Terra

A thousand voices across a thousand worlds hammered into her senses, converging into a cacophony of static through which she could only make out two Sith. The bloodletting of her past seemed to stream past her in parallel, drawn from her like venom from a wound, malice spilling like vomitous bile to mix with the lifeblood around her. Her fingers twitched and picked at her former captor’s rough garments, wrinkling the cloth and spreading the blood into the intricate stitching. The former mercenary stared at the two Sith before her, swaying upon her kill, and was thoroughly confused; Terra had expected Ziost to be inhabited by far greater people. There was no grand assembly of Masters, there was but two young Sith. She saw something of the nightsister within the man, a pale imitation cast within a mirror, nothing but a bloody reminder of that Darksong whom she buried beneath the surface of Naboo. A smile twitched upon her gaunt features, the scene of the Nightsister’s death reflected upon the Force; the fracturing of skull by a slug, how the light reflected off the brain matter staining the granite. The woman, clothed in the orange and black of smiths, had no lineage she could see. A sorcerer, but without the deeds that made her important. This was no Sheog, no Geki, no Ason. Just a Sith without fame. Terra smiled ruefully, her scarred hands rising from the slaver’s clothing to grasp at her own face. Her blood was running hot and fast, thrumming within her ears with each heartbeat, driven ever on by the bloodlust protocols of the nanobodies that infested her marrow. Geki’s insanity. The girl stumbled to her feet, her unshoed feet slipping in the blood as she fell into a fighting stance. Unsteady, but she would die fighting, as the Sith of old would have bid her. Your commands echo still, Master…

The changes came in flashes of wakefulness and blessed abeyance; being dragged upon a dias, stripped of all cloth and virtue and sprawled upon a diagram. The earth beneath her was warm, comforting. Screams filtered through, flitting and floating with cries for mercy. There was none to be had, and each in their turn was slain, filling the bloodlust of ancient Sith. It was how it was always done, extraction of dark emotion, be that pain, fear, agony, hopelessness, fed the power of the dark. Perhaps it was the nature of the planet itself that caused a stir within her soul. That warmth was different. Hungry. She had been adrift for so long upon the currents of whim and apathy, but the knife’s edge cut into the fabric of that dream, shredding her drug-hazed world into a bitter reality. She didn’t want to die. Not here, amongst the filth and the sewer rats, to be sacrificed for the edification of mania and ego of some false god. Terra had seen such things countless times; the rise and fall of Sith Lords were a bloody affair. Ar-Pharazon had sacrificed countless Jedi, Geki, legions of slaves. Sheog consumed everything in his Hunger. The knife split into her skin and sinew, causing a trickle of crimson to spill in rivulets down her naked spine. Ason… Oh how the Sith had marked her life. Ason. He had made her something greater and yet worse than human. The Soul of Nagathul had devoured her own. A Pariah. One bereft of life and power. Cursed always to the infeeling insanity that came without that which bound all life together. The consequences had been a rise in her own sociopathy and a downfall of any morality. A bitter narcissistic aimlessness. An assassin who killed entire royal families and Jedi Councils. The knife bit deeper. How did it come to this? Feeling came flooding back as that drug-haze was ripped away. The Sith Sorcerers were here to feed upon her anemic fear, like they had done to her predecessors, but she had none to give. Not even pain. They would never be abandoned to some Sith’s keeping again. They were hers alone. She took a staggering breath and turned swiftly, letting the knife scar her back and shoulders. Ason’s lasting gift, those of teeth of runed darkmetal, ripped into the throat of the priest, slipping easily through fat and muscle, vein and artery. Her mouth filled with the copper taste of warm blood. How it sated her. She had never known she was so hungry. She bore down upon the Sith, her spindly arms and legs wrapped about him like a lustful lover, riding him down to the wet, crour-bound earth as she devoured every drop of his lifeblood. Terra sat upon that drained corpse and smiled towards the Sith audience, her lips revealing something cruel and dark, outlined by shimmering torchlight; blood-soaked runes of darkmetal. The assassin of Lords and Jedi had returned. Crimson eyes, sparkling like a holocron with their palm; A Sith creation, ancient memories of long-dead masters, had returned. A Pariah in their midst

Where once had been a fierce warrior, upright and strong, with blood as hot as the seven suns, only a sad, feral thing remained. Bronzium hair stained dark by spice, muscles withering under anorexia’s ravenous toll. The girl could see nothing but the pale specks of light that filtered through the course blindfold that rasped against her face. Bruises pained her every movement, coughing in fits upon ruined lungs. The addict strained to breath through a nose packed with congealed blood, and could only smell the ash of deathsticks and the sick-sweet fester of her fellow captives. The girl next to her had sounded younger than her teens, crying for a lost mother and begging for water. The addict judged she had been rotting for three days now as the botfly larvae had begun to crawl the few inches between them, to cover her in their waste. She estimated from the weeklong journey, they had lost half of her fellow captives. Many had been refugees, some addicts or prostitutes, swept up by cultists in the undercity The weight of the ship shifted and shuddered, pitching the former mercenary into the rotting corpse beside her. Pain blossomed from a hundred bruises, giving a sharpness to her mind she hadn’t felt in many months. A few muffled moans came from the bay around her, driven by desperation, stupefaction, or pain. For her own part, the addict spat a mouthful of larvae and putrefaction onto the floorboards, followed by the black bile that had filled her stomach. The hissing of an airlock interrupted the growing symphony of self pity, and every voice fell silent, daring not to invite a kick, a stab, or the ravenous hands of lust. “These smell dead” The voice came from a Weequay, a cruel beast of an alien, with long curls of wiry hair “Even the dead have use to the Necromancers.” That was from a female Twi’lek, skin as pale as alabaster, with dark, cruel eyes and a voice like shifting gravel. Beyond them, fresh air leaked in, pressing into the bay with icy fingers. The world beyond was cold and smelled much as its creator; of purulent rot and festering bogs. She knew it far too well; The Old Slug had fashioned a world in his own image. Into that new world, the addict was tossed into a pile like cordwood, sorted from the dead. And so Terra had come to Ziost, a former Mandalore stripped to nothing but a blood sacrifice

The spear fractured, the darkmetal tip having dug deep into the shoulder of her opponent before snapping off, leaving her with only a broken shaft of oiled, fire-hardened veshok-wook in battle-numb fingers. The wood clattered noisily on the shattered stone about them, two titans of combat alone upon a rooftop with only silent gods as witness. Oya… Tros. The man, that former friend and crusader was not dead, having only fallen to his knees by the force of the spear, but the battle was over. The hands had been locked in, and she had come out with an idiot’s array, but only barely. It had cost her far more than perhaps it had her opponent. Faith was gone. Blessing was gone. The gods had never spoken, no matter how hard she had prayed and chanted. No matter the sacrifice. The divine right to her title had gone with it. She had raised a hand against a brother. Terra smiled ruefully, her scarred and metallic jaw twisting to show bloody fangs. She bent, the plait of tangled braids streaming around her to pick up her buyce. No. To pick up her helmet. With cold fingers she found the bronzium circlet that had adorned her brow for so many years, what had marked her as Mand’alor, and wrenched it from the darkmetal clasps. With steps that seemed to shake, Terra approached Tros, before stumbling to join him on her knees. She stared into his T-visor, seeing nothing beyond the wraithlike reflection of the broken woman she was now. A victor in name only. She placed to circlet in his hands. The girl placed her helmet before him, watching for a moment the twilight dwindle in the dark mirror of its metallic gleam, and stripped slowly each piece of her armor from her body, piling it ceremoniously before him. She transformed before her friend from that imposing warrior who had almost conquered the galaxy with each piece of discarded beskar. With each cracked and fallen façade Mandalore the Bloody faded into a gaunt and sickly girl, the marks of self-harm badly bandaged on torn forearms. Bones outlined harshly on malnourished skin. She had aged little from the young woman that Piccalo had picked up from Aeton, but the horror of her life was stained upon pale, bruised skin. Sharpened darkmetal teeth streamed with saliva thick with crimson blood. Corruption, rape and torturous modification by the Sith. Being forcibly ripped from the Force and made a Pariah. It all played into the lurid form that knelt before Tros Ardell. A broken form in a ripped, sweatstained and bloody undertunic. The only thing that stood out was the wild, crimson eyes which belonged more to a rabid dog than the morose woman before him. “Goodbye. My friend.” The former Mandalorian stood, touching the forehead of Tros’ helm with her own, before walking into the night, bare feet leaving a trail of blood. She left him there, with her armor and weapons. There would be no return.

Terra’s scream echoed within the confines of her helmet, but there was no reply in the heavens. Tros did not fall. No godfall. The cards were scattered. There was only the tragic emptiness of her personal hell, the lie of triumph and importance, unanswered by cosmic reality. Her fingers seemed to lose their strength, sapped by desperation and a shattering faith. She had served broken men, Sith and Jedi, Crime Lords, been both a Pariah and the godlike leader of a movement that had destroyed the Core Worlds. And yet. A dark cloud was forming within her mind, spreading swiftly as the light’s horizon was swallowed into oblivion. A strange quietness, bereft the voice of the gods. …Does he deserve the title? Where was the evidence of it? Where was the lasting strength? So many had built in greatness but all she had from years of fighting was nothingness. For years now she had attempted to snatch up the flame of passion and wonder that had come with the crown of Mandalore, but those that had faded with her Crusade. All that was left now of that beauty was rust and brokenness. Scars. Dreams of greatness that would never come to pass. Coldness crept into her fingers, spreading as ice in her veins. Yet despite those failures, her internal voice cried for her to press ever forward. Instinct to fight, but the darkness and the cold and the quietness went on just the same. The HUD outlined where Tros had taken cover, on the rooftop below, behind what might have been a forced air refresher system, now smoking from several stray rounds. Metal teeth gritted together, sending sparks to sear her scarred tongue. The metallic taste of blood seemed to shake her mentally, a totem of reality of the war she fought in, more pressing now than her constant internal struggle against emotional nihilism. Yet the coldness remained. There was a scraping crash in her ears, and her breath left her in a rush. An alarming red flash, and her HUD displayed a grapple line having attached to the armor plating on her chest. The assassin immediately dropped one of her pistols, grabbing at the line to detach it, her icy fingers finding the thin line, but the world went as dark as her thoughts. The initial shock of it was overcome by instinct. Somehow her electronics system had been disabled, which left her vulnerable and directionless midflight a half dozen meters above her opponent. The emergency settings on the jetpack wouldn’t last long. Spast. Letting go of the line, Terra ripped her buy’ce from her head with shaking fingers. Cool air, choked with smoke and the acrid smell of ozone whipped against her face, her sweat turning her face as cold as her hands. She let the helmet fall as the Jetpack sputtered on her back. The Mandalorian stared down at her opponent, and one-time friend with crimson eyes, her blonde plait of hair whipping in the wind like a battle standard. The Assassin emptied her one remaining pistol down at Tros as gravity began to win the battle against her struggling jetpack sending a wave of flechettes to great the man behind his cover, before letting that too fall to the earth below. The darkness began to creep in again, crawling at the edge of her eyes. A bittersweet smile of darkmetal and blood crept over her stern complexion. She mouthed one, sad word to him. ...Oya... With a strong pull, she grabbed onto the line that tethered her to Tros as her Jetpack finally died. Her trajectory changed to be directly towards him, aided by gravity’s pull. From her back she brought forth her vibrospear, long and of wicked darkmetal that seemed to pull in the last remaining twilight into its tip. She would fall upon him like the Taung in their Mythosaur hunts, to drive her spear through gap about the collar into the vitals beneath. There was darkness in her eyes. A bitter determination reflected in the hallows of her eyes, a gaze averted from life. And so she would fall from heaven like the stars at the galaxy’s end when all would turn to night. ((3)) ((Lost electronic control according to the elctrodart. Emptied a few rounds of flechettes at Tros and then made a falling spear attack. Thank you for the duel, it’s been an absolute pleasure. I’m sorry for the delays!))

Glowing azure flame began to rain down on her again, blasting holes all around her. The Mandalorian gritted her teeth, tasting the familiar metallic tinge of blood that always seeped from her darkmetal jawline. Jets of molten stone began to pelt her with heated shrapnel. The assassin took a step backwards with her left foot, raising her slugthrower to send a return shot at her former Vod. Rapid fire, same weapon as before The rifle bucked hard in her hands, her vision turning white as several rounds of the incoming fire churning the weapon’s ballistic chamber and feeding system into glowing slag. Her fingers began to sting, and she tossed the now useless weapon onto the ground as the stored ammunition began to ignite and cook off, sending shards of brass and glowing powder in all directions. She began to dance backwards, bringing an arm up to ward off the fire, but it continued to pour in on her relentlessly. Frustration bubbled into the blood that coated her throat. Spast. A searing line tore its way across her left thigh, and her backwards dance became a clumsy tumble. The Gods had sent the game into reverse, the Shift had occurred, and once again Terra found herself in an all too familiar place; wounded under heavy fire from a former friend. The ground bit hard into her back, despite the attempt at a roll. Her left leg seemed far too sluggish and could barely hold her weight. The HUD showed the yellow-glow that denoted her opponent rapidly approaching, shooting as he approached. Looking skywards, the Mandalorian stared into the domain of the gods, that swirling darkness of destruction. Above her the great war between Jedi and Sith was playing out, and in them she saw a fell mimicry of the eternal war between Kad Ha’rangir and Arasuum. The Destroyer had chosen her, and she would not fall in a paltry battle between former brothers. From those heavens above, and the hells within she channeled another cry, a far more bitter and angry thing. It shredded her throat and deafened her ears, birthed into existence from the deep pit of her sorrow and boundless rage. The gods would not use her as a pawn to be thrown away when inconvenient. Like those she had trusted always had. Dragging both of her flechette launchers from their holsters, Mand’alor ignited her own jetpack to kick herself towards her opponent, at an elevated angle of approach. She would be above him, towards where the gods made their war. She continued to scream, launching round after round of alternating flechette-fire down at the approaching Mandalorian. He had come for the crown, and he would be met with lead and flame. ((2)) ((Weapon destroyed, left leg injured. Fires flechette rounds in response to Tros' approach))

With a roar of a thousand voices, the great Bes'uliik Hades shattered the sky with its metallic rage. Bolts of light the color of a Zamarrian starset churned their way through the sky, stitching pockmarked carbon into the glittering darkmetal that made up its armor. The great beast’s rearing turned into a stumble, its claws skittering against the broken stones. The blasterfire was precise and all too familiar. Her HUD began to filter out erroneous information, filtering everything out but what she needed for war. Tros and his spitting blaster rifle became outlined in yellow, marking a priority target. The discordant chorus of voices became deeper, full of a rising hatred. Terra spat a curse into the confines of her buy’ce, pressing her knees hard into the control mounting, but there was little response. Within her mind, a deepset rage was growing. She placed her left hand on the Bes’uliik’s plating, which seemed to shift in response to her touch like a ripple on a placid lake. A heartbeat and a thousand options spread themselves before her like the opening hand of a game of sabacc. Concussion Missiles, Trihexalon. Shrapnel Shells. Scatter Wave Amplifier. A thousand choices in which she could dispatch those that stood before her. Before Mand’alor. She could kill them all so easily. Greedy fingers stretched towards the armament controls. Kad Ha’rangir had dealt her an Idiot’s Array with which to decimate the Sith. Their Soldiers and their blasted… Mandalorians. Her hand dropped, and the dealer swept the cards away. Ah. The heavens seemed to echo in pleased laughter. Terra shrugged and slipped from the saddle, landing lightly on her booted feet upon the fractured stones. She brought her slugthrowing rifle up, watching the targeting reticle rise with it on her HUD. With a blink, she opened up the AVATAR-Link, letting it burn into her consciousness, tying herself into the fallen consciousness that was the creature’s soul. …Go my friend. I will not ask you to fight against your Vod. I am Mand’alor, it is my task alone. With those words, The Mandalorian let out a piercing shriek that tore at her throat, filling her mouth with the taste of copper. It was that of the jai'galaar, the shriek-hawk which had marked her people since the days of the Civil War. Stooping low, Mandalore the Bloody charged forward at an angle to right of yellow-outlined target of Tros Ardell. As she ran, she pulled the trigger twice, spitting 3-round-bursts of slugs at the man she once called brother. Her Vod. ((1)) ((Dismounts from Hades, Returns fire with six rounds of AP))

Terra slammed her fist into the durasteel doorway, a smart of pain arising from swiftly bruising knuckles. The blast door refused to open, despite boiling her anger. A low growl rippled from between clenched, darkmetal teeth. She tasted the metallic bitterness of her own blood, a byproduct of the Sith alchemy that had woven her jaw together, leaving it a trap of sharpened fang and bleeding gums. The Sith had finally struck. The assassin had expected it months ago, but she hadn’t seen the Sith in such a powerful array of force since the days of old. According to the data readouts, there were hundreds of starships at play, landing teams of Mandalorians, and at least three Sith incursions into the Headquarters of the Rebel Alliance. Yet, she was trapped here, in an access courtyard, blocked in by power failure. Hades was not far away now, awakened in the depths of the undercity and rapidly approaching. Her personal guard were above, aboard the Misencordia, no doubt fighting and dying for Raven, of all people. Redemption is what they had called it, for the sins of their failed crusade. Her thoughts were interrupted by the jaded cry of ion engines and she watched a group of Fang-Fighters crack the sky above. Next, blasterfire cut into peace of the garden, coming from the entrance nearbye. She stepped back, a rising rage in her veins as fate began to dig its talons into her mind. Realization. The Combat-AI, began to anaylze the sounds of war, displaying types of munitions used, mixing with input camera feeds to produce a clear picture of what was occurring. It showed assault shuttles and battle. The assassin primed her jetpack, adjusting the flight nozzles for rapid leap with a blink of her eye. Tros was here. Fate was funny, in a twisted, evil way. Pitting former brothers against each other. A metallic, discordant roar and the Basilisk swooped in, and she leapt up with a blast of the jetpack. The leather saddle was already warm, and the swirling darkmetal plating of its shifting armor seeming to kaleidoscope her sensors, causing temporary blindness. From that darkness shifted the discordant voice of a thousand dead friends, blended together. …Are you ready to kill a Vod such as he…? Terra winced. The thought of killing another friend made rage blossom afresh in her heart, her blood rushing hot in her cheeks. She gripped her rifle in hand, setting the slugthrower to a 3-round burst. “Of course I’m ready. I've done it before.” The War Droid let out a cackling, horrific howl that shattered the air as it leapt above the walls to land before the shuttlecraft, between the advancing enemy and their target. A bestial guardian for an Empire that had long scorned it. On its rearing back sat Terra, Mand'alor the Bloody, Beskar’gam of pure black and swirling crimson runes, with a circlet of copper upon the buyce, catching and spinning the failing light of a world at war.

Terra watched the liquid, a pale crimson reflection in the starlight, dribble down the girl’s chin, bathing her alabaster flesh in a river of red. The Mandalorian reached up, twisting a lock of the auburn hair about one of her bloodstained fingers. The contrast of the washed and perfumed hair against the flecks of blood and grime beneath bitten nails consumed her world for a trill of her heart. She looked into the eyes, emeralds of refined, ethereal beauty. The Mandalorian’s calloused hands clasped about the lithe of the girl, bringing her into an embrace. Terra dragged in a breath, moving their hands to clasp together before them. The royal smelled of cinnabar and everglave, scents that danced to life in the Mandalorian’s psychedelic gaze to whiskey-toned amber and coal-blackened smoke. She brought the girl into a dance of war, their feet stomping to the wardrums and the cry of the wolves.

...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

“Mand’alor, you must prepare…” The rasping scraping of a knife skittered across her skin, shaving a slice of skin free from her left shoulder. Eyes closed; she felt rather than saw the warmth of blood spreading down the trailing scars ran through her ribs. Another cut, and a flare of pain arose from her right shoulder. More warmth. Callused fingers daubed at the blood, mixing with it a foul-smelling mix of river-mud and ash. Their touch was cool against her naked flesh. Lifeblood of the Leader. Lifeblood of the River. Burnt offerings to stave off the wrath of the gods. The omens must have been dark tonight. Terra opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh firelight. The drums were pounding a harsh rhythm, a counter to the constant sound of the city of rust. The priests droned in their chants, echoed by the soldiers that surrounded them all. Clanging clattering roars of Bes'uliik interspersed with the pounding of feet. Mand’alor the Bloody climbed to her feet, naked in the firelight, clothed in nothing but omens and symbols. A chalice of rough-hewn stone found her hands, and she stared at the murky, dark water. A cordial of blood, water from the Kelita, bonemeal, and the crushed essence of henbane. It was noxious on her lips, burning her tongue and coating her throat with the tingling of capsaicin and the rot of henbane. The fire began to dance before her, taking the shapes of war. Foretelling Kad Ha’rangir’s will. Throwing her head back, she let out a howling yell to shake the god of war from his slumber, and the rest joined into a raucous shouts like they were the embodies Karwelfs and Sherik’s of night. Bersærkergang

Terra slipped a hand into one of the pockets of her black duster, feeling with shaking hands for the vial that should have been there, but hadn’t been, time and time again. Her lungs felt more filled with tar than air, each breath a gasping, ragged thing. She hadn’t told anyone where she had gone, and that had been a week ago now, or more. There just hadn’t been anyone to tell. The Mandalorian had gone a week without talking again, consumed by the sickening blackness that circled within her mind. She stepped to the edge of the passenger causeway, folding her head on her dirt-stained hands, staring into the swirling traffic below, a stark pattern that reminded her of Hyperspace. Her comrades were all but dead, her Black-Guard slain by the Sith Master Qaela, the rest folded into the ranks of an Empire she barely supported. There they had found life again, and she had let them go, joyful in the moment to see them find a purpose. Now she was despairing. Envious of what they had gained and jealous of what she had lost. Reports had filtered to her of a New Mandalore in the Sith Empire, Tros Ardell. Terra stared at the dirt that had stained the underside of her nails. Dirt or dust or spice. She bit at one of them in hope, but tasted only dried blood. He can take the blasted thing. It had brought her nothing but sorrow. Loss. Failure heaped on failure. Nothing had cut through it, not after Mon Cal. She had slipped, slowly at first into despair but now she was tumbling in freefall. No upper or downer had cut into it. No whisky had expunged it. No tearing needle had drained it away. She stared down, down into the depths, and simply breathed in the air of a crumbling city. Lost.

Aboard the Xaakzaamhaid, Mandalore the Bloody watched the desert-planet of Korriban spin into view. She had been to the planet countless times, both as a slave and as a loyal Sith servant, but today, to come as an opponenet, to conquer, was different. She was excited, as were her men. They would sell their lives dearly. Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Missiles] |Bes'bev| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Nat’ah |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Railguns] |Akalenedat| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Xaakzaamheid |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Heavy Brawler Escort |Chayaikir| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Oosterwijk |25/35|

Above the Rusting world, the Mandalorian fleet arrived. It had not come to devastate or destroy, but it was once more under the employ of the Alliance. It was a war-hardened fleet, all the green had been washed away in blood and fury. It was ready for the next operation, for as long as the credits kept coming and their Mandalore remained entertained by the war. Terra herself, was aboard the Xaakzaamhaid. Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Missiles] |Bes'bev| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Nat’ah |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Railguns] |Akalenedat| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Xaakzaamheid |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Heavy Brawler Escort |Chayaikir| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Oosterwijk |25/35|

Terra watched the being fall, collapsing into the remnants of her former Prelast. Adrenaline pumped in her ears, ripping in pounding drumbeats against the now-quiet vault. The only sound that remained was the churning of metallic plating and mumbling soldiers. Mand’alor ground her darkmetal teeth, turning away from the fallen Sith creation in disgust. Another Alcazerin had fallen to her weapons. The Mandalorian’s stomach began to sour, the pain rippling through her like the waves of an ocean, whipped by a storm. She ought to have felt elated, but the reality of it all began to settle upon her. She had lost a good man, and all of her squad was now wounded in some regard. The illness began to crystalize a thought into her mind Mand’alor the Bloody would no longer lead men into battle, the weight of their souls, and the lives of those she loved were far too heavy a burden. She would return to being an assassin, a Mandalorian who represented her people, but did not waste their lives. As one, the Mandalorians departed Mon Cal, collecting their wounded, and leaving their dead, stripped of their armor.

The Sith had failed to die, again. Terra hissed between her darkmetal teeth, a small crimson trickle dribbling down her chin. Perhaps the hiss was more from pain than from frustration, but the adrenaline of battle made it hard to tell. Along the Mandalorian line, a small female voice with a Rylothian accent chirped up. “Kriffing what is this place, Crates-R-Us?” Ander’s steely voice cut in over the commlink, silencing the nervous laughter with his no-nonsense Serrocoan accent. “Stow it Sheol. Focus fire on the bastard. Bugger’ll run out of crates eventually.” Terra couldn’t hear her men, cut off as she was from the squad communication. She was focused now on the body of the Sith, probing it with her crimson eyes. Searching for weakspots. There was an electric glow to the vault, and it was growing. …Siths and their force storms. This one loves his electricity... The Mandalorian palmed a grooved grenade from her belt, twisting the firing timer to count for the distance. The Sith spoke then of being a master of death, she had heard it before, from most every Sith she had slain, even in the days of her youth. The hair on the back of her neck stood at end. Azure fire came again, and the Mandalorian leapt to the side, or at least attempted to, but the fiery pain in her side caused her to stumble again, turning her leap into a clumsy roll. The electricity hit her with spasmatic power, channeling through her armor’s electric systems, shorting them all out. Her body was initially spared due to the insulating underarmor she wore, but the current arced and ripped into the flesh of her face. Her jaw clenched shut as the electricity ripped along her skin, arcing into patterns of lighting in burns across her cheeks and jawline. Her roar of pain was inaudible, because she couldn’t open her mouth enough to get it out. ***** Those of Clan Blackmore, the hardy men and women of the honor guard, steadied their aim as a firing line, and that was when the Sith’s magic hit them. It was not a subtle thing, visions of death and failure filling their minds. They were not as mentally strong as their Mand’alor, but all were Mando’a, resolute in the face of death. They had faced dishonor and failure before. Death was the reality of the honor-guard of a Mand’alor, but not all stood firm. Behind them, Hades stood strong, raking his beskar claws into the stone, watching his Master fight, the independent combat AI judging her moves and aptitude. He had not yet decided to fully intervene. To those who had lovers, or children, the Sith’s magic was cruelly effective, with Hans and Sheol dropping to the ground immediately in terror, nerves already frayed by unblockable strikes from hidden demons. To the others, their concentration was shaken, but they maintained their positions. As the electric attack came against their Mand’alor, a withering fire began. Scattered crimson light from Chyphosis’ T-21 LRR reached out to embrace the Sith, followed by the glowing rounds from Anders’s LJ-50. As for Shasa’far, she switched from her HH-15 to her RSKF-44 Heavy Blaster Pistol, due to the danger to Mand’alor posed by an erratic shot from a mini-concussion missile, firing rapidly at her former Prelest. The shots were more scattered and hastily aimed, but it would be an effective enfilade of the Sith Master before them. ***** Terra rolled to her knees, huddled in pain as electricity sparked along her darkmetal jaw. The crimson trickle began to flow faster, tinged with black from burned blood. She looked at the Sith and forced a twitching smile, her fingers twitching and sending burst after burst of her slugthrower at the Sith, emptying the rest of her magazine at him. With her other hand she tossed the grenade underhand at the man. It was an EMP grenade, made to short out droids and electronics, but here it would serve a different purpose, to create an overwhelming positive electric charge at the feet of the Sith. She hoped it would be the same as the stormcatchers she had seen on Ord Mantell, creating an electric disbalance to cause static discharge from the clouds before they could strike and here she hoped it would pull the Sith’s own lightning to destroy him. ((3)) Defensive: Lost the rest of suit electronics and took facial burns from lightning. Squad loses a few members to mental attack, rest lose some concentration and accuracy. Offensive: Slugthrower rifle, and used an EMP Grenade as an attempt to backfire the electric storm, squad rifle and pistol attacks Been a pleasure to duel. Thank you

Hades, her basilisk continued bounding down the hall, called to her like a faithful kath-hound. The scraping of its beskar claws reverberated through the hallway like the distant echoes of thunder. It nearly drowned out the screams of her men as they were attacked by unseen assailants. Terra’s HUD displayed the frantic as the squad began to reform further down the tunnel, setting up a firing line twenty meters to her right. It looked as though they were reacting to the stings of piranha beetles, slapping at their armor under which welts and ragged lines of torn flesh were beginning to appear. Chyphosis retreated to join the rest of them, his blaster rifle deemed at the moment ineffective against such an opponent. Mand’alor drew a line across the scorched and ragged tunnel floor with her eyes, painting the line in amber for the squad to form up on. Hans and Shasa took to a knee, propping their heavy weapons against shattered granite pillars. She signaled Anders to approach on her right, where his LJ-50 Concussion Rifle would apply the most damage, and he ran a few steps forward until his firing line would encompass the Vault door. More words from the former Prelest and Terra watched her opponent’s move. He appeared unharmed from her initial assault, which didn’t surprise her. Sith were a resilient lot. Spast. A changing face and They’qell became Vothe in a flash, and the sight tore into her soul for but a moment. There was a rending in her heart, and the bubbling joy retreated into the darkness, consumed by her anger and rage like the stars fell to the Maw. Something was trying to play her heartstrings. She had been a Sith’s marionette before, and she had no intention of becoming the slave of another. She had enjoyed the man, desired him even, but had she loved him? Hate began to form deeper in her heart, subsuming the jaded feelings she had for Vothe. No one would use those she cared for against her. An azure glow alight the world. The lightning leapt like a Stingmaw onto her, ripping into the systems that were more exposed to electronic interference like a Krayt into a Bantha. Terra was plunged into darkness as the lights inside her buy’ce overflashed, and the system began to reboot into safe mode. Contact was lost to all of her squad, but not to Hades; the AVATAR-link remained strong. Double-Spast. The Assassin leapt into a backwards roll, dropping both her flechette pistols to the scarred ground. They had proven ineffective and were of no further use. She ripped off her restarting helmet, casting the buy’ce to the ground in a clatter of darkmetal. Her armored boots scraped as she came up into a shooter’s stance, her blonde hair whipping into the air about her face. She could feel the coolness of the air now, even as damp and dank as it was in a sewer, it was cooler than the insides of a helmet. She was close to the back wall of the sewer now, a few paces. The pain from her side was nearly overwhelming from where the Sith's lightsaber had charred her, and she dropped to one knee, turning a cry of pain into a bark of laughter. With a shrug, the Mandalorian flung her plait of hair behind her back and gave the Sith a wry, cruel smile. Darkmetal teeth flashed in the low-light, reflecting as crimson as her eyes from ever-bleeding gums. With one hand she calmly flicked a grenade off her belt, while the other raised her slugthrowing rifle by the handle to the full extent of its single-point sling. Anders shot then, sending three glowing rounds from his Concussion Rifle at the Sith, while Terra tossed the grenade, of simple fragmentation design, in an arc towards the Sith’s head. Transitioning her throwing hand, she brought it to steady the rifle, letting loose a three-round burst aimed for the Sith’s center-of-mass. The maneuver brought a fresh wash of pain from her side, and she began to cough. Hades let loose a roar of static-afflicted voices as it loomed above the firing line, crimson light spilling from its photorecpetors, it had come to its master's call, and was ready to attack. ((2)) Is temporarily disoriented by death mask, loses HUD and direct control to lightning attack. Most of squad is distracted by the wraith attacks, and reforms at distance. Three rounds from a concussion rifle, a frag-grenade, and a further three rounds of slugs inbound.

The Prelast changed then, and the darkness in the vault seemed to rush in and concentrate about the Warpriest like vapor condensing on a cool glass of Padberen Lager. The Mandalorians turned as one, staring at their former friend as the man’s stature and expression changed visibly. Terra’s shout was tinged with both desperation and fury, “Back and away, the way we came!” Her men began to obey her barked command, but a voice came then, one that was clearly not of her former Warpriest. The Hades Combat AI painted They’qell with a signature of crimson on the HUD, transmitting it as a high priority target. Terra’s darkmetal teeth grated together, showering sparks upon her scarred tongue. The Sithling was talking, but making little sense. The Mandalorian slipped Shadowlord’s lightsaber back onto her belt, dragging her duel Flechette pistols from their holsters. So the Alcazerins yet lived. That order had faded from galactic memory after the purge of the Scorpions under Lord Ar-Pharazon. The Mandalorian had been there, in thick of battle against that order, slaughtering her way across Chandrilla and Almas. She forced a laugh across her burning tongue, her gravelly voice stained with a mocking resolution. “Who do you think slew Hephaestus? Who bathed in the rotten blood of Nurgle? Who devoured the Archserpent?” She smelled him and tasted him then, that scent of Mystwheler Lavash and stale wine. Why was she thinking of him now? Vothe Kyrik, the man whom she had run to after the dissolution of her bond to the Sith. The taste of his lips lingered for a moment before being torn away in a rush of foreign emotions. Death and torture. The Mandalorian winced within her buy’ce, stumbling backwards, gasping a breath of the stale air. The emotions were too raw and had all the subtlety of a Wookiee swinging a hammer. She had experienced something similar before, a glimmer of memories long silenced by torture. Ar-Pharazon and Antilles had used a power of a similar vein while dominating her mind. She had been broken by insanity far too often. Terra breathed out, hissing between her teeth, a sound of snarling hatred. She pushed the memories down, burning them within her hate and malice. As she tarnished the memories of Vothe with hate, they began to fade, to be locked away with all the rest of herself that she hated. Her HUD camera display showed that Hans, Sheol, and Anders had stopped outside the vault with their head in their hands. Only the two Chiss stood resolute against the Sith’s mental onslaught, and they dragged their comrades to safety besides the door. Chyphosis provided a covering-fire arc from the vault’s broken doorway as his sister tended to those affected by the Sith’s mental weapon. Hades bounded down the hallway, coming ever nearer, the rasping of beskar on stone echoing down the hallway. The Sith’s twin blades flashed into life and Terra felt a burning lance across the flesh of her side as she twisted away. The Darkmetal had caught most of the blow, but the lightsaber had burnt the skin and nearly touched the muscle. Pain raced through her nervous system, speeding up her heartrate. She continued to backpedal, her eyes darting across her HUD. Vothe’s sardonic voice chided her “You let him get too close.” …No shit. Got to keep range. With a blink, Terra ignited her jetpack in a quick burst as she leapt away from the Sith, angling her arc towards the yawning vault door. She brought up the two pistols, bringing in the trigger-slack as she followed the targeting reticle on her HUD. She found the crimson target easily, painted as it was with crimson light, and finished the smooth pull of the triggers, feeling them snap crisply. She fired twice with each pistol as she propelled backwards, spinning a web of both armor piercing and explosive tipped flechettes to ensnare and destroy the Sith. Chyphosis Her’kerik, fired his T-21 Light Repeating Rifle towards his former warpriest, with teeth gritted in anger. He had watched the death of his children, again, at the hands of those that called themselves Peacekeepers, and it had stirred his rage. He had grown up alongside They’qell in the ranks of the Crusaders, but he could not allow the man to continue to live as a possessed demon. A stream of crimson bolts leapt from his rifle to speed towards the Sith who had formally been his friend. ((1)) Terra and the majority of her squad affected temporarily by Sith Insanity. Damage taken from lightsaber swing. Terra retreats and fires flechettes at Oni, alongside blaster fire from one of her squadmates.

Mand’alor stepped cautiously into the yawning darkness of the vault, switching her visual pickup to thermal, scanning for any sign of movement, finding nothing. They’qell stepped past her, raving lunacy on his lips, jittering with excitement. She motioned the rest of her squad back, as to provide sweeping angles of fire should droids or a trap be triggered. Terra’s headlamp illuminated boxes and shelves filled with tools and refuse. There was the odd glint of bronzium, but it was far from the vast wealth she had pictured. Darkmetal teeth ground sparks into her mouth in frustration. There was an odd oppression to the vault, an unsettling feeling she had become familiar with, the raw darkness that invaded the mind. Her voice was filled with scorn as she spoke, “Sith. Always kriffing Sith. Should have guessed it’d be the bastards who owned this place.” It wasn’t near golden enough to be one of LAP’s, or filled enough with foodstuffs for that insane Hutt she had met. She watched the Prelast pick up two items from a shelf. They were cylindrical and dark. Her voice raised a pitch, filled with an immediate worry that caused her squad to step back “Prelast, sto-”

The lightsaber drove deep into the warped and pitted metal, sending crimson-stained sparks spinning and twisting across the darkness. Mand’alor pressed the blade deeper, putting her weight into the corroded lock, feeling the metal give way beneath as the lightsaber consumed it. Smoke curled, twisting and flittering like ghosts in the relative stillness of the exposed tunnel. Terra’s three-hundred-and-sixty-degree camera pickup highlighted the warpriest’s erratic behavior. He twisted and moaned, chittering like a Chatheran Skeramore after an apoplexy. She pressed the lightsaber deeper, feeling the hooked grip beneath her fingertips, and twisting it through the ancient mechanisms of the lock beneath. She began to grow more annoyed with the man, and the hair on the back of her neck began to stand on end. Her voice was harsh and carried a disciplinary tone to it that cut through the smokey air like a vibroknife through bantha-butter, “You, Prelest, stand back with your mutterings, I don’t need your kriffing spittle raining on my neck.” Mand’alor the bloody switched the crimson blade off and kicked the vault door, hearing the squealing and grinding of time-worn hinges protesting. She added another kick, an echoing thud of bootheel on metal ringing through the cavern and the door gave way. They were in.

Terra pressed her armored knees into the saddle, guiding the wardroid towards the ruins below. Satellite readouts indicated there had been a rescue operation mere moments before, during the heart of the Sith’s storm. The replay had indicated at least three, perhaps more, U-Wings had been a part of the operation, but there had been no indication of such an operation on her orders. Mand’alor smiled wryly. Mercenaries do the hardest work for such pittance… Perhaps the Rebels had not fully looted whatever they had found. Fantasies of vast treasure treasure flashed through her mind. The hidden wealth of Xim the Despot, or a treasure barge of Lord Ar-Pharazon the Golden. Crimson eyes narrowed, tracing the smoke down to twisted and destroyed rubble. She activated her scanners as the group of Basilisks descended. She traced the crater on her HUD. Too jagged for timed explosive ordinance. Boiling liquid expanding vapor explosion then. Methane or some other natural gas. A discordant voice of static tongue rolled through Terra’s mind as she began her approach on the still-smoking ruin. …Catacomb. Tomb. Vault… The Mandalorian practically leapt from the flight-harness, her boots touching on the permafrosted rubble with a crunch. The Blackmorne Honor-Guard leapt after their Mand’alor with not but a whisper. They scrambled down the rough incline, weapons in hand. The rasping of beskar’gam on shattered stone echoed through the silent crater. Utterly eery, lifeless, and silent. Terra slipped her battlerifle forward on her one-point sling, letting it expand to it dig into her shoulder. She spat counter-spells into her comlink, hearing them echoed by her squad. Prelest They'qell followed on her heels, staff in hand, held like a rifle. His thick accent added a few barking spells to those of his Mand'alor Whispers seemed to crawl over her as she advanced, the chiding of demons, preying on her natural fear. It was insurmountably dark, and the tunnel seemed to go on forever. Slight splashing filled her ears as her squad moved behind her in the semi-flooded tunnel. She could feel the slickness of algae beneath her boots. A larger splash came then, the sound of Hades following at distance, metallic plating grinding and shimmering. She scanned the air, finding now only faint tracing of methane. Crimson outlines showed on her HUD, tracing an ancient, vaulted doorway, blocked with rustpocked steel. Terra waved a handsignal, and the squad split into two, flanking both sides of the massive doorway in a breaching maneuver. Filtered light shimmered off the Bronzium circlet on her helmet, reflecting white onto the dark waters and she stepped back. The Assassin blinked, changing the T-visor backlight of her buyce from a crimson glow visible to the naked eye, to a purple highlight on her Infrared sensor. Her squad followed suite, and the entire tunnel disappeared into darkness, lit only on the infrared spectrum. …Take every advantage. With a flick of her wrist, Terra brought up a glimmering object, pressing the cylindrical tube against the doorway, thumbing the switch with a gloved finger. Crimson light was filtered automatically from the spectrum as to not blind her, the blade piercing to the heart of the door’s massive, ornate locking mechanism. The boots of Prelest They'qell splashed as he moved to come beside her. The infrared highlighted his bone-woven dreadlocks, and the flickering of his reflective eyes as he chanted in a trancelike state. She took a breath of hanebane from her amulet, letting it invigorate her as she drove her hand deeper into the dark gateway. The lightsaber had once belonged to the Sith Master, Draken Shadowlord, a Krath Master and Count of Serreno, once equal in power of the any weapon of the Dark Lords of the Sith, but now it was no more than a tool in the hands of a former Pariah. She continued to speak her counterspells, cursing the darkness and all its spiritual inhabitants. Whispers intensified, demons drawn to the impending destruction.

Mand’alor’s crimson eyes narrowed as she watched the missiles fly and cause their devastation. The storm almost immediately began to dissipate, the winds ceasing their howling, the frost fading from her armor with the rising heat. Movement began to scatter light across her HUD as Hades began to highlight a surge of enemy forces in a bath of neon light. With a blink, Terra brought one such specimen into magnification and its rotting jowls, dead eyes, and shambling nature immediately disgusted her. She spat a string of words into her commlink, a ward against the evil that she saw. Necromancy. The Assassin had not seen its use since the solstice of the Hutt Dark Lord, when Krath prominence in the galaxy had been unquestioned. She spat again, but an alarm echoing through her buy’ce brought her attention to one of the video-feeds that came from viewpoint of Anders Lok’a’rokin, once of her honor-guard. Every member of her squad had a POV camera that fed into a monitoring feed that was passed through the Hades combat-AI, and now through the man’s eyes, Terra saw an all too familiar form. A hulking mass of muscles coated in fur, leapt from Anders’ basilisk, onto the armored side of Hans Bre’tsar's wardroid. A cacophony of curses and shouts of alarm began to assail Terra’s ears. The human's distraught, but determined voice spilled into her ears. “Mand’alor it’s a…” The Assassin sighed “Wookiee... Jedi!” The sigh became deeper, and she placed an armored hand on the lightsaber hilt that had belonged to that Wookiee’s friend, Kitt Fitt. She watched as the beast leapt down towards the devastation her men had wrought. She keyed up her comlink, and spoke through gritted teeth “Vod, meet Kirlocca, Jetti Master, and ally. Do not engage, for now…” She emphasized the latter words with particular, cynical meaning. With a press of her knees, Terra brought Hades away from the Mon Cal shipyards, towards the site of an earlier explosion. Alliance intelligence was scrambling for information about the site and possible Jetti involvement, and since they were occupied, she would make herself useful.

Crimson eyes watched the blizzard from behind a façade of darkmetal, a cynical sneer crossing over the woman’s pale complexion. The cloudburst of unnatural snow and wind had dissipated for a moment, before intensifying. According to data-readings, the Hex had not detonated as intended, somehow the Sith had redirected the weapon to scatter its charge into the wind, a particularly difficult task to do alongside a Force Storm. She let out a hollow sigh, a scathing guttural thing. Yet another Sith Master to kill. Hades uploaded real-time Satellite imagery scans of topographical changes to her HUD. She could tell the entire complex had caved in on itself, but not to the exact details of where the Sith had disappeared to. Darkmetal teeth ground together, sending sparks against her scarred tongue. With a blink, she selected the entire complex in a firing pattern, beaming the information through her AVATAR link into the Squad’s HUDs. Hades processed the information and autoassigned firing points to each of Clan Blackmorne’s Honor Guard. Sheol Wes’theran barked a laugh behind her white T-visor, her armored lekku twitching with excitement. “You really have a hard-on for killing Sith bastards don’t you, Mand’alor?” Terra rolled her eyes and gave the firing command, and to divert main power to weapons. The Empire had its POSTLJWK protocols, the Sith their machinations of Energy and storms. Force Users were to themselves as gods, but the Crusaders had killed gods before, and they were well versed in their tactics. Each of the Black and White Basilisks began to hover and dart about like a swarm of piranha-beetles, their main engines replaced by intensity-repulsers. Then as one, from each of the discordant swarm came a hail of fire to join into the chaos of the storm. Fourteen Taim & Bak KX5 laser cannons stitched crimson flame towards the complex and its surrounding, joined with the blue fire of their H9-Dual Ion Cannons. Flares of light joined into the wind-whipped chaos to announce a torrent of concussion missiles, all streaking in jagged lines towards the Sith-held, collapsed ruin. “Just… Die.”

A small blip on Mand’alor’s HUD registered a distant explosion within the burrows of Mon Cal city, and Hades began an analysis of its cause. The Combat AI had not registered any missiles inbound to the area, and it had not been within the Rebel Alliance’s invasion corridor. A series of new registration points displaying incoming fire from Anti-Aircraft fortifications manned by the Sith. Terra leaned forward in her saddle, pushing her knees into the metallic plating of her Bes'uliik wardoid, flattening herself across the pommel as crimson flame whipped overhead. The Sith gunners were good, she could hear shriek of metallic explosion as one of Clan Agre’mor’s Bes'uliik’s exploded into guttering flame and warped metal. Not a word, not a cry from its rider as he died, blossomed into flame. The Bes'uliiks of Clan Agre’mor fell back into a spread formation behind the spearpoint of Clan Blackmorne’s Honor Guard. Mand’alor winced. She had known its rider, Bev’ark Des’orin, a warpriest initiate who had braided his long auburn hair with the bones he had cast. His last cast had been of loss, and his prediction had come painfully true. She would grieve with Clan Agre’mor in blood of battle. She raised an armored hand in the snow-whipped air and pointed to the oncoming fire that lit up the eastern sky. Her gravelly voice echoed across the comms. “Oya… Bathe the aru’e chakaar in fire. Concussion Missiles.” With a blink of a crimson eye, Terra selected two of the enemy emplacements, backtraced from their firing-points and angles. Two low-altitude, high-explosive concussion missiles entered the firing tubes within the Bes'uliik’s shoulders, their primitive computers programmed for distance-based detonation, instead of target-homing. There was little need to track a weapons-emplacement. Mand’alor knew such missiles would be overkill and might risk civilian populace, but she did not rightly care. They had spilled blessed blood and would pay in kind. If she had possessed Diamond-Boron missiles she would have used those. With another blink, she sent the missiles on their pathway to destruction All six of the Bes'uliik’s of Clan Blackmorne's Guard fired at the same time, matching their Mand’alor with two missiles a piece, filling the air with the snap-crack of missiles breaking the atmospheric sound-barrier on their path towards the enemy weapon emplacements, obscured as they were in the snow. Terra blinked into the HUD, bringing up a meteorological feature map, layering it onto her topographical display, searching for a pattern in the unnatural storm. She had been in enough battles where Sith had played their magika into the weather, and this abnormal pattern had such a taste. Seldom did the Sith strike themselves with their power. The assassin selected the very heart of the storm, and selected a preset for her projectile lauchers. It was a two-two stack, two Hex-missiles packed with the trihexalon chemical packed in a firestream cartridge to keep the weapon in a potent state, paired with two flechette missiles, a far more rudimentary baradium charge packed with shrapnel. With a smile, she sent all four missiles into the heart of the storm, set to low-altitude detonation. The Sith would taste of Mandalorian steel and fire.

“Mand’alor, we’ve got incoming fighters…” A swarm of crimson signature alerts played across the assassin’s HUD, a myriad of flightpaths all converging on her fleet. With a wave of her hand, the Blackmorne honor-guard had spread out their Bes'uliiks, arming concussion missiles and their countermeasure systems. Terra smiled as her mind passed to blessings and omens assured by her warpriests. Thes’tuvar had cast the bones, scried the stars, and seen victory in the entrails. Her body shivered, remembering the symbols the priest had painted upon her naked flesh. It had been from a mix of ashes of a burnt Galek, mud from the Kelita, nectar of henbane, and her own blood, slit from her tongue. The revolting mixture had symbolized the homeworld of her culture, the strength of bersærkergang, and the words of Kad Ha’Rangir of which flowed from the mouth of Mand'alor. A whispering chorus of discordant voices came from the Hades AVATAR connection, scattering her thoughts and warning her of the oncoming enemy. A pair of enemy missiles began to glow a deep scarlet on her HUD, indicating interception vectors, and the Mandalorian selected a simple chaff countermeasure as she calculated her upcoming maneuvers. The words of the warpriest spilled across her blood-flecked lips, mimicry of his trancelike incantations “Gods crying… Wolves Howling… Jai'galaar shrieking… Giants sleeping…” As red signals of the missiles grew so large as to take up most of her view, she pressed her knees into the saddle, and blinked a command that released a chaff charge. The Bes'uliik bucked as it activated its full reversal engine-block, coming to a full stop, and the war-droid and its rider watched as the missiles intercepted the Chaff which had taken on her vector, stunting the primitive missile targeting computers. The blossoming explosion dazzled the Mandalorian as she kicked the Bes'uliik into a spiraling descent towards the planet. Mand’alor let out an earpiecing shriek of war, for in the echoed explosion she had seen the shadow of the jai'galaar, her symbol of war. Her guard picked up the cry, and soon all the Mandalorian fleet was filled with the shrieks of maddened frenzy. They had tasted battle on Fondor, and it had only whet their appetite. The honor-guard of Clan Blackmorne doggedly followed their Mand’alor as she began a steep descent through the atmosphere, pushing their Bes'uliik to the limits of thermal control through the turbulent approach. Terra’s crimson eyes scanned over the insertion mapping for the Rebel Alliance assault. There was little time for positioning now, any Sith Lords planetside would need to be swiftly engaged or she would watch their head-bounties escape. Hades dove towards the reef-marked sea, his rider entranced by the promises of war. She let her emotions play into the wind, letting every Force User know of her presence. It was a most terrible wound in the force, a ravenous, raw thing that was barely concealed with the frenzy of the bersærkergang.