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Montjoy

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Montjoy last won the day on December 1 2022

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  1. Montjoy stepped back from the embrace returning the kisses as was custom. The Lord Commander had always been an accepting soul, even to the oft-cursed Harlequins and for that the Devaronian was thankful. She gave him a rueful smile, one that held little joy beyond that which a façade requires. She spoke to her apprentice with an equal tone that carried a gentle firmness “We stand in the gap between the innocents and those horrors who would prey upon them. Give a few months working with us peasants, perhaps your ivory towers will grow tarnished and your lotuses rotten within your mind.” She pulled a chair out for the man, as nimbly as the highest paid Valets, a face she had worn often, and watched him sit. The Harlequin took up her seat with a trained nonchalance, her posture a careful patchwork to not offend those about her in higher office about her. her manners could not be too refined, or the nobles would feel it out of place. Brenna let the conversation play between the two, her commander and her apprentice, her eyes wandering across the crowd, her face holding no emotion. She cared little for table games and diplomacy, she was more comfortable in the field.
  2. “The fight against sentient nature is a fight against the divine, true. Evil is always lurking, corrupting. Passions unbound into degeneracy, the corruption of Sin. It’s a complex fight, and an even more difficult debate.” The Harlequin smiled ruefully as the two of them walked past the elegant façade of a party in full swing, the smell of fine wine on the air. She could taste the excesses of gluttony and it wrinkled her nose with revulsion. “As for the fight against the Sith themselves, we strive to protect the innocent. You may one day return to Cardia and your noble life, but I trust the exposure to such a fight, that against corruption itself, will leave such a mark on you that you cannot simply give it up, no matter how hopeless it might currently feel.” Their names announced, one with far less grace; a sting to her pride that had never truly faded despite the repetition of it across a hundred worlds. The reality remained as an unhealed sore, ever painful; she would never truly fit into the society she had pledged herself to. Always second fiddle to a second son, nothing beyond the child of a whore, the distasteful much upon their bootheel- Brenna breathed in a lungful of the spiced air, and centered herself, draining the deeper hue that had risen to stain the orange of her flesh. Pride was a sin. A servant, a slave, there was no better way to move unseen. But at this time, the hundred scornful eyes that drilled into her seemed to burn away her composure. Her pulse quickened into a rapid pounding that filled her ears. Her widening eyes found those of Raphanel, the current Lord Commander of the order, a man she had only met through reputation, and she grabbed her apprentice’s arm and hauled him hurriedly to the Warden’s side. Being of short stature, she stared up at the Chandrilian, her pounding heart driving the two large dark spots of her hornbeds into a shallow purple. Her voice seemed horse, raspy, not her own “Lord-Commander, we are at your service”
  3. The Harlequin took the measure of the noble son’s words, the fire alighting her hazel eyes implacable. Did he truly not know the weight of what was at stake? Her words were soft, yet held a stern conviction. “I’m not sure you’ve been exposed to enough of these Force Shenanigans, Piotr, to truly judge.” Reaching across the Kaz Ampercat’s loading bay, she held the glittering Roncevaux towards him, and from the spice-smelling metal crawled a scene, pulled from a broken, sterile world. Twisted, broken buildings, the former heart of an industrial empire shattered and extracted in volcanic toil. A strange, foreign heartbeat had replaced it. Each pulse bringing with it a flood of agony and terror. The lifeblood of a world stricken of its population in a single day. The crystalized horror of flesh devoured and life absorbed, from that of the smallest microbacteria, to that of women and children; their pain swelling into the cabin as they tore their own flesh to devour it as an ouroboros, driven mad by the heartbeat of the revel. Jedi, younglings, apprentices falling with the world in its danse macabre. Fighting, but losing to the atrocity at the heart of the storm. Fierce, hungry eyes stared from the center of the vision as it collapsed back into the glittering Roncevaux. The stench of a dying world, of rot and sulphur, cloyed at their senses, trying to drive its madness into their flesh. “Sheog the Mad. One Sith Master, a single Sith, destroyed the planet Sullust in a single day. It’s entire population and numerous forces arrayed against him. Gone.” Montjoy breathed out a sigh, and the demonic traces of the vision burned away in white fire. The ship shuddered as it touched down, and she smiled at Piotr, sharpened teeth gleaming in the dazzling sunlight as the access hatchway yawned open. “The war between good and evil does not simply involve political factions, of one religious order or another. We stand in the gap, fighting so no more shenanigans wipe a planet from existence.”
  4. The harlequin sat, or rather perched on the edge of the transport ship’s meager seating as the haunting embrace of hyperspace yawned into a starburst that narrowed into simple points of light. Before them hung Chandrila, an emerald jewel dangling alone upon a spread of dark canvas. The Kaz Ampercat had been diverted onto the Hydian and from there by direct Imperial order until the crown jewel of Northern Dependencies itself. The Devorian girl turned a smile towards Piotr, her lilting, soft accent twisting the words into a playful tone. “The Jedi and the rebellion has indeed won… But the nature of sentience itself has not changed.” Roncevaux flashed in the reflected light, the nyix alloy glittering blue as the Harlequin flipped the poignard from hand to hand. “The line separating good from evil, Jedi from Sith, passes not through governments, or classes, or political parties—but right through every heart.” The girl’s dark eyes seemed to grow bright from an internal, white flame. The air about them became fresh, as if passed through a grove of sweet-smelling Laurval-trees, taking with it a spiced nostalgic warmth. She seemed older as if by decades, in soul alone. “So yes, we did win. The Sith have lost control. For now. The nature of sentience is that evil rises again, even from the ranks of the self-proclaimed good.” The blade stilled, the warmth spreading from it with the sparkling, reflected light of Chandrila. These next words were spoken harder, with an edge found only in complete faith. “For the Imperial Knights, from the highest Lords to us lowly Harlequins, our ‘Rebellion’ is never done. We prepare.”
  5. The Imperial Knight returned his fiery stare with a warm smile, her reddened skin blushing into a magenta as her fang-like teeth flashed in the firelight. She had always been given difficult assignments by the nobility, and whelping one of their pups into the greater rankings of the Order was going to be one she was unfamilier with. This one would be able to spread his noble wings high soon enough, but for now he would walk amongst the undeserving commoners. “We head first to Yselia, where we will no doubt receive offered assignments or contracts to assist the Jedi and their Rebellion.” She looked to the man’s father, her own eyes flashing for a moment with white fire. The man knew the Knights were a different path to greatness, and a son coming back as an honored general would do his house great honor. Montjoy let a small sigh escape her still smiling lips, passing the frustration into the winds before it could corrupt her fire. “Come along then Piotr, we will be catching the closest freighter, Kaz Ampercat, to the Shag Pabol.” She stared again at the man’s father, judging his reaction to his son’s first assignment being in the heart of Hutt Space. To the man’s credit, only his eyes reacted for a fraction of a second and he nodded to dismiss them. Brenna grabbed Piotr by the wrist and warmly brought him through the servants exit, by the trash compactors with the ranats. They stepped into the stale cold smell of morning, the streetlamps overhead dying as the day before them dawned into starstreaks of pale gold. A new day was dawning.
  6. Hazel eyes turned to the elder of the nobles, measuring the totality of the man to his fullest. A forked beard with hints of grey, hands that seemed to tremble imperceptibly, the cold gaze of an experienced bureaucrat. She had seen many come and go over her brief years on Carida. Some had even passed to their beyond at the hands of her team, silenced of their Sith corruption at the whispered orders of the Empress, even as her soul rested in its eternity. Her youth and that well-worn mask of warm, underprivileged simplicity cracked for a moment and her eyes turned as cold of wyrmsteel. Those of a Harlequin. But only for a moment. The warmth crept back readily as his words spun about her. The Imperial Knight spread her hands open before her, palms to the ceiling and fell into a curtsey of truly unnatural grace. Her words shifted, spinning in the dark shadows that played across the study. “I have studied many of the great houses that served the Empire, yours has done exceptionally well in its efforts.” Her warm eyes slid to those of Piotr, a man that carried himself, even in a moment of perceived betrayal, with the poise of greatness. She smiled at him, a man older than herself, and one that was used to the control and stature of nobility. The Imperial Knight took the offered hand with her own, observing the whiteness of his clash with the redness of hers. Her flesh was a few degrees warmer than his, the simple effects of her biology and metabolism. There were calluses, although slight upon the ridges of his fingers and across the depth of his palm. The man had some experience with weaponry. That or a garden rake. “The pleasure is mine, Piotr.” She released his hand and extended the other, holding a letter of mark, emblazoned with signet seal of Grandmaster Eleison. Beside it was the symbol of the Imperial Falcons in blood-red, wrapped in an ouroboros. His master would be of The Order of Harlequins. “I believe I have come to recruit you to Imperial Service”
  7. The crowded alleyways held their own fetid mysteries, the dark reflection of the nobility of the families that lived far above the plagued and beggarly. Even in the places like this, where the odor of the unwashed stung the Imperial Knight’s nose, light trickled down from the ivory towers of Carida in the form of charitable credits that her own Watchcircle distributed in the forms of rations and medical supplies. Many of the Harlequin Falcons, the somewhat disparaged name for those of the servant classes who had been excepted into the noble orders, still made these hovels and shelters their place of meditation through charitable work. All blessed by the Emperess. Rest her soul. Brenna’s fists clenched and she was forced to shake away the facial twitches that came to her in sorrow. The unfortunate side effect of her lowly station, born addicted to spice before her first breath on the rusting world of Nar Shaddaa. It had stunted her growth, dotting her reddish skin with black-patch freckles, and setting within her a deep hunger of the soul. It had expressed itself through a lust for adrenaline, to thievery and racketeering, but with the fall of the planet to Imperial Forces, their Knight Commander found her talents far more useful to the charity of the Order than in the mines of Kessel. Flicking a few switches on her citidatapad, Montjoy summoned one of the large freight elevators, which were often used for the purposes of both cargo and transporting thieves into the backdoors of the fat and rich. As she waited for the transporter, she stared at the dossier of who would be her first apprentice. A nobelman’s son, the usual scamp ruining the family name needing to be taught a lesson. It was always the Falcons that took them in, as they worked so close with CoreWorld Nobility, but it was seldom a Harlequin like herself that was their introduction. Thus were the ways of the Force, in their great mystery. With a grating rush, the freight elevator yawned open and the girl stepped over a sleeping Ranat, and settled herself onto one of the cargo pallets for the short haul to the upper cityscape. This one smelled of Belleruvian and Muja Wine, no doubt headed to restock the larder of one of the hundreds of nobles. She rested her braided head onto the unforgiving wooden crating, watching as the sky seemed to grow above her. The air grew fresher swiftly and with a swipe of one of her cloned access cards, Brenna redirected the cargobarge to House Malczewski. And before she knew it, the barge was settling amongst a very confused staff of cooks and servants, and an even more confused Ranat. The servants gasped at her unkempt robes and the smell of the undercity that crawled about her. She looked far less a Knight than a spice-addled vagabond. Stepping off from amongst the haul of food supplies, the Imperial Knight stooped behind a rather obese cook and wandered towards the main chambers, stopping only to grab a few freshly made Cannala-Pastries from an overly etched tray. The smell of them was simply intoxicating, and the first bite hit her pallet with a dozen intertwining tastes, centered around a heavily spiced morsel of tender meat. She shivered with joy, biting into a second, flakey pastry as she slipped through another ornate door just in time to observe the final interactions between a disappointed father and an irate son. The Imperial Knight took the time to finish the delicate pastry before straightening her robes and tunic. There was no flash of armor like that worn by the others of the Imperial Knights, but simple robes meant more for flexibility and speed. Hers were dirty, boots unpolished, hair braided in the simplistic fashion of the servant classes. Barely noticeable in a crowd, nothing more than the lowest caste, those that cleaned the washrooms and scrubbers of refreshers. And yet her small mouth betrayed a warm smile, her voice small but welcoming and whole as she stepped from the shadows. “I hear great things of House Malczewski.” The light caught on her freckle-mottled features and the black spots where horngrowths had never come. Her teeth were sharp and immaculately clean despite her humble adornments, and the warmth her lips portrayed was kindly and reflected in her hazel eyes. She reclined her head, dual braids draping from her shoulders like tassels of ebon string “My name is Brenna Montjoy, Imperial Knights.”
  8. Brenna wrinkled her nose, placing her leather-bound wrist to her mouth and letting the scent of Marar and Dovan spices overwhelm the acrid pungency of spilled slicing fluid, rotting corpses, and ozone. She had been wearing that scent for almost a decade now, and she knew her mother would have labeled such an unsophisticated scent profile as childish and mundane, but yet it kept her fancy. Perhaps it was a small step of rebellion to mark the far greater uprising that had led her to joining the Imperial Knights and the subsequent Revanchist WatchCircle based out of Ossus. A weary voice crept from shadows, leaking into her ears like sewage, making the girl wince in the darkness “Another pfasking cop?” So the killer was here. A snapping crack sounded and the rockwall above her head splintered into shards and fractured durasteel. The sound echoed through the chasm, repeating itself over and over as it fell away into the depths of the Baradium mine in which Brenna now found herself. Another shot came, splintering more oredust into the air, but the Jedi was moving now, her soft-leather boots making a whisper of sound masked in echoes. The dust cooled into liquid beneath her footsteps and the acrid smells were replaced with the metallic fragrance of blood. With the indirection from the Jedi Council, The Jedi Guardian had contented herself travelling about the starsystems of The Expanse studying and helping where she could the local population. It seemed to be what the Jedi of the Old Republic had done, so she had busted up smuggling rings and tracked killers like this one for the last standard year, keeping herself clear from the fruitless warfare that seemed to grip the Galactic Core. The Jedi took in another breath, ducking under another shot from the suspect, sorting her way through the scents. Blood. Four separate scent profiles; species; Twi’lek, Human, Rodian, Wookie. Lubricating fluid, Squex-46 gun oil. Gunpowder propellent, SuperMax, manufactured on Gallinore. Rusting Armor. Sweat, high protein load, narcotics. Carnivore. She focused on the force signature, probing it as she moved, circling around the mineshaft to intercept the shooter. The way it moved was proto-robotic, shuttering, no soul. Gank in heavy armor. She began to gather her focus, moving its locus into the air before her. The Jedi began to weave the air, its smells and energy, into layers. “Come out and die, little cop…” Brenna sighed, flipping The Oriflamme from her belt and illuminating the darkened mineshaft with pale, silvered light. Her voice was mischievous, with a touch of venom as she spoke, and the frilling accent of Serrocan Upper Class. Her dark tunic seemed to absorb the light, sucking it into a formless void. She courtseied, holding her long-handled lightsaber in her right hand, and Roncevaux, her needle-pointed dagger in her left, pointing the tip of it towards the blood-coated floor. “I am Knight Montjoye, of the Imperial Expeditionary Forces.” The pistol-shot that followed slammed into the weavings, the air had hardened into itself, concentrated in its connections into a formless bulwark, the atoms lashed into the force itself, extending corporeal distance, folding into itself. The bullet, sheathed in copper and durasteel elongated, seeming to freeze before the Jedi, its momentum spending itself as if passing a great distance before gravity dragged it to the ground in a clatter. The next three shots from the Gank’s pistol suffered the same, feeble fate. “And you are under arrest…” With a step, distance unraveled and the Jedi was upon the Gank, the silver-blade reaching in with a thrust to smolder the pistol to slag. The Gank withdrew another gun, and it too was reduced to slag. The Jedi gave a bubbly laugh, a sign of rising frustration “Please... Stop resisting, or you may be injured.” Had she been under a contract of writ from the Imperial Knights, the man would already be dead, but for now she had to work under Jedi rules, no matter how frustrating or impractical the were.
  9. BRENNA MONTJOYE'S CHARACTER SHEET Identity Real Name: Brenna Cassia Montjoye A.K.A: Knight Montjoye Homeworld: Nar Shadda Species: Devaronian-Arkanian Half-Breed Physical Description Age: 21 Height: 5 foot 2 inches Weight: 110 lbs Hair: Black Eyes: Hazel Sex: Female Equipment Clothing or Armor: Black Nerfleather Tunic, Kama of Hardened Leather. Weapons: The Oriflamme: Lightsaber: Long silvered handle 50 cm in length, bound in black leather. Focusing Crystal: Fractured Ghostfire: Blade 110 cm in length. Blade Color is a Dim, Off-Silver, crackling with Azure Lightning. The Sound of this lightsaber is quieter than a standard lightsaber due to its crystal, with the characteristic thrum of its energy appearing as ethereal whispering voices Roncevaux: Poignard; Handle of 30 cm, blade of 60 cm. Construct of Blue Spinpria (Nyix- Bondium Alloy) with filigree of Aurodium, enforced with Neuranium Common Inventory: 10,000 credits, Nyix Broach with Gallinore Gems, Roncevaux, The Oriflamme Faction Information Force User, Force Sensitive or Non-Force User: Force User Alignment: Lightside Current Faction Affiliation: Imperial Knight: Falcon Current Faction Rank: Knight History Force Side: Light Trained by: Kyrie Eleison Trained who: N/A Known Skills: Skills of the Jedi Guardian.
  10. Montjoy

    Kuat

    Oh. She’s just a woman like any other. Kenna put away her weapon, gasping at the pain in her side as she hobbled over to the fallen Sith. With the toe of her oversized boot, she kicked away the lightsaber, wincing at how loud it sounded as it skittered across the decking. There was distant shouting, and it was growing louder. No time to take prisoners, and I won’t kill a disarmed opponent, not even a Sith. The Soldier gasped again as she leaned down, feeling a roaring, biting pain rush through her ribcage. With weary hands she retrieved the Sith’s rank cylinders, a proof of her conquest she could giver her superior officers. The shouting grew louder and the soldier retreated back towards the Alliance lines, hobbled by her wounds.
  11. Montjoy

    Kuat

    The soldier stepped backwards, her heart racing as she watched the enemy survive her grenade, making an inhuman leap in the process. Her shoulder was throbbing, stiffening up as she retreated, and she gingerly moved her rifle back into her primary hand. So it was a Sith after all, and not a soldier. The Sith was kneeling now, and Kenna angled to fire a bolt into her, but a lightsaber tore itself into light before her, burning bright against the relative dimness of the assembly-hanger. The silver medallion ground against her teeth as she stepped backwards, her eyes wide and drawn to the lightsaber’s brilliance. Her eyes dipped to her own weapon. Oh Kriff. That’s a lightsaber. This’ll be no good now. Kenna toggled the firing switch on her blaster rifle, her thumb depressing the stun setting, the only thing she had left up her sleeve. Stun was at the least, more effective against the Sith’s lightsabers, or at least that was what the Imperial Knights had trained into her. She began to backpedal faster, her already adrenaline-fueled heart beating with and even more furious pace. Another inhuman leap and the Sith’s lightsaber came down like a bolt from the heavens and Kenna, scrambling backwards in her oversized boots, dove to the side, but not quite quickly enough. Searing heat roared its way in a dark furrow down her side, the plasteel armor disintegrating under the lightsaber’s attack. The armor absorbed much of the lightsaber’s furious onslaught, but the skin bubbled and burned beneath it, the lightsaber’s tip scorching its way past her ribcage, frying nerves and skin on its path. The soldier yelped, wrenching herself to the side with the continuation of her momentum, her feet staggering as she jumped into a clumsy dash. She spat out the medallion and shrieked in pain, depressing the trigger to unleash a stream of stun-blasts towards the Sith’s flank. She was running on pure instinct and adrenaline now and the fury of a cornered predator. ((3))
  12. Montjoy

    Kuat

    Training that had been drilled into the young soldier sprung to life, changing scattered thoughts into focused instinct. Adrenaline shook her hands, but her grip on the rifle remained true, the stock pressing hard into her shoulder, sending nerves into a frenzy of reported pain. Kenna was surprised when some of her shots, even when fired at a shadow, had at least come close to hitting, or perhaps they had. A voice, the same one from earlier, this time overcome in its dignified mocking by rage and worry. “Blue on Blue” The soldier’s eyebrows narrowed into a frown. Had she just shot an ally? The silver tightened in her teeth as thoughts of official reprimand and a very disappointing end to her blossoming career of service with the Knights. “Nah you were right the first time” Oh, she must have moved. The soldier blinked rapidly up at the catwalk and then down at the TIE-Assembly yard’s scattered material as a line of shots came at her from the shadows. Several bolts skittered across the soldier’s cover, one ricocheting off a solar panel and sending her sprawling with a smoking scar across her left pauldron. She spat out her silver medallion as her armor crunched into the decking, pain running up from her bruised shoulder. Spast. Kenna scuttled backwards like an overturned kelpcrane, turning it into an awkward scramble to her knees as she regained cover. Her armor scraped and began to move awkwardly, the antique straps loosening. The pauldron itself was fractured and fell from its harness in a bang of ceramic on steel plating. Thoughts flashed through her mind as pain ran through her shoulder and up into her neck. She flipped her rifle to her injured arm, flexing it swiftly and finding it still somewhat in fighting shape. Not a Sith then, just a soldier using a blaster. The trooper of the Imperial Knights slipped a fragmentation grenade from the loop on her belt with her good hand, flipping the activation switch to a three second release and peaked around a stack of dutrenium wiring on large coils. She wound up like a Fluball pitcher, just as she had seen on the holomovies, with the grenade beside her head. The soldier watched for a moment in the direction of where the original shots had come from, and when a flash of movement came between the partially assembled TIE-Fighters, she tossed the grenade overhand in a tight arc, leading her target like a good pitcher would. Teach you to shoot at me you kriffin’ mangy kath-hound ((2))
  13. Montjoy

    Kuat

    A voice boomed across the hanger, lashing across walls and reflecting from the scattered pieces of partially assembled TIE-Fighters. Kenna’s flushed face drained of its blood, blanching into a sickly, pasty complexion. "A little lost, Friend?" The soldier scrambled, nearly tripping over her oversized boots to find some semblance of cover. She bit the medallion harder, her teeth gritting against the silver, a metallic taste spreading over her tongue. Oh spast! Oh Kriff! She tore headlong past a pile of black-painted solar panels, hexagonally cut for their application to the trademark wing design that the TIEs were known for and was spun on her feet by the catching of an ill-fitting pauldron on the jagged edge of a solar panel. The whole grouping of them crashed to the ground, the teenager skipping away to not be crushed in the deafening cacophony of falling panels. Kenna winced, slowly backpedalling in an embarrassed fashion as she raised her rifle, waiting for a hundred blaster bolts to smite her from the ceiling. Center yourself. Her mind leapt at the remembrance of training protocols and she began to check her corners, scanning for incoming targets. Nothing came, so she raised a nervous voice, muffled by the silver in her mouth. It had a high-coruscanti accent, and she spoke in a jumbled rush of nerves “Not lost, just out here takin’ Sithy scalps.” She flipped her eyes to the ceiling and frowned. She could almost see a form on the catwalks above. Here goes nothin. The soldier’s hands shook with adrenaline as she raised her rifle, setting the butt of the ancient blaster rifle into the askew pauldron. She licked her tongue across the raised ridges of the medallion, finding the symbols of her Empire and tightened her finger on the trigger, tripping the firing pin and loosing a stream of blaster bolts towards the shadowed figure that stood astride the catwalks above. ((1))
  14. Montjoy

    Kuat

    Banebridge adjusted her plasteel armor, tugging at the manufactured strapping to get the fitting tighter on her lithe frame. She felt dwarfed by the ARC-Trooper armor, an antique handed down from the Clone Wars that had been issued to her by Pelltaen, the Armorer of the Order of Captains for the Imperial Knights. The assault shuttle shook beneath her feet, and the Rebel forces about her surged forward, causing her to stumble. The soldier hit a bulkhead, knocking her helmet askew and the shuttle’s interior darkened before she ripped the oversized helmet free from her head. She was younger than most of the soldiers that had rushed ahead of her, and her auburn hair was kept long, in defiance of the normative Rebellion fighting style. She didn’t much care for the Alliance itself, a longstanding hatred from the Rebellion’s actions under Saikat and Starlisk had killed her entire family at Coruscant, and the tattoo that adorned her lower lip and chin spoke to her mourning. The Imperial Knights had taken her in after the fall of Coruscant, and she had grown up amongst them, passing into their fighting ranks with her seventeenth birthday. The girl hefted the CZR-9001 rifle in her hand, a relic even older than her armor, and retrieved her flask with the other, her fingers playing across the pair of fragmentation grenades that were beside it. The bitter tang of lukewarm stimcaf made her grimace, but it focused her mind. She spat a stream of the dark fluid onto the decking as a salute to her fellows and ran into the maze of hallways before her. Kenna heard distant blasterfire, the sound grating on her exposed ears and causing her to grasp the medallion she wore about her neck. It was a simple piece of silver, engraved with the symbol of the Jedi mirrored on the other side with that of the Empire, and was the first gift the Imperial Knights gave their acolytes, be they blessed with the Force or not. Out of habit, the girl placed the silver onto her tongue, biting it softly as she pressed forward, the taste of the metal bringing her to a place of peace. Raising her rifle, the girl stepped slowly to the door of a large assembly hanger, peaking out behind the yawning blast door to observe from a place of relative cover. It was mostly empty, but for the scraps of half-assembled TIE-fighters, but something felt off and she was ill-at-ease. She bit the silver harder, setting her jaw and stepped out into the hanger, her boots clicking softly on the decking. …So loud… So much for stealth. Where is everyone?
  15. Montjoy

    Kuat

    The taciturn commander walked slowly to the front of the dimly illuminated briefing room, the sound of his boots on the metallic flooring echoing in his ears. The room was abnormally quiet, the scattered laughter of nervous pilots replaced by a tense shifting. The pilots were uneasy, and Omega could see it in their stern expressions as he passed by their ranks. The battlehardened men had been raised from their slumber in the dead of night by his call. Omega was their captain, in charge of one battlegroup of the Galactic Alliance. Above him in the chain of command was General Ashburn, a Kuati-raised noblewoman with little combat experience, a shining example of the favouritism and nepotism the GA had begun to show in the past few years. Omega placed a gloved hand on the podium, running the other through his blonde hair, through which the grey streaks of age had begun to wear. He nodded slowly to the smiles of the squadron leaders and activated the comlink he had on the collar of his uniform. The dim fluorescent lights of the briefing-room highlighted the black of his flight-suit, outlining the dark green trimmings, along with the gentle glimmer from his service bars. His voice was clear as he spoke, dour, with the hint of tiredness that betrayed how many long nights he had spent coming to his decisions. “Men and Women of the Galactic Alliance Expeditionary Force… You all know me. I’ve been your leader since the start of this great galactic experiment.” Omega paused, flipping the holoscreen to show the picture of a young woman, regal and recognizable to all as Raven, signer of the treaty between the Empire and the Republic that had created the Galactic Alliance. He continued, excitement creeping through his Outer Rim Accent “I am leaving to join Raven’s call for the formation of a new Empire. One that will truly represent us. Not like this garbage bureaucracy. The Empire promises to treat its veterans well, to allow us to participate in Galactic Rule-” Omega’s speech was interrupted by the hiss of opening blast doors, hailing the coming of General Ashburn and her staff of Kuati Noblewomen. The pilots turned in their seats, their faces hardening looking upon the General. The woman sneered at the gathering, her high pitched voice almost as annoying as her Kuati haircut. “This gathering, in support of a treasonous Empire…” Her blue eyes found Omega standing at the podium “Of course it’s you. Guards, arrest him for treas-” Her nasally voice slowed and her jaw went slack, her feet crumpling beneath her, landing her in a heap on the metallic paneling, her head hitting with a satisfactory crack. Behind her stood a female Bothan A-9 Pilot, Pence, holding her blaster pistol set to stun Omega laughed, the long nights of tension dissolving into deep laughter. His pilots were with him. Leaning forward, he watched as the General’s staff fell under a hail of stun blasts, and circled a hand “We move out. Destination Cardia.” With that, he closed the briefing, as well as his career with the Galactic Alliance. The fully staffed squadrons, numbering 72 starfighters in total left under comms blackout from Kuat Driveyards towards the awaiting Empire.
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