Kyrie Eleison

The Exorcist stepped slowly into the trench, the her light form making almost no sound as her boots slipped into the mud. She was exhausted, her probosci flicking gently at the air, tasting only the death and darkness of a hard-fought battle. She watched Piotr with Emerald eyes, taking in his grief and sorrow. That had been her once, mute and horrified by the tragedies of war. Kyrie stepped to him then, her boots slipping through the red morass about them. She knew no words would heal him then, nor some magical display of healing power. Such things did little against the trauma of war. He would have long nights battling those demons. A warm hand upon his shoulder and the offer of a warrior's embrace was all that could be offered in such times. She was his master, but it was not her place to shelter from the horrors of war. They fought to protect the innocent from such things. To act as a shield against the darkness.

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

Kyrie turned her eyes to Piotr, giving him another warm and confident smile, despite the cacophony of doubts the voices tore into her mind. Silver flame cracked in her eyes as she spoke, softly and gently to the boy. She would make him strong, before he tried something to gain strength himself. She had lost too many to the dark in the pursuit of power. “We will be leaving soon, Piotr. By the time we get there I expect you will at least know how to drive a sword into a Sith. The Shield-Wall will protect you, the war-dance will bring you strength.” The Exorcist smiled at the Edsbryder heir, taking in his words as she considered them carefully. Her fingers drummed away on her thigh, her mind turning across the faces and names of the Sith she had pursued since leaving Tython’s embrace. The galaxy seemed to claim the Sith were gone, that they had been eradicated in strength at Nar Shaddaa. She could not believe all she had known had fallen. “Cults alone?” She placed a hand on the Prince’s chest, a move of comfort which stopped the drumming of her fingers immediately. The textures of his clothing brought a strange, warm, relief to her spinning mind They are never gone. You haven’t destroyed them. They will be back. The Exorcist winced. Her fingers tugged on the cloth, feeling the tight knitting upon the calluses and scar tissue that danced in patterns on her hand. “There are but whispers on the wind, but I doubt the destruction of Sullust spelled the end of Sith plans, or the destruction of their weakest on Nar Shaddaa. A culling of the flock at most. At the height of their power they faded back, but the cells of the Helvault are not filled with the strongest, nor have their bodies burned in redemptive flame.” Fiery eyes stared at the Lord Commander, begging him to set them in motion. To get them underway.

The man’s visage was pale, and yet his soul seemed in such contrast to the pallor of his skin. Vibrant and empathetic. A song of life behind a lifetime of horror. His fingers were cool, but not unpleasant. Touch was such an intimate thing, especially for an Exorcist. She breathed in a slow, shallow breathe, the Anzanti probiscis quivering. She attuned herself to his song, but she did not intrude as was natural to consume sin and darkness as was her nature. Respect held her back. Emerald eyes met violet ones, and behind the white fire that alit her gaze, he would see the shadow of a predator. An unnatural thing, a strange, discordant beat in her song. A dragon moved within her mind, its serpentine form coiling as it stirred by his touch. A snake within the garden. Her eyes flicked away to the party about them as he spoke. They all hate you. Innoble. Inhumane. She swallowed. Probiscis twitched and swayed. Eyes, noble disappointment and disapproval stared at her. Did you think you belonged in their courts? Amongst the martial nobility? She swallowed again, shifting her mind away from the vipers and their poison the words of the Edsbryder prince. There was comfort there that she was not used to. A soul closer in tune with her own than any Jedi. Lowborn. The Exorcist winced. Her stomach plummeted, seeming to dive and twist into nausea. She paused glancing to him again as he finished his words. He had a way with them, no stutter like her. “Sheog, that foul worm remains. I should have guessed his House of Madness yet stands. Their song is of insanity and gluttony. The Song of the Revel.” The bladedancer stared into his eyes. Into their depths. Within her own she beheld the hundred battles against rage and blood, lust and despair. Each a stain of ash upon her soul. “Other than the pitiful cults of Falleen, do we have any other actionable intelligence?”

The Exorcist stared hard at the Edling of the Malczewski house ignored her proffered drink and addressed everyone but her. It was a surprisingly commonplace thing for her to be ignored, so she shrugged and sat back to mull her a new glass of sweetwine. She absently stirred it with a scarred finger, watching the emerald liquid turn within the glass. She barely saw the flung knife but the rise of tensions were palpable and stirred her mind to wakefulness. The Edsbryder was a fighter by the looks, and a competent one. He was half a decade her senior, his face hardset and calculating. She stared at the man while the Lord Commander talked and leaned forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. She brought her head close to his, her probiscis shimmering like razorwire in the feasthall light. The Bladedancer’s face glittered with sparks of white flame. From this close, The Inquisitor smelled of spice-sweetened muja and dasengi leaves. Her words were but a whisper “Tell me, Inquisitor, now that you’ve instructed my shield-kin in proper manners like a good kath-pup, what Sith do you expect we will find on Falleen?” A broad smile formed on her face, the songs of war within her mind causing her flames to spark and dance. “Will we cross blades once more with Ar-Pharazon the Golden? Dagon? Perhaps Quietus?” She let her head back and stared at the ceiling, the shadows reflecting the dance above, her mind and body filled with anticipation and a whirling excitement. “Who of our old enemies yet stand?”

The Master of Exorcists leaned forward across the table, taking a small sip and then pushing a glass of emerald wine before her towards the young stripling, Piotr. Wisps of cold fire whirled around it as it floated towards him, the flames dancing to a hidden song. She smiled, stuttering through her words “Piotr, edling of your Cardian house. Drink with us and know you are with the hearts of war!” The Revanchist leaned back and let escape a small laugh, one of genuine mirth. She glanced at all the Knights around her. Battlescared men and women. She held out a scarred hand, the rosary of onyx that wrapped her wrist clinking on the table. She smiled again, a toothy grin of a Krayt. “Do not dream yourself so weak, or it will come to pass!” She turned to Raphenel, her eyes bright with dancing flame, reflecting bright on the circlet in her hair. “I will take him under my wing, the Bladedancers and Harlequins will join with him in the war-dance”

An Anzat, her hair flowing in long, unkempt plaits stepped through the crowded room, the firelight reflecting across the streaks of white within the dark hair. The plaits were accented by a circlet of silvered metal adorned with a sunstone of crystalline yellow within which a pale flame seemed to blaze. Her features were scarred and the thin needle-like proboscis seemed to twitch as she walked. They weaved and bounced, flashing at the air, tasting the scents of a gala in full swing. A dozen Imperial Houses were there in full regalia, and most stared disapproving at the uniform of the young woman. The woman wore plasteel-bound armor in a much older style than that of the Imperial Knights now present, with black robes. It was unconstrained, flexible, like that of a hunter in the field. Upon her back was a long-handled, extinguished lightsaber made from briarwood and cortosis, wrapped in black leather, which drew several glares of disapproval; for it was far from an elegant weapon for the honor-duels of an Imperial House. About her burn-scarred neck lay the symbol of the Harlequins, a twisting maze of knots and flames. The Lords of the Imperial Houses seemed to turn away from her as soon as it was apparent, her lack of nobility. She walked with no noble grace, but of that of a trained warrior and duelist. Without a word, she slipped unbidden into an empty seat beside Raphoneal, the leader of the Imperial Knights. Fire-filled eyes glanced about the table, taking in Montjoy, and Piotr, and the Edsbryder Princeling. How greatly the Imperial Knights order had changed over the years, from tattered remnants of warsworn revanchists to high princes and their spoiled children. When she spoke, the woman had a strong stutter that cursed a tongue unused to basic. Despite the stutter it carried with it an Ord Mantallian drawl and a sly smile “W-What a nice d-dinner. Ap-pologies for spoiling it w-with my lack of decorum, and l-low birth.”

On the Writings of an Exorcist We stand in opposition to the darkside, there can be no compromise. The Exorcist sees the woes of the galaxy much like that of a Jedi Healer, but instead of trying to treat the symptoms, they root out the cause and destroy it. The pain of the galaxy, its wounds that are caused by the darkside, the deaths of innocents, drive the Exorcist upon their path. They can never stand still while evil exists, for any moment of respite will cause unknown numbers of deaths. They will not abide Sith rule, they will always be the Knight Errant and they will seek to put themselves in danger in order to save lives. To retreat and leave others to die is sacrosanct. Internal Struggle: They can be rash, for there is no peace within their embattled souls. Only once the Dark Side is banished can they finally rest. Due to this lack of internal peace, the darkside always lurks within them, even when purged by holy flame. They are consumed by war, and it is always a struggle to walk the narrow path of the Light. They are firebrands and will never see peace. Combat: There are inherent drawbacks to playing an Exorcist, the path is not an easy one, and combat is a struggle. This is not all daisies and funtimes, your character must have challenges. You must factor the drawbacks discussed into your writing, to not do so will have a negative impact on mod rulings. Dual Paths: Intertwined and bound, there are two paths for an Exorcist, but there can be only one path to be walked within a lifetime The Sin Eaters: the one that consumes and burns away the darkside, bringing it into their soul and staining themselves with its evil in the process. This group hunts the darkness amongst the galaxy, working directly against Sith Forces. The Watchers: those who combat the rising darkness in the users of the Light Side, be they Exorcists or among the other orders of the Jedi. Recommended Components Within Knight Trials and the Training of Apprentices For the Apprentice: Apprentices should have their concentration upon basic powers of the force like any Jedi, (telekinesis, lightsaber combat), but there should be a greater focus upon the internal struggle of the powers of the Force, with emphasis on what the response is to failure. Harnessing the Force and the failure of that act, will bring out the worst in any person, and it is the reason there is such an emphasis. The Darkness is an expert in concealment, and can lurk in even the brightest souls; for the brightest flame casts the darkest shadows, and being able to recognize the darkness within is a key aspect of an apprenticeship with this Order. For the Exorcists to Follow: Awake, Arise, or be forever Fallen. For the training to Knighthood: in the trials there must be an act of purification within the Force, and that act reveals the path an Exorcist is to tread. They must meditate upon the Force’s will, at a sight of a wound in the Force, forsaking food and drink for seven days, subsisting upon the power of the force, forced to become reliant upon it. All they will have is their lightsaber. A place that bears a wound in the force must be specifically chaotic in its inherent nature of the Force. Such a place is naturally corrupting to people and objects. This allows for the testing of will. (Example: Malachor V) A Sin Eater will emerge, having kept themselves pure by the act of consumption, bearing the stain of the darkness, but triumphant over it. They have taken the dark side within themselves to understand it, and have escaped its temptation. They have emerged from the ashes injured, but unbroken, having gained access to the powers of a Sin Eater, the ability to damage Sith by the understanding of the Dark Side A Watcher will emerge untouched by the evil of the place, kept pure by their will. They will gain the powers of the Watchers, and gain a greater resistance to the influence of the darkside. Having kept themselves sacred, they are able to greatly sense evil amongst their own. The last outcome is The Fall. Powers of the Exorcists The mark of an Exorcist is their flame, that white fire with which they purge the darkness around them. In order to create such a pure essence of lightside power, meditation upon one’s own soul and how they feel the force is required. One must sacrifice themselves to the will of the Lightside, and that has a cost; One does not simply burn away the dark side, it must be consumed, and the ashes it leaves behind are toxic to the soul. To destroy the darkside, one must open a wound within their soul. A Note to Writers: As flame-based attacks, causing thermal damage would be an aggressive use of the Force, that is for the Dark Side, a motif of flame however is not. On its writing: These powers are not as simple as telekinesis and should be written as such, each needs a buildup and may take several posts to fully exert their power. Firelight: A strengthening of the skin, muscle, and sinew of the body. A closer bond of flame and flesh. Provides a barrier against those weapons of the Dark Side, not by any means invulnerability, but can be used to bleed off the bite of such weapons for a short burst of time. Can be used to denature toxins, nanites or poisons. Must be highly specified in its concentration, either internally bound or externally expressed, and natured towards the weapon itself. Example: to use firelight against Force Lightning, one would bind it around oneself in one’s own flame, draining away the power of the lighting, but also your own in equivalent exchange. Kiss of the Sin Eater: Restricted to Sin Eaters To touch is to purify. When an Exorcist lays their hands upon a person imbued with the darkside, IE Krath Magic, or some form of shielding, with their will and concentration they can attempt to burn the darkness away. They take the darkside upon themselves, stain their soul with it, and then burn it to ashes with their holy fire within themselves. This is highly dependent on the Exorcist and the opposing force, may take several posts of struggle, and is influenced by the Exorcist’s own weaknesses and whatever is tempting them to the darkside. This is an act of Unbinding, it is an attempt to undue the work of dark magic; creations or bindings. Things that are integral to an opponent’s character, such as a Sith Warrior’s Weapons cannot be unbound without great effort across several posts, although as with all attacks this must be respected in some form or fashion. You do not have to immediately destroy such a dark side weapon or creation to respect the attack, weakening or making it meaningfully lose something that modifies its abilities (in the negative) would be an example of respect. The dark side that imbued this creation has been disrupted, find a meaningful way of portraying this. To employ this power is to bring evil into your character and should have real consequence in your storylines and in combat. It should not be used lightly. Consecration: Restricted to Sin Eaters The Exorcist channels their inner flame into the area upon where they stand, driving the darkside from the place. Can be used to establish light side nexuses or destroy those of the darkside. Should not be used in combat, as it takes the entirety of one’s concentration to impact the physical realm in such a way. It would take longer to destroy a dark side nexus then it would take to establish a lightside one. It takes a great deal of effort to unbind an area of its very nature and should take several posts. Consecration can be used to temporarily numb the effects of a dark side nexus, preventing the deep wellspring of power a dark side force user could naturally draw from in such an area. Caveat: Naturally, this power cannot possibly combat areas of inherent historical darkness, IE Korriban or Dagobah. To try this alone is to die. The Kiss of Peace: Restricted to Watchers To the fallen, the choice is redemption or death. This power focuses upon the fire of the lightside inherent within an individual, no matter how small, and amplifies it with their own to a destructive level. To give the Kiss of Peace is to stoke the flames within a fallen Jedi and use it in an attempt to bind them into their own path of destruction. Such a power takes a great deal of concentration and will to use, and requires foreknowledge of one’s opponent, and cannot be used as a dragnet to capture unknown or unadmitted lightside energy. This power must be applied by physical touch to have effect, and can be used to disrupt an opponent's connection to the Force, be that the dark side of the Force or some warped and twisted view of the Light. Silence: (Restriction only to Masters) If one is able to narrow in on where the darkside is originating within a character, an Exorcist can apply their internal fire in order to attempt to silence it, or more realistically, make it harder to utilize. Takes specific knowledge and cannot be used as a dragnet to silence an opponent’s every force action, it should make it more difficult to access the force, but only if you know how the opponent find’s their power. Example: An exorcist discovers that the opponent uses the emotion of rage to fuel their darkside power, that can allow them to apply silence which should begin a secondary struggle between the two users which the Exorcist can attempt to root out and destroy that source of rage. Aggressive therapy one might say. Like all force powers, this needs to be well written to have any respect, and success is on a spectrum. Soul’s Entrapment: An Exorcist channels the destructive nature of their power into the environment through runes. The practical application of consecration, it can be used like a minefield or a way to herd an opponent into areas. Can be drawn using anything that the Exorcist has channeled in before, such as chalk or their lightsaber, or even their blood. The runes are difficult to maintain, as they continue to require attention and concentration. Once triggered, the runic works help to transfer specific power from the exorcist directly through the ground. This can be telekinetic, such as a grab from below, or a weaker unbinding. Requires time to set up efficiently, and must be complete in order to work. These runes will be lightly visible with a whitish glow, due to the imbued energy. Can only be applied to static surfaces, such as the ground or decking of a starship. Limited Application: Four active rune-patterns for a knight, and an additional two for a Master. You cannot deactivate a rune-pattern and then switch it back on when you’re ready to use it as you have to physically imbue the energy each time.

The rhythm changed perceptibly, and in an instant the rush of war was done, replaced only by the steady beat of pain and mourning. The mud was soft and cool against her feet as she settled into it, watching as the Mandalorian stumbled behind her, wounded but alive. Probiscis flicked the air, urging her to taste of him, but she passed the hunger into the song, banishing it to the realm of that fell krayt that moved within her mind. The Jedi Master looked at her tattered cloak as the jungle air swept through it. It barely covered her nakedness as the remnants of her armor and undersuit falling into ash. There was a portion of her that desired to strike down her two opponents, but mercy was of the Light, and she was sworn to it. Kyrie called her medkit to her through the Force from where it had been cast aside with her quiver and bow. She stepped first to Kot’dral, nail-bitten fingers removing the knives and arrows, calming his pain with the force as she worked. She used most of the hypospray on the man, before turning to Tros. She stared at him, watching the man as she sprayed the rest of the bacta onto the wound she had given him across the shoulder. She spoke then, voice gravelly and sad. She was never good with basic, and it gave her words a pausing, tumbling tone. “Take your man and leave this place. Your forces are withdrawing…” She gestured to the fallen bodies, the carrion falling upon the dead in droves. She could already smell the rot beginning to add its song to the beat of the jungle. Emerald eyes turned to evaluate the stoic T-visor. “Think now of your honor. Was it honorable to fight alongside those that would slay children?” With that said, the Jedi stepped into the jungle. Nature would take its course with the dead, it always did. From rot would spring new life.

The Bladedancer slipped her hands along the smooth heartwood that made the briar handle of her saber-spear, feeling the coolness of it beneath her fingertips, the thrumming rhythm of its life attuned to her own. Her opponent was good, his song strong and resolute under her assault. Was it the man’s honor that drove his soul to fight so heartily, even as he stood amongst the bodies of slain women and children. Tears dripped and burned away in electric-blue flame. Her arms hurt where they were burned and even under the blessings of crucitorn it was a distraction. The entire side of her face felt as if it had been hit by a thunderclap, and the ringing of tinnitus bit into her rhythm, sliding its way into the mournful song. She couldn’t reestablish the connections to the spirits of the dead or bid them now to rise and assist her. Such were the wounds of battle. The songs spoke to her of more to come, and she breathed strength into her body, bidden by The Force. Silvered-orange flame crackled in the humid air as the Jedi Master spun her body in a pirouette off her front boot, the blade remaining on-center, and with a press from her backhand, the Sentinel cut a dart from the air as it came for her. She nearly slipped in the mud, the ringing in her ear driving her balance to shift unnaturally. She collapsed the locus of control to only contain herself, focusing now on only what mattered, surviving and destroying the threat. The crimson-stained mud clung to her tattered boots, a mimicry to the grasping hands of the dying from whom the blood had spilled. It wanted to impede her, but it could not stand against the power of the Force, and the rushing of one so filled with the rhythms of war. A mournful song still reflected in her heart, the rhythms of loss, of the dying, of the dead. She did not wish these Mandalorians death, or hate them, she only wanted their violence, their fell deeds, to end. Flame came then, making a washing, rending, terrible storm of it all. First from one side, and then the other. Chaos was always king on a battlefield, but fire added a primal desperation to the rhythm. The Anzanti had a natural revulsion to it, a primordial thing the stories for which had not been passed into the writings of Aldazeric Ka’lin in his interpretations of the oral traditions. It came from all sides, which left the Jedi with only one route of escape, to take to the winds and join the rhythm of the jungle. She passed her strength and agility for a heartbeat into her legs. She leapt. The fires scalded and burned for a but a moment as she leapt up and over the flame, in a parabolic arc towards and over the older of the Mandalorians (Tros). He was the greater threat, less damaged than his companion, and far deadlier. She would split the two of them apart from one another, and eliminate them individually. Parts of her armor boiled away into slagged plasteel from the intense heat, a blistered welts formed on her unprotected skin. The pain washed through her, but she was now in the rhythm of war, and there was no stopping such momentum. For a Jedi, to sing the mournful songs of war and to dance to Thyssian in the heat of battle was very much treading the line between as close to the dark as one dared, much akin to a blademaster of Vaapaad. It was the temptation to do most deadly things, and required the stoutest of hearts and an ironmade will enough to revile the darkness that was most alluring at the fringes of such a song. Below her, the world passed from existence, enveloped by the searing explosion of a thermal detonator. The winds reverberated from the detonation, buffeting her leap, ripping away what remained of her armor, but still she pressed on. Her remaining knives slipped from her broken belt and she bade them to find the lesser of the two, and they cracked to speed, arcing towards the younger Mandalorian (Kot’dral Duvul) with deadly purpose. Kyrie’s leap carried her the distance towards Tros, the man in Crimson and Black armor, and she thrust with her lightsaber down in a flurry. He was within the outer circle of the spear, and within it the realm of the bladedancer. Her weapon, washing the world in silvery-orange became a blur of light that would drown out the fires that the Mandalorians had tried to strike her down with. Blow after blow she cut as she flew over the Mandalorian, dancing upon the wind. She struck at the Mandalorian’s head and neck, shoulders, and arms. His back. Each carried the rhythm of her song, a pattern of deadly beauty. She would not let such weapons of the enemy persist. The dead about them cried out for justice, to not let another child die to the ravaging of the Sith Empire. ((3)) Lost Armor and took increased burn damage from flamethrower attacks, blocked dart attack, and evaded the Thermal Detonator. Made telekinetic knife attack on Kot’dral Duvul, and a full flurry of lightsaber attacks on Tros. Thank you, it's been a real pleasure to duel you.

The rhythm changed in subtle ways, the songs of the Force reverberating the unexpected. Emerald eyes flashed with blue flame, probiscis flicking towards the T-visor of her opponent. The Sentinel had expected the mourning that followed victory through death, but instead the Mandalorian before her had caught her weapon’s shimmering blade. The mix of black and crimson that adorned her opponent’s armor took on the glow of silvered-orange, and the two of them were locked together like the titans she had spun songs about in the long nights of her youth. The souls about her echoed in mourning. So, this is Beskar’gam, the fabled armor of the Mandalorians of old. Her song took on a hint of envy, for the man’s armor was impervious to her strikes. The envy washed into resolve as emerald eyes found gaps and areas that were not covered in the precious metal, and her probiscis flicked in the air, tasting the humid, fetid air of Felucia. She could feel both of the Mandalorians in the song, resolute and strong, unphased by the deaths they had caused. It sickened her. The dark side corrupted all, twisting honor into dispassionate service to evil. The younger of the Mandalorians resolution took on a further rhythm, that of victory. Another change to the rhythm and the Mandalorian scrambled away from her, and she saw danger immediately. A grenade of some form had sailed its way towards her, and she passed herself into the fluidity of the song. She had a choice then, embrace the flame that raged from Tros or face the unknown of a grenade. As had been often on her path, she chose fire. She pressed into the fire, splitting the air about her in a current of song, making herself into a new storm. Her flesh took on electric fire, she embraced the force’s gift of quickness and strength. Kyrie dove through the fire, accepting it about her and passing it about her in a breath. The hair on her arms took on the flame, singeing her but in a heartbeat, she was through the fire and the pain calmed as she flowed with the rhythm. The grenade’s detonation ripped physical sound from her right ear, as the eardrum was torn, and the scream of the sonic blast washed over her in a rending crash of sound. She fell into a roll, letting the souls of those about her drop from her song. The bodies of the dead that she had prepared to use fell into abject useless once more. The Jedi Master’s locus of control now only involved herself and the fallen quiver of arrows. It was all she would need. The Imperial Knight came to her feet with the fluidity of a dancer, pain racing through her from the loss of an eardrum, the fire, and the earlier blaster scarring. Another breath and she added the pain to her rhythm, bleeding it away once more into the embrace of the Force. The time for mourning was past. Another attack came, and a glimmer of light played across the younger Mandalorian (Kot’dral Duvul) as he charged, the sunlight filtering through the humid air to pain the man in a halo. He appeared as a glittering angel amongst the countless bodies of innocent dead. The Jedi Master had seen such things before, amongst her own troops at Coruscant and the harrowing of the Sith’s Temple there, the telltale signs of a shield. The Jedi Sentinel slipped her body into the fluidity of the Force, blurring into speed as she passed around the man’s line of attack, still angling towards the other, striking out at the Mandalorian with the vibroblade legs with the pommel of her spear. She would use the man’s violent momentum against him. She angled still in her run towards the one who had sent her flame. The other was but a distraction. Even so, his vibroblade bit into the plasteel of her leg-guard, dislodging the plate as she moved, and she twisted away to press the attack on the more dangerous of her opponents. Words passed across her lips as her blurred form rushed towards the Older Mandalorian, the brightness of her blade batting away the blaster shots as she came for him (Tros). Her footsteps were light and quicker than humanly possible, at least for those without the Force. The blaster shots thudded into the blood-soaked mud, burning into a sulfuric smell that wreathed about her as ghostlike vapor. Black-tipped arrows rose from the quiver and from the mud where they lay amongst the bodies, bidden by her words, snapping to the speed towards the younger of the Mandalorians (Kot’dral Duvul) at a multitude of angles based on where they had been scattered in the dirt. The song had beckoned them to join their master in war once more. The Master of the Imperial Knights advanced upon the Mandalorain (Tros) in a whirlwind of silvered-orange fire. The Bladedancer had embraced the rhythm of Thyssian form entirely, the spear weaving patterns in the air at impossibly quick speeds. With a spear, it was nearly the speed of Vaapaad, meant to dismember and destroy an opponent from the range of a spear. She struck for the gaps in the Mandalorian’s armor, where the chest-piece revealed the abdomen, around the groin where the armor sacrificed protection for movement, at the arms, and the legs. She was a blur of light, striking again and again in a flurry of overlapping and synchronous attacks to the rhythm of battle, sacrificing power for speed and dexterity. ((2)) Takes damage from flamethrower, sonic detonator, looses armor to vibroblade strike, deflects blaster-bolts. Strikes at NPC with pommel intending to trip him on her way to strike at Tros, and follows it up with a multitude of telekinetically borne arrows. Advances on Tros with a rhythmic flurry of lightsaber blows aimed for where the armor doesn’t protect.

The Rhythm of the winds changed, melding with the songs of sorrow. The Sentinel could feel its gentle whispers across her flesh, drawing the hair upon her arms to stand on end. It echoed inside of her, rebounding in the soul of that fell Krayt, Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr. Predators were upon the winds. She moved her hands from the body of the child, the burden of shame and sadness still heavy upon her mind, her heart a lump inside her chest. She stared at the souls of the dead about her, emerald eyes still overflowing with tears. Probiscis flicked at the air, tasting the changing rhythms. Her fingers sought the briar heartwood of her lightsaber, drumming to the song upon the elongated handle. She felt as one amongst the corpses, letting their souls add to her song of mourning. Her locus of control expanded beyond herself So many dead. Kyrie turned as sound came, like the rushing of a rocket in a gale. The rhythm of the predator was growing nearer. It was not outright hostile, as the Sith always felt in the rhythm, but steadfast and resolute hunters. She saw them then, two of those that called themselves Mandalorians twenty meters away, clad in Black and Crimson. The Sentinel had heard that the Rebel Alliance had hired the Mand’alor for her services, perhaps they were friendly? They were not. The calm, steady beat of predation formed into the heat of violence and the Jedi dove into a roll of her own, splashing into the fetid mud stained as red as Gadfruit Wine by the blood of children. A touch of fire scalded across her left forearm from a pistol shot. A blast from a rifle dug a furrow into her plasteel backpiece, the ARC-Armor distributing the kinetic shock evenly across her back. The Sentinel hissed with pain as she continued her roll, adding the pain to her song as she shifted her rhythm from mourning to a reflection of the heart of Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr, the Krayt within. Crucitorn turned the edge the pain, reducing it to a throbbing that echoed her beat. She came from the ground in a spin, the saber-spear washing the world in silvered orange. Crimson mud streaked to orange as it fell from her armor. She ran, feeding the rhythm of the force into her speed and agility, as was natural for her lean body. Her face was set into a grimace, not that of pain but of determination. The tears that ran down that pale canvass of freckled skin began to glow, infused with white, electrical light, evaporating into smoke and dust. She was a blur onto the wind, joining in its unending rush. Another rifle shot from the younger of the Mandalorians tore the quiver from her side, and she let it drop amongst the bodies. Its rhythm was not lost to her, and she kept it within her song. Pale lips formed the words of ancient battle-songs as she advanced. She asked permission of the souls, and forgiveness for desecration, but the dead only sang of vengeance. The Sentinel extended her locus of control, and a body moved from the ground as if brought momentarily to life. Deep sadness rushed into her song, flooding into her very core, allowing the pain to rise again. Flesh was not given life, but the body moved at her command, launched in a leap of limp limbs towards the younger Mandalorian (Kot’dral Duvul), propelled by the force. Following after whipped a fine-pointed knife from the belt of the Sentinel, cracking towards the man at parabolic angle. To the older Mandalorian (Tros), the Sentinel advanced, channeling the speed of the wind and the controlled intensity of a Krayt. She angled to the man’s right, intending to keep both opponents on one side of her body. She would not allow herself to be flanked. Nail-bitten fingers twisted the spear in a flurry of silver-orange light. Her forearm smarted as her arms moved, and the woman’s grimace deepened. She transferred her stance to Thyssian as she ran, sacrificing defense for the swift offensive capabilities of a speardancer. She cut at the Mandalorian with a deft strike, intending to bisect the man from his left pauldron through his navel and out through the right hip. She hummed the songs of war, tinged as it was with the sorrows of the dead about her. ((1)) Takes a grazing hit on the forearm from Tros’ pistol shot and one on the backplate from Kot’dral. Sends a body and stiletto knife flying at Kot’dral and strikes at Tros with a saber-spear cut.

The White Death fell from the dazzling embrace of hyperspace, falling into the darkness of realspace in a rush of twisting light. Its pilot, the Revanchist Eleison gazed upon the jungle planet below with critical eyes. The rhythm of the system was wrong, so wrong. The Azanti’s probiscis twitched and weaved as she attuned herself to the Force. She tasted the force, breathing it in and letting it surround her. The Krayt stirred within, and her skin flushed with warmth. Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr loved this place. There was a primeval tone that stirred amongst the stars, ancient in its power, a rippling echo of long-dead things. Newer evils had come, treading the same paths of primordial ones. Sith atrocities. She breathed in a breath of the recycled, hollow air and dove her ship towards the emerald planet. The rhythm began to change as she approached, and she could almost feel the stinging heat and humidity upon her skin. There were currents here, dark songs reflected in the clouds. She was drawn by the cry of souls. The Force tore the world before, the claws of a mighty storm ripping across the hull of The White Death with the shriek of rending metal. The Sith and their Storms. Kyrie smiled, feeling the control yoke become unresponsive in her grasp. She let the ship go, watching as the yoke began to spasm as the ship began lulling death spiral, caught in the uncaring hands of a dark current. The Jedi flipped her spear from her back as the ship’s spinning increased, igniting it in a flourish, cutting way free from the dying ship and letting the humid air catch her. The Jedi bent her body, letting the current of air carry her in the wake of her broken ship as it spiraled towards the atrocities below. The White Death smashed into a portion of cleared jungle, in what had formally been a subsistence farm. Kyrie breathed out, letting her own rhythm expand and release the bonds of gravity, slowing her fall into a diving dance amongst the smoke and ruin. Her soft leather boots touched the tilled earth and she allowed gravity to slip its bonds onto her flesh again. She breathed in another breath and gasped in horror as she looked around. Bodies were everywhere, broken and torn by the dark side of the Force. Raw emotion poured into the Force, remnants of passing souls who had tried to resist the Sith and had died in droves. She could see them, the souls of men, women, and children watching the carrion fall upon their bodies. Nail-bitten fingers ran through the rosary on her wrist as tears welled in her eyes, reflecting the light of the fires before running and tumbling down her young face to mix into the dirt and blood at her feet. Her probiscis twitched, and even Ysgithyrwyn Mwynfawr’s rhythm was that of shame and sadness. Her hand rested on the corpse of a child, feeling the wounds in the Force, and their reflection upon the flesh. “You tried to resist them… But even in your… Innocence they spared no one.” The Imperial Knight reflected her songs into the wind, mirroring the wound in the force she could feel. A Song of Sorrow.

The Jedi Sentinel felt adrift in the power of the place. The vastness of power contorted by Jedi long dead. She breathed in a sharp breath, tasting the dying air with both her tongue and the probiscis of her species. It filled her lungs like molten lead, scalding and burning her insides, touching her heart with fire. She sighed out the breath, white flame twisting about her, curling around her skin. Kyrie slipped a hand into the sifting world as the feasting hall fell into ash and sand, the final death of time’s march. A warm metallic touch came across her hand, and she brought it up, a circlet of silvered metal adorned with a sunstone of crystalline yellow. She placed it across her brow, letting it press into her braided hair and freckled skin. It carried a warmth within it which spread to her heart. A smile formed across her face as she ushered the remaining research teams onto the shuttles and leapt onto her own ship. The White Death was empty now of visitors and researchers, and she preferred it that way. The Imperial Knight settled into the pilot’s seat, taking over for the autopilot and brought the YG-4210 to parallel with the rescue fleet. She kept her flight path between the fading star and the fleet, protecting them with herself as they all leapt into hyperspace. A partially decoded message scrolled onto her screen, a feed from the Alliance’s intelligence grouping, a leftover of the ISB “Felucia under Sith Attack.” She let out a sigh and changed the flight pathing, bidding the dying world goodbye.

There was a hint of burning in the air, that ever-faint scent of a fire long since diminished and turned sour. A bitter reflection of that fire the Jedi Master had once held within her. The woman before Kyrie had been through the purification of an Exorcist and had withstood it. All about her, the spirits came to life with her exhalation, tied to her rhythm. There was fear here, ancient, but still pungeunt in its reflection in the Force. Revan had stepped here and had been repulsed. Il-Andon had looked here for power, as had Malak and Surik, all on their path to Malachor. On their path to destruction. Kyrie’s soul told her to step back, but she did not. Far distant, the star was dying. She could hear its distant song faltering and its death was tethered here. The woman’s words were of pride, and Kyrie did not fully understand their context, but spoke softly. “I know you not, nor will I worship mortal or immortal beings, but from this place we must go.” The Jedi reached out a hand, not to gain power or as an answer to lust or pride. The hand was scarred, nail-bitten, pale. Kyrie touched the woman then, and her emerald eyes were full of pity and kindness. The distant song faltered further. She spoke then to both herself and the woman before her, and to the scared spirits of the past. “No one is beyond redemption." She reached ever further, ignoring the threat of a sword or of a curse. It was with mercy she extended her trust. "Come, for this trap is closing about us both.”