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Naboo


RaveN

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A squad of the royal guards converged onto the landing zone, looking as regal as their positions portrayed. Ceremonial leather impact resistant cuirasses over jumpsuits the colour of sun dried flax, each carrying an updated model Theed Arms S-5 heavy blaster pistol. Carrying the blasters at low ready, the squad of four took up positions beside their queen. Still confused as any non force user at the approach of the unknown man, but reading the body language of the situation, they were ready to fight and if need be die for their queen. 

 

Though their presence was still a comfort, Anne did not see an easy way out for their little band. The subject was unknown, obviously a being of unknown power, and one confident enough to confront two well grown force users and herself in the open. That fist around her heart collapsed a bit more, the dead weight of evil turning to a shiver of cold. As if reacting to the mist of cold breathing off the man himself. But there was something else there. A desire in herself that called to her. 

 

She almost smiled at Aidan’s attempt at humour, and felt a slight tick of warmth from the effort. It spoke to his bravery, though she hoped it was not overconfidence that made such a remark. The Knight made her attempt at deescalation next, but Anne knew it would be of little help.

 

She took a breath. Her hearing becoming as thunderous as the mandalorian war drums as her heartbeat hammered behind her eyes. If this had not been on Naboo she would have demanded the being surrender. Depart from their presence and never return like Pandora had asked. But they were here. In the ruins of her city. The city that for three thousand years had been the heart of her people. 

 

A city that had been lain to ruins. The blood of its innocents ground into the gravel that he dared to walk on. Bodies of its children left to rot under the clear blue sky as a celebration of violence engorged itself around them. No there would be no negotiation. She could taste the copper of that blood. She could smell the rot. Why should he be granted the ability to walk away when so many innocents did not? 

 

He did not deserve the honour to walk under their sky.

 

Down came her thin hand. Up came the silver blaster pistol. Green spat like fire from its beautiful carved design. And one blast of white-hot energy swam through the evening air towards the Sith Lord. Her soldiers scattering into a staggered line on either side of their queen. Adding their own red lasers to the mix. 

 

For the Sith had started this war. And Naboo would finish it.

 

((1))

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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Ice formed at the edges of the Sith Lord’s mouth, frosting into the stern creases, causing his shallow, slow breaths to come with the dancing air of fog. He watched the scene at the landing pad unfold as he marched slowly onwards, each step advancing him towards the Jedi and the one they protected.  The white tunic began to rip free in the gathering wind, revealing the armor beneath. He recognized neither of the Jedi, and his eyes narrowed; he had expected members of the council to be protecting this girl.

 

The Sith looked at the pair with measured disappointment.

 

They were children.

 

The one, the Blinded; she appeared beautiful in her own way, but a Miraluka did not hold his interest. Blind eyes never reflected the terror of imminent death, nor could panic and despair be so beautifully painted in tears and glazing expression. There would be no desperation reflected within them. Once she was dead, the beauty beneath her robes could sate other lusts, but such things were secondary to the rhythms of war.

 

Another breath of frost, and Vorin pushed the passions deep into the farthest reaches of his mind. He attuned the whispers of battle, viewing the Jedi for what they were, but obstacles to his path. Bloodletter shifted upon his back, yearning for release.

 

The other, the Boy; a strong and handsome youth, but with little spark within the Force. Sulphoric eyes appraised stance and stride. A fighter, but nothing beyond the half dozen Jedi he had slain before. The silver blade thrummed to life on the saber-staff, marking him of the revanchist faction; the Sovereign Knights. Makashi. The Sith considered the patterns and movesets, the treatise for a single and double blade. His would be the strongest opposition.

 

He saw them all for what they were, Shepherds that had stepped away from the flock. Another step and the Warrior’s eyes flicked beyond the insignificant Jedi to the girl who stood several yards behind them surrounded by armored men and women. This was no queen with a befitting royal guard, but a nerf amongst lambs. They had formed a ragged and anemic line of no consequence.  He almost pitied her supporters; for it was obvious they had never fought a Force User, light or dark.

 

Why haven’t we killed them already? Are you weak?

 

Hobnail boots paused, the frost building about them, turning to shifting ice. The Jedi had forgone an attack and had chosen to simply bargain, to talk. The two Jedi spoke in their turn, joining together to stand before him in their confidence. Their words bore little but caution, and the unmistakable stench of nobility. Of Sugma protocols and the admonishments to peasants. Yet something beyond their defensiveness lay smoldering in the unsaid, a truly unjedi-like emotion. Rage. But not from the two. The lambs were crying for a war they were not prepared for.

 

The tactics and realities of the battle played out before him like cards in Sabacc, shifting but holding the patterns of war. Two Jedi, clustered together in front of a line of five non-force-users. The Queen of lambs in the middle.  Many avenues of attack presented themselves and he shifted his mind to acknowledge each in their turn, projected into the Force as blurred lines.

 

Resh.

 

It was a letter of the Aurebesh and fit the best pattern of attack for such opponents. The Jedi would be its base and its strike would be across the ragged line behind. The thrill pounded in the back of his mind, prickling the hair along his spine with warning. He smelled her intent, felt its pitiful cry within the force. He pressed the thrill into his legs, feeling the energy course through his muscles in a cold rush. He set his jaw.  

 

He was not one to be shot down like a dog in the dirt. Certainly not by weak children.

 

A single step became a sprint towards the Jedi, casting shards of ice into the wind. Bloodletter’s leather-bound pommel found the depth of his left palm and it cast off its shackles forming into a greatsword of inky darkness, shifting and blurring with the reflections of the night within which it was formed.

 

To the Blinded, that Miraluka, the true depth of Bloodletter would be revealed, for it was no simple sword made by The Sith, or some relic of a bygone age. Once released from its scabbard, it was Tristitia, despair made manifest. It was a raging fire within the Force which fed upon all positive feelings, turning them to sadness and so devouring them. It was a black standard under which countless Jedi had fallen. A bitter unending wound within the Force. A Shard of Sheog, forged within the Maw.

 

Green fire burned through the white tunic, crashing into the lamellar plating beneath, causing a white hot stab of pain that echoed through the Sith Warrior’s mind as the blaster bolt seared a path across his right side. His jaw ground together, the sound like granite falling as he stumbled and he gripped Bloodletter with both hands. Crimson flame danced across the pockmarked ground skittering like rabid ranats. Ice began to form upon the charred skin. The girl’s shot diverted his original attack, a sweep to behead the boy into something else entirely.

 

Bloodletter screamed into the Force a warcry of death as the lambs had found their teeth

 

The Sith Warrior rammed the tip of the greatsword towards the Boy’s lower abdomen as he stepped forward with his left foot, driving his weight into the blow like that of a spear thrust. He aimed below the silver blade, relying on his greater reach to disembowel his opponent. He shifted momentum immediately, dragging the sword towards the Blinded as he stepped diagonally with his right foot, aiming to cut through the boy and into the Miraluka beside him with a single blow. If he was lucky, the two halves of the Miraluka would still be warm when he returned. 

 

With another step he broke away, shifting the greatsword into a low guard. Blasterfire stirred the air with the sweetness of ozone as the Sith sprinted the few remaining steps to the right of that ragged line. He advanced with a grinding malice blessed with the unnatural, inhumane speed that only the Dark could give. He could smell them, the oil on their leather cuirasses, of soap and perfume. He could see her so close now, that little queen of nerfs.

 

He passed the blade from the backhand, whipping it forth before him with the momentum of a heavy step, swinging the smoking blade with his momentum towards the heart of it all, the Queen and the right of her line. The greatsword’s length was at an advantage against these opponents for its ability to strike so many clustered together as they were. With one swing it would hew through her lambs like a knife through butter, before the shifting tip found the small of her gut. He wanted to ensure she would see the despair in her men before it cut through her beauty. He would leave her crying upon the dirt of her scarred world, unable to bleed enough to die, awake enough to watch her guardians perish, and her lambs screaming in their slaughter

 

The Sith was amongst the flock and the shepherds were away

 

((1))

 

((Takes a Shot from Namari, which causes his initial attack plan to change, he strikes at both of the clustered together Jedi before attacking the right of the Queen's Line))

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Death is No Escape

 

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Aidan sidestepped the thrust directly at him, already positioned to do just that with the fencing stance he'd taken. Makashi wasn't nearly a strong enough style to be able to take on a greatsword like this head on, but it was lithe and nimble like Ataru while also being cunning and calculating. As it was, Aidan wasn't in much of a position to counterattack given the range, so instead he simply used the Force to kick up some dirt into the Sith's face.

 

((1))

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Hopelessness was the forethought of those who had given up or given in, and the emotions surrounded Lady Namari like Mynocks to Iego. In a sense, Pandora admired her tenacity. Her resolve to punish those who had wronged her people. But as a Knight of the Sovereign Alliance, it was her job to ensure the peace of it's sovereignty. It was her job to guide those down the path of righteousness. And in the moment that Namari chose the path of war, Pandora had failed in her mission.

 

As the man before them reacted in turn, a feeling of dread washed over Pandora's mind. His darkened blade, it called to her, beckoned to be her end. And as he traversed the distance, her focus settled upon its metallic form, filling her mind like water through a sift. And in truth, a part of her welcomed her end, her rejoining her Master in the afterlife. But her duty was not done. Nor her endeavor. Willing herself back to reality as the blade reached for Aidan, she called upon the Force to her aid.

 

Pandora placed her weight upon the heel of her extended foot, curling her toes within the confines of her boot and she let nature takes in course and gravity take hold. Dropping below it's aim, the blackened blade centimeters from her near white platinum hair as his swing came in wide, she grinned and drug her leg back in. Using the Force's will to aid her in her plight, she launched herself into the air after the blades momentum had passed, grasping at her saber with her free hand and with a flick of its switch, extended its form fully and ignited its synthetic silver blade.

 

Like an angel hovering above a demon's demise, Pandora viewed his intent with Pike in hand and passed judgement upon his soul. It was as she had feared. This being was Sith and he sought Namari with intent most foul, and solidified Pandora's convictions. And what went up, must always come down, her convictions not only as a Sovereign Knight flaring in her descent, but her righteousness as a follower of the Light.  He may have stepped away at his wounding, but like any beast, his assault would be relentless. And as he went for Namari, Pandora would greet him.

 

And he did, Pandora using the momentum of her descent from above to flip her form forward and use the natural gravity to add weight to her strike with the aid of the Force, striking at his blade's targeting of Namari with vengeance. In pure momentum, her strike would be doubled in strength, kicking up dust and debris in connection of not only her form upon the earth, but of their blades as well. Reeling herself backwards, she placed herself between he and Namari once again, the grin still gracing her face as her presence spoke her own intentions vibrantly. With blade pointed at soil, he would have to transgress her to attain his prize.

 

If Namari's path was one of war, she was obligated to follow it with her. Naboo was the objective of her mission, and it's restoration vital to its continuance. Namari was the head of that mission, and as such, valuable beyond measure. With the destruction of the Sith War Machine, it was the first steps of the Sovereignty to rebuild, and Pandora chose to lead it in memory of her mentor, Lady Cassandra. Peace was the warranted outcome, but first, peace was the needed to be restored in the hearts of those who made up the Sovereignty. If war was the current path, perhaps Justice for Lady Cassandra could be inadvertently found.

 

((1))

 

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Oh how this creature moved! Even after a hit of the green fire he continued to move without a pause. His steps fluid and bounding as the waves that crested the banks of the Solleu. His tunic the colour of its waterfalls that cascaded down the cliffs of the Virdugo. Like the river itself, there was beauty there in his steps. But where the river was serene in its heights and lows, the man carried a feral ferocity. Where the Solleu trickled and bubbled in harmony with nature, he stood out in jarring discordance. Marring beauty with every footfall. 

 

Perhaps, she thought, that was a definition of the darkside itself. An aberration of the beautiful. Taking what could have been and turning it upon itself. Taking good intentions, hopes, dreams, and turning them to a wickedness that Anne herself could not fully comprehend. Her heart could feel the heaviness of the evil that was embodied in the man. It beat in the rhythm of war, thundering like the mandalorian drums that had echoed on Nar Shaddaa in her ears. The same drums had never stopped their noise, even as the heavens fell. 

 

But now he came for them like an assassin in white. The embodiment of everything they had fought for in the last years. He moved past Darkfire like a bolt of dreadful lightning. And Anne could feel herself gasp in horror. He would roll up her scattered line like a flanking cavalry charge in all those light holo-novels she had read. 

 

“Get a clear line of fire!” 

 

Her men began to move, changing from a scattered line to reverse into a ‘V’. But the first in their line was not fast enough. The blade tore through him. The brutal sword cutting the man wholly in half and with enough momentum to spin him around as his two halves hit the compacted dirt and dust. Blood span in an arc that washed over Anne like a torrent of mid summer rain. The brave man would never rise again and lay there in an expanding pool of blood. His blaster firing meaninglessly into the dirt as he struggled to breath against lungs that were half torn away.  

 

Would he have met his wife that he had not heard from since the invasion? Was she one of the horrified faces that stared at the combat with open mouths? He tried to look up, to see anything but the grime and the dirt. To see that lovely face. The face he had loved since they were in the Kalanthin school together. What was the last meal they had shared? Something thrown together the night before the invasion. They had slept in separate rooms that night, hot words had turned to a fight. The last words he had ever said to her. Words of passion over something stupid that he would give anything and everything he owned to take back. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Was the only thing that he could mutter as he struggled to breath. “Gods I am so sorry.” He whispered into the sand as the edges of his vision turned black as night. Death welcomed him with the arms of his wife. A scream turned to a smile, and he was gone. A death in the final fight against the evil that had plagued their world. 

 

Anne cried out and took a deliberate jump back as the Sovereign Knight intercepted a blow that was very likely next meant for her.  The rest of her three men moving to get out of the sword’s long reach, bringing their blasters to bear on the melee. One stayed by the queen, while the rest pushed forward to outflank the man in white. They did not need to be told when to fire, choosing their few shots when they presented themselves. 

 

Anne herself took a step to the side. Bringing the blaster up again to fire at the man’s side from a scant three meters away. Her green blaster bolt joining the clash of white, red, and ice black.

 

((2))

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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The blade had not tasted of the Jedi, it had not wrought its bane upon either The Blinded or the Boy, both having survived The Sith Warrior’s initial assault quite unscathed. Bloodletter’s shadowed darkness however, was tinged with the bright crimson of lifeblood. It had not been that of the Queen, but one of her lambs. He lay in the course dirt, upon that charred and pockmarked earth, dying. It was not an easy death, and his pain and sorrow came in waves within the Force.

 

The lifeblood pooled onto the battlefield with each faltering hearbeat, soaking into its depths, permeating the soil beneath their feet. The Sith let his locus of control flow with it, driven by the fear and terror to expand outwards into the battleground.

 

Bloodletter and the Blackmorne let the emotion settle like a pall upon the battlefield, and began to drink from it as a wellspring. Frost crystallized on the Sith’s fingers as the pangs of regret and unrealized dreams built within the Force, and it came in waves. But it was not just regret, and not just from the dying, but from the Queen of Nerfs herself. Fear and terror.

 

It almost broke through his composure, that passionate, delicate taste of her dread. He saw it painted crimson upon her pale features with his sulphoric eyes. A white canvas he would soon pollute with his own designs. The ice that had scarred the blaster-wound closed began to grow as ice built upon itself, ripping through the white tunic in a cluster of blood-tainted crystal as he the terror within the force build upon itself. He would take the gift of the wound she had caused and make it her doom.

 

Finally he would taste of her flesh.

 

A shock reverberated through the Sith Warrior’s arms mid-swing, the greatsword taking the full weight of the Blinded as she came down in an odd style of vengeance. Dust leapt from the ground with her decent, adding to the turmoil of the battlefield. Blackmorne wrenched the sword into a low guard, the shifting greatsword pointing away across his right hip, absorbing the Miraluka’s weight into a transition of his own momentum. Dirt stung at his eyes, kicked by the Boy. The world became momentarily dark as the Warrior blinked away the Jedi’s assault.

 

Why didn’t we kill them the first time? Are you getting slow in your old age?

 

The warrior’s teeth ground together as he set his jaw, a flare of rage building within his gut before he let it bleed away into the ground about him. Rage added nothing to war, and cast even the best warriors into recklessness. He let out a shallow breath, the air hissing between his clenched teeth, the warm wind of his lungs turning to crystalline fog between his lips. He welcomed the dust and grime that pitched up into the sunset with the coming of the Blinded; it added to the chaos of the battle, and to one outnumbered, such chaos was freedom. His harsh features warped into a demented grin.

 

Another blink of his yellow eyes and vision partially returned. Frost shifted into hardened ice upon his hands

 

The rush of emotion became cold, hidden beneath that grim, determined smile as he embraced the reality of what was about him. The Boy hung back near the Miraluka, not engaging him directly. The Queen of Nerfs yet lived, terrified amongst her dying lambs. The Blinded had engaged him in a foolhardy attempt at self-sacrifice at close range. The Miraluka had made a tactical error by getting so close. Most would have taken the time to negotiate. The only sound that came from him was the groaning of teeth grinding together. It sounded like ice-sheets cracking and gasping as they ground against each other upon a glacier.

 

The Blinded bore a saber-pike, pointed towards the earth. The shepherds had lived to protect their flock, but now they would see it put to the sword. He marked where each of them moved upon the battlefield, each playing into a dark calculus. A thousand paths shimmered in the air before his partial vision, and he chose one. They thought him surrounded, but that was where a Sith Warrior was most efficient. So many, so close, all within the reach of a greatsword, was no disadvantage.  The Miraluka had set herself between him and his target, but the queen had negated that defense completely. Arrogance had been many a Sovereign’s undoing.

 

The Sith Warrior strode forward, with a determined, impossible speed, beckoned forth by the Force, by that panic. By their fear. The ground froze and shattered with each footstep as if it bore an impossible weight; the momentum of a warrior in his prime. The crimson staccato of blasterfire burned deep furrows in the ground and air about him. Green fire leapt again, scattering frost, and singeing the white cloth of his tunic as it burned into the plating that covered his left shoulder. Despite the pain that seared on the edge of his mind, the Sith advanced undeterred under the cover of dirt and dust, bearing forth his black brand as a warstandard.

 

Three meters wasn’t nearly enough.

 

With a single stride the Warrior met the Blinded. He let Bloodletter fall into his right hand, its leather and ice-bound pommel true within his grip as he stepped, ripping it from the low guard in a long, devastating, single-handed sweep. He matched it with his right foot to bring the blade’s shimmering, shifting edge across the chest of the Blinded, to cut into her body and shatter her in pieces in the cursed dirt. Another wide, diagonal step with the left foot brought him to her, the little queen of the nerfs. This time there would be no mercy of the blade. He wanted this little girl screaming in the embrace of pain, twisted in shattered bone and bruised flesh. Drowning as her lifeblood choked her lungs. He matched that step with a fist of ice, the punch of a frost-studded darkmetal gauntlet meant to cave in the queen's shallow chest with all the power and momentum of a Sith Warrior. It was driven with a cold determination and sped by the Force

 

With that same leftward step, his right arm sped the momentum of his leftward punch with the dragging backhand swing of Bloodletter towards the throat of The Boy. No matter the Jedi’s speed or his unwillingness to engage, The Sith would bring the coward to heel upon the swirling crimson of the Sith Greatsword. It was time to commit, to either death or battle.

 

((2))

 

((An attack deterred by Pandora's landing, and vision partially impaired by the dirt-kick, Vorin takes another partial blasterbolt, while advancing under the cover of the dust cloud pandora kicked up. He cuts once at Pandora, punches at Namari, and cuts at Aiden's throat))

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Death is No Escape

 

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Far from having to commit to death or battle, Aidan chose option C — backing the hell up away from the Sith's dangerous greatsword. To those ends, he summoned the Force to himself briefly, telekinetically blasting at his feet to assist with his quick leap backward to get away from the slash. Consequently, more dirt was lightly sprayed up toward the eyes of his foe. He was certainly a cunning one, Aidan hadn't found an opening at all to do nearly anything.

 

((2))

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Sorrow and remorse quickly swept the battle field as one Lady Namari's men fell to the Sith's blackened blade, collegiating blood pouring out as the whole became two halves. The smell of rust and metal enveloped upon the dusted air as panic set upon the Sovereignty's members and the Darkside clouded the Light. Even Pandora found herself falling victim to the moment as the feeling of dread crept upon her heart not unlike the moments of Nar Shadaa. And yet, war was not unknown to her.

 

Her tutelage under Lady Cassandra had been a long and hard one, buried within the constant battles and diplomacy that war wrought upon the factions. While her time during the war that ensued not so long ago was spent away from Lady Cassandra, she was not far from her own perils and battles, leading small incursions and lesser known battles across the Galaxy. Even at Nar Shadaa, she wasn't close to the one whom had been a mother figure to her since her awakening. And like Nar Shadaa, the feeling of failure crept across her mind like arachnids.

 

It would not happen again. Seeing the Sith's movement amidst the Force, she had little time to shake free of the distraction to block his blade. Spinning the grip of her Pike in her right hand and reinforcing her grip with her left, she brought the the grip up to take the brunt of his attack. Feeling his raw power as her feet slide and dug into the scorched earth that had became Naboo, it took most of her strength to hold her form. And yet, even despite her best intentions, she felt the sorcery of the blade sink into the clothed flesh of her left arm as it's razored edge slid against her Chromium grip.

 

Pandora flinched in the moment, holding the Pike as if had became glued to her, water dripping from her eyeless sockets in pain. And in the moment, her mind posed the possible repercussions of being cut by such a darkly blade. Yet, it had transpired, and now meant little in the grander scheme. Reshifting her focus onto the her opponent, she sought out retribution. Not for her wound or the possibility it might pose, but for rendering her avoidable as he set his own sight upon the others. It was his largest mistake.

 

"Don't you..." Her soft voice turned stern as it echoed across the battlefield, a scolding reverberating within the Force its self as she let her mind explode into the Force and her intent became it's will. Finding his form, she pulled at its center, intent on ending his distancing. She had meant it when she placed herself between him and Namari. If he wanted her, he would have to go through her. Going around was a big no-no. With her mind grasping at his form, she grasped her Pike with both hands and brough it's blade downward, intent on scarring his back and regaining his lustfilled attention. ....turn your back to me."

 

((2))

Edited by Legacy
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Oh how her heart raged with the fight. The battle moved faster than she would have ever realised. Death whirled between its intercessors, as fast as any man she had ever seen move. Faster than the Solleu during summer monsoon, fighting with all its hideous strength to overcome its banks and bathe Theed in mire and ruin. How often had her mother warned her of the speed of its currents during the summer rains?   

 

A shout of warning from the man beside her. 

 

A blink and the assassin in white was upon them. His scarred and terrible fist searching for her, seaking her heart as if to tear it out of her chest before the throngs of spectating and horrified onlookers and aid workers. What a victory it would be to put a queen down before her people. Who would stand to take her place? No longer were there lists upon lists of ladies in waiting, cadets, or other young women searching for the crown. No. If she died here her people would forever wallow in their defeat. Begging for return to the pacifism that led them to the destruction of their sacred city. Begging for the boot of the Sith to forever remain upon their necks. Thanking them for the privilege of the grovelling. 

 

Anne could feel herself getting shoved from the side by her guard and she hit the ground hard. Tucking her arms enough to come back into a crouch as another man died where she should have. A brave man. 

 

His leather impact vest, though useful against low power blaster bolts, slug throwers, and bladed weapons, was not rated for a punch from a powerful Sith Lord. The leather split like the rind of a Muja fruit, peeling back layer by layer to expose the flesh underneath. First came the leather, made from processed Moroi fish leather, hardened, and combined under the immense weight of a heavy press. Next came Duraplast and thranai cotton weave manufactured in a plant that had long since rotted away after the bombardment of theed. In that way, at least, the uniform and heraldry of the royal guards were relics. A touchstone to an age that no longer existed. An age of peace instead of war. A relic which was now combined with the blood and flesh of a martyr. As fist drove its way through sternum, lungs, organs, and at last spinal column. Exploding a red viscera out of the other side. 

 

It was horrible to watch. He died instantly enough and crumpled forever onto the ground of his ruined city, without a word or gripe to spit into the sand. Another brave man slain in the war against the Sith. Anne could hear herself howl in anger. She could taste his blood on her lips as she stood like a pier in the middle of the mighty Solleu. Though the waves may wash over her, though the tides may rise. She would stand. Her people would stand. There was no retreat. 

 

Her people had tamed the river before. They had bounded the river to her banks, guiding its destructive power to their own ends. They had regulated flow from the glaciers, stopping forever the type of destruction she had been known for when the planet was young. No longer did they fear the rising summer monsoon. The Naboo had tamed the great river, and so too would they tame the man in white. 

 

She brought the bloody pistol up again, and with her two remaining men fired at the man until their pistols glowed a white hot.

 

((3)) ((good duel, thank you for the opportunity))

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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  • 3 weeks later...

Frost-smoke shimmered in each breath the Sith took, catching and twisting the fading sunlight. It was a bitter contrast to the steam that rose from the spilled lifeblood that soaked the road upon which the battle took place. Naboo soil was once again thick with native blood and the force was awash with terror of the dead, the dying, and those who remained. Screams began to fade into an unearthly silence. One by one, the flock was falling.

 

A most pitiful gasping came from below him; the fallen soldier, the one whose entrails coated his fist, was choking on his last breaths. The mewing of a dying man. Had the fury of battle lessened, Vorin would have taken the time to meditate beside him, to take in the cries to their fullest. To scribe them upon his own heart, to reflect upon in times of lesser power, but for now they would be a sacrifice to greater destruction. A harsh step and the shattering of bone echoed from beneath his hobnail boots, and the gasping stuttered to a halt. He had a queen to slay, and a flock to decimate.

 

The blood continued to cry out to him as it trickled into the dust, joining itself to his consciousness, that warsong of battle.

 

And yet, for now, the shepherds yet lived. Bloodletter smoked an inky crimson, and he could feel its joy; for it had tasted of the Blinded. Had it been the weapon of an Assassin, it would have imbued the wound with nanites or poison, but for a Sith Sword, Bloodletter thirsted for knowledge. With her blood came information, an intimacy of taste. The Miraluka’s blood was now bound into the threads of fate that made up the blade itself, joining with the blood of hundreds before it.

 

Let’s have more of that one

 

The Sith Warrior looked across the battlefield surveying the hands at play. Momentum remained the highest priority. The Boy remained unharmed, depending on evasion and cheap tricks to stay alive, but at the cost of his allies. The Blinded was wounded but remained a threat. The Queen and her remaining lambs continued to show their teeth. The blood called for him, moving within his locus of control

 

The Sith Warrior took another step, intent on snipping the threads of fate that had been spun for the queen, and yet it seemed to falter. Cold warnings rippled within his flesh. It was as if a hand was grasping at him, the fell gravity from an unknown sun. Sulphoric eyes narrowed, and a smile formed across his thin lips. The Blinded was speaking, something Jedi tended to do in battle, announce their actions like fools.

 

Blasterfire ripped into the air about him, singing the breeze with the bitter bite of ozone, but they were to him but the buzzings of maggotflies. Dirt flew again, burning upon his skin. He changed his momentum, letting the Jedi’s directional grasp upon him turn him towards the fateless Miraluka. The Lightsaber Pike glowed as a beacon above him, but all it would show to her was the reflection of the glee within his eyes. Distance was always the advantage of the Consulars, and yet this one had decided to get close. His right hand gripped Bloodletter, while his blood-frosted left reached for something else entirely.

 

Has this one never been to war?

 

The Sith Warrior simply stepped into the current, letting the Jedi’s pull take him towards her. The Silver blade came for him, and he let it crash past him, burning into the lamellar plating upon his side. Pain broiled up from beneath his armor, a roiling sickening thing. The armor blunted the blow, but yet the Jedi’s blade had still scarred him. A wound would have drawn a Sith Warrior towards the emptiness of berserker rage, but it was not so with Vorin. The rush of emotion became cold, hidden beneath a grim, determined smile. Frost licked at the trickle of blood that ran from beneath his armor, overrunning the pain, numbing it. The only sound that came from him was the groaning of teeth grinding together and a bitter laugh. Across the blaster-wound he still carried, another layer of ice formed, and it called to him, a weapon of his own pain.

 

A single step and he was close enough to kiss her. This Jedi, this foolish Counselor, had closed into his realm, within the circle of the first and sword, the distance where strength and precision were most important. Not even the Force could hide her now from him. The realm of a warrior. She would not escape it alive. The grim smile twitched with the dark delight of victory. Within him, the rhythms of war became a song.

 

He would let the ravens pick her tattered body to the bone.

 

With a burning voice, filtered with ash and dirt, the Sith warrior roared. It was not some bloodthirsty cry of a of a berserker, with their throaty tones of rage; it was that of the ice that grinds mountains to dust. The blood of the soil, bound as it was to the battle-song, leapt from the ground, tearing the battlefield into a frenzied uproar beneath the feat of its defenders, to unease their footing, to trip and disarm them. The planet itself rose in rebellion.

 

A blasterbolt furrowed his armored shoulder as his left hand found the crimson ice of his previous wound. He wrenched it free, a cudgel of ice, bound with his own blood, and he stepped through the fateless Blinded with a sickening speed and the battlefield rose about them. The Warrior brought his gauntleted fist, bound with that bloody ice, to dash her brains from her foolish skull with a Force-sped and strengthened strike. His hand and thate weapon of Ice would be hammer, and her splendor would be its anvil. He would ruin her beautiful face for getting so close.

 

And then The Sith Warrior was past her, to strike again at the flock. His wounds screamed, and yet he moved, bidden by that dark destiny; the bitter call of the Dark Side. The rhythms of war sang to him, and with sword in hand he answered. He twisted, both hands meeting upon the leather-bound hilt of Bloodletter, one of ice and blood, the other of flesh and darkmetal. The sword reached out as he stepped, to strike a sideways blow at the chest of the Boy, as his momentum built within the chaos of a battlefield that was in motion.  But the Boy was not his main target of his wrath, it was her, that queen of the dying lambs

 

The Blackmorne leapt into that whirlwind of rock, blood and ash, his sword a howling cloud of wind-swept night, its glittering, crimson tip whipping with the speed of summer lightning as it sought the heart of a queen.

 

((3))

 

((Took a lightsaber strike across the side, a blasterbolt to the shoulder, used the Sith Power Tremor Impact to disrupt the field of battle, struck at Pandora with an Ice-Punch, hit at Aiden with his blade, and then did a leaping attack at the queen. It has been a pleasure.))

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Death is No Escape

 

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The dance was on. The Sith was very deft on his feet, but Aidan had thus far managed to avoid the conflict almost completely, miraculously. A few nicks on his armor, but mostly from blasted dirt. If anything, Aidan was starting to enjoy the tempo of the battle. Except the Force chose just then to give him a choice in a split second vision: either watch things fail miserably or do what needed doing.

 

So Aidan stepped into the swing, catching the blade through his arm and buried into part of his torso, but his left arm came up and gripped with all the strength he could muster amidst agonizing pain. He could feel himself slowly losing his strength as his right arm stump began gushing blood, but this was his only shot to fix the situation they'd found themselves in.

 

Just another death for the Jedi, right?

((Aidan stepped into Vorin's swing, aiming to capture the weapon and the person long enough for his allies to do something. Honestly, I'll accept a death here, I realized this cheekiness isn't funny because Vorin can't reply in kind without risking everything, meanwhile I can safely hide behind allies. Not cool. So time to pony up and take one for the team, win or lose. GG boiz.

 

3))

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Her intent was well away from the outcome she received, the moments of war concocted into a blurred passing of time where will met will in a clash of uncertainty. This Sith was a powerful one, his own will binding the essence of the Unified Force and constricting its own even as she stood not only a martyr against his, but an ally of all things natural and alive. In the moments that became reality, she felt his will grow in strength, his tenents a blight upon her own, as he turned into her own and use it against her and those she sought to protect.

 

Sparks flew from her blade's connection with his twisted form, feeling his present stepping toward her as the arc of silver fell to open field. By the time she held a moment to react, he was upon her, his foul breath misting upon her form as her arms brought back her extended Pike to aim for center mass. And yet, despite her agility, as the ground beneath her tremored and shook beneath her feet, deterring her focus and allowing his will to become reality in a monumentous clash of blood, ice, bone and steel. Songsteel to be precise. A gift of Cassandra's to her before the war, a gift she cherished with all of her soul. And here it was, saving her life when she needed it most.

 

It was a hard lick to take, as her form reeled and nearly lifted from the contact as exploding ice broke against her cheek and veil, the crunching of bone fractures splitting and splintering beneath her skin. All she could in this singular moment, as her Songsteel Veil lifted from her face to reveal her surprised facial features, was fall.

 

Yet, in his rush, he had failed to do her in as she stumbled backwards and fell to one knee, her mind rattled and hanging onto the consciousness that remained lucid. Her pain was enormous, her head fuzzy amidst the moment and barely coherent. It could have spelt the end for her, if his focus had not shifted so quickly. She should have known better than to have gotten so close, that her true strength was in the distance she had trained herself for. But this was war, and in war, mistakes are made without the intent. And for this, she had paid a heavy price.

 

Blood replaced tears from her eyeless gaze as it poured from the wound he had inflicted. She could feel the nauseousness of her concussion aching to release as her gaze shifted toward Aidan and his plight. It took everything she had to manage to lift herself instead of falling down from her infliction. And it nearly killed her as she gave a stern look in his direction. For her observations had foretold his truth. He was nothing more than a beast intent on a singular target. That would be his failure.

 

Darkness threatened to encroach her mind as she rose from the blood soaked ground in a final sprint of action. Bringing her elbow up to shoulder length in her charge, she fought against her injuries with everything. Whether Aidan managed to hold him or not, she was but a wounded blur upon the wind. If it was the Force's will, then she would welcome her death. Whether it be before or after the Sith's own would be decided momentarily. As soon as she closed the distance, she pushed her blade straight forward with all she could muster, her target his heart, as she drove it true at his rear. She only hoped it stopped him from reaching Namari.

 

((3 - Great Duel Guys, on all sides. Despite how Aidan feels, I enjoyed seeing pocket sand used in defense, as I'm sure the others did. That said, we all had a part to play, and I am hopeful it rang true. Ready for the Mods.))

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Vorin vs. Namari et al

 

After reviewing the duel and discussing it with my second, there is a fair bit that we need to discuss here to move forward and build towards better encounters. Duels involving more than two combatants are often difficult to unravel, and the mod team decided to rule on the players involved individually rather than as a cohesive whole. That being said, one of the major issues that comes up is the lack of coordination by the three light siders. 

 

To be blunt, I’m not sure why Aidan was in the duel, and I feel like the first two posts in particular were extremely disrespectful to everyone else in the duel who was taking the time and effort to construct well thought out and detailed posts. If Aidan really didn’t want to participate in the duel, a discussion could have been had about him being on the periphery or being somewhere else during the combat, and if the intent was to troll the opposition through poor play, then this definitely falls under the category of bad sportsmanship.

 

Pandora, to my understanding, is a consular, and yet she is played throughout the duel like a guardian, regularly choosing to engage the Sith warrior in close combat without particularly acknowledging that in such a fight she would be vastly outmatched. Tactically, this made no sense, especially when you had a Jedi guardian present in your line up. 

 

Namari, your posts were solid and felt in line with the power level of the character, and your positioning of your troops established a narrative and tactical intent.

 

Blackmorne, your posts were a delight to read and really convey how much of a threat Blackmorne is without devolving into edgelord cringe. The character really shines as a villain even while taking on multiple combatants at once.

 

Given the lackluster effort of Aidan, his attempt at martyrdom fails to influence the outcome of the duel beyond ensuring his death(And the IC framing of “I can throw the duel because I will respawn anyway” can lead to problematic behavior in team matches). While Pandora’s posts are more fleshed out, tactically they feel outmatched and dissonant from the character archetype and the realities of engaging a Sith warrior in close combat. Ultimately the duel came down to the fight between Namari and Blackmorne, and it was very close, so much so that we actually had to clarify final positions and cuts. 

 

Ruling: Namari wins after Vorin defeats Aidan and Pandora

 

Namari being able to get her guards around the flank to close range fire on Blackmorne was enough to turn the battle, being near enough to overcome the armor while not needing to defend against an attack.

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The man in white seemed unstoppable. His great sword carved effortlessly through Darkfire. The young man’s silver lightsaber shutting off as it fell from his hands to the blood soaked earth. An earth that seemed to tremble with a localized earthquake that smote the footing from under Namari and she landed heavily on her back as the man in white carved through her last true defence. The Sovereign Knight’s saber pike missed her mark, and with a twist of the greatsword another life was snatched away before the Queen’s eyes. Another brave hero martyred by the evil of the Sith. 

 

She could have died there on the cold blood soaked ground. She likely would have had the man in white not stumbled. A nanosecond of opportunity, and she brought the pistol up again and depressed the chromium trigger. A bright lancet of green energy snapped into his stomach while two more red bolts dashed into his back. A sound like the breaking of ice shattered into her skull and she fired again. He stumbled, his frozen boots tripping over the corpse of the Sovereign Knight. 

 

Then he fell. His body hitting the ground with a crush of ice. She looked up from where she lay to the only other two living people on the landing pad. They looked just as shocked and horrified as she knew she looked. She shakily stood and walked over to the man in white, holding her blaster pistol before her like it would ward off whatever he might have had in store next. From a glance, he was still breathing and she bounded forward and jammed the blaster pistol into the back of his neck and pulled the trigger. Nothing. The gun did not react except for hiss where its hot barrel was burning the back of his neck. She looked up to her men then stood. Letting the blaster fall from her hand to sizzle on the blood soaked ground. 

 

She felt like she wanted to cry. To grab her utility knife from its sheath and jab it into the assassin’s neck and wash her hands in his blood. But there were people watching, and intel was valuable. She took a shaky breath to halt the potential flow of tears and gestured to the multiple bodies that lay scattered in a small semi circle around the gravel pad. 

 

Check if they are dead. Get medical on site now to make sure.” But a glance told her the truth. “And get a Ysalamir from the royal armoury. We have work to do.” 

 

But what was that sound? A roaring in her ears, distant at first but now almost drowning out her words. The crowds of civilians and soldiers were running towards them and they were…

 

Cheering? 

 

The tears came then. Warm tears that bubbled down her face, tracing clear lines through blood, grit, and frost. Tears for friends, fear, and relief. The Naboo were finally free

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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     Esmernia, in the throes of a diplomatic performance, cowing more of the galaxy’s elite into giving their fortune to the plight, acknowledged the growing discord from her spot backstage. Refugees came and went from the Ohma-Rune, carrying set pieces to and fro, attempting to stitch their lives back together, and the Queen was doing her best to direct them and stand as a symbol to her people. She was a beacon of hope; though a fragile symbol while the stage lights had dimmed.

 

     Following the opening act, Esmernia contacted the Nabooian fighter squads that had accompanied them, drawing their attention to the developing conflict that took place center stage. Then, she gave a subtle cue to her bulky Zabrak bodyguards, indicating that they aid in the stevedoring that the refugees busied themselves with and instructing them to intercede should the lives of the refugees or the Queen be in jeopardy. Last, Esmer reminded the ‘old’ man of his promise to provide extra security regarding this mission.

 

     The ‘old’ man in question, sitting as a young grizzled face with an old soul, sat toward the ship's open mouth. He watched quietly from the wings as the situation's last moments unfolded. A dusty T-21 with a fresh magazine hanging from its barrel sat across his lap, and he wore his old beskar to the shoulders. He came from Ylesia as a favor to Bill and because he noticed the passion in the Queen’s eyes. He’d been a burden to the galaxy for so long, the least he could do is aid in its reconstruction.

 

     With contingencies in place, Esmer anxiously held on to each act of the performance, wishing in her heart for the heroes to persist, withal the persistent affliction that the forces of evil were so callous to provide.

 

     The performances were elegant and lethal. It looked as if the phantom would rob the people of their heroine. But as the dust cleared on the last act, the denouement, the Queen was triumphant. Cheers erupted from the downtrodden that the Sith had fed on, and from the refugees that had abandoned their roles and their cargo as soon as shots started firing.

 

     There was a gentle flyby as concerned pilots came to check on the performance, saluting their Queen as they resumed their previous flight patterns.

 

     Medical personnel flocked from the ship to retrieve the fallen as the Queen instructed, and a small band of Ohma-Run attendants left to retrieve the Ysalamir. The refugees that weren't actively praising their queen with triumphant howls, followed by Esmer’s Zabrak bodyguards, continued their stevedoring. Though there was almost a spring in their step as the refugees returned to their task,

 

     The ‘old’ man let his T-21 rest against his chair and walked forward. He gently navigated through the crowd, towering above most of them, and came to stand by the Queen’s side. He scratched at his brown beard for a moment, then kneeled by the young Queen and bowed his head ever so slightly.

 

     "Hello, yer highness; the name’s Vihk Ahzinger. I know seeing someone in beskar carries mixed signals in this galaxy of war and conflict--especially mine. But I didn’t stand with my brethren when they committed those atrocities, and I don’t stand with them now. If you’ll have me, I would gladly give my service to you and assist in rebuilding your home. Oh, and Esmer sends her regards on your hard-won victory." Vihk held his right arm over his chest in a practiced salute. The surface of his head and his beaten red armor reflected the beautiful yellow star 'Naboo' as it rose on the horizon.

Edited by Esmernia Langarmie
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[For information on Vihk 'Ordo' Ahzinger, there is a link at the bottom of my character sheet]

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Eyes of sulphoric yellow flickered, to a world of pain, and that of defeat. It was an emotion that had been drilled into him by the Hutt for years. To lose a fight was but the next step to victory. Victory rarely taught valuable lessons, it was in defeat the warrior learned to overcome. Another step towards power, and the victories of the future. He breathed in, haltingly, feeling the searing scars of blasterfire on his body. Bloodletter’s voice filtered into the world, its figure reduced to but a handle.

 

At least you killed the two… Jedi. 

 

A grim smile curled through the pain, memories of their aborted attacks and violent deaths would be a boon in the torture to come. Words and voices swam in and out of focus about him, but he caught a name; Vihk Ahzinger. The Mandalorian weapons smith that had operated on Coruscant, in a shop of one form or another. He would be sure to convey this one to the hunters of the Court of Madness, if he survived what was to come. Those that aided the new sovereigns would die beside them.

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Death is No Escape

 

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Anne batted away tears as fast as she could and dried her eyes with the back of her hand. There was a flash of anger behind her eyes as an unknown man holding a heavy blaster rifle kneeled before her. 

 

A spiteful “A little too much a little too late”. Crawled its way out of her mind and almost made its way out of her mouth before she bit it back and gave him a half curtsie. 

 

“Your services will be much appreciated as we begin our rearmament.” She gestured to the ruins of the city around them. “We will never stand for this to be done to us again.” 

 

They would become the premier forces for this new government, all prior commitments to a peaceful Naboo be damned. She looked down to the Sith and saw his eyelids flutter. She gestured to the royal guards. “Get that blasted Ysalamir now, he’s waking up!” 

 

They hurried off after the previous group that had been sent after one, and quickly returned at double their pace. Carrying one of the strange lizards in its wooden cage. When it came close she almost fell, a strange sense of tiredness fleeting over her body. But it would keep them safe for the moment, and the moment was all that mattered. She could rest her tired body after the interrogation. 

 

Together, her and the Sith Lord and the guards that carried him, made their way to the small brig that remained on the Mon Calamari Vessel. Sealing him away behind a mass of Durasteel and under the protection of the Ysalamari. She sat upon a chair outside the cell and waited for him to awake. 

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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Sweat beaded upon her brow; another successful show under her belt meant more money for the cause.

 

The blue Twi spent a moment or two shaking her muscles out before sending after the Drokka twins. She followed a small crew of makeup professionals back to her green room, and they were out to meet Bo and Ro after a few minutes in a fresh set of formal clothes. It was a practiced routine. She was finished with her work for the day; now it was time to join the Queen and assist in any way possible.

 

The Zabrak followed close behind her as she headed down the corridors toward the brig. As she walked, she was passing paperwork to and fro, levying calls and connections via datapads that were passed back and forth.

 

— Vihk already busied himself lifting massive blocks of stone and aiding refugees in moving goods to and from the ship to makeshift shelters. It would take a lot of time to put this place back together, but Vihk felt a swell of pride with every step. It was always good to put good back into the galaxy. —

 

Bending down one last corridor, Esmer noticed the young queen sitting patiently in front of a cell. She posted Bo and Ro on either end of the hall, indicating that they should keep their eyes peeled, just in case.

 

"Good afternoon, your majesty," Esmernia commented, addressing the Queen with a deep bow before taking a position at her side. "At your earliest convenience, I have a small delegation of Gungan refugees that is eager to make your acquaintance. They are comprised of those that were away from home when the destruction began. I also have some decisions regarding construction companies and a series of other decisions waiting for your consideration. All of that aside, I am overjoyed that you made it out alive." Esmernia bowed her head a little once more, a single tear running down her cheek. 

 

“We’ve lost too many. I’m glad we didn’t lose you too.”

Edited by Esmernia Langarmie
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[For information on Vihk 'Ordo' Ahzinger, there is a link at the bottom of my character sheet]

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  • 2 weeks later...

Everything was fuzzy. That was the first sensation Aidan felt as he woke from the abyss of nothingness. There was no cloning cylinder, he was laid out in a medical bed with a droid looking over him. The doctor came in and started talking, but it all blurred together. Something about...his telomeres? A cloning sickness or something. He tried to sit up but a sharp pain in his side paralyzed him back to the table. The droid administered some drugs, and he drifted back to sleep.

 

It would be hours before he woke again. This time, a Jedi healer was by his side. He was lucky, she said, that the cancer hadn't spread before she had a chance to excise it. Cancer.

 

Cancer.

 

Several more hours later, when he got his strength up, he dressed in the robes provided by the Jedi, collected his belongings that had been collected from the battlefield, and set out to find Anne and Pandora.

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  • 2 weeks later...

The mud clung to him, tearing at every step, dragging, grasping. Immeasurable weight seeping into his bones. A world shaped of nightmares. The darkness crept behind him, burning into the shadow cast by the crimson sun upon that mud-stained world. No feeling at all, except from that shadow. It was as if that red mud had drained him of his very sense. All but that voice

 

Why do you go on? When you give everything and face that which torments you, only to find that it is worse than you could have imagined... why do you go on?

 

Eyes of sulphor flickered open. A gaze devoid of humanity, nothing but the reflection of emotions he had left in that dark red mud of Myrkr. Nothing but the deep stains of a forgotten despair. The muscle-bound body shuddered, the natural release of adrenaline from nightmares. Pain came then and eyelids flickered, fighting to close

 

Do not look away from the hell of your creation. Of your failures!

 

The voice was bodiless. Undefined as it once was, crawling through a muddied mind. Slow. Stupid. A pained smiled masked a face no longer grim and emotionless. The Sith Warrior let out a sigh and sat up, pushing through the fog about him to command his weary body to follow his commands. He breathed, each breath filling his chest with pain and warm air.

They hadn’t killed him.

 

Why do you still fight on? Maybe you should suffer with your failures in this rot and let your blood seep into the Solleu. Isn’t that what you deserve after all you've done?

 

So Accidie had been unbound, the that rot of Myrkr crawled within his skin once again.

 

Ysalimari.

 

Another breath and his vision cleared, but remained disjointed. Closing one overcame it, and The Forceless Sith glanced about his containment. Nothing but the Queen outside, with a Twi’lek whore crying beside her. Royalty had such odd proclivities. When he spoke, it was with tired gruffness, impossible to hide the pain from the wounds without the gifts of the Force, but he leered a cruel grin at her tears nonetheless

 

“Did I kill your lover, twin-tails?”

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Death is No Escape

 

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There were a multitude of different interrogation techniques available for use against the Sith. Most included bravado, physical violence of some kind, or the application of a correct amount of lies and false truths. However, what was never recommended was showing abstract weakness to them. Which the blue coloured Twi’lek had just managed to do when she had arrived unbidden to the interrogation. Had she not had a lifetime of royal training to confine her spirit, the young queen would have told the Twi’lek to leave and compose herself that instant. But it was too late, and the Sith had already perceived her weakness. 

Such creatures sup from tears and weakness like an alcoholic suckles greedily from his morning elixir.

 

She gave her a quizzical glance and let one of her fine eyebrows raise in a questioning air. “I am glad I survived as well Esmer, and the Gungans can wait. They waited when I called them for aid and paid a princely sum for that. Perhaps they can be reminded that their place is not in aloof isolation.” 

 

She turned her head at the sound from the Sith Lord. She was tired, and his mocking tone grated on her ears. 

 

“You killed many fine men and women Sith. You lost. Though I must question if all of you are gone or are simply waiting for another galactic lull to emerge from your filthy dens. Is that why you are trying to destabilise our nation by killing its queen?” 

 

She held out her blaster pistol and pointed it towards his kneecap from behind the bars of his cell. "Answer quickly, I have gungans to attend to.”

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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          "Yes, your Majesty," Esmer responded with an unaffected concession and a curt nod. A modicum of decorum was demanded to be in the Queen’s company—regardless of position or function—and Esmer was mildly cross with herself for allowing even a single tear to fall for her family. She mourned, and they were gone. Shedding tears now would be no service to them. The queen’s manner suggested offense, but the offense was reasonably justified. Esmer had, no question, interrupted an important moment for the Queen.

 

          Though, despite her ire, the Queen did not outright dismiss her, so she positioned herself inches from the wall behind the Queen and quietly processed the Queen’s judgment regarding the gungan delegation to the proper contacts. Her datapad was set to mute, so no sounds came from the Twi’lek as she typed away.

 

          Esmer knew little of Namari before this incident. She had been more distant than the queens Esmer knew before her. But her distance was rooted in viable apprehension. Naboo was in tatters due to the Sith onslaught, and it was not likely to see full restoration in Esmer’s lifetime.

 

          "Did I kill your lover, Twin-tails?"

 

Bo and Ro—Esmer’s bodyguards—remained silent at the racial insult, but sounds of knuckles popping echoed from either end of the corridor.

 

          The slur of the Sith’s voice, as if poured through desiccated lips, failed to elicit a single show of fear or anger. Esmer’s cheeks did not quiver; her nose did not fill with heedless mucus; her eyes weren’t puffy; and her brow was utterly void of sweat. The Twi’lek wiped away the only tear that fell from her otherwise unmarred face with the thumb of her right hand. Her eyes barely acknowledged the Sith over the top of her datapad. But with a minute glance, her starlight silver eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

 

          Tough words from a rat in his cage. I wonder what the Queen is going to do with him. Esmer thought to herself. She chuckled a little in her head when the Queen aimed her blaster at the Sith’s kneecap.

 

Without permission to speak more, Esmer remained silent, typing at her pad, arranging fuel shipments, asset deliveries, general goods shipments, and prioritizing other important decisions for the Queen to make when the interrogation was over.

Edited by Esmernia Langarmie
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[For information on Vihk 'Ordo' Ahzinger, there is a link at the bottom of my character sheet]

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  • 4 weeks later...

Sulphoric eyes, stained with flecks of crimson, narrowed at the queens words. But they relaxed as the emotional strains of her voice echoed in the small cell; she was, beyond all that regality and posture, a frightened girl. When he answered the first parts of her question, it was with a soft voice, calming and sympathetic. He didn’t glance to the pistol, he knew he had little protection from it in the small confines. Either he lived and survived, or he died to a queen, one who seemed to want to be good. Death would be a step to drawing her into darkness.

 

“Men and Women die in war, that is a reality that a Queen must accept.”

 

The distant sound of knuckles popping made the Sith smile despite the pain. Simple Bravado of those unmarked by real war. So typical of bodyguards to glittering prostitutes. It drew a deep, grinding laugh from his throat, a sound not unlike the grinding of ice upon granite. They always showed the weakness of pride. He glanced to the queen with almost an apologetic eye, but one filled with the dark mirth of unresistable challenge. He lulled his head to call down the hallway in a lustful, goading voice

 

“Worry not children, your wine-drunk harlot will have her mouth full in a moment.”

 

The Sith warrior spread his hands before him, watching the small trickle of blood come from one of his previous blaster wounds, opened by the movement. He turned his attention back to the Queen, staring into the deep blue of her eyes, reflecting in that ocean. The warrior let the drips of blood fleck upon the cell floor like a pattern of stars. How he wished his blood was drawing a design upon her naked flesh.  

 

“Do you truly believe the Sith are gone? That the great Lords would fracture and fall into oblivion in one battle? The Court of Madness still twists and turns, The Spider spins his web, the Heart of the Revel still beats.”

 

Vorin stood shakily, his form flexing against the pain. He towered over them both. Despite the rush of agony, and no relief from the force, Blackmorne gave a small bow.

 

“I did not intend your death, Queen. In the great game, just like within Dejarik, one can simply find a path to victory through the movement and capture of pieces. One pawn, a simple Warrior of lowly rank, from the Sith is captured, and yet two of the Jedi’s best bodyguards lie rotting in Naboo’s beautiful sunlight.”

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Death is No Escape

 

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She was very aware that men and women died in war, it seemed like the only thing that was ever actually accomplished in these galactic civil wars were that a trillion innocent people got their tickets punched too early. The Sith always led these great wars, they were harbingers of discord and this one was no different. His taunts turned her naturally soft smile into a frozen masque of calm. She would not take the bait, not here. The Sith were still lurking at the edges of the galaxy and that confirmed both her fears and steeled her resolve for the coming years. Naboo would not be such an easy target again. 

 

“The Jedi died well and honourably. More than I can say than most.” She looked back towards the Sith Lord. “It is always a masquerade with you Sith. So be nice and peel the mask away for me. Why retreat at the height of your power? What power struggle cut your legs from beneath you?” 

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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The Sith’s eyes narrowed, taking in the subtle change in the Queen’s countenance, the imperceptible way the skin around her eyes folded as she held an idea. She seemed younger here before him, smaller. Her presence on the battlefield had been commanding, but here she was but an attractive, petulant child. Her words still carried her ill-placed conviction when she spoke next, forming words upon soft, thin lips. Blackmorne cocked his head to her first statement; if she thought they had fought well and honourably, she was not much of a commander. His own words carried little bile, but the correction of a warrior to a new-blood.

 

“Honor? That is a fool’s prize. Glory is of little use to the dead.”

 

Vorin stretched, letting the pain of his wounds dig into his shoulders as he brought his hands before his face. He passed them in the mimicry of removing a mask, casting it to the floor at her feet.

 

“Beneath my mask, I assume you don’t care who I am. Why retreat? It was an odd thing, unforced errors and the whole galaxy flips sides.”

 

He shrugged his broad shoulders in an uncaring gesture, but continued, his countenance becoming grim.

 

“We trusted the galaxy to a woman, and in one month we lost the whole damn thing. The changing of hands between one Dark Lord and the next can go terribly wrong.”

 

The Sith Warrior leaned forward, his hands steadying himself on the bars, looming above the Twi’lek and the Queen.

 

“Ask your questions more directly, Queen.”

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Death is No Escape

 

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She could not help a smile that crept up upon her lips, almost unbidden by his strange sense of humour. His subtle insults no doubt carried a heart of truth, and it was revealing more about the Sith Lords of Onderon than she had thought to get from this man. She would answer wit with wit. A talent she had found useful many times, including at the council meetings of the now Sovereign Alliance. 

 

“Honour is of very little use, yes. It serves them not at all in whatever afterlife or shadowlife they have stumbled into. No doubt you have some other great use for yourself after you die. Resurrect on Korriban as a regretful ghost to some tourist perhaps?” 

 

She looked up to his looming form, his eyes burning like a fading coal in a fireplace. He was a scary sight, and if she had not been sure of the Ysalamiri that covered his cell, she would have backed away from the bars. Instead, she brought her blaster level with his left knee cap and depressed the chromium trigger. It felt good in her hand, and the trigger broke with a surprising ease. Letting loose an emerald bolt and a familiar ‘wop’ of discharging tibanna gas. Its viridescent blast intending to shatter his knee. Sending a message that would not be misunderstood. 

 

“Then tell me where your remnants lay. Where your fleets sit in repair, and where your old masters lie in silence.” 

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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Her returned attempts of humor were hollow, stirred by passion and without the subtlety that made humor interesting. The Sith couldn’t truly blame her, women were inherently terrible with even basic comedy. The way her fist seemed to ball, how the lines of pale white began to ring about her joints, the manicured fingertips losing their pallor spelled her next move as plainly as starlight. She was, at the end of it all, a spoiled child.

 

The Sith Warrior watched the emerald bolt of blaster gas discharge, creasing his knee above the joint, stitching its way through his skin and muscle like a surgeon’s plasma cutter. He didn’t move a muscle, but the sulphoric eyes that panned slowly from the blaster pistol’s smoke to the child’s blue eyes.  His own lips curled into an ungodly smile. The kid needed more education it seemed.

 

“You asked why our order destroyed itself, that is the very nature of us. Our strength. The Darkness, invites rivalry and strife. It culls the weak.”
 

Vorin placed his hands on the bars above his head, resting them nonchalantly upon the cool steel.

 

“Those that survived… I know little of those others that fled in disarray; but of my own, I can say… The Devourer rests within the Maw. The Huntress was upon the fields of Cathar. The others of the seven, scattered in conclaves unknown to me. Of fleets, well... that was never the forte of the Court of Madness”

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Death is No Escape

 

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So the Alliance had done nothing at all to topple this order. So many had died. Her entire planet had been liberally scattered with sun nuclear munitions, half the population wiped out and the other half left to rot in their bubbled cities and the Sith Lords had fallen by accident or even worse by choice. The sith order and their galaxy spanning empire could not have just tripped and fallen on its own lightsaber because of a few selfish leaders. She wanted to reject its very premise. To spit in the face of the man that loomed over her and cry. But even in all his mockery she knew he was right. 

 

The Sith were gone. For now. Biding their time until peace made them weak. Until the fleets were reduced to balance a budget and standing armies disarmed in case of coup. A galactic cycle that had repeated every decade since the time of Queen Amidala. 

 

“Is that where I should send you then assassin? To the heart of Maw where mischance will pluck your life away from you? Where you can sit adrift for a millennia until hunger consumes you and you pluck out your own eyes to spite the madness? Where a master bides his time until we are weak again?” 

 

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Queen Namari of the Naboo

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  • 2 weeks later...

Esmer remained quiet a few steps behind the Queen, leaning against the wall and tapping gently against her datapad to avoid additional noise. Bosco and Rotan briefly looked at their wrists before nodding and going a little further down the corridor. Esmer’s expression was blank. Her midnight blue skin was shrouded by the fluorescent light that shone from above, and her starlit eyes sparkled impassively while she continued her work.

 

Disrespect and vulgar displays were not strange in her line of work, nor were they strange regarding her people and what they’d been through. But, traditionally, such slings were indicative of a bankrupt mind. Those who sought to lash out at anyone did so due to shortcomings and doubts within themselves. Even those who appeared cruel and heartless to their core were plagued by phantoms that they would or could never absolve. They were constantly running from their inadequacy and would not admit, at any point, the weakness of their plight.

 

Esmer knew little about the Sith. But people were people. And hate was hate, regardless of where it came from.

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[For information on Vihk 'Ordo' Ahzinger, there is a link at the bottom of my character sheet]

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  • 1 month later...

The Sith warrior placed a pale hand upon the cold steel that kept him confined from her. That brilliantly beautiful Queen of a fallen world. She had proven herself to be quite strong for the leader of a slaughtered people. He had watched in the decades past the rise and fall of the world, of the Genocide and Holodomor of its various species, and yet one had risen above their sunbleached bones to challenge Sith hegemony. Muscles rippled on his scarred arm as he leaned close

 

“Rarely do world leaders throw away the blessing that comes with a captured Sith. To send one screaming into the Maw would a move for…”

 

He motioned with a sneer as though surveying bodies upon a battlefield

 

Jedi.”

 

Blackmorne rolled his head back and stared to the ceiling, the pain causing stars to jump in his vision and fall about him. Nimue’s advice crawled within his skull, echoing amongst the howls of pain he kept repressed.

 

“I offer you a bound duty. I will train your guard properly to fight in a manner of your choosing, a respect I give to them for their courage and outlasting their supposed superiors, those Jedi. After, I will undertake one mission for you, against your enemies, to show you the Strength a warrior can bring to your kingdom.”

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Death is No Escape

 

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