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Coruscant - Galactic Throne


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Jax watched through a small video feed in his helmet that showed him the camera outside. Seeing that one of the bikes had stopped on top of his thermal detonator he set it off, blowing the speeder up and killing multiple of the pirates. He watched for a couple more seconds so as to give him clear feed to count the kill count and insure that the pirates didn't just run off, since if they did he would have to reposition up onto the roof and attempt to snipe the leader or driver.

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The thermal went off, the miniaturized self-contained thermonuclear grenade completely atomizing one of the pirates on a speeder bike as well as most of one of the other speeders, instantly killing four of the pirates. Immediately they returned fire, with two of the pirates rushing the entrance with vibro-machetes. Drej, the leader, called out to some of the others, sending three around the right side of the building to find a window or crack in the ruined walls to try and flank, with one other pirate equipped with a heavier fully automatic blaster around the left side.

Corsec gets no respect, Drej mused to himself with a grin, as he levelled his own weapon at the guards near the doorway and let fire. These gutless sacks of manure were about to regret being born.


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Jax saw the 2 pirates get told to flank around to an open window and Jax knew that they would be coming through right where he was, so he prepared his blaster pistol and staff. When he sees them come around he shoot's the first one in the chest sending him flying back while Jax brings his staff down on the 2nd pirates head before shooting him. Jax quickly checks the camera feeds to see where the pirates were.

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D A N G E R.



There was a loud and long metallic screech, muffled by the many levels to this gargantuan Cruiser, where it came from, no one could really pinpoint. The sound was eerie, and was now the only thing that could be heard from the grounds of the hangar bay. It was a distressed groaning, the derelict ship seemingly uncomfortable under the burden of it's own weight. There existed three points of access from where these two men stood now; the gaping hall to the northwest that strangely seemed to widen as a maddening tension began to set in, a narrower passageway to the East of where they were positioned, and then South into the black of space where they had come from. Wreckage laid at the balls of their feet, and the head-pounding sounds of emergency sirens had long malfunctioned into a quiet stupor, yellow and red lights still bouncing into the smog of smashed star-fighters. Small fires tickled bruised engines, exhausts puking onto the steel plates below, bodies everywhere. This was a madness, and perhaps the two that stood in the middle of it were unaware of the peril that they had just entered alone.

Near-communication transmissions were spotty at best, which meant something was stifling the longer-ranged setting. The floodlights in the Eastern corridor were snuffed out, a shower of sparks from exposed circuitry was the only hope to identify what was really lurking in the dark. The smog however, fueled by a ventilation that was disgustingly hoarse, enshrouding the entirety of the wide hall to the Northwest. This one, this was the direction that did not need light to tell you what was on the other side of it. Besides the groaning of the Dauntless, the shower of electricity to the East, and the devolving ruin of the ships behind them-- the northwest held a terrifying stampede. The heaviest of running marches, the exasperated breathing of a thousand creatures, the strange war-cries that were less words and more frenzied calls of the wild. Oh they echoed, whether they were close or not, the noise drummed down the corridor and thundered into the hearts of those that could hear it.

It was too dark now. Silhouettes spun even darker. Demented durasteel and the sharpest of shards whip-lashed into the smoke and bit deep into one. Just one bite. Just one creature. The skin of his shoulder separated, loosened a bit from bone, and immediately burned with a red and searing pain. The stampede crawled to a halt, and a polarization of many shadows began to stretch from the hall and into the hangar bay. Slowly and now quietly, one after the the other, until the true shape of them became apparent. One, and then two, before a third. Their cloaks were the first thing seen, as the odorous green they wore contrasted against the smoke of the broken ventilation. Four, a fifth, and then the sixth. Their masks covered the scaly skin of their faces, encasing their elongated snouts, stretching down their necks. Seven, eight, and of course a ninth. Pistols, rifles and swords as long as their bodies, each of them brandishing at least one of these. Ten, eleven, and they did not stop there. One after the other, they poured hesitantly from the northwestern hall, spreading themselves apart and rapidly sniffing their surroundings. Sixteen, twenty-one, and the beadiest of eyes searched every nook and cranny for the rest of their enemies. There stood only two. One woman, and one man out in the open like sitting ducks. This realization sunk in rather quickly, and in Trandoshan whispers, the bandits reassured themselves that this was the case. The numbers poured in faster now, and the moment seemed stuck with complete shock. The spread of the Cabal was increasing, but more alarming than that, was that one through twenty were now steadying the aim of their DLT-19 heavy blasters, the rest would follow.

Definitely not the first to step from the shadows, and definitely not the last. A Cabal holding his shoulder, stemming the bleeding with his cloak, emerged with a walk of excitement in his step. The rumblings of the others grew from whispers, to laughter, to maniacal banter. He cocked his head to his wound, and then back at his opponents. His disgust for their species somehow evident by his gaze through his mask. In his other hand he juggled three spherical canisters, each already profusely oozing with a green gas. He tossed them nonchalantly towards the dark and narrow Eastern corridor, they rolled and drowned the path in a green shroud that also seemed to seethe from each of the Cabal that continued to spawn.

"Prey?" His reptilian vocal chords strung louder than one expected, the sound of it's voice sneaking down the ears like a crude oil. How was it possible that he had heard the women? Viciously, they all opened fire from roughly thirty feet out. 



Suddenly, the broken TIE fighter rampantly hauled itself across durasteel,

attempting to put a small blockade between the savage Cabal and the low hanging fruit.









The battle for the engine room turned for the worst, and the scores of Imperials that led the charge were tenaciously victorious at every turn, until the last one found them here. The trap had sprung, and now they could see that the Cabal had leeched themselves inside of the hold. Blaster fire burned into the bodies of the unaware, and an exchange of rounds drastically altered the scene. The declining unit of Imperials were stranded at a crossroads with a bloodbath awaiting them if they chose forward. Behind them, the hall in which lead them from the Hangar Bay, had gone completely dark. There was a loud screeching, unfamiliar to the sound of space, but that had died with the ringing of gunfire in their ears. Perhaps the ranks of militia that had arrived with Shiro had made their way successfully throughout the Western corridors, or perhaps what they fought against was rightfully to the rear of them. This unit however, stood no chance. Inside of the Engine room, rested at least 30 of the Cabal and an armored cretin the size of a mammoth. This beast wore exposed armor from head-to-toe, unlike the green cloaked Cabal with their armor hidden behind wraps. 


The path to the left was where the nauseating screech had come from before the exchange took place, a slew of Imperial and Crusader bodies lined this part of the hall.

The right path was completely sealed off from fifteen feet from where the crossroads was, the scraps of common supplies entrenched against the blast-door. 

In front of them, and through the door, was the resistance that had melted their team, literal steam seeping through the bottom of the entrance. 

Behind them was black, the sound of blaster fire far in the distance, sparks gushing from the overhead.


The Dauntless had already become a flowerbed of death by the looks of it, the Imperial boarding parties just happened to walk through it.


What remained of Shiro and his small crew, wasn't much of anything, and the comm channel that had linked them to the others on this ship was layered with static and sobs of dying men. The excavation of the Dauntless was experimental work, sanctioned by those that sought adventure, while the rest of the forward Operations continued to build against the forces of Coruscant. Chance for reinforcements would be slim on a broken vessel, and communications were crippled. 


The small palisade that Shiro and the crew found themselves behind, would only hold as their ammunition did.

For now, they were safe, but the armored beast would have something to say about that.

With a giant cleaver in hand, at least three-quarters of the size of his eight-food stature, it approached.

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Bakra was surprised, to say the least, when the Sith joined him. If he hadn't recognized her voice, hewouldn't have even realized it was her. She was shorter than he'd expected, and much younger. A child, really. He'd been her age when he first started piloting fighters, and she was already a Sith Lord. She was either very imressive in combat, or the Lords weren't as scary as they were made out to be. The truer of the two became apparent quite readily as she used the Force to summon a whirlwing of glass and steel. Unarmed, she was a threat. With those fancy lightsabers that the Jedi and Sith touted around? He could only imagine.


It didn't  take long though before more Trandoshans showed up. Trandoshans? He thought he was fighting Mandolorians. Though, he had to say that he much preferred the lizards when it came to a firefight. He'd seen Mandalorians in action, and he didn't fancy his chances of surviving if this had been a Mandalorian ship.


With her words though, he opened fire as they started to appear. He didn't bother responding, figuring his actions would speak louder than  words. As the first two came through the smog, he fired a quick burst at each, though as more began to show, he realized just how outmatched they were.


Clearly, fighting wasn't the best option. And the only other way out he could see was much smaller. Numbers could be mitigated, but the problem was getting there. He glanced at the Sith.


""We need to bolt. Pick our fights until we can linkup with the proper ground troops and get real weapons." he stated. He didn't wait for an answer. Whether the Sith stayed and fought or followed him in the retreat, he knew he would almost certainly die if he stayed.


"I'm moving. Eastern corrider."


With that, he detatched a thermal detonator from his belt and sprinted for the exit, firing a few shots that were more of a formality to keep the lizards on their toes than to kill anything. As he did, he threw one of his thermal detonators at the other exit. Hopefully that would slow them down long enough for he and his Sith ally to formulate a plan.

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Why do I allow myself to be caught in the thick of battle? ‘It’s no place for a Krath’ Sheog would say. Of course, the corpulent worm would always object to going places where speed was of the essence. But why was I here? Orders from an unknown Darth are of no value to me. Not even from the Dark Lord unless it serves a greater purpose. How does fighting aboard a doomed ship help me?




Movement drew the eyes of the Sith, as the enemy revealed themselves. Tattered cloaks in the moving in the mist. Furious heartbeats in the hammered against her senses in the Force. The decking flexed beneath her feet, its shattered durasteel groaning. She counted the heartbeats as the smokey haze moved. The sharded whips began to flex and contort, reflecting the firelight into a thousand shattered rainbows.


Twenty-one within killing distance.


The East called to her. A rush in her blood called on her to run. Animalistic passion urged her to rend the enemy in a hail of rage-formed glass, but there was intellect that begged her to flee. Instinct overcame bestial wickedness. A tattered breath brought clarity, searing her mind with cruel reality. Just how unabashedly perilous her position had become entirely clear in the span of a heartbeat.


Fierfeking Trandoshans


Fieldgrey’s heart raced and the cold fingers of doubt began to tear at her insides, but the rage within her was not fully gone. She breathed out a sigh, the air clearing one of her bangs from her eyes. Hazel eyes glanced to the East.


Quell your doubts, there is no time to think. There is only time to act.


The Sith girl bit down on her tongue, letting the flair of pain clear her mind. The pain mimicked the gas grenades the Trandoshan held, billowing clarity throughout her entire body. Gas masks. She was glad that her pilot friend wore his flight helmet, at least he would be safe. She took a deep breath of clear air and focused on the pain, focusing her mind around it and expanding it with her fury. She could feel the damaged decking, begging to give way, to bend and twist, to be formed to her will.


Darth Awenydd’s legs began to shake with excess energy, and she placed her locus on control around the gas grenades in the Trandoshan’s hands. She let one of her whips collapse in a clatter of reinforced glass. A Sith Lord could only do so much. The other whip began to contort with excitement, a perverse greed for blood. The heartbeats around her sounded like claxons, their signatures burning bright in the Force.


The East beckoned. Blood welled in her mouth. Gas Grenades were launched. The Force moved.


The Sith Lord ripped the glass whip into a shattered wave speeding it up to its peak velocity in an instant. Once it was at speed, she released it at the Trandoshans most vulnerable place, their gas masks, and dropped it from her control. Velocity would run its course and make them vulnerable to their own weapons. It had no need of her guidance now. Her legs began to move, a mad, force-enhanced dash to safety.


I will make you bleed like me.


The gas grenades that went east were next, and the Sith beckoned the Force to move and redirect it back to its thrower. It didn’t take much to overcome the nonchalant throw, and she didn’t need to do more then clear a path for her escape. Blasterbolts seared through her world, but she ran. She barely noticed the pilot's ship lurch forward. The Force that drew it was like that of a spider, drawing a fly to the web. 


Heat scorched by the girl, but she did not stop. The durasteel shouted for release, groaning from its warped scars, the damage from her A-wing’s entry. The anger within her gave way to steely resolve as her feet pounded on the decking. Darth Awenydd charged ahead, pouring all of herself into her speed. The durasteel beckoned to her, but she knew she could only focus on escaping now, or die trying to be heroic. 


Glory was of no use to the dead.


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Apparently the bounty hunter had missed the third pirate sent around his side of the building, who now charged at Jax holding a vibro-machete held high. Meanwhile, the sound of a grenade blast and shattered transparisteel echoed from the other side of the museum, signalling that the other pirate had found his way in.

Around front, the museum guards were smart enough to let the first two pirates charge in through the door, who were dumb enough not to notice the tripwire attached to the ion grenade. The guards quickly executed the men as they writhed on the floor, their nervous systems overloaded with electricity continuously spidering through their body. Seeing their friends die threw the rest of the pirates into a kind of frenzy, and the mounted vehicle turrets began lighting up the building, pouring sustained fire to ensure the guards were suppressed. At Druj's orders, two others with speeder bikes took off, climbing higher up before circling back to land on the roof. 


The pirates had become dead set on taking this building regardless of the cost. They'd felt the sting of betrayal from the false information they'd been fed, and were now willing to kill these interlopers at any cost.


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OOC((Author’s intent on tactical name mistakes, Nyrys is new to fleet command))


As her comrades penetrated the interior of a large enemy vessel, Nyrys’s forces had been dispatched to cross off a more elusive threat. While most of the Crusader ships were pre-existing designs, the target they were tasked with was something until now unseen. Judging by the jamming that it was putting out and its external apparatuses, the ship was designed for electronic warfare. Nyrys hadn’t come to this conclusion on her own, she had consulted the captains of her Kuati task force for guidance. Now she addressed her commands on a secured holo line.


“This is Queen Actual, we have located an enemy vessel that is new, shiny, and Captain Illigrihm says would really bring my eyes and make this outfit pop, so I want it. The Queen will move with purpose to roust the ship from its hiding spot in the debris field while the Verdict and Truth circle around to perform a double... development and cut off any attempt to escape. Our escort ships will create a perimeter circle… sphere, I mean sphere, around our forces in case the target asset calls in fighter support. 


Once the shields are breached, offer terms and send in our marines unless a reactor spike is detected, in which case scuttle it starting with engines to prevent any attempt at a ramming suicide attack. Vice Admiral Nyarro has the con while I’m planetside, good hunting.”


Addressing her forces about fleet maneuvers was an uncomfortable ordeal for Nyrys, who had less formal tactical education than almost all of her bridge crew, but commanding fleets was a necessary part of being a Sith. She would not run from what was required of her, or cling to her laurels in other endeavors. She would adapt as necessary and rise to the challenge, as she had in the past.


A second secure transmission was sent through the long range comms to her apprentice 03. It was time for him to give an accounting of what he had accomplished during his time amongst the Mandalorians, and for them to begin paying their honor debt to the Sith. Besides, it would be good to see a familiar face. Drogo had been burying himself in his work since Dark Sun, Nyrys guessed everyone dealt with that situation in their own way.


“Milady, one of our ground assets is reporting higher than anticipated resistance and field loss of supplies,” reported comm officer Galenti, “They’re pressing forward but command is expressing concern about their ability to complete their objective in their current condition.” 


Nyrys already knew exactly which asset it was without even looking. Delta was under the scrutiny of the Dark Lord now, and even unavoidable failure could result in severe punishment. She did some mental math, chewing the numbers down to the bone in her mind before responding.


“The generator is a key objective, dispatch a platoon of our Ishi Tib marines to reinforce and resupply them. Have them inform the unit leader that he owes me a sincere and extensive recording of how very, very pretty I am.”


Her own forces would have a significant Ishi Tib presence, but it would be dark troopers outfitted with precision weapons and close quarters programming that went with her in the interior of the museum. Too much was at risk to chance the potential of so many stray shots, and even though droids were less likely to understand what was at stake, they were ironically more willing to sacrifice everything to protect it. The museum was vast, city sized on its own even if it was separated from the surrounding… well city. Coruscant had a peculiar way of messing with a person’s sense of scale. Enormity became commonplace.


The supporting complexes of museum staff and labs could be handled by the Ishi Tib and Sith troopers. After everything Coruscant had been through, it was time the survivors saw some friendly faces. The drop ships departed, and Nyrys began her descent to the remains of a dead world. Upon arrival they would set up a defensive perimeter around the LZ and start establishing a beachhead.   




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The rangefinder in his HUD continued to stutter between somewhere like a kilometer and any other number of meters. The IR reflector was hitting the massive amount of dust kicked up by moonfall and giving all kinds of off readings. A direct assault was simple suicide, so Delta’s crew were slowly moving from one crater to the next out of the direct fall of the meteroic dust and fragments. The noise was deafening, but with the impact of another rain of pebble sized rocks and dust that pinged off his armour it was time to get back under cover before larger chunks hit. With a grunt, Delta shoved the small Tares under a fallen duracrete slab the thickness of a landspeeder and he and Frostwin ducked underneath themselves. The roar of sound and explosive impacts of duracrete on duracrete forced Delta to turn down his noise amplifiers in his helmet. Muffling the sounds of the environment and filling his helmet speakers with the sounds of static filled comms. 


The length of time it had taken to even move less than a klick in moonfall was preposterous. They could have just sprinted the two kilometers to the objective but if anyone had set up an E-web they would be running straight into a killzone the size of a swoop track. Better, if significantly slower, to move on an angle towards the downed skyscrapers near it. Then pick their way when more units had joined them. Hopefully the delay wouldn’t disappoint the dark lord all too much. Tares groaned, which interrupted the external comms with an override from their internal comm net. She had been smacked with a bit of moonfall a few minutes before and was still in significant pain. 


“Spast that hurt.” Came her soft pained voice as she flexed her bruised shoulder. The armoured pauldron had softened the blow of some small falling duracrete, put it was very likely she had suffered some significant ligament strain or tearage from the blow. Moonfall was deadly, and Delta continued to curse the drop zone they had received from command. Lima One was scattered all over this side of moonfall, and having made several hastily constructed squads, as far as Delta could hear through the static filled comms they were also heading towards the objective. Still too far to hook up with his small three man unit, but it was still enough for morale to know that at least some of his unit had made it groundside and were making their way to him. 


“Commander, possible movement near objective. Cluster of downed ‘scrapers.” Frostwin swore then ducked back into the cover of the duracrete slab. “Definite contacts, squad strength.”


Frostwin set his macrobinoculars down on his lap and pulled a soft cloth from his belt pouch to wipe at the lense, while Delta crawled over to him and extended the comm link antenna from  behind his helmet. A new voice flooded his ears from Sith TAC comm. 


“-ima-one Command from Queen Actual.” 


Delta gulped down a breath of dust smelling air.


“Go for command.” 


“Supply drop for you from Queen Actual with Marine company Hotel-Two.” 


Ishi Tibs? They were sending a bunch of amphibians into this dusty hellhole? 


“Drop them outside of the current moonfall, my location is outside current orbital disintegration, but still heavily impacted, there are enemy contacts on location of objective. Possibly dug in.”


“Copy, Leave your antenna in location and a supply and marines drop will be on you momentarily. Mark enemy location with flares. Also Queen actual has a favour to ask.”




“...She wants to know if she is pretty.” 


Tares stopped adjusting her shoulder and Frostwin stifled back a laugh. 


“God damned right shes pretty, most gorgeous woman I've ever seen, but the fur suit her better.” 


Hopefully the honesty wouldn’t bring a turbolaser strike instead of marines. He cut communication and pulled the magnetic attachment off the back of his helmet. He slapped it onto the durasteel rebar next to the entrance of their temporary shelter. Turning to the two others he tapped the side of his helmet. 


“Ammo check. We will need to hold this position until the marines arrive. Then we will begin assault.” 


He pulled his DC-17s out of its holster and checked the readout. Fifteen shots with its current charge and two more magazines in his belt. Tares and Frostwin were much the same, except Tares had more ammunition since her sidearm was an older model E-11 carbine. No grenades for any of them, But Delta did have his flare gun.


“Let’s begin.”


He leveled the flare gun to where Frostwin indicated. Adjusted for lob and wind conditions then depressed the trigger. The white hot projectile rocketed into the air where it burst over the Glory Bound with blinding red light.




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It was utter chaos and horror for Shiro and his unit as the onslaught began. They expected resistance, but not on such a well played out level. And with their Staff Sergeant now laying dead just a few yards away, the moment of victory soon turned dark and bleak. Death was consuming all around them, and they could only watch in perifial despair as they numbers began to drop like seconds upon a clock's hand. For now, all they could do was fall back and hold the line, dig their heels in, and pray. And Shiro found very little comfort in religion, as numerous as they may be.


Shiro took cover to reload his E-11, taking a brief moment to observe and record the carnage to memory. Never had he ever seen such. Not even in the Arena on Krayiss II as the fights escalated and grew vicious. Sure, Death was a constant visitor, but never on such a scale. And they were trapped, bottlenecked in this blasted hallway with no means to move forward as bolts of plasma darted over their heads. At their twelve o'clock was a resistance he had never seen, a colossal beast surrounded by numerous masked fiends. To their three o'clock was a malfunctioned escape, the striped gears of the bulkhead grinding against the sparks of its counterpart. At their nine o'clock came a stomach wrenching scream Shiro had never heard, and at their six, retreat. All Shiro could do was stare at his rifle in disbelief. Trapped and leaderless, morale was beginning to wane quickly.


Just as Shiro removed his helm and tossed it aside, sweat drenched white hair taping its self to his forehead, his crimson eyes glowing with devastation, Shiro heard a subtle thud before a scream echoed out. Jumping to his feet, a look of horror enveloped his face as he gazed upon the towering colossus grasping its Imperial prey in one hand and collapsing its frail form with very little resistance as those who remained went into full panic. His mind raced as fast as his heartbeat hastened in the moment, and survival Instincts took hold of his thoughts. Raising his E-11, Shiro took a calming breath as he flicked the rifle to full auto and let loose a volley of crimson bolts into the enemy at their front.


"Fall back." Shiro shouted out orders to his comrades through the echoing sounds of constant barrage, his crimson eyes glowing with desperation and rage. "Take nine o'clock positions and we'll deal with whatever hell hole we fall into.... move now."


Shiro's men began flanking to the left, the Imperial Marines following his suite exactly as each opened their own full volleys in retreat, unsure of what laid at their destination, only their urge to survive quelling their hearts and minds as they moved, with Shiro and two others finalizing their six. And had Shiro taken a second longer, he would have fallen to the cleaver's edge. Tossing aside his empty E-11, Shiro disappeared with the others down the left hallway, the young humanoid managing to gather up two vibro-knives and a Z-6 that laid strewn around the bodies that littered it.


Whatever laid ahead, Shiro only hoped it was better than what they were leaving behind, horror still filling his thoughts as he acted on instincts enough to get away from the bloodbath they were facing. He was beginning to realize the uncertainty that was war.

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Jax quickly jumped back from the pirate, dodging his attack before once again using his blaster pistol to shoot the pirate in the chest twice. He turned his attention to the explosion, holstering his blaster pistol and unslinging his rife and shooting at any pirates entering the museum.

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The prisoners from Kuat had been loaded on board the Herløv and everything was ready for deployment. There was some resistance around the planet, but it was nothing that the might of the Sith Empire couldn't deal with. Qaela and the task force assigned to her had their own, separate mission given directly by the Spider and she would carry it out now that things were ready.


When it came to finding the leadership of the ultimately doomed Rebellion, there were many ways to go about it. Despite the multitude of victories and the sweeping Sith tide across the galaxy, there were still planets that refused to bow to the inevitable and resisted the Dark Emperor's will. While she had no notion where their leadership was currently skulking, it wouldn't be too difficult to simply pick a planet that resisted and start communicating with whoever had the tiny shred of bravery required to lead such a rabble and leave it to them to get her in touch with their leaders. If they elected to attack, then it was possible she and the ships under her command might even defeat the rebels and add another planet to the Empire. While it wasn't exactly what the Spider had requested of her, she doubted he expected her to simply run with her tail tucked between her legs nor turn down the opportunity to enlighten another planet to the true strength of the Sith.


She had not heard much of the other Sith that had been attached to her command. He was a new Lord with some battle experience under his belt, but still fairly fresh. She didn't expect there to be much in the way of combat in this mission, but if there was, she hoped he wouldn't fall prey to the unfortunate tenancy of some Sith to simply charge into battle and die. There was only one way to find that out, but for now, she needed to get this mission moving forward.


"Communicate with Lord Mordecai and tell his task force to form up on the Herløv," she commanded to the bridge crew of the large capital ship. "We will be departing for Borleias as soon as his ships are in position and ready for the jump to hyperspace." Perhaps when they arrived at their destination and were waiting to find where the enemy leadership was, they would have time to size each other up. She was curious to know what sort of Sith philosophy he adhered to and whether or not he was to be trusted.

Qaela Sig

Send PM's to Travis.

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((While that was a closed attack on the one pirate, i.e. assuming damage when you posted it, I'm going to roll with it because that's what I expected to happen anyways. Just keep in mind that you should be phrasing it "Shooting at the chest" instead of "Shot the chest" because the latter implies completion of the action. Also, from here on out, Darth Nyrys will be joining you on the battlefield.))


The pirate Jax shot in the chest fell to his knees, then the ground, two fresh smoldering holes poking through where vital organs used to be. He was a corpse before he'd even fallen. Meanwhile, as several pirates rushed the guard positions with blasters, vibroaxes, and other smaller weapons, the one who'd flanked around the other side of the building began laying down automatic fire from the inside, having fully flanked around and in through the breached window. As he did so, he noticed movement from the back, recognizing the telltale Mandalorian armor. He quickly adjusted fire to focus on the man, yelling out to the rest of his gang "It's a Mando! We've been set up!"

By this time the two pirates on speeder bikes had reached the roof, and were shooting through the transparisteel panes to make a big enough hole to provide covering fire from. The transparisteel in the skylights was thicker, as it needed to withstand the elements, but the blaster fire was still carving through to the point that within a minute or so they'd be able to more or less lock down the expansive foyer of the museum with the high angle of attack.






Less than thirty seconds after the flare went up, two more flares also went up from where the team of four Mandalorians were positioned, the first aimed over the origin of the original flare from Delta's team, and another aimed off towards another structure nearby which could feasibly also be used as fortifications. Standard Mandalorian tactics, divide and conquer. Enemy flares always had a purpose, almost always to signal reinforcements. By deploying more flares, the purpose of the original one was confused, and added to the fog of war that Mandalorians were expert at using to full advantage. Remar, the squad leader, activated his helmet's comm, sending a message to his squad's sniper.


"Rin, open fire. Let's sow a little chaos."


Rina had taken a position higher up on the structure at their current position with her nightstinger sniper rifle, makeshift camo netting helping to hide her figure. The nightstinger would fire invisible bolts, making it next to impossible to tell where the source of the fire was coming from. The downside was she only had around ten shots, and needed to reload for each, but Remar had determined that this mission dictated the use of the prohibitively expensive weapon. Taking careful aim through the dust, Rina snapped off a shot, but tweaked it just barely as a bright moonfall impact just past them lit up her vision and skewed the first shot. 


The Mandalorians took their positions, knowing they would need to either wait until their enemy moved closer or was sufficiently distracted before they could decisively strike. Remar calmly watched from his cover, barely exposing himself to ensure he knew when that time would come.





The Mandalorian ship was of little match to the forces the Sith had brought to bear. It trained half of its remaining weaponry on the advancing fleet ships, a pathetic defense for what was really required. What was interesting, however, was that the ship didn't attempt to flee, despite its seemingly inevitable doom. That would have been the logical tactical choice given the situation, but instead it held position, firing at the larger pieces of debris with the two guns that weren't trained at the Sith, and tractoring others out of the way. There was also evidence of several small hull breaches, and shielding collapsed as the Sith ships neared.

The Sith could destroy the ship, or simply allow the debris field to do that job for them as that seemed likely in the not-too-far future. Or they could try to capture the ship as ordered, and be in for an interesting fight.

Meanwhile, as the landing crafts neared the ground, they would easily pick up the spectacle of the pirates assaulting the main entrance and foyer of the Museum of Coruscant. While these forces were likely of small threat to the trained Sith troops, there was another threat that would reach them soon, and small ripples in the Force sent prickles up Nyrys's fur as she would know that this small skirmish in front of them wasn't the worst thing they would face that day.


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(K thx for the advice)
Jax get's to cover before using his Blaster rifle to blast the pirate that had called him out in the head before turning his attention to the pirates trying to get into better positions up on the roof. He quickly moved to new cover that insured that he was behind cover no matter which of them shot at him.


Once in position he double checked on the video feed he had of the front door, ready to turn and blast any pirate that entered in the chest, but he was also paying close attention to how far the pirates had progressed on getting through the panes and was ready to open fire on them depending on who got in first.


(Experimenting with my formatting let me know which you prefer, my normal block, this, something in the middle, Etc.)

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K I L L Z O N E.



The eastern hall swam in an ocean of black, haunting in the way the narrow passageway yawned into nothingness, shadows crawling from the corridor like wisps of buttery smoke. Gunfire suddenly loosened with the drumbeat of a hailstorm, an explosion followed with a vicious eruption that rattled the steel framework all around them. The loud thermal detonation careened the smaller airdock with a crude rumble, devouring whatever stood within a six-meter radius. Blood, screaming, and the chiming of battle saturated the already oppressive air. Yet, from the eastern hollow, another had emerged to enter the fray. 


The well-heeled leather of his boot was the first to surface from the flush smoke. The obsidian complexion of the cured hide looked rich as it crossed the blood-moistened floorboards, one step before the other in a pair of unhurried steps. It would seem that an Imperial officer, and a familiar Lady of the Sith were hand in glove, two distinct seeds of his Empire. The likeness of a time that had long past, brought nostalgia to his cold heart. A symbolic affinity between the Dark side and the Imperial machine, a union restored by the many hands of the Spider. One he would nourish by the strength he had earned. And as a twist of fate, he wore upon himself a cunning interpretation of the uniform that belonged to the treasonous Imperial Knights, quantifying their insignificance the longer he remained as the head of the snake. He adjusted his gilded bracers, watching interestingly from under the brim of his black hood. 



"We need to bolt. Pick our fights until we can linkup with the proper ground troops and get real weapons."




The matte cloak that chain-linked into his armor piece whiplashed as he quickened his steps. His movement was unbelievable, a blur if the mind even tried to capture a tenth of the quickness he exercised. The distance between the eastern shadows, and the choke-hold between his kin and the Cabal, was covered in a matter of breaths. An inhale, and an exhale delivered him to the forefront of battle. The devilry of Transcendence activated and was already spinning wildly, the malformed hilt of his lightsaber burning a brilliant red, dancing in front of him as he brushed off the stream of fire headed their way. The archaic weapon was of legendary ilk, a tool of destruction that was synonymous with the All-father of Assassins, one of which would not be recognized from the sight alone of it alone. Whenever the lightsaber did scorch the atmosphere though, a distinct and otherworldly humming could be heard in the eeriest of tones, with every swing and every stir. 


Retreat was a fair choice by the two, for the vast number of adversaries imbalanced the scale. The appearance of heavy blaster rifles meant that open field combat was not advantageous to the duo, and it was more cunning to funnel them into the dark and take them apart piece by piece. He was sure that was indeed their strategy, for cowardice would have sealed their fate otherwise. 



"On me." His voice was clear despite the pandemonium, a dreadfully calming elixir, echoing in the minds of Bakra and Fieldgrey.   



The blowout had kicked up more obscurities on the battlefield, and circumstances had now taken a turn in their favor. The smaller air-dock brimmed with smoke banks that rose from the canisters, fell in pours from the impaired ventilation, steamed wildly from the fallen star-fighters, and now crested from the thermal detonator. Visibility suffered to say the least. Exodus moved forward into the thick of it nonetheless, his dancing blade masterfully rejecting the barrage of blaster-fire coming their way. Heedless of where the blaster munitions came from, Exodus brandished his blade with his dominant left, and re-oriented the bombardment to instead neutralize the Cabal that attempted to surround their position. With his right, he summoned a brawny heave of the Force and peeled the weapons from the enemies that continued to advance from the northwest. A pair of heavy blasters, a few pistols, and a massive vibro-sword slid behind him. If Lady Awenydd and Petty Officer Bakra wished to turn the tide, now was the moment to seize.



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(Awenydd, Bakra, Exodus)


The Cabal could not understand how their press became stifled by an inoperable star-fighter shifting itself to obstruct their line-of-fire. Their two targets were quick on their feet, and worked to cover each other from harm. One of them quite obviously commanded the force, and the canisters thrown were immediately rejected from enshrouding their only real exit. How troublesome. And then unexpectedly, as their formations threatened to corner the Sith-Imperials, a thermal detonation ravaged more Cabal than one could count on their fingers. Bodies either completely disintegrated, or were torn limbless in front of their crew-members. Projectiles that were too quick to outmaneuver, smashed into the faces of Cabal who steadied their hands to adjust the accuracy of their running prey, the wizardry could only be explained as a witchcraft that now worked against them. The most forward of Cabal now had their head-gear crippled, while they gasped desperately for cleaner air. The porous vapor that bled from the canisters attached to their waist were filled with toxins that provoked incessant hives on the respiratory organs of the Trandoshans. This chemical weapon was lethally geared to Humans, and humanoids with close physiological makeups, rotting the stomach into nauseous fits. Now the Cabal drank of their own poison. 


They understood now that the two were slightly underestimated, and sheer numbers would be the only advantage they could find within the changing battlefield. While the first twenty were now hamstrung and rendered useless, the number of Cabal increased with fury. Visibility was more than poor, so the blade became the choice of weapon to cleave through the smoke. Cover fire still came in spurts, but a new arrival had now become a beacon of confidence. This man wielded an impregnable defense from ranged attacks, so the others pushed to attack the three in close quarter combat.  






The Juggernaut felt the bones of his enemy snap inside of his hands, crushing the life from the now limp body. He tossed the corpse with herculean strength, and laughed as it folded in on itself as it hit the durasteel walls. The remaining Imperials made a dash for it, taking their chances in the unclaimed corridors of the Dauntless. The beast of a creature, huffed with smug confidence as victory filled his belly. As the Engine room warded off the brunt of the soldiers, and quieter operations continued, the mysterious tick-tock of a nasty weapon could be heard, echoing off of the walls.


Shiro and company moved quickly, passing smashed droids and plain-clothed individuals devoid of life, some even flattened abnormally.  Just a few doors down, a small crew of five Sith Troopers rested in an open mess hall. Two of the men were injured, one so badly done in, that he could not afford to walk on both feet. The other three tinkered with their communication systems to no avail, hard-pressed to reach out to command. The busted radio spit out a loud static every few seconds, which was louder than normal because of how empty the mess hall was. They had weapons with them, short-ranged and close-quarter combat was within their outfit, ammo and equipment to aplenty. 


Shiro now took command of those that he arrived with, and had an opportunity to increase his grouping. They would be wise to keep the noise to a minimal however, for someone or something was listening..

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The hallway was long and dark, only the emergency lighting and visual capabilities of their HUDs giving any birth of sight for what remained of their group. Shiro ran at the front, the Z-6 gripped tightly in his hands, his gaze alert as they passed poor sods strewn about in a cadaver Station. Glancing at them here and there, he couldn't help but think back to the men that were lost and even farther back to the lives he claimed during his time in the Arena, the praise and glory he claimed seeming pointless and minute now. It felt as if it was all for not now, as if it was a fantasy one would grasp at in moments he found himself in now. Truly, despite the training he recieved, he was no where near ready for this moment. And he knew it.


After passing a few doors, Shiro's ears caught a sudden sound echoing ahead, his finger growing ready beside the trigger of the Z-6 as his gaze shifted in its direction, a door spliced open just up ahead. It was a faint sound of white noise and squelched pitches, and it drowned out the near silent squeaking as his feet slid against the metallic durasteel flooring in his attempt to stop when he reached its frame. If Shiro's finger had been any faster than his perifial vision, he would have lit the mess hall up with a barrage of blaster fire before he noticed the group of Troopers laying within.


"Might as well quit with the radio, Trooper." Shiro spoke as he entered the room, the others behind him save for the two who remained just outside on guard. "Comms are worthless. Can barely hear the man next to you expire through them" 


Shiro's gaze then followed the room until they fell upon the two injured, one in dire shape by the looks of it. It was a grizzly scene to look at, one of the legs so badly injured that bone stuck out the pastisteel of his armor. Shiro sighed. Even if they managed to get him out of here, by the time help arrived, infection would have likely set in, if he didnt bleed out first. There was no way to truly tell the extent of the injuries internally. Shiro looked at the others and shook his head. He wouldnt blame the man's fellow Troopers if they wanted to stay behind, but with the resistance they've ran into, their likelyhood of survival was slim to none. Shiro wasnt even sure of his own, and he had more men with him to watch his back.


"Your best bet would be to follow us. The more men, the better. But the one wounded, for sure, won't be able to come." Shiro spoke with half a heart, his sorrowful gaze meeting the quick glances of his teammate's surely anger filled glances behind their helmets. "He'd only slow us down and even if we managed to reach a safe spot to bunker down in, his chances of making it are nearly non-existent. I'll leave the decisions to you, unless you'd rather me choose, but you better hurry. We move out in three."


Shiro wasnt quite sure where this authority figure was coming from within himself, as it surprised even him. But he shrugged it off as being blunt and realistic. But as he recognized it, so too did his own men seem to see it. Because as he spoke, his men gathered at the door and outside of it in wait, their gazes fixated in both directions down the hall. With a large tug on the Z-6, Shiro moved and stationed himself near the exit. Three minutes and they would leave, with or without the Troopers.

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The mess hall was a disaster, there had been a struggle here, and one that lasted for quite awhile. When was in question, but the men here were too fearful and desperate for salvation to deliberate the details. This new unit did not come with hope either, but rather a brash truth that was hard to swallow. It was hard for these Sith Troopers to not wince behind their helmets, braver men than them had perished before this moment, but now they were asked to do a thing they wanted no part of. Even if the three of them knew each other for the briefest of moments, the direness of their situations bonded them as one. The injured trooper fell in and out of consciousness, unsure if this is where it would all end for him. Blood pussed from the severe crack in his shin-bone, and any attempts in stopping the bleeding at this point was a challenge itself. His mate tried her best, she was no medic, and she had to be softer with her naked hand as she padded the wound. She trembled with fear, holding the life of another within the grace of her palm, unable to make a real difference. Private Saldana could only close her eyes as she heard  Private Drustan unsheathe his pistol. He took two steps forward, kneeled in order to hinge the blaster under the jaw of his disabled crew-mate, and then yanked the trigger. 


The sound was cold, a simple merciful execution, but a chill could be felt between the two as the spirit of their Captain extinguished like a dying flame. The body of their leader fell slack, completely empty of life, but the blood still ran down the arms of a terrified Saldana. Her first kill was a thing of adrenaline, but to have someone die in her arms, she held back the urge to puke. Private Drustan on the other hand, holstered his pistol and scanned the cluttered hall, swearing he had heard a shift of movement before he shot his Captain dead. He ignored it, and made way for the unit that had just arrived.


He saluted, manipulating his ego to stifle the urge to shoot Shiro square in his face. “Private Durstan, sir. Sorry, who are-” The HUD of his metallic helmet pinged as friendly, but the readout of just who this man was, continued to come up as a registry line corrupted. He smacked his helmet once, and then a second time, but perhaps it was defected. Saldana still sobbed as the weight of Captain Iven slowly pulled from her grasp and eased onto the frigid embrace of the steel floors. Durstan had an odd feeling of suspicion creep up the back of his spine, realizing that he did not know these people, and communications were still dead-in-the-water. And, with the intelligence that Captain Iven had entrusted to him, this could turn ugly fast.


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"Na-hah ur su ka-haat.

Su ka haru aat"

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((Quick reply for Jax))


The pirate Jax had shot at quickly managed to duck, narrowly avoiding the blast that otherwise would have killed him outright. This was a call to reposition if he was that exposed. He quickly found a new position behind a support pillar, and went to work mowing down the remaining museum guards in the foyer.

Meanwhile, the two pirates on top the roof quickly finished blasting their way through the glass, giving themselves enough of a hole to shoot through. They would be able to keep fire on just about any other person in the foyer, allowing their compatriots to easily push and eliminate targets. They immediately both opened fire on the exhibit the Mandalorian was hiding behind, as clearly that was their most obvious threat here.


"You can't run forever, Mando! My boys and I will get you!"

Druj yelled out the taunt as he sauntered through the doors, shooting one of the last guards twice in the chest before walking to a nearby pillar, confident in the rest of his men that were now swarming into the building, minus the ones outside needed to operate the vehicle mounted guns.


"You're one man in an ocean of enemies. Give up, and I'll make your death quick. I might even leave your helmet on...can't smell nice under there."


Reloading his blaster pistol, Druj signalled for two of his men to rush and flank the Mando's position from either side.

((Breaking things up tends to make them more readable, though it's up to you how you do that. Typically, three to five sentences is fine for a break, or just group up relevant sentences. As for the pirate that survived, you used a closed attack to shoot him in the head as opposed for "aiming a shot at his head" or anything else that didn't imply he was hit. Phrasing is important in combat because of this, the devil's in the details as far as the Mods are concerned. Just some friendly advice. ;) ))


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Jax curses under his breath, he see's the two pirates attempting to flank him and immediately shoots the one on the left in the flank with his blaster pistol and the other with the blaster rifle in the chest. With the two most immediate threats dealt with Jax throws an Ion grenade up at the pirates in the Foyer to disable their weapons and give him some breathing room.

After the ion grenade goes off Jax bolts to better cover to deal with the pirate he'd missed earlier and the rest of the pirates that were beginning to flood into the building.


(Alright, I'll begin doing that... or attempting at least. I'm used to a pvp Rp and I don't like stating I hit or miss since I don't know exactly what the other player intends to do + it seems like a jackass move to say "And I blasted you in the head I win" If you get what I mean, so need to adjust to PvE)


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Mordecai received his orders and sent a simple affirmative to relay his compliance. This was tricky ground for him- He was no longer under the protection of Lord Valinor, but if hebehaved like  a meek dog he'd be treated as such. And while he saw value in being underestimated, he also had a lust for recognition. For status. And so while he yearned to join the battle and prove himself worthy to the Dark Lord, he knew this task was more important than one battle for one planet. Quela Darksong had been commisioned by the Dark Lord himself, which meant that his assignment held likely more value than this battle.


So he would comply. He'd whet his thrist  for conflict on another battlefield, and whether tht battlefield was in war or through diplomacy, he would strive to accomplish his goals. It was a short order to align his vessels, and when he was ready he accessed the communications.


"This is Mordecai. My ships are in position. We'll jump on your mark"




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Shiro stared back at the injured man, his stance seemingly cold and calculated, despite the gaze of sorrow he felt as he watched one of them make the long approach. It felt like an eternity in the moment and a part of him wished it to be over. But Shiro had called for the best of actions, and because of it, he felt he shouldn't turn his gaze away. He could see the breathing shallow, notice the body tense and go limp as the mind fell in and out of consciousness, and he could see the movements of the man's comrades as they grew ready for the moment just as Shiro did. And then came the glow of crimson as the bolt buried its self just below the jawline, most everyone jumping including Shiro. And in that moment, Shiro heard the familiar gurgle of death as the former sentient was released from his pain eternally.


It's only natural for anyone to second guess a suggestion or to wonder if they thought right along the process of logic and reality. And for Shiro, it was no different, his hands and body trembling as he watched the man expire. A part of him wondered if he could have been wrong and he just suggested a being's life to be taken. But there was also the half that knew better, knew the outcome no matter the routes taken and the luck granted. Shiro sighed and shook his head. He needed to think clearly and rational if he and the others were going to make it out of here alive, his glowing crimson eyes catching each of their stares as they began to look to him for guidence. And then the Trooper made his approach.


"Please, its Shiro Seven." Shiro spoke in return to his question, his gaze shifting in sorrow toward the Trooper who still held the body of her fallen comrade. "New recruit in the Imperial Marines, Private rank as well. We got pinned down just down the corridor by a few green men and a rancor sized beast wielding a cleaver. This direction was our best retreat."


Shiro pointed in the direction they had came from near the engine rooms where their Staff Sergeant intended to storm the bridge using the service lift, but before they could reach it, they were led into an ambush. And now, like these Troopers, they were leaderless and alone behind enemy lines. Not the best combination for fresh recruits. "Our Staff Sergeant was KIA'd and I've been doing my best to keep us alive."

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Bakra still hadn't gotten used to being in close proximity to the Sith, the subtle feelings of dread and fear and anger gnawing at the back of his mind. It was a feeling the Darth he'd arrived with hadinflamed, much to his dismay in hindsight, and one that the newcomer had intensified by mere proximity. Whover they were, they were dangerous. A voice in the back of his mind reminded him that the Dark Lord was present in the battle, but he shook that off at first. Surely  such a powerful individual wouldn't be here, in this hanger, with him?


Whatever doubts he held were quashed as he watched the warrior carve a bloody path through the pirates. And when the weapons flew towards him, he grinned.


"This is a real arsenal." 


He grabbed a pistol, jamming it into his belt as he holstered his own, and picking up on of the heavy blasters. He llet out and expiramental arc of blaser bolts towards the pirates, gettinga feel for the weapon. He laughed. Firefights weren't his cup of tea, but with guns like this and potentially the Dark Lord ofthe Sith as an ally, he was liking his chances. Still, standing  in the open like this was going to get him killed. He racedback towards the wreck of the TIE Defender, taking position nehind one of the wings.


He'd recieved blaster training as part of his enlistment, and had gotten into scraps in his days as a merc, but this was something else. Toxins burned as they made  contact with the bolts flying through the air, and the spaces they occupied were quickly reoccupied as more air tried to fill thee vacuum. He'd have to keep an eye on those clouds- he didn't know if his helmet filtered toxins or not, but he could do a lot from here.


His blaster barked with violent intent as he squeezed the trigger, holding it down and spraying in the generaldirection of the bad guys until the barrel started to steam. He swore. He should have  grabbed the other blaster, too. Still, the weapon seemed to cool quickly, and he fired again.


"Anyone see where they're coming from?"

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A solitary curse from Frostwin preordained a whole stream of curses that even made Delta’s eyebrows raise half a centimeter. 


“Flares dispatched from enemy positions, multiple flares fired from multiple positions. Enemies confirmed dug in.”


Frostwin’s rough voice grated through the internal speakers of Delta’s helmet, as the older man crawled back inside shaking his macrobinoculars to ward off the majority of the moonfall dust that was sticking to anything with any amount of electrical charge. Delta could feel it bunching at the seams of his suit and if he tried to brush it off the blasted dust would just stick to the fingers of his gloves instead. Delta growled as his grey blue eyes watched the command view map projected at the side of his HUD that was being routed down from the signal corps to the general channel. Those Marines were coming, but not nearly fast enough. He looked back at Frostwin and Blacktorin who were looking out of their makeshift cave with as much concern as could be shown from immovable ‘T’ shaped visors. 


Delta extended his hand again for the cleaned Macros’ and when he had received them, he whispered a prayer and crawled back out next to the prepositioned antenna. He set the Macrobinoculars down beside him on the bare duracrete and while keeping himself ducked down behind the fallen rubble scrabbled at his wrist mounted datapad. He found the external cable and pulled it from its sheathing and with a yank he pulled out the slack from the small compartment. He reached above him to the mounted antenna and pushed the cord into its reciever, re-connecting him to the main communications channel. He thumbed his receiver to another command channel that was labelled for the Ishi Tib Marine Company. His HUD flashed the channels until he landed on the right one.


Channel 33-1. Coded. Encrypt: ON


“Hotel Two, Lima One.” 


Static blasted his ears as his comm transmitter found its repeater on the overhead Victory Star Destroyer. A solid tone sounded then static again. A muffled voice then responded.


“Go for Hotel Two command.” 


Delta kept crouched next to the fallen rubble that made the entrance of the cave as he brought the Macros’ to his visor. 


“Your drop zone is in a possible killzone, be wary for incoming fire on landing. You will be dropping right on my position. Signal Lima One.” 


The voice sounded exasperated. “Hotel One copies, can’t you clear a path Sunner?”


Delta felt his blood pressure rise at the slight from the Sith captain on the other side of the comm line, but he kept his voice cool and steady.


“See you in thirty se-”


The rock right next to Delta’s face suddenly exploded in molten fragments that bit under his helmet’s collar. Though doing no deadly damage the sudden sharp pain caused the clone commando to drop the macrobinoculars and fall flat on his face. Was that energy discharge? No blaster trail. But it was no micrometeor, he had seen a moonfall some kilometer away, but no corresponding impacts next to him. He chalked it up to a missed blaster shot. It was better to be safe, and his position was now illuminated with flares that told every type of sniper where enemies were hiding. Perhaps he hadn’t seen the shot. But the fading pain in his neck told him all he needed to know. Micrometeors didn’t melt stone into chunks like that. 


He cursed and pulled his blaster pistol from its leather holster, beckoning to his two officers. He flipped comms back to Lima’s subchannel with a single button press. 


“Possible snipers, as soon as the drop pods hit, we move with them.” 


Small explosions echoed all around him as a dust storm was kicked up by the two dozen drop pods landing on the uneven ground. With the whipping dust obscuring anything three meters in front of them, the trio of Lima One command staff sprinted from their hiding towards the next patch of tumbled rubble in the direction of the Glory Bound. 




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Qaela nodded in response to the formation of the small fleet that had formed up around the Herløv. With a half smile on her lips, she gestured for Captain Geratos to send the signal to jump to hyperspace. Within moments, the specks of stars erupted into the swirl of hyperspace.

Qaela Sig

Send PM's to Travis.

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Through strength I gain power. Does that make strength or power the most holy? Not all power requires strength in the physical or spiritual sense. I can get much farther by manipulation and subtly than I would by the berserker strength of a Sith Warrior. Power is what should be worshiped, not strength. The weak should be destroyed.




The Force twisted about the Sith Lord, the feeling of a spider weaving a web of durasteel cables. Her footsteps stalled and she whipped herself about, braids whirling around her head like a dozen whips lashing on the backs of slaves. Her mind drifted to the descriptions Sheog had given of the Dark Lord’s influence and command of the Force. A master of assassins and shadows. A sneer contorted her freckled face


…Shadows and knives, but a spider is only king to the flies.


Darth Awenydd despised servitude, but no Sith could resist the call to slaughter. Pain blossomed into her focus, but it was not her own. She pressed her strength into a mad dash back into the fray, letting a hawkish cry spring from her lips. The souls she had touched before, the Trandoshans, were falling to their own weapon, the result of her attacks. Their crippling agony seared through her consciousness, bringing her alive with their shattering bodies. As the poison gas consumed their lungs, filling it with corrosion and rot, The Sith Lord drew upon their anguish. She willed them to live a moment longer, if only so they could suffer more.  


The weak must serve the strong. I am the strong.


The shattered decking the Fieldgrey had touched earlier cried out for her. The Sith Lord channeled the power of the Dark Side into the twisted durasteel as she ran towards the chaos of battle. She let the anger rise within her until she could feel herself begin the lose control. With each step towards the oncoming Trandoshan reinforcements, the pain of the dying threatened to overwhelm her senses.


From their chaos, I will bring…


The Krath brought the Force to bear on the durasteel, twisting it to her will as she amplified the pain of the dying Trandoshans, feeding on it like an ouroboros. She could feel the metal’s weight straining on her, trying to drag her down. The Sith Lord wrapped the decking in her anger, banishing the weight from her mind.




The decking sheared into ribbons like it was flimsiplast with a tremendous groan and an ear-shattering shriek. Amongst the haze, the shards of durasteel twisted to her design and began to tumble into a whirlwind about the Sith. Into it, she poured all of her hate. The durasteel made a screeching roar as it picked up speed, beckoned to a murderous haste by the Force.  


A lumbering Trandoshan ran through the haze, searching for his lost Vibrosword amongst the smoke. Darth Awenydd howled for his attention.


The Sith Lord could feel a twinge of fear in the force from the Trandoshan as he saw the chaos of her storm and she was drawn to it like a mynock to a power cable. She amplified it and let it grow, savoring the taste of reptilian fear before devouring it with her power.


Fieldgrey tore at his soul with her wrath, overpowering his own reptillian mind, consuming his consciousness with her ravenous desire for power. The Sith Lord could feel his life force dissolve beneath the withering assault of her storm, the total of his life vanishing like a handful of salt in the rain. She could taste it now, the stirring madness of power that was beginning to alter her seething soul into a mindless rage.


The heartbeats of the reptilian cabal flickered like torchlights in a darkened forest. The girl laughed wickedly, savoring the fight to come. Nothing would smother her fury; it could only be drowned in blood.


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Darker now, flashes of red blindly punching through the smoke. Blaster bolts. Exodus spread his stance thin, lowering himself nearly into a split. Weak lungs or not, a great many would slowly buckle into a wheeze if they were not wary, dropping below the smog was likely the best option here. The assassin closed his eyes to see what he could not with them open; as far as his natural sight could see, his unnatural mind had a vision that was nearly prophetic in efficiency. The hum of the warship drummed alive with echoes and sounds, senses that heightened him into an apex predator no matter the species he was up against. 



"I see every last one of them," His voice was charred with the Dark Side, but his answer met the curiosity of the Imperial Officer Bakra. 



Exodus tumbled forward into a clean roll, organizing enough momentum to torpedo his body like a bullet towards his enemies. It was absurd how his command of the force could accelerate his body the way it did. He spun through the air hard and fast, with the blade of his lightsaber in hand. With the red flare of Transcendence, it looked as if it were a ring of fire that surrounded him as he torpedoed into the fray. The first of his foes caught the brunt of his aerial speed, an aggressive Form IV punched into the Cabal with a force that would have ripped the Trandoshan into two. The assassin missed intentionally, spreading himself out again so that he could stick the landing just behind the stunned foe, driving the width of his red blade through the body of the creature that now stood within his kill zone. Execution of form was flawlessly delivered. The Trandoshan was dead before he could understand how quickly it had happened, his body slowly teetering apart at the seams from what was once whole. The Cabal stood dead, but managed slight movement from his pointed fingertips on his left hand. Exodus heaved upwards, and then diagonally with his weapon before kicking the upper half of his foe over. The left hand of the Trandoshan separated from the wrist, and his head fell clean off from where it just sat moments ago. Before the green-skin came entirely undone, the assassin was on the move again.



The speed in which he moved was hard to trace, but he needed them to try. A loud whistle cracked the sound of the chaos all around them. The sound was so naked and powerful, lasting only one full breath, but the hearing of it was what left a gnawing impression. It became a white noise inside of the mind of their enemies, 


"What is that noise?!

Focus, focus, find him!

Kill the bastards now!

...What is this force magic?

They have reinforcements, they are in the shadows you fools, shoot!"


The language was Dosh, so it came across as loud hisses, growls and grunts. The frantic ramblings implied their confusion, and now their desperation. They were beginning to see things, many things, shapes and sounds shuffling their feet behind the veil of low visibility. They aimed high and low, an obvious disorientation scattered across the small airdock in frenzy. Perhaps the Spider was toying with his food. Durasteel screeched off of the flooring, already compromised from the crashing starfighters, but now the metal was being manipulated. Darth Awenydd and her ally Bakra had found a new confidence, now pushing their own offensives. 


The heaviness of a vibrosword slammed into his crush-gaunt, with an intention to mutilate the Spider, but the quality of the armor-piece was underestimated. Metal clashed with Mandalorian Iron, naturally forcing the Dark King to brace slightly from impact, but the physiology of an Anzati was far superior to most. He adjusted quicker than most could, and immediately seized the weapon with the same hand, holding the Trandoshan closer, close enough that he could smell the rank odor from the underpits of the creature. “Where is the Arkanian Prisoner?” The Cabal hissed in his native tongue, growling obscenities from under his mask that truly answered nothing. The green-skin was rebellious and yanked harder with both arms to free himself, but the cumbersome weight of the vibrosword added to the difficulty. “Pic’ would be ashamed of these rodents.” Exodus leveled the red blade to the face of the Cabal now, silencing the incessant yapping coming from the despicable beast, Dosh was never a pleasant language to listen too. 


“Cow-erd” The beast tried Basic, so much hate bleeding through those beady eyes.



Exodus released the hold on the sword, dropping backwards by a step to avoid blaster fire. All youth and lean muscle came from the Trandoshan now, leaping forward into Exodus, waving the heavy blade in figure eights multiple times before crashing down onto the floor. The Dark King cracked a smile. This time, he ensured eye contact, the brilliant emerald of his eyes showing for the first time as his hood fell from his wolf-mane. For a brief moment, he could see real uncertainty in his opponent’s eyes, almost as if he was questioning his entire life to this point. But it was too late.


Advancing. Forward again. The Cabal charged at him with the heavy-blade upheld, going to his foreswing and following it with a backswing. The Spider dodged the first and met the second with his crush-gaunt once more. This time with a force that sent his opponent reeling, but not enough to knock the blade free of his hands. A raving set into the Trandoshan, understanding that his every move was futile. A small storm kicked up in the airdock, circling what he could only describe as a witch, and this man in front of him who was impregnable from the jump. He could see the other Cabal fall from crack shots behind the broken TIE fighter, his attention now scattered. 


“Focus on me, Trandoshan. You must watch closely, or you will miss the moment that you pass from this life into the next.” The voice of the King was smooth, alluringly so, but the otherworldly pitch of it sounded like he spoke from the grave. 


Dun Möch. The Trandoshan could not believe the audacity, he stampeded forward now. Swing. Swing. Swing. The first two missed horribly, and the third, a back-swing that lacked strength because of the exhaustion in his muscles. Exodus slapped the heavy-blade from the hands of his opponent and punched into his chest with the same hand, finding flesh and bone. The forearm of the King ate through his opponent as easily as air. The Cabal dropped to a knee, tried to stand, and dropped again. “I will find what I am after, reptile. Now embrace death.” Exodus reached deeper and squeezed, crushing the insides of his opponent, feeling every bit of a warm surrender. The life released from his foe, and so did he, pulling his arm from the idle corpse.


Exodus wasted no time and burrowed further, angling his attention now to the enemies that held their choke-point towards the north-western access. He was now the spear.



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Throgun noticed it first, pointing it out to Remar. The telltale meteor trail of Moonfall, but coming in from the wrong angle. Several chunks coming in from parallel angles. Drop pods. Remar swore under his breath. His enemy was skilled. This would not be a simple fight, and he held the lives of his brothers and sister in his hand. In the back of his mind however, he knew unless the entire squad used superior tactics to gain the upper hand, they were unlikely to prevail in their objective. Beneath his helmet, Remar's gaze hardened.

"Okay. Change of plans fireteam. Rin, see if you can snipe a few of our incoming guests before they know what hit them. Don't stay too long. Thro, covering fire. We retreat to the tunnels, use the terrain to our advantage, set traps. We might be able to repel them at that subterranean apartment complex if we're lucky, otherwise we need the strength of the rest of our brothers and sisters. Ready...move."

As one, the Mandalorians began a tactical retreat. Throgun's massive frame stood from behind his cover to begin raining rapid heavy blaster fire across the battlefield to hamper the Sith forces from advancing as long as he could. At the same time, Chun and Remar popped smoke grenades to obscure the Mandalorians' positions as much as possible, excepting Rina, who hopefully was still hidden in her sniper's nest. As soon as his brothers were clear, Throgun began slowly walking backward, finally breaking his onslaught as he rushed to rejoin his kin. The Mandalorians worked quickly, setting up a handful of mines and grenades attached to pressure plates beneath debris and thin tripwires strung low across chokepoints. They also covertly marked each trap for Rina, positioning a piece of debris here and there in symbols obvious to those trained know to look for them, but innocuous to the uninitiated.


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Durstan sighed heavily, realizing their luck couldn’t have been worse. He walked slowly to where Private Shiro had pointed and took a peek down the hall himself. His visor revealed only so much, the power supplies in this vessel quite clearly failing. He shook his head hopelessly, knowing now that danger was everywhere. He tapped his metallic cuisse and reached into  a hidden compartment to pull retrieve the datapad he just received from Captain Iven, “Well Private Shiro, you’ve got lead now.” 



He entered a sequenced password and confidential information booted to life.


Captain Iven: “.. Make no mistake, soldiers. The Hexa is a derelict warship helmed by the infamous Galactic Alliance. All record of its existence has been wiped from most databases, but we’ve stubbornly tracked it failingly for decades. Most of us drew this ship up as a rumor of war, nothing more than another fairytale to inspire our rebellion. The Hexa is nothing more than a glorified prison barge, operationally off-the-books, disconnected from the holier-than-thou governing body. An alliance I spit on. Once those bastards fell, once the Galactic Union rotted from the inside-out, this vessel was abandoned. They condemned their own as a sacrifice, authorizing the unsanctioned slaughter of countless prisoners without trial, in the dead of space. 


I don’t know what happened here, most of the cells are emptied, others have taken their own lives, and those that remained have been mutilated beyond recognition. Madness has taken hold of any we’ve come across. The Hexa is dead in the water, the power sources have been drained or stolen to a necessity. The commander of this ship returned against their strict order, but they did not expect to jump into the collision of Hesperidium and Coruscant proper. No one anticipated where this thing came from, but neither the Cabal or the Crusaders had the patience to understand what had landed between them. Their anonymity went unchecked, but Imperial Intelligence demands that we discover what was hidden here.  The commander? She--She (inaudible words, static) neurotic (inaudible words, static) no maintenance, no direction, and unable to preserve the livestock aboard the Hexa.


We attempted to access the terminals, but she hangs and cycles on any attempt. There is a darkness on the bridge, an artifact, or maybe a few. The Cabal are not themselves, there is something controlling them. They do not adhere to their usual scouting report, they are inconsistent. They are unpredictable. They are feral. Not to mention the (inaudible words, static). Orders are to retrieve the Seal! Then evacuate before this place blows to smithereens. I fear I will not see you all on the other side, stand strong and long live the Empire!"


The Immortal Seal of the Empire is used to mark correspondence from the Emperor to the Galactic Senate, and is also used as a symbol of the sovereignty itself. The central design, based on the iterations of pre-existing Empires, is the official coat of arms of the Emperor and also appears consistently on emblematic designs throughout their worlds. The seal of the Emperor was developed over a long period of time before being defined in law, and its early history remains obscure. A political signage for the ruler of the galaxy. The Galactic Alliance had this secreted away on the Hexa, as this is an iconic and empowering tool politically for the old Imperial regime.


“Private Shiro, this information is incriminating, even though the GA is no more, we are in dangerous waters.” Private Durstan walked over to the nearest terminal, handing over the datapad to his new leader before leaning into the terminal behind him. He went through familiar processes and then the transmissions systems cracked awake. The entire ship could hear this now;























Edited by Exodus

"Na-hah ur su ka-haat.

Su ka haru aat"

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Shiro's eyes burned with both anger and fear as he listened to the missive, his grip upon the datapad tightly squeezed as fractures began to cross into the video he gazed upon. Not only did the fear of the unknown set a weight within his heart, but the newly added weight of his comrades in arms now sat squarely upon his shoulders caused his neck to ache from the thought of their loves solely placed in his hands. He was a fresh recruit, barely out of basic training, and the only experience he had outside that was saving his own skin in the Arena on Krayiss II. This was a whole new league for him to be thrown into, and if the enemy contact they made previously was any suggestion of truth to the missive, things were about to get even more serious.


But if it hadn't been for the anger boiling in his blood, Shiro's level of anxiety would have sent him straight into a hyperventilate state. Shiro was a descendant of a POW, political prisoners locked away for lifetimes and generations by an ancient Imperial order that died out long ago. And for him to be thrown into another prison as an enemy soldier of another faction that hid it away from public eyes, one who supposedly served its public, infuriated him beyond belief. He knew the truth of politics, but this was beyond that. This was the same devil his ancestors knew assuming a different name and persona. Perhaps Shaq'teel knew this when he sent Shiro to join the Imperial Legions, to discover this truth for himself and offer a way for him to change it. Shiro's mind was ablaze with the information and possibilities that now presented themselves. And despite the fear, he knew his purpose now. He was an Imperial Marine, and he would serve loyaly to change things.


"Prepare to move out. We've got our orders. Dustan..." Shiro began to bark out orders, his blood boiling with anger and the missive fresh on his mind when he noticed Dustan messing with the terminal. "Its pointless. Comms are..." Was all he managed to mutter before an eerie message began bellowing across the ship, its automated voice repeating a cryptic sign. In a burst of anger, Shiro grabbed Dustan and shoved him against the wall near his men, rifles shouldered and at the ready by all. "What did you do?" Shiro blurted out, his glowing red gaze inflamed by the fire in his chest. "You've likely just alerted the entire enemy's army to our position."


Shiro couldn't believe the stupidity, but at the same time, he couldn't help but understand that if the roles were reversed, he might have done the same thing. So he released the private and ordered all to lower their weapons. "What's done is done. Prepare yourselves and move out. We certainly cant stay put any longer. We continue forward and pray to whatever Gods we worship that we dont run into anything. Double time it men!" Turning back to Dunstan, Shiro dusted off his armor and handed him his weapon. "Forgive me. Tensions are high right now and this missive only confirms the worst. Let's go." 


Allowing Dunstan to follow his fellow Troopers and Shiro's Marines, Shiro took up the rear, his Z-6 at the ready. Turning right out the room, the group began their trek once again into the unknown, the cryptic and eerie message on a constant repeat as it bellowed across the ship, echoing in the darkness of its holds and around every corner. Turning his gaze to Dustan once again, Shiro spoke a simple question. "Where is the Seal located?"

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