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Nar Shaddaa


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The starlines broke forth revealing the golden looking planet before the four different ships that belonged to the Mandalorians of House Solus. Swift Justice; a Pursuer-class frigate, The Trident; an YX-1980, Tyrant Adventure; a YG-4210 and Bloodlust; an E-9 Explorer craft all arrived to the fight, fully stocked and ready for the battle. Tros stood in the bridge of Swift Justice and observed the movements quickly of the allied Sith fleet and their own movements. His hair upon his forearms stood up as the tension rose of the incoming battle. Reaching down, he opened his comms to the rest of the ships for House Solus. "Engage and support the Sith fleet. Follow them in. Do not under any circumstances interfere or slow down Kot'dral and the Zealots. Their mission is more important than ours." He cut the comms to avoid having open chatter. 

 

Sutu slowly moved his hands over the controls, following in close to the main fleet, almost attempting to remain hidden. Tros placed a hand upon his shoulders. "Don't hide us. I want us to be known. But the Sith fleet is moving to remove mines it would appear. Follow closely enough to help or avoid getting us blown up. Once we're clear, move openly." He kept his own eyes on the movements before him, choosing instead to focus on his visual skills versus what was going on radar wise. He was more focused on seeing the deployment of the Fang Fighters from Lord Mavanger's ship, which he understood wouldn't happen until the mines were not a threat. He now wished that as soon as this battle was done that he would be able to travel within the Keldabe-class battleship upon its completion. For now, the smaller freighters would be sufficient.

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The Grand Admiral watched the Squib-Hapan attack with a moment of terror, for they had somehow gotten through their own minefield to approach his fleet without losses from the mines that had claimed the lives of so many of his men. Sexy Chiss fingers steepled under his chin, a sign of brooding contemplation. Crimson eyes watched the Ardent-class frigate, Umbarian Nightsweats be torn asunder by the fierce attack of both Squib and Hapan. A starburst of light indicated the enemy’s Hutt allies gunline fracturing the hull of the Vigil-class corvette Fayne East.

 

A sudden hunger rose in him to match his Terror. The Bridgecrew stiffened visibly, the Under Admiral nearly collapsing beneath the mental weight of the realization. Their fell Master had come to join the Battle. As the massive Hutt entered the bridge, The Master of the Krath called upon the fell powers of the Dark Side. He fed the Force his own hunger, corrupting space, tempting it to change, to shatter forth to consume all.

 

The very front of the Vanguard of the Sith Fleet seemed to shake. The Tector-Class Star Destroyer, Billibringi Starlight, seemed to warp and change, the metal of its hull turning to red-hot iron, before collapsing into itself. All eight-thousand crew died instantly; their souls frozen in abject terror. A delightful meal of emotion, which the Former Dark Lord of the Sith fed into the Force. A feast of souls awaited. The many Krath scattered throughout the fleet joined into the psychic battle, feeding the growing singularity with both their power and their lives. Sheog joined it all to the heartbeat of the revel, that fateful dance of hunger and death. A gravemind, that fed upon all that had bound themselves to his cause.

 

Into it all Sheog poured the doom of Sullust, millions of lives devoured, the defeat of the Masters of the Jedi, their shame, their terror, their shattered hopes and dreams. Of children torn from the breasts of their mothers to be devoured by demons. The doom of all life, a true perversion of the nature of the Force

 

A wound in the Force appeared where that fateful star destroyer had been, a bitter ravenous, all consuming thing. It carried none of the storms or cliché lightning of those weaker Sith that had come before, it was purely the Maw. It lensed all light, devouring all before it, tempting all to join in the feast. Reaching tendrils of radiation into realspace, to destroy all before it.

 

The Mad Hutt smiled cruelly. He offered the Hunger a most tempting prize, a planet of innocents, all their dreams and desires, to consume and devour. It would make Malachor V and Sullust look like the efforts of a child. The singularity surged forward, ripping the Sith’s Secutor-class battlecarrier Jenuax, and its crew of forty-thousand into nothing more than fractured starlight. A deep phlegmatic laugh echoed across The Bitter Feast's now lifeless bridge. 

 

It was time for the Rebels and their pitiful Empire to witness the true power of the Force. 

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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As Darth Mavanger's fleet arrived so to did Clan Brasganu, House Of Dragons not far behind him. The eight Lord-Captain's of the marauding and raiding nomad fleet belonging to the entirety of the death cult was present and ready to unleash it's own brand of horrors upon those above and below. As the ships arrived, Inmortos ship moved to release it's shuttles laden on the planet below with the undead. It mattered not the manner of their arrival only that the cargo reached the surface to begin a pandemic that would be near impossible to contain.

 

For none could truly stop the undead, when one fell another would replace them. A smile drew across Akheron's face as he observed the carnage of the battle, the entirety of the Sith armada in one place, for one purpose. He could feel the chaos, destruction, horror, panic, pain and rage of all present in the currents of the force and drew upon it to feed his own strength, preparing for the task ahead.

 

Akheron observed the Wound created by Sheog and any Krath who joined the hive mind, felt it's power. He had the fleet divert away from that particular area...no his target was more specific. He had the crew scan the area and search for one particular ship. The Misericordia. The False Empress pride and joy, her flagship. The Clan Brasganu fleet would aid with it's destruction. Klaxons sounded throughout the ship as it rocked back and forth to the sounds of attack and counterattacks. Further he noted how mines were being cleared.

 

He spoke to Captain Garrus, a veteran of many wars who had spent the last few years serving under Akheron. 

 

"You shall be left in command Captain Garrus. I go to prepare myself for personal battle, The Dragon is to go with me. Locate the Misericordia, intel suggests that ship belongs to the False Empress. Once this is done, have the fleet co-ordinate with the rest of the armada and assist with the removal of her escorts and the mines. We shall clear a path to her. Unleash the Acklay fighters and bombers, let the enemy be consumed by the swarm. For the glory of the Fanged God and the Darkness."

 

With that the Fangs Of Darkness was left in the captain's capable hands. Further along, one ship was destroyed in a instant, a older model belonging to Lord-Captain Faros, shame she was a great addition. Moving he knew the Linnorms knew what to do, just as every member of the fleet and their crews. They had their part to play, one and all. Akheron made for a hangar bay where a shuttle awaited that would get him to where he needed to be. 

 

He wondered how Solus was faring, this being his first proper battle with the full might of the Sith Empire. Soon enough and wave upon wave of the battle tested Acklay Class Heavy Interceptors launched from the many bays. The fleet merged with that of Sheog's and Dark Lady Nyrys's fleet elements, lending aid where possible.

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 "Only in my pain, did I find my will. Only in my chaos, did I learn to be still. Only in my fear, did I find my might. Only in my darkness, did I see my light." - Darth Akheron

 

I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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Fiochmar had of course indeed heard his Master's summons, finishing up the bit of training he'd been pushing himself through, he gets up and gets on his skins hides and leather armor.  VibroSword and VibroAxe hanging from his hips as he storms out of the training area.  Marching his way from there and navigating through the ship hands upon those weapons. His mind on the task at hand focusing on his rage, his hatred his anger all of the darker things he's felt in his life even his fear of losing what little he'd retained or his people being wiped out. Through it all he feels stronger and more powerful.

 

When he finally enters the bridge he looks around and when he spies Mavanger he approaches and gives a deep low bow. 

 

"You sent for me my Master?"

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Qessax’ orange face paled at what he witnessed. The squibs that Kolchak had sent out were doing their duty diligently. The mines were also doing their fair share. Taking Nar Shaddaa would not be an easy task for the Sith by any means. Qessax knew Kolchak was making the price of attacking this place not worth whatever prize the Sith were hoping to attain here. 

 

But then the karken' black hole opened up. 

 

Agent Qessax had heard the stories of what magic the Sith and Jedi were able to conjure up. Having never seen Force users in action before, that’s what those stories were. Stories. Nothing else. Somewhere in the back of his head, he believed that the shamans back home had more authority over the Force then some of these people. 

Agent Qessax shook his masked face. There was no denying that the Sith were powerful. 

 

An alert came on one of the consoles that the Kaleesh oversaw. He smiled. The Kaleesh fleet had arrived. 

 

A short distance away from the battlezone, closer to the planet of Nal Hutta than the moon,  appeared several corvettes and freighters. Most of them were older than the war had been. The newest and leading ship, The Rabid Mumuu, was a CR 70, heavily retrofitted to match ships of the modern era it was fighting in. Everything else was older, and modified even more so. Even a dated CR-12 was in the ship’s ranks. These were ships from a time when the Huk war had still been ongoing. When bugs thought they were superior to the people of Kalee. The Kaleesh people needed whatever they could use to fight the bugs from another planet, and so they stole the Huk’s ships in their war. 

 

Qessax gave a silent praise to the Force and his father and all of his ancestors. With a few key swipes, the intelligence agent sent the data of the locations of the mines to his brother. 

 

 The ships had exited hyperspace with their engines still on. They were full-speed towards the Sith Armada, black hole or not. They would not slow down. They would not give up. What these warriors lacked in formal training, they made up for in unusual tactics. They would skirt alongside the Sith Fleet, begin to bombard their smaller ships, then move towards Nar Shaddaa. With luck, they would lure some of the Sith forces away from the main fleet and become easier targets. 

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"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."

Edited by Mavanger
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Solus was ecstatic to say the least. The death, the chaos, the battle, all of it made the Shard almost squeal in happiness. He hadn’t felt this way since the invasion of Naboo. And he wasn’t alone with his feelings. All around him the Linnorms were preparing and galvanizing themselves, readying for battle and death. The Fanged God would be fed today, and their enemies would feed the fangs. 

 

“We go with blades, and guns alight…” Solus started singing to himself, just loud enough to be overheard. A few Linnroms looked at him and grinned and started to sing along as well. 

 

“Ra-ka-ka-ta, Ra-ka-ka-ta!
The mouth is open, we kill tonight,
Ra-ka-ka-ta, Ra-ka-ka-ta!” 

 

The song quickly caught on like sparks on kindling. All over the ship, Linnorms began to sing their chant, Solus the loudest amongst them. 

 

“Cut off their heads and break their bones,
Ra-ka-ka-ta, Ra-ka-ka-ta!
Feed the fangs with their moans!
Ra-ka-ka-ta! Ra-ka-ka-ta!”

 

Tear growled approvingly but hungrily. The hound was practically galloping to keep up with the Shard. Solus slowed himself and quited himself down for the Tukata’s sake. He needed to control himself. Now was not the time to show too much emotion. 

 

Or was it the perfect time?

 

Solus eventually found his way back to the hangar. It was this time that he felt the wound open up in space. The black hole or whatever it was reverberated in the Force, and Solus felt it fully. He had to grab onto the nearest object to keep from stumbling over. Never before had he felt such death. 

 

Solus began to laugh.  “Don’t you see? Don’t you get it Tear?”

 

Tear didn’t reply, but panted heavily in anticipation of the death he would feast on. 

 

Solus and the hound made their way onto the shuttle the Lord of Rage was on.

 

“Haha! What a glorious day master! The Men are singing, death is being made… why it feels like even the Fanged God himself is here! Hahaha! Let us join him and kill all of these infidels!” 

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Fiochmar remains in that deep bow as his Master gives orders and speaks to the Bridge crew on the ship, his expression never changing maintaining a rage and hatred and that thirst to prove himself to push forward to be stronger with every passing hour. He nods a bit as Mavanger finishes issuing orders to the crew and he agrees with every last order his Master issues though as a mere apprentice its not his place to disagree with his master's orders just to listen to them and follow them through. However the orders did seem to make a lot of sense to him. When Mavanger speaks to him he finally rises and looks his Master in the eyes his look one of determination, desire and pride listening to the words spoken he finally responds.

 

"Understood Master, it is my time to prove I'm not weak that I'm valuable to the Sith Empire to show that I am worth the time and effort to train. My training so far should be more than sufficient Master for the task at hand I will not be disgraced on the battlefield. I will prove to you and the empire that I am powerful enough to be worthy of the teachings, I won't fail you my Master, I will not let you down I swear it to you. I'll be by your side on the Misericordia and I'll help cut down as many as possible to strike at the heart and take the head of the Rebels to leave them Reeling in our wake."

 

Fiochmar finishes speaking his voice full of conviction and sincerity the excitement of the coming battle filling him his blood lust renewed as his leather boots tap against the deck of the ship following his Master on his way out.

 

"I'm on your heels my Master I'll fight with you until the end no matter the outcome!"

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Starfields flickered and pulsed like one of the garish neon displays for courtesans that had plastered the skyscrapers on old Coruscant during the height of the Galactic Alliance’s power. And while those displays had promised much and delivered little, these starlight flickerings promised another entry into the fleet battle. A foe long forgotten in the many battles against the Sith. 

 

For in that moment the last vestiges of Galactic Alliance power tore themselves into realspace with a flash of crimson light at the rear of the House of Dragons Fleet. Having snuck swiftly from their base at Corellia, the remains of the once mighty Core Worlds battlegroup was finally here for their long awaited revenge. They had waited patiently since the failed invasion of their home system for the Sith to try to invade again. But the blow had never come. So the combined fleet had begun their own plans of attack. Now fully realized after the Sith Lords had committed their final elements.  

 

Among the dozens of capital ships, were the Belarus and majestic cruisers of the Fleet Modernization Programme alongside the light corvettes and bulk cruisers of the Corellian Home Guard. Beside them also were three Tagge class cruisers of the Falleen Diaspora who'se crew were far too eagre to rid the galaxy of the death cult. There too were the princes of Outremer with their blue painted Scythe battlecruisers and carrack cruisers in the vanguard of the GA fleet. 

 

And in the command bridge of the Scythe class battlecruiser Pacificateur sat SACCORE himself. The Supreme Allied Commander of the Core Worlds. The Galactic Alliance senator, Godfrey d’Outremer. The man who had faced the Dark Lord’s personal fleet at Corellia and had walked away with a total victory. 

 

“All ships, show these damn cultists how the Galactic Alliance gives its revenge.”

 

And the fleet answered. And a host of turbolasers, missiles, and seige torpedoes blasted towards the Cultist fleet. These Sith aligned vagabonds were nothing more than a momentary obstacle to the return of a peaceful and democratic glactic government. And the GA would see them wiped away. 

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Rebel Alliance Fleet Command - Godfrey d'Outremer

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Akheron felt the flagship rock as the first volley from the newly arrived opposing fleet under Godfrey d’Outremer decided to target Clan Brasganu. The House Of Dragons would oblige the coward or so he thought for attacking from behind. He was certain Captain Garrus would make him pay for his transgression. Entering the shuttle he soon departed, answering his apprentice.

 

"It is possible the Fanged God may be observing...but we must still be on our guard. Our enemies are not to be underestimated. It appears that some have already taken a disliking to the House Of Dragons, we shall not forget what they have done, even should we lose we will make them regret their actions. Come, the False Empress awaits."

 

Soon enough and the shuttle lifted, exiting the ship even as the barrage continued, a metal beam blown free narrowly avoided them as they exited. The pilot was doing his job admirably, dodging and weaving at least before a specific problem occurred. The shuttle shock as all control was wrested from his hands, alarms blurred as the shuttle took a dive towards the surface. Charging towards the cockpit, Akheron looked to see what the problem was, questioning the pilot who was stressfully trying to keep control and slow the descent. One Linnorm flew forwards and into the bulkhead.

 

"What's going on, what is the issue!? Why are we falling."

 

"My lord! Someone has hijacked the systems, they somehow found a loophole and have hacked the shuttle. I have been trying to find a way around it but it's too complex and beyond my skill. I will keep control as best I can but looks like we are going down whether we like it or not!"

 

Akheron was not amused, but seeing the screens the pilot was correct. There was no way to avoid a descent, it was going to be a rough ride, turning he went to his apprentice and spoke.

 

"We got a problem my apprentice, someone has hijacked the shuttle systems and there is no solution. It's gonna get rough so hold on and secure what you can, inform the Linnorms to be ready for a bumpy entry." 

 

After that there was little that could be done as the shuttle descended to whatever awaited below, breaking the atmosphere and narrowly avoiding several mines although one clipped a wing sending the shuttle into a spiral down.

 

((Will continue in the Nar Shadda - Headquarters thread))

 

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Captain Garrus received the communication from Mavanger's fleet and was just about to issue the order when the attack happened. Struck from behind, he felt the flagship rock as several new blips appeared on his screens and Clan Brasganu was assailed by Godfrey d’Outremer and the forces he brought to bare. Quickly he issued new orders as he found now he would need to try and split the fleet and attempt to both assist Lord Mavanger and take care of this new problem. A escort cruiser was cut in half as the barrage made it's first mark on the death cult.

 

A idea sprang to mind, one that make use of the new necromancer that had recently joined the Clan. Or rather the cargo he carried. 

 

"Turn us around, inform the Chaos Bringer, Sacred Flame and the Feast Of Souls to do the same. Bring us about and lay a volley of missiles and turbo laser fire on the one in charge of that rabble. I want him ground into dust. Inform Krath Inmortos that we have need of some his undead, that we request them to be sent into those ships hangar bays under cover of the volley and Acklay Interceptors to divert attention, we shall tear them apart from the inside out. Let us see how they handle something not truly alive or dead among their ranks.

 

The other half of the fleet continue to assist Lord Mavanger and lead these scum into range of the black hole."

 

Moments after the order was issued and the ships starting maneuvering, taking evasion actions as the fleet rearranged and recomposed itself to face the new threat. Soon enough and the orders were complete, as the various ships begun laying a barrage of turbo laser fire, missiles and torpedoes in kind with the House Of Dragons meeting Godfrey with the fury of every Linnorm aboard the ships assigned to destroy them. Inmortos obliged, unleashing several shuttles that made their way towards the new fleet covered by Acklay Interceptors as escort, laden with undead cargo ready to feast upon any soul they reached in their grubby hands once let loose of their impromptu cage. 

 

The other half slowly made it's way towards Mavanger's fleet, hoping his ships would provide ample cover while they lured the enemy towards the Wound created by Sheog.

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 "Only in my pain, did I find my will. Only in my chaos, did I learn to be still. Only in my fear, did I find my might. Only in my darkness, did I see my light." - Darth Akheron

 

I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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For the moment, at least, it appeared that Admiral Slaughter’s paltry collection of Clone War-era frigates and a single modern cruiser was being ignored. That was understandable–and uncharacteristically cautious for the Sith Empire. They tended to prefer decisive, decapitating strikes, gruesome assaults that would give their warriors an opportunity to get stuck in and get their hands dirty. His hazel eyes flickered towards the massive exchange of firepower between Nasra’s Imperials and one of the larger Sith battlegroups and the Admiral snorted in satisfaction. Very likely, Nasra was leading from the front, on that modified behemoth of an Imperial Deuce. That exchange was their decapitating strike. 

 

Even now, it seemed that the Sith considered the Imperial remnants to be a more significant threat than the survivors of the Galactic Alliance. The miniature singularity that their weapons had generated and launched towards the Imperials was certainly evidence of their prejudice.

 

“They’re leaving us alone for the moment. Mistake. Helm, expand our orbit and set course for that breach in minefield Aurek Seven.” That breach in the minefields was perilously close to an orbital bombardment range of The Red and Black. It needed to be held–otherwise, an interloping Star Destroyer could rain destruction upon the Rebels while they were still scrambling to answer the attack. “Gunnery, focus your fire on their screening corvettes.”

 

Kalidor and its escorts continued their orbit towards the breach in Nar Shaddaa’s minefields, disciplined salvos of their port batteries raining upon the lighter ships in the Sith armada every few seconds. Facing only light return fire, it wasn’t even necessary for the bird-like Kalidor or the boxy Carracks to even take evasive action, giving their gunnery crews a wonderfully stable platform to practice upon their targets.

 

And on the bridge of the heavy cruiser, Slaughter couldn’t resist the urge to keep glancing at a timer that continued to tick down…

 

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The Sauibian forces were obliterated in a mere instant as their pirated fleet of salvagers were shredded in mere moments. As the Captainiest Commanding Commander Captain Boss, Snufu, felt the gravitational forces rip his ship apart beneath him and tear at his furred limbs he died with a sense of awe in his eyes. Such power and magnitude that paled their own gravitational weapons. He could only hope that someday one of their own could harness such a power.

 

The Hapan fleet fared only slightly better, their sleek engineering and powerful engines straining as several were shredded piece by piece, a measley few tearing themselves from the dark side fueled singularity and straight into the withering fire of the remaining Sith fleet, exploding in plumes of fuel-induced color.

 

Feeling themselves drawn towards the singularity, their souls drawn to it by a dark fearful lust for the unknown. The naval forces of a dozen allied nations began to creep towards the rip in the fabrics of time and space, their engines straining against it. Some fought the draw, the furthest out wrenching themselves free. The closest vessels were drawn forward against their will plummeting towards their doom as they were torn asunder. Still, the weakest minds succumbed to the dark temptations and cackling manically gave themselves into the throws of their darkest passions. Fighting against those who tried to stop them, the fallen charged willingly into the Maw, gleeful at the tempting deceptions of lust.

 

The maelstrom grew so large, so fast, that it’s creeping touch could be felt throughout the system. Minefields, tossed about by warping gravitational wells and shadows were subjected to even more stress as they were drawn towards the black hole. Some spontaneously burst under the pressures, others were veered off course as the homed in on their designated targets hurtling towards Allied and Sith fleets alike like unguided torpedos of destruction and despair.

 

The ships that broke free, streaked about the edges of the maelstrom’s strongest grips using the gravitational forces to fling them and their payload at the remaining Sith fleet and into the warped fields in attempts to satiate it, force it closed, and destroy the source.

 

It was these same forces that wrapped their greedy fingers about the monstrous salvos poured forth by the Abaddon Star Destroyer and it’s entourage. As the Sith fleet unleashed their vomit of obliteration, they were sucked from their course as they plummeted onwards. In an instant the Damascus bore the brunt of the assault meant for their fleet. The entire Star Destroyer erupted in a dominoed chain of explosions that split it like a tin can spewing flaming bodies into the cold void of space.

 

This far from the maelstrom, the ships were able to correct their trajectories as the battle erupted in full. Chaos spit forth from all corners as Imperial carriers launched their full compliments of Tie Fighters, Interceptors, Bombers, Hunters and Aggressors like swarms of angry buzzing bizikian hornets as they swooped in and out of larger less ninble craft delivering their destructive payloads and driving any damaged craft  towards enemy command.

 

The fleet of Imperial craft, began to move to intercept, to engage the enemy where they stood. Point-blank defenses erupted, cycling unstoppingly as they joined the cacophony of turbolasers, cannons, and missiles filling the air. Packed ram ships lurched forward, their engines grinding as their momentum carried them towards the huge flagship of the Dark Lord Mavanger.  


Aboard his commandship, the Interdictor Constantine, the air became tense. Even Nikolai Kolchak’s spine stiffened as the alarms of the ungodly salvo of the Sith force painted a picture of certain doom. The maelstrom itself played havoc on their sensors and saving the ship from the initial surge of Sithly doom as the Damascus erupted in death. Reports were called out from stations across the room. Analytics, trajectories, field reports, losses, and all manner of reports streamed through Kolchak’s cybernetic eyes, feeding the information at warp speed to his mind as he analyzed it subconsciously. With a tap of his fingers, orders were beamed to his captains across the fleet, and then…

 

they arrived, cultists. Just as quickly they were set upon bu the forces of the Alliance. Seeing this a smile

played across the stern navyman’s face as he keyed a task force of his own, a carrier group, to move to intercept. Swarms of TIE craft setting upon the cultists’ crafts with ferocity.

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The movements of the ship seemed like a dance, rapidly making its way towards the surface. Constantly being thrown gracefully one direction or another followed suit by other ships within their own formations. Many of the Fang fighters deployed from Mavangers ship began their own free for all runs, as they were supposed to. Some decided to follow their Alor to the surface, helping the dance flow of the ships bouncing seem even more rehearsed than before. From the bridge of the Swift Justice, Tros watched as the planet grew before him. Alarms blared loudly within his ears as a few explosions rocked the ship heavily. 

 

"Talyc haran!" Without even looking away from his own sightlines, which was another ship, he responded to Sutu. "Problem? That last one was close." "Close as in our shields are almost gone. Give me another thirty seconds and we'll be at past all of this..." Tros continued to eye and monitor the Tyrant Adventure, the ship carrying the majority of the Zealots to the surface. He would much rather they died in order to get them to the surface to complete their mission. But he also hoped that Kot'dral survived as well. He had already lost so many on this path. He wasn't sure if he could handle yet another one. Another explosion near them rattled the entire ship. "Shield are gone. We're going to have a hot entry..." Almost five seconds after Sutu announced it, the viewport slowly had the flames of atmosphere entry begin to take over. The four ships had made it through and to the surface. Now onto the next portion of the game. The Zealots with their mission, and the rest to draw attention away from them. Plus whatever fun chaos damage the Fang Fighters choose to do to the surface. 

 

Alor : Leader

Talyc haran : Bloody hell

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The lull of logistics was always the worst part. Sitting and doing nothing, waiting as supplies were loaded, ships were fueled, crew was swapped. Each day there'd be a new face, one to replace another more familiar. The feeling of unfamiliarity, of being lost in you own home was overwhelming. It hung over Tyra every minute of the day, she was truly uncomfortable, finding solace only in training, the sense of battle now becoming one of the few things with a sense of normality.

 

A mishap during refueling left the Eye of Sagittarius' sub-light engines completely crippled caused a week long delay in her fleet. Kahla was furious at the prospect of being late to the party, perhaps even missing out in her chosen role. In her blinded rage she ordered a 'shortcut', one that passed through less stable lanes, and straight to Nar Shaddaa. The trip was taxing on the fleet's hyperdrives, each lightyear making a potential withdrawal more and more difficult. 

 

But at that cost, they had arrived, hardly slipping in under the wire. Already ships had begun slugging it out, and bloodlust soon filled the eyes of the young Sith. A platter laid out before her, and she drooled at the choices.

 

On studying the moon's entourage she saw the potential of her fleet. A group of ships, Carracks mostly, sat in it's defense along side supporting craft. An easy hole to punch, to simply sit just out of range and pick off each ship one at a time. With a quick nod she motioned to Harris, and he quickly caught on.

 

"Support craft on standby," he called calmly as he sat forward in his chair. "We make for the moon, use our bigger guns to our advantage."

 

A grin grew across Darth Tyra's lips, hungrily awaiting the first salvo.

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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.

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Sightless eyes remained closed behind the thin veneer of silver that latticed its way across her eyes to close itself at the nape of her neck. She knelt beside the Empress, her head bowed as if in prayer. In silent meditation as shouts echoed across the bridge of the Misericordia. There was some shock at the boarding attempt. Had they expected anything less than the full might of the Sith Empire? Did they not know that to remake the Galaxy in their own image, the Rebellion would need to be reforged anew? Did the shapeless lump of iron in its bed of coals expect the hammer and anvil? 

 

If the Rebellion expected themselves to become the sword of justice they would need to be completely remade. They would need to shed their old selves and welcome the heat of the forge. Each hammer strike would mold them, bringing the Galactic Alliance and the Imperial Remnant closer with every tortuous blow. Perhaps the old wounds would peel and fall away like slag. Here there horrors of Kuat. And there the decimation of Gala. The genocides, grudges, and blood fueds that had divided them for generations burning away. 

 

Yes. In the heat of the fire there was good to be found. A hope to cling on to as the coals burned to the very bone. So that they could step from the furnace a new thing. Into a new world and a new galaxy without the shadows of the past. She smiled and brought a gloved hand up to wipe at the corners of her visor, where a tear had found itself dripping from her sightless eyes. 

 

Yes. There was finally hope for the Rebellion, and Cassandra was glad for it. 

 

Even as she felt the oppressive spirit of Vengeance fall upon the ship. Who was this man that had bowed himself so low as to carry the demon of revenge on his shoulders? Why was his soul familiar? This was no normal vengeance, the scorn of a lover or something as petty as that, this was a life totally given to the service of destruction. 

 

She stood and bowed to the Empress. 

 

“My lady, the force dictates that we part here. Perhaps forever. With your blessing I will address the Sith on board our vessel.” 

 

The empress nodded her fair head. 

 

And so Cassandra made her way towards the spirit of vengeance that had overtaken their ship, her heart still singing the song of joy.

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Lord Commander Raphenel Karlovci Contispex- Imperial Warden

 

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If the Sith fleet had relied on tactics and precision before, the Sith High Command no longer desired to play by those rules. The glove had been dropped, the Alliance Fleet committed, and now it was the turn of the Sith Lords of Onderon. 

 

Like a bayonet thrusting into the heart of the Alliance, the Black Scarab and the rest of the Sith home fleet dropped into the gap formed in the minefield surrounding the small moon of Nar Shaddaa. The Sith Star Dreadnought had lain dormant during the last few years of war, having done little in action since the scourging of the Rebel Alliance at Dark Sun Station. Being relegated to the home fleet defending the Onderon axis in the Core Worlds and endless training and live fire exercises. But she would be silent no longer. 

 

The Scarabaeus Class Super Star Destroyers three hundred thousand crew lept into action, the two thousand heavy turbolaser batteries, additional two thousand turbolaser batteries, five hundred ion cannons, and some several hundred missile tubes sprang to life. Spitting something like five hundred tonnes of spin-sealed tibanna gas and two years of baradium mining in the inner rim into the Rebel fleet with every broadside. 

 

The six Victory-II class star destroyers and the Mon Calamari cruiser Saint Cathryne were there as well as they had been at Dark Sun, still bedecked in the red and gold of the Black Sun Grand Admiralty. 

 

One last time they would enter the fray together with the Sith Lords they had helped bring to power. And their combined hundreds of siege torpedo tubes began to launch their Nuclear tipped warheads. Not towards the Rebel Fleet, but towards the planet itself. 

 

Because their commander knew, sitting in the red cloak of command, that even if they won the fleet battle here, the rebellion would live on in the hearts of its citizens. 

 

Prefabricated refugee housings and skyscrapers were not much defense against a million megatons of thermonuclear destruction per salvo. Even those that survived the opening hours of the barrage would be reduced to ash from the falling remains of the rebel fleet. Their orders were clear. 

 

Nar Shaddaa was Base Delta Zero and the Sith Commander would live up to his name: 

 

The Blood Prince

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Ca'Aran

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The full might of the Sith war machine seemed to be upon them. Here on this nondescript former criminal world, the fate of the galaxy hung in balance. The Alliance, led by the reformed Imperial Remnant, was gathered en masse to stand on the side of freedom and liberty for all. And as the weight of the Sith armadas pressed inward, they were met on every front by a countersurge of equal or greater resistance. Rumbling massive Imperial war machines stood alongside ramshackle hodge-podged defensive fleets from the last century, interspersed with sleek shadowly acquired rebel war ships and merchant marines. They stood together as one, their steal wills determined to prevent the wholesale slaughter of those below. Blow for blow they matched the enemy and met them, providing a wall of steel against which the enemy forces flung themselves. Both sides suffered greatly; but where the enemy was press-ganged into service, unwilling combatants driven by threat and fear, or zealous maniacs, the forces of the Alliance stood for something greater, something that they carried in their hearts; each man and woman having examined themselves in the crucible and come out pure. 
 

And so the assault continued, small pockets of enemy forces breaking the line from time to time as hole were torn in both sides, a dreadful deadlock threatening to extinguish them all should the balance not be altered, and then it was.

 

The Black Scarab’s arrival was a shock to many of the Allied Republic and Imperial commanders, wrongfully having assumed that the full might of the Sith were already in play. The scales had suddenly been tipped in favor of the invaders.

 

Aboard the Constantine, Supreme Commander of the Allied Fleets Nikolai Kolchak swore loudly and freely. This was a setback that he had hoped he would not see. Standing against the tidal wave of evil, every ship, every crewman, every commander had and knew their place, their task, their target to protect, to defend, to destroy.

 

This newly arrived fleet punched in without discourse, blasting a hole in the Defenders of the Alliance. In minutes, thousands upon thousands of lives were snuffed out and greater than the total gross domestic product of some core worlds was turned into flaming space junk. That was a blow that cut the Grand Moff deep, to see his men cut down. What pained him even more was the near constant stream of nuclear ordinance blasted towards the defenseless below. The Sith would turn their own generals to plate glass, he knew that for sure.

 

”Emergency frequency.” Kolchak bellowed, “Let zhem know what is coming down! Divert any available forces to intercept and stop that beast.” He pointed to the Scarab as it filled his port side viewscreen.

 

Fighter wings that were between runs broke away, intercepting missiles with blaster fire. Plumes of nuclear explosions filled the space above the atmosphere of the planet; but not even they were enough to stop everything. 
 

Robotic ramships already accelerating towards the fray altered their courses by  degrees, the mighty flagships of the Sith fleets their targets. They were all that could be spared. Kolchak worried, knew, that with this newly arrived Sith threat, they would not be enough.

 

As the Constantine shook beneath the enemy salvos, her shields held; but the Corellian-born refugee, raised amongst the Mandalorians, and honed by the Old Empire knew it was not going to be enough. They were outnumbered now, outgunned. All that they had was their devotion to a cause, a cause Kolchak and countless others were willing to die for.

 

So slowly, the Constantine turned it’s prow towards the Scarab, unleashing her own salvos of rockets and turbolaser fire. If they were to die, then Kolchak, his most dedicated men, and the Constantine would lead the last great flight of freedom.

 

((PART 1 response to @Delta73))
 

 

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Tyra turned her attention away as the sublight engines began to push the might of her fleet into its firing position. The light tone of her communicator pinged while she walked the halls towards the hangar, directly from Darth Mavanger. Darth Tyra, fall in with my transports, and board the Misericordia. Your assistance is required. Always so to the point, he was efficient, to say the least. She didn't bother sending a reply message, if he were securing the hangar the distraction could be frustrating. Though that said, it wouldn't be the first time he'd answer while in battle. The memory of that session still stung, in her mind, irritating her.

 

Kahla sat comfortably in the ever embracive chair at the helm of her Fury Interceptor, she sank deep into the leather seat as the thrusters pushed them out of the hangar. Next to the fighter she'd flown last, it handled like a boat in molasses, but the ride was smooth and inviting.

 

She fell in with four other shuttles, two of them other Fury classes, two Lambda. Accompanying them was two wings of strike fighters to make up an escorting force. As soon as they'd gotten clear of the fleet they were being assaulted by flak corvettes, hammering down on them as they made their way towards the Misericordia. Fighters started breaking off to engage other interceptors that would try their hand at such juicy targets, their escort dwindling as they slugged through the chaos of Nar Shaddaa's orbit.

 

Thanks to Darth Mavanger's earlier approach, the defense around the hangar had been all but eliminated. But the surviving craft were formidable, and now battle hardened. As the five shuttles bolted to the hangar door the bore down with incredible speed. They made short work of the last three fighters and quickly chewed into one of the trailing lambdas. Its unshielded hull shattered as the enemy's cannons tore through the engine's plating. It exploded in a blinding detonation.

 

The Fury interceptors bursted through the shielded doors and were able to slow and land further inside the hangar. The last Lambda shuttle came in high, clipping its upper stabilizer on an overhead catwalk. While it was able to vertically land, it wasn't in the condition to leave.

 

Sith troopers piled out of the crafts, spreading into the hangar and finalizing the securing effort. Beside her own craft, Tyra's Elite stepped out, clad in their personalized armour; they took security arround the landing ramp of Kahla's craft just as it hissed open. Darth Tyra stepped out, her heavy boots thumping down onto the deck as she scanned for her former master. She approached slowly, feeling the despair of loss echo in the psyche of the men and women around her. She stood silently, letting the moment sink in, for the emotion to settle heavy on her soul.

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Fiochmar follows Mavanger to the transports listening to every word that his master has to say at this point. "Unders"tood Master, I won't be by your side but fighting my own fight. And should you fall it leaves me to ensure that the False Empress falls yes Sir." He then awaits those next orders upon landing, the take off and all the way until they land he's nervous and anxious, but that fear and anxiety fueling his anger and rage and his thirst to prove himself yes it was time. His first battle and that was definitely worth more than it's weight in loot. When they land in that hail of blaster bolts  and his Master exits the shuttle he follows behind trying to keep up with Mavanger attempting to bob and weave and dodge blaster bolts. But these Rebels are battle hardened and this is Fioch's first battle, first real fight outside of training. So though his reflexes are rather good it doesn't stop him from taking a couple of hits.

 

They're just grazes barely singing and sizzling his leather armor Fioch  draws his Vibroblade and Vibroaxe he charges forward in a close exchange he takes down a rebel soldier. The fight isn't quick nor easy, Fiochmar is learning battle field fighting as he goes but he does eventually gain the upper hand though not with out a good amount of effort, the soldier may not have been stronger than him but definitely the experience was a factor. Finally looking at his weapons and the blood dripping from them he shakes his head and gets to Mavanger. 

 

"Master, is everything alright? What's the next step sir?"

 

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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."

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Behind the double bulkhead of the forward command center, the spirit of Vengeance carved his way through the lives of valiant soldiers. There were others there of course, a smaller aura of rage and anger. Untrained and unfocused, like a glowrod without a focusing crystal, shining its light in an vast array that did not light a single foot away from its source. His strength wasted in a desperate attempt at effecting the world around him through brute force and rage. An apprentice of some type, slaved to his master with the very chains he sought to break. 

 

Cassandra took a moment to direct the officers and staff within the command center to retreat further into the ship. With the Sith and the Mandalorians this far into the flagship, there was no reason for crew who had never received training on more than pistols to sacrifice their lives to delay the Sith Lords. It would do no one any more good to see fifteen more imperial names carved into a war memorial. 

 

Have mercy on us. And save us. 

 

She took a long breath to clear her mind, whispering the words of her meditation in the force, hearing a Sith placing a breaching charge on the thick bulkhead door only a few steps away. The entry to the very room she would make her stand against the Vengeance of the Sith. No place would be better. Little collateral damage, and enough room to move. But a breaching charge would put her at a disadvantage, and she could not afford to make such an error. She ignited her lightsaber. The single white blade shining brilliantly beside its two much smaller partners at the hilts. It was time for action.

 

With a single stride she slapped the door controls and slammed her saber into the bulkhead door, disintegrating the plastic explosive and the arm and hand of the man laying it. The sergeant screamed and fell away as the door slid open and she was face to face with Vengeance. His dual swords dripping the blood of good and honourable men. 

 

Her face remained passive, the force showing her everything that needed to be seen. He was familiar and he was much stronger than the last time they had met in combat. It would be a clash of speed versus strength, of joy against vengeance. Of defense against offense. With an intake of breath she summoned the force to her. Her shield and sword against the destruction of the Sith. 

 

But she was to set the stage. She took a light step forward and kicked with a force amplified strike, throwing the Sith sergeant and his shattered arm at the feet of his master with a speed only the force could provide. Before the screaming man could cut the knees out from under the Sith, Cassandra was moving forward. Following it with a blindingly fast strike with the tip of her blade at his masked face. The force desired the preservation of life, judging the lives of innocents above all others. But the blood on his swords told her that he would never stop in his quest for vengeance. Having surrendered himself fully to the way of destruction. And to preserve life she would have to risk her own and his. Such was the way of a servant of the force and an Imperial Knight. 

 

Her strike would not likely kill him outright, but it would give her the breathing room she needed to set an adequate defense. 

 

((1))

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Lord Commander Raphenel Karlovci Contispex- Imperial Warden

 

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As Armiena’s interceptor rushed from the nerve-center of the Rebel Alliance and towards the roiling storm of capital ships and starfighters in Nar Shaddaa’s orbit, an alarmed shout, barely restrained by military training issued from her comms panel.

 

Siege torpedoes inbound. Scans indicate nuclear payload.”

 

The Jedi Grandmaster’s hand gave a reflective twitch that guided her starfighter towards the barrage and her lungs gave a disgusted gasp. Old-fashioned fission warheads. Those were slow, clumsy weapons, requiring pre-planned flight paths. Some of the larger ones couldn’t even take evasive maneuvers. They were pathetically obsolete tech, only possessed moderate yield, and hideously expensive compared to modern turbolasers. Their only virtues lay in their immense potential to lay waste to vast swathes of unreinforced cityspace and to poison entire generations of innocent sapients with radioactive dust.

 

In short, they were a perfect weapon for a depraved fanatic who had given themselves over to living out their most twisted fantasies. For the Jedi Grandmaster, fissiles weren’t even an element in her worst nightmares, let alone an entry in her well-stocked arsenal of weapons and less seemingly tools.

 

As Armiena’s interceptor raced towards the descending missiles, the veteran Jedi thought quickly, drawing upon some long-ingrained working knowledge of explosives and how the internals of those weapons would probably function. A siege torpedo fired from a capital ship would be an enormous, complicated weapon; it would be at least the size of a starfighter. It would be an easy, nonmaneuvering target for any starfighter pilot. The warhead would likely have some kind of multistage detonator, both to trigger the fission payload and to provide some safety mechanism against malfunction--to avoid unplanned detonation due to battle damage as well as freak accident while in the launch tubes. Any number of things might trigger a self-destruct of the rocket or defuse the warhead: failure of guidance systems, rocket motor malfunction, failure of the detonators… it wouldn’t do to have an intact fission warhead bury itself into hostile territory--or worse, detonate above the wrong continent or over the heads of allied soldiers.

 

“Red and Black,” Armiena muttered into her helmet’s comms. She gave her interceptor’s joystick a minute twitch, correcting her course to intercept the largest concentration of the weapons. “I need a scramble of ion-equipped starfighters, anything you’ve got. You have my permission to raid the Order’s hangars. Vector will be…” she rattled off a string of digits, a course setting that would lead them to the missile barrage. “Full burn, no shields. They will not have opposition.”

 

As the Jedi Ace interceptor raced towards the cloud of missiles, icons and vectors began to populate the heads-up display projected before Armiena’s eyes, arches that gradually closed to indicate range. It was an enormous amount of information, overwhelming to a novice pilot--but the Jedi Grandmaster was plenty experienced… and besides, she wasn’t even looking at the iconography.

 

“Darex, Ara… Aryian,” Her fingers played a nervous, pattering tremolo on the joystick. “If you guys are watching this, I could really use a hand right about now…”

 

And then Armiena took a long, steadying breath and observed the world outside her cockpit with half-lidded eyes. A different hand guided the controls of her interceptor: there was no art or relish in the backbone-crushing, high-gee maneuvers; no viciousness or daring or even caution that would have indicated a human pilot; there was only mathematical precision, efficiency so exquisite and weapons accuracy so pristine that its pilot might have been confused for a droid. Ion fire blasted from the Jedi interceptor, the Dark Fire, playing upon missile after missile and causing the payloads to drop from the sky as useless space junk.

 

One: direct hit on the warhead. Two and three: more warhead hits. Inhale. Four, five, and six: hits to the engine quadrants that caused the projectiles to spiral out of control. Exhale. Seven and eight: warhead hits. Nine through eighteen: the ion mine released into the missiles finally detonated, rendering several of the missiles into inert scrap and two more into wildly-maneuvering hazards that chased their own engine quadrants. Inhale.

 

Draygo was barely even aware of her flesh-and-blood body, could barely even see from the successive gray-outs and red-outs that the punishing maneuvers of her interceptor inflicted on the eyes of its pilot. Whether something had been diverted to assist or thwart her was irrelevant for the moment--the Jedi Grandmaster didn’t even pay mind to the fact that a menagerie of seventeen mismatched ships had been diverted to assist her. They were an eclectic lot of fighters, ranging from a pair of long-obsolete Y-Wings to a fighter trio of ultramodern Jedi Ace interceptors manned by young Jedi Knights.

 

But even as Dark Fire--no, Draygo--reaped dozens of kills upon the siege torpedos, her conscious mind knew that this was not going to be sufficient. Those capital ships would have hundreds of launch tubes. It was mathematical. One fighter, even eighteen, would never be able to neutralize them all.

 

Not unless the Jedi Grandmaster did something really, really stupid.

 

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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.))

Edited by Mavanger

 

 

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The echos and screams of chaos screeched within Scorpio's mind as the transport left behind the jewel's moon into open space, the formation of a squadron of Rebellion fighters on each wingspan in escort service. He had been here many times before, so many that the counting had long been lost. And it never changed. Manaan, Haruun Kal, Gala... the list never seemed to end as he shrugged off the infecting wound festering around Nar Shadaa with memories of the past, focusing himself for the moment that would come. War, it's self, was but a plague and blight upon the Galaxy. And he was simply a pawn upon its Dejarik Board, here, to play his part.

 

All around him, he could feel the snuffing of life in the Force, the return of the sacrifices, to its origins. And from beneath his feet, he could feel the explosions around him tremble the void of space. But within the pressurized cabin of the transport, it was silent and still, the calm before the storm settling in deafness as only the heartbeat of breaths managed to make a sound in the foreground of recycled air. And briefly, he pondered upon the fate of his daughter, feeling her presence upon the distance. 

 

As the transport darted toward the Misercordia with haste, the squadron of fighters upon its flank engaged the enemy without prejudice, their sole mission to ensure the arrival of the transport in one piece. And with Scorpio in tow, they felt revitalized and rejuvenated, their spirits risen and their minds in near tandem. Despite the losses they would likely suffer, their confidence and resolve had never felt more enforced. And with gusto, they chose to face the day with courage.

 

"Misercordia,  this is Shuttle Echo Niner Bravo Dash Six with an approach vector of seven three four. One VIP on board by orders of Admiral Beck." Scorpio heard the pilot annouce as they drew near, the silver haired exile cross legged in the transport's hold. "We're coming in hot."

 

Rising from his position, Scorpio walked to the cockpit of the shuttle and it began landing procedures, the esort of fighters turning away from the Misercordia and back to open space where more enemies laid in wait. Grabbing the communicator, Scorpio spoke briefly as the transport sat down with a thud.

 

"Misercordia, this is Scorpio Armegedon. Where do you need me?"

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       Fiochmar listens to Mavanger as he speaks nodding in understanding of the direction given to him.  "Yes Master, as you say so shall it be done!" Fioch points to the remaining Sith infantry and snaps. "You lot with me we have our marching orders lets go!" He barks out and takes off in the direction of the escape pods at a run with the rest of the Sith Infantry on his heels, as they're on the way out he hears the sound of a battle happening behind him stopping momentarily to gaze upon the events unfolding. Watching the first few exchanges with a look of wide eyed interest he eventually shakes his head back and forth bringing himself to reality again.

       

       "Everyone on my heels now let's get our job done for the Empire!!!" Fiochmar shouts leading his men from the area and in the direction of the escape pods or rather the direction he feels they'd be in. This is his first real task for the Empire and his first mission ever to complete and he's on his own. He turns that anxiety, fear, and nervousness into the power of rage and anger and uses that to fuel his ambitions and desires to complete the mission and prove himself worthy of the teachings. His steps measured and fast, he moves with a sense of purpose and fueled by his rage and his recent communing with the dark side he uses this to fuel his movements and his muscles to move faster and with more dexterity.  His body energized and reinvigorated as his adrenaline pumps, a grin on his face as he turns a corner leaving the hanger bay.

          

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The deluge of Sith ships and fire was pressing in on the defensive horde of Allied fleets. Yet still, they fought on, holding their own, holding the line, trading blow for blow overall. Overall, save for the Scarab and her fleet who, aside from diverted fighters seeking to lessen their barrage and an incoming slew of explosive-laden ramships, was left relatively unchallenged.

 

At the center of the Constantine’s bridge, Nikolai Kolchak stood. His lips were pressed into a thin line as his good eye regarding the looming warship. His cybernetic eye related scanned informations and assessments. It did not look good; however, Nikolai Kolchak was a Corellian by birth. Corellian blood flowed through his veins. It was not the odds that mattered, so long as there was a chance. They would take it.

 

The Constantine moved to attack position, her gravity wells gripping the area, a defiant message that escape was forbidden. This was where they stood and this was where one or all would die.

 

And yet, suddenly, in the chaos of battle, a new chaos emergee. The chatter of comms erupted as new voices, accents and languages filled the channels before being diverted to pre-prepared talk groups.

 

From behind the Scarab and her fleet, at the edge of the gravity wells’ range, space churned with bright flashes of blue.

 

Compact corvette-styled ships armed to the teeth, sleek custom Nubian warships designed for heavy battle blinked into existence as they charged forward into the fray their heavy guns roaring to life.
 

Alongside them, surviving Irregular Forces from Coruscant arrived, determined to avoid the fate of their own world. With a zeal that bordered on fanatic the vicious defenders, bent on revenge and thirsting for blood loosed salvo after salvo of explosive ordinance towards the Scarab. To punch a hole into the impenetrable carapace of this symbol of destruction, to take as many of them into the afterlife as they may; it was a lofty goal, a goal they would die to achieve. With berzerker screams they fell murderously to their task.

 

And yet more came, allied forces, hidden alliances and friendships amongst Kolchak, his spies, and their associates the galaxy over.
 

Lumbering Fondorian warships, thickly armored and shielded plowed into the fight, enemy fire being absorbed by theit defenses as their point-defenses sought to disrupt any that came to close.

 

Imperial trained Twi-Leki defensemen honed and accurate, ready for battle.

 

Powerful Wookies and their craft customized and designed for a primitive combat evolved to the spacelanes; but still, they carried an edge many advanced cultures had lostin their questing for advancement.


Wayward Mandalorian clansmen and their brethren born and bred for this level of destruction. Unafraid and thirsting for the devastation-worship of their gods.

 

Countless hive-mind-bound fightercraft acting as one. From the bowels of Mechis they erupted from hyperspace like a swarm of locusts. They would show no mercy, their calculations deeming the Sith a scourge that needed eradicated.

 

And finally, teams of Chiss forces, independent from their government, but wishing to see to the defense of the galaxy, to protect their own. Here, before the chaos erupted over their home. Their swift pursuit craft prowled the fringes, giving chase to any Sith attack craft that strayed from the herd.

 

And so, perhaps, the tides had turned. Kolchak’s thin pressed lips regained some of their color. So they had gotten his call. Turning his eyes beyond the battle to the peaceful stars of space, he knew something; something the odds did not tell him. There were more.

 

The Scarab would fall. The tables balanced once again. Kolchak could feel  the ride turning. Fresh forces to the fight. The forces of good would triumph at any cost. 

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A shiver ran down Slaughter’s spine at the report of multiple Sith contacts–including at least one Star Dreadnought-sized vessel–reverting from hyperspace. Without even seeing the distant contacts appear on the tactical display, the Admiral knew that it could only be Black Scarab, and that it would soon be bearing down on his position. Under the guns of Black Scarab was a familiar position. The flagship of the Sith Empire had nearly killed Steadfast at Onderon, nearly killed Fidelity at Dark Sun. 

 

Under both circumstances, Slaughter’s task forces were retreating from that behemoth. This time, his units were against the wall of a world that they were duty-bound to protect, and could not–would not withdraw even at the cost of their lives.

 

“She can’t escape from us this time.” Slaughter tried to laugh, but a dry lump had wedged itself in his throat and it came out as a cough. “Activate the rest of our units in the debris field, target Scarab. Shields ahead full, ahead flank–ignore Sagittarius, it won’t matter in a moment.”

 

In orbit around the moon, a number of sensor contacts began appearing on the Sith’s sensor readouts: engine emissions and missile locks. However, what these sublight engines were propelling towards the capital ships of the Sith fleet would not immediately become clear: these contacts had no lifeforms aboard, no IFF signatures, barely any power generation, and only the crudest of sensors that were barely capable of detecting anything smaller than a walker transport, let alone a starfighter. It would only become clear several minutes later, when asteroids and chunks of freighters and even larger ships began to displace from the debris field, that those sublight engines were propelling enormous chunks of wreckage and space trash towards the Star Destroyers of the Sith fleet.

 

A direct hit from Eye of Sagittarius and a slew of turbolaser blasts knocked Slaughter to his knees. His head hit the tactical overlay and he began bleeding from a cut on his forehead. Something seemed to drag the Admiral downwards as he bodily hauled himself back onto his feet. “Doesn’t matter; ahead flank, all guns on Scarab. Engage at point blank-range, park her in the kriffing hangar if you can. Swarm the schutta.”

 

The bird-like Kalidor and her escorts closed to throwing distance with the flagship of the Sith Empire, braving intense counterfire and punishment from its batteries until the lines of its hull filled the horizon. Soon, some of the batteries could not even depress far enough to engage the pitiful little ships that were engaging Scarab–but even still, it was a matter of a single heavy cruiser, two ancient frigates, and a swarm of tiny corvettes engaging a vessel that outgunned all of them combined, several times over. It was more certain than inevitable that Slaughter’s task force would be wiped out; it was mathematical.

 

And then the timer on Slaughter’s bridge ticked down to T-minus-three. At that moment, dragged out of hyperspace just a little ahead of schedule by the artificial singularity, the bulk of Slaughter's veteran forces appeared.

 

It had occurred to the veteran Admiral of the Galactic Alliance that attempting to defend Nar Shaddaa with fixed, conventional fortifications was unlikely to succeed. His experiences under the shadows of Ziost and Hesperidium had taught him that his mind simply wasn't imaginative enough to anticipate the tactics of the Sith Empire, and he had willfully designed a defensive plan that could bend and even break under the Sith assault, but continue fighting. It was an idea born from the bad old days of the Rebel Alliance, when units like the Tierfon Yellow Aces and Partisans had no choice but to avoid pitched battle with the Galactic Empire.

 

The majority of his forces had lingered in the dark, uninhabited reaches of space between the Y'Toub system and its closest interstellar neighbors, waiting for the signal to reinforce the system. There was Fidelity, Slaughter's old MC90 flagship; the ancient (and badly battered) Victory II-class Star Destroyers L’Ouverture and Gerrera, the hypermodern Nebula-class Star Destroyer Benediction and a host of tiny Corellian-built gunships and frigates; but beyond that, originating from virtually every possible vector from which it was possible to approach the Smuggler’s Moon, were the little ships that Slaughter had squirreled away in preparation for this defense. Some of them were bona-fide warships and escort carriers, but the majority of those "little ships" were obsolete corvettes and frigates, barely capable of more than slow hyperspace travel. Many of them appeared to be little more than heavy freighters that had been refitted with magnetic clamps and fueling lines: barely more than what was required to support three or four starfighters.

 

As pathetic as those little ships were in comparison to the mighty Star Destroyers of the Rebel Alliance and Sith Empire, they had specific instructions to not directly engage the Sith unless absolutely necessary. Their mission, much like the Rebel Alliance of their ancestors, was to support their starfighters as they engaged in hit-and-run tactics: to find a target and unload their missiles against it, and then to run back to their carriers and reload; and then to repeat as many times as possible until they ran out of ammunition or they were dead.

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The battle around the Misericordia ebbed and flowed with a mix of Imperial, Jedi, and Galactic Alliance starfighters clashing with their compatriots from the Sith Empire. Pilots from all backgrounds and governments valiantly gave their lives to drive the Sith Lords from the Rebel Alliance flagship. They desired a better galaxy. A galaxy without the tyranny of the Sith. Where they could raise their children in peace. And they were willing to sacrifice everything to bring that vision to reality. As the battle of Nar Shaddaa raged on, Imperial Marines on board the Misericordia fought for every hallway and bulkhead, killing Mandalorians and Sith as they gave ground. It was the flow of war, and in its midst Cassandra fought. 

 

For all around her in the skies of Nar Shaddaa, the once disjointed forces of the Alliance were fighting like heroes together. Bothans beside Imperial Stormtroopers, Moffs alongside the princesses of Hapes, and Jedi alongside the Imperial Knights. And Cassandra knew that together they would overcome the darkness. 

 

So in the face of Vengeance she did not flinch, for the force was with her. 

 

Protect me from Evil

 

Vengeance screamed. A bellow of primal rage rage at the death of his subordinate, whose body had broken against the legs of his own master. It was the scream of the tortured soul. A man who had lost everything in his own quest for power and revenge. A man who could not comprehend that his own actions had led him here. That this long journey through mountains of corpses of the innocent and guilty to find his Vengeance had brought the deaths of everything he loved and respected. Through Dark Lord and Lover alike. Wading through blood that sucked at his boots, to the fastness of his own grave

 

She did not know what to think of the man who was Vengeance. And as he began his own series of attacks she found herself feeling a strange detached pity. 

 

A strike slashed at her face and she took a quick step back to give herself the space to set a defense. She brought her lightsaber up at an angle redirecting the overhand blow and letting him waist his considerable strength on the air. Her arms jarred against the blow but the force held her fast.  She knew however, that if she had been foolish enough to block on a flat plane to his strike, she would have likely broken her own arms in the attempt. 

 

The next strike was a thrust, faster than the eye could move, and as she twisted her torso, she could feel the sword's blade cut through the armour on her side. Ripping a bloody rent through the flesh as it glanced past. There would be a lot of pain from the strike, but for now the adrenaline of the fight was enough to keep it abated. Though pure red blood dripped down her white armour. She let out a breath and took another. Relying on the force to guide her actions. 

 

She had trained for nearly three decades. First as a Jedi, then in the Revanchist Imperial Knights in the infancy of the Galactic War. So her training and the force would move for her. She took a second step back to the side the strike had come from, her movements as eyeblindingly fast as the Sith’s own strikes. She loaded her weight on her back leg and as the sword rushed by she sprang in again at his undefended side. 

 

She brought her glowing white saber in an overhead strike that slashed at his shoulder and upper arm. And as she stepped forward into the gap, her armored boot struck at the side of his knee with the speed and strength of the force.

 

((2))

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Lord Commander Raphenel Karlovci Contispex- Imperial Warden

 

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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))

 

 

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