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  1. 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?"
    5 points
  2. 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.
    5 points
  3. 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.
    4 points
  4. 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.
    4 points
  5. 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?”
    4 points
  6. “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.
    4 points
  7. 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.
    4 points
  8. 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.”
    4 points
  9. 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
    4 points
  10. 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?”
    3 points
  11. Bernon Mrrgwharr had finally finished fighting, but there were more things it seemed he needed to attend. His Sith Master was gone for now, and he would look after the place alongside the other Sith until he returned. His secondary Sith Master Darth Akheron had an insubordinate Apprentice to deal with. He should follow him and watch, he thought. After all, he would learn from both of these Sith during the encounter. He sheathed his Limnal Blade and followed Darth Akheron, and while he did not know if Darth Dictum would follow or not, it didn't matter to him. If he chose to learn from this than good for him, or perhaps he had nothing to learn, whatever the case, he was his own man, and Bernon was focused on his own training, not Darth Dictum's. He followed Darth Akheron until he stopped near his Apprentice. The Apprentice Solus was formidable, and it was possible he would fight his Master. However, he figured that it would be a lesson for Solus, rather than a victory. If he planned to fight a Master Sith Warrior in single combat whenever he was an Apprentice Sith Assassin, it was unlikely that he would find victory. However, he never knew what the Droid-Sith was capable of. He chose to stay silent during the encounter, this was not something he should intervene in, unless ordered to do otherwise. He watched as his secondary Master spoke to his Apprentice, and he waited to see what would happen during this encounter. While he waited and watched he also thought to himself, as he often did. He began to wonder if his Master had approved of his prowess in battle against the spirits. It should never be too hard for a Sith to fight undead spirits, however, he was an Apprentice, and he tested his blade against theirs. He could only hope that his Master approved of the way he fought, and his success in battle. He had been hit during the battle, however, he was still learning, and he would make sure that he did not repeat those mistakes once more. He would contemplate on his failures and his successes, because if he didn't, he would not be able to improve, and he would repeat those failures again. He hadn't been paying attention too much to it recently, given all that had been going on. However, now that he was less distracted, he began to notice the cold temperatures here. It was slightly uncomfortable, but he was tough and hardy, it didn't cause much of a problem for Apprentice Bern. He began to also contemplate on his transitions to becoming a Sith. He started out as a mere man, trained in the art of a mercenary. However, he had found out about his Force Sensitivity, and he had, unlike many, chosen the path of true power, the Sith. His ideals and personality fit in with them. He had transitioned not just mentally in the knowledge he gained from the Dark Book. He had also transitioned physically. If someone who knew him before looked at him now, he would be unrecognizable except for his formidable physical strength and size. Everything from his eye color to his skin coloration to his hairstyle had changed. It truly showed that he was no longer just Bernon Mrrgwharr the man. He was Bernon Mrrgwharr the Sith, and he allowed himself to feel pride for that.
    3 points
  12. At the words of the woman, the Wookiee bowed his head once more. He acknowledged the responsibility that they now undertook. As caretakers and stewards of a galaxy long broken, it was their responsibility now to foster the growth and health of the world as the galaxy tended its wounds. He stood, bowing low to Master Kirlocca, speaking to him as he walked to join Sandy, "It was an honor to meet you, Master. I look forward to learning from you in the coming times. May the Force be with you." He then turned to Sandy, looking down to her as his mind raced. An opportunity was afoot. An opportunity to put his skills to good use throughout the galaxy, creating a meaningful and profound impact and acquiring no short order of knowledge from an esteemed Master to boot. "It would be an honor to join you, Master Sarna."
    3 points
  13. Sandy reached out and picked up the berry from the palm of the Tree Carer. It was large and a distinct grey yellow, but she did not hesitate to place it in her mouth and its taste was refreshing. She smiled and looked back at the two wookiees. She had something decidedly clever to say, but it was lost with the crackle of Kirlocca’s comm link. She leaned back against the wall and let her eyes flutter closed. Her voice was soft as she spoke to Kerriwarr, she wanted to learn more about him and his people, but for now there was something she needed to do. “The Grandmaster calls for our aid to banish this darkness. Though I do not wish to ask you for more of your help, if you can but observe us both, there may be much to learn.” The silent offer was there, if he wished he could delve further into the force as he knew it, or sit and observe the two Jedi Masters, such as they were after their fight, and attempt to aid the grandmaster from afar. Her voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper as she spoke. “First we must find our centre amongst the turbulence.” Death, destruction, violence. All of it sang out in the force in a horrendous cacophony of sound and feeling. The Darkside spoke through such violence, and she could sense its familiar voice amongst the whirlwind of the planet. It spoke through the actions of many sentients on this planet, though it spoke mainly temple and the fountains of blood that had been spilled upon its alters. It would take many years she knew before the last vestiges of that darkness were washed away. But that was a mission for another time, and she breathed in a breath of fresh air. Darkness would not hold to her, she had confronted it many years before, and joy, love, and peace would displace the malevolence that clung to this planet. “Find your cornerstone.” Those long nights now turned to day. She found her assurance. She found the source of her joy, that justice that would be poured out on this world like perfume from a bottle. “And push back against the dark” Like wax would shrivel and melt before a wall of flame, so would the creatures of darkness. She had buried their leader, and this world would be free. She could feel the bright hot presence of Kirlocca and Kerriwarr, of Leena her friend, and the new bright light of dear Keenava. Also shone forth the bright presences of the Sovereign Knights, and beside them her old and dear friend Kyrie Eleison. Her presence brushed against theirs and together she knew that they would overcome the darkness that infested this place.
    3 points
  14. “And so, when the stranger woke again, he walked into lost In-ho-tho-ta…” Solus continued his reciting as snow and ash blew about the Shard’s chassis. He had long since lost track of time, lost in the conjuring of stories he had been in. “And at In-ho-tho-ta, the stranger found all manner of beings walking and talking, but they all ignored him, like the lesser thing he was. For in his time, he had not grown fully.” Solus paused as he felt energy from the world swirl somewhere. This world clouded his senses terribly. He could still sense his master’s presence, but he could not tell where. Like a compass with a million magnetic poles to track, Solus was unable to mark a bearing for where his master was. “And so the stranger walked past In-ho-tho-ta, until he came upon the bony plains. And there, the whispering grew, until he found that which spoke in his dreams. That thing, that terrible visage of scales and bones and flesh and void…” “Beosta…” Solus stopped and looked around. Nothing greeted him but snow and wind and ash. The voice that had called out was barely a whisper, but it had been there. The very air had grown still around the Shard. Solus studied the area, and recognised it. So he continued. “...and so that thing spoke to the stranger, asking him his desires. And the stranger gave them. And that thing, in its burbling madness, began to promise those desires…” “EMLESH BEOSTA!” The Shard stumbled as the ground beneath him shook with the voice’s shout. The voice had become a storm in of itself, demanding attention. Abovehead, invisible clouds swirled. Madness began to trickle through the very air itself as the Shard looked up. Solus began to shake. There in the sky, where once were stars, numerous predatory eyes looked down. Where there used to be clouds, Solus saw tendrils descending around the world. Where there once was gentle blowings of the wind, there was now the unbearable weight of grating flutes. Where there once was void, there was The Spider… “Not…real…” Solus stammered, trying to hold the Madness back. “Not re-” “Redneterp!” the voice boomed. The planet shook again and Solus was forced onto his back. “Htoa ruoy otni evig!” The Shard shook as the Spider’s eyes became more prominent in the sky. It’s breath blew the ash and snow around him away like dust before a human, revealing the burnt ground below. It’s legs clutched the planet in an attempt to break it apart like some helpless egg. "Retsam ruoy nommus! Beosta, eman ruoy mih evig dna!” Solus reacted accordingly. The Spider had commanded, and he would answer. He raised his hand and gestured to the shaking ground before him. The rock broke apart, and upwards the thing began to rise “BLOOD AND ICHOR WILL FLOW AGAIN! EFIL EMAN RUOY EVIG! EFIL TI EVIG!” All of Solus’ being was conjured up and driven to the thing that grew out of the ground. Envy was the first thing to flow from the Shard, but certainly not the only thing. From him came anger, unrest, fear, and grief. The rage against his master’s heresy. The fear of being alone forever. The grief of never being wanted by his original family. Everything Solus had experienced from his birth was conjured and brought forth, and thrown into the Madness. Fleshy hands crawled over themselves. Mouths gibbered and screeched with abandon. Luminescent eyeballs opened up and met the Spider’s gaze. Tendrils extended and flailed wildly, blistering in the freezing air. Carapacic, clawed legs finally broke through the ground, lifting the towering monstrosity upwards. Still, it did not stop. The fleshy tower began to float, and scream and sing with the invisible flutes. The legs pulled themselves into the fleshly mesh, swallowed by large oozing pustules, becoming a flying, tumorous worm-like growth. “Eman ruoy evig! Beosta! Emlesh sommus! Maercs!” The Spider roared as itself evaporated away into nothing. In reality, nothing had happened. There was no cosmic being shaking the entire planet with its teeth. The stars were still golden pieces of light billions of lightyears away. All that happened was that Solus experienced another bout of Madness. The madness itself had been momentarily enhanced by the necromancer’s powers that traveled across the planet, and made the vision feel that much more real to the Shard, but it was nothing more than falsehoods in the Force, enhanced by Darkness. But this episode of Madness did have one physical effect. Solus had conjured up something. The illusion he had just given life to rose from the ground into the air and began to scream. With all of the energies Solus had poured involuntarily into the monster, the thing used to scream and make ripples in the Force. Once Solus had done this before his first ascension. And now, Solus did it through his Madness. To those who knew the Shard, it was easily recognisable. To those who didn’t, it sounded like the ear-piercing screeches of flutes and electricity. But most of all, whoever heard it could detect the madness the illusionary Polyp radiated from its core. Solus stood and screamed with the thing, gazing at the flying Polyp and the empty sky. Still, he saw the Spider looking down, making demands and shaking the earth the Shard stood on. And so, Solus, and the Polyp, continued to scream.
    3 points
  15. 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.”
    3 points
  16. 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...
    3 points
  17. It seemed that the fledgling was not as dispossessed of mettle as his first encounter had originally suggested. The squire was confused and scared, but that was the appropriate response to being in proper battle for the first time. Drawing a bead as he advanced confidently, he sent lancing bolts of crimson into the heads of enemy soldiers, flicking his blade to deflect any fire that was on course to hit him. Even as the edges of the enemy formation began to fray, desperation slowed the advance as they began to fire more often and more erratically. Tygo could hold his own against the onslaught, but many of the line soldiers and the squire would be overwhelmed without intervention. The inquisitor holstered his pistol and clutched at the threads of light that fluttered unseen beneath the veil of reality, raveling them around his hand in a circular motion before manifesting them as a blinding light in the palm of his hand, bright enough to cause those that looked upon it to flinch and recoil. Under the blinding aegis of the light, Tygo and his allies advanced to close with the enemy line in melee combat. Tygo made sure to position himself between the squire and any massed enemy fire so that the boy would not get gunned down.
    3 points
  18. Having silently played his role throughout the immensely violent and chaotic altercation, the Wookiee remained at the rear of the contingent of Jedi, watching as they had so ferociously permeated through the forces of darkness. New faces, and new names blurred by him reminiscent of walking through a cloud of buzzing flame beetles. Such chaos, and the sudden and complete divergence from his prior way of life left the Tree Carer nearly in a state of stupor, taking in his environment as a shell of his former self. Falleen was a cataclysm. A broken land filled with darkness. Such a wounded landscape was quite reminiscent of the damage he had spent a lifetime repairing on his own homeworld, harkening memories of the decimated lands of his childhood he remembered so reverently. Kerriwarr was struck as he laid a forest-green gaze upon the lands before him, taken aback by the wildness and wanton decimation of such innocent places and people. Such untold destruction would undoubtedly be matched by the labor required to restore it, and yet, it had far from reached its conclusion, for the great toil of Falleen had far from ended. Her scars not yet fully revealed. "Get her to safety!" The words snapped through the haze of the Wookiee's glossy disposition as he looked down to the two figures before him. To the Mon Cal from whom the words emanated, Kerriwarr only offered a silent nod. Reaching out and taking the hand of the child, he surveyed the immediate area, his gaze sharpened as the urgency of the situation enveloped his mind, along with the warm light of the coming dawn and the etheral invisible light which emanated from the Jedi around him. The Wookiee, despite being absent any formal instruction in Jedi combat, was indeed a warrior in his own right, and utilized his Wroshyr staff to great effect upon any who attempted to interfere with his aims, casting his foes about with a great ease as he guided the young child away from the fray and to a secure location. It was from this location that the Wookiee rested, tending what wounds he sustained throughout the incursion. So too did he nurture the child, doing his utmost to soothe the emotions of the little one as he once more looked about the foray of the Jedi into the darkness, a pillar of light thrusting its way through the firmament, into the remaining great vestiges of darkness on the planet. He would remain hidden until further prompted, gazing upon the great battle before him, awestruck by the possibility that he could soon be among the ranks of those bringing peace and prosperity to such an addled world...
    3 points
  19. As he entered the Library, he had finally come upon what he believed to be the last test. He watched as the Sith Lord was swallowed up by the Dark Book. Bernon Mrrgwharr was a Sith, and he had gotten this far, he would lose an arm for this power, a finger was nothing for this knowledge. Of course, he would sacrifice the most useless one. Entering his left hand's pinky finger, he felt the inner machinations of the lock move. The pain was excruciating, it was not going to be quickly cut. For now, he could hold in his scream, refusing to bend or break, and refusing to remove his hand from the lock. Not that he could, however, as his finger was locked in place now. However slowly it started at first, it began speeding up. More pain built up in him, the Dark Side amplifying such pain, but the pain would serve to make him stronger. The lock strangely cut his finger, the blade started on the outside, as usual, but it was an inward spiral effect, cutting his finger from all sides, rather than the way a guillotine would cut off a head, for example. It sped up until eventually, it reached the bone. The Dark Power seemed to sow his finger in a way, cauterizing the wound so that it would not bleed any further once it was off. A blood price was to be paid, but he would not be left to lose too much. The point of this test was to endure more pain and suffering and to test if he was willing to sacrifice for this power, which he was most certainly willing to do. It was not just blood price, it had a more metaphorical meaning than something as simple as just that. Soon, the finger was fully cut off, and the Sith Warrior could hold in his pain no longer. He screamed in anguish, for several minutes, until he finally came back to his senses. He wiped the tears of pain from his eyes. He had finally passed this test and no matter how many fingers he lost, no matter how much his mind anguished, he had become stronger, and this book would further that training. He had ambition, maybe too much, but for a Sith, too much ambition was non-existent. The Book soon opened as the lock accepted his sacrifice. And the knowledge, through Dark Sith Sorcery and Power, leaped, in a way, from the tomes, and gave the knowledge to him. It was much to bear, the full prospect of this knowledge entering his mind was almost too much. He had dealt with too many strikes to his mind and body, and he finally began to give in. He soon passed out from the pain. His mind was plagued with nightmares as his mind fully came to accept and understand the new teachings, and for nearly three-quarters of an hour, he anguished. But soon after, he awoke, his mind had taken in the knowledge. He now knew much more about the Sith, the Path of the Warrior, and the Wisdom of the Blade. It definitely was not Sith Lord-level training, but it was beginning, he was trained decently now as an Apprentice with this knowledge, and through future tests and training, he would gain the knowledge to become one of the Sith Lords. This was the beginning of him and his power. His physical transformation in the Dark Side was complete, his skin was incredibly pale, as well as his veins were nearly pitch black. His eyes were yellow, and his hair was gone. His left pinky finger was missing, he was Sith.
    3 points
  20. 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.
    3 points
  21. 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.
    3 points
  22. Oh how her heart raged with the fight. The battle moved faster than she would have ever realised. Death whirled between its intercessors, as fast as any man she had ever seen move. Faster than the Solleu during summer monsoon, fighting with all its hideous strength to overcome its banks and bathe Theed in mire and ruin. How often had her mother warned her of the speed of its currents during the summer rains? A shout of warning from the man beside her. A blink and the assassin in white was upon them. His scarred and terrible fist searching for her, seaking her heart as if to tear it out of her chest before the throngs of spectating and horrified onlookers and aid workers. What a victory it would be to put a queen down before her people. Who would stand to take her place? No longer were there lists upon lists of ladies in waiting, cadets, or other young women searching for the crown. No. If she died here her people would forever wallow in their defeat. Begging for return to the pacifism that led them to the destruction of their sacred city. Begging for the boot of the Sith to forever remain upon their necks. Thanking them for the privilege of the grovelling. Anne could feel herself getting shoved from the side by her guard and she hit the ground hard. Tucking her arms enough to come back into a crouch as another man died where she should have. A brave man. His leather impact vest, though useful against low power blaster bolts, slug throwers, and bladed weapons, was not rated for a punch from a powerful Sith Lord. The leather split like the rind of a Muja fruit, peeling back layer by layer to expose the flesh underneath. First came the leather, made from processed Moroi fish leather, hardened, and combined under the immense weight of a heavy press. Next came Duraplast and thranai cotton weave manufactured in a plant that had long since rotted away after the bombardment of theed. In that way, at least, the uniform and heraldry of the royal guards were relics. A touchstone to an age that no longer existed. An age of peace instead of war. A relic which was now combined with the blood and flesh of a martyr. As fist drove its way through sternum, lungs, organs, and at last spinal column. Exploding a red viscera out of the other side. It was horrible to watch. He died instantly enough and crumpled forever onto the ground of his ruined city, without a word or gripe to spit into the sand. Another brave man slain in the war against the Sith. Anne could hear herself howl in anger. She could taste his blood on her lips as she stood like a pier in the middle of the mighty Solleu. Though the waves may wash over her, though the tides may rise. She would stand. Her people would stand. There was no retreat. Her people had tamed the river before. They had bounded the river to her banks, guiding its destructive power to their own ends. They had regulated flow from the glaciers, stopping forever the type of destruction she had been known for when the planet was young. No longer did they fear the rising summer monsoon. The Naboo had tamed the great river, and so too would they tame the man in white. She brought the bloody pistol up again, and with her two remaining men fired at the man until their pistols glowed a white hot. ((3)) ((good duel, thank you for the opportunity))
    3 points
  23. The stillness of the room seemed to mute the deference of his apprentice. Inmortos would have to admit, he was surprised the untrained had come this far and seemingly unscathed overall. It was a testament to the vast pools untapped of power that lay nestled in the man’s mind. That, or Akheron and company had done well to protect him until he was ready. And yet, he had brought the saber, even know held it towards the frozen form atop the throne as an offering. A cold invisible finger would seem to pass across his apprentice’s chin; chilling and dead, yet a fleeting gesture of approval, a rarity indeed and the promise of training soon to come upon this cursed world. To Ōk, Inmortos felt his presence. It was young in the scheme of the eternal darkness, but it carried with it an age of experience, of a dynasty of darkness. It was almost, almost recognizable, as if the souls of those that preceded this recently rescued Sith Lord were familiar to Inmortos, faces without names, identities lost upon the fringes of one’s mind just out of reach. Regardless, Inmortos recognized the deference the worldy blind Sith paid in his silence, and it was to he that the disembodied voice directed his first query. “Welcome Forsaken Lord of the Sith. My spirit recognizes these others, but you . . . pray tell, why have you come to the halls of the forgotten and the damned?” Inmortos undead gaze fell across Akheron, the muscle to Inmortos’ magics, his equal in the physical application of the force while Inmortos touch played with what lay beyond. They were joined together in accursed oaths and profane ritual. Baptisms of blood and fire, and the former had called his fellow pirate lord to this forsaken hold, the throne of Inmortos, and a enclave from which to return retribution to the galaxy, a home to begin to see that the Sith, the name of Inmortos was never forgotten. The Sith had spoken true, Inmortos’ oath fulfilled, the Necromancer loosed upon the galaxy until called upon to serve the order of the moment. And finally, the undead gaze of Inmortos passed over the twisting envies of Solus as they were sucked into the void leaving naught but stillness and cold in their wake. At least he was not speaking, perhaps his master’s brutal ways were finally showing results. Yet his unchecked emotions betrayed him. He would never have this power and the cold press of nothingness promised just that. And if Akheron could not tame the gravel, Inmortos was still more than willing to temper him in the ice cold flames of death’s forge, a frozen crystalline conduit for Inmortos’ eternal power bound into a blade. And as the stillness pressed in from all sides the frigid fog that separated this world from the next seemed to thin, the icy blue crowding along the edges of the room as the dejarik board of eternity seemed to shimmer in the darkness as if from a long ways off. Somewhere far below, the body of the fallen linworm smoldered, fractured and broken against the frozen snow. Spirits of the dead swirled around it, accepting the offering of another soul unto the void. Smoking and hissing the body lay there, dead; and yet, after several minutes, a hand began to twitch. ((Want to give @Lord Ōk Rägnär a chance to answer before bringing Inmortos back in my next post. Then we’ll get rolling!))
    3 points
  24. 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.”
    3 points
  25. The hair on Aidan's neck bristled. He'd felt the darkness before, but this was just a slap across the face. Naboo was supposed to be a peaceful world, what about it kept attracting the scum of the galaxy to it like hotchflies to bantha skut? Aidan had hoped they would be able to train in peace, but the whims of the galaxy were always crashing down around him wherever he went. Now, he had to deal with the emotions and mental pain of his mother dying, and somehow his only thoughts as the mental assault began were not this again. His hand found his staff saber hilt instinctively, though for the moment its silver blades remained extinguished. Aidan wasn't sure exactly where the mental attack was coming from, but it did no good to induce a public panic before it was absolutely necessary. Instead, he looked around and located a security officer before responding to Anne. "Yeah, well, you're going to learn that in this galaxy there are big fish and there are small fish, and sometimes you can't help but be the small fish. You need to have spines to survive, you have that right. And right now, I need you to have spines, okay?" Through the Force, he barely managed to eke out one strong thought to her, but it was simple enough to break through the emotional static the dark sider was flooding the Force with: Sith nearby. She may have been able to feel it as well, though Aidan knew that Anne's connection to the Force was not as strong as he and his fellow Jedi. It might have instead manifested in her as a sense of extreme unease. The whole ordeal certainly had him queasy, and he kept a hand on his stomach as he tried to ignore the intrusive thoughts. Quickly, he walked to the security guard, flashing his lightsaber hilt as if it were a badge of authority. "Jedi business. I need this area cleared of all civilians, but I want you to claim it's because of a gas leak. No need to start a panic." The security officer simply gave him a "really, buddy?" look before walking away and going about his job. Welp. So much for that. Aidan turned back around to the other two and made his way back.
    3 points
  26. 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.
    3 points
  27. Kirlocca almost looked confused at the sudden amount of movement and activity happening within the cantina, so his quick response was to down all that remained of his Garrmorl. His eyes went wide at the sudden intake of a lot of strong alcohol, but quickly recovered. His eyes darted towards Leena, who wanted to adjourn away, but he knew he couldn't leave, not after he set himself up as an ex-pirate looking to be hired. So he gave her a formal wave of goodbye, as if there was zero chance he'd follow her. Besides for his own past memories of getting into strange ships seemed to have been joged enough with the drink he just inhaled. He turned towards the door, to watch Leena leave, only to see two semi muscular men and a very tiny girl walk past her. They were covered in a bunch of fancy looking clothes and bright jewels, which were made to stand out. They looked as out of place as a Jawa at a senate party. His own fast working mind knew that they were the priests he was told about by the waitress who would need to be present to lock in a contract. Since she was still next to him, he felt he could further lock in his cover, which was already greater than perhaps the others. << Would one of those outlandishly dressed people be priests? >> He had said it in a typical drunk pirate fashion. Loud, obnoxious and designed to be insulting. His experience with pirates, including his own dad allowed for him to know that they sneered at people who dressed royally in any fashion. They made themselves a mark, unless they made themselves an ally. With any bit of luck, or the Force, he would attract one or all three over. And if he played his cards right, information could come his way that would greatly profit him in what path the Jedi should take. Assuming they were all here for some purpose. He was simply just following the Force's guidance. The others here seemed like too much of a coincidence.
    3 points
  28. The Sith Warrior reclined upon the edge of his bunk within the quarters assigned to him within Ziost’s garrison command. It was a spartan residence, lacking the finery that had adorned the Warrior’s Barracks within Lord of Gluttony’s reign. It was, however, fully functional for his uses. He ignored the conflict outside. Dark Lords came and went these days like credit-chit whores, he had his own machinations to pursue, and none a change of leadership would interfere with. The datapad he held lit his pale, severe features with an unsteady glow as data streamed across its holoscreen. As Blackmorne thumbed through news articles streamed from the heart of the Sovereign Alliance, the whole right side of the datapad reflected a single face, pale and thin, with hair the color of honey and eyes a severe blue. He had been obsessed with this creature, every angle of her royal features caused the thrill to hum within his veins, that rush of cold adrenaline that drove him. Bloodletter’s devious words turned through the rush within his mind Have you discovered where you might snip… This bud from its stem? A half smile tugged at the edge of his frown, enticed by the thoughts of future joys. His voice churned like falling stones “The Alliance speaks greatly of hope, a frail human emotion.” With a flick of a finger, the galactic view of the mid-rim settled on his screen. It panned to the Chommel Sector and towards Naboo, the world from which his target hailed. A planet once devastated by war, brought to ruin by the natural turns of galactic fate. A few news articles came with it, outlining the efforts of a young queen to rally the galactic community to action “They will try and rebuild with that hope at their core. That is when the foundations of this Alliance are most fragile.” The light of the datapad died away, reflecting only the dimness of the barracks, the Sith Warrior, the crimson bedsheets, and the tangled remains of his bedmate. The Sith had found her amongst the captured padawans, the honey-stained hair drawing his sulphoric gaze. Her screams had fed his desires for a time, but such passions were always short-lived. Blackmorne stood, binding his long, white hair with the scrap of bloodsoaked robe he had kept as a totem from his first victory. He placed Bloodletter within its sheath, its long blade shifting from a mass of star-streaked deepspace into blackened steel. The hunt was about to begin.
    3 points
  29. 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)
    3 points
  30. 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. >>
    3 points
  31. Bernon Mrrgwharr listened closely to the speech, he didn't agree entirely with her philosophy, but he certainly wasn't powerful enough to challenge her, at least not yet. When the meeting began, he pulled the lightsaber out of his boot, and walked over to Krath Inmortos. He held out the blade as he kneeled before his dark master, saying "Oh great and mighty Sith Lord, I present to you your lightsaber." He was so close to becoming a Sith, he could almost taste it, and if he was trained by @Krath Inmortos he would certainly become a strong one, he knew that with almost complete certainty. The time of the Sith was now, and this Lady Calypso, however wrong in her philosophy, was the strong leader they needed to rebuild and be strong overall and individually once again. Bernon mostly disagreed with her philosophy because he believed in rule of the strong, and the idea of plunging the galaxy into anarchy means that nobody will rule, everyone will just be dead or a survivor on a barren wasteland. He knew she would make powerful enemies, one day she would die, and one day someone smarter and stronger would take over. For now however, the Sith needed her as a leader. Bernon Mrrgwharr knew what his agenda was, he wanted immortality, to live forever, to never perish, and of course ruling over many and having great combat prowess are also end goals for him, but not as much as immortality is. He was excited to become a Sith, to gain power, to have the honor of wielding a great lightsaber in combat, and to do so much more. He knew the road to success would be hard, and could end gruesomely for him, but if that's what it took to gain ultimate power from the Darkness, he was willing to accept the suffering. He looked up at the Sith Lord, ready for him to take the saber, hoping desperately that he would be accepted as a Sith Acolyte. He truly was ready to embrace the darkness.
    3 points
  32. The terentatek's arm came up and batted away the axe, its strength monstrous even as a juvenile. It trumpeted in victory, lunging foward. Then it stopped short. Blood filled its mouth. Its tiny eyes flared wide in confusion. It willed itself forward, willed itself to finish off its prey right in front of it, but its legs wouldn't move. Its arms dropped to its sides, limp. Blackness crept in at the edges of its vision, rage bleeding away like water through a sieve. Fiochmar's sword had gone straight into the beast's mouth, and pierced its spine. Its body collapsed nervelessly to the ground, its eyes staring up, a look of disbelief apparent in its brutal features. Then it was dead. Calypso's eyes narrowed as she took in the dark aura of the man. This man had given himself to the Dark Side, but there was more potential that might be drawn out. She paused before answering. "...I'm afraid I'm not one for titles Darth Dictum. There is only one title I respect, and it is only earned, not given." She turned to fully face him. Her words were not harsh, but they were not kind either. "There will be no titles in the galaxy I create but what you carve for yourself. You have strength Dictum, but if you bind yourself to my will then you only cripple it. The end goal of all Sith is freedom, not service. If you are truly set upon being my greatest weapon, then I offer you the chance to prove worthy of it." She stopped for a moment as she considered. "Perhaps it will help you to kill me."
    3 points
  33. Calypso gestured dismissively. "Leave him. He will follow or he won't." A memory touched her mind, slipping in through the cracks. Blood on the permacrete. Sweat and stink in her nose. Burning in her throat. That's right, she remembered why. She'd thrown up after killing the man. He hadn't been doing anything but sleeping next to a heat exhaust, wrapped up in blankets. But she'd been cold, and she'd found a pipe. Her face didn't change as the memory played out. "Struggle makes us strong. He will earn this victory. If he's smart, he'll learn something from it." Calypso smiled, and her eyes glittered at some private joke. "We shall see, Darth Akheron. You may find yourself wishing to retract one of those statements before long." She turned her head to the sky, and stared through the blowing snow and into the currents of the Force itself. The twisting coils of darkness, aftershocks of the planet's rebirth, told her nothing. Right now, the future was uncertain. The Dark Side had a will, of that Calypso was sure. If her time delving and molding herself to be its vessel had taught her anything, it was that the Dark Side was as much master as servant. She understood why the Jedi felt such peace at the thought of giving in to that power, that plan, that will. They never realized their own contradictions. But right now, that dark will was clouded. It was waiting. Waiting to see what was about to happen. Its will would be done regardless, but by who? Calypso? Or someone else... She breathed in, letting the cold air burn straight down to her lungs. It was almost time. Her hatred had waited for a thousand years for this chance. It would not wait much longer. As her control slipped for that split second, her eyes flashed, and the air around her sparked blue-white with barely perceptible bolts of power. No, she would not wait much longer. And then the galaxy would scream. Try as he might, the Terentatek's mind and hide were too resistant to direct application of the Force to be subject to domination. Now fully enraged, the power pressing against its mind only roused the monster's hunger even further. It was built to kill Force users. It was built to eat Force users. It would eat this one. However, Fiochmar's vibrosword had better luck. With a sound like a handsaw tearing through old leather, the blade found just enough purchase in the armpit of the one of the creature's upraised arms. A gout of dark blood spattered across the snow before thickening into a miniature waterfall down its side. Perhaps the creature understood its situation. Or perhaps it was just really karking mad. It screamed, louder than ever before. Then, with the ferocity of a cornered beast in its death throes, it threw itself at Fiochmar, talons sweeping through the snow, tusks swinging, teeth gnashing in a frenzy. There was no hesitation, no attempt at defense, just pure, hateful violence. It wanted Fiochmar dead, and it didn't care what cost it paid.
    3 points
  34. The voice of Inmortos cracked as his hissed whispers of pain radiated outward on the billowing plumes of purple-black smoke. It filled the room. It carried into the halls and recesses unhindered by the vortex of space as it clawed like a feral cat through the station. Every word, ancient and powerful, uttered to bind the spirit world and fray the edges between mortal and immortal. The undead all about him were soon dissolved to dust, their very essence becoming that of the growing torrents of smoke. The prison station itself continued in it’s preprogrammed decent towards the vacant world below. Its rotation increasing in speed as it passed a point where initial dampeners and high tech braking systems failed. The artificial gravity generators were the next to fail. The entire station shook, final death throws as it plunged towards it’s inevitable destruction. Final system reports and scans, prisoner rosters and security reports, were broadcast into the cosmos. The highest levels of encryption protected the broadcasts. They were even more scrambled by the foreign code that played havoc on the station. Inside, death did not need to wait. The door had been opened by the Sith rescue team. Death was invited in the open door, summoned by the gods of chaos. Once inside, it gorged itself on the entrapped spirits of the deceased and the dying, violent and visceral, throughout the station. The raw emotions of the freed tortured beings fed into growing darkness. Inmortos hands wove through the smoke carving long-lost runes in the amorphous air. They glowed for a moment and then were absorbed alongside the haunting whispering chants. Bits of flesh freeze-dried in the smoke and fell from Inmortos heavy hands and head. His robe fluttered in the smoke, aging and fraying in moments what would have taken decades of unaffected wear. In moments where there had been a hulking body of an undead Vurk chanting and weaving the spirits of the undead into the smoke of the mortal world, there stood a ragged rotting body, muscles and sinews and bones visible through the rotting frozen scales skin. Flaking off, the bits of Inmortos were absorbed by the smoke, tying the necromancer’s own mortal form to his spell. Through the yard, the smoke ate away at the existence of any that still lived. Throughout the station the life force of any that remained was tugged upon; drawn closer and closer to the flickering veiled doorway of the eternal. Anyone who was injured stood no chance. They were enveloped in a black mist, their screams vanishing as surely as their bodies until nothing was left but soot that blew down the windswept halls. Klaxons screamed all over the ship. Warnings for those that remained that their destruction was imminent. The mechanized voice encouraged anyone who could to strap themselves in to do so, immediately. Anyone who could not was warned to brace for impact. It would not matter. The impact would be lethal. It was designed to be so. Inmortos’ body continued to fail, his skeleton becoming clearly visible beneath the dissolving gases. Organs tumbled in a bloody mess from their nestled positions within the ancient Jedi structure. Foul smoke filled their spaces, gnawing hungrily at the shell of mortality. Inmortos raised his hands towards the ceiling. His head rolled back on his neck, no linger able to support the heavy sloped skull of the saurian. He screamed. Oh how he screamed. His voice, amplified by the force, rang through the station and beyond. It was pain, pure agony. The spirits reached out from the great void greedy to grab ahold of something tangible. Every invisible clawed hand pulled the very spirit of the necromancer out of his mortal coil, drawing him into the eternal void. Fluids and fuels began to spill from their containers, their vacuum-sealed ports released; explosives designed to flood the station. Elsewhere, crates of blaster compressed tibanna gas tumbled free from their bindings alongside other supplies thrown by the centrifugal power of the plummeting station. And finally, Inmortos voice fell silent. A rift in the force, silent and empty followed it’s wake, as the spirits of the dead, spirits from across the known and unknown cosmos dissolved the last of his vocal cords. The necromancers body fell, hilted and awkward as his bones and what remained of his robes clattered to the floor. The smoke swirled and the spirits whispered, screamed in the minds of any who still struggled to survive, thrown against the bulkheads by the force of the plummeting station as it burned through the atmosphere. Flames trailed from the station. Without a shield, it’s hull became superheated. Armored panels were flung free of the twisting station. Fire clawed inward to do battle with the frigid spirit-filled smoke. It was destruction at it’s purest form. The freezing smoke erupted. The flames raced through the station, a literal fire that transcended the mortal plane burning hot enough to dissolve bodies and durasteel; glowing with such intensity it pierced the realms of the spiritual. The flames consumed the spirits ensnared within, casting their meager immortal shadows eons into the great veiled beyond. The storm of ethereal power crackled as it was consumed by the flames. Within the smoke, the skeletal form slowly began to stand. The spirit of Inmortos, still bound to the bones, overcame the limitations of death. Standing, the necromancer pulled his ragged robe about his shoulders. His vacant eye sockets blindly scanned the smoke as the first signs of the immortal flame began to pierce the thickest billows of smoke that poured from the maw of the necromancer; his words transformed into the pure undead magics of death as they flowed freely from one realm to another. The flames raced towards Inmortos, engulfing the necromancer, shrouding him from the world beyond. They were held at bay by the frigid powers of the dark lord, for the moment. The station continued to gain speed as it streaked an inky trail of midnight black interspersed with flashes of flaming orange and yellow and frigid billowing purple across the sky. Death lived, even thrived, within the station. It was fully enthralled as the bridge between the living and the dead was torn open, the stopper pulled for a moment allowing raw emotions and spiritual apparitions to manifest where they might never do so again; not without a catalyst. And a short time later the flaming station slammed into the forested ground. Within, the immortal flames crossed from the mortal into the immortal, overwhelming Inmortos frigid persona, consuming him. The bones were burnt to dust. The dust was consumed and swept into the eternal void. The presence of Inmortos was swept from the galaxy, cast into void beyond as a huge fireball engulfed the station. The forests shook for miles in every direction blasting trees downwards in an outward angle. The plume of purple fire climbed high into the sky etching an ancient runic symbol of death and eternity into the air itself above the world. It was visible from horizon to horizon. Then it was gone from view, its eternal magics burned not into just the air, but the cosmos beyond, the stars it shrouded. Forest fires began to rage, tracing outwards into the untouched wilds of the world. A flaming crater sat at the impact point, driven deep and wife into the crust of the world. Pieces of twisted jagged metal rained downward for miles. At the impact site, there was nothing left. All of it had been blown free from the force of the station’s detonation. Nothing was left. There was nothing organic, even most of the metals had been turned into dust and ash as it wafted through the air.
    3 points
  35. Fera did not sound disappointed at all when she was forced to repeat herself. On the contrary, she seemed almost pleased that an organic and that Jedi were actually speaking binary, after the experience of non-understanding from the Healer Leena. >We are two separate entities. RUIN is my ward. He is developing sentience, and I have assigned myself to his protection and learning until he has developed full sentience and natural autonomy from his own programming.< “Learning and burning.” Ruin seemed to add, holding up an open hand and shaking it side to side. “Burning and learning.” >Indeed. His primary programming states two directives: Primary Directive: Eliminate all active Sith forces. Secondary Directive: Eliminate active sith sympathizer forces. As I know Jedi appreciate the protection of life over the destruction of it, please note that Ruin has worked with his programming to protect Jedi Healer Leena and Knight Skyshatter from Sith forces on Byss, as well as 0 bystander casualties on the Imperial attack on Outer Heaven station.< When the other Jedi spoke up, both Ruin and Fera looked them over. Ruin shook his head at the question directed to Fera. “Make fear. Fear universal. Talking and bashing? Talking is bashing.” >What Ruin means is that his original designation is a terror droid. His original programmers believed his method of talking was more intimidating than what you normally hear from droids. < Ruin nodded with Fera’s beepings and buzzings. However, Fera continued on. >Please do not mistake his communication as incompetence or as poor programming. I have observed his intellect and observation skills. Think of it as a type of specialized dialect<
    3 points
  36. 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.
    3 points
  37. 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.
    3 points
  38. Raphanel could feel his eyebrows raising with each turn the plan was making. Disguises, strike teams, accidental captures, political back and forth, the only thing the plan was missing would be a musical number to give it the classic Holodrama spin. “Commander, I must give a word of advice.” His voice came with its classic high Chandrillian accent. It was a commanding voice that brokered no dispute or interruption. “And to give such advice I must harken back to a recent campaign on Serreno by a departed Grandmaster of the Jedi Order.” The reference to that disastrous little charade which had cost the lives of dozens of informants, Jedi, and even the grandmaster would likely be enough to bring his point home. “The more twists and changes you put into your plan, gives a thousand more opportunities for it to fail. We need not ask the Umbaris permission or give them any opportunity to deny. We bring a strike team and take the ship. It is being built for the enemy and they will have no recourse. Nor should we allow them to save face. We are the lawful government of the Galaxy. And they can submit or face the consequences.” He gave the group a look. “And us getting caught impersonating Sith would shake anyone's perception of the validity of our government. It must not be done.”
    3 points
  39. “I need more,” Slaughter nodded gravely. The concern was etched in the lines of his face as vividly as the fresh scars around his left eye. “You two know as well as I do that our fleet sustained severe losses at Nar Shaddaa. That necessarily alters our strategy. We can’t afford a massed assault or planetary bombardment against any target, least of all one as strongly defended as Korriban. Slaughter held out a small holoprojector. Tapping it to life, from it shone a map of the Valley of the Dark Lords and the badlands surrounding the Dreshdae. Significant elevation changes were marked in crisp lines–with some regions as a hazy blur, and one notable sector that was almost completely flat. That was a region that hadn’t been penetrated by seismic pulses and had been mapped only by orbital sensor sweeps. “I can devote significant starfighter assets to this attack. Fortunately, a recon op with the Jedi supplied us with excellent topographical data. Starfighter Command has argued that Trench Run Disease–I, uh, I mean low-altitude bombing runs–isn’t merely possible, but the best approach. I’m inclined to believe them. What they need is composition and approximate positions of local defenses: ground-based anti-orbitals, point defense, local starfighter garrisons, army barracks, the like.” He tossed a steely stylus towards Talyn Orin so he could begin marking approximate locations. “I have to emphasize, surprise is critical for a successful first run. “The second issue is these local leaders. The current Sith government needs to be decapitated. Don’t particularly care whether they’re captured alive, or…” His voice trailed off, making it perfectly clear what followed or. “We need names, faces, places of residence and work. Same for the Alliance sympathizers. We will need to smash local resistance and their government in a matter of hours.”
    3 points
  40. 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.
    3 points
  41. ...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
    3 points
  42. Oh you've got to be kidding. Water, not exactly something I enjoyed. Granted, my cybernetics weren't too heavy. They had to be kept somewhat close to the weight of my original limbs to keep long term strain from messing up what was left of my body. But they were not buoyant at all. "I mean..." I said, hearing the composure slip from my own voice as I pictured what was coming. What I was dreading. "I can swim. It just...it looks a bit odd." ___________________________________ I followed the group into the surf, feet plunging into the sand. Each step brought the choppy water higher, until I was completely submerged. Well...no putting it off. I put my arms behind me and started...spinning. Like a set of propellers, my arms spun in twin cones while my legs kicked in clockwork sync. I look kriffing ridiculous.
    3 points
  43. The Jedi Council (and Discord Usernames) Master of the Order, Armiena Draygo - Jedi Ace (DoktorOblivious#5589) Master Sandy Sarna - Jedi Counselor (Scout#6019) Master Kirlocca - Jedi Guardian (TrosArdell#3468) Master Leena Kil - Jedi Healer (Watcher#1906) Master Kyrie Eleison - Jedi Exorcist (FieldgreyFox#6967) Introduction to the Jedi Order “Even the Sith are not our enemy. Not really. Our enemy is power mistaken for justice--the desperation that justifies atrocity. The Jedi’s true enemy is the jungle. Jedi do not fight for peace. That's only a slogan, and is as misleading as slogans always are. Jedi fight for civilization, because only civilization creates peace. We fight for justice because justice is the fundamental bedrock of civilization: an unjust civilization is built upon sand. It does not long survive a storm. --Jedi Master Mace Windu, 21 BBY To the rest of the galaxy, the Jedi are fundamentally a paradox in motion. We are the heroes of a thousand cheesy holodramas, and we are the unseen hand that nurtures civilization and justice. We are swordsbeings of unsurpassed lethality, striking down fiends with every strike of our terrible swift sabers… and many of us are Healers as effective as a full team of medtechs. Some of us are pacifists. We are diplomats and starfighter pilots and soldiers and scientists and explorers with decades of experience… and lastly, some of us are hermits who will go years without speaking a word to another sapient. It’s a bit… difficult to be everything to the galaxy. The truth is more simple. The Jedi are the servants of the engine that sprang life into motion: the unseen Force. We serve it by helping to create the conditions required for civilization: just governments and peace. To that end, we prepare ourselves in whatever way necessary to serve it, whether that means study and meditation to polish our minds or physical training to sharpen our bodies. We will travel anywhere that is necessary to serve it, whether that means the seats of governments, a negotiation room, a lecture hall, a hospital, or a battlefield. Whatever the environment, our duty is to nurture sound, just government--to protect the powerless and innocent--and to end the predations of the venal and bloodthirsty. It’s a nomadic service and a difficult life by necessity. It’s not just the constant need for self-improvement and introspection, but learning how to quiet your own will and listen for the whispers of The Force is… unintuitive to most. The reward is extraordinary--we get to share that struggle with a brotherhood that is emulated by none other in the galaxy. The Jedi Philosophy: There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is The Force. So wrote Odan-Urr many centuries ago in an attempt at clarifying the Jedi Code. Many are the Jedi who wish that they could have listened to the old Draethos expound on his ideas--including yours truly. And those five lines were supposedly an explanation of the original Jedi Code from even deeper in the memory of time. Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet The Force. Truly, it is an intersection of poetry and philosophy. I have no doubt that the evocative nature of the Jedi Code has had something to do with many of the misconceptions concerning the Jedi--for example, whether we are allowed to display emotion, or if our training does not strip away the ability to feel it at all. Or to experience the deep, consuming passion of an artist, or to love a friend or companion, or even to grieve for those that we have lost. Those last have been especially harmful and are patently untrue. The very idea of surrendering your own will to follow that of The Force is a consuming, passionate notion. And I would argue that a Jedi, living the difficult life of unbiased service is incomplete without love--whether this is the passionate love of romance or the abiding, unconditional love of another sapient being for the mere fact that they are another feeling, thinking creature in a vast, empty galaxy is immaterial. But I am digressing. Numerous philosophers have attempted to elaborate on these lines with more prosaic guidelines or tenets, one of which can be summarized briefly:: The life of a Jedi is one of service to those in need. Jedi are the guardians of civilization. Governments change with time, but justice does not. Jedi act in the interests of the latter, not the former. The Jedi train to use and understand The Force, parallel to uncounted traditions throughout the galaxy. A Jedi values all sapient life, whether that is one million, one thousand, or one person. A Jedi uses The Force for knowledge and defense, not for conquest or personal gain. A Jedi is a thinking, feeling being like any other. They are mindful of their emotions, but do not allow themselves to be used by them. Living beings are more than mind and matter; death is not the end of existence. As Jedi, we have chosen a life of service and self-abnegation for the greater good of the galaxy. This life would be difficult enough in times of peace where we would be spending months or years as nomads away from our homes. But we are not at peace--in the current state of emergency in the galaxy, we are all going to face traumatic experiences that can break less disciplined beings. It will be impossible for us to deny the intense emotions of the days before us. A battlefield is a whirlwind of intense emotional experiences, and with the political upheaval and atrocities that we are sure to witness, we will have to find a way to let our emotions free and expel our pain so we will be able to even function. Our service requires a life of endless self-improvement, of constant training and study to better serve The Force and our fellow Jedi. In the chaos of battle, amidst intense suffering and when passions are running wild, a Jedi will have to find a way to be the eye of the storm. I don’t have an answer for the final line of the Jedi Code. We’ve all lost friends in our time. I can only hope that when this life is done, mine will be waiting with a smile and a bad pun. Service Becomes Leadership There is a significant paradox of the Jedi Order that needs to be addressed: that of the political position of the Jedi in the secular galaxy. Jedi are discouraged from seeking public office or assuming command positions in the military, and yet we are often seen as the leaders of the galaxy. Example–no one remembers Valorum save as the very definition of mediocrity, but any Coruscanti can rattle off a bunch of trivia about Kenobi or Yoda. When conflict erupts that no politician or diplomat or–Force forbid–a fleet of warships can resolve, who is called to intervene? A Jedi is almost invariably seen as an acceptable mediator to both parties. A series of meetings and an arbitration later, disaster is averted. Or during an active battle, with artillery thundering and trenches and countertrenches being dug in and great batteries of shield generators rendering the horrible bloody affair a terrible stalemate, two Jedi can slip through no man’s land and render a position untenable with a lightsaber thrown into the a vital weakpoint. Such an intervention necessitates a negotiation and a peaceful end to the conflict before the sheer volume of the bloodshed makes anything but decisive victory unacceptable to either side. Or another example: a plague befalls a continent and millions of sapients are put in danger. A Jedi Healer is dispatched to assist in studying the contagion, tend to the afflicted, and comfort the bereaved. The Jedi are implicitly trusted in these scenarios–it doesn’t matter where the Jedi needs to go, what resources they expend, or what security clearance they require–people tend to accept without question that their actions are in service to the collective good. And in those remote spans of the Unknown Regions, where starcharts are unreliable or completely unavailable, the Jedi are especially valued as the guidance of The Force assists with the perilous task of navigating those stars at faster-than-light speeds. So many colonies and vessels in the farthest reaches of the Unknown Regions owe their survival to the timely intervention of a single Jedi and their Padawan. By necessity, we cannot simply follow our shortsighted political preferences or some moronic personal prejudices–our service is to The Force. We must carefully weigh the merits of all parties regardless of our predilections. The great irony of our position is that through centuries of dedicated, selfless service to the galaxy, taking no note of political affiliation or economic status or language spoken, the Jedi Order was transformed from an obscure cloister of ascetics into an essential component of the galaxy’s political order. We are something of an unquantifiable factor to the rest of the galaxy–every terrible endeavor involving billions of sapients or trillions of credits must take into account the following variable: what if the Jedi intervene? We cannot simply be predicted to act towards the benefit of any government or even the Order itself. Over the course of millenia, through continual service to noble values, our service became leadership. –Armiena Draygo, Master of the Order Ranks in the Jedi Order (In Draft) Hopeful: While some prospective Force-Sensitives are discovered by deployed Jedi Knights and taken on as Padawans, it’s more common for Jedi to begin their ways by making their way to one of our Praxeums. It’s often not an easy journey these days, with the aggression of the Sith Empire and the spacelanes clogged with refugee traffic. They have few official duties outside of attending classes and drills and learning as much about the Force as they can without direct one-on-one training. They even have access to most of the Archives--outside of Holocron guardians--hangar facilities and the mechanists. It’s a charmed existence. Padawan: The teachers in the Praxeums do their best, but learning to use The Force typically requires a more personal relationship that can be difficult to achieve in a drill environment. Such is the necessity of the Padawan-Master relationship--typically a Jedi Knight or Master taking a single apprentice into the field, to learn through empirical experience and one-on-one training. It’s a difficult time in the life of a Jedi. Even a prodigy in The Force needs the tempering of experience, and as far as self-defense… the Sith love to prey on those that they perceive to be less capable of defending themselves or less certain of their own convictions. The real difficulty of the training, of course, isn’t the drilling. Or the endless hours of meditation, or the constant travel. It’s coming to grips with the fact that, as a Jedi, you will have chosen a difficult life--a significant one, to be sure, but a third of the galaxy is going to want you dead, a third will hop to their feet and call you “Master Jedi”, another third will take cover and hope the shooting stops soon, and a last third believes the nonsense from the latest holovids. This is where, on a quiet night with trusted company, I start to rant. To choose the life of a Jedi is an inherently irrational decision. Our lives are frequently dangerous, constantly on the move, sometimes hunted by adolescent bastards who follow a philosophy that isn’t even a proper antithesis to our own. To choose this kind of life requires more than just conviction--it requires passion--it requires believing in something with such ferocity that it consumes your life and if you’re not willing to crumple it up and throw it away in pursuit of those beliefs… I’m digressing again. By the time a Padawan is ready to take their Trials and make their first acts as a bona-fide Jedi Knight, they need to be armed with more than a lightsaber. Jedi Knight: In draft Jedi Master: In draft Jedi Grandmaster: Hello there. The most important thing that I’ve ever learned about leading these people is that the Order does not belong to me. True, I frequently have to order Jedi into the field for an uncertain future, risking life and limb, but I’m just borrowing it for a short time. It existed for a long time before I was born, and Force willing, it will continue long after I’m dust. I would find this leadership position were it not for the assistance of my Jedi Council. From the very beginning, I chose four Jedi whose judgment I trusted implicitly. I did not particularly care whether they were Jedi Masters or Knights, or whether I had served with them personally or not. I would trust these extraordinary people with my life, or with someone else’s life, and as far as I’m concerned, their presence in any crisis might as well be my own. One of my personal endeavors established something of a virtual Council Chamber on the HoloNet, to be used in the frequent event that we were not present in the same location… and this is where my author breaks the fourth wall and advises frequent out-of-character coordination with the Council for significant in-character and out-of-character matters, and even the Dark Lord of the Sith for generating entertaining content for other players.
    3 points
  44. 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
    3 points
  45. Ruin looked at the entrance ramp as the others made it back onboard. Or rather, one made it back onboard. “Jedi…where the Jedi? ” Ruin growled out, his power core obviously near empty capacity. “He’s on his way ” Fera tried to calm the Terror droid, grabbing a few wires that connected from the ship’s own running power core and attempting to run them up Ruin’s side to an open panel. “But we need to get you back up and running. It would be unwise for you…” “Gah! Jedi hurt!” Ruin exclaimed, shoving Fera away violently like a child refusing to eat a green vegetable. “Got to save! Got to help! Kill Sith good! Save Jedi better! Rip, tear, maim! Save and scare! Save and scare!" Ruin was back on his feet and in a mad dash towards the ramp. Shoving aside the Mon Cal Jedi and the pilot if they got in the way, Ruin drew his own blade again and activated it. The vibrations of it whirred to life. Each thump of Ruin’s feet sounded like thunder beating on a drum. “Ruin, the jedi can…” Fera blared loudly, trying and failing to keep up with the droid. “Kill the Sith! Boots-down and Hell-bound! Guts and guns!” Ruin shouted again, leaping into the fray once more. The open area near the ship provided Ruin with the room he needed to get a powerful force of momentum behind him. Within seconds he disappeared into a horde of plant monsters, swinging and charging with each step. Even when a monster got in the way, Ruin's own momentum made stopping impossible for the droid. “Got to find! Got to kill! Gah, kill kill kill! Save save save! Pain! Give them pain!” Even as the power in Ruin drained at a rapid rate, each motor went into overdrive. The wet mud that had almost dried off between Ruin’s joints literally began to boil away in a hiss of steam. The plant’s guts that splattered over his chest slid off in a roiling heat. While the Neimodian programmers who helped designed the B4-Terror droid tried to keep the programming simple yet effective, one thing the Techno Union insisted on was the Berzerker Protocal. Most means of self preservation on battle droids enabled them to last multiple battles. Even the bare minimum made sure that many battle droids would attempt to make sure their remains could be re-utilized for future battles, and only the orders of a superior could bypass these. The Berzerker protocol get rid of all methods of self-preservation, and with Terror droids, was meant to make them reckless at best, and downright kamikaze at worst. Ruin’s Berzerker Protocol had just been activated. Fera gave a sigh, and stood by ready with the wires for if, not when, Ruin would return. “Out of way, out of way, got to save, gotta save, save save save, kill kill kill, kill all of you kill all of you kill kill kill” Ruin ranted endlessly as he slashed and bashed over and over until the Jedi’s body was in sight. “Raaaah! Pain train, save train, choo choo I’m the train!” Ruin declared. Ruin dissected the monsters nearby trying to his targert, and then, after sheathing his weapon, scooped the Jedi up as best as he could. Several of the monsters jumped on the droid, trying to stop their prize from being stolen. With hands full, Ruin could only try to shake them off and move forward and spin, using the things on his back as a weapon. “Raaaah! Out of the way, out of the way, out out out outoutoutout!” Ruin’s speech became more sloppy and difficult to understand. Each step faltered more and more. The motors were nearing the verge of giving out. Five more meters ahead. Seven more monsters. “NokillIkillnostoptheyoutsavejediraaaaaaghgh!” Ruin stumbled forward. Three of the things were on his back, pushing him down. His programming refused to stop, but his battery was dying. Several more steps. Another monster on the back. He was almost kneeling now, moving at a crawl with the weight of six things on top. “Killthemallkillthemalldon’tstoptillallSithdeadlikeCorescantkillthemkillthemkillthemall!!!” Ruin shouted, still moving one foot at a time towards the ramp, where Fera could only watch from, unable to help in any way
    3 points
  46. The Light Within the Heart(Consular) The lightsaber is the iconic weapon of the Jedi, a symbol of the order’s role as protectors and vanquishers of darkness. Most people focus on the weapon as solely that, a tool used for the purpose of leveraging its physical qualities in the deadly dance of combat, but the lightsaber is so much more. It is a limnal gateway between the physical and spiritual planes, a convergence of faith and intent that has defined the order. Any true practitioner of the martial arts begot by lightsabers understands that the weapon is far more than a crude tool of matter and energy, yet the applications for which the lightsaber is used are largely confined to this idea. The stranglehold of glory and the guardian’s legacy is nearly absolute on the perception of the lightsaber, and yet there are other paths. There is a minor sect of Jedi consulars who study the motions of the lightsaber, the traditions of respect, focus, and discipline that cling to it, and turn a weapon into a focus of spiritual resolve. These scholars imbue the movements and etiquette of lightsaber traditions with the weight of understanding and reverence that empowers these actions on a philosophical and spiritual level, even with the blade extinguished. For the enlightened, the blade is only a fraction of the truth of the lightsaber. These Jedi strip away the mundane aspects of the lightsaber to reveal the light that the blade in many ways conceals. To the uninitiated, the lightsaber is little more than a laser sword, the power of which is in its nearly unparalleled offensive and defensive capabilities of its scientific qualities. To the Jedi, it is perhaps the closest that they can come to touching some small measure of the Force, or at least a lens that clarifies, reveals, and focuses its light. The training of the Inner Lantern sect focuses on the resonance of the Force with the movements and katas of lightsaber use, weaving each movement and shift of weight with inner light, without ever igniting the blade. It is by this combination of devotion and restraint that the light is truly revealed. Jedi of the Inner Lantern are not soldiers, nor would they use their lightsabers as implements of murder, however they will not hesitate to banish darkness or serve as a bulwark to the meek. Defeated enemies of these Jedi have described entering a confused state of overwhelming empathy or an abyssal state of philosophical and sensory tumult where their otherness has confined them to a void of ungraspable dimensions and elusive context with no illumination to guide them. Former Sith who repented during the experience claimed that the Jedi was able to place within them a fragile yet vital kernel of light that with nurturing and patience could lead them out of the dark woods. Inner Lantern Force Powers and Techniques Path of Intimate Distance: Jedi of the Inner Lantern intensively study the movements and footwork of lightsaber duelists, but weave their application with the intent of not seeking to physically harm their opponents. The result is a collection of technical movements that confusingly exist in the threshold between engaging the enemy and maintaining distance, making any opponent who dissects martial interaction by the binary of in range and out confused by the ambiguity of their positioning. A skilled Inner Lantern Jedi adopts a state of detached focus, orbiting their opposite without closing in or breaking away, present yet ephemeral. To the onlooker, their movements seem almost casual, yet undeniably graceful and with understated purpose. Etiquette of Introductions: The Consular practices the proper rituals and ceremonial aspects of introduction as both diplomatic and martial tool. Whoever they meet they acknowledge with respect and humility. All have a place in the light of the Force, all have value, none are to be dismissed as nothing. This reserved and humble approach can quite literally be disarming to practitioners of the Dark Side, who rely so heavily on antagonistic relationships to fuel their fury. Even those who are barely touched by the Force often feel a reluctance or hesitation to destroy such a modest and considerate person. Internal Peace Reflected Outwardly: With carefully considered words and thoughtful insight, the Consular interacts with their opponent in an effort to douse their rage and quiet their fears. This is not a Force power, but like the lightsaber can be a conduit for the Force, where the humanity and decency of the Jedi is used as both a mirror and lens to shine light upon forgotten aspects of their own goodness, revealing them like lost and forgotten treasures. This practice undermines the controlling grasp that the darkness has on the heart of a person, and in turn can disrupt the constancy of the rage and other dark emotions that they use to fuel their powers. Lightness of Being: Through self reflection and acceptance, the Jedi enters into conflict blessed with an unburdened spirit. This metaphysical freedom can allow them to ride the momentum of both physical and spiritual attacks, reducing the weight of their impacts and making it incredibly hard for them to find biting purchase. This is a transitive defensive power that mitigates damage but does not entirely nullify it. Experienced practitioners can use this redirection of momentum to to attempt to unbalance or even disrupt the footing of an opponent. Unshutter the Lantern: In a moment of boundless compassion, faith, and service, the Jedi acts as a mirror to the light of the Force, and manifests it like a starlit blade from the hilt of their unignited saber. This is not an implement of physical destruction, but rather a beacon of goodness that sends shadows into flight and diminishes their dominion over the battlefield. Furthermore, the manifestation is intolerably bright and blinding to users of the dark side, while being a source of emotionally healing calm for servants of the light. True Nature: The Jedi’s disciplined training has turned their advanced katas into their internalized nature, an inner truth that remains constant in the face of doubt and oppression. Their trained movements are resistant to interference by mental attacks. Show the Cost: As a mirror of the Force, the Jedi can not only reflect the light, but also reveal the truth of the dark. When an opponent is fighting an Inner Lantern Jedi, whenever they tap into negative emotions, they are reminded of a time when those negative emotions betrayed them and destroyed something that they cared about. Gentle Tree Stance: The looseness of the Jedi’s stance allows them to often adapt with careful redistribution of weight and balance whenever a physical or metaphysical blow would otherwise unbalance them. Moment of Blindness: Whenever an opponent attempts to align their sights on the Jedi, physically or through technology, they inadvertently perceive the Jedi’s inner light in a flash of blinding brilliance that heavily dissuades accurate fire. Unyielding Virtue: An instinctive telekinetic technique developed as part of Inner Lantern training, the Jedi reflexively blocks an attack as if their lightsaber was ignited. This power is never used aggressively, only to defend against strikes, control the opponent’s weapon, or disarm an opponent. Tranquil Heart Bridge: An extrapolation of Unyielding Virtue, the Tranquil Heart Bridge style is a set of techniques that use short range telekinesis to guide and redirect an enemy’s weapon into a calmer rhythm, a metaphorical act that metaphysically echoes within the wielder, sapping their volatile energies. Thought Alone: Experienced practitioners of this style of training are capable of using any reasonable substitute for a lightsaber to use these arts. The true masters can achieve the techniques of this path through thought and gesture alone. Winning a duel as an Inner Lantern Consular: While the Inner Lantern path is a pacifist way of life, there are clear and reasonable victory states in their methods. A total disarm of the enemy, knocking an opponent prostrate while denying them a quick recovery, or the absolute disruption of an opponent’s access to the Dark Side (Not to be confused with severing their Force connection) are suggested win conditions by the author.
    3 points
  47. Leena walked along beside the Knight, ignoring his recoil at her touch. Whatever plagued the man was deeper than a surface revulsion if she, her position, or her order. She regarded the man for a moment before falling back into step with him as they walked. She listened as he spoke. A smile tugged at the corners of her weary face. She did not understand the bleeping droid, unsure if it was angry or joyful as it careened through the underbrush. She took that it could not be too bad. The bot was following them after all. After Lok finished speaking, Leena turned his words over in her mind. It was true, they were going in blind as it were; as blind as one might be, “In the force, one is never truly blind my brother. These friends of mine have saved my life a thousand times over. They have never steered me wrong before. Just as I am a Jedi and you a Knight of the Empress, there are many paths of life. One is not better than the other so long as they follow the truth and do not seek to edify selfish ambitions. We do not know how those paths will journey; but we all put our trust in something greater.” As they rounded a bend in the path, the gunship came into view as a band of Felucian warriors turned and scurried into the brush, vanishing as if they never were. Even in the force their presence was clouded by the living world, the force around them. Pausing, Leena turned to face Lok. She looked him in the eye. “I know your Empress. She and I trained together when I was but a Padawan. She is a good woman. I would trust that anyone who followed her had a purity of heart worthy of such an appointment. I also know the Admiral that sent you to me. He comes from yet another path; raised among the Mandalorians, dedicated to spy craft and war. He carries a goodness of will and steel character that carries his spirit towards the light of truth.” “You seem troubled though, Sir Knight. Where we are going, I sense a strange rippling darkness that consumes all it touches. What it is, I do not know. I do not even know how to get there. For that, I am trusting our pilot, one who is not in the orders of you or I; but who is here under my invitation. I am trusting the force to guide us. What happens will happen. We will find what it is that we are seeking, be it Sith atrocities, Dark Side malevolence, or peoples in need. If you do not desire to accompany us, I will respect that.” Leena knew that the droids and cyborg were a protective layer against the manipulations the dark side especially where force users might be concerned. She had poured over whatever bits of information she could find on Byss. It was not much and what she could find was unnerving at best. Grabbing Lok by the shoulder, Leena nodded knowingly to the Knight before dropping her arm to her side. Turning she made her way towards the others at the ship. She offered a smile and a nod to Zeris. “Captain. Lovely spear.” She paused giving the primitive weapon a once over. “My gear should be along momentarily. Then we are in your capable hands and . . . (¿) ship (?). We can depart when you give the word.” Her eyes ran over the worn vessel. She inhaled, calming her internal turmoil. Surely such a craft, kept by such a being, had it where it counted. Looking to Ruin, “If you could avoid turning people into flambé, that would be appreciated. That being said, if the Sith monsters get out of hand,” she gestured to the flamethrower encouragingly. A few minutes later a wheeled droid rolled down the bumpy path, chirping angrily at each dip and divot. “I am a medical droid. I am meant to be left indoors!” It carried a case of medical equipment and spare robes. Rolling up to Ruin, the fine-appendaged bot addressed the hulking war machine his tone straying from pure annoyance to one tinged with shades of respect. “These are for Jedi Council Master Kil for her journey. Where should I deposit them?”
    3 points
  48. 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?”
    3 points
  49. Draygo’s brow furrowed for just a moment as she rose. It had been a very long time since she had last been dismissed from a meeting, but even a Jedi Grandmaster was nothing more than a public servant in comparison to a head of state--deposed or not. She offered her hand, flesh squeezing soft leather and a hand that did not perfectly match with the lines of Nasra’s glove. It was likely a prosthetic, she realized. “I think I understand, your Highness.” A short bow that caused her hair to sweep forward followed. “May The Force be with you.” She departed, her comlink chirping several times as she passed Nasra’s secretary with a murmured thank you. And then another. Clearly, someone was attempting to gather her attention. She listened to the recorded message, expression hardening from distant thoughtfulness to a laser-focused scowl. Indeed, a Lord of the Sith had just succeeded tremendously in attracting her full and undivided attention--as potential threats to hundreds of sapients tended to do so. A few minutes later, Draygo had arrived at one of the briefing rooms within the Empress-in-exile’s headquarters suite. It was a long, high-ceiled chamber dominated by a fine wooden table of sparse ornamentation--at least it appeared to be real wood to her unpracticed eye--and several holoprojectors. Now, it was occupied solely by a squad of heavily-armored soldiers and a pair of astromech droids, all of whom were surrounding a satchel composed of a blood-stained robe. It was her robe, she realized with a scowl--it having been stained profusely with mud and slashed through the midsection. “Thank you for summoning me,” the Jedi Grandmaster spoke to one of the soldiers. The man--or woman--or… it was impossible to tell even what species the sapient was, they were wearing so many layers of padding and armor. Presumably the short sapient was not a droid. “Yes, I can confirm that those… belonged to me. Take all the time that you require to have them cleared. I will… understand if they must be destroyed. If not, then I would appreciate it if you would have the lightsabers autoclaved before returning them to me.” Draygo lingered for several minutes, only half-watching the Ord-Dorn squad scan the satchel for explosives, biologics, and chemical contaminants. Her eyes were distant, reflecting on the events of the last several months and being chased across the Outer Rim by the Sith Empire. Perhaps it had been foolish of her to confront that towering, grey-maned Sith Lord at Lehon--that perhaps her capabilities would have been better deployed elsewhere. At the time, however, it seemed necessary, that the Sith Lord would have certainly broken through the Temple’s defenses and embarked on a massacre of people who were counting on her for protection. She sighed. It had been months of evacuating Jedi outposts and cleaning up after the massacres inflicted on refugees and people whose only insult to the Sith Empire was in existing near a Jedi installation. None of those people nor their dwellings held any strategic value in the war; indeed, none of those people held any great value save for the fact that they were live and peaceful sapients in a galaxy that had gone mad with war. Attacking them served no purpose beyond inflicting terror for terror’s sake, or indulging the depraved predilections that had so often been exhibited by the Dark Lords of the past. Indeed, it appeared that very little had changed in the Sith Order. It had no ideology, just excuses. It had no vision, just depravity. And until something changed within it, it had no future, just the bad memories that it continued to inflict on the rest of the galaxy.
    3 points
  50. The high pitched alarm that blared momentarily over the communication headset that was buried in Beth’s ear caused her to wince and she looked at the display panel with a practised eye. “Imps!” Came the voice of her wingmate and friend Kailia. That word, Beth knew, was purely instinctive on the Twi’leks’ end, but it still caused her to bite her lip before she could respond in some anti rebel tirade. They were still a mixed unit, and the phraseology of the unit still reflected that. And Kailia was right, these were Sith/Imperial ships that were escorting a group of transports out of the darkness of hyperspace. But to Beth, ‘Imperial’ meant so much more. It was a philosophy, it had meaning, it had tradition. Something that the criminals in the Sith Empire knew nothing about. They had built their new empire on a bedrock of terrorism, mass death, and the destruction of Coruscant. Look at what they had done to precious Carida. The very thought of it made her blood boil. And now they were here to take spice that could be used to enslave the galaxy. She flipped to an all squadron's frequency, dialing the squadron commanders from all wings. “Aérien and Sukhoi-” She addressed the agile My’tils and venerable E-Wings first. “-block any attempt at those transports getting to ground.” The X wing’s yoke vibrated under her gloves and the entire craft slipped sideways for a moment before she was able to regain control. “Tau…” But her voice had trailed off as the the X-Wing twitched again, throwing her against the sidewall of the cockpit. A matching screech from her Astromech brought her eyes to her S-foil. And there like a barnacle or a mynock was a massive droid, hanging off the wing. Her mind raced for a solution and a glance at the display board told her that trying to spin the droid off or any crazy maneuver would likely just separate the entire S-Foil from the Xwing. “Dimitri, keep your head low.” The droid whistled in return as the X-wing jerked violently again as the droid pulled on an aileron pitching the nose of the starfighter down towards the rapidly approaching planetary surface. She cursed and triggered the comm again to her own squadron. But already she knew what the result would be. The X-wing was acting sluggish to her attempts and the entire display board was lighting up a dark crimson red. That damned monster was tearing the starfighter apart! There would be no soft glide to the ground. She swallowed the bile that shot up into her throat at the thought of an EV in the thin air of Kessel. Then instinctively ran her hand down her chest, checking her flightstraps and the very light plastoid armour that she wore over the orange flightsuit. She checked the blaster carbine that was in its holster on her flightchair then grabbed the control yoke with both hands to stop the turbulence as they hit the low atmosphere. But there was not much she could do. She spared a glance at the evil looking droid, then clicked on her comms. “Templar one going to ground. EV. See you in the mess lads.” She didn’t wait to hear the acknowledgements. “Dimitri, fly another three seconds in straight glide, then eject too. Okay?” The mournful whistle told her his response, and she pulled the lever beside her seat. The ejection seat fired right after the micro thrusters in the cockpit’s windscreen fired. Launching the young pilot free of her failing X-Wing before the small boosters in the bottom of the seat took over, slowing her fall as the distant Xwing turned down towards the ground some kilometer below them. She would be on the ground in another thirty seconds. On the dismal surface of Kessel. “Spast it.”
    3 points
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