Mavanger

He had only taken a few hours to eat and to sleep before he had returned to the forge. His grief had been poured into Imeall Dólás, and the well had run dry, if only temporarily. All that remained in his heart now was his rage, a never ending sea of turbulent hatred and fury. The second blade had begun to take shape, and like the blade before it, he poured everything he had into it. In the fires of his emotions the blade was forged, and in the fires of war would it be quenched. His hammer echoed in the forge as he worked- His underlings and followers hadn't dared disturb him yet. He gazed upon the completed blade with pride and anticipation. He had been sequestered inside of this forge for weeks. Now he could rest. Recuperate. And when that was done, he could take these blades, these pieces of his soul made manifest, and he could strike down those who stood against him. He could avenge his loved ones, and he could burn the Rebel Alliance to the ground. Here, on the eve of finishing his project, he knew in his heart that the only time he would be sated was with the complete and utter disintegration of the rebels and their Jedi protectors. He would kill every Knight, trooper, and Jedi that got in his way, and then, when no more stood before him, he would root them out of their holes and he would crush what remained. This was the oath that he swore upon the blades, and as he did, he knew the second name, and it struck his very core. Imeall Sceimhle, the Edge of Terror

Mordecai's hammer struck the soft, unformed metal as it glowed with heat. The Dark Side pulsed around the fledgling blade, seeping into its metals, wrapping around the metal at the atomic level in seeping tendrils, binding and corrupting the blade as it was hammered into shape. He let his vision guide him- the Holocron had not given the blueprints to a specific sword, but rather how to make a new one, and Mordecai would take full advantage of this, forging a pair of blades to not only replace his lost sabers, but to reach his full potential as a warrior. The heft of the hammer was comforting, its impacts against the newly forged Sith Steel a welcome catharsis, a center for his disjointed emotions. Hatred and rage were poured into every strike, shaping the blade into a thing of savage beauty, a simplistic elegance that reflected his personality and his combat prowess. He'd been working for days now, and the first blade was only just beginning to reach its full potential, the blackened steel a dark reflection of his drive and purpose, twisted and hardened under the same grief and anger that had twisted and hardened his own heart. His face was pressed into a mixture of sorrow and rage as he worked. He had lost so much on this crusade. For the Sith. For his people. And yet, the Dark Lord Exodus had left him, unsupported, on the cusp of greatness, and when the Sith Empire teetered on the brink of collapse, he had abandoned them. He was better informed of the situation surrounding the disappearance now- He had taken those loyal to him to Felucia, to root out the Jedi presence there, and when one of his trusted underlings had blown the mission, he had disappeared. It was unknown whether the man had run away, been defeated, or if he had been lost to his own devices of similarly secretive measures. His rage sparked again as he lingered on these thoughts, and he unleashed brutal blow upon brutal blow upon the blade, each blow infusing it with further hatred, further anger, forged in the crucible of his emotions. With each blow, the metal took further shape, guided by the Dark Side as he channeled it. It was another two days before the blade was finished, and he gazed upon it proudly. This weapon would slay thousands in the name of his grief, and it would be known by a single name by all who bore witness to its bloodshed, and they would know that their death was of their own making. Imeall Dólás, the Edge of Sorrow

Darth Mavanger had returned. The battle for Naboo still raged, but his condition had left him unable to assist further. His weapons had been lost to the abyss, and he required new ones. This is what led him to where he stood now- In a darkened chamber, illuminated by naught but the flames of its forge. Deep within the belly of his base of operations, it waited, simmering until he had arrived. He held the Sith holocron that he had recovered on Trulalis close- It had yielded its secrets to him already, but he would not risk his newest endeavor on carelessness. To the side of the room sat several crates of rare raw materials, a gift from the new Dark Lord, intended to allow him to forge a new pair of weapons. His armor had been discarded- too heavily damaged to repair, he had opted to go without here, in the privacy of his forge. His body ached- he still wasn't fully recovered, but he was in a good enough condition to do what he needed to here. The fires were stoked as he approached, roaring to life with the dark energy he had instilled in it upon creation. He had spent weeks practicing in the forge, spending entire days on the craft at times. He did not have the time worn experience of Darth Nyrys or the smiths on Mustafar and Korriban, but what he lacked in experience, he gained in drive, and in talent. His rage fueled his craft, his hatred fueling his drive to learn in a way he had not felt since his time on Korriban as an apprentice. It was a welcome distraction from his grief, though he loathed to admit it. The massacre on Naboo had not been enough. He had failed to exact his vengeance, and that frustration had boiled over into something he had not felt for himself before- Hatred. Disgust. Jarvus was dead, and he'd failed to avenge him. He placed the metals within the forge, and began to work.

Mordecai snarled at the Dark Lord's words. Not out of dislike for her- In this day alone, she had done more to prove herself worthy than the Spider ever had. At the very least, she was deserving of an opportunity to prove herself. Instead, he was angry at himself. He had allowed himself to fall this way, to meet his demise by rushing in unprepared. He had even chided his former apprentice many times on doing the same thing. He had made a blunder, and an important one, but his time was not over. The Jedi had failed to make sure he'd stay dead, and their order would suffer for it. "I shall not return to Naboo today. This battle has shown that I am unprepared in my current state. I will re-forge myself in the blood of my enemies, and I will return. When you need me next, I will be there." He broke away, turning to face the new Dark Lord and size her up. She carried herself like a warrior. Good. They would need more fighters in the days to come- Mon Cal had extracted a heavy toll- not just on him personally, but the Sith Empire itself lost many prominent Lords when it fell. With Inmortos dead and Apothos missing, their numbers dwindled. He pulled out an extra communicator, tossing it to the Dark Lord. before turning and making his exit. "Use it wisely."

House Valar One of the newest Sith Houses, House Valar was founded by Darth Mavanger as he grew his powerbase and solidified his position, both politically and militarily, in the Sith Empire. Based on the philosophy laid down by the Sith Code, it takes the Code to its logical extreme, as he preaches to both friend and foe alike. To be accepted into House Valar is to be accepted into a brotherhood of Sith with a unique view. Fraternization and rivalries amongst members is not only allowed, but heavily encouraged, as the emotional bonds created are potent sources of strength and power. Members of House Valar use these emotions to dominate the enemies of the Sith, both within and without, through heavily militarized campaigns against rebels and other outside threats, and savagely thorough Hunts against those within the Sith who would sacrifice the Empire for their own gains. These occasionally escallate to levels of violence within their own ranks as well, and, although it’s rare, this can end in the death of one or more Sith. While this is acceptable to a degree, if death is wrought through treachery or betrayal, House Valar is swift to punish their own, as victory should only be achieved over another Sith in the field of battle- anything else fails to prove either party’s prowess. Those accomplished individuals who do not harness the force, while not granted membership, are oftentimes respected almost to the degree of an accomplished Sith, as to reach the levels of a Sith without use of the Force is an achievement in itself. Philosophy Peace is a lie, there is only passion Disciples of House Valar reject the idea of inner peace even more soundly than the average Sith. To a member of House Valar, there is no state of being comparable to that of roiling emotions, constantly shifting with the circumstances around them. Major mood swings and unpredictable behaviors are common amongst those who are new to following this philosophy, though as they learn and grow as a Sith they either die a slave to their emotions or conquer them, able to bottle them up to be unleashed in combat against their enemies. Their meditations are less focused on centering themselves and furthering their connection to the Force through introspection, and more akin to whipping themselves into a frenzy before a battle. During times of peace, they clutch onto their emotions and feelings, letting them gain momentum inside before finally unleashing them in all their fury for the sake of battle and bloodlust. Their interactions with Jedi lean more towards corruption than domination. To convince a Jedi to abandon their code for their emotions is the greatest achievement there is to gain for those among House Valar, as it often comes with great prestige among the others in the House, as well as a fresh new apprentice, ready to be trained and molded into another member. Through passion, I gain strength In battle, these emotions are released. Disciples of House Valar let their emotions erupt, an avalanche of hatred, fury and agony. They draw on many things, whether it be long-term resentment of a superior, an age-old grudge against their nemesis, or out of love, even, whether it be for a person or love of the battle itself. They spend all their time cultivating and preparing these emotions for the catalyst of battle to set them free, expressing themselves in their truest form- Warriors and soldiers. They use these emotions to fuel their abilities and their senses, increasing their abilities in battle exponentially, and as motivation to drive them up the ranks in the Sith Empire. Through strength, I gain power To be consumed by emotions is weakness. Instead, they are bent to the sith’s will, used to strengthen their connections to the Force, to dominate it and control it. True power comes not from raw emotions, but from those feelings in their most refined form. Rage untempered unbalances, fear unconquered leads to cowardice. Under the careful hand of these Sith, these emotions are tempered and forged into tools for their gain. Outside of combat, these emotions drive them in their pursuits. It empassions their arguments, it lends strength to their moves, and gives rise to the ambition necessary to rise through the ranks. Through power, I gain victory Passion. Strength. Power. All components to victory, either on the battlefields of the Sith Empire, or the internal workings of the Sith political landscape. Success in one’s endeavors is the end-goal of all Sith, whether that be personal power, a legacy, rank, or in combat, it matters not. What matters is how you achieve it, and what one does when it is achieved. To defeat a Jedi is a victory, but to turn one to the Dark is an even greater success. Becoming a Lord is admirable, but becoming a Master is legendary. To those of House Valar, the title of Darth is earned through battle, not given through rank, though exceptions have been made for exceptional individuals. Through victory, my chains are broken To those of House Valar, to achieve victory in one’s endeavors is the most freeing of all feelings. It is what makes them whole and triumphant over the lesser forces of the galaxy. With total domination of one’s emotions, anything is possible. Conquest, power, corruption. Any of these can be achieved through these philosophies. Culture House Valar is built on the ideals of a meritocracy. You rise and fall in the ranks based on your performance for the Sith Empire alone. While pursuing personal power and glory is accepted and encouraged, it is done under the belief that such things should not trump the needs of the Sith Empire. To fail the Empire in the name of one’s own goals is an affront to the House’s loyalty, and is often punished by any number of methods, whether it be a loss of title, exile from the House, or even execution, depending on the severity. Should one succeed in their victories for the Sith Empire, they are often given prestige or power within the House, with higher ranking Sith Lords often sponsoring up and coming Lords and Apprentices to ranks and titles worthy of their actions. Hounds of the Empire Oftentimes, these beliefs can lead to members of House Valar hunting down problematic members of the Sith Empire, whether that be an errant Sith Lord or a scheming Moff. While many times these are handled as official tasks for those loyal to the Empire as contracts to be fulfilled, egregious incidents or massive threats to the internal security of the Sith can lead to impromptu challenges, where those of high rank and standing within the House will challenge the offending party without incentive to remove the threat to stability as soon as possible. These challenges, while intended to strengthen the perceived weaknesses of the offending party, occasionally end in death if the challenger feels that the issues present cannot be improved. Whether this is the death of the challenger or the challenged is entirely left to the merit of their combat abilities. While there has never been a challenge issued against a reigning Dark Lord, if one were to fail in their duties to the Sith Empire, it would most certainly happen, though such a thing would require a unanimous consensus between the Domitor and the Imperators. Regality While the members of House Valar often don’t partake in the usual politicking of the Sith Empire, their appearance is still that of nobility. When not on duty at the head of their forces or serving their time doing battle against their enemies, members often wear ceremonial armor or robes of their own design*, the only common factors being the rich reds** and golds that emblazon almost every member, and the insignias of their rank within the House. [Find good symbols for ranks when fleshed out more]. In combat, what each member varies wildly, but many choose to retain the reds and golds to stand out and draw the enemy’s ire. Rarely, a member of House Valar will find it fit to bestow their non-force using counterparts with recognition within the House. When this is done, said Sith Imperial is granted an addition to their uniform in the form of a red and gold aiguillette. This marks them as a person of importance to House Valar, and in granting such a reward, the sponsoring party is taking full responsibility for the Imperial’s actions, for better or for worse. It is a sign of utmost trust between those of House Valar and the Sith military corps. Ranks Ranks within House Valar are, as previously mentioned, earned purely through one’s own merit. Time within the House matters little theoretically, though to earn prestige within the House one must be observed by a member or be a member themselves, so oftentimes it does take time for even accomplished Lords to climb the ranks. One’s position within the Sith Empire is respected as is due, and their authority within the Sith is not diminished, and those that climb the ranks of the House at lower ranks within the Sith have much more expected of them. These ranks are only used to maintain a hierarchy for matters that concern House Valar, such as hunts and campaigns. They are as follows in ascending order. OOC Note: Faction rules will always trump the functionings of House Valar, i.e. a Provost Lord cannot order around a Master level PC that is ranked at Tyro. To try this will see your character likely expelled from the House without very good reason for attempting so, and will always end in some form of punishment even if there was good reason. Tyro The rank of Tyro is that of a newcomer within the order. While not always indicative of a newcomer to the Sith Empire, those who hold the rank of Tyro are those who are still being taught the philosophies and the functions of House Valar within the Sith Empire, and are not yet trusted to represent House Valar as full fledged members. Many wash out in this stage, though washing out does not mean disgrace. Tyros lack the pull that full fledged members can, and lack any authority over the House’s actions or attitudes towards others. Provost Upon achieving the rank of Provost, one is truly accepted into House Valar’s ranks. While these are the rank and file within the order, they are also the lifeblood. The Provosts are usually the ones hunting dissenters, quelling smaller rebellions, and training the Tyros. Many choose to remain Provosts rather than accept weightier titles, though whether it be for the camaraderie, the necessity of the Provosts, or more personal reasons varies. Most, but not all, who remain here are Warriors or Assassins, and many are inducted into the Sith Hounds, a fraternity within the ranks of the Provosts. As a Provost, Sith can make formal requests for House support in times of conflict and instability, and many rely on one another to form truly impressive powerbases. Only Lords and above occupy these ranks. Palatine Palatines are the upper class of House Valar. They are the accomplished, the ones that have proven themselves truly worthy of House Valar’s support. These members often serve as Huntmasters and small-scale campaign leaders, and rank within the Sith notwithstanding, are able to call on any Tyro or Provost for assistance should it be necessary. They are also responsible for managing the majority of the House’s day-to-day functions, such as handling disputes, reviewing performances, and promoting Tyros to Provosts. Imperator The inner circle. There are only three Imperators at any given time, often one of each class, though this is by no means enforced. There are several prerequisites to being named and Imperator of House Valar, as it receives many more benefits from House Valar than the other ranks. The first and foremost is that one must be a Master within the Sith. Without that recognition from the Dark Lord, it would be nearly impossible to act on his or her authority as an arm of the Dark Council. The second is that one must have trained at least one Tyro, demonstrating not only their mastery of House Valar’s philosophy, but their ability to teach it to others. Third, they must have led a successful campaign, large or small, against the enemies of the Sith Empire. Finally, if there is no vacant position among the Imperators, it must be won through combat, though these battles are strictly observed and rarely lethal. The Imperators are the Domitor’s councilors. They advise him or her on matters of state, military, logistics, and economy, and are expected to be well versed in at least one of these fields. They handled promotions from Provost to Palatine, though occasionally one may step in to promote from Tyro to Provost should circumstances call for it. These men and women cut right through the red tape of the Sith bureaucracy, using the Domitor’s name as their blade. They lead major campaigns, hunt the most dangerous individuals, and build the largest powerbases. They also often have a personal hand at enforcing the members of House Valar and are responsible for assigning Huntmasters to their hunts. Domitor The epitome of what it means to belong to House Valar, the Domitor is the leader of House Valar, calling on its resources and members at will.There is only one way to become Domitor; Become an Imperator, and claim the title through combat. There are strict rules regarding this, however. To challenge the current Domitor, a Sith must either have the approval of a fellow Imperator, or the approval of a Dark Lord that the House respects. It is the Domitor who is responsible for growing the House and maintaining its duties, while also fulfilling their role in the Sith Empire adequately. Often found campaigning, whether offensively or defensively, the Domitor is more than the head of a Sith House- they are a champion of the Sith military On Huntmasters and the Sith Hounds These two are not true ranks per se, but carry special permissions within the House. These are only obtainable by working with the player who holds the rank of Domitor OOCly. Huntmaster is a title given to any Palatine or Imperator leading a hunt against an enemy of the Sith. This title gives them limited increased authority, allowing them to requisition more Sith and House assets than they normally could in the name of stopping destabilizing individuals. It grants no special authority over members without this title; however, it does give nearly unlimited authority over House members that may interfere, intentionally or otherwise, with a Hunt. The Sith Hounds are a fraternity within the Provosts dedicated to a first-strike policy. Whereas Hunts are purely reactive, being issued only when a Sith or a Moff overstep their bounds, the Sith Hounds believe that the best way to strike is to strike before the problem ever truly arises. They strike at rebellious hotspots, areas with high tension, as well as Sith and Moffs with untoward tendencies regarding the Sith Empire. These are unsanctioned actions in the Sith Empire, and to partake in these hunts puts its members at risk of punishment by the Sith, whether it be death or stripping of rank. OOC Note: Faction rules will always trump the functionings of House Valar, i.e. a Provost Lord cannot order around a Master level PC that is ranked at Tyro. To use the Huntmaster title abusively will ensure that you will likely be stripped of it, at the least bumped down a rank within the House, and likely never be given the title of Huntmaster again. Becoming a Sith Hound does not give carte blanche to hunt other Sith PCs and NPCs, or disrupt other players’ powerbases. If you take any action as a Sith Hound, it will be working closely with all involved parties to ensure that a good story is told rather than a story of some psycho Sith using the Hounds as an excuse for their antics. *While many choose to wear the traditional colors of House Valar, this is by no means enforced, and your character may choose to dress however they please. **The red of House Valar is much darker, closer to maroon, than the traditional bright red of the Sith Honor Guard.

As Mordecai fell, his rage simmered. For the first time in weeks, he could think with a clear mind. Was this the peace that the accursed Jedi always spoke of? If so, he could understand why they were so steadfast. He didn't have much more time to ponder, however, as his body smashed against the walkway below, a hundred feet below where he had fought the Jedi. His sabers tumbled into the abyss below, and his mind went black from pain, even as his armor absorbed the worst of the impact, and his mind danced on the edge of death. He was badly injured and alone. If a Rebel found him, they would kill him. If a Sith found him, they would likely do the same. He had failed. His pain and his anger were what kept him alive now, and both were fading with time. He could feel the Force recoiling as the world above burned. His people were enacting his will, but there was something else. Death on a scale he had not foreseen was buffeting the Force, the power of thousands of lives snuffed out at once deafening what tenuous grasp on the peace of the Light Side he had. It was power. It was fear. He could feel the perpetrator coming closer. Whereas Exodus's presence had been a miasma, smothering and altering reality into something nearly unrecognizable, this was something else. Something that was possibly even more powerful than what he'd felt years ago at Corellia, before the Dark Lord Exodus' fall from grace. It cut through the force like a withering blade, leaving a bleeding wound wherever it went, cutting its own path through the palace. Towards him. Towards his failure. When she spoke, he realized who this must be. The new Dark Lady, Darth Nyrys. He recognized something in her voice. Anger. Sorrow. Hurt. As his soul dance ever closer to the release of death, finally tipping over the line, those emotions lashed out, the dark tendrils wrapping around his essence, pulling him back through the sheer strength of his rage and his will to live. To any attuned to the force, his resurrection resembled a blast of nuclear proportions. In an instant, all of his anger, all of his rage, grief, and pain, came exploding back into the Force with reckless abandon. On the material plane, his shattered bones knit themselves back together as best as they could- it was a crude facsimile of healing, his pain still ever present, as his bones remained fractured. His gauntleted hand reached out, grabbing Darth Nyrys's wrist as his eyes shot open, making contact with hers. "My vengeance has not yet been realized."

In these fleeting moments of combat, Mordecai was whole. He was fulfilled. In the command room, and when speaking with other Sith, he had to remain reserved, he couldn't let his emotions take control of the conversation. With his troops he had to remain the unflinching leader, the warrior that would lead them to victory from the front lines, fighting beside them. The only one he'd felt comfortable speaking his mind to had been Jarvus, his confidant and his lover. But the Rebels had stripped that from him. They had dashed that happiness upon the rocks of their treachery. And so, in the here and now, he took solace in the fight. In the battle. In the killing. This Jedi was the object of his hatred, the symbol of defiance that so many echoed. Maybe she had recruited the troops that had killed him. Maybe she was unrelated. It didn't matter. For the first time, he truly understood how Xahl had felt. The man's lust for vengeance, so all-consuming that it choked out the Sith Lord's words, any attempt at peace. The Rebels were a threat to the peace that the Sith Empire offered, and for that, every last one of them would burn. It started here, with this Jedi's corpse upon the ground. His vengeance willed it so. He gave in to the darkness. For days, he'd been fighting back against his grief. He let it fuel his anger, but he never embraced it. As the Jedi began her final assault, he let out a wail of anger and sorrow, a demand for justice that would not go unanswered as the first tears he'd shed in years streamed down his face and the Dark side consumed his thoughts and his movements, dark energies erupting from his spirits like hot water geysers. Her shield met his body, forcing him back further onto the bridge. Her first strike deflected off of his breastplate. The second and third were parried by his blades as he made his own final push. The fourth caught his chest, just below his ribcage, again mostly deflected by his armor, yet still giving a deep gash across his side. The final blow found its chink, though likely not where the Jedi had intended. He parried, leading the saber towards his right shoulder, where it met the flesh between his shoulder pad and breast plate. He welcomed the pain like an old friend, letting out another roar of defiance as he pressed his assault. He let it fuel him, the coalescent vortex of his emotions leading him to attack with brutal, reckless abandon. A series of savage strikes, one after another. One aimed across her chest from his left as they circled, eat trying to gain the upper hand in their positioning. The second from his right, a frenzied swing fueled by the Dark Side. He embraced the pain that the swing caused him as his charred flesh flexed, letting each swing build in power and speed. He delivered a third blow, coming down on her head once more, followed shortly by his second saber striking for the same spot, hoping to draw her shield over her head, obscuring her vision. He delivered a final twinned blow, his sabers swinging in unison towards her stomach. This would only be the beginning. If he was not stopped here, the galaxy would burn until his vengeance was sated. ((3)) ((One of the best duels I've been a part of. Regardless of outcome, this was an excellent experience.))

Violence Mordecai grinned savagely as he made contact with her flesh. For a moment, albeit just a fraction of a second, that act relieved his aching soul. But it wasn't enough. No, it only served to remind him of his pain rather than truly relieve him of it, and he was back in the fight. When she pushed against him to break his guard, he used the strength she called forth to break his guard to put distance between them. It was enough for him to block the blade with one of his own, freeing himself from the shield lock that his opponent had attempted. It wasn't enough to stop her next blow, however, as she moved like lightning behind him, scoring a dangerous hit across his back. Had it not been for his armor and his physique, that blow may have ended the battle. He stumbled forward, in a spin, the bridge over the endless chasm of the generator room behind him as he struck out. She had speed, but he had power. He would pound her shield like a drum until her arm gave out, and then he would snap her spine across his knee. He let out a battle cry as he swung his sabers, his strength and speed amplified by the pain across his arm and back. His first blow was dual purpose- directed to the point of contact he had established previously, it would batter a weakened zone, and with he maneuvering, she had left herself between his saber and her shield. His second saber was directed towards the same spot, a fraction of a second later as he swung them in tandem. Another blow high, seeking to behead her, and he pressed the attack, sending a rage-fueled kick of his armored foot towards her knee, as he did on Kuat against the Knight he had fought there. As he did so, he sent another thrust towards her right shoulder, hoping to disable her fighting arm. His anger and his rage, his pain, both emotional and physical- the drove him. They powered his blows, driving them forward like battering rams. If her shield was her wall, his blows would be his trebuchet, smashing those behind it to bloody bits. To give into his emotions like this was the Sith way. His way. And it would see him victorious. ((2))

Mordecai had been drawn to the light of the Imperial Knight like a moth to the flame. She stood defiant, a symbol of his enemy, of his hatred. The cause of his grief and his sorrow. He would cut her down, and then he would burn this city to the ground. There was no other path for him. In his anger, and his rage, he felt a change in the Force. He recognized it as the presence of the Dark Lord, but recognized it was not the same as the Dark Lord he had met. It mattered not. His priority, first and foremost, was the carnage that he would bring to the Palace after this battle He broke into his own sprint as the doors the the generator station opened, meeting the Imperial in a furious clash of force-imbued strikes. His perception was sharp, heightened by his emotions, as he batted away the first two strikes with his sabers. The third was too fast for him to fully block, but he managed to redirect it, his blade pushing hers as the saber sliced through his armor, scoring a hit to his right bicep. He snarled, the pain giving him purpose, respite from his loss. He drew on it, using it to fuel his blows as he went on the offensive. He hooked to her right, seeking an opening past her shield. He was fast, himself, the Force augmenting his speed and strength as he struck. A blow to from his left to hers, towards her legs. A second, hoping to split her defense, thrust towards the right side of he abdomen. A third blow, from his left once more, a vertical slice towards the top of her head, and a fourth, final blow thrust towards her right shoulder. Each blow carried a weight behind them that the weightless nature of the sabers belied. They struck with the force of the Sith Lord's anger, which he felt to his very bones. His pain gave him speed, drawing out the wound so that he might strike faster. His sorrow gave him caution to not blindly throw himself into the fray, as much as he wished to. There would be no vengeance if he died here today. ((1))

Mordecai's shuttle tore through the atmosphere, his anger corrupting and warping the very world around him. It was cataclysmic- The Naboo were in cohorts with the rebel, as he had suspected. As such, they would be punished. His shuttle rocked as the palace's anti air landed a powerful hit to the wing, and he felt the ship groan and screech as the damaged wing tore away. The dropship lurched violently, going into a spin as he braced himself. It impacted outside of the main entrance, tearing up concrete and the earth below it as it skid to a halt. Inside, Mordecai climbed to his feet. His armor had absorbed the impact, but the pilot was dead. No matter. He stepped out of the transport to a city on fire- a few over-ambitious bombers had already begun to strafe the city. No matter. His presence was known. He climbed the steps to the entrance of the palace as guards raised their weapons to stop him. It was over quickly. Four guards had come to meet him. As he leapt forward, fed by the unending pool of rage and sorrow in his heart, he drove his sabers into the man's chest. The next in line was a young woman, who held her fire in fear of hitting her comrade. It was her death. He lunged for her, severing her head and letting his momentum carry him into the next. He drove his fist into the man's chest, the Force-enhanced blow shattering ribs as the man went down. The final guard tried to run, but it didn't save him. Mordecai pounced on him like a Nexu, leaving two scorched slashes in the coward's back as he, too, fell dead. Four laid dead around him, but it wasn't enough. His pain, and his grief, and his anger were still there. He had not yet acquired his vengeance. As he entered the palace, more guards tried to stop him, and more guards were cut down like the insignificant traitors they were, and he was drawn to a presence of light, one that he recognized. An Imperial Knight. She was waiting, intending to stop him, he was sure. A traitor like the rest, she would fall. He let out a furious cry as he cut down another guard, his rage apparent to all around him, his presence a roiling wound of Dark Side energy. Whatever shreds of good had been left in Mordecai were being burnt away in the fires of his rage. He had always held onto his notions of honor, even in his darkest moments... but now, he willfully gave it all for the chance to soothe the ache in his chest with the blood of his foes. Whether the guards surrendered, hid, ran or fought, they were cut down if they got in his path, without a doubt relaying to those in command of his destruction.

First it was only one ship- A lone capital, a new presence on the battlefield, the first Abaddon-class Star Destroyer to roll off of Geonosis's shipyard. Its lone silhouette hung menacingly above the atmosphere of Naboo, a quiet harbinger of the battle to come. Over the next few minutes, it was joined by an array of other ships. The Sith Fleet hung overhead, and any rebel that had faced it before would know that this was Darth Mavanger's warparty. But what followed was not the opportunity for parley that he had extended in the past. There was no call for surrender, no warning against rebellion. For Mordecai, who stood on the fresh bridge of the new Star Destroyer which was affectionately called the Raven's Bane by the crew, this was not an annexation. This was a message. The rebels had taken someone precious to him. Before, with Lord Xahl's death, he had settled for his conquest of the Outer Rim, to bring the wilds of the galaxy under the Sith Empire, as had been their shared dream. Now, he would send a message. They had taken someone he loved, and for it, they would die. What few ships were in orbit that didn't land on the planet or leave the system were quickly annihilated, whether it be civilian or otherwise as fighters swarmed from the rest of the fleet. A new Captain, one who's name he hadn't learned yet, asked him for orders. Mordecai sneered, staring down at the world below with spite in his heart, and his fury bubbled forth once more. "Burn it to ash." Before long, hundreds of Sith transports launched, and Mordecai followed suit. They had their own orders, relayed to them by the current commander of his ground forces, but Mordecai had a special plan in mind. His transport beelined straight for Theed Palace, home of Naboo's royal family. They would not escape. He had received word that there was a new Dark Lord, one he had heard of during his days amongst those of the Sith Academy, and that he had received a message from her. He was not interested in bending the knee to a new Dark Lord- His priority now erased all others. Every rebel on this world would die, and he would do so on as many worlds as it took to avenged his love.

Before Mordecai could respond, the command center lit up with incoming communications, calls and reports streaming in through most of the consoles. As they did, Mordecai felt a shift in the Force, something precious being snuffed out. Dread filled his heart, his vision tunneled on the map, and as if in slow motion, he turned as an officer swiftly approached, a datapad in hand. "My lord, we've been contacted by our forces at Mon Cal. They've pulled out. The Krayt's Fury was lost- Captain Jarvus stayed behind to co-ordinate the retreat. No word if he made it out or not." Mordecai went numb. So that had been it. He didn't need a report to tell him that Jarvus was no longer amongst the living. Mordecai leaned forward onto the table in the command center, the glass flexing under the pressure. His breathing deepened. His rage, always concealed behind a veneer of sophistication amongst his troops, began to show. His face contorted with loss, and the glass under his armored hands began to spiderweb out, disrupting the projection that filled the room. His sorrow and grief were gasoline to the raging fire of his fury, and he struggled to contain it now. His limbs shook, his face a dark reflection of the calm he often showcased. In a shower of glass and sparks, his fist burst through the holotable, briefly darkening the room. A tense silence hung in the air before he spoke. "Relay my orders. Plot an immediate course for Naboo- returning forces from Falleen and Mon Cal are to rendevous with us there."

Type: Capital Ship Class: Star Destroyer Length: 1,800m Crew: 13,000 Gunners: 500 Armament: 16 Medium Turbolaser Batteries 20 Siege Torpedo tubes 72 Heavy Concussion Missile arrays 32 Point Defense Laser cannons Description: The first new ship to come from the Geonosis shipyards since the Clone Wars, the Abaddon class Star Destroyer is heavily modeled after the Victory I class star destroyer. Featuring two dozen torpedo tubes and nearly 600 individual concussion missile tube, the Abaddon Star Destroyer makes up what it lacks in armor in pure firepower. Built for short, brutal engagements, it carries enough ammo for up to three full salvos from its concussion missiles, as well as 200 spare torpedoes. While lacking in close-in defense, the ASD is not defenseless, featuring a small array of turblolasers and point defense cannons, though against other capital ships it relies on its obscene number of missiles. As an almost unintended side effect, the lack of turbolasers led to excess power capabilities, allowing for much more powerful targeting computers and extra power to shields, though its ammo remains limited. The ASD works, at it's best, in flash skirmishes against other capital ships and cruisers, where it fires its salvos and ends the fight swiftly.

He had been right to discuss this with the Captain, at the very least to confirm his own suspicions. He had spread his forces too far here, and without support from the Dark Lord, that had proven dangerous. He'd been unable to support his allies at Mon Cal much in the way that Delta had suggested. What he did notice was a possible flaw. Reaching towards the projection, he pointed out a missed planet. "The Rebels know how to fight. One of the failings I've witnessed among the Sith, both in myself and amongst those in power, is that we have not taken this into account. I overextended once, and I was not in a position to aid our allies on Mon Cal. Naboo and Bothawui are both traditionally rebellious locations- planets like them are why I took our forces so far into the Outer Rim. Naboo is one of the most pressing concerns, but there is another that would be problematic if we advanced as you suggest. Pushing beyond Naboo to take Bothawui would leave any remaining forces of the False Emperor at Ryloth behind our lines, and with my forces waning, I cannot risk our supply lines being disrupted by them. Naboo is time-sensitive, I agree. The rebels are likely trying to convince the queen of their politics, and we should stop them before they get the chance to turn Naboo into a bastion." He pulled up the larger map in the command center, showing the current fronts of the campaign, adjusting it to show what the front would look like if they took Bothawui next. "If we take Bothawui, Ryloth is squared away on the opposite side of the campaign- I don't with to have a second front in this campaign. In addition, while unlikely, if the Rebels have any presence at Vernzah Torrah, we've put a hostile world in the middle of our supply lines. However unlikely that is, with the Rebels showing the capabilites that they have so far, it is not a risk worth taking. The rebels already know of my presence in the Outer Rim- we shouldn't rush ahead unless absolutely necessary. And if the child wants my head, then she is more than willing to try and take it. I welcome the vacation that killing her would be."

Mordecai was only slightly amused by the Hutt's antics- With the successes that he'd achieved, it was clearly a facade, but to what end had yet to be discovered. He was about to send his response when he got a report- The Captain had returned from Falleen. He returned to his command center, where he finally responded to the unruly apprentice that had contacted him. "Claim Sullust for the Sith, and your deeds will not go unrecognized. When you return, we will finally have an opportunity to speak." He turned to face Delta as he entered the command center, giving him a curt nod as he gave his report. The people of Falleen had put up a stiff resistance at first, but had been crushed with a swift and violent strike at multiple locations by way of orbital bombardment. "Good. Resistance was handled swiftly and brutally, and while it was perhaps on the excessive side of things, the results spoke for themselves in this instance. We're receiving preliminary reports from Mon Cal- we lack specifics on the situation, but it seems as though it is a losing battle. You're a veteran of many wars, Captain, what do you think our next move should be?" Mordecai already had ideas, of course. There were a number of prominent worlds that required his attention, but he wanted to see what the veteran would suggest.

The Krayt's Fury let out another shudder as bomber wracked it's hull with high-yield explosives. The battle was lost. Most of the crew had already evacuated the ship, regrouping with the remaining forces and returning to Geonosis, where Lord Mavanger most likely awaited the news of this battle. Captain Jarvus had remained to coordinate the retreat, and now, with no allies remaining, the Fury finally began to gave out. A new klaxon began to blare, signaling that the ship had suffered a critical reactor leak. Another flashing light indicated that the hull's integrity was below 30 percent. At this point, even if he tried to make it to an escape pod, and there was a route still available to him, he wouldn't make it in time. He sighed sadly. Fear of one's death was natural. Though there was no one remaining on the bridge to witness it, he felt ashamed still. He had served with distinction. With victories over Corellia, Kuat, Geonosis, he had served the Sith Empire well. His counsel had aided a campaign that would be remembered for generations. He had loved, laughed, and been happy for two years. If this was the end of his life, he would face it with courage. He keyed one of the communication panels, sending a final word of warning to the rebels. He would make them fear his death. They would always remember the day that the Rebel Alliance sealed its own fate. "You will all face the storm that comes with this victory, and not one of you will survive. He will kill every last one of you." Behind him, the alarms grew more frantic. The ship shuddered a final time as the ship's reactor self destructed, detonating the core and sending a chain reaction throughout the rest of the vessel. As the blast entered the bridge, Jarvus smiled. He would become a martyr.

Mordecai sneered at her nonchalance. She didn't understand the place she had put his campaign in with such a brazen maneuver. Not only would those be precious days lost in the campaign, but to be forced to spend their resources on such extensive repairs so early on... It was an ill omen, to be sure. He growled as she relaxed in her bed, seemingly comfortable with her failure. "You have become complacent with your title, Kahla. It would do you well to not forget the methods of the Sith- those who are not useful are discarded. I fail to see the use in a commander that cannot win such an easy battle. When I gave you a lordship, I took responsibility for your actions. I put my name behind your own in support. And I promise you, if you bring further disgrace to the Sith Empire, that we will consume your power for ourselves. That is the Sith way. I would recommend, rather than sitting in bed drinking warm tea and hopped up on painkillers to escape the pain that a Sith should embrace, that you should be studying up on battle tactics and honing your own capabilities." He swiveled on his heel, tossing one more line of warning over his shoulder as he did so. "The eyes of the Empire are on this campaign. Every victory shall be amplified, but so shall every defeat. You'd do well to remember this conversation in the future." He stalked out of the room, glancing at his communicator as he received a message. His mood was further soured by its contents. Falleen was subjugated, which was good, but the Hutt lacked the air of a Sith. Though, he knew there was more to the Hutt's attitude than met the eye. From his victory over the Jedi master Sandy Sarna, to his unexpected absences regarding the campaign... Not for the first time, he found himself regretting that Xahl had died before sharing what he had learned. Mordecai had been too busy to devote further time and effort into the matter, but perhaps now it was time to test the Hutt's mettle. He sent out a transmission to all of his assets in the Outer Rim. "All forces, prepare for a debriefing in two days time. The first stage has been a resounding success"

Jarvus grimaced as he watched the Krayt's Fury fall apart around him. He remained calm- to panic would do nothing for his people. For the Empire. The battle was being fought by tooth and nail- while he had considered a retreat, it would have been disgraceful to leave his allies alone in this fight. That decision would cost him, however. The grim reality was that the Fury was likely on its last legs. Only a few more volleys would do her in, and all hands aboard would likely me lost. He had to give his orders now. "All non-essential personnel, report to the nearest escape pod. To all remaining ships under my command- If the Fury falls, you will be under the command of Darth Tyra's forces." Klaxons blared, and he breathed deeply, his face the steely visage of Imperial calm. His heart ached, however. Would he never again serve Lord Mordecai? Was this truly his end? It was likely. More than anything, however, he ached for what his death would do to the Sith Lord. He had been there when Lord Xahl had been slain in battle. He had borne witness to the man's grief firsthand. In the aftermath, Mordecai had slain his enemies without mercy. Before, he had been opposed to the rebels and their ideals, but he had understood them, somethign that had led to mercy in his heart, though to say that to the Sith would not have gone well. After Xahl, his heart had hardened. He had grown distant. Angrier. Filled with a deep rage. He pitied the fools that would oppose Darth Mavanger after today.

Darth Inmortos vs Mythos First, I'd like to say that this was a close duel, and neither side should feel that they did any less than their best. Both players played their characters admirably, and the contrast between Inmortos's refined movements and tactics against the more primal outbursts of Mythos set an excellent atmosphere. This was a short and sweet ruling. The only specific that comes up is probably what swayed the duel. A duel between an NFU and a FU is always going to be an uphill battle- to help NFUs even the field, they gain a number of advantages, from tools of war to an NPC retinue. While the duel itself was well written and well handled, and both characters were played admirably, Mythos repeatedly abandons these advantages, from ordering his retinue away pre-duel, to dropping his weapon and lunging with tooth and claw against an opponent armed with the Force and a lightsaber. The use of his cybernetic arm was excellent in this situation, but unfortunately it was not enough to sway the duel. The winner is Krath Inmortos Next post goes to Inmortos. Well done both of you.

Captain Jarvus stood on the bridge of the Krayt's Fury as it left hyperspace, looming menacingly above the planet of Mon Cal. It seemed they had arrived later than planned- Mon Cal was already under attack. He was arriving with the second wave of reinforcements- the first had only served to regain the footing they had lost. This trickle was dangerous- if they got caught out before Darth Mavanger's fleet could arrive in proper force, it would be devastating. "Defensive positions. Move to regroup with the rest of the Sith forces. Do not allow them to separate us, and victory may yet be ours. Lords of Mon Cal, The Warden of Kuat sends his regards. We will not let your holdings fall." Lord Mordecai disliked that title- he thought it pompous to wield such ungainly accomplishments like a beacon, and despised others who did so. But he did not know the effect such titles had on the regular man- The greatest warriors of the era all had such titles. The Spider. Mandalore the Bloody. The Mad. For a common man to hear that such a warrior led them into battle was a great thing. He frowned. Their fleet was spread thin. Between the planets currently under occupation in the Outer Rim and this attack on Mon Cal, he knew he would need to be decisive in his victory here. They couldn't afford to be bogged down in a war of attrition.

When Mordecai returned, it was to a mixed message. On one hand, the rebels had run once their Jedi had fallen. On the other, a not insignificant portion of his fleet was burning. While there seemed to be no lost ships, many had clearly taken heavy damage. It certainly wasn't the sight he expected to return to- It seemed that he would need to have a word with Darth Tyra. He angled his ship towards her cruiser, making a quick journey towards its hangar. Once he landed, he was quickly informed that she was in the medical wing with serious injury. She was alive, then, but injured. He walked briskly towards her room, opening the door and stepping in. He took in her condition for a moment before speaking. "While I am please to see you live yet, I am most disappointed that in the state of our fleet. We have two cruisers with critical damage, and their frigate escorts received damage as well. The should have been virtually no damage against a lone carrier and its escort. What happened?"

Mordecai was thrown backwards by the blast, tumbling through the mud and rocks. He was thankful for his armor- while the shockwave was dangerous, the armor had absorbed most of the damage, and protected him as he tumbled into the ground. Had it not been for that, he likely would have broken many bones, and maybe been defeated. He rolled to his feet, staggering as he righted himself, searching for the Jedi. He spotted her, her white robes sullied with grim from the battle, laying in the mud. Still breathing. He walked over, kicking her saber away with his boot as he reached down, pulling her to her feet by her robes. The fight had left her, he could tell. It wasn't surprising- such a blast was bound to be taxing on any Jedi. He leaned in, whispering into her ear, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He spoke to a fellow warrior now, whether she believed it or not. "Die on your feet. And if you return- remember what led you here." He pressed his saber to her sternum, igniting the blade as he did so. When he felt her body grow limp, he released her, letting her crumple to the ground. His exhaustion caught up with him, and he sheathed his sabers. He glanced at the transport he had come with, debating if he should finish them off as well. No. Let her death be enough. He moved back towards the temple, leaving her body to the elements. Her light was already fading from the accursed place with her death. HE could sense what he was looking for, and in a short time, he had found it. A small pyramid, faintly glowing red. A Sith holocron, a locked box containing any kind of useful information, and the Dark Side was the key. He lifted if, placing it into a pouch in his armor. Afterwards, he exited the temple, boarding his shuttle with a message to the remaining rebels. "Rebel forces. You have lost. Your Jedi lies dead on the planet's surface." The shuttle shuddered as his took off, making a heading for his cruiser in orbit.

Mordecai pressed the advance as his emotions, his momentum, and his fervor reached a glorious crescendo. His blades were no longer tools- in this moment, the in the midst of the perfect discourse of battle, they were extensions of his very being. Their humming and whirring as they sliced through the air was like music to him, and he lost himself in their melody. Every blow led into the next, and the next, and the next. Every slash fueled by his anger, his rage. Every step fueled by his pride. With every blow that glanced off the Jedi, his frustrations grew, and he used that frustration to further power his attacks. The dark side was his fuel. He wrenched his strength from it, shaping himself into an unstoppable force of whirling blades and heavy armor. He let out a roar of fury, resolving to end this battle now. He pressed the advance, his momentum carrying each blade to its next attack. She wasn't attacking, so he would pour all of his power into his attacks to make sure she never got the chance. He unleashed another flurry of attacks, fully releasing himself to the movements of the battle, each attack intended to be a finishing blow, but building to something. First he struck high, for the Jedi's neck. As he did, he used the force in an attempt to pull her closer, a second blow aimed to amputate her legs at the knee. A third and fourth from both sabers intended to remove her arms. Each blow was debilitating in its own right, powerful and fast, fueled by the dark side as he moved in for the kill. He struck at each of her extremities in an attempt to open her guarded center. It was then that he unveiled his finisher. A final blow, a stab, directed straight towards her heart. Into it he poured every ounce of speed and strength he had left, the dark side energies that enveloped the blade cutting at anything that it found in its path. ((3))

Mordecai could feel his saber slice into flesh. It was cathartic- this battle was so far removed from the stresses and the weight of responsibility that commanding his campaign often left him with. A welcome change of pace. He had not truly fought since Kuat, and while realistically it hadn't been that long ago, it felt like an eternity. This was a release- his pent up anger and frustration at the locals who defied him. His fury and hatred towards the Rebels who would seek to destroy the only stable government in the galaxy. His disgust for the Imperial Knights and the Jedi Order, who would seek to abolish his order. And there were smaller things too. His grief that still throbbed in his heart at the loss of his friend. His shame that he hadn't been able to avenge him. His pride in the Sith he had trained and at the forces he had gathered. All of it was unleashed here, in this battle, let off the chain that he kept bound so tightly around his emotions. It was in this haze of battle that he missed the flash of light- he barely managed to cover his eyes with his arms before he was blinded. His eyes throbbed in dull pain, and he blinked rapidly as he opened them. It took him a moment to re-orient himself to her position, but once he had he pressed forward once more, this time pursuing the Jedi directly. He intended to keep her on the backfoot, away from her lightsaber. Beyond that, it was only a matter of getting a few good hits in. He moved quickly, making sure to continue his relentless advance in an attempt to push her back and further away from her weapon. He lunged forward, leading with his left foot as he stabbed towards her stomach with his left saber. His next blow came with his next step, his right saber coming down towards her left shoulder. The next few blows followed suit, Mordecai making sure that with every blow, he attempted to push her back, for her to lose ground. Another blow, from his left saber to her thigh, and one more from his right to her torso, each faster than the next as his emotions flared, fueling his momentum, and fueling each blow with blinding speed. He had her on the ropes- She wasn't a fighter, clearly. He had experience in combat, training, and equipment on his side, and the power of the dark side flowing through his body with every blow. She was unarmed, and on the backfoot, and yet... She was still dangerous. He knew better than to underestimate his opponents. He had gotten carried away, and he'd lost his momentum for it. He would be foolish to think that was the only trick the Jedi had up her sleeve. ((2))

Mordecai sighed. The last Jedi he had fought had tried this. He would give the one before him a final chance, but beyond that, he would strike. "Unless you intend to surrender, throwing your weapon away will not save you. I have declared my intentions- I will have no qualms about cutting you down. I have been free of my order's beliefs this entire conversation- each belief spoken was my own. That you did not echo that respect shows your character. We clash with blades now, not your empty words." He would do this fast. He noted where he weapon had fallen. She was tensed, ready to leap. He made a calculation, locating where he hoped she would be when he closed the distance. He lunged forward, his anger filling his legs with energy through the Force, moving faster than one would expect of a man in heavy armor, delivering a stab, not at her, but between her and her weapon in an attempt to catch her as she lunged for it. He used his momentum and his fury to spin into a powerful slash with both sabers, the red blades cutting through the rain with sizzling efficiency. Another slash, quicker this time at the cost of power, towards her face, spinning once more, his feet gliding across the mud as he delivered a fourth blow towards her knees, relentlessly advancing all the while. He would strike down this pretender, this hypocrite. He would cut her down, he would kill her companions, and he would complete his dominion over this planet. She would not stop him. Her allies would not stop him. The countless rebels above could not stop him. This was his achievement- he would not watch as it was dismantled by rebels who wanted naught but chaos in the galaxy so that they could sink their mangled tendrils into the people of the galaxy once more. The Outer Rim was his. ((1))