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Mavanger

Roleplay Mod Team
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Everything posted by Mavanger

  1. What a fucking duel. Just to give you guys an idea, This duel took 3 mods nearly an hour to decide who won because you both did so well and performed so close to each other. You both had good, bad, and fantastic, And even the bad was completely in character and narratively excellent. The idea of two of the greatest Mandalorians alive spiralling through the air in a brutal deathmatch was well portrayed here, from Terra's paranoia and sense of betrayal to Tros's desire to take disarm her and take her alive. If they ever duel again I'll be reading every post. Now, onto the meat of the duel: First and foremost, Terra's final post. In her attack, she grabs Tros's grappling hook and uses it to pull herself towards him to stab him in the collar. It's an excellent move, but grabbing your opponent's weapon and manipulating it for your attack is a very grey area. It works here since the nature of a grapple attack like this is to tether the two fighters, and in doing this Terra isn't undoing Tros's attack or taking actions beyond using it for it's intended purpose- to close the gap. I would not recommend trying this often due to the innate grey area of manipulating an opponent's weapon to your advantage in a closed way like this. Tros, your first post was a bit of a whiff. You made one attack against a target that you were informed was not a part of the duel. While thematic in the situation, and definitely in character, not making an attack in your first post is definitely not the greatest move for a duel post. In the future, I would treat things like this as part of the setup and make your attacks separate for the round. The barest edge was decided in the final post. While Terra is at a disadvantage, being without a jump pack or electronics to alter her course, Tros seems intent to engage her on this front with the intent of using his own blade. The deciding factor was that Terra was approaching rapidly with a long-reaching spear, and Tros hadn't even drawn his blade yet. You both did phenomenally and should both be proud, but Terra is the victor, and has next post.
  2. Darth Mavanger's shuttle touched down at the coordinates he was given. It was odd, to be in the fight even after his departure from the Sith Empire, but he had unfinished business. He wasn't one to leave a faithful ally to rot in a cell, especially when the plan was concocted by other allies of his campaign. He was alone- his shuttle was piloted by a simple droid. None save those who would be present would know his location. The isolation of the Empress's soul was priority right now. Even now, it remained hidden aboard his shuttle. It was programmed to self destruct should someone try to board it without his permission, and if he fell on the Helvault and death truly claimed him, the crystal would fade into the wilderness of Nepsis VIII. He sealed his shuttle behind him, looking to the sky awaiting his compatriots. He was still the Warmaster of the Sith, even in hiding as the Empress had bid, and he knew they would arrive soon.
  3. Darth Mavanger's craft landed with an ear-splitting screech as it tore across the hangar's deck. It had been damaged in the twin blasts of the Rebel flagships, and Mavanger had barely managed to land it under any modicum of control. The blasts had rocked the Raven's Bane- the shields had already taken damage, but the blasts had finally stripped them. Now she lay vulnerable, the only thing separating her magazines and torpedoes for fiery detonation being feet of layered metal. One by one, her support craft moved to reinforce. The charge had been successful, and the captains of the remaining vessels were rallying to the cause. He saw a Harrower star destroyer, move to shield them, watching as the green, red and blue turbolaser fire splashed against the ship's shields. It wouldn't last long, but it was buying them time to get away. Even still, the fire was intense, explosions rocking the ship with every stray shot that made it past the defensive forces. The repairs would be time consuming and costly, but the Raven's Bane would survive. Mordecai pulled out his comlink, broadcasting a simple message to friend and foe alike. "The false Empress has fallen. The rebels will break." To his own captain, he broadcasted a different one. "Take us to Geonosis immediately."
  4. The silence swallowed him, the Empress's words rapidly dispersing into the aether with her final breath. The command deck was silent, save for the Misericordia s creaks and groans as fire was exchanged with the Raven's Bane and her escorts. The second rebel flagship was closing fast- He would have to move. He forced himself to his feet, retrieving the blade from Raven's chest. He could feel her soul pulsing in the gem- the sole reminder of her existence. The ship shuddered, and he moved towards the exit. His vengeance had been achieved, and yet he still felt hollow. The fires of rage still burnt his veins, and he was left without a target for it. Everyone he'd trusted were dead, or beyond his reach now. He knew the way of the Dark Lords. He was dangerous, both to Nyrys and to her plan. He would either be placed in a backwater to guard a place worth little, or he would be slain to preserve her faux peace. He would abide neither option. The galaxy was changing, and he intended to spearhead that change. He had no chance for now. His forces were heavily damaged, his retinue were dead or out of contact, and the Sith Empire's military might would be in shambles after this battle. He would need to disappear, to heal his wounds, his spirit, and his resolve. But he would not leave the Sith to their own machinations. There were still three he relied upon. One who's chains were literal, one who's chains were emotional, and one who's chains were nearly broken. These would be their projects while he was away. He fought his way through squads of security personnel, through hostile corridors and quarters. He entered the hangar, took his shuttle, and left. Alone, and forever changed. _ Aboard the Raven's Bane, orderly mayhem was breaking loose. Their reinforced shields were holding against the Misericordia, but barely, and now the Constantine was moving close to engage. The situation was dire. Captain Ralos knew that the corridor would need to be clear for Darth Mavanger to escape, and with both the Misericordia and the Constantine still active, the chances of that happening were incredibly low. But there was an opportunity- The Raven's Bane was in a favorable position, nearly directly between the two capital ships, and passing close. It didn't take much to perfect their position, and as the Raven's Bane took fire from both sides, it fired a point blank volley of siege torpedoes into both ships, a volley that was hopefully massive enough in firepower to destroy both of the battleworn vessels. Their own proximity to the fallout never once crossed her mind as a deterrent.
  5. Mordecai laughed mirthlessly at her words. "What is madness but the deception of oneself? There is no question that I am a madman, not anymore. But what separates me from the rest is the same thing that separates you. Why we have bodyguards instead of an enlisted man. People put their faith in other people. Mine believe in me, and yours you. Even now they flood the ship in hopes of saving you. How many will die with this ship?" He sighed, watching the destruction with a heavy heart. "I would trade places with any of them though. To die gloriously in combat, to be relieved of the burden I bear. But we all have chains, Raven, whether you realize it or not. I thought mine was the legacy of my forefathers, or the machinations of your rebels. But I understand the truth now. The veil has been lifted, and the madness has cleared. My vengeance is the chain that binds me to this world. I thought it would end with you. That I could let go of this poison, that I could die in blissful relief. But even now, as you bleed out, I thirst for more." He gestured vaguely in the direction that he could feel the force roiling. The Dark Lord would soon face her own trial, but he would be long gone by the end, regardless of who won. "I'm tired. Exhausted. I've fought this war for my entire adult life, brought our empire to the precipice of victory with my campaign. And now, I see the threads coming undone. Exodus was losing grip on the empire, but he still fought to preserve it. Darth Nyrys wishes to willingly cast it aside, start from scratch with some grandiose idea that we will rise from the ashes." He sat beside the Empress, his breathing steadying as he recuperated from his fight. He knew his next step. He needed to truly break free of his chains. "My chains are perpetual. I understand now. I seek vengeance, and in that action, those dear to me die. Conveniently, another target for my hatred surfaces. But I will break free, even if the very forces of the galaxy will resist."
  6. Darth Mavanger removed his ruined mask, placing it behind his blade's sheathe. He looked upon the young girl in front of him, staring him down even now, with her fleet and her world burning behind her. She offered him her blade, and he understood the sanctity of the act. Surrender. An offering for peace. But his vengeance demanded her death, and so it would have it. He took her blade, placing it in a pouch on his belt. He had left Cassandra's where it had fallen- a worthy opponent. Looting her corpse would have dishonored that fact. He drew a much smaller blade. It was still formed of Sith Steel, and it was adorned with a dark crystal that pulsed malignantly in the Force, a sickening artifact of obscene purpose. He stepped in, thrusting the dagger into Empress Raven's chest. It wasn't an immediately lethal blow- the blade needed time to work it's dark sorceries, and she needed to be alive for it. He place his other hand on her shoulder, as he had with Cassandra, guiding her further onto the bridge. Even now, as his most hated foe bled from his wound, he was unsatisfied. The rebels would control the galaxy, regardless of this act. The Dark Lord had decreed it so, and he had not the strength at the time to contest her. Even now, at the height of his power, even if he wrested control of the Sith Empire, the pieces were already in motion. The rebel fleet burned, but so did his. There wouldn't be enough Sith to re-secure the Galaxy for a long time. Not after Naboo and Nar Shadaa. His mind drifted, trying to find someone responsible. Someone he could aim his fury at. His grief. His betrayal. And as he did, he realized. "Care to listen to the words of a madman?"
  7. The doors hissed open, and there she was. Alone on the bridge, the fleet battle that raged on skylined behind her. A brutal tapestry of what they had brought into the galaxy. It was destiny that drew them together here. Raven was destined to die, and Darth Mavanger was destined to kill her from the moment that he had made the decision to join the Sith Empire and departed Carida. Home. He approached the Empress, removing his mask and stowing it on his belt, his blades sheathed on his side. He looked past her, at the fires and the explosions that rocked both fleets. He could see his fleet breaking through, his flagship closing with the Misericordia rapidly. No doubt they were trying to extract him. Loyal to the end. How many would die from the damage his own flagship sustained from this maneuver? He looked at Raven, his eyes meeting hers. He stepped closer, exhaustion filling his bones. He could take her in a fight, even in this state, he was sure, but he knew she wasn't defenseless. "Empress Raven. I've waited a long time for this reunion."
  8. Cassandra defended herself admirably. Even in his current state, Darth Mavanger could appreciate that. Had it not been for the walls limiting her mobility, the fight would have very likely gone on for longer, and the False Empress would have been given a chance to escape. She expertly parried, redirected, and dodged his attacks in a masterful display of footwork, agility, and swordsmanship, right up until the end. Like he though, she ducked to the side to avoid one blade, and stepped right into the path of another. The ship screamed as a metal blade made a hole in the durasteel wall, blood coating the other side as it pinned her to the wall. It was an awful sound, as though the room around them mourned for the Imperial Knight's final moments. Cassandra, the first of his many hurdles, the Imperial Knight who had thwarted his defense of Kuat when he was but an apprentice, now struggled for breath, mere inches away from him. He leaned forward, into her her as he caught his breath. She still had life. the fog of rage and vengeance was lifting, and his senses came back to him. The voice was back. The guilt. The death and destruction that he had caused. Even now, with Cassandra dying inches away from him, by his hand, he was not satisfied. The pit was still there. The hole in his heart, the loneliness of his path of vengeance. He placed a hand on her shoulder, looking at her blindfolded eyes, looking for an answer. "Will the pain ever stop?" he whispered, agony creeping into his voice. But she was gone now. His question was left unanswered, and again he was alone. He looked over at the turbolift, retrieving his blade from the wall and Cassandra's corpse, guiding her gently to the ground. His forces were dead. His guards were dead. Cassandra was dead. This was the destiny of those who surrounded him. Whether they be friend or foe, all that followed him for long was death. And death was still to come, a fact he knew from what he was going to do next.
  9. There- a mistake. She pushed into his guard, like someone trying to survive being hit by a train by diving under the cars. it was his chance to pin her, to break her. To shatter the wall that kept him from his target- Raven. The saber sparked off his armor, piercing the thinner metal that protected his side and cutting deep, leaving a furious orange glow where it cauterized metal and flesh alike. Darth Mavanger spun, with the attack, only partially intentional, bracing himself. The last time Cassandra had made physical contact with a Sith, it ended with the man bursting into white fire and dying at her feet. Another comrade the Rebels had costed him. One of her fingers scraped across his eye, peeling off a layer of his left eye's cornea as it did. He howled, physical pain shooting across his face as he summoned the last of his rage in conjunction with his pain. Reflexively, both of his eyes squeezed shut, but he didn't need them yet. Her path was clear in the force- the bastion of unflinching purity amidst a storm of anger, hatred, pain and death. The Force that she clung to would be her demise. There was no salvation here. She had already let Mordecai live once. If she had killed him there, if she had slain him and left his corpse at Quela's feet, then she would not be here now, fighting for her life to protect herself and those around her. If she and Ismael had not hoped for Darth Mavanger's redemption, then perhaps the rebels they loved and cherished, who's deaths were at his hands, would still be alive. So might Oroo and Pilon The voice in the back of his mind, a quiet one that he had kept surpressed since his lover's death, finally reared it's head. So might Xahl... and Jarvus The voice was louder now. A cacophony of images and sounds. Those he had seen die, who's deaths he had ordered. The recent ones came first. Pilon and Oroo. The rebels he'd butchered during the approach. The transports that had erupted into flame because of his suicidal charge. Kahla, the closest thing he'd experienced to true family, mutilated and broken, mentally and physically, by his training. Jarvus, who's blind faith in Mordecai, the man, not Darth Mavanger, the Sith, had cost him his life. But it was too late. The Dark Side had taken hold. It had dragged him from the precipice of death. It had forced him onto a world that had nothing left for him. No Empire to expand. No loved ones to return home to. No comrades left to protect. And now, in his darkest hour, all he had left to cling to... ... was Vengeance. He shut down the voice, a violent denial of truth that echoed in the force as his eyes snapped open. He relished in the pain, his vision in his left eye too blurry to aid him anymore. Red now creeped into them, not just due to injury, but as a testament to Darth Mavanger's fall to the Dark Side. Darth Nyrys had made him a Sith Master, but now, in his truest acceptance of his rage and anger, he had truly become what it meant to be a master of the dark side. A path of endless agony, of vehement fury, of hungering vengeance, and a path of his own creation. He dashed forward, the weight of the takeoff and landing of each foot leaving a soft dent in the durasteel, slowed by his injuries and his damaged depth perception, but still coursing with the power of the dark side and relying on years of front line experience as he unleashed a potentially devastating flurry of blows, every move sped up and strengthened by his darkened mind. The pain focused his mind, telling him what he needed to do. The hatred gave him a target, and a goal. The rage gave him the power and the speed to do what must be done. He pressed the attack, opening with a scissoring slash from his blades. If the hammering of his blows along could not break her, then he would need an anvil. By stepping behind him a second time, she had put them parallel with the doors, the frame creating a macabre portrait of good and evil, of light and dark. She had also placed herself where her back now faced a wall. She would only be able to step back for so long, and this time he was prepared for her to step in. All that remained was to make sure she didn't sidestep him. His next attack was a thrust, angled at her left side, hoping to drive her right and closer to the door's wall. A third attack, a dual thrust. One at her chest, and one at her thigh. The driving blows, seeking to corner her. His final blow. A blow into which he poured everything. His grief, his hatred, his anger and his pain. A kaleidoscope of coalescing emotions that cascaded across his cacophonous aura. He would not be denied this vengeance. Not by Cassandra, not by Ismael. Not by Exodus, not by Quela. He would not be denied his vengeance by anyone, Sith and Jedi alike. With all of these convoluted emotions he poured himself into his blades as they cut two simultaneous dark arcs towards Cassandra. His first was a downwards diagonal slice from Imeall Sceimhle, from her right shoulder to her left hip, looking to drive her into the second, a thrust from Imeall Dolas aimed just left of her thigh. It was here that either a demon would die, or a hero would. And Darth Mavanger couldn't tell which he was anymore. ((3))
  10. Mordecai felt a flurry of things as he battled the known adversary. Her appearance dragged memory after memory to the surface. The first time he had met the False Empress. She had seemed but a child to him then. He had not understood the threat that she had represented, hadn't understood why it was important to try and broker peace with her before a full blown rebellion. Had he the foresight of how things would happen, he would have stopped Quela from lashing out. That was perhaps the singular most important moment of the war. The chance for peace, for surrender, snuffed out in a heartbeat by an overzealous Sith lord. Now, however, their paths had been long since set in stone. His vengeance would only halt with death, whether it be his or the Empress had yet to be revealed. He felt pain, both physical and emotional. He remembered Lord Xahl, and his rage sparked again. He had been disgruntled at being assigned to a mere apprentice, and the three of them had spent the battle fighting for glory rather than to secure a victory. For that, Cassandra had escaped and Fahren, Xahl's brother in arms, had fallen. It would be months before they saw each other again. Lord Xahl had become embittered in Fahren's absence. He had sworn vengeance against the rebels, much as Mordecai did now. Xahl had come along simply for the opportunity to extract his vengeance on the Imperial Knight. Oh how Mordecai wished he were here now, even in spirit. To watch him face down their hated foe. He felt physical pain, too. In his face from the earlier slash, but her next attack harmed his as well. While the saber slid harmlessly off of his shoulder pad, failing to find purchase, it fared better against his chest piece, gauging a deep cut in the metal as the tip of the blade sliced into his chest. He pivoted as she kicked, letting her foot collide with the back of his knee, letting it buckle instead of bracing against it. He felt rage. The blinding hot flash of fury filling his veins was too fierce to ignore. Rage at all manner of things welled to the surface of his psyche as he dove deeper into his berserker state, unleashing everything he had in this fight. Rage at his position- it was like a cruel joke. He had spent years climbing through the bureaucracy of the Sith, through disfavor with the Dark Lord, through campaign setbacks. Even death itself had failed to stop his rise. And yet now, on the precipice of his finest hour, on the eve of his victory, the night of the False Empress's death, he was to fade away into obscurity with the other Sith. To slink around in the dark like a beggar, asking permission just to go to a rebel world. It was demeaning. A cruel joke, indeed. Fury, at the insolence of his fellow lords. It was no wonder Darth Nyrys felt this was the best course of action, when her first introduction to the Sith was met with seditious words and challenging accusations. They had failed to see her power, and they had forgotten the Sith ways. You serve those in power, until you are strong enough to break free from their chains. He launched himself up, using his braced position on the ground to give him added leverage as he pressed the attack, pivoting as he rose with two upward slashes, one after another towards her belly, both Sith blades hungering for the flesh of their newest meal. She had been injured in his last flurry of blows- good. A crack in the stone, a wound in the body. He was a tempest of fire and wind and stone, and he would break her beneath his blade. Like a gale force wind, he would catch the crack in her defenses and tear down the entire fortification. He delivered two more blows towards her uninjured side as he continued to press his advance. A cross slash from Imeall Dólás, from her left shoulder to her right, looking to cut open her chest, followed by another from Imeall Sceimhle as he tried to sever her head. They were dangerous blows to be sure, but there was a stronger purpose to them- to shift her guard from her injured side as he took another step forward and attempted to drive his armored knee into her injured side. ((2))
  11. Mordecai expected many things when the door open. An opponent, maybe several. He expected to lose troops getting in. He expected to fight whatever it was that had pulled him here. But he didn't expect the agony of Sergeant Pilon, for the man's demise to be so visceral. As his last ally collided with his shins, he dug his feet in. It didn't so much as budge him an inch, but the psychological effect it had was unquestioned. As his final friend lay dying at his feet, he found his eyes locked onto the Sergeant's. Tears welled- He'd been with him from the start. From his first outing on Dark Sun Station, though they hadn't conversed much. It had been years before they met again, when Mordecai announced to the Sith Empire his plans for a grand campaign, sweeping across the outer rim. Pilon had come to him under a young lieutenant and a squad of commandos. They had formed the backbone of his personal guard. They had protected the Kuat Drive Yards from rebel insurgents, escorted him through the tunnels of Geonosis, and had been instrumental in his quest for vengeance since Naboo. The Sergeant had lost most of his squad over Mon Cal, lost aboard the same ship that Mordecai lost Captain Jarvus. They had bonded over this loss, and had trusted each other implicitly. All of this history came rushing to him as Cassandra pressed her attack. The strike impacted his helmet- had he entered battle without one as had been the norm in prior engagements, the hesitation would have killed him. As it was, a direct and undeflected lightsaber strike caused the armor to sizzle and pop, a chunk of the helmet falling away as he was sent reeling, a bright red line across his scarred face where the saber had singed his skin. He glanced up, and his vehement hatred sparked up. He let out a roar, a battlecry that would likely be remembered by those who heard it for years to come. All of his pain, his anguish, his fury. Years of pent up emotion to be unleashed in one virulent maelstrom of wrath and rage, fire and fury. Everyone he cared for was dead. The only recourse was to make the rebel empress and her supporters join them in their fate. He hurled himself forward. She wanted to protect her heathen monarch? She wanted to be the wall against his darkness? He would smash her piece by piece, crush the wall brick by brick. His first strike mirrored hers, Imeall Dólás coming down in his right hand in an overhead swing as he stepped forward, pulling the force into him, using it to augment his speed and strength into superhuman ranges. He took a second step, Imeall Sceimhle striking out in a left-handed thrust targeting center mass. A third step with a third swing, Imeall Dólás striking for her midsection in a cross cut, looking to sever her top from her bottom. He would breach this door, and then he would smash her body into the corrupt ruler that she so desperately wanted to protect, as she had with Sergeant Pilon. ((1. Request made last post for Cassandra to kill the good Sergeant.))
  12. The battle was over for now, but Mordecai's blades remained unsheathed. There would be no time to recover- The longer they stayed bottled up in the hangar, the harder it would be to force their way out. His forces knew this, and were positioning themselves in preparation for the next fight. He turned to the other two Sith, his fury an all-consuming flame in the Force, revealing his emotions beneath his mask. Even on the precipice of his revenge, he lost those close to himself, and his heart hardened further. "We will strike fast, and we will strike hard. The Empress will die today. While I move to find her on the command center, where she surely awaits our arrival, I have tasks for the both of you. Darth Tyra, move to the ship's reactor. If you don't know where it is, encourage a rebel to tell you. Destroy it, then leave the ship. Fiochmar, move to neutralize the escape pods. Take the remaining Sith infantry and launch any pod you find. If you can find the master controls, launch them all. Follow me out, and then move to your objectives." He moved to the nearest way out of the hangar, finding it locked down. He motioned for the Mandalorians. They approached and he motioned to the door. "Open it. Now." he didn't need to repeat himself. One of the commandos, moving with seemingly gleeful intents, moved up, placing a large detonite charge on the door. "Clear out!" A few seconds later, a series of massive explosions rocked the hangar as Sith forces breached the doors keeping them imprisoned on the hangar. A moment later, a wave of red, blue, and green blaster bolts rolled through the entrance, moving both ways as troops fired through the smoke, Mordecai entered the breach, his chest plate absorbing two blaster bolts, coming out to find himself face to face with Rebel forces. His bodyguards followed right behind him as he began his bloody work. His swords sliced through flesh with the efficacy of a saber, and the weight of hammers. His first severed an arm in a spray of blood that painted the wall and his armor with a deep crimson. His second strike connected the pommel of his blade to the face of a rebel shock trooper, shattering the plastoid armor, rupturing skin and crushing bone. His third severed the head of yet another rebel. Through his vengeance, he had become death incarnate, the flames of his wrath consuming anyone who came near. And yet, even as he slew rebels in the name of the fallen, in the name of those he'd lost, he felt hollow. His grief was an ever increasing weight on his shoulders, his rage serving only as an enhancement to his ability to shoulder it, but not yet giving him the strength to cast it away. His grief sparked rage, and a lust for vengeance that kept him bound to this world even beyond the point of death. He could feel it pulling him deeper into the ship, a cascade of violence that drew him ever closer to a mysterious presence, as though he were a marrionette, pulled upon strings at some unknown master's will. Wit heach tug, his anger flared, his craving for revenge grew stronger. Through countless halls he moved, and it was only more death that slowed him down. As he and his bodyguards, supported by the Mandalorian supercommandos and pathfinders, broke through another door, it was an ambush that took the lives of two of his three remaining red and gold clad elite. They dropped wordlessly, denied their glorious deaths, their lives snuffed out in an instant. Mordecai stumbled, and as the supercommandos finished off the ambush, he caught his breath. Only Pilon remained, along with the supercommandos. And yet, he feet moved forward. Towards a final set of doors. He could feel it- the re was something important for him to do on the other side. "Sergeant. Breach it."
  13. As Mordecai strode to the hangar of the Raven's Bane, where his transports awaited his order, his communicator beeped with a short message. Darth Tyra had arrive. She was late, but she was here. He steadied his breathing. He typed a simple message to her. Darth Tyra, fall in with my transports, and board the Misericordia. Your assistance is required. He looked to his new apprentice as he walked. Three generations of Sith. He was present on Korriban when the new Dark Lord was but an apprentice, had heard the tales of her strength as he trained and prepared. Before Fiochmar, he had trained Tyra, imparting upon her his rage, his thirst for vengeance. Whether she would master those traits was now out of his hands. In Fiochmar, he looked to impart what being a Sith truly meant. To break the bonds of duty and servitude, to revel in oneself, and to throw off any who would seek to limit potential. They would strike the Misericordia as one. "You will not be at my side in this battle, Fiochmar. My target will be well defended, and many of our allies will fall to ensure that I reach it. You will ensure that even should I fail, the false empress will meet her demise. I will explain your objective once we land." He climbed aboard the transport that awaited him, flanked by his apprentice and his personal guard. The other half dozen transports were loaded with Mandalorians, Sith shock troops, and heavy weapons specialists. It was only a matter of minutes before he received the signal from Captain Ralos. The second volley was loaded and locked. Transport doors closed, corvettes moved forward to screen fighters, and the second volley was launched. Among the several hundred missiles and a dozen torpedoes launched towards the Miseridoria and her escorts, Mordecai's strike teams exited his flagship. They followed the missiles into the heart of the Rebel fleet, gambling on the chaos of the battle, combined with the sheer number of missiles, would hide their approach. For the most part, it worked. Of the eight transports that departed the Raven's Bane, only two were shot down by point defense weapons. The shuttles landed under a hail of blaster fire, losing another to in-hangar defenses. The first who's doors opened lost nearly it's entire retinue in a matter of seconds. Mordecai's shuttle was the last to land, and as he stepped into the embattled hangar, he quickly took note of the situation. The Mandalorians were performing exceptionally, just like Tros had promised. His personal guard were taking up positions around him, prioritizing heavy weapons crews and hangar defenses. The shock troopers, where were already down to a mere single transport's worth, had formed a fighting line around the cluster of shuttles that they had come in on. The fighting was fierce. If it hadn't been for the presence of himself and the Mandalorians, the rebels would have undoubtedly held the hangar. He rushed forward, a hail of blaster bolts flying to and from his forces. One collided with the plate on his shoulder, burning the cloak he wore. The armor beneath seemed unharmed, fortunately. He reached the line of the rebels in seconds, the Force propelling him forwards like a freight train. He collided with a rebel fighter, his mass and momentum either killing her or severely injuring. His blades flashed out, and with mighty swings he sliced through the opposition. Emboldened, his forces pushed forward, breaking free of their positions and driving the rebels against the walls and exits of the hangar. An E-Web crew positioned their repeater, letting loose a stream of concentrated blaster fire against a newly arriving Rebel squad. It was then that the first true casualty occurred. He only had seconds to react, and it wasn't enough. Corporal Oroo, a young commando he had enlisted to his guard after Kuat, had been separated from their forces. He'd pushed too far, and the Rebels had encircled him. Despite an impressive showing of fire, surrounded as he was there was little he could do to protect himself from the swarm of bolts that flooded his position from all sides. A second later, enraged, Mordecai impacted the encircling rebels, cutting through them like a hot knife through butter. It only took moments of his assault and friendly return fire to finish off what was left. He knelt next to Oroo's body, hoping for a sign of life. It was in vain. His bodyguards had lost another. It was in this moment that he heard ships arriving in the hangar. Darth Tyra's forces had arrived, and just in time. The hangar was secured.
  14. "My lord, the Misercordia has been spotted. It's in formation with the rebel ships, heavily defended. We've also detected a large sect of rebel star destroyers and support craft moving to engage our battlegroup." Mordecai scoffed. They wouldn't stop him. Even death had failed to smother the fire of his rage. Still, they had to be dealt with. "Who do we have in support?" "A number of Lord Akheron's vessels have moved to assist our assault, as well as support from the Mandalorian vessels, albeit a smaller number. Also present are the Dark Lady's forces, and the Court of Madness seems to have taken on the role of the vanguard." "Good. Contact the Mandalorians. They will reinforce where our fleet begins to thin. Lord Akherons forces will concentrate their fires on anyone who tries to reinforce the Misericordia's escort detail. Destroying her protectors does us no good if they are swiftly replaced. As for out forces, prepare to fire on my mark. Have we identified which ship is in charge of the vanguard coming to face us?" "Not quite sir, but we've narrowed it down to a trio of star destroyers." Three imperial vessels came into view on the holodisplay. They were each marked with their names- The Damascus, the Moff Caiderus, and the Constantine. "Lock targets as follows. Missile batteries one through thirty-six, target the Damascus. Thirty-seven through seventy-two, fire on the Moff Caiderus. Then move as much power to shields as you can spare- we're kicking the nest. Akheron's supporting forces, fire upon the Constantine with support of our starboard side siege torpedoes. Let the rest of the battlegroup fight the rest as you see fit. Trust your captains, and trust your instincts. The bridge is yours." His weariness has left him. He had once again tasted the energizing effect of battle, and it had rapidly taken hold. He felt alive again, leading even just one battlegroup of the Sith Armada. He watched as nearly six hundred concussion missiles streamed from the ring of concussion missile batteries. Even a fleet-wide screen would have trouble stopping this many missiles, much less one battlegroup that seemed to be mostly comprised of cruisers and capital ships. His apprentice entered the bridge behind him, bowing. "I did call for you. As you can see, the battle has begun for Nar Shaddaa. I have prepared you as best as I had time for- now it is time to prove that you are worth the Sith Empire's resources to train you further. You will accompany me to the Misericordia, and we will strike at the heart of the rebel leadership. That is our purpose- to sever the head of this beast, so that when we fade from the galaxy, they are left scrabbling over themselves to gain power." As he spoke, he remembered what the future of this empire held. Lurking in the shadows, playing at a guerilla war. He felt the weight of weariness once more, before straightening himself and motioning for his young apprentice to follow him. "Come. We must prepare. We leave as soon as the second volley flies."
  15. Travel had given him time. He had been quiet, brooding. Preparing himself for the battle, and for the death that awaited. This would be his moment of vengeance. His magnum opus of death. The murder of the False Empress. Where ever was left for him to go afterwards didn't matter to him anymore. As they drew closer, and klaxons began to blare aboard the Raven's Fury, He turned to Captain Ralos, the young woman who'd served under him since Jarvus's death. "Captain, once we arrive the fleet is yours, under some conditions. Save our first volley for when we locate the Misericordia. When you do, I want a full strike against her escorts. I'll be leaving with whenever you fire your second volley, use the missiles as a screen. Six hundred missiles, sensors will have a hard time picking up a half dozen transports. After we've departed the fleet is entirely under your command, though your priority shifts to anyone or anything that moves to intercept our craft. Work with the other Sith Lords and Masters, coordinate your efforts." He approached the communication panel. His people were weary, and they knew that death likely awaited them. They would need words of strength. "Warriors of the Sith Empire, today is our day. The Rebels cower behind minefields and independent forces, expecting the patchwork navy to protect them from our wrath. They did not break us at Kuat, they did not stop our advance at Trulalis or Aaris or Geonosis. They could not save the people of Naboo." He let the name hang in the air, a grim memoire of what Darth Mavanger was capable. "And they will not save the Empress on Nar Shaddaa. We shall claim the vengeance that is rightfully ours." As he stepped away, Darth Mavanger's armada joined with Sheog the Mad's and the Dark Lady Nyrys's over Nar Shaddaa. The final fight had begun.
  16. Mavanger

    Naboo

    The walk to the bridge of the Raven's Bane was a solemn one. Mordecai was flanked by the remnants of his personal guard, their numbers as damaged as his fleet's forces. Their heavy boots echoed with the heavy thuds of metal on metal, warning any along the way of his arrival long before they saw him. His mind was chaotic- he had found trouble in focusing his emotions on his mission. His anger and rage were dangerously close to boiling over as they had on Naboo. Raven. The figurehead of the rebel movement. The commander of their forces, and the mastermind behind the apparent fall of the Sith Empire. He felt the black poison of fury in his veins even as he thought of her name. In the coming days, either she would die, or he would. It was, ironically, the only thought he could cling to. Either she would join her rebels in a lonely grave, or he would join his allies and friends in his. A surprisingly acceptable outcome. He had already summoned his apprentice to the ship, to prepare him for the coming fighting. The last fight he would know for some time. Everything he had worked for had led to this moment, but it didn't ring as his own. Despite everything, he felt robbed of the glory that had been his for the taking. Between the plans the Dark Lord had for the Sith Empire, and the losses of everyone he held dear, there was nothing left for his weary soul to claim in this war but revenge. So he would- His vengeance would be manifested. The rebel leadership would fall, and it would be his blade that would strike down the False Empress, and the crystal he held would ensure that she would never return. A gift from the Dark Lord, before they parted ways. In another life, they could have been good friends. But this war had stripped him of his comradery with every death and every abandonment. He stood alone, now, and in some ways that was worse than anything else the rebels had cursed him with. He entered the bridge, wordless until he arrived at the helm. He had received word that Sheog the Mad, a Hutt who had infiltrated his campaign in the earliest of its days, had begun the assault on Naboo. It was foolish, but they were to lose this battle in any outcome. It was also, considering what little interaction they had shared thusfar, was not outside of the realm of Sheog's character. Regardless, the battle had begun, and he would not hold his forces back any longer. "Make for Nar Shaddaa. All hands at the ready. The fighting will begin as soon as we arrive, and I will need protection from our forces if I am to succeed in my objective."
  17. Mordecai nodded. The troops were well equipped- At the very least, they had the gear for the job. He had a promise of efficiency, but only time would tell how they truly functioned in battle. "He praises your abilities, Lerr. I will inform you of our objective once we reach Naboo." He looked at the fighters Tros motioned to, nodding. "Do not worry about lodging. We've lost many people and have the quarters to spare. Keep your thanks- We are allies now. You will come to find that I do not leave those who are my allies without support when when needed." The time for the invasion was close- from here they would both likely head straight to Naboo, and prepare for the invasion of Nar Shaddaa. Mordecai's thrist for battle was usually strong, at least. Kuat, Geonosis, Trulalis. But now, faced with what this war had cost him, and with what was ahead of them, he found himself merely wanting the war to end. End, so that the Sith could rebuild. But he knew that wasn't what was coming. Everything he had done would have been in vain. Every death in the name of an empire that wasn't his. It never had been. Both Exodus and Nyrys played at propaganda and subterfuge, trying to beat the rebels at their own game. It wasn't a war he was prepared for, to say the lease. "I leave for Naboo tomorrow. Make sure your fighters are loaded by then, and follow me when your forces are ready for the invasion."
  18. Mordecai would usually be remiss docking his ship to the shipyard of such a new ally. The rebels fed on deceit, betrayal, and rebellion, and trusting new allies was made harder for it. What soothed his was their performance at Naboo. The Mandalorians had a history for brutality, which showed when he had given the order to sack Theed. That, followed by Lady Nyrys's commendation and her assertation of their loyalty, put him at ease. His crew was efficient, and within minutes they were successfully docked in the shipyard and Darth Mavanger was in the hangar of the massive shipyard awaiting the cargo. Around him were what was left of his personal guard, their armor painted red and gold to match his. They stood at ease, their usual watchfulness in their eyes as they gazed across the open space at the troops and dockworkers moving about. Sergeant Pilon, the ranking trooper after the death of his captain on Naboo, stepped towards Darth Mavanger, giving a small bow as courtesy. "My Lord, nothing seems amiss here, but we will keep our eyes open." Mordecai grunted. The Sergeant was a good man, and command of the small team had come naturally to him, but he fell back of procedure too often. Here in the midst of Mandalorians, there was no need for titles or bows. "At ease, Sergeant. If they planned on betraying the Sith, they would have already. Your bowing won't change that."
  19. The Raven's Bane jumped into orbit over Qat Chrystac with a small protective detail of frigates and corvettes, Darth Mavanger gazing through the glass of the observation deck at the unfamiliar world. He had never been here himself, though from what he understood, it was a world important to the Mandalorians that now bolstered the Sith forces en masse. Behind him, the captain snapped to attention. She was young, with only one battle under her belt, but he had sensed great potential in her. With the right guidance, she would become a worthy successor to the tactical aptitude that Jarvus had brought to his fleet. The role she couldn't fill, however, was the one that Jarvus had held in his personal life. "My lord, we have arrived at Qat Chrtac and have opened communications with the local leadership. All that remains is confirmation of our cargo, and we will be prepared for the operation." He had told few of the upcoming battle. The Dark Lord was relying on surprise, and the number of officers that he trusted seemed to drop with every battle, whether it be through loss of life or redeployment of forces. He could still remember his war council- Half a dozen Sith Lords rallied to his cause, with a myriad of veteran officers. His thoughts lingered on them, and on what he had now. Untested officers and replacement troops. Even his elite vanguard was down to half their number, and his personal guard was at half their numbers with only 4 left standing. Even they would likely fall soon, knowing what he knew was coming. "Very well, Captain. Contact the shipyard. I will inspect the cargo personally before it is loaded, and I will need to inspect our reinforcements."
  20. It took longer than he had expected to acquire the ultrachrome he needed. The Sith's supply lines were stretched thin, and after losing so many key worlds to the rebels, access to resources was becoming scarce. Still, it had arrived, and he was ready to begin. The forge was stoked, the materials were gathered. At that was left was to turn them into something that was worthy of the Sith Empire. Melt them down, forge the Sith Steel. The Dark Side filled the steel. A dark bastion that none could pierce, that none could move. Next, he would add the ultrachrome. It was lighter, and while strong, it was not lightsaber-proof like pure Sith Steel. It would lighten the weight of the armor, but would cost the integrity. The molten chrome mixed with the Sith Steel, before being poured into the molds he had created. From there, it was a matter of the finishing touch of his hammer. Once the metal had cooled, he removed it from the cast. It had formed well, and upon testing his blade on the remaining metal, he was satisfied. The damage was minimal when compared to his old armor, and the metal, while still heavy, was light enough for him to don. His hammer struck the softened metal, smoothing out the impurities, and imparting his connection to the Dark Side upon it. While not directly linked to him, it was infused with power, which would soften the blow of the Force. It was strenuous work, and the weeks it took to work the metal took a toll on him in ways that battle never could. Next, he added the detail. A deep red coat of paint, with golden detailing. The colors of his honor guard, and of his followers. It was bright, gaudy almost, but that was to his design. Red and gold caught the eye, and inspired aggression. His foes would come to him on the battlefield, and they would know who he was. It would be the last thing they remembered before his would strike them down. Finally, the armorweave straps. This was easy, especially when compared to the forging of the material. He merely had to acquire the proper measurements and cut the cloth accordingly, before fitting it into the proper loops in the armor. When it was done, he donned the armor. The boots, the vambraces, the breastplate, the leggings. It covered him from head to toe. The armor was heavy, but it moved well when he needed it to. Any that tried to wear it would bear testament to his strength, if they had not already done so through his blades. His tarnished robes, reminders of where he had started, draped the armor, ever dirty and tattered, yet another proof of his experience and veterancy. At last, he put on the helmet. It was no Mandalorian helmet. It had no HUD, no aid, nothing that might help his awareness save his connection to the force. He threw up the hood of his cloak, stepping out into the red dunes of Geonosis. A sandstorm was coming, and there was a long walk ahead of him to reach his shuttle. What better way to ensure his armor was appropriate?
  21. When he had forged his swords, it had been a frenzied endeavor. Fresh from Naboo, his mind had roiled and raged with emotions unspent by the battle and his defeat. Those emotions had made weapons unrivaled by any he had seen or used prior. It was a boon, to be sure. But those were not the feelings he needed to channel for armor. Aggression and anger were an excellent catalyst, but in such excesses they would compromise the integrity of what he was creating. The blades had been a creation of passion, sculpted from the schematics he had reclaimed from Trulalis. This armor would be innovative. He needed something slightly lighter, that he could wear without hinderance. A watered down version of the pure sithsteel, an alloy. How it would be done was the question. Durasteel would compromise the integrity too much, but he was confident working with it if it came down to it. Cortosis was rare, and notoriously impossible to work with efficiently. Perhaps mixing a Beskar alloy would have the desired result, though he could see the Mandalorians being resistant to his use of the materials. Ultrachrome, then. It was rare, which seemed to be the norm for such efficient materials, but it was light and workable. He would lose integrity, but not enough to render the armor useless. He would have to reach out to his quartermasters. They likely didn't have any on hand, but he could have it here within a week. In the mean time, he could prepare the forge, assembling the materials in the quantities required.
  22. Geonosis was in chaos. With the upcoming battle for Nar Shaddaa, Darth Mavanger's forces were returning to the shipyards and factories of Geonosis to resupply and reinforce their crews. He looked over the red dunes from his temple on the surface, watching as the steady traffic of shuttles came to and from the industrials hubs. What once produced battle droids now produced armor. What produced arms and vehicles for the CIS during the Clone Wars now produced newer armaments, this time for his forces amongst the Sith Empire. Starfighters rolled off the shipyards in droves, taking advantage of the industrial materials being harvested from his newest conquests. A part of him, the part that had led him on this crusade, could appreciate what he was seeing. He had revitalized the entire sector's industry. Those on Trulalis and across the Outer Rim found themselves with jobs, and a surge in the economy. Aside from the occasional riot, which was easily handled by his garrisons, there was peace. But despite this, the price of this peace weighed on his soul. How many had died for this? Lord Xahl, who was the closest he'd ever felt to considering someone a brother, had died over Kuat when they had gone to defend the shipyards there. Jarvus had fallen to defend Mon Cal, leaving a hole in his heart where only rage and grief could find solace. This rage, this grief, it had led him to Naboo. He had ordered total annihilation, and his forces carried it out duitfully. Some were eager, looking for vengeance for their own loved ones. Some only did so because they were ordered to. It didn't matter. He had found himself at a loss. He couldn't look at the loss of life he had ordered on Naboo and still claim that his was the way of peace, that those who stood down would not be harmed. But that was the path he had chosen, and for better or for worse, that same rage would carry him onto the Empress's command center, and lead him to strike her down. He knew it would. This was his way. Slowly, he turned back into the temple, moving towards the forge. He had crafted his blades here, but his armor was tattered and scarred, barely holding together after the various patchwork repairs he had put it through. He had an idea- to use a lighter version of the Sith Alloys that he had become proficient in creating for his new armor. It would weigh more, but the Force would ease his burden, and the protection would be considerably more worthwhile. The materials were already assembled- His agents had kept the forge well stocked in his absence, which meant it was time for him to begin.
  23. Mavanger

    Naboo

    Mordecai nodded, his mouth pressed into a hard line. The Mandalorian clearly understood the importance of his task, at least from a tactical standpoint. A quick tactical strike in the chaos of battle, severing the head of the false Empire. It would leave the defense floundering, and in the ensuing chaos and fog of war, the Sith would be free to complete any number of other objectives. In truth, however, very little of that mattered to him this time. His mind was razor sharp, focused on one singular concept. Vengeance. It burned in his chest, prickled at the back of his mind, dominated his day. "They shall suffice. It goes without saying that this is a lethal mission. As powerful as I am, as well trained and equipped as our commandos are, the chance of any of us making it to the end of the battle is low. We will be striking at the heart of the Rebel forces, where their most elite fighters will be waiting." He stepped away as a tone rang out from his communicator. A message had arrived for his. He read it quickly, nodding as he did. "I've been informed that the materials I was waiting for at Geonosis have finally arrived. With our battle right around the corner, I must return immediately to attend to my duties there. My forces shall stop at Qat Chrystac on the way to the baatle to pick up your commandos and your fighters. If you wish to remain on Naboo, I suggest you exit this vessel immediately. Alternatively, you may inspect the rest of my forces at Geonosis when we arrive."
  24. Mavanger

    Naboo

    Mordecai returned the nod, motioning for the Mandalorian to follow him through the ship. "If you will follow me, there is much to discuss, and not all of it is suited for outside ears." He plugged the holodisk into a handheld projector, inspecting the designs as they walked. They were smaller than the Mark VIs that filled his hangars, and had access to a torpedo launcher. It did, however, lack the two extra lasers and shield system that had made the Mark VIs an ideal retrofit candidate. it seemed to be a return to the Empire's mass production of cheaply made fighters at a time where every use of resources was critical. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. The benefit was that these were produced by the Mandalorian worlds, not their own. "In future rollouts, it may be worthwhile to include shield generators. Other than that, I see no reason why I cannot retrieve your squadrons after my resupply at Geonosis." They arrived at the command center shortly after. He had not returned here since Naboo had burned beneath his armada. There was a brief hesitation, and then he entered. It was mostly empty, the few low level officers that were present working on their duties snapping to attention as he entered. He waved them off, letting them return to their work. He took his position at the head of the holographic display, the shattered board not yet repaired from his actions over Trulalis. He sighed as that moment rushed back to him. The grief, the rage, both threatening to once more take hold of him. He pushed them down, bottling them up. Those would serve him well in a fight, but right now, he needed to focus. "As you likely know, Tros, I have been instructed by the Dark Lord to carry out the vital task of slaying the Rebel Empress. She has hidden on her base of Nar Shaadaa since her attempted assassination by Quela Darksong over Borleais, only leaving on her flagship of the Misercordia. That said, my sources do not believe she will flee the system when we attack. Whether she takes to the battle aboard the Misercordia, or remains at the Rebel Headquarters, she will be heavily defended. My power is great, but this is a fight I cannot win alone. I need to strike fast, and strike surgically. While I could take the vessel or headquarters with a legion of our Marines, it would be a long and costly endeavor, with a high likelyhood of her escape. This is unacceptable." He looked up to Tros, his eyes glowing with the faintest traces of rage and a lust for vengeance. "I hear that Mandalorians are the best fighters in the galaxy aside from those who wield the Force. I would like to put that to the test. Give me three squads of your best to assist myself and my personal guard in the attack, and my hangar is yours for your three squadrons."
  25. Mavanger

    Naboo

    Darth Mavanger shook his head. Tros had been at the council meeting, and had impressed the Sith Master repeatedly with his conduct and capability. After the battle of Theed, though, his hanger was overfull with troops and supplies. To make room for these fighters, he would need to see the fighters. It would require manpower and time, both of which his armada was beginning to run low on. He rubbed the stubble on his chin for a moment, thinking. "It may be doable, but I need two things from you. First, I need schematics of the ships sent to my secure line for inspection. If I'm making room in my hanger for fighters that are not mine, they need to be up for the task. Second, my forces are running low. The Outer Rim has always been a hard place to conquer, and they have bloodied my nose. From what I understand, you have a large contingent of Mandalorian fighters. If I'm to transport your ships, your men will need to pilot them. On that note, as our ally, I would like to requisition an additional detachment of Mandalorians aboard my flagship for a special assignment in the upcoming battles." His demeanor had shifted. He was no longer off-duty. As he re-equipped his old armor, he hesitated for a moment. "Perhaps, given the depth of this discussion, you should come aboard. I will meet you personally in Hangar A."
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