord of the Sith!" The words rang out, echoing across the wasteland without softening, as if they had a life of their own. And then Calypso stopped holding herself back. The ground shook. A deep, grinding rumble drowned out every other sound as the stone trembled beneath the snow. With a deafening CRACK, a dozen crevices as wide as a man spiderwebbed out from under the block where Calypso stood. The air crackled with electricity. Wind that had nothing to do with the weather howled and screamed across the snow. The Force itself seemed to writhe and boil. Calypso's power had never come from arcane rituals and ancient secrets. Her master had never afforded her that opportunity. No, she had spent her time perfecting herself as a channel for the Dark Side, refining what strength her master had thought safe to give his tool. She had studied Sith philosophy, and put herself through every trial and strife imaginable to purge any hesitation, weakness, or self-delusion from her. What was left was the passion she drew on, and it was endless. Her master had once called her a misanthrope. The clinical sounding word had never seemed to capture the reality of what the coruscanti street urchin had felt. Her hatred was a consuming, burning thing that ate away at her. It was something she'd learned to lock away until it was needed, but always hovering below the surface. She hated the people of the galaxy. They were self-deluded idiots who spent their whole lives fighting not to think, serving anyone or anything that promised them even the illusion of control. She hated the Jedi. They preached compassion, but had never come to save those like her starving right below their feet. They preached justice, yet stood by as the rulers and officials they defended openly enslaved others. They preached peace, but had been at the forefront of major galactic wars time and time again. She even hated the Sith. She hated the figures gathered before her, either arrogantly thinking themselves superior while they fretted at their mundane or pointless ambitions, or willing to fall to their knees in humiliating subservience and cast away their very thoughts. And she hated herself. Even now, she knew what she really was. The child who had never left Coruscant. The orphan ruling a kingdom of blind, animalistic cannibals. In her new galaxy, there would be endless war. Endless strife. Endless destruction. It was no more than what they all deserved. She leapt down from the block, the quake created from her telekinetic power fading as she gathered her will. Her lightsaber leapt into her hand, and with a hssss its red blade flared to life. "So...who's first?"

Nia couldn't believe this. Three Jedi, and the war droid and the stranger seemed to have a better grasp on the situation. She looked at all the drawn weapons, the tempers flared, the threats issued. "Enough! All of you!" she shouted. In all her years, she'd never once shouted. She'd always been quiet. Always timid. But here, in the middle of chaos, she found her voice. "Mjan, Rose. For all your talks about fighting this war to defend the innocent, to defeat the menace of the Sith, you jumped so quickly to threaten them for your own protection. That is not what a Jedi is." She wheeled around to the second lightsaber-wielding Jedi (@Leena Kil), no more impressed. "You jump so quickly to your weapon, and though you do so to protect the innocents, you threaten an ally in the same manner that you are trying to dissuade him from doing it. You are a hypocrite." Next was the Cathar shouting of conspiracy and betrayal, oblivious to the countless innocent lives that had also been taken. (@Durose Roshan) "You are no better! You think this is a trap, and yet you draw your weapon and try to goad us to a fight! What good would that accomplish? We'd simply have even more dead Jedi. Not to mention the scores that still need our help, trap or no!" She spun around, addressing them all. "You're disappointments to the Order that my father gave his life to serve, bickering and spreading fear like the Sith of old, and if you insist on following this path to its end then I will have no part of it. You can find me out there, with the sick and the injured, doing what a Jedi should be doing, rather than spend your time acting like criminals and terrorists. You should all be ashamed." She spun towards the crowd, and subsequently, the exit. There were injured people out there, and sick ones too. She would help them, even if the others wouldn't. She pushed through the crowd, and towards the exit. She had a sinking realization she may have just left the Jedi Order, but right then, she didn't care. All she cared about was helping those that needed it.

The bartender, an overlarge and gregarious Hutt watched the three clone trooper swho sat at the long table, their armor gleaming in the dim light of the cantina. They were a sight to behold, each one a perfect copy of the other, their faces set in determined lines. The bartender watched them from behind the counter, a feeling of unease settling in his many many stomachs. These were not ordinary soldiers, but fighting machines, created for one purpose: to serve the Republic and fight in the Clone Wars, or at least it was, many many many years ago As he mixed various, idiotic and fizzy drinks, the bartender couldn't help but wonder what horrors they had seen on the battlefield. What atrocities had they committed in the name of duty? And yet, despite everything, they remained stoic and resolute, their loyalty to, perhaps The Republic unwavering. Or was it the Empire. Or perhaps some form of Sovereign Alliance. Or maybe they were Jedi. The clone troopers lifted their glasses and clinked them together, their eyes meeting in a silent toast. The bartender watched as they drank, his greasy hand shaking slightly as he wiped down the counter. These were not men, but weapons, and he couldn't shake the feeling that their presence bode ill for the future of his comfortable and definitely not a mafia or Sith Front of a bar. The overfat Hutt couldn't help but notice a Twi'lek across the room. She was tall and slender, with a lithe grace that caught his eye. But it wasn't her appearance that captured his attention, it was the way she moved. It was almost as if she were dancing, her body flowing with an unconscious grace that he had only ever seen in one other person. Lallu. The name hit him like a physical blow, bringing with it a wave of memories and emotions that he had thought long buried. Lallu had been a dancer, or maybe a Sith Assassin or something, a Twi'lek like this one, with the same flowing movements and captivating presence. He had met her in a cantina much like this one, or maybe a Sith Temple, or maybe on a Mission, and they had spent a wild and passionate night together, at least in his mind. But in the harsh, and yet dim light of the bar, he had realized that he could never truly be with her. She was a dancer, and he was just a Hutt, he was a punk, she did ballet, what more could he say He had said goodbye and slithered out of her life, hoping that she would find someone who could give her the life she had deserved. And he had never looked back. Until now. As he watched the Twi'lek across the room, he couldn't help but feel a sense of longing and regret. He knew that he could never go back, that the past was the past. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he had made a mistake, that he had let something special slip through his greasy, chubby, dirty fingers. Great crimson eyes, welling with tears, stared from behind bright blue contacts while his greasy hand fiddled with the poorly made prosthetic beard and large hooked nose that adorned his face. He couldn't help but notice a Wookie, all too familiar, speaking to a young blonde woman at the other end of the counter, and what may well have been Admiral Ackbar himself. The Wookie was tall and muscular, his fur ruffled and unkempt. He gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke, a look of intense concentration on his face, as if reminiscing upon the time he slept with an Empress or something. The young woman listened intently, her blue eyes fixed on the Wookie as he spoke as if imagining his ringlets of fur deep in her nostrils. She was slender and graceful, her blonde hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders, something of a flitmoth. She seemed to be hanging on his every word, her expression one of the rapt attention that often graced the faces of mindless young women The Hutt watched the pair with interest, wondering what could have brought such disparate beings together in this seedy cantina. But he knew better than to ask questions, especially in a place like this, or meddle in a new budding romance, rife with shower scenes. He had learned long ago to mind his own business and keep his fat head down. So instead, he turned his attention back to those clone troopers, their presence a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the doors of the cantina, and that some people didn't know how to dress for a covert ops mission. With their distinctive armor and precise movements, they stood out like sore thumbs in the dingy cantina. It was as if they wanted everyone to know exactly who they were and what they were capable of. The overlarge and sweaty bartender watched them cautiously, his grubby hand never straying far from the blaster concealed beneath the counter. He had heard stories about the clone troopers, about their strength and their bravery on the battlefield. But he had also heard rumors of their ruthlessness, of their willingness to do whatever it took to win. His mind wandered to the Nightsister Quesadillaea, and how she had slept with a clone or two. He couldn't help but wonder what had brought them to this backwater planet, to this seedy cantina in the middle of nowhere, so filled with phermones. Was it a mission to retake the planet, or were they simply passing through on their way to somewhere else? Perhaps they could use a large Hutt for some nighttime activities... His multiple, greasy folds seemed to quake with potential excitement.

Sandy could feel something off in the force. Not just the constant drudgery of evil that seemed to permeate the world, but this was coming from her new friend, someone who always struggled with her own evil. Sometimes thrust upon her, and sometimes, like now, the vain temptation put forward by biology and desire. This was certainly an odd world, and though she had experienced the pheromones of the local species before, it always came as a shock. It stirred emotions deep in the pit of her stomach desires that she hadn’t really put fully away after her time with Aidan. But she did learn to control those feelings so long ago, that it felt like secondary nature to let them pass through her and out. She took a breath, using a little bit of her energy to dispel temptation and desire, and replace it with the fierce calm of the force. She reached out a scarred hand and lightly touched Keenava’s wrist. She let the force flow through her touch. Not the willful and forceful touch that she may have experienced from prior masters, but a calm reassurance. Letting her lean on that strength, should she need it, to resist temptation and to steady her nerves. There was no reason to harm herself to try to regain composure. She smiled warmly at the waitress, and took a seat next to Kirlocca, slipping a thin arm around him to give him fierce hug. He had lost much. More than all of them. And though his presence was a surprise, she was very glad to see him here. There was no one better to rely on than the wookiee Jedi master.

Sandy looked from her datapad to Leena, then to her friend's new apprentice. then at last to Keenava. The briefing was a quick one, more of an outline than anything final and set in duracrete. But it was her responsibility to make the mission work, and she would not have chosen a better Jedi team than the few people that stood around her. “Thank you for joining me on such late notice, as the situation stabilizes on the galactic front, it appears there are still dozens if not hundreds of Sith allied worlds whose governments have not been willing to or have been unable to approach the Alliance for help. One such world is called Falleen. A previously peaceful world whose goverment was overthrown by the Sith. We have not been able to establish contact since, and any reports speak of a blood cult, slavery, and massive brainwashing programs.” She looked up again. “We are to infiltrate the planet under disguise, identify leadership, and identify if there is a way to help the people of Falleen overthrow their oppressors, or if it should be left to the Imperial Military.” She smiled wanly at the thought. “We are not a member of the alliance military due to being Jedi Affiliated, which gives us a lot more leeway in how we proceed. Are you in?”

“Unit S-I23” Oogoo’s vocalizer’s monotone emitted. “Please scan P3, he seems to be suffering from some sort of malady in his right back leg.” The analysis droid nodded and went over to the massive aquarium tube that held several tens of the lizards together. Each lizard inside was attached to the central feeding unit inside, so no doubt it wasn’t going hungry, but Oogoo cared for the Yslamari all the same. If one was feeling discomfort, he wanted to know why. “Sir, P3 seems to have damaged one of his claws. Must have gotten stuck when it was trying to move.” P3 reported back, still looking the lizard over. Oogoo floated, or rather, swam, over to the tube, wanting a better look while being 35 feet up in the air. The Celegian raised a loving tentacle up to the glass and pressed against it, much like a human youngling would do with their fish tank. “Awww, did little P3 cut his little toe-bean?” Ooogoo’s vocoder emitted. Despite its monotone, the vocader plugged directly into the floating jellyfish’s brain still somehow projected the emotion that Ooogoo had for his wards. The lizard inside made a couple of wounded chirps, its pain obvious. Ooogoo focused, projecting her own natural telepathy to the lizard, trying to convey that everything would be ok. The Yslamari quieted down and didn’t even flinch when S-I23 injected a pain medicine into the afflicted area via the feeding tube. “There, there, you see? All better…” Oogoo cooed a bit more before turning to the analysis droid. “Make sure little P3 gets a daily regimen of extra nutrients and pain medicines until his claw is healed. The droid nodded in acknowledgement but Oogoo had already turned away to look at the other 29 tubes in the massive chamber. While some beings would have considered this job mind-numbing at the very least, doing nothing but fill out paperwork, keep an eye on a lot of lizards, and oversee the droids who actually did keep an eye on the lizards, Oogoo loved it. The ritual, the consistency, the non-excitement, despite being in one massive prison. Being a natural telepathic that his species was known for, he always had company with the lizards in a way not many beings had. A klaxon alarm blared out. Oogoo felt a rush of annoyance and confusion as the Yslamari became frightened at the noise. She tried to calm the lizards, but that was a pointless task. There were too many to calm down. Instead, she swam to where the alarm was coming from: The door. “Odd” Oogoo stated to no one in particular. “I am not expecting any visitors. S-123, my replacement isn’t for another two years, correct?” S-I23 confirmed it. Oogoo became more confused. Visitors were extremely rare. Unannounced ones more so. With the entire chamber filled with poisonous cyanogen, the only beings that could enter without a protective suit were droids and himself. The ‘perfect security protection’ the authorities called it. Oogoo preferred to call it the ‘perfect isolation chamber’. The inner sealed door opened. Standing before him was a LV8 security droid and another analysis droid. “What is the meaning of this?” Oogoo demanded. The security droid didn’t reply. Instead, it looked at the analysis droid, diminuative compared to the large security droid. “Here is section 45, unit S-0L115.” “Excuse me, what is the meaning of this?” Oogoo demanded again. The LV8 turned to Oogoo. “I must now get to the section 18 to attend security alarm. Please remain here until the situation has been handled.” Oogoo’s vocoder groaned in annoyance as the droid left. “Stupid security droids. Too rigid.” The Celegian turned to the new analysis droid. Something was odd about the droid. It wasn’t built like the others, its wiring was in odd locations, and its parts looked a bit rusty. But that wasn’t what was bothering Oogoo. Even as it stood, looking at Oogoo, adjusting its sensors, something about it felt off. “Unit…what was it? S-0L115? Stupid number…” The droid didn’t react. It only adjusted its sensors further. Oogoo shuddered as the thing looked him over and over. He felt like his yslamari felt occassionally. Being studied by something he didn't fully understand. “Hello? Droid! What’s your malfunction droid? And what is that at your side?” Oogoo reached forward with a tentacle to grab the cylindrical device at the droid’s side. The droid reacted quickly. Much too quickly for an analysis droid. Its hand went to the device and activated it. Swinging it, the red blade emitting from it cleaved the tentacle apart. Oogoo would’ve screamed in pain, had the blade not slashed the vocoder next. It sparked and exploded with energy, sending Oogoo flying backwards and crashing into one of the tubes, shattering it. All the Yslamari, both in the broken tube and the other tubes, felt their protector’s mental screaming and began to screech and click in their own language of pain. Solus didn’t stop with the floating brain. The other droids were reacting, moving for the alarms or blasters. If he still had access to the force, he could race across the room in a flash of an eye, but without it, he was forced to resrot to running after them. Thankfully, they were only analysis droids, restricted by their programming and unable to overclock in anyway. They could not sprint like he could, nor aim like he could. They were made to study and analyze, not combat. Solus on the other hand held no such restriction and pushed his gears and parts further then they were meant to go. Within minutes, each droid was cut down. “Well that was unnecessarily annoying…” Solus commented while sheathing his blade again. “Now, onto the important stuff…” Solus moved to the control panel of one of the undamaged tubes. “Lets see, lets see…” Solus mused out loud. “Temperature controls…temperature controls, where are you, temperature controls, ah! There you are. Now let's lower the temperature, shall we? Hmm, how low can we go? Lower, lower… That won’t work Solus froze. “Excuse me?” That won’t work. The temperature. The tanks can only go down so far. Its a… safety feature Solus looked everywhere. “Wha…who is this? Who is talking to me?” I am Solus turned around. The floating brain was still laying next to the broken tube, the yslamari no longer screaming. It was only then when Solus realized all the lizards were not screaming. “You? But…thats…” It is my way the voice spoke. The brain thing raised its slashed tentacle, to emphasize the fact that it was speaking telepathically to the Shard. “But…the lizards..” Solus pointed at the Yslamari. The force has no use for me. I am simply…connected. Like them, it is simply biology, nothing mystical. Limited, but useful. It is why they hired me Solus approached the blop of a brain and placed a foot on a tentacle. The yslamari screeched as the thing’s pain communicated through each other. “Fascinating…” Solus released his foot. Instantly, the lizards stopped screeching. “Telepathy without the force. You are a fascinating thing…” The same could be said for you. What are you? You are droid but not droid? You are organic but not organic? “A Sith. And a Shard. A crystelline being” Solus commented, and then realized what he said without thought. This telepathy was making the Shard more loose then ever. I see. And you want to kill my babies. Well it won’t work. “Ya, the temperature like you said, you bulbous ball of brains. Thankfully i can always do this…” Solus reactivated his blade and attacked another tube. The thing shattered, leaking water, and lizards everywhere. Instantly the things started to screech and scream as Solus continued slashing the bodies over and over. “Aheh? See? So I can't be as finesseful as I want, but I can still… Solus stopped. Oogoo was talking to him again. The voice, as strange as it was, communicated with the Shard like a soul speaking to another. Oogoo was laughing. You think too little, lonely Sith. There are more throughout the station. You can kill these, but the Force still won't work in here. The brain thing started to levitate slowly. It was a struggle to be sure. More than once it fell back over on itself. But it tried over and over again, much to Solus’ confusion. This station has the Yslamari all over the station. This is just a breeding and shipping area. When one dies, I make sure a replacement is sent. If one needs more nutrients, I make sure my babies get what they need. The Celigian laughed harder, Solus’ shard starting to throb in pain from the intensity. Did you think it would be that simple to kill my little ones? Solus clenched his fists. His own vocader screeched as he swung the blade again, aiming for the floating brain’s other tentacles, slicing them cleanly off. The lizards screamed again as it tumbled to the ground. No! Stop, there is no point in hurting me! This time Solus didn’t stop. He stepped onto the brain’s last functioning tentacle and began to poke the blade into Oogoo’s soft exposed body. “If it's not a simple matter of killing your babies, then maybe you and I can come up with something more complex, you stupid sack of sheltering scum!” The room was filled with the sound of screaming lizards as Solus began his first experience in torture.

The Grand Admiral of the Court of Madness observed the swirling mass of enemy ships before him, protected by their millions of mines. How the devil they had remained able to get civilian ships in and out of the sector was beyond him. He stroked his peppered goatee with long, slender, sexy blue Chiss fingers. He flipped a single finger towards the viewscreen and he channeled an open commlink to the enemy. “Greetings, Rebellion. Or Empire. Whatever you are. Fear not, stand down and stand by. We are here only to hunt Nar Shadaa’s famous Azov Battalion, and to rid you of the evils of fascism. Please disarm.” His subordinate, Under-Admiral Pog’Champ, stared up at him with similar crimson Chiss eyes. “Admiral Frawn, I believe it’s pronounced ‘Imperial Knights’” The Grand Admiral waved his had dismissively. He would suggest the Under-Admiral to throw himself out an airlock at some later time. His eyes caught several fleet elements within the Enemy ranks, of particular interest. He waved another hand indicating full fleet forward. “Admiral… The Mines?” A highly annoyed Chiss Admiral stamped his foot in dismissive rage. “Damn the mines, there are Squibs to kill. Sheog would not want any of them to escape.” The Grand Fleet lurched forward, losing countless ships to strike at the irritating creatures. Several Corevettes exploded almost immediately, whether it was the mines or just the will of the force, one would never know. No matter the losses, those Squibs would perish. Grand turbolasers lashed out towards The Rebels, and their beloved Squibs.

She could feel the ambition in the room, the hunger of the Sith around her. A consequence of the Spider’s unorthodox choice to hand her the title instead of having a successor claim it by force. It would have been easy to return that doubt with bitter venom and vitriol, but there was no need. Any worthy Sith would either challenge her or fall in line, otherwise it was all just bravado masking cowardice and envy. She did not recognize most of the assembled Sith here, many of the old masters had faded away, although even from all this distance she could sense the presence of her old master, Sheog. That eldritch horror operated on a different level, more Dark Side than individual at this point. Reports of Qaela vanishing at Lehon were coming in, but that did not surprise or sadden her, that woman’s ineptitude had already cost the Sith plenty. Perhaps she had been struck down by a final command of the Spider, or maybe she was faced by an opponent that wasn’t an apprentice or an asthmatic toddler. Akheron, on the other hand, was a veteran Sith warrior, an accomplished line officer who had returned to the fold after a period of absence. SSB had informed her that he had fallen in with some new cult, but as long as he performed his duties such things were of no concern to her, besides, an interest in cults and secret knowledge came naturally to the Sith. She herself had started a cult on Onderon. Akheron’s access to forces specializing in reaving would be of great use in the next phase of the war. Not to mention her plans would be of particular interest to him. Darth Mavanger was another veteran Sith, on the verge of achieving mastery over the Dark Side. He followed the warrior’s path, had led his forces on a largely successful campaign, and had defeated worthy adversaries in single combat. Of everyone assembled, he had the most viable claim to challenge, his accomplishments fresh in the minds of the assembled Sith, but she had read him as more interested in martial command than control of the order. The position of Dark Lord required much from the Sith that held the title, and would have inevitably taken him away from his beloved battlefields. Darth Oni was something of a mystery beyond his rank of master, his presence inconsistent throughout the years. He seemed to be following a similar path to Darth Sheog in becoming an avatar of the Dark Side over pursuing personal interests. The entity had reached out to her while she had been indisposed, but she would speak with him at the meeting to see what he offered the order. Darth Inmortos was a relatively fresh face, which was amusing given the state of decay that his body was in. He had played a part in the defense of Dac, was a known practitioner of necromancy, and had enough reputation that she had sent him to assist with the retrieval of plasma from the core. His story was just beginning, but it seemed to have potential. Telperien, another legacy like herself, had done well in keeping herself out of her mother’s shadow. Although she was trained in the occult truths of the Night Sisters, she had always been a presence in the Sith Order that Darksong had always tried to claim but ultimately failed to deliver on. Perhaps one day she would make the leap and join the order, so that she might surpass her mother in every way. Ca’aran was there of course, despite not being a Sith. His presence amidst this dark pantheon of divinities was telling of his worth and value to both her and the Order. He was an exemplar of mortal ways and means, an unrivaled soldier that had survived an endless procession of brutal wars. His counsel prevented the blunders of Sith getting tunnel vision and overly focusing on matters of the Force. Awenydd was there as well, though little was known of her and many of the reports were conflicting. She had served at Coruscant though and had since largely devoted herself to training, particularly an apprentice named Shiro. Akheron and Mordecai had both brought apprentices with them, and this made Darth Nyrys smile. Apprentices were the future of the order and only fools neglected them. The ones before her were an odd pair, one looked to be a tribal warrior descended from the nearly extinct bloodlines of the Sith race, the other… at first it seemed to be a construct of some sort, but after some scrutiny she realized that the machinery was just a shell for an alien mind inhabiting a crystal. How peculiar. Soon there would be plenty of chances for them to prove their worth to the order. The leader of their Mandalorian allies had been permitted to join the meeting as a sign of respect and trust. The rumor mill was suggesting that Tros Ardell had felled the Jedi that had brought low Darth Mavanger, and if true, that made him an exceptionally worthy ally. Darkwatch soldiers, whose loyalty she was certain of, approached and set up a localized jamming along with sonic and visual dampening fields. Rebel spies were always a concern, and her plans demanded discretion. “I know that this is a time of rumor and speculation, unknowns and theories. Allow me to lay them all to rest. Exodus is gone. If this is a play for some greater game, he left no indication amidst his advisors and generals. He did pass his saber on to me, but this is not the way of the Sith, so after I make my speech I will be opening the floor to challenges of single combat, should any of you doubt my ability and possess the courage to act on those convictions.” She had no interest in the theatrics that the Spider had often used amongst his own. It was the way of warriors to speak directly and bluntly, and with her brothers and sisters she would be true and clear. It was the capability of a ruler that was the true measure among an inner circle, not spectacle and illusion. Such things should be reserved for the enemy and the populace at large. “That being said, we live in interesting times. The cloak of benevolence and statecraft that Exodus shrouded us in for so long has burned along with Theed and the rest of the planet, and the people are once again vulnerable to the hopemongers and grifters of democracy. If we were to try and maintain direct control over the galaxy through the Spider’s corpse empire we would face thousands of unknown enemies, without the benefit of whatever schemes he was weaving. To charge ahead on this course is to invite disaster, to trudge through a mire when another, clearer path presents itself to us. We have glutted ourselves on the bountiful rewards that Exodus’s empire has given us, grown fat off of plenty and easy conquest over lesser beings. Now is the perfect time to hone our inner strength and cut away the accumulated fat. We will allow our enemies their republic so that we may expose it as a weak and corrupt institution, led by the self interest of politicians rather than ideals. We will bloat their creation until it festers with stagnation and blight, pumping poison through the veins of their government until the people beg us to return as liberators from the liars and the charlatans. We will exalt their politicians and quietly strike down any who show true leadership qualities. We will distract them from vigilance with pursuits of culture, benevolence, and charity. Meanwhile in the dark we will become as razors. We will scrape away weakness on the whetstones of training, focus, and discipline. We will perfect our crafts of death, war, and darkness. We will not only be worthy of the galactic throne, but have the means and abilities to seize it. A clean cut that severs the head of our enemies, rather than a thousand blind swings at potential threats. In order to facilitate the creation of a hidden Sith temple and to stabilize morale in response to this path, we have been securing the means and power to resurrect the lost world of Ziost. Once the capital of the Sith Empire, it was used in a ritual to contain the rebel fleet while our forces moved to disable the Grand Death Star’s super weapon. The rebels and their treacherous Jedi allies turned the weapon on Ziost, destroying five sixths of their own fleet in the process. While the sacrifice of Ziost was necessary, now its doom can be undone and our ancient capital restored. This is why I dispatched some of you to the hollow core of Naboo to retrieve plasma at the start of the invasion weeks ago, and why our forces are securing ancient Dark Side relics on Lehon. We are at the threshold of a new beginning for the Sith, and it will usher in a new golden age for our order as we decisively defeat our enemies.” She unsheathed her blade in a single, smooth motion, and surveyed the assembled Sith. “Now, as I said before, the floor is now open to challenges. If you think you have the strength to oust me and claim the throne, approach. Know this well, however, challenges will not be met with mercy or hesitation, regardless of rank and experience. This is our path to glory.”

First, the good stuff: -I appreciate how each opponent let each series of attacks do something to them without crippling them. Each side felt like they were respecting the other throughout the duel. -In the same regard, no side tried to create a “gotcha” moment or make themselves seem impossible to fight, instead playing their characters tactically without trying to control the narrative to their side. I have a few comments, but it isn’t really bad stuff so much as things I would have liked to have seen expanded. -Tros takes the first lightsaber blow to his thigh. “The blade cut through the armor plate and flesh.” While we don’t see how damaging this blow is, we do see that he favors it later in the same post. However, the damage is a bit forgotten after this. In the second post he lands, and there’s no mention of the leg injury. This isn’t a big deal as he doesn’t start sprinting or anything, but I would have liked to see it brought up as it seems likely he would have felt it. -On a similar note, Alcemene takes a blaster shot to the wrist that blows apart the “tendons and muscle,” along with the shield. It’s a pretty harsh injury from the brief description we get, and it’s also forgotten afterwards. Again, like with Tros, it’s not a big deal as we don’t see her trying to fight two-handed or anything, but it seems a serious enough injury that I would have liked to have seen it mentioned again. Then there are two issues with the duel that I need to bring up before ruling. -Alcemene, I notice you didn’t call back to the damage you suffered in your previous duel. I 100% get not wanting to mention it, and I would have been fine if it was mitigated a bit in some way, but not ignoring it entirely. -Tros, I hesitate mentioning this as the class rules are very new, but your arsenal in this duel did violate them by employing a heavily armed minion in addition to your own armor and collection of weaponry. As we saw, that was a big advantage in this duel combining your mobility, multiple firing points, a sacrifice, armor, and a varied arsenal against a melee fighter. All that being said, the new rules did go up on the same day this duel started, so consider this a friendly warning for next time. Understand that what I said in the beginning still stands. You both fought admirably and with respect for the other person, and the way you handled each other’s attacks and played to the flow of the duel instead of one-upping each other was awesome! This ruling is a bit tough due to the issues I mentioned above and how they gave each side advantages they should not have had. Both of you also fought very evenly through the fight, taking hits and writing well. Final Ruling: Tros wins

Feline eyes gazed unmoving from beneath twisted locks of unkempt brown hair. The Sith watched the man both in the physical and within the force. The forest floor drank deeply of the spilled blood, but the Huntress stood unmoving. Warriors, especially those of the Bersærkergang, were notoriously unstable. They raged like toddlers after a confiscated sweet. She let him rant, her eyes drifting to the spiders that clawed at the dripping blood, tumbling and tossing like spent leaves in the summer wind. The Sith Huntress took in the rage, its unusual and deep rhythm, melding herself to it. As he stepped, so did she. Calypso had spurned him, and it was easy to see why; Rage and pain were mindlessly boring. So easily manipulated. So easily removed. Blood dribbled down his chin like a tearfall. Her own rhythm desired to taste it, to take in his lifeblood like a portent of death and dispel it into the songs of entropy. To quiet his blood. She pressed into it, embracing and drinking of his pain. She let his ranting hang a moment upon the breeze, unanswered, savoring the complexity of the emotions. Shapash quivered thinking of grinding his sinew, tearing that vibroaxe and blade to atoms and scattering his viscera upon the steps of the Black Pyramid. The spiders began to prance, and Awenydd scooped one up to calm it, her nail-bitten fingers finding only air and delusion. She spoke through whispers that curled across the wind to find the Sith’s ear from a hundred directions; from the creaking of treebranch, the rustle of leaves, the babbling of fountains and from the bending of moss beneath his feet. “You find yourself alone, that is the reality of it, no matter your victories over paltry nonsentience.” There was a haunting and depressing finality to her words. “You say you desire power, and yet you’ve built a horrible dungeon about you on all sides, heated by only one anemic furnace.” Her hand passed before them, illuminating the spilled blood and the echoes of spent rage and pain. “Rage and pain produce no light at all, but rather a vicious darkness that only serves to discover sights of failure." Awenydd stepped, leaning down to run a finger through the blood that now darkened the moss between them. She brought it to her lips, letting it pass over her tongue to bind it to herself. Smoke curled from her sanguine smile. Haematomancy; and into his blood she poured her own tales of wrath. The wounds that drove her to corruption. To power. She drove the pain and rage from him like a whirlwind. Her mind moved to Myrkr, and those bitter years of deprivation. The first lesson would be in the basics. “How do you connect to your power, Fiochmar, when all your pain and rage is spent. How do you find the Living Force?”

You have no kriffing idea… Fate started to say when she overheard the Jedi’s comment. You haven’t had to deal with the lack of food, the crumbling ruins, the radiation zones, and those cultists that scream their heads off for a dang plant. The two pushed on until they came upon a deep crevasse. The cityscape of the planet had several crevasses like this one, all built for letting ships and speeders into the lower levels of the world. Miles wide in diameter, the only way across the impossibly deep pitt was a long narrow bridge, complete with a wider area for a broken turret station in the middle. The bridge was more than just worn down. Its durasteel railings had fallen off long ago, its floor plantings partially melted, and its supports corroded to the point that the thing swayed with its own weight. Under the acidic rain, the entire thing groaned, threatening to break down at any moment. Like a suspension bridge missing its wires, so did this bridge miss its sturdiness Despite the uncertain structural integrity, a single figure stood on the bridge, undeterred by the potential of falling to his death. Instead, under the raining acid, the figure stood stoically and unmoved, wielding an electrostaff in its hands. Its shoulder plates had been completely melted away, revealing muscle and nerve bundles burning and regenerating under the rain. This Gen’dai had been forgotten to time, stored in a cage for thousands of years. In its loneliness, it had lost any semblance of sanity. And after the Sith attack, it broke free and found this place. Now, only one thing mattered to it: The Bridge. After studying the figure for a moment, shield over her head, Fate looked across the crevasse. She could see what vaguely looked like a domed enclosure, no doubt the place the Jedi was wanting to get to. She could even see the outline of what looked like a ship. Her one source of hope to escape this wreckage of a world. YES! Fate shouted in her mind as she rushed forward. She had no idea what the figure wanted, but the possibility of escaping was almost too much to resist. From his position at the center of the bridge, the Gen’dai raised a hand to halt her and the Jedi. “None shall pass!” his voice boomed over the pouring acidic rain. “Approach further, and die.” Fate stopped in her tracks. Kriff this stupid piece of... she wanted to swear. She glanced at Vox, unsure what to do. The bridge was the only way across, and with the acid rain, finding another way around would be both exhausting and dangerous.

Elliot staggered for a moment, but regained himself as the sounds and visuals of his experience ended. He turned to the old woman, grabbed the goblet from the ground, apologizing to her as he went to the counter to pay for it. She cursed him in an unknown language, and he felt ashamed as he paid her far more than what the goblet must've been worth to her. He threw it in his bag and hurried out, nervously looking over his shoulder as he hustled out, and back onto the street, in the bazaar. He looked left and right, and decided it would be best to not be so vulnerable with such an item in his possession. Turning on his heel, he walked briskly out of the bazaar to his speeder. He assumed his nervousness was visible, as he was quickly noticed and followed. Elliot could feel their eyes on him, and he paced his steps accordingly. Turning the final corner, he found the valet and sent him off to find the speeder. While he was off, he was cornered. He had been followed, yes, but by more than just one person. Elliot turned around to three people circling him. "Seen you pull up. Nice speeder you got, huh?" "Yeah, thanks," he said plainly, looking over his shoulder and setting down his bag slowly, "You guys waiting on yours too?" "Right, yeah, we are," one of the thugs laughed," That's a good one." "And the valet can get yours after mine, right?" Elliot said this plainly, and directly. The thugs stepped to him, but he narrowly avoided conflict when the humming of his speeder returned to earshot. The valet, joyriding the speeder, whipped it around onto the dock and, with a massive grin, returned the keys to Elliot and smiled down the men who had cornered Elliot, his hand immediately reaching to his datapad. The three looked off and wandered off into the distance again as Elliot was returned to his vehicle. The trip back through the city was quick, and Elliot took every inch of speed on his cruiser as he made his way back home, curving through the gates of his Imperial alumni neighborhood. His father, unofficially out of retirement, had earned a small manor on the new Coruscant streets. Gliding into the pad, he hopped out of his speeder and rushed back into his home, clambering through the halls, disrupting his mother, and into his room. He tossed the goblet onto the table, and he rummaged through his things, packing a bag as quick as he could. The way he saw it, one doesn't easily ignore what could only be described as the summons of a witch, especially when the life he currently led was fraught more with boredom than danger. He had enough credits, and he had a connection for a hyperdrive for sale. He was waiting for the universe to tell him when the time was right. He couldn't be any less sure if this was it, but he was so determined to force himself on his own fate it did not matter. He typed a message on the holonet and waited. The anonymous source for the under-the-table hyperdrive could be anyone, and he could get shot, robbed, or any number of things. Nothing he wasn't used to, but Elliot figured it would be prudent to take one of his father's blasters. He packed a small duffel bag and threw it over his shoulder. On his way out, his mother stopped him. "Where are You going?" Elliot stopped and was silent for a second before responding," Heading off world to see a girl." She shrugged, seemingly happy with the answer, and Elliot continued on, rushing out. He returned to his speeder and flew fast all the way to the private port for the families' of Imperial command. He took the lift to his father's hangar, and he found his ship. An old, old, X-wing; T-65 model with a custom black and purple paint job. It was Elliot's baby, and the only thing he ever could entertain himself with, now that his life was lavish and full of splendor. He approached, just as wide-eyed as when he found the seller, the ship now refurbished from the old piece of scrap metal it was before. It was almost ready for light speed, and Elliot was so close. He sent the message to the seller of the hyperdrive core on the holonet. Got the credits. Where can we meet? @Mavanger

Kirlocca was truly amazed at the healing that he got to witness from a fellow Wookiee. He'd never thought he'd live to see such a thing. To even know that the ancient and revered Tree Carers were still very much involved in their craft was a small relief to him, as his home planet has been the target of so many attacks over the past two decades or even longer meant that there was always hope. Always would be. To release such wounds and pains gave him even more comfort in knowing that he made the right decision in letting Raven's killer free. Peace could still be made out of the chaos. Letting a breath out that he was unaware he was holding in, he felt Leena through the Force. She was beginning to heal the planet they were on. He found it even more comforting to know that there were such great Jedi healers and many still found it worth specializing in. He wouldn't lie, he thought when Skye disappeared from the galaxy that the craft would die out, leaving room for more pain and sadness. Yet, the Force always wills it's own path and direction upon the galaxy, to which he was very grateful for. His own comlink went off, as Leena spoke about what she was doing, and what she wanted the other Jedi to do in joining with her. Letting himself fall into a more natural state, he closed his own eyes and reached out into the Force, pouring himself into it, allowing for his own light to radiate more strongly within the Force and pushing against the Dark Side energy that remained upon the planet. The cold and icy tendrils of the darkness that remained would soon be drowned by the collective lightside that was now beginning to grow.

As the final spirit shattered into oblivion a cold stillness seemed to fill the room as icy ethereal fog rose up from the blood soaked coffin. It continued until, in moments, the room was awash in slick freezing mist that prevented any sigh further than inches past one’s nose. The force itself seemed to fog as well, lending an otherworldly cold chilled stillness to the silent room. The only thing that betrayed anything within the blinding darkness was a scrape across the stone floor followed by the soft gurgle of blood as something or someone was immersed within. A cracking voice rasped through mist, it’s tone otherworldy and tired. “The God-King of Death demands that those bound to him in blood maintain this sacred tomb until such a time as he returns to claim his throne.” For an instant, the fog seemed to lift, revealing a single frail shambling being with greasy gray hair hanging lose about it’s face, standing where Inmortos body had laid, but lay no more and then, in an instant, it was gone. The library materialized about the remaining Sith. It’s stillness even more overwhelming than the icy mists; but it too stood for but a moment, daring any fool to reach out for the forbidden knowledges contained inside. Any who did, would suffer the wrath of curses older and more sinister than the Sith Order itself. “Grow in the force and become a force of death and when the eternal Inmortos returns, the wrath of the Clan will be felt the galaxy over.“ the voice cried out. And in a flash, the accursed library and forbidden tomes were whisked away as if a great wind tore it from the pages of reality itself to be replaced by a great winding stone staircase that ascended upward in the flickering torchlight and oily smoke up into the base of Inmortos’ ziggurat. and then the voice of Inmortos carried across the wastelands of the world… “Blood and ichor will flow again. Souls frozen for all time.”

People were moving all around the space port. Some panicked, others fleeing, while a few were still coming. Kirlocca walked through the streets of the port and watched the chaos unfold. It was not his first time watching such aftermath a battle turns. He could feel Falleen had turned, much like the Sith Lord had felt. The tendrils of the Force ahd changed around, releasing the planet from it's Dark Side tight grip. Death had taken a few, and it was enough to send the rest who remained loyal to the Sith cult fleeing from the planet. Now there was the short clean up work to be done. But not for the Jedi Master. Kirlocca was on a mission now, to find Sandy. He had not come to the planet to join in with the other Jedi. He had come from the beckoning of the Force, as he was too blind from his own grief over losing Raven. But now that he was in possession of a crystal that held her soul, the fight he had with the grief consumed Sith Lord had changed him. The duel helped him to overcome his own grief and to see why he had never held onto it in the past. His own life was a testament to surrendering his own emotions to the Force. To feel them, then release them. As he turned a corner, he both felt within the Force the presence of Leena, the Mon Calamari Jedi who was a healer, who might be the perfect one to help release Raven's soul back into the Force. He could feel Sandy, whom he trusted as a friend and fellow Jedi. But upon feeling those two familiar presences within the Force, he could hear the sound and words of Shyriiwook, to which he knew he wasn't crazy enough to be hearing his own thoughts like that. No... there was another Wookiee in the area. His eyes quickly darted the street to see what he would spot first. One of his fellow Jedi or the Wookiee he could clearly hear speaking...

Deep exhaustion clung to her skin like a vac suit. Where on her body there was not a wound, there was the deep ache of strained muscles. The streets were mostly deserted now, dark and filled with stark shadows from the few fires in buildings that had been struck by errant missiles and ammunition from the battle in the north. She took a strengthening breath, letting the force fill her, letting it touch where she was wounded. The long carved lines on her chin, shoulder, and arm glowing with the healing power of the force. The battle was won. Such as it was. The Sith were defeated again only a week or so since their last great defeat. And when Sandy breathed in again she could feel the presence of many Jedi and their Sov Knight equivalents. And one light presence only a few meters away from where she had paused. An alien but honourable mind and the mind of a scared child. Hiding for protection. She took a few steps and looked into the alleyway where she could see a large wookiee and a wounded child. Not exactly the Wookiee Jedi she had been trying to find, but she smiled best she could despite the blood that still seeped from the deep wound on her face. Her Gala accent only slightly showing itself. Alongside the tattered jedi tunic that she wore. “Well met stranger, what brings you from the shade of wroshyr to these desolate streets?”

Vorin vs. Namari et al After reviewing the duel and discussing it with my second, there is a fair bit that we need to discuss here to move forward and build towards better encounters. Duels involving more than two combatants are often difficult to unravel, and the mod team decided to rule on the players involved individually rather than as a cohesive whole. That being said, one of the major issues that comes up is the lack of coordination by the three light siders. To be blunt, I’m not sure why Aidan was in the duel, and I feel like the first two posts in particular were extremely disrespectful to everyone else in the duel who was taking the time and effort to construct well thought out and detailed posts. If Aidan really didn’t want to participate in the duel, a discussion could have been had about him being on the periphery or being somewhere else during the combat, and if the intent was to troll the opposition through poor play, then this definitely falls under the category of bad sportsmanship. Pandora, to my understanding, is a consular, and yet she is played throughout the duel like a guardian, regularly choosing to engage the Sith warrior in close combat without particularly acknowledging that in such a fight she would be vastly outmatched. Tactically, this made no sense, especially when you had a Jedi guardian present in your line up. Namari, your posts were solid and felt in line with the power level of the character, and your positioning of your troops established a narrative and tactical intent. Blackmorne, your posts were a delight to read and really convey how much of a threat Blackmorne is without devolving into edgelord cringe. The character really shines as a villain even while taking on multiple combatants at once. Given the lackluster effort of Aidan, his attempt at martyrdom fails to influence the outcome of the duel beyond ensuring his death(And the IC framing of “I can throw the duel because I will respawn anyway” can lead to problematic behavior in team matches). While Pandora’s posts are more fleshed out, tactically they feel outmatched and dissonant from the character archetype and the realities of engaging a Sith warrior in close combat. Ultimately the duel came down to the fight between Namari and Blackmorne, and it was very close, so much so that we actually had to clarify final positions and cuts. Ruling: Namari wins after Vorin defeats Aidan and Pandora Namari being able to get her guards around the flank to close range fire on Blackmorne was enough to turn the battle, being near enough to overcome the armor while not needing to defend against an attack.

Tygo let out a practiced exhalation, as if expelling air to make room for an influx of the Force, followed by a measured deep breath that tasted of roses and spring water. There was a purifying sense of relief whenever the prince stood against the darkness, a painful pressure drained away like drawing pus from an old wound and freshly bandaging it. Confronting and banishing the dark wasn't just an internal conflict, it called upon people to look beyond themselves to the greater needs of life around them, and to support each other when the burden of evil became a crushing threat. "Bekenden, Kraaienbladen, rise above!" The forces of House Edsryder specialized in urban mobility, and their preferred strategy was to leverage advantage from taking elevated positions. Maannacht produced a number of Sithspawn and dark side infused wildlife, and hunting those monsters cultivated skills that translated well into hunting armor in military engagements. The Edsbryder Haulanz ascended the city buildings, with the kraaienbladen identifying and calling out targets, and the Bekenden readying heavy weapons and longarms for providing strategic elimination of major threats. The land tanks were the first priority, and the Bekenden trained their coil guns on exposed vulnerabilities from their perches and opened fire. As long as Gaijin wasn't doing the armor mapping of the vehicles, their opening salvo would be crippling, and Tygo readied himself for the advance once the enemy armor was neutralized, rapier and blaster in hand.

Feeling the walls, floor, and ceiling dissipate into the void of endless nothingness, Bernon Mrrgwharr was caught off guard. He had not suspected such a thing, and had no idea how to counter it. The feeling was horrid, unnatural, no feelings were here, he couldn't even feel the blade that was in his hands. He tumbled around, and knew that this void had no escape. He could not take the feeling, he would not become a damned soul thrashing in the void in pain for all eternity! He had nothing left to do now, as his inner monsters, the demons of his past crept in. The brutal training he faced that shaped him into the uncaring, Lawful Evil, monster that he was. He was trained to be merciless, brutal, and disciplined. If only his parents had known what daily physical pain he faced there he might not have been sent. While he was grateful for being turned into the man he is today, he hated those who trained him, they were abusive and cruel, and they had turned him into the same exact thing. He was kicked around by even the other students, treated as if he was worthless junk, and nothing but a nuisance. Only his instructors were worse, it seemed as if he was beaten almost daily. He had to become like them, and only through his strength did he force those students around him to treat him like he was something more than a slave, like he was the master. He could never make his masters, the instructors, however, feel like they were his underlings, and he was always abused by them, as long as he lived around them, he was in danger. He had been shackled, as a slave, metaphorically. Those were his chains, just like the chains the Alliance had given him, and he would never have a chance to break those chains as a true Master of the Sith, because he was condemned to die in the void! His mind could not take this fact, and it began to tear at him. Negative thoughts crept into every corner of his mind. Most prominently the idea that he had been tricked, this Maze was no test, it was a trap. His irrational and insane thoughts went all throughout his mind, breaking it as it had nearly been broken not too long ago. His mental pain was horrid, and so was his physical discomfort. Here, while there was no pain, he could feel nothing, nothing at all. It was like all life, all existence, had been sucked out of this place, even the concept of time seemed to have no meaning here. As a last ditch attempt to save himself from this abomination of an existence, he lashed out with the Dark Side. He drew upon all the mental anguish he had ever felt, the horrid treatment at the Academy, the hate he had for the shackles in his life, and all other passions in his reserve. As he drew upon these, he brought upon the void the most power he could give. He brought out all his pain, his hatred, his anger, and his fear, and as he screamed and released it into the void, it fell apart. The void was gone, and he found himself, with a broken mind, crumpled on the ground. He rose, shakily, to his feet, he was back in the Maze, and he could feel again. He now truly grasped the Dark Side of the Force, in all its power, its glory, and its horrifying nature. He rose, rested for a few minutes, regathered his strength, both mentally, emotionally, and physically, and began to move once more. He prepared himself for another encounter as he walked. He also realized that his thoughts on this place being a trap instead of a test were incredibly irrational, if it were simply a trap, he wouldn't have made it this far. He continued traveling down the pathway in the maze, and held the Limnal Blade out before him, marveling at the weapon he was gifted with, and at the same time, staying cautious for another attack. As he had given himself more to the Dark Side, he began his slow transition to the possible future of his looks that he saw, as the vision had some merit, in that he would one day look like the man that was before him in the vision. His veins had begun to become darker, and his skin was a bit more pale, though he had not lost any hair just yet.

Bernon Mrrgwharr had heard the call to battle for Darth Akheron, and had also heard the Lich King Krath Inmortos and the Sith Lord Darth Dictum decline the offer to join in the fray. When he was given the Limnal Blade, he took it cautiously, aware of its malevolent power over the Darkness, and carried it as a soldier into war would carry his sword. He had used and trained with vibro-blades and vibro-swords throughout his Mercenary training before, so he knew the basics on wielding this blade, but he also knew that it was no mere sword, that it had some kind of power, a power he may not know of yet, but one he would soon find out. He spoke his words of gratitude to his Dark Master "I thank you for this blade of great power, my Master, I shall put it to good use." After thanking his Sith Master, he rose from his kneeling. Bernon Mrrgwharr turned on his heel, and followed Darth Dictum towards where he was headed, and joined the search for the Maze underneath the Citadel and the Ziggurat. Where he headed to now, he would learn valuable knowledge for his chosen path, the Wisdom of the Blade Warrior. The ground he traveled on to get to his destination would be his trials for gaining such knowledge, as his will, his power, and his strength would be tested, he knew this with almost complete certainty. The blade in his hands had a heavy weight to it, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. What bothered him however, even with his great constitution and endurance, was the absolute freezing cold weather, but it was something he would have to get used to. He continued searching as he thought to himself. The Sith had lost the war with the Rebellion, then the Galactic Alliance and Imperial Remnant, and the Jedi. That, of course, was obvious, but what caused the loss wasn't very apparent. He had a few ideas behind the failure. The first reason was because the Sith had used the traditional weapons of the Jedi, the lightsaber, rather than the traditional weapon of the Sith, the Sith Sword. The second reason was probably infighting, as the Sith Empires had all fallen before in part because of something similar to that. The third reason was most likely because their Empire focused on strength in numbers, rather than the quality of their Sith or their troops. The Sith had many who were weak among their numbers, sentient beings unfit to be Sith. Their troops were probably poorly trained and equipped as well, though he didn't know for sure. As he continued his search, he finally found the entrance to the maze, and called out loudly above the howling wind. "I have found it, the entrance to the Maze my Master spoke of." He braced himself for whatever would come, he strengthened his mind, readied the blade in his hands, and prepared his will to fight against whatever would come at him. He waited for Darth Dictum to arrive. He sincerely hoped he would make it through this, and he knew he absolutely had to. If he failed, he would die, and his Master would turn him into a walking corpse, a fate he would deserve for his weakness. If he succeeded, he would gain power, and knowledge of the Sith Order that would be invaluable. There would be no room for failure, and he would not, must not, fail. This would be his first trial, and if he could not succeed, he would be unfit to be a Sith. @Lord Ōk Rägnär@Krath Inmortos

The Exorcist stepped out into the humid, rank Falleen air, she could smell it all, and hear its echoes in the Force. There was corruption here, beyond the rot of foliage and the chittering of insects. A deeper reverberation, a seeping wound, infected and gangrenous that wept into the Force with a song of sadness. The Dark Side had latched hold of this planet like a parasite to suck it dry. She shook her head, the mess of braids falling about her slender shoulders. Just like your sister… She motioned for her apprentice to follow, remembering his training on their path here. He had passed a number of blade trials, but seemed to lack the natural flow of the Force, relying on Pride and instinct instead of more subtle beats of the song. He would hold his own against a few mangey cultists. The one you failed... Kyrie’s silent step quickened to match the Edsbryder Princeling’s pace. She had relatively little care for the conquests of noble houses, for Constipex or others, but she was more than eager to rid the world of its corruption. Her probiscis matched the pace of her song, flicking and tasting the air, leaving small white sparks in their trail.

Seated atop his frigid throne, the icy cold grew to encompass the wraith that was Inmortos. Within he was but a pale blue shadow of his former, a ghost of a man, beautiful and ethereal. His outward appearance; however, was frozen in place fixed to his throne that sat deathly still as a font of raw eternal stillness. The power of absolute nothingness frozen for all eternity. The stillness was interrupted by only one thing. The ravages of the howling storm outside were silenced within the inky black darkness of his throne room. Even the light could not reach his throne. The last gasps of a dying world had faded completely, damned to a fate worse than death. The roar of the cosmos was lost beyond the foggy veil. Even the tendrilled reaching grasp of the force, of the dark side failed to carry the whispers of any of the worlds outside. And the damned, the dead, they knew better than to whisper here in this hallowed hall. No, the only interruption that carried on the billowing winds were the petty arguments of the nature of the dark side, of Sith philosophy. Inmortos had libraries of such drabble stowed within his frozen libraries below and from more learned sages than these, they that sought power beyond their grasp. And so the spirit of Inmortos trembled and the storm outside followed suit. Clashes lf thunder and bolts of sizzling lighting erupted from the storm as blinding snow and cutting ice began to whip on the wind. Those that survived the ascent would be found worthy to step foot within his throne room. Spirits of the dead, foreign and chained to this world after the decimation of her native peoples flew through the storm, cackling and shrieking as they sought to torment the fateful Sith who climbed the external circling stairs that spiraled higher and higher about the ziggurat that held the throne of the god-king. Before they could enter the diased balconies that circled the throne room, a bolt of lightning split the sky and struck the body of the fated linworm, the pilot, one of the chosen acolytes of the sky pirates whom @Karys Narat iv-Adas and he had commanded before their destruction over Nar Shaddaa, fell, toppling from the railless stair steps and plummeting into the storm below with a scream as his body ignited in flames. He would be dead before he hit the ground, if he did in fact hit the ground, obscured by the storm, far below. And then the rest of the group made it, their condition and wear their own. Who knew how long the ascent had taken them, how many times they too had fallen into the storm only to land atop the drifting snow at it’s base. When they entered; however, the sounds of the storm died away completely as it ravaged outside. Within the throne room the inky blackness and deathly cold muted sounds and colors as their very breaths crystalized before them and the cold played at exposed bits of flesh and metal. And in the darkness sat the visage of Inmortos, frozen atop his throne, the world about him, in this room, radiating with all the power, all the overwhelming unnatural unbreakable stillness of his domain. It was here that time itself might freeze in place and here that the veil between life and death was gone, leaving only an icy bridge upon which to cross, a coat of frozen fog the only separation between the two, a veil to freeze the souls of any damned that sought to cross over uninvited and to suck the life of any living who dared cross without proper penance. and in the stillness a single voice seemed to radiate in the cold. ”Our lord Inmortos welcomes the living damned to that where even the dead fear to trod.”

A sliver of ice tickled the base of her neck. Her feet brushed steel through thick boots, pounding hard with desperate speed. Panic, fear, and terror spread from her shoulder; it was a familiar touch, gripping hard. But she saw no assailant, nor any looming darkness. Yet the dread she felt was exigent. Hello darkness, my old friend… A young Falleen collapsed at their feet. But Keenava could not see her. She felt the floor drift, and her gaze shifted. The gashes began to blister on her back, and fresh whip lacerations stung as air rushed by. Her heart pounded the melody of suffering. Hot salt bit at the skin of her face, and her mind warred… Keenava stood, her body limp and forgotten—a prisoner of the cologne of misery that the victim effused. The twi’lek’s eyelids drooped, and her gaze focused on nothing. Her body felt numb from the waist down. But, in a way, so did her mind. She tore at her own lekku, trying to feel something—anything—but nothing happened. She was nothing…just meat… Only meat… "Focus on the light. Find it within yourself and drive the darkness back from her mind." Leena’s voice washed across her; cold water brushed over her sordid trance, shaking her from her reverie. She slowly flexed her hands and felt as her mind rose from the murk bit by bit. "This girl needs you." Keenava felt Leena’s gaze on hers, and a rush of ice cracked against her mind. Awareness was restored like a flash of lightning, which almost brought Keenava to her knees. Warm streaks tickled her cheeks, and now she could see the injured girl at their feet. "Right… yeah, we need to move her." The Twi’lek looked around quickly, spotting a pile of crates that seemed just large enough to obscure them from view. "Alright, help me get her over there." She made a sign with her lekku. On the way, Keenava tried to do as Leena asked, but… how? She'd just given up on twisting the force to her advantage. How did she…find the light? Did she just ask nicely? Would the force respond to that? Fake it til you make it, I guess? __ She imagined herself going outside and seeing stars, a moon, a sun, or any other brilliant astral body; she pictured herself lighting torches, candles, light emitters, flashlights, etc. But she couldn’t ‘find the light’ as Leena said. What a beautiful little one! Confused, Keenava probed her mind, but nothing was there. She looks lost and afraid. You remember that, don’t you? A song of regret and pain gripped her for a second, to be replaced by a ballad that stung with a visceral sadness. A voice called from somewhere. It was soft, gentle, and familiar. M-m-mom? Kiki. It’s nice to hear my strong girl’s voice. But I’m not strong. I ran away for so long. I killed so many people. I caused so much anguish.I’m not worth forgiveness. Why am I here? Why did I come back? Why didn’t I just stay floating in that void? Free from the confidence she’d built to protect herself, Keenava’s heart was bare, and streaks of tears flowed freely now. Whether her tears were real or imagined, she didn’t know, nor did she care. You’re right. You did run. You ran from a world that threatened to consume you. All the cards were stacked against you. And yet, you never gave up. You kept fighting. Do you remember this? __________ A cloudy scene enveloped Keenava. She was pre-pubescent again, and the darkness of her cell was a dim black, lit only by a sparse arrangement of blinking light emitters. It had been a few years since she volunteered to take her mother and sister’s place. She sat staring at the space between the bars, hoping for things to melt away and go back to how they were. Scratches throbbed up and down her lekku. They made her a little lightheaded, but she barely noticed. "You gave us a lot of trouble, you druk. And, as punishment, you get to watch us do this!" The cruel face she had known for so long swept across her vision. And, in his hands… "NO! MOM?!" "Oh, so this lady right here means something to you. It’d be a shame if something happened to her." "YOU GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF HER RIGHT NOW!" Flames erupted from Keenava’s arms and lit her mother’s captor ablaze. Her mother’s eyes widened with concern, but her mouth was gagged. __________ Why are you showing me this? I lost control. Yes. But why did you lose control? To protect you from them, but it didn’t mean anything. I know what comes next. I couldn’t save you. And you can’t save everyone. But maybe that’s okay. How could you say that? You’re gone, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye! Her mother appeared to her in a spectral form of lavender light that bent down and put a hand on her shoulder. People die. I never got the chance to talk to you about it, but it happens. If I hadn’t died there, I would’ve died somewhere. The important thing is that my strong girl held on. She kept on living. And if she hadn’t, none of us would be around anymore. Your sister would’ve been alone, and you would likely have passed away sometime later than me when they deemed you too much trouble. You may be lost now. You may have a hard time forgiving yourself, but I’ve never blamed you. Never once did I look at you and see anything but my strong little Kiki. You even have my eyes now, which makes my heart soar every time I look at you. Keenava sniffled. The beauty of her mother's aura transfixed her. I don’t deserve you. Of course you do. They do too. Keenava’s mother stretched her arm out, revealing Kana, Kara, Kava, Malive, and all of her daughter’s alters. Many people made a strong impression on you, giving you a voice to speak for yourself. But, in all of that, you lost your voice. Now they’re all here to remind you that there’s only one Keenava. There has always been one, and she’s right here. The figment of her mother touched a hand to Keenava’s chest. All the alters joined hands. And the closer Keenava looked, they all looked a lot more like her than they used to. They all cried together. The murdering, the sadistic, and the chaotic were all weeping in tandem. And then all of them faded into Keenava’s mother’s hand. They are only fragments of you. And now that you can think again, the whole galaxy—no, the universe—gets to hear your voice: my fierce, protective Kiki. Now you get to be the beautiful soul you were always meant to be. And maybe, just maybe, you can help others do the same. Thank you for everything, Mom. The Twi’lek looked up to see her mother once more, but she wasn’t there. All that remained was a vivid light glowing in the palm of her hand. __ Keenava smiled. It was a small gesture, but it echoed in her physical form as she bent over the Falleen that lay mired in darkness. She stretched her hand out and connected to the light she still felt in the palm of her hand, letting the force flow through her. She gently ran her fingers along the young woman’s brow as a mother would her child, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear and wiping the blood from her cheek. Under her breath, Keenava hummed a lullaby that her mother used to sing. Soft tears continued to flow across her cheeks as she tried to share her light with the young woman.

It felt good, after what felt like an eternity, to be in the cockpit of an X-wing again. Sure, the luxury of the Viper’s Rest had its appeal, but there was something truly freeing about piloting a ship without crew or guests. At any moment, the vagabond spirit could exert its influence and he could be in another system with none the wiser, another mote of cosmic dust blown by the winds of whimsy and libertine pursuits. Today, however, was not a day for idle deviancy and carousing. Traversato cut through idyllic clouds just as they were beginning to adopt tinges of sunset colors, with the sky’s dominant blue yielding ever so slightly to a restful golden orange. Beneath him stretched pastoral fields that spoke of Chandrila’s continued preservation of the balance between civilization and nature. It was a far cry from what Tygo was used to, and on some levels disconcerting. What sort of devil’s bargain did it take to have such preserved innocence in a galaxy so consumed by war? Would the masters of such a place flinch in the midnight hours of what was to come when the bravado faded and the costs became all too real? Tygo’s family knew all about costs, both from sin and more recently virtue, though many only commented on the former. When he was hunting crazed cultists and lunatic sorcerers, the dark stains of his family’s past had their uses, but in the eyes of lords and ladies who lived safely in pristine towers and manses overlooking verdant greenery, it was a vulnerability to be needled at and leveraged for their idle sadism. The sneers and comments weren’t even particularly biting anymore, instead the banality of every single noble and courtier thinking that their particular jab was nuanced and original turned many events into trudging through a slurry of tired comments and tepid insults. He landed at the estate’s private hangar, cycling the ship through the shutdown process before hauling himself over the rim of the opened cockpit. He was extremely nimble, but several hours in a tight enclosed space would make anyone stiff until they could stretch out. Of course, he could have called upon the Force, but the prince had found that keeping an awareness of the physical allowed him to be better connected to the spiritual, while also avoiding over reliance. He paused his stride for a moment to limber up as an attache moved from the edge of the hangar to greet him. The usual formalities cascaded forward in rote performance, a necessary but boring dance. It wasn’t long before he was being presented to another room of his peers and their assorted hangers on, and while the faces were largely unknown to him, the reactions were all too familiar. Primarily disdain, even from those who were largely beneath him in standing, a few curious glances from the sorts of people who wanted to upset mommy and daddy, and knowing nods from the veterans who knew what the scarlet scarf he wore meant. One of those veterans was the venerable Lord Commander Constipex, a man whose eyes seemed to have wandered far from his home, iron and haunted in contrast to the peaceful elegance of the estate. He moved with mercurial grace towards Raphanel, sidestepping a would be heckler and producing a datapad directly for the Lord Commander’s eyes. It showed the butchers’ work that had concluded his last assignment, an outer rim cult that had a penchant for sacrificing youths to some deranged fairy tale demon. It was the conclusion of several months of investigative work, looking into the disappearances, staking out the cult’s procurer’s, and verifying the information before launching a surgical strike. The cult leader had tried to scream his idea of an esoteric ill omen at him, they always try to project this aura of occult fatalism, just before going limp as their cries die into gurgling silence. “Apologies for my tardiness, Lord Commander. The Wardens always like to be thorough after anything cult related to make sure that we don’t get any dark ritual on our boots and go spreading it everywhere.”

Duel of fates between Darth Calypso and Darth Inmortos Mods: Delta73 and Darth Nyrys Overall a magnificently written duel. My kudos to both writers for writing, very interesting characters, and a very interesting duel that seem to reflect the heart of both characters. Seeing two Sith masters clash in the force is always a sight to behold and you both did very well! Points of critique: Power use: summoning thousands of sith bound spirits from hades to attack from your blade, while also freezing the battlefield and throwing a whole lot of ice spears is a bit too much in one post. All of these actions take immense concentration and work which is very hard or impossible while your body is burning and ruined. Doing too much like this can backfire and especially when dealing with sith spirits they can just as easily turn on you! Overall I think this last post was a bit too much on the power level. Respect of damage taken: Inmortos, taking a full force blast and having it flambé your entire character is great, however it seemed to have no actual impact on your character or his power, effectively undermining the potency of Calypso’s attack. Plan of attack: Calypso, there was no strategy of your attacks, no real build up from one attack to the other and the attacks could have been interchanged with little impact on the direction of the duel. The attacks did not feel like they were building on one another towards a win condition. Overall it was well written on both sides but Calypso stands victorious

Inmortos shifted slightly, his blade angling to brace for a blow that never came his free hand weaving an intricate spell by his side. If he had elicited this type of response, even in the cold, it meant only one thing. He, they, were winning. He felt it, her wrath, her rage, boiling over as she landed. She was almost within reach, within saber-striking distance of even a withered scion of death. She was close enough that even through the fog and snow he could see her outline, her saber only illuminating @Darth Calypso further. Raising a withering undead hand, Inmortos began to form ancient words of power; but before he could do so, Calypso unleashed a storm of her own. The burning maelstrom of the cosmos turned towards the lord of the damned. It took Inmortos by surprise as the heat blasted the lifeless body that he now possessed and sent it careening backwards. The body glove offered what protection it could before it succumbed to the force of the blast, sizzling as it turned ashen and was blown away and consumed by the blast. Ethereal screams assaulted the woman’s eardrums, the undead woman’s ears. They mingled with the whispering cries of joy and hatred brought forth by the wraiths and spirits crossed back to the lands of the living. The body flew backwards through the air, Inmortos blocking out the screaming assault, shutting it up behind a wall of a spectral choir that screamed beyond natural hearing and simply releasing his power on the Mandalorian’s hearing Landing at the edge of the battlefield with a squishing splurch amongst the rotted bodies of his fallen army, the necromancer lay there amongst the dead, amongst his people; a stark reminder of who he was, that which he had not yet overcome; at least, not entirely. Inmortos lay there, his host’s dead body burnt, scorched, and oozing blood and frigid ichor. The pain would be unbearable, had it been his own pain. One of the benefits of already being dead was that the corpse, suddenly spiritless and lifeless, felt none of it. Inmortos felt none of it The blast burned her, her skin, her hair, it melted and twisted her face and body from the outside leaving bubbling oozing flambéed flesh in it’s wake. And yet, through the pain, the screams, all of it, Inmortos remained. He was more than a simple spirit within a body. He was Inmortos. He was eternal. He lay there, the muscles of his host tensing either from the natural reaction of the dead or Inmortos’ innate control. With his spirit bound lightsaber still casting it’s crimson hues, the Mandalorian’s fist clenched white about the hilt and slammed downwards into the ground. The built up sorceries flowed freely. The snow packed surface cracked as the silvery hilt clanged into it, fracturing the powerful hilt’s exterior as a gutteral hysterical laugh erupted from the twisted lipless melted maw of Inmortos’ host. It is finished. Power. It flowed from everywhere. it came from everywhere. The bodies of the 10,000 fallen all about him. The air. The assembled Sith. The reborn Ziost held together by twisted black magics as dark as the necromancer’s soul. Even the veil. All of it. Their power. It was sapped in an instant, drawn into the powerful vacuum of the void. The temperatures about the battlefield plummeted, winds drawing inward to tear any vestiges of hope or heat away as the power of the battlefield was drawn into the spell, into the nothingness cast beyond eternity. The veil, thinned by the saber and it’s dark passengers and blackened sorcery, the same saber that now served as a conduit of the god-king’s power, tore all but in two, unleashing torrents of the damned upon the battlefield to swirl and cleave at any that stood in their path. Great spears of ice erupted from the ground in spiraling circles about the necromancer, shards of frozen eternity piercing through the power-sapped air. They cut into the air between Calypso and Inmortos, withering before the attack, but continuing to spiral outward as the dead hand of Inmortos clenched the activated saber hilt tighter still, her burnt skin cracked as even the bones beneath it began to strain beneath the undead power commanding the spell. And still, Inmortos laughed; an insane cackle. If she but knew, he was already dead. She would not, could not, kill him. His chains were not her chains. Her chains would be her undoing. CALYPSO V INMORTOS ((3))

Power, by it’s nature, it is not created, nor is it destroyed. It simply changes form. Such a scientific fact, while true, was brushed away in the great inhalation of the god-king of death. As Inmortos sought to drain the power of she that would make false claim to the mantle of lord of darkness, the power that flowed from her, drawn by the world around them was nigh but endless. The little heat that remained in the air from Inmortos’ cryomantic display of power was whisked away, dissipated into nothingness. The frail legion of undead, an artificial gift from Inmortos to @Darth Calypso upon her resurrection at his hand, fell away like chaff, their soul-bound corpses collapsing where they stood. Their weapons clattered to the ground. The necromancic energies that bound these undead soldiers unnaturally to the realm of the living were sucked away and dissipated in the cold, drawn unnaturally from them into Calypso and from her into the host of Inmortos to be rendered no more. And yet, the vessel of Inmortos inhaled, the attack only ceasing as the physical limitations of the Mandalorian body he possessed reached it’s limits. It was then that Calypso spoke, her attack rebounding in turn. Fiery red bolts of jagged energy, energy drawn from the world about them arced through the air even as Inmortos’ host exhaled in brief. The bolts struck the woman’s flesh with an explosion of power, of dark raw energy coalescing with the infinite icy stillness of eternal damnation. It sent Inmortos and his host careening backwards with the sheer kinetic energy the attack possessed. They landed amongst the recently fallen foot soldiers of Aaris III. The rotted bodies of his servants cushioning their blow as they sank amongst the fallen. Still the energy pressed on, playing across the fallen bodies, exploding some in bloated gouts of rotted flesh and ichor as it reached for the necromancer within the bodies, searching for the living amongst the dead. Lancing forth it would have found it’s mark, the still sizzling flesh of the possessed warrioress; but for the scourge of Inmortos, his will, and her strength of a lifetime of battle fighting off the residual energies of the initial blast. A crimson beam erupted upward from the mass of bodies, not followed by the telltale hiss of a lightsaber, but accompanied by the press of spiritual whispers and chants, of eternity unbound. The world about them muted to a deep red as all other color seemed to be leeched from the world. Whispering voices cackled with glee, sinful souls bound within the blade itself inviting their eternally tortured comrades from the world beyond; the veil of separation between this present mortality and eternal damnation beyond growing thin. Inmortos eyes flashed a wicked yellow as he, as she, as they stood; the blade held before them like a wizard’s wand, extended outward in one white-knuckled hand catching the crimson bolts of retribution on it’s burning hissing shaft of energy. The darl lady’s power coursed upon the blade as it was transformed into an ethereal energy and in turn wrought unto the veil, parting to allow the spirits of eternal damnation to flood all bit unhindered into this realm. They cried out. They screamed. They chanted. Their emotions plagued the battlefield swarming and overwhelming the forces of mortality of their feeble emotions. The vengeful spirits sensed their keeper’s will and coursed onto the field of battle. Without direction, they felt the force, they could sense Inmortos’ raw emotion beneath his frigid facade and they followed it. They could feel Inmortos’ dark desires for @Bernon Mrrgwharr, his future in the god-king’s hands. They hated it. Did he not know that Inmortos was theirs alone? They could feel the blood oaths that bound @Karys Narat iv-Adas and @Solus to the god-king, the despise he felt for the one who would become his next blade. They could feel the oath sworn by their keeper to she that he now fought. They could feel his disdain and his devotion to his oath. The dead, wraiths and specters, phantasmal ghosts and amorphous spirits hated the living and they that they found they sought to destroy. With chanting wails and unearthly screams they swarmed their targets, physical protections of little use against a extraplanar foe. Seeking to destroy them, reason abandoned, they screamed through the billowing fog and wind to seek and to tear at their flesh with unseen maws and claws; physical wounds from an ethereal foe. And through it all, the energy of Calypso’s assault crackled and sparked against the cursed blade of the god-king. A wicked smile played across the Mandalorian’s twisted face, her face half-burned, her blonde hair singed as bits of charred flesh fell sizzling and black to the snow. Her pain was palpable and yet she did not cry out, her body overtaken by the will of Inmortos and her spirit and mind ensnared within his power. They hissed, her Mandalorian voice carrying like that of the eternal whisper of the spectral dead across the field, “You know naught of the chains I suffer.” With a yellow flash of power, Inmortos’ jade-bound eyes fell upon the very soul of the dark lady. It was old. It was grotesque. It was coveted by Inmortos for the power he could drain from it. With a glance and a surge of ectoplasmic power his will wordlessly called forth a trio of smokey demons from beyond. It did not matter from whence they came. It did not matter what they sought, they were called into this world by a flash of necromancic power and bound to Inmortos so long as they were held within this mortal plane. Their will their own, their power that of the dark keeper of myth and legend, these inky black splotches of smoke in the fog made to set upon Calypso, the first to fall within their gaze, and with that they attempted to smother her with distractions and despair, to cloud her connection to the world about her, the force, and to life itself with their hateful false claims of her histories torn from the depths of Tartarus. They screamed and whispered, working to weave their taunting and mesmerizing sinful distractions as they made to close in upon her in the fog. And as he stood, knee-deep in the bodies of those who had sworn their adoration to him, his gaze beholding Calypso through the eyes of the eternal judgement of the force, he struck. The spirit within his host twisted in agony, a useful tool, but so too an annoyance; for even as he drew upon her lifeblood, so too did his foe. If she sought such power, a shadow of the power that Inmortos possessed; well then, she would have it and know herself judged unworthy. With her free hand, the necromancer wove a brief spell in the air across the Mandalorian’s chest pressing her own fingers inwards into her flesh. A cry of anguish, warbled with evil glee escaped their mouth, the glowing eyes of Inmortos never leaving Calypso. The spirit of the Mandalorian was cleft from the body whole, cast out of it’s living form leaving in it’s wake a pure muscled body, albeit singed, under the domain of the god-king of death. The spirit was unstable, unable to maintain a pure form having been plucked prematurely from existence. It howled in pain. It did not matter. Inmortos cast the spirit off, careening towards Calypso a pale translucent figure vaguely reminiscent of the host. Rapidly she broke down as she charged. In moments her spiritual existence would implode, a fragmentation grenade in reverse, drawing all about it inward at lethal velocities. The creeping doom of the ice left it’s mark as the snow and wind and fog billowed about them, and while Inmortos commanded the powers of stagnation, of eternal stillness, he was still a necromancer; a master of the dead and the bridge that stretched between mortality and the infinite. It was in that that his full mastery was on display, the legions of the damned called forth at the edge of Inmortos’ control, to make war on their god-king’s behalf. Standing there amongst his fallen worshippers, saber clenched like a magical wand of power, Inmortos trod the veiled edge of mortality and madness. He would stand here, his ancient oath to the Sith of eternity past culminating in this moment; to ensure that the Sith traditions and magics were answered, lest the order be cursed anew, again. Calypso v Inmortos (2)

The drinks both Kirlocca and Karvo got were complete opposites of the spectrum. The Wookiee got a favorite of his people, Garrmorl, while the imperial officer choose to instead go with the very common Jet Juice. In all honesty, the Jedi Master was surprised to even see the drink offered on the planet, as only more heavily frequented planets carried such a drink. Many of the patrons within the cantina were the local Falleen species, mixed a few assortment of others. There seemed to be more smugglers and spacers at this one, which told the Jedi Master that he picked the right location. He was more fascinated by the mix and atmosphere of the place that when Karvo put his bottle down in a weird fashion, it drew not only his eyes, but a few others. "So, how long do we wait. I've never truly done field work before..." The Wookiee eyed him for a moment and took in the fact that his common clothes were relatively clean, hinting that maybe he wasn't the typical pilot or traveler. It drew the eyes from a Falleen and Rodian in a booth not too far from them. << Word of advice, never take the rookies in. >> Kirlocca lifted his glass towards them and took a drink before leaning in to Karvo. He allowed for his voice to be a bit more stern. << Relax and act natural. The more you stress or worry, the more likely to draw unwanted eyes. >> He then leaned back in the booth and looked down at his drink. He knew the young man was worried, both because of the recent reputation of the planet and the recovering state the Jedi he traveled with was in. There was a small sense within Kirlocca that maybe he was endangering the man, but he felt like he had to trust his senses if he was to help himself in his journey of grief over Raven. Karvo seemed to accept the words and looked down at his own drink. "I'm just worried, that's all. You said two minutes ago that you didn't feel the tremor in the ground..." He then looked up, both the man and the Wookiee locked eyes. "... I would have assumed even in the Force you could have felt it..." He did have a point, one that Kirlocca wasn't too keen on flat out accepting just yet. << Follow my advice for blending in, but keep a sharp eye... You may be right in having to be worried about me. But until we know for sure, let's rely upon my own experiences in this case. >>

A deep ocean of darkness lay beneath and around them. The warmth and convenience of slipping into something familiar were there. But she’d been away too long. The warmth threatened to burn, and the convenience was coated with piercing barbs. She was different now. It wasn’t a posture that she could just shift out of. Every step deeper into the darkness was nothing but surrender. It was releasing every choice she had and justifying weakness. But now, the darkness could only take her to the edge. It could only teeter her on the razor. She knew what lay on the other side. She knew the saccharine temptation. And she knew exactly what waited for her if she fell... She knew the mantra well: Peace is a lie; there is only passion—false Denying peace in favor of passion blinds you to balance and serenity. Through passion, I gain strength—a lie While passion can create strength in the short term, it is only through understanding compassion and controlling your chaos that you can achieve anything resembling true strength. Through strength, I gain power—the biggest lie Just because you have strength, it doesn’t mean you have power. And power is overrated. Power begets needless bloodshed and struggle. It is a temporary satiation for a glutinous soul. Through power, I gain victory - no Victory over what? You’re a pawn for the dark side. You are a pebble in the river. You are constantly chasing the goal while life continues to move the goalpost. It’s never ending. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall set me free—ironic Through altering the fabric of the force, you’ve tied a noose around your neck. Breaking from the peace to gain some scrap of passion and power will only have you chasing that high like a death stick addict. Keenava felt the comfortable cling of her new clothes and smiled a little to herself. She kept her saber and other goodies stowed away where she could get to them later. It would not behoove her to bring a lightsaber hilt—let alone two of them—to a planet of the Sith while they were trying to stay incognito. "Oh! That reminds me." Keenava shuffled through her pockets and pulled out a note. "It came with something else, but considering we’re trying to be inconspicuous, I figured it would be too loud to bring with us. I found these with the boots, and I think they were meant for you." Keenava chuckled a little at Leena’s response. “Don’t look too serious, or they’ll think you’re hiding something. In fact, the more inconspicuous you try to look, the more obvious you’ll be. Don't go judging people with your eyes. But, if you can, just act normal. The more you look like someone who belongs here, the less people will question it.” Keenava adjusted her jumpsuit a little, saddled a newly acquired slugthrower into a hip holster, and followed behind Leena. “Just a tip from an old Assassin master of mine.” Keenava said, taking care to keep her voice at an inside volume without leaning or hiding her face.

The air shifted, as did Dictum's aura upon Lady Calypso's response as the blind Sith's flowing silver locks came to an eerie calm and his smirk only widened. Not only did his presence consider the opportunity and challenge she presented, but so did his appearance as the Sith Lord's figure seemed to flicker and split like an old hologram. But no, this was no hologram. This was the Sith Lord known as Dictum, and for a brief moment, his mind contemplated to test her consideration. "Your words carry wisdom, Mi'Lady." He spoke from beneath his smirk as his form settled devishly amidst the snow. This place, this world, it was the culmination of the Darkness and its incarnate. But he was yet still an outsider to them, an unknown. His father and grandfather may have belonged to them once before, but he had never. And the circumstances seemed to paint a very different picture than what he had been led to believe. His gaze shifted about the other's, their demeanor flowing upon the currents of their will. Turning back to Lady Calypso, he nodded. "I understand. I merely requested the opportunity to do so. You have my thanks." As he let his words seep upon their minds, Dictum's own began a brief stroll down memory lane, starting with his first interactions with these Sith at Helvault. What he had thought to be power enforced by numbers had been a misinterpretation. No. These beings, these Sith, were each powerful in their own rights. But together, with the culmination of their combined might, made tasks menial. Unbound by doctrines and philosophy unlike his bastard cousin who cowardly walked away and chose to embrace servitude. No. These Sith were just like he, each molded by life and given the chance to take from it what they will. And in that singular decree, broke free of moral constrictions. This is what stayed his hand, for now. Not curiosity. Nor was it fear. No. She had commended a semblance of respect in her words. A mutually beneficial arrangement. Her power was immense. As was the others. And she welcomed death as if an old friend, just as his former Master did when he sunk the crimson blade into his heart. It was time to truly learn from the Masters of the Darkness. Humbled by his own, a kinship if you will, he chose to stay his hand for his own gain. Death would come in its own time. Was there any current need to hasten it?

As the klaxon sirens blared, confusion began to reign. Umbaran mechanics who swore the ship was in perfect condition suddenly doubted themselves and their work. Soldiers who were confident that the ship would never be attacked gripped their rifles tighter than ever as they escorted the workers. And the slavers recoiled in pain as they became blinded by the Force-user’s work. They were not expecting this kind of enemy to board the vessel, let alone to become the sole target of said enemy. A few of the slavers lashed out wildly, but blinded as they were, their efforts proved less than fruitless. The slaves, the ones who still had both strength and fire in their hearts, took advantage of the situation and turned on their masters. The Kaleesh who were focused on the mechanic in the power armor fought furiously. The sirens only added to the confusion the poor soul inside the armor sufferred under gunfire and smoke bombs. Eventually the Kaleesh finally brought the thing down, wrapping durasteel wires at its feet and pulling like the snowspeeders of hoth. Once down, one Kaleesh woman stepped forward, grenade in hand. One of the larger openings provided the perfect spot for the explosive. Qessax smiled as the explosion destroyed the armor. “Excellent work Vangar. Enemies are moving towards escape pods.” Qessax commented. “You too Lord-Comman…oh kriff, Commander, look out!” Qessax spotted in the distance the mechanic in the power suit bulldozing towards where the slaves were. Having heard the comms of the one mechanic suffering under the Kaleesh attack, this one had begun to make his way over and in the process, spotted the slavers being attacked. Even with the klaxon sirens blaring, this mechanic charged at the groups of slaves attacking their masters. These slaves would not escape alive if he had anything to say about it. Qessax leapt from his post and broke into a sprint towards the Lord-Commander and the slaves, pistol out. “Everyone, get moving to the command center! Vangar, captain, see if you can activate some of the droids so that we can actually fly this hunk of junk out of here. I don’t want to be a sitting Mynock when Umbara sends reinforcements to investigate what's happening. Double-time everyone!” Qessax was now between the charging mechanic and the slaves. With 300 meters between him and the slaves, Qessax knew he needed to give Rapheal some time to move the slaves to a safer location. Pistol in hand, Qessax opened fire. The lasers from the small arm bounced harmlessly off of the power armor, but it accomplished what the once field-agent had hoped for: it created a distraction. “Let the chase begin…” Qessax muttered to himself. He began to weave between deactivated battle droids as the Umbaran mechanic began to open fire. So often he had been the hunter. He did not appreciate the change of pace of being the hunted. Inside the command center, the Mechanic helped out as much as he could. Given how much focus he had given the command center, he proved to be useful, as the command consoles came to life once more. However, when it came to activating the droids, he confessed he did not know anything about that. His focus had been on getting the ship running, not activating the small army that could kill him.

The Home Guard Commander watched the screen with the stoicism of a droid. A tall, burly example of a Trandoshan, his face was made conspicuous by his black ritualistic tattoos and a deformed snout that had been broken and not set correctly more than once. He'd had a name once too. In his rest time, when he was forced to stop training and allow his body to recover, he liked to occupy his thoughts by trying to remember it as a sort of mental exercise. He never could, which made it the perfect way to pass the time. It didn't matter. He was the Commander. He served the Sith. Anything beyond that fact was just context. The scanners picked up an object dropping through atmosphere. No discernable lifeforms... Darth Xervatus wants more time. He ordered that anything that descended be shot. With the speed the object was approaching at, the Commander was unsure if the Praxeum's defenses would get a solid hit. Still, a demonstration of firepower might make the enemy back off and reconsider their approach. And that would buy time. A few quick keystrokes and a crisp series of orders on the command frequency, and the turbolaser batteries and point-defense cannons rotated on their positions and trained onto the descending object. The turbolasers were the first to open fire, their incredible range easily encompassing the descending object. The point-defense cannons slowly adjusted as they tracked the object, waiting for it to come into range. Only the ion cannons were held back. After all, it didn't appear that this object was powered. The Commander's tail twitched as the bombardment commenced, an echoing boom accompanying each blast. A lucky shot struck one of the missile launch tubes before it could close, followed by a geyser of fire and a quick series of status reports leaping onto the Commander's display. Only a few casualties among the technical staff stationed in the area, but the losses were irrelevant compared to the damage done. The other tubes in that battery would have to be checked and cleared before firing again, or risk premature detonation. The enemy's gunners were good. The remaining blasts scorched the Sith Steel of the pyramids, but for the moment the structures held. Perhaps with enough time the enemy might burn their way through, but given the time it would take "Shift fire to the next set of batteries. Continue randomized rotation as planned." They didn't need to win. They needed to stall. So said Darth Xervatus. So it would be. Darth Xervatus stopped as he descended the stone steps into the depths of the Praxeum. He'd...felt something. Panic? No, nothing so uncontrolled. Fear had many complexities to it to the truly enlightened, and the perception of such had always been one of Darth Xervatus' true strengths. That and the exploitation of said fear. This felt...restrained. Familiar. Like the one feeling it had felt it before, and wore it like a old leather glove. Ah, a soldier, of course. Closing his eyes, let himself draw in that fear, make it a part of himself. It wove through him, around him, and suddenly he knew. Raising his communicator, he keyed up the Commander. "Commander, you have an enemy approaching from the northeast, moving towards the canyon. I advise you prepare a welcome for them." ________________________________________________________ The Commander did not question. Still, he wondered how they had done it. A cloaking device seemed unlikely. A dead drop then? That might work, but you'd have to be extremely good or extremely reckless to try. In the end it did not matter. Even if they had missed the enemy on their descent, they'd catch them once they entered the canyon. Within moments, the ion cannons that had been idle repositioned, preparing to lay down a hail of fire along the canyon the moment an enemy target appeared. The Commander allowed himself a brief smile, lips peeling back from reptilian fangs. These attackers were good. But the Sith were inevitable and absolute. He felt that certainty more than anything, more than the need to breathe itself. How could these fools possibly hope to win?

Darth Mavanger didn't know what Inmortos had in mind, but his own objective had been accomplished. The Helvault had been breached, and Apothos had been retrieved. Anything past that was secondary to getting those who had accompanied him off the station. He pushed through, just behind the wake of the remaining Sith forces as they filed towards the hangar. Upon their arrival, he swiftly boarded, firing up the engines of the craft. "Brace yourselves." As the Helvault plummeted towards the planet, a glowing meteor hurtling towards it's inevitable demise, the shuttle rocketed out. To the naked eye, it seems no more than a piece broken loose by the forces of re-entry. Yet another pillar of the false peace of the Rebels and their government- More willing to consign the souls aboard to death than to give them a chance at freedom. The shuttle rattled violently as they escaped the vortex left behind by what was now a glorified fireball. He stood, removing his mask and moving to the passenger section of the craft. Their allies would be here soon, and there was much to be discussed. He nodded his head at the new arrivals, his eyes decades older than they had been months past. "Krath Apothos. Did you think I would let an ally rot in a cell? It seems you made an ally of your own while inside." he said, motioning to the unknown party with a gauntleted hand. "We lost much at Mon Cal, and at Nar Shaddaa. Now, we rebuild."

Apothos accepted the hilt of the lightsaber, something that might have been a smile on his face. How interesting that out of every Sith here, it was him that Inmortos handed his weapon to. There was something in that, something that might be of use later. But, as Apothos had said before, now was not the time. "I must agree," he said to the armored Sith who'd suggested that the group get a move on. "We leave now." With a lurch, his cobbled mechanical throne stomped across the metal floor, magnetized feet keeping it from rising off the ground. With his movement being handled by the basic subsentient mind of his chair, cobbled together from fragments of droid processors, Apothos was free to use his own mind for other things. He extended his sense of mechu-deru into the system around him, and was immediately assaulted by flashes of alerts and alarms coming from all over the station. He did not see the code itself, like a computer might. He only gained an impression of the information running through the system, much as how seer might sense events halfway across the galaxy. It was not technological skill, but simply an esoteric form of magic. The station was awash in confusion, even in the datastreams. Apothos sensed mangled code and garbled commands from some catastrophic malfunction, and for a moment he was lost. However, he sorted through the impressions, examining each carefully, until he spotted what he needed. Security alerts, notices of damaged turret emplacements, calls for droid reinforncements. In Apothos' mind, the alerts painted the path that the Sith had taken to get here, and led to where they had no doubt landed their ship. Apothos' chair picked up speed, full on sprinting down the halls. Any turret that managed to target him was assaulted with garbage code, and any droids that stood in his way found their maglocks suddenly deactivating. Apothos was back in his element. He raced towards his escape.

Progress was easy, even without the use of the Force. At least, at first. Turrets with pre-programed targeting algorithms were easy to fool, and as long as they killed them faster than the station's systems could adapt, they would stay ahead of the curve. That was, until the programming realized that turrets alone couldn't stop them. A squad of Droids pressed towards them from a separate hall, and Mordecai snarled under his mask. He'd hoped to find a straggler, to give them time to find the registry. Instead, he'd gotten an entire security detachment. He ran forwards, his blades cleaving through droids like they were made of paper, stun batons bouncing off of his Sithsteel armor, blaster bolts trying desperately to keep up with his sporadic movements. The only thing that slowed him was the return of the Force. All at once, it hit him. Death. Anguish. Grief. Betrayal. Thousands of spirits, finally free from their eternal prison, finally able to find a vessel for their wrath. Even he could feel it, despite his unfamiliarity with the Necromancers' skills. But the feelings they forced on him, they were more familiar than most counted on. He didn't resist- He knew the burning rage in the souls of the departed. Left here, forgotten, nothing but death as their destinies were robbed of them. He let the fire rekindle in his chest, he channeled the emotions of the spirits around him. As the necromancer behind him screamed, and the droids in front of him fired another volley of shots, he felt them impact. Most were absorbed by the armor, but a few hit the less protected joints at his shoulders and elbows. He hissed, sneering. The ghosts around him cried for revenge. They tried to take control, to force their will upon him. They had no true hold over his psyche, however. Death had tried once before to claim him, and it had failed. The Force had dragged him back to this accursed war, to fulfill his purpose of establishing an unquestioned peace across the galaxy. He darted forward, the power of his rage fueling him once more as he sliced through the remaining droids with ease with the help of the Necromancer. He turned, nodding respectfully. The other Sith's power had grown since they last met- A harbinger of things to come, it seemed. He turned in time to see Solus peel around the corner, followed by a beast he'd never witnessed before. It was horrific, a snarling mass of rage and decay that seemed to destroy anything in its path. But Darth Mavanger recognized it for what it truly was. A puppet of the Dark Side, the amalgamation of the horrors of this station. Loss, pain, regret, and obscurity. And beneath it all, a desire. A hunger. But not a hunger for life. He knew this desire well. It desired death. It's own, or anything that got in its way. He would grant this kindred spirit its wish. That, or it would grant him his. His momentum carried him towards the beast, his oil-slicked blades cutting through grasping appendages and roiling flesh alike. The incarnations of his fury and grief, his greatest weapons, not just blades in his hands, but extensions of his body and of his will. The beast landed blow after blow against Darth Mavanger, but he pressed further in. "Let me grant you peace" he whispered in the chaos. The beast's death, or his. That was the only option.

When Nok had felt the floor go out from under him, he'd fought to keep from losing his calm. Blind, suspended in the air, not knowing which way was up or down, (or how far away down actually was) was a disconcerting experience. It was ignorance, and ignorance was weakness. Nok had kept his head, breathed in and out, forcing himself to remain calm and listen for the clank clank of the security droids and their maglocked feet. When the audible hum of their stun batons powering up filled the air, Nok had to fight the sudden rush of renewed fear. He'd felt those batons once before, and judging by the louder volume and deeper pitch, this time they were at a higher setting. A significantly higher setting. All around the room, short and mangled cries of pain mingled with the unmistakable sound of electrical discharges and the meaty thump of metal batons hitting bodies. Then the Force returned. Nok screamed. All around him, the fear, anger, hate, and pain of the prisoners washed through him like a tidal wave through a spider web. The oncoming current stripped him inside and out, and for a moment Nok didn't know where he was. He didn't know who he was. There was no thought, no words, no understanding. He was just instinct and fear. Blindly, his mind flailed at the torrent of energy all around him, desperate to grasp something, anything, to halt his tumble through the roiling maelstrom of energy, to anchor himself to the reality that he was certain was very important even if he didn't know why. He reached through the torrent of emotion swirling around him as if reaching through a curtain, and he touched something. For an instant, he touched everything. Understanding returned. He remembered this. He remembered the Force. The Force was in everything. It ran through all life, all worlds, all space. It touched and bound everything in the galaxy in one, vast network of flowing energy. And Nok...he could touch it. He could control it. Nok stopped screaming. A low, rasping, wet sound like an old motor struggling to turn over began to come from his dry, chapped mouth. Apothos was laughing. Apothos could see everything now. The emotion of the prisoners panicking as the droids went to work on them was a bonfire to the Sith's senses, and the technology around him stood out stark to his sense of mechu-deru. In particular, the security droids caught his attention, and not simply because they were working their way in towards the center of the crowd of floating prisoners where Apothos was, but because they showed up strangely in his senses. Warped, in a way. Like someone had taken an oil image floating on water and stirred it around until only the barest distortion of a shape remained. Ah...so that was it. Smart. The prison had used the circuitry reinforced and specially made to resist mechu-deru. It made sense that a place like this had done their homework. Droids already were difficult to take over, and this rendered it near impossible. Of course, that didn't render Apothos helpless. His warped, shriveled, sickly gray body shivered and turned in midair, like some old, feeble beast waking from its sleep. A gnarled hand stretched out, almost casually, and pointed at the nearest droid approaching the center of the crowd of suspended prisoners. A thread of his will traced out from it. The hum of the droid's baton got louder. Confused, as this was not something it had experienced before nor was it in its operating protocols, it held up the baton for inspection. Then the baton exploded. The blast shattered the deterrent device, sending several pieces of shrapnel into nearby prisoners, their sharp explosions of pain like fireworks to Apothos' Dark Sight. The droid itself, mere inches from the epicenter of the blast, jerked back violently, its feet still firmly locked to the floor. As it struggled to rise back up (tough machine), its eyes flickered, and Apothos could sense that it was blind, the blast having knocked some connection loose in its photoreceptors. His crooked finger drifted to another droid. With a clunk, the droid's feet came off the floor, its maglocks deactivated. It waved its arms and legs uselessly in the air, Yes, these droids were resistant to his control. But a machine was a machine, and there was only so much you could do to protect from a simple change. Like increasing the power flow, or cutting a circuit to a hard-wired function. Apothos saw the spirits before anyone else. For a moment, he was confused. These were beacons that radiated pain and anguish, but they were wrong somehow. Not quite there, like a sound just at the edge of your hearing. The prisoners renewed screams when they entered the room clarified what Apothos had begun to suspect. Spirits. The chill in the air, that faint sense of malice at the edge of his mind. Inmortos was here. And he'd sent a gift. The spirits tore through the crowd of prisoners, making a beeline for Apothos, somehow sensing his potential power and (like all weak fools) wanting it for their own. A trio of them entered into his body, wracking him with pain and bitter cold. Apothos moaned, the sound resembling nothing so much as a death rattle. However, if he was a frail, wizened wreck on the outside, he was a thunderstorm on the inside. The spirits howled in rage and confusion as Apothos grasped them with his mind and tore at them, piece by piece, his spirit holding them with bands of lightning-charged iron. This was not the first time he'd dealt with spirits. His trial to earn the title of Sith Lord had been over a contest such as this, and these spirits were far from being as numerous or as malicious as those dread souls had been. He took his time tearing them apart, relishing their anger, then their fear, and then their panic. Like animals caught in a trash compactor, they struggled to escape the trap they'd thrown themselves into. Then they weren't anything anymore. The other spirits peeled away from Apothos, sensing what had happened and moving to easier prey. Fine. They could have the meat. Apothos wanted the metal. With a gesture, the security droid drifting through the air was ripped from its place and sent cartwheeling through the crowd of floating prisoners to collide with a crash into the malfunctioning blind droid still recovering from the explosion of its weapon. The two were caught up in a tangle of metal limbs, and struggled to extricate themselves from each other. Then the floating droid was drawn back by the invisible force again, and then promptly slammed into the blind droid. Like a child banging toy blocks into each other, Apothos smashed the droids into each other in a cacophony of crunching metal and sparking circuits. Their heads deformed under the repeated impacts, their bodies bent and buckled. Then, finally, with a whine of servos powering down, the droids stopped functioning all together. Apothos smiled. Apparently, the other security droids had finally identified him as the threat. Perhaps it shouldn't have taken so long, but to their eyes he was nothing but a crippled neimoidian floating in the air, twitching his fingers. Apothos sensed one line up a targeting lock, the coded confirmations of the droid's weapon systems sounding out in his brain like the ding ding of tiny bells. With a gesture, Apothos telekinetically shoved the droid's arm aside as it fired, and its rounds of blaster bolts lanced through the crowd of prisoners, wide of their intended target. With a closing of his fist, the blaster stopped firing, power suddenly cut as a peculiar power drain emptied its capacitors. Apothos's fingers danced like a conductor's. Droids everywhere across the room suddenly began disconnecting from the floor, their maglocks mysteriously failing. Garbled garbage code flooded the minds of others, slowing their movements to a crawl as their processors fought not to drown under the sudden barrage. Some droids fired, only to find their blasters had been dialed down to below training level intensity, barely stinging the prisoners they hit. As for the two Apothos had destroyed, he spared them a few thoughts, weaving the spell he needed and filling it with his will before returning to his work. The mangled bodies, devoid of any controlling intelligence to resist him, began to warp and bend. Metal twisted and reshaped itself, circuits tore away and realigned, and cables split and reattached in new, unfamiliar configurations. The droids kept coming, and Apothos was struggling to keep up with them. He couldn't take them down permanently, they were too tough and too well protected for that. His little malfunctions were working well, but when numbers overwhelmed him, he'd be forced to take more direct action. As he worked, his creation of the two destroyed droids began to take shape. A crude throne, with maglocked droid legs holding it firm to the ground.

For the first time in many years, Slaughter was forced to ride a Lambda-class shuttle. There was no way to conveniently lift a wheelchair into his favored LAAT/i. He closed his eyes during the descent to Ylesia, trying to feel… anything. Not in his legs–those were completely numb–but some vibration in the deckplates, turbulence from the notoriously foul Ylesian weather, some reassurance that he was actually in a military transport designed for speed and maneuver, rather than a passenger on a flying pillow. Nothing. He hated the damned shuttle. He had a suspicion that the pilots were deliberately trying to avoid discomforting their passenger with turbulence by taking a circuitous route towards the groundside landing pads. Slaughter tried to not dwell on that unintended slight. There were too many other matters that needed his attention: how to seize the initiative from the Sith Empire after their disastrous “victory” over Nar Shaddaa, this new self-described viceroy of a new self-proclaimed Galactic Alliance, the dwindling survivors of the republic that he had sworn to defend. The shuttle finally gave a light jostle. A muffled whirr of servos and clank of the boarding ramp against duracrete identified that minor jolt as the shuttle settling on the ground. He held a hand up when Master Healer Zal moved to wheel him away; he would show up to this war council on his own power, even if he was late and red-faced and sweaty from the effort. ___________ He was not late. Admiral Slaughter’s reputation for punctuality and dignity remained untarnished–which was to say that he wheeled in almost exactly the moment that the council began, red-faced, and moist from a mixture of a scattered mist and his own sweat. His appearance, rolling in at roughly the level of the waist of most of the attendees, was exactly as shocking as he had hoped. He recognized one of the bodyguards despite the shadows of the warehouse; the man, a former Republic Talon, gave only the slightest hint of reaction with the widening of his eyes. Slaughter’s hazel eyes drifted away from his old comrade and towards the other commanders who had been summoned to this unlikely warehouse. Of all of them, the only one that he might have known was Admiral Pilon–or perhaps that was another one of the Imperials, from the state dinner at that restaurant in the Upper Levels. Force, even thinking about that made him feel old. He couldn’t even remember the name of the place. It was almost certainly rubble at this point. Slaughter saluted in the Republican fashion, palm facing outwards, and listened. And listened. And tried to ignore the eyes from the unfamiliar Kaleesh. “Very well. Viceroy.” A speech threatened to bubble up to his lips, he managed to hold the temptation until, at last, the former Moff became silent. “Trying to remember the word for what the Sith accomplished at Nar Shaddaa.” His rhetorical abilities left something to be desired. Those were the benefits of an education focused almost entirely on the practical rather than anything approaching the classics. “In order to claim victory in their campaign, they needed to destroy the ability of the Rebel Alliance to make war–decapitate its leadership, inflict irreplaceable losses. They accomplished neither. We’re proof of that. What the galaxy saw when the Sith raped Nar Shaddaa was that we fought them to a standstill–that they wasted the best of their forces on a moon of secondary importance–that they surrendered the space to us.” Slaughter leaned forward, forgetting that his newly-formed abdominal muscles and lifeless legs weren’t quite to the task of keeping him upright. A hand from the Jedi Healer at his side pushed gently against the Admiral’s sternum to force him back into his wheelchair. “The phrase is pyrrhic victory, Admiral.” The Barabel Jedi Master whispered–snarled, really–into his ear. “Pyrrhic victory! Yes." Slaughter's heavy fist slammed the surface of the table. "This is a time for aggression if there ever was one. If we declare our survival to the galaxy–our ascension–the Sith will have significant difficulty maintaining their hold on the population centers of the galaxy. Even more so when our ships enter their systems. At this moment, their empire is wounded and brittle.”

In a whirlwind of activity, Keenava was swept to a completely different planet; one that kind of reminded her of Ryloth. But this planet was a blur. Brown robes, white robes, uniforms, triage units, screaming, pain, fear, and death. Were Keenava tapped into the vitriol of her emotions as she’d been so many times before, she’d have doubled over in a fit as soon as they touched down. As it was, Keenava’s full purple eyes welled quietly. Silent tears kissed her cheeks as emotion built to a crescendo around her. Without sharing their stories, or looking into that mysterious well of cosmic energy that touched all living things, she could feel the ebb and flow of everything crash together like a hellish white water rapid, careening through the valley. This is what the Sith conveniently ignored. They claimed to understand pain, and how to harness misery, but all they did was spread both. Pain begets pain, misery begets misery, and cruelty begets more cruelty. That’s how they build their numbers. They ruin people until there is nothing left but to fight. Even that first night, the night when it all began, his words were nothing but pandering. His wolfish golden eyes feigned illusions of strength, and led her from one pair of shackles to the next. Only now – ironically – standing parsecs away from anyone who knew her as a slave or as a monster, away from anyone that preached personal independence and liberation, did she feel any type of freedom. Leena did mean well, but would I be welcome here in this place? Would people so easily accept me even changed as I am? Before she could get an answer to that or other questions however, Ruin galumphed in a direction, drawing attention as he went through the throngs of battle fatigued masses. Keenava was half tempted to flee the other direction - the base of her hand firmly planted in the center of her bare forehead - lest her cover be blown so completely. But if she were to show trust in the process - foolish though it may be with this loud display - she needed to go all in. The Twi'lekk sighed audibly and tripped a little, keeping pace with the bot as it wove through the crowd. She had to fight to keep the poncho and her other makeshift garments from showing too much to anyone that passed by. But the accelerated pace and the unceremonious sentiment created several moments where her makeshift outfit did not conceal everything. And then, as quickly as he took off, the droid stopped in front of two individuals. One was a very young-looking... Nautolan? that stood a little shorter than Keenava did. And the other one, was a sandy blonde young woman who was even shorter. It was clear that the young woman was a little more experienced, due to the way she stood and her body language, not to mention the wide-eyed wonder in the Nautolan's eyes. It would be kind of cute if he wasn't in the middle of a river of chaos. Before Keenava could introduce herself, Ruin not only blurted out the word Sith, but also implied that she was a former enemy. Yes, because it was really smart to just announce that to a bunch of battle weary people while Keenava was barely clothed and posed absolutely no threat. This was probably the first time that Keenava had felt embarrassed. And it had nothing to do with the garments that were too lose to be worn properly. Her obsidian face reddened a little and paled a shade or two as her expression shifted into a very awkward smile and was accompanied by a matching awkward wave. "H-hhey... How are you?"

The battle, if you could call it that, turned sour faster than milk under Tattooine’s hot suns. The furious blows of Shard turned into frantic deflections and blockings. There was no style in the Shard’s form. No etiquette. No technique. Just instinct and emotion, and hardly anything of substance. Solus’ own emotions were palpable under the woman’s words. As strange as she was, her presence carried power over the Shard. He did not know her, but he knew of her. He did not recognise her, nor understand her being. But he knew her, in the only way that an abhorrent descendant knew their twisted ancestor. Finally, the woman’s words struck at the Shard’s inner fear. Failure. He had failed too many times to be anything more than what he was. He had failed over and over in his time since his ascension. He didn’t kill Tear. He tamed the demented hound, dooming it to a life of servitude. He had not navigated the Naboo Abyss properly. He had been swallowed by it’s passageways of darkness and danger. He had not killed a single Jedi on Nar Shaddaa, nor even a single foe. He had been slain by the enemy of his fearless deity. This life, he had so proudly declared, was nothing more than failure, and this being knew it, even as she drove her blade in for the killing strike. It was this moment, in cold realization and terror as the woman’s blade stabbed the robotic heart that held the chassis, that Immortos’ power from the Baptism of Blood touched the Shard once more. The moment of the Aaris III returned in full force. In that time on Aaris, Solus had become something else briefly. A beacon for something incomprehensible and foreign by all senses known to mortals and deities alike. For things that In the vast stretches of space dwelled. Things that were aeonian and exotic. It was these unnameable things and horrors, in this moment of madness and terror, that rushed into the Shard’s moment of weakness. The lightsaber that plunged into the Shard was shot back. Following it, an eruption of flesh blasted outwards. Fat, veiny, pulsating flesh of unknown monsters, churning with gristle and bone flooded at the apparition of the woman, and everything around the Shard. It mattered not where it came from. The Force, and all of its dark intricacies, did not care for the laws of physics or conservation in this world of the esoteric and the arcane. What mattered was the willpower of those who, as Lord Roshan had said, ‘were conduits of the Force’. This flood of meat and gristle, did not slow as it consumed the dark apparition. It flooded the entire area. The entire area, nothing more then the dark side trying to consume something alive, was subjective to the devouring nature of this meaty storm. The dark side would feed on the dark side, like a hunting parasite would feed on a dying predator. Even if only in turn the nameless horror that consumed Solus’ soul would feed the darkness that dwelled in this place. It was fueled by the Shard’s rush of emotions, and its envy was still its strongest one yet. Envy desired what others had. It desired what it could not have, and would destroy it. This thing used a mask of flesh. And so, a flesh mask for the Shard would be fitting. In the flood, the meat returned to its source, coating and forming over the Shard’s chassis. Though nothing more than illusionary, it sought to give Solus something it lacked. Skin flayed itself, revealing blood and tissue, which in turn boiled and burned itself to a hardened, thin layer of scab-like skin. It was nothing more then an illusion at its crudest. It provided nothing more then a cosmetic change in appearance But even the appearance of fat occasionally bubbling with invisible heat, and tendons throbbing with black blood, spoke levels of terror to those who saw it. Solus, back in his original form, but now with that illusionary covering of false meat, looked around in shock. The nameless horror he had just witnessed refused to cling to his soul completely. Much like a waking nightmare, it seemed to escape his memory. Only the feeling, and the knowledge that it had existed, still remained. Having defeated the apparition, Solus moved forward through the dark tunnels. The sounds of battle were ringing out somewhere. Blade still in hand, Solus rushed forward.

“Shuburoth…” Solus repeated the name slowly, its sound echoing over and over. It was like something from an old memory hidden inside of a dream. It was familiar but distant. Something from before. Even as Solus tried to put a finger on the name, unable to precisely place it, the feeling from the name alone rang true. And that made him nervous. Her drawing of her blade was met with his own. Instinct had kicked in. This Sith’s otherworldliness drew out his battle-lust, despite the dream-like state he felt himself in. Or was the battle-lust drawn because of it? “I am neither…” Solus started, reading himself into a battle position. He couldn’t draw himself away from this woman. This thing. This…what was this? It called to him and he was answering it in the only way he knew. “I am Solus. I am the Dragon. The… Ascended!” Solus sensors flashed from yellow to red. Even as the scene had changed around him, he felt like he had changed with it. The idea of being a servant affected the Shard. The Force began to ripple. His body morphed and bent over itself and expanded with heat. It was no longer that chassis of the EV-series, nor was it that custom chassis made by the sorcerers of Bragsanu. It was that of the Hutt Security droid. It was the chassis of a slave and an infant. Somewhere, Solus could hear the music of Korriban beat out as he slithered and charged forward, blade ignited in hand and brought down. He was not a servant. He couldn’t be. But he wasn’t a master either. He had no planet to destroy like the necromancer. No apprentice like Akheron. He had no family like Roshan or his Shardmates. He had nothing but himself. “I am not a servant!” Solus roared, nothing more than a child’s cry of denial. With a desperate and scared fury, Solus began to bring his lightsaber down on this woman.

“You speak of breaking chains, but I see no truth in the statement. These chains bind you still. Even as you kill me they tighten. I know you have heard the platitudes before. I care not for such things, but I look at you and I see a dead man where a live one should walk.” Dig your grave beside mine Lord Mavanger, for you have come so far and have never varied off your destructive course. Even with the many signposts and warnings. So heed me now. There is always repentance and there is always absolution. But you must be the one to choose such a path. Your soul is in your keeping alone. Blame cannot be laid at the feet of Emperors past and present. On shadows, on lost loves, or unbroken chains. That was the mistake of the Jedi of our childhoods.” Her hand touched her own chest, trembling slightly as a finger brushed the wretched knife still buried there. Where blood seeped like oil into the black cloth of her dress uniform. Everything felt distant. Her senses narrowing to fine points like the closing of a theater curtain. "They made their ‘hard choices’ and they blamed those that they killed. They blamed their situations, they blamed orders from above. But they never stopped. No, they were proud of their victory. And in that pride they planted the seeds of Onderon, of Coruscant, of here. But they redeemed themselves in the end. Through toil and forgiveness, work and love. And even as my knights and theirs lay in their own coffins, the tide turns in their favour. Planned or not, your empress’s time is at an end. And you are cast aside like a spent blaster cartridge." Her hand fell back to her side. And she did not have the strength to lift it again. She struggled with a bloody smile and her large eyes stared into his. “Your chains lie within yourself. As mine once did. And there is only one remedy.” She smiled again and was gone.

Aidan respected Sandy's command of the Force, but as attuned as he was to her he could mostly tell what she was doing just by the feeling. Tricking minds by making them all actively not want to recognize something without giving the effect away obviously was a monumental feat of finesse and willpower. He'd never really measured himself against her before. When she made master he'd subconsciously brushed it off as several others had done as it being a promotion of necessity rather than skill. For some reason Aidan wanted to hold on to the hope of the idea that they were equals; but now? This kind of skill was beyond him, and he knew it. Though he buried them deep, new thoughts were sown inside his mind: fear and awe over her rapid progression in her skill with the Force, and curiosity and mild fear of the unknown over what it meant as it related and reflected back onto him. So to get his mind off things, he instead started talking to his grandmother. "Gramma … I may have lied a bit back there. The truth is, I'm not a hundred percent sure if I like who I am. I'm also still not sure of who I want to be, even though I really feel like I should by now. I've made mistakes, and I don't know if some of them will simply permanently hang over me forever from now on. Mom's probably still going to be a bit pissed at me for even getting into this situation when we get back, not to mention that she may have had to throw around political threats, and you know how she loathes politics." He shifted the topic a bit at the end, away from himself and his last few grains of uncertainty over himself. "But the truth is, I do like who I am now and where I am. And I also fully acknowledge, again, all the people who got me here." This time his gaze shifted slightly to Sandy, who was still focused on her use of the Force. "I guess...I just don't want you to regret any hard choices I know you've made. I heard that in your voice back there. One of the only things that still keeps me going despite intimately knowing my flaws is knowing that I still matter flaws and all to a lot of people, and without those flaws I would be a completely different person. It's still so hard for me to accept that as a part of myself, but if I don't, then the darkness takes me and it all winds up being for nothing anyway. I know I want my life to matter; yours already did whether you can see it in each and every little crack and crevice or not." There was a brief pause as Aidan processed what he'd just said and made a quick realization. "And, uhh, I'm not trying to be condescending or anything, I know you're a full blood Miraluka so maybe you had some Force training and have already heard this and..." Another brief pause, before a large exhale. "You know what? I'm probably just overthinking all this." And with that, Aidan stopped talking, focusing more on helping Misal navigate the rougher terrain.

...Come away little lamb come away to the slaughter… Amidst the rolling howls, beating of feet and armor, a deamon moved in shadow. The rippling heat of a thousand bodies fueled its madness. Symbols of blood were painted upon naked flesh, the bereft clans dedicating the coming war to Kad Ha’Rangir. There was such glee in it all, the shadows twisting around firelight, playing across beskar’gam, reflecting deep crimson in the night. It was chaos, yet channeled towards one goal. The brotherhood of those who stand as a bulwark against a great enemy, to revel in blood and death until none remained. Each warrior knew their days were numbered, as did their leader. It was her, Mand’alor the Bloody, who stood at the heart of it all, dancing about the fyre, shrieking into the rhythmic night. Her voice cut into the drums, attuning them to her rhythm “Oh you tasters of blood, you raven-winged and wolf-skinned…” The dancing increased its ferocity. The stamping of feet seemed to shake the very world. The crimson, dilated eyes of the naked Mandalore, clothed in not but scars and symbols took in the cloaked figure in their midst. Her lips twisted into a smile, exposing too-dark teeth, dripping with blood “Who will wade into battle and bear the broken shield and bloody spear?” Rage-Howls answered, and Terra stepped into the thrashing maze to grab the girl about her waist, pressing into her hands the rough-hewn cup, whet once more with its bloody philter. A whistling cry from above and the twin jai'galaar began to circle them both. A wider smile, frantic and dripping crimson met the Queen’s eyes. Her voice held an annatural rage, as if driven by demon within “And who shall destroy the Sith?” Every voice broke into the cry of the jai'galaar, that shriek-hawk and symbol of Kad Ha’Rangir. The gods were with them, so spoke the omens

Cassius awaited patiently for any type of response. His thoughts remaining focused on meeting his new Jedi Master, trying to ignore everything around him, but this proved to be quite the mishap. A voice, very close to him and with an odd accent, said his name. Cassius jerked his head around and was met with quite the imposing, and honestly given the circumstances, frightening man. A cybernetic eye, obviously focused solely on Cassius, scanned him up and down. The noises it made were unsettling but the way it moved made it even worse. Close by, a group of stormtroopers put him even at an even greater sense of unease. Five minutes was as long as he had been on this planet and already he was met with a situation that he had absolutely no idea how to respond to. "A world in chaos offers a lot of site seeing," Cassius immediately wondered why he had said that and why he had said it that way. Given the circumstances he should have been more frightened, but something inside of him told him to play it cool. Don't reveal too much and remain confident. That much had been drilled into his head all of his life. Fear lead to nothing but mistakes and he could not make a mistake, not now. "I also doubt the Empire has much interest in someone like me, and if so, they would be the first." He smiled politely and then glanced back at the stormtroopers that tagged along with him. The political landscape of the galaxy was complicated. Way more complicated than Cassius dared get involved in. From his best estimate, this guy was part of the Remnant, an ally to the Rebel Alliance. Not what Cassius would consider his cup of tea, but an ally no less, but he still did not know who this man was and would not reveal anything more than he needed to. If things went south, well, Cassius was out of luck. His combat skills were on par with where they needed to be but he was not even the best hand to hand fighter of his age group. The way this man carried himself he definitely figured if it came down to it then Cassius would be on the losing end. "I am not here to cause any trouble," Cassius finally uttered as he realized that considering that violence may come to pass was only a self fulfilling prophecy he did not want to be part of. "I am sure someone here can vouch for me." He attempted to make himself as unthreatening as possible. He kept his hands clearly visible, he did not make any sudden movements, and he maintained eye contact with the man in front of him. He made sure not to appear nervous so that he did not get the wrong idea. They were, after all, on the same side so he needed to play ball with him. @Nikolai Kolchak

She let her eyes wander over his extensive sketch of the proposed blade. It would be an interesting design, not something that she had seen before in her time as a Jedi Knight, but she had seen some Jedi and Imperial Knights use varied weaponry in the form of lightsabers. The famed Imperial Knight Kyrie had used a lightspear to great effect in the defense of Corellia. Laying low one of the Sith Emperor’s vanguard in single combat. A fight that was still much discussed even a year later. A fight that Vox himself had fought and nearly died at. She nodded slowly. “Then if the queen does not possess such a thing, then we must find one ourselves. Yavin I know has green gems suspended in its lower gas clouds.”

Kirlocca found himself moving almost aimlessly towards Raven. He could suddenly feel her almost calling out to him, but it was not without warning. The room seemed open, yet closed off all at the same time. For him, he knew for certain that he was allowed in, simply because Raven was allowing for him to be present. He knew he had the right room when an Admiral stepped out of the room and offered up a glance at him. Both immediately recognized each other, and both held a different facial expression upon seeing each other. For Admiral Beck Pilon, it was shock followed by a cocky smile. Kirlocca let his own expression be readable to the Admiral by pure surprise. He was certain that such a facial reaction would give the Admiral something to ponder for a few days. I'm surprised that he's still around, let alone that she kept him around... The thought faded as he stepped into the room, remaining quiet and let himself hide within the shadows for a moment. There was another Admiral speaking, rather downcasted towards the Jedi. His response to the Jedi Master seemed to be towards a young woman, but he didn't catch everything she said, nor was he certain on if what she said was the focal point. He choose instead to remain quiet and let the Admiral talk. As he stood, he listened, along with providing some quietness to Raven, as he could feel her emotions as the talks went back and forth. After the Admiral finished, he spoke first, alerting everyone to his own presence, followed by him stepping out of the shadows only after speaking. << And your stance is absolutely right. Jedi have never been trained to lead defenses of systems, be generals and take command. Our morals almost forbid it. We have no training to do any of this. And even as I say this, I am well aware that I myself have been at the forefront of almost every major battle that has taken place within my lifetime. Yet, by no one here, we have always been called on to act as such, helping to repel and defend worlds because we have the Force, and that seems to be enough for many Rebel generals. And whatever goodness may be tied to us isn't even strong enough to redeem the failures of the Jedi, as acting alone breaks to very nature of what it means to be Jedi. We have been acting outside of what we should, all because of some time ago the political game was tricked by a Sith. The Jedi were tricked as well, by the very same Sith. >> Kirlocca now unfolded his arms that he was unaware he had folded to begin with. His eyes darted from every single face within the room, resting a bit longer on Raven before continuing on. << Such uses of the Jedi as we are found guilty of are indeed worthy of governing, as it should be. But the Jedi should never be used in such a manner. That right is reserved for the Imperial Knights, whom I have always fully supported and wish to see them grow into a better branch for you. I would love to see the Imperial Knights grow into what you need them to be, governed fully by this council here. But know this, the Jedi are not governed in a sense that maybe you think. We act alongside, but no one outside of the Order is ever in a position to dictate what we do within our own walls. >> Kirlocca then let out a big breath and folded his arms again. << With such information, know that I do not speak for the entire Jedi Order. I am but a servant of the Council. And with that stance, I am here to help support you in whatever you may need. >>

I heard the visitors before I saw them. The crunching of underbrush signaled them as foreign to this world as I was, but it was the natives that gave me my real warning. Each of them tensed a full second before I'd even picked up the sounds of the approaching pair, and I watched one warrior adjust his grip on his spear while "casually" leaning against a wall. These people had been through a lot, and I certainly wasn't about to blame them for being jumpy. When the two emerged, my eyes immediately locked onto the droid. I'd like to say it was threat assessment or something impressive sound like that, but honestly it was just a lot of droid. Definitely Baktoid design, but not a model I recognized. I racked my brain, calling up fuzzy images from old history books, but I couldn't remember any Trade Federation droid that had looked like it had been built around the skeleton of an abyssin bodybuilder. I briefly glanced and then did a double take at the very recognizable frame of the buzz droid with the big guy, and my breath caught for a second. You go through one bad job with a couple of those little chittering monsters crawling all over you with their saws whining will make anyone nervous. I've punched people who tell me they're "harmless". Or worse, "cute". The other one was a warrior. I could tell before his face even registered. The armor, the stride, the posture, all of it screamed veteran. Then I recognized the armor, and took a closer look. An Imperial Knight out here, working with the Jedi. Mix in the droid duo and myself, and this was turning into a pretty eclectic group. I stayed silent but kept my eyes steady as they approached. An accountant I'd once hunted who'd had a very impressive vocabulary (but not the common sense to not get caught embezzling company funds from his personal computer) had called me "phlegmatic", "laconic", and "taciturn". At the time I hadn't understood what those words meant. Echani don't talk much as a principle, and impromptu freighter crew families tend to teach a whole different kind of vocabulary. After I'd looked them up, I'd learned they were all just fancy ways of saying I don't talk much. And...I don't. Maybe Lady Tajara and the Echani way of life rubbed off on me more than I thought, but I always saw talking as kind of like fighting. You don't get points for fancy flourishes, or how fast you can flurry-punch the air before you get down to business. Its about getting the job done, and doing it right. If two words can do what 20 words can, then why waste your breath? Plus it helped sell the whole "stoic" thing, and branding is important in any commission business. I pulled out a cigarra and lit it up, taking a few puffs to steady myself before responding to the pair. "Leena's this way." I started walking away. "Also, I'm your pilot."

The landing of the transport in the Felucian jungle was uneventful. The two droids exited the ship quietly, taking on a brunt of last minute stares before the ship closed itself up and left for other parts of the galaxy. Ruin glanced at the leaving ship once then turned his attention to the jungles around him. “Lots of guts. No guns.” Ruin commented. Fera seemed to nod at this. The people here were still repairing and rebuilding from the Sith attack. People were dismantling wrecked buildings. Soldiers were carrying wounded. Despite the time that had passed, healing for the planet was still needed. But contrary to the pain and destruction that could be seen, the planet was still very alive. “I suggest we find the healer named Kil and carry on with the…” Ruin didn’t listen. A sound had gotten his attention. The pounding of metal fists into wood and debris. Ruin stepped towards where the sound was coming from. Despite all of his weapons holstered, the people who could see the droid couldn’t help but imagine he was ready to attack something. Fera gave what sounded like a sigh and followed, crawling up to his usual shoulder mount. As part of allowing Ruin to become autonomous, he had to be allowed to choose his own path towards his own goals. All Fera could do was advise and guide, and hopefully protect. Ruin came to a stop. A short distance away, the source of the noise was visible. A young humanoid female, with cybernetic arms, was making short work of the debris before her with said arms. After a brief look, Ruin approached. A nearby soldier saw Ruin and went off to notify the people in charge, including the Jedi healer who was busy with the wounded. Ruin came to a stop before the female. Fera gave a few chirps and buzzings, in a cheap imitation of a cough. “Attention undisclosed female. This semi-independent droid is designation B5-87, codename: RUIN. My designation is F5-18-1. Codename: FERA. We are searching for…” “Killer healer. We are looking for a killer healer. And Sith. Got to kill Sith. You got good arms. Good to kill Sith.” At this, Ruin gave a nod towards the female’s arms." “Yes…” Fera continued. “We are looking for Healer Kill. Would you be able to assist us?”

“Sir I don’t think that…” the cadet spoke out. He was met with a gentle shove to the side as Ruin stepped by, not slowing down for a moment. “Got to go. Time is right. Make my entrance.” “I have already programmed the coordinates for the pod. Simply start the launch sequence and we can begin. Everyone else who has expressed a desire to follow us will be inside or have decided their own route of entrance” Fera buzzed from inside the already cramped escape pod. “I really must protest this…” The cadet tried interrupting again, raising a hand as if to make a point. Ruin placed both hands on the doorway to the pod and glanced at the cadet. The cadet silenced himself with a gulp, unsure what to say. After a moment, the human could only nod and give a forced smile and step back. With that done, Ruin strapped himself in and sealed the door. “Who’s ready? I’m ready. Who’s hungry? I’m hungry.” Ruin chanted a bit to himself. With three strokes on the keypad, the pod was released from the small transport ship and took off. The trip was short and relatively uneventful. During the entire time, Fera gave a countdown as well as several updates. “25 seconds to impact. I have been able to connect my long range sensors with that of the other members of the crew. 20 seconds. You and I are essentially able to communicate with them, and the fleet in general if necessary. 15 seconds.” “Brace and hold! Brace and hold!” Ruin shouted. The metal underneath his hands screeched as Ruin gripped the walls tightly. The entire pod rocked violently as it connected with a substance outside of itself. One particularly large indentation formed just above Fera sitting at Ruin’s feet. When the movement stopped, Ruin kicked open the damaged pod door. “Knock knock! Who’s there? I’m there! Hahaha! Guts and guns, guts and guns!” Ruin began to shout, jumping out of the pod and dashing forward with a maniacal energy, blaster pistol in hand and Fera on backside. With pulls of the trigger, Ruin opened fire on the people nearby. The shock of surprise combined with the blasts to the legs made them go down quickly. “Gotta move! Don’t stop moving! Show them who’s boss!” “Agreed. I am pinpointing the target location now.” Fera hung on tightly, being almost a permanent addition to Ruin’s backside. The two made their way towards their target. Klaxon alarms began to blare, as the realization that an attack was underway had been sounded. The entire way, there was only some resistance. Those that stood in the way and had guns drawn were shot in the legs or gut. Non-lethal but painful enough to stun. It was obvious the forces here were not expecting an attack, especially with one that began with an escape pod being launched into a non-hangar area. "Keep going! Who's the man? I'm the man! Guts and guns, guts and guns! Out of the way, I want guts and guns!" Ruin said as he ducked beneath a large man's arms attempt to hold the droid off. This was followed by a heavy shouldering and knocking to the side, with Ruin continuing his charge down hallway after hallway. "The control room should be up ahead. Security will be heavy there…" Fera announced as the two turned a corner. The command room layed open before them, surprisingly empty, save for the computer monitors, the chairs and tables, and the one lone figure. Ruin skidded to a halt. Even Fera’s buzzing silenced itself momentarily. The figure dwarfed the tall Ruin by several feet. Its green skin was barely visible beneath its shredded black robes and the numerous technological grafts over its whole body. Its face, left arm and legs were completely encased in black metal, and it bared a singular red glowing eye. “By order of the Sith Empire, you will cease your advancements and surrender. Failure will result in dismemberment” The thing spoke with a reverberating, artificial voice box. It followed this by producing a thick ebony vibro blade from its back, measuring at least a full meter from handle to blade tip. Ruin simply laughed. “You big! You got big guts! Gimme that! Gimme gimme gimme! “ And with that, Ruin lunged forward, firing away. _____________ Onboard the ship where the Admiral was, a holo pad came to life, revealing the form of Fera buzzing excitedly. In the background came the sounds and crashing and banging. The audio also transmitted over to the other forces in the area. @Skyshatter @Johanna Bryce “Admiral, the defenses have been temporarily shut down. However, security forces here are already attempting to bypass our work and lock us out of the system. If you wish to maintain a minimum casualty amount on your side, I would recommend attacking now.” The image broke momentarily as suddenly Fera was knocked aside. In its place were two bodies wrestling for control. Ruin’s robotic head and the Abyssin’s mechanically altered head were in the forefront. Just as quickly, the two vanished, rolled off the holo image, and was replaced with Fera again. “We have encountered some form of Sith force. Unsure on how many Sith there are here. If you wish to maintain control over the defensive capabilities of this place, I recommend to all forces to knock out the power core. We will continue to maintain control of the contro-” “Guts and Guns! Give me your guts and guns!” Ruin’s voice came from the background, followed by the tearing of flesh and a vocalized roar of pain. Then the transmission was cut short.

Code of Conduct JediRP.Net Foreword By playing in JediRP and engaging in the associated discord channels, you agree to abide by our Code of Conduct, detailed below. The goal of these rules, guidelines and principles is to foster a vibrant, collaborative, character-driven role-play environment with a welcoming and supportive community. The following is the first draft of a Code of Conduct for the growing community in the RP and OOC discord channels. Feedback is welcome, and encouraged. We will attempt to document major changes and maintain an effective record. Rules Observed and enforced. Characters & Setting Time period and technology. Our Stars Wars galaxy is highly influenced by Star Wars Legends. With regards to technology available to characters this is generally interpreted as anything derived from Canon/Legends besides Super-weapons. You may not play characters drawn from books, movies, TV or similar works to which you do not hold the copyright. You are allowed to play characters inspired by books, movies or TV or with comparable powers, but not characters directly lifted from those works or directly referencing specific elements of those copyrighted works. OOC Conduct Foster a pleasant environment. Treat others as you would expect to be treated. Snark and negativity lead to an unpleasant OOC environment, and such attitudes should be checked at the door. It is your responsibility as a member of the JediRP community to ensure that the channels of communication that are established remain a safe and welcoming atmosphere. If a newcomer has questions, do your best to provide a helpful answer or point them in the direction of someone who can. If they prove to be disruptive, offensive, or problematic, inform a moderator and try to remove yourself from the equation. Avoid being a keyboard vigilante. No OOC bigotry or discrimination. Expressly forbidden are sexism, racism, ableism, ageism, homophobia, transphobia. This list will be amended as other "-isms" are brought to our attention for inclusion. Those who make comments out of ignorance will be given an opportunity to pivot their conduct. Those who intentionally cross this line will be dealt with firmly. As we are playing a game which allows for taking on the roles of villains, bigotry may come up as a theme in some fictional characters. However, anyone found to be sheltering this kind of toxicity behind a veil of "roleplay" will be considered to be crossing the same line as listed above. Context is important. Do not assume anyone knows that you do not share the same opinions as your fictional characters. Be considerate. JediRP is home to a community of players with diverse backgrounds and sensibilities. If you are informed that an OOC conversation is making another player uncomfortable please respect their feelings and find something else to talk about. Racism, sexism, homophobia, stalking, harassment, or other abusive or discriminatory behavior will not be tolerated. Conflict resolution. The great majority of OOC conflict between players results from miscommunication rather than actual malice. Disagreements or differences of opinion between players should thus be addressed first with mutually respectful private conversation between the parties involved. Moderators can be called upon to provide neutral mediation if desired or it becomes necessary. Away for awhile? Let us know. Life always comes first. If something comes up which means you’re no longer able to participate in an ongoing story, let someone know! This allows the other players to work around your character’s absence rather than the story stalling and everyone being left in limbo. We're generally relieved to know we need to work around these situations instead of being left hanging, so never fear backlash over announcing your absence. IC Conduct Consent-based roleplay. Freeform roleplaying uses consensus between players to resolve conflict between characters, based on a single rule: The player generally has the final say on what happens to their character (except at the conclusion of a duel). Your character may attempt to perform actions upon another character, but it is up to the other player to decide what effect (if any) it might have. Likewise, other characters may attempt to perform actions upon your character, but the result is up to you. This doesn't mean you should disregard all attempted actions against your character or are allowed to god mode and break the roleplaying rules, rather you should never feel constantly pigeonholed into only one course of action that you're not keen on based on the controlling actions of someone else. If you have questions about this, reach out to a Moderator. Informed Consent is important. Perhaps the most important element to mutually satisfying experiences between roleplayers. Specific details do not always need to be discussed in advance of every interaction, but if everyone involved in a scene is on the same page as to what to expect for content and tone, then (theoretically) fewer issues with those narrative elements should arise. However, since risks are somewhat mitigated in a setting where we are each encouraged to collaborate intentions, informed consent is not necessarily a requirement to role-play interactions. After all, for some of us, the pleasure of a role-played scenario is not knowing in advance exactly what's going to take place, and having our character(s) react to it accordingly. To facilitate this, we recommend getting to know your audience before broaching a topic or subject matter which may be challenging. We all have different lived experiences and different levels of sensitivity and empathy. Some topics have very personal significance to some people, and their feelings as they pertain to those topics are important to consider. While one individual may have no limits to the fictional subject matter they are willing to participate in, it is important to remember that such limitlessness is not universal. Every complaint, concern, or issue expressed out-of-character related to in-character conduct should be given full due respect. Avoid OOC notations in IC forums. Please only make in-character posts in the IC forums unless necessary. All out-of-character comments or conversation should be directed to the appropriate forums or discord channels. Do not engage in any of the following behaviors: Godmodding (or GMing) is a term used to describe someone who consistently and flagrantly ignores, avoids, blocks or otherwise disregards actions taken against their character, often to the point of being effectively invulnerable. This makes things really boring. Power Gaming is a term used for someone who defines the outcome of an attack themselves without giving the other player an opportunity to react or evade. This is illegal per the roleplaying rules and will almost always result in a loss for any duel confrontations. Meta Gaming is a term used for the practice of basing IC actions on OOC knowledge. As a player you can access a lot of information there’s no way your character could know – board posts like character sheets, or conversations with other players. Having your character act on such privileged information is strongly frowned upon unless there is a plausible way they could have known about it. Moderators will review these cases carefully, and produce judgment case-by-case. “Mature” vs. “Explicit”. Roleplay in JediRP can and will touch upon mature themes. Characters are free to use adult language, engage in physical relationships, or commit acts of violence, but we expect our players to exercise restraint in how such subjects are portrayed. Graphic violence and sexually explicit content are not appropriate on any of our channels or forums. As a rule of thumb, aim for a PG-13 rating. When in doubt, fade to black and allude to something happening rather than use explicit detail. Guidelines The following is not strictly enforced, but review and adherence is strongly encouraged. Good RP Habits Turn order. Whoever posts first goes first, whoever posts second goes second and so on; once established this turn order is maintained for the rest of the scene unless otherwise agreed. An easy way to keep track is to remember who posted immediately before you – if they’re the last player to have posted then it’s your turn again. If there are a lot of characters active in the forum at once, it is usually decided beforehand and a turn order is pre-organized (definitely encouraged). Keep in mind: this turns into an enforced rule in any hostile scenario, e.g. duels. Post length. We do not impose strict limits on post length, but recommend that you try to keep IC posts in the general region of two to three paragraphs (that’s about 160-240 words or 800-1200 characters), with priority given to what your character does and says, since those are the main things to which other characters can react. If in doubt, ask. Is it my turn? Is this allowed? What’s going on IC? Where’s everyone standing? What does that character look like? If you find yourself uncertain or confused, the easiest solution is to ask for clarification. Communication is always key. Create opportunities for others. Roleplaying is above all a collaborative exercise, in which each player contributes not only to their own enjoyment but also that of their RP partners. The enjoyment you get from RP often directly relates to the amount of effort you make to include other players. A good principle to bear in mind is that every interaction should promote further interactions. Try to include hooks that will encourage both player and character interest and give them something to incorporate into their own roleplay. Give other players reasons and opportunities for their character to engage with yours. Pay attention to the mood. Different players have different tastes – some enjoy tense, emotionally-fraught drama; others prefer a lighter or more whimsical style of play. Just as grim menace might not suit a scene of playful banter, slapstick antics might not be appropriate when characters are engaged in deep soul-searching or bitter confrontation. Please be mindful of the tone of play when you join an ongoing scene – and if in doubt, ask the players involved. Respect the setting. While it may be exciting to wreak havoc, please refrain from constantly having your character casually murder NPCs or engage in wanton destruction of the setting just to demonstrate how dangerous they are. If you feel that incorporating such elements are necessary to develop a plot, please communicate these things with others that are involved and find compromise. Principles Things to bear in mind while playing. Actions have consequences. Player characters do not exist in a vacuum, and NPCs are not passive cardboard cutouts. If your character engages in egregious acts of violence or criminality the setting will push back against them. A character who consistently evades IC consequences to an implausible or unreasonable extent may be considered to be godmodding and will be dealt with accordingly by the Moderators. The Force is not always a solution. Conflict and the struggle against adversity are vital for interesting stories. While it can be tempting for a force-using character to apply their powers to every obstacle they face, blanket-fixing those problems with the same application (and no downsides) is boring. Instead, maybe the force fixes one problem but causes a different one; maybe it exacts a cost upon the practitioner; maybe it has unpredictable or unreliable results that provide opportunity for further role-play. Moderators have authority, but we are all human and subject to mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes may result in an unfair judgement. Please remain polite if you ever feel the need to discuss something which you feel was done in error by a moderator. If you don't feel comfortable contacting the specific moderator in question, please reach out to any of them. These Moderators are volunteers, so while it's important not to feel like you can't discuss something, please bear in mind that a moderator is not professionally obligated. Reminder This is a growing document, and subject to change. Civil, informed, and rational discussion is encouraged as to ensure the best possible standards are met. However, if you find yourself continuously at odds with the rest of this community, I strongly recommend you perform some introspection as to whether or not this is the appropriate community for you to be involved with. Our intention is to have a large and diverse group of people role-playing in as harmonious a gathering as possible, but we acknowledge such an intent is more dream than likely reality. Tempered expectations can do wonders for everyone.