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Nar Shaddaa - Rebel Alliance Headquarters


Raven Nasra
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((3))

 

Aidan knew to maintain his ruse, he'd need to look worse than he was capable of. He hadn't planned on his opponent overwhelming him with skill, however, and the initial strike down Aidan's back was cut short as he barely pulled away in time. Another scar in his armor, another potentially lethal close call, but this fight meant nothing if Aidan wasn't willing to lay everything on the line. Another rapid strike to the back of his knees, but Aidan had already maneuvered far enough forward that avoiding the crippling blow wasn't a problem. What followed, however, absolutely was.

 

The first strike sent pain spiking up his forearm as he blocked it, the force from the blow nearly driving him from his footing. The second strike did drive him back, capitalizing on his already weak footing to drop him to one knee. Straining to use the Force, Aidan kicked backwards, avoiding the third strike, and telekinetically summoning a nearby chunk of detritus from the shuttle crash to intercept the fourth strike, but by that point, he was in full retreat. Luckily, he managed to find his footing again despite the shooting pains in his side and back, largely in part due to muscle memory, which together with the Force had been more or less keeping him alive this whole time.

 

But now was the time for the gambit. Even if Aidan could rattle his opponent here, it would likely mean the difference between success and failure. There was no room for doubt or error. Arrhythmically he began in on the same kata sequence of four last-second lightsaber strikes, but this time on the third strike he would wait for the follow through, igniting his lower saber at the last second, a blade he'd not used the entire battle. The Sith was skilled, but Aidan's strengths were in fighting smarter, not harder.

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Ruling on Frond vs Solus (Co-mod Mavenger)

 

A very unconventional duel, in which a Jedi(ish) character defends an orphanage against an attacker. The narrative of the duel was played well by both of you and gave me a good look into the hearts of the characters. Very exciting to see where both of these characters go from here. You both did very well. 

 

Frond has the Victory

 

I will say that Frond kept his advantage here for the entire duel, not only in being a knight level character vs an apprentice, but overall tactical and narrative control as well. A guardian played entirely in his own strengths of defense and close range attacks while facing an entirely unknown opponent. Deciding to not pursue into an ambush and staying close to the objective and meditating was the correct choice in the first post. 

 

Solus, I can see a lot of good things in your duel style. I really enjoyed this character and his frustrated personality. I cannot wait to see what kind of Sith he grows up to be. However I could not find a coherent plan in your three posts, and choosing to engage a Guardian where he is strongest, loosing an entire arm, then staying in that range to use the force was a tactical error. Other than that you did very well. 

 

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Commander - Darkhand Brigade - Sith Empire

Blood Prince

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((3))

 

Akheron observed and took note, cautiously as he made his advance. The heavy blows appeared to be driving his opponent back, a fact that excited the Sith Warrior as he found success. Defending himself against the counter attack and ducking below the debris, deflecting it into smaller chunks away from his face as Aiden flung it towards him, Akheron continued his assault regardless, ignoring the pain he felt in his ribs and his left arm. Instead he used it to fuel himself, fuel his desire and Rage to take the Imperial Knight out and feed the fangs of Darkness. His opponent for the moment was on the retreat, but he knew better than to trust the situation.

 

His opponent was smart and cunning. Throughout their bout he had come to somewhat admire his enemy. He respected his skill and defiance, his unorthodox approach, even if it would not save his soul from damnation in the end. His soul would be devoured as with all by the Fanged God. Using his experience wrought of a long life and many lessons, Akheron decided upon a strategy.

 

He knew both were getting exhausted, it was time to end the charade. Time to end his opponent or have his own life taken. It would be down to the next few moments, that much he knew. He could feel it. Gripping his lightsaber with his right hand, he looked at Aiden directly in the eyes as he stepped forwards, focused his senses.

 

Moving in the blink of a eye he confronted the first strike, judging the timing of the movement, and trusting his reflexes, now he had adjusted to the unorthodox strikes. Deflecting the second strike, but catching it across his faceplate, leaving a scar across his right eye, and adding further pain, he noted some hesitation from his opponent, like he was holding back. His intuition turned out to be correct when he saw the second lightsaber ignite and attempt to drive into him on the follow through. Using the Force he rolled backwards and off to the right side slightly, utilising a combat roll and hopefully coming up beyond the range of the lightsaber. Again he allowed his free hand to touch the ground as he rose up, and send death outwards in it's wake. A Force enhanced strike into the ground that would shatter the earth beneath their feet and interfere with his opponent's footing as debris and dirt were ripped free, like spikes of malice sticking out at jagged angles from the once flat earth beneath. Or so was the intended goal.

 

A setup for something more lethal, the endgame of his deadly strategy.

 

Utilising the Juyo lightsaber form of combat, as he had throughout the duel, Akheron struck with his full fury. Maintaining the outer calm associated with the form, yet with a intense internal pressure, he struck. Unleashing his full ferocity and aggression in a series of erratic and unpredictable strikes aided by the Force. Aimed for a single purpose, to take the life from his adversary.

 

Using the Force in the form of Force Speed, Akheron increased his speed, focusing his remaining energy to slow down his perception of the world and make himself a blur to observers as he was granted the ability to see the world and the entities around in slow motion. To anyone around not sensitive to the force, it would be like seeing a blur flash before the eyes. Striking four blows in a continuous barrage, Akheron aimed the first two to deflect and redirect the initial blows, a attempt to divert attention away from his true target. The third was aimed at the wound in his opponent's side, to drive deeply inwards and upwards and hopefully impale hiim before he would try to drive his lightsaber up his spine, severing it from his nervous system, and cutting outwards through the shoulder diagonally.

 

He hoped it was successful. It was a risky manuever he knew, and he risked more injury himself, but what was combat without risk. And he was willing to pay the price for victory. Either he would be successful and live another day of his opponent would. Either way the Fanged God and the Darkness would have their soul. A worthy sacrifice no matter the outcome. He was more than willing to sacrifice himself for his cause, yet he wondered was the Imperial Knight just as devoted. How far was he willing to go, he was about to find out.

 

((Utilised Force Speed to attempt to avoid the the third strike Aiden is attempting and potentially avoid the igniting second lightsaber. Followed through with another Tremor Impact to setup a Force Speed enhanced barrage of four strikes, two of which are deflections/redirects with the third aimed at potentially impaling deep into Aiden's wound in his left side and drive upwards along the spine out the shoulder.))

 

 

 

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"The universe started in darkness at a time when light didn't exist, and that is how it will end. Chaos and suffering is what brings us together. In chaos a man or woman will show who he or she really is and in suffering they will speak the truth. We are darkness incarnate, we are the evil. This cannot be denied, even by me. But without us there is no redemption, passion or order." - Darth Akheron

 

I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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The Neti’s blades each found their mark. 
 

One: the amethyst blade of Veivueti continued down it’s path, slicing deep into the chassis of Solus’ mechanical body as he drew it inwards towards himself. Meanwhile,

 

Two: Cynffon Sbeislyd arced to life in a blaze of hellish red driving it’s humming destructive energies squarely into the crashing droid’s core. With the movement of an alien vine, Frond flicked the blade rending the chassis of the metal man in two.

 

Three: the leafy green fire of Wähanga Tuarua broke free from the Sith’s deactivated saber, sending it’s hilt circlibg through the air. He twirled the blade within a leaf’s width of his own body as the tip of his saber hewed Solus’ head from his body. The mechanical housing tumbling down to the hard packed earth.

 

Staying on his rooted feet, Frond’s tendrilled body released the parts of Solus his viney amorphous body had grasped. The chunks of metal clattered to the ground as Frond’s one remaining eye focused on the glistening shorn metal of the Sith droid’s skull and the crystal that glowed behind it’s fractured facemask. The pain radiated from his body, his cracked wooden limbs, his missing face, his aged form feeling it’s millenniums of life.

 

All three blades hummed as Frond held them low regarding the unmoving Sith Apprentice. The force swirled all around them.

 

Slowly stepping forward, Frond knelt in front of the droid head. His purple and green blades arced through the air as the tree-man twisted his wrists to bring them crashing down on the scattered droid parts. The smell of burning metal and electronics curled into the air as the blades impacted the ground sending plumes of burning dust into the air.

 

Grasping Cynffon Sbeislyd Frond drug the blade across the metallic faceplate of the decapitated droid head burning it away and revealing the shimmering bright crystal that was Solus, the true planar prison of the young Sith.

 

With a hiss, all three blades retracted into silence, the ever nearing planetary pummeling the only sound that broke the force-induced heavy silence that hung around the pair. Frond’s body shook. The Neti’s leafy cloak rattling like a great wind passed through it. The pain that coursed through his body verged on anger as he stared down at the young prideful Sith who had spoken to to him so foolishly with his haughty misplaced ideals.

 

With his shoto this close, it would be simple to destroy the young arrogant stone. All he would need to do was move slightly. To end this thing once and for all, to return the balance.

 

And he almost did. One thing stopped him. It was not the children. It was not the planet that was crumbling around them. It was not this pathetic stone before him. It was much more simple. It was the force. If he did this, Frond knew he would only be sealing his destiny to fulfill this stone’s fate. To feed the dark side that surged all around them already.

 

And still, Frond’s worn ancient body hurt. The blast to his face radiating with agony. His deformed face cracked into an even wider smile, accentuating thr mangled half that remained as brown sticky sap oozed over his lips. Retracting his blades into his body, Frond reached out with a elongated viney hand. He picked up the stone, mental waves of though radiating from Frond to Solus. He would show the being the freedom he could have from the chains of the Sith.

 

The force surged through Frond’s cracked and decimated body. It coursed through his form up through his fingers to where he connected with Solus; his wooden fingers against his crystalline form. Through the pain, Frond felt a sense of overwhelming peace. It was the peace of the force itself, hovering over and above the massive powers that sought to control this world. It was a healing growth that surged upwards from the ground through Frond and latched onto the life force of the crystal itself. The healing power of the force connected the Neti and the Shard, connecting focal points of injury in Frond’s body to matching points in Solus’ foreign form.

 

The force moved in a whirlwind that embraced the two. The pieces of Solus’ chassis and his lightsaber were sent flying through the air, thrown outward with such force that they disappeared beyond the rooftops. The dust whipped up around them until they were obscured from the world beyond. The force surged, the power of life, the energies of death, descended from the cosmos itself as it bridged the two shimmering lines of power, moving injuries and pain from one to another.

 

In moments, Frond’s cracked wooden limbs strengthened, corresponding cracks etching themselves through the Shard. The Neti’s face began to grow back, his blasted head reforming newer than it had been in centuries. Meanwhile, as his injuries regrew and reverted, the blast took hold upon it’s new target; Solus. A corner of his crystalline form erupting in an explosion of force power leaving jagged edges where it had once been smooth.

 

And as Frond was healed, his injuries and wounds transferred to Solus’ crystal body, his newly reformed face twisted into a warm smile as his mind touched that of the stone’s. Once he was renewed, the winds died and the dust settled. Standing there in the epicenter, Frond cradled the cracked and damaged Shard in his viney hand

 

“Clouds across the moon,” he whispered  to the pained Shard in his hand as if the doctrines of the Sith obscured the purity of eternal light that lit up the darkness. “Dragons struck down by the storm.” Every one who had flown to high and forced low by their own desires.

“Unbound by the Mind.” Frond’s thoughts turned to the few Sith he had known to give up their occultist doctrines and embrace peaceful freedom, released from their traumas, their souls soaring beyond their natural forms.

 

Slowly, Frond tilted his hand and the Shard tumbled out of it to the ground a cracked soul.

 

Turning, Frond began to walk away. The children of the orphanage having been able to escape during the maelstrom. He had nothing left to say to the Shard. He left the Sith apprentice with much to think about as he lay in the dust, the sands of Nar Shaddaa filling in the newly formed cracks.

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Oh she is delicious… Can we have more of her?

 

The Sith Sword, its edges warped in shadowed space began to gleam a deep red, as if its starfield had wandered into a nebula. He let the greatsword fall to a low guard, strengthening his left hand and loosening the grip of his right. The Jedi too, seemed to change. Her ordered nature becoming bestial, her beauty, feral.

 

So this was the fabled Jedi, wounded for the first time and already willing to give over to the immorality of the Dark. Their light was always cloaked in shadow, and hers seemed to be streaming in around the edges. It was a pity she had not fallen sooner, he had no intention of sparing even a convert today. Her anger was delightful, but would not save her from doom.

 

As she retreated, so the Sith Lord advanced undeterred, emotionless, and calculating. He began to feel something, small invisible hands beginning to grasp at him, to tear at his arms and hands. The Sith Lord took a slow breath, letting his sensations rise to his flesh, expanding the locus of his control. So many of those that used the force did so externally, but he had never mastered that. He was a warrior, flesh and blood were his blessing.

 

So, she meant to draw him close. A lure and a trap, but one ill-calculated. A bitter mistake made by even a Grandmaster of her order. He could feel her pull, beckoning his grip to the woman’s right, to that blade of pure silver. Both hands were bidden, and so, in his calculations, he made a sacrifice.

 

He let that Jedi pull his left hand to her weapon, his sword-arm, letting her power drink greedily of the offering as stepped forward, wrenching his right arm from the anemic grasp of the Light Side. Her own attack would be her doom. He let the greatsword rise in its hilt towards her right hand and its silver blade, leaving Bloodletter's point directed at the blazing orange of her left. The Sword seemed to cry with glee.

 

The lammeler plating buckled against the woman’s lightsaber, searing the silver blade through and into the flesh below with the cracking of ice and the sputtering of cold-blood on a superheated blade. His left arm burned as he came within a handsbreadth of the Jedi. His fingers tightened to a white line on the handle of Bloodletter, and The Sith Lord pressed that left arm forward, cutting under her right guard to shove the handguard and a half meter of the greatsword towards that thin, pale neck with the speed of summer lightning, to strike the head from the tameless girl. Pain raced in cold fire down his left arm, ice beginning to crust over burned flesh. His teeth ground, yet his face showed no emotion.

 

The rise of emotions he tamped down, letting the release of them feed his speed and strength. His right arm, free from the Jedi’s grasp, was brought to bear against his enemy. It was bound in the crimson glass of blood-formed ice, and he would use it as a greathammer. The Jedi’s delicate face, rare with beauty, would be his anvil. That complexion, exquisite as if carved from alabaster would take the full might of a Sith Warrior, again and again, until nothing would remain but deformed skin, shattered bone, and brains scattered upon crimson tile.

 

((3))

 

((A pleasure, apologies for the delay))

Death is No Escape

 

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Terra slammed her fist into the durasteel doorway, a smart of pain arising from swiftly bruising knuckles. The blast door refused to open, despite boiling her anger. A low growl rippled from between clenched, darkmetal teeth. She tasted the metallic bitterness of her own blood, a byproduct of the Sith alchemy that had woven her jaw together, leaving it a trap of sharpened fang and bleeding gums.

 

The Sith had finally struck. The assassin had expected it months ago, but she hadn’t seen the Sith in such a powerful array of force since the days of old. According to the data readouts, there were hundreds of starships at play, landing teams of Mandalorians, and at least three Sith incursions into the Headquarters of the Rebel Alliance. Yet, she was trapped here, in an access courtyard, blocked in by power failure. Hades was not far away now, awakened in the depths of the undercity and rapidly approaching. Her personal guard were above, aboard the Misencordia, no doubt fighting and dying for Raven, of all people.

 

Redemption is what they had called it, for the sins of their failed crusade. Her thoughts were interrupted by the jaded cry of ion engines and she watched a group of Fang-Fighters crack the sky above. Next, blasterfire cut into peace of the garden, coming from the entrance nearbye. She stepped back, a rising rage in her veins as fate began to dig its talons into her mind. Realization.

 

The Combat-AI, began to anaylze the sounds of war, displaying types of munitions used, mixing with input camera feeds to produce a clear picture of what was occurring. It showed assault shuttles and battle. The assassin primed her jetpack, adjusting the flight nozzles for rapid leap with a blink of her eye.

 

Tros was here.

 

Fate was funny, in a twisted, evil way. Pitting former brothers against each other. A metallic, discordant roar and the Basilisk swooped in, and she leapt up with a blast of the jetpack. The leather saddle was already warm, and the swirling darkmetal plating of its shifting armor seeming to kaleidoscope her sensors, causing temporary blindness. From that darkness shifted the discordant voice of a thousand dead friends, blended together.

 

…Are you ready to kill a Vod such as he…?

 

Terra winced. The thought of killing another friend made rage blossom afresh in her heart, her blood rushing hot in her cheeks. She gripped her rifle in hand, setting the slugthrower to a 3-round burst.

 

“Of course I’m ready. I've done it before.”

 

The War Droid let out a cackling, horrific howl that shattered the air as it leapt above the walls to land before the shuttlecraft, between the advancing enemy and their target. A bestial guardian for an Empire that had long scorned it. On its rearing back sat Terra, Mand'alor the Bloody, Beskar’gam of pure black and swirling crimson runes, with a circlet of copper upon the buyce, catching and spinning the failing light of a world at war. 

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To the Death...

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Spoiler

So here we are again. Back in the void. The darkness. The darkness beyond all darkness. The abyss that no abyss compares to. 

 

Rah! Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid! Here I thought I had advanced to godhood! Hadn’t i? I remember the visions. Those sights from so long ago. From before when i was here. I was like those beings. Those things I called deities. Those beings…was I not one of them? I carried their swords, commanded their powers, spoke their languages, did their deeds… I was one of them! I was a deity! 

 

So why am i back here again? Where did I go wrong?

 

Gah! I feel! I feel…pain! Is that pain? I have never felt this kind of pain. Can one experience pain without a body? Can a soul be wounded? Can a spirit be damaged? The answer must be yes, for I can feel it! It sears my very spirit and my essence! What kind of damage is this? Is this one of the Force? It must be! That tree, does he seek to destroy my very soul?

 

The pain, it grows! Leave me alone you stupid tree! Don’t you know what you do? Bah, I would be the one doing this to you! You do not deserve this boon of destruction. I was a slave to the abyss for an eternity, until I ascended! Have you experienced such pain before? The pain of isolation?

 

Bah, the Force will help me, will it not? I am a vessel of the force is what my father taught me. The force is my power. I will fuel the force, and the force will fuel me. I will focus. Focus. Focus. What do I focus on? The shapes? Yes the shapes… Focus on the shapes… but it is so difficult! The pain you cause…its noise! But not noise I want! You speak in the language of sound. That noise is good! But this noise, it is not the language of sound. It is the language of pain! And I do not speak it! I hate it! I Hate it! Because of you, I can’t feel the Force, and i hate it!

 

I hate you…How I hate you!

 

Hate! Hate is now what I feel! My pain fuels my hate, son of stump! My hate makes me bear this pain a little further! You may think hate is bad…isn’t that what you Jedi think? Hate is negative? No! Hate is useful! Hate is helpful. In the abyss before this, I did not know hate. I knew anger, i knew confusion, i knew a great deal, but I didn’t truly know hate. But now I do. Hate is what i feel! Hate! Hatred for you, hatred for this abyss that swallows me, hatred for the noise. Hatred that makes me scream! 

 

I must scream! The pain, it grows. I must scream! I must scream, but I have no mouth. I have no arms to flail, no voice to shout…but I must! Oh cruel cruel cruel life, how was I cursed to such existence!  Let me back out! Let me back! Let me back please…please! 

 

Please…I’m weeping now, please let me back. The pain isn't going away… It hurts so much…why can’t anyone hear me? Why am I doomed to this existence? I did nothing wrong to deserve this pain! I was a useful and good shard! My family disowned me, separated me from my kind, banished me to the darkness. And you, tree, banish me here, though you are not my family! Why? Please answer me, answer me why this pain is being done?

 

What is that? I hear, but that is impossible…how can I hear when there is no sound to listen to? I sense that presence…is that the tree i sense? Is that you? No it cannot be, you are not like that. I sensed you before tree, you were quieter. Still. A pool of calm water between roaring mountains. That…what is it that i hear? It’s noise…buzzing…no sawing…no screaming and hissing.

 

Screaming? Hissing? Here? In the abyss? How is that possible?

 

And why does it get louder even now? 

 

Back…get back… I hear you approaching, as impossible as it is… Get back! No, don’t! I can see you! Your shapes, they are clear. They are ugly. Neither rigid nor loose, but some degenerate form of between and before. Before when shapes had form, that is the form you have! You horrify me. Get away! Get away! Please, don’t approach! Your screaming, its too much! 

 

No, this cannot be. This cannot exist. In this place, there is nothing…right? When I was here before, there was nothing, and so there must be nothing now. But there is something! Ever since…

 

Aaris…

 

That necromancer! He cursed me! That explains this! He grew envious of my talents and cursed me! I killed him, and destroyed his body, and to defeat me, he cursed me! That must be it! He will pay! How I hate him too! Him and the tree! And my master! He wounds me when i step out of line. How I hate them all! If my body was a millionfold bigger, and Stitchface wrote hate on each nanometer of it, it would not compare to the hate I feel! 

 

Gah, it still gets closer! Stop please! Does my hate not intimidate you? Is my hate and my envy not a blade to fear? Does it feed you? Is that why you approach? Is that why your screaming and demonic screeching gets louder? Get away, get! Leave me be! Please! Don’t….

 

The pain…it grows… its not the tree…i don’t think…I don’t know, its hard to think…its hard to form words…my brain…my spark, my….soul i guess…whatever… something. Its too hard to…i don’t know…

 

Focus Solus! Focus! Its cloudy but not cloudy. Its rainy but not rainy. Its dark but not dark. Its…beyond? Is that what I feel? Beyond? Is that what is approaching? Beyond? Does the Fanged God approach to feed on me?

 

No! That cannot be, i have not done enough….i think. What is enough? What is…i don’t know…i can’t think…its hard to think. My lines, i feel them slow down. Or maybe they are speeding too fast for me to use? Is that possible? 

 

Gah! Go away thing! I have no mouth, but I command you to go! Go! Leave! Please, leave me alone!  Please! Something help me! Don’t let this thing…this falsehood…devour me! Please, help me! Master! Help me Akheron! Help me now! I have no mouth, but i scream for your help! Any help! Anyone's help!!! Please!!!


The shard, in its now cracked and damaged form, began to resonate with heat. The lines inside began to make circles, as its color tinged black. The dark side radiated from it, pulsing in the force sporadically and sluggishly. Several cloudy eyes began to peer and stare out randomly, vanishing away before they could be seen. 

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The four scouts moved cautiously and fluidly down the hallway. Their lines of sight overlapped one another, one covering the other in case of a surprise attack. There was nothing yet.

 

”Where are the invaders?” Rags growled as he adjusted his grip on his carbine and peered around the corner they came to. “So much for great warriors. Can’t even invade a research building properly.”                                      “Clear.” He growled as the team continued to move.

 

Coming to a lift the team stopped. 
 

“Filed are in the basement,” Christoph stated, gesturing to the lift doors suggesting a thought. It would be a lot quicker and easier to take the tube downwards.

 

”Not in an emergency. We could get ambushed.” The youngest member of the team chimed in, disgust at the mere idea present in his voice.

 

“He’s right.” the leader of the team nodded. “We take the stairs. They should be just down the hallway here.” Benjamin led the team further down the hall where they stacked up at the door.

 

A serious of hands on shoulders and taps silently signaled readiness for the team. Kicking the door Benjamin and company poured into the stairwell. Two of them looked up. Two down.

 

Several shots rang out from above sending Rags and Christoph ducking for cover along the circling stairs. “Contact!” The intel officer chimed as both he and Christoph returned a stream of fire with their EE-4s.

 

Keeping the downward stairwell covered, Benjamin growled. “Help ‘em Steve. We’ve gotta get downstairs anyway. The Imperial-clad Chiss spun around adding his firepower to that of the other two.

 

The duo of hulking Mandalorians continued their slow deliberate process down the stairs raining their own fire down upon the Squad. Bits of duracrete filled the air as their blasters wore away at the makeshift cover. The Imperial Scouts backed away down the stairs trying to keep a layer of defense between they and the approaching Mandos.

 

”Guns aren’t working.” Christoph growled.

 

”Obviously.” Rags retorted as he yanked a smoke grenade from his belt. “Grab a screamer Steve.”

 

With an underhanded arc, the team’s intel officers lobbed the grenade upwards around the edge of the chipping stairwell. The clatter of the weapon was drowned out by the Corporal’s grunt as a lancing spear of energy tore into his forearm, the smoke grenade falling to the floor beside the team and instantly starting to spew a thick expanding inky cloud of dark gray smoke.

 

Christoph grabbed Rags by the collar and yanked him backwards as the scout instinctively grabbed for the burning injury.  “Number 2 is hit.” He shouted over the din into his comms.

 

”Downstairs. Now!” Benjamin urged them, pushing Rags and Christoph before him down the stairs.  He turned and took aim at the head of the Mandalorian who appeared crouching to  take better aim at the party. The cloud of smoke already enveloping the scene. Benjamin squeezed off several shots towards the T’d visor as Steve loosed a sonic grenade and overhand pitched it into the billowing smoke before hurrying after his comrades down the stairwell.

 

Benjamin brought up the rear as he kept up a barrage of fire into the billowing smoke. The entire team hurrying down the angular spiraling staircase two flights down to the lowest level of the basement. 
 

Crashing through the door at the final level, the team spilled into another empty corridor. Benjamin slammed the heavy durasteel door shut behind them and spun the lock. “You alright Rags?” he asked.

 

As Christoph sprayed bacta directly onto Rags’ wounded forearm directly through the scorched armor, the wounded Scout nodded. “Yeah. I’ll live. Wheres the files at? That door won’t hold those boys for long. Crouched against the wall, Christoph lay his rifle across his lap. “I’ll watch the door, burn ‘em up.”

 

Waving at the others from down the stereotypically dimly lit narrow hallway, Steve whispered, his voice clear and raspy over the comms. “I think this is it.” He tapped a door with blocked letter emblazoned on it: WEAPONS FILES.

”Its locked.” 
 

“No waaay.” Rags rolled his eyes sarcastically. “Can’t imagine why the Admiral would keep those files under lock and key. Blow it off the hinges and lets get moving.”

 

”The door is reinforced. Imperial Security Code Six.” Steve tapped the thick door.

 

Benjamin and Christoph moved towards the door. “Anyone got any actual explosives?” Benjamin asked looking towards each of the three. All three shook their heads.

 

The door lock could be opened by retinal or palm scan or a swipe of a security card. None of which the team had. The thick gas that filled the stairwell was beginning to leak under the door having filled the narrow stairwell and the Mandalorians were still somewhere on the other side.

 

”Whats next door?” Benjamin asked, pointing to the doors on either side.

 

To the left Steve read “Personnel Files”

 

”Janitorial.” Christoph parroted.

 

”Leave it to the Empire.” Rags laughed in his mic from down the hall.

 

”Into the closet.” Benjamin chuckled, signaling the other two janitorial closet. “Shoot the walls.”

 

The deafening roar of the two troopers carbines was dulled by the sound-dampeners in their helmets as the drywall in the janitor’s closet chipped away easily beneath the withering fire of their weapons. One had to love government contractors, especially on a world like this. Core-level security door, cause who would think to dig through the wall. Chunks of walk fell to the floor as Steve and Christoph’s weapons dug a hole in the thick wall. It would be a matter of a minute and they’d be in. Already they had punched a hole in the wall.

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Character sheet

 

Benjamin Wood

Ragnar Kran
Christoph Sokol

Krilst’eve’nuruodo

 

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The sound was familiar to him long before his own HUD picked up and told him what was approaching. Tros knew the sound of Hades, he had heard it many times before, even fought alongside it in many battles. There was no way it was without Terra, as the two were a package deal. What in all haran... He knew it would only be a matter of time before he would have to engage the Mandalorian whom he once followed. He didn't think he would have to face her this soon, or even with Hades. It was an odd thinking pattern, to which even he knew it from just thinking it. But now was not the time to worry about his own failings in thought patterns. It was war. His House was present to make a mark. Terra was not apart of their war, but he would not hold back if she attempted to stop him. 

 

The air felt thicker now, almost as if the tension between both parties of Mandalorians understood what was at stake. Kinslaying. Although in the eyes of all Mandalorians, such a thing wasn't frowned upon. It was simply growth between one house or another, or just an unfortunate part of war. For House Solus, Terra and her followers were not aruetiise. They were simply opposition standing in the way of their objective. And within his own mind, Tros knew that he couldn't kill Terra. She was Mandalorian and still a friend. He would disarm and remove her from the fight. But he would not kill her unless she left him no other choice. 

 

Tros put both of his Westar 75 blasters away and instead pulled out his Westar Assault rifle. It had a greater range, not as much as he would like, but far greater than the heavy blasters. Accuracy was not a strong suit for these weapons, but more of a steady line of consistent fire rate. His first shot would have to count. And with upon Hades, it needed to take Hades out or move the war droid into a position of not being relevant to the battle. He doubted that he could with his current weapons without killing Terra. A Bes'uliik was a hard thing to bring down in the old days. With current technology upgrades, they aren't as hard, yet could still prove to be a pain to anyone who didn't know how to deal with them. Taking a breath in, he slowly aimed through his HUD towards the main neck-like area of the droid. It held the least amount of coverings, and in many attempts when struck there or near, the droids self preservation normally could throw it's rider off. If not, it would mean hellfire being rained down upon him quickly. 

 

Slowly letting his breath out, he whispered mainly to himself. "Ni ceta." Then he opened up fire, letting his finger push down upon the trigger of the Westar assault rifle. He would hold onto the trigger until the cartridge emptied fully and needed a refill. His hopes was that he would level the playing field, if only slightly. But for now, Terra and Hades would have to deal with the full 65 round burst of concentrated fire. 

 

((1))

Opened with a steady stream of fire.

 

haran - Hell

aruetiise - Traitors

Bes'uliik - Basilisk war droid

Ni ceta - Sorry

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Mishuk gotal'u meshuroke, pako kyore.

 

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((Co-mod Mavanger))

 

A good duel of two close range characters, one side utilizing the tried and true blade work of the Imperial Knights, and the other using the Sith Guide to its maximum. Both were well written, however:

 

Aidan is the close winner

 

The crux of this ruling comes from both character’s second posts. Aidan did very well in respectign the attacks of his opponent, playing them out viscerally and realistically. While Akheron took damage from the first force blast, and completely ignored the rest of the attacks, writing the whole saber kata and force tripping via barrier as ‘Jumped over.’ This is not respecting your opponents' attacks. Also, word for word copy pasting from a guide for the effects or expectations for a move or an attack pulls the reader out of a duel. Try your best to explain an attack or move without relying on its name to put across what it does. Explaining its effect in your own words.

 

Again both writers did well, but Aidan’s tactics were more consistent with an overall plan. 

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Commander - Darkhand Brigade - Sith Empire

Blood Prince

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The Eternus shuddered as it dropped through the chaotic atmosphere. The yacht was a decidedly out of place craft in the swirling dogfights taking place the world over. And yet, it remained unoppressed by both Sith and Alliance craft alike. A nonthreatening craft with no life signs aboard.

 

The taste of death hung heavy in the air. Unreaped souls ripe for the taking. The atmosphere was practically dripping with them to the point that Inmortos sat straight up from his death-lime trance, called back to life with the raw power washing over the planet.

 

As the ship settled amongst the burned out rubble of a crater that had refently been a hospital, Inmortos could not exit his vessel fast enough. As his feet touched the soul, a dark sigh of contentment escaped his lipless mouth. The blood was still fresh in the parched earth. 
 

With empty vials held in each skeletal hand, Inmortos moved from his ship and through the bombed out medical ward. Not a soul lived here amongst the dead. Ancient words of power rained from the necromancer’s skin-draped skull summoning the recently released souls from their trajectories for afterlives to himself, capturing them for eternity within his vortex of will.

 

Each bottle filled with multiple faceless unidentified souls. It did not matter whose they were, what the stories of their lives were, they were his to do with as he pleased now; bound to his desires. One bottle filled and was stoppered and replaced by another withdrawn from the cavernous robes of the Krath. 
 

Down the shattered street, Inmortos glode like a wraith, the specter of death on the battlefield. Where he found a survivor, their life was snuffed out and soul claimed. He did not stop until the pet of Akheron’s apprentice ran into view slowing to whimper as he looked at the necromancer. The muttering stream of words falling from Inmortos ceased.

 

”The crystal.” He whispered sensing the trouble that the young Shard had fallen into. He chuckled menacingly. He did not know what had befallen the Sithling, but he would be there to witness it. “Lead.” He growled to the canine as he approached the saddened wardog.

 

The canine scurried away and Inmortos followed. He did not hurry. Keyed in to the apprentice’s pain, Inmortos telished it, following the trail of suffering, disgrace, and pain through this forest kf death as easy as the hunting dog could follow the dripping wounds of a wounded ronto.

 

As he moved, pieces of metal, of droid, fell from the sky. Pieces of Solus. Clattering at his feet, the Shard’s lightsaber landing in the dust with a plume. It was enough to stop the god-king. In a world filled with death, here was an item that hungered for it. It disgusted the lord of death that any self-proclaimed Sith would not sate such a desire.

 

Stooping, the Sith plucked the hilt from the dust and pocketed it knowing such a weapon meant something to many. He would not allow such a thing to fall into the hands of the Jedi.

 

Moving onward, the necromancer did not stop until he stood over the shattered Shard. His shadow fell over the cracked crystal. He regarded the damage to the apprentice, not just his exposed form, but to his soul as well. He felt the turmoil of emotions that radiated from it. His rotted tongue flicked over his jagged teeth hungrily, his own deep deathly stillness eating them up like a black hole. He could feel the would-be-assassin’s fear, his cries for mercy from his master; a master who was not here.

 

Slowly, Inmortos reached down and clasped the broken Sith’s crystalline body amongst his bony fingertips. He held Solus up to the sky, allowing the violence of the sunlight to refract crazily through the swirling vortex of emotions that poured from the stone. 
 

“Your master cannot save you now.” Pulling the Shard’s saber from his robes, he held it gingerly beside the crystal, clanking the two together. He did not need to say a word. He had made his intentions for the stone made well enough before. To carve down the imperfections of the Sith’s shattered body and hone him into an actual weapon of the Sith, to bind his soul within a saber, his eternal damnation the power by which he could claim worlds.

 

He smiled as his glee washed over them both before his attention was called beyond the horizon of the devastated world. Explosions rocked the world around them. Turning his lidless eyes back to Solus he hissed, “I sense your master is in trouble as well. It is good that I have come to carry you both, lest your souls be lost to the Jedi forever.”

 

Inmortos pocketed the Shard and his saber, one on each side of his skeletal form. The deep powers of death clawed at the Shard’s soul, unable to lay claim to his fractured form. Solus’ soul belonged to Inmortos now and death would not take the fallen until the god-king loosed it from it’s bounds. “Come. Your life may yet be of use to your master.”

 

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He'd done it.

 

Somehow, something Aidan had changed, he knew he was going to get through this alive...his opponent shot towards him, and the battle torn Imperial Knight knew he was reaching the limits of his physical endurance. His saber lanced out to meet his foe's, and Aidan abandoned the strategy of disengaging his blades as he no longer had the endurance for the speed required. High above them an explosion thundered across the sky as a falling Imperial shuttle seemed to impact with something in midair. Out of happenstance this was at a near perfect angle to cause debris and slag to rain down on Aidan and his Sith foe. Also in the mix was a bit of cryogenii extraterresimian, but that was a story for another time.

 

As the Sith went for the death blow, they along with Aidan seemed to simultaneously realize that were they to stay in that spot any longer (say, to attempt to finish off a wounded Imperial Knight), they would be pulverized by the falling debris. The one sane angle of retreat was back toward the safety of the rooftop and landing pad.

Aidan chose to leap for the edge of the roof. 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

For a moment the freefall disoriented him, the air ripped at his wounds, and he simply trusted in the Force.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Far below, he managed to slow his fall and catch himself on a large outdoor laundry drying operation, clothes of all kinds having been strung across cords after having been freshly cleaned by the business owner. Thankfully the place had already been evacuated, or they might have been a bit mad at the damage Aidan caused. There was no way his opponent could have followed him if they didn't also leap, not to mention navigate through what felt like passing shuttles. Sometimes...the Force simply provided. It didn't take long to find his way out and signal for transport. He knew one thing for certain: he was no longer of any use here.

 

Half a standard hour later, Aidan watched the stars zip to starlines outside a viewport as his Medevac shuttle made the jump to hyperspace to rendezvous with a nearby medical frigate.

Edited by Aidan Darkfire
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Akheron smiled under his mask as he made his attempt and yet his positive disposition soon changed. The young Imperial Knight started to gain the upper hand, as both opponent's engaged, saber meeting saber in equal measure before all he felt was more pain as he was impaled in the side, searing a long line of cauterized flesh. Moments later and a explosion occurred, disengaging he stepped back as debris and molten slab rained down to seperate the two just as he thought he was about to finish his enemy.

 

It appeared the Fanged God had other plans for the two, or so the Sith Warrior thought as he found he could not reach his adversary in the aftermath. Instead Akheron, with a look of disappointment upon his face found that he could not and would be unable to finish the bout, one which had tested his abilities, was forced to tactically retreat as he, despite his immense pain dodged and weaved the opposite direction to the Imperial Knight attempting to avoid the rain of hellfire tungsten and shuttle debris. Clear at last, he wondered what the future might hold. He hoped they would meet again to end what had been started, for his adversary had been a worthy one despite his age.

 

Until then, he sensed out in the Force, finding easily the necromancer, Krath Inmortos although something was wrong. His apprentice was barely felt, although he could feel something of a slight glimmer that he was still in the realm of mortals. Moving towards the direction he felt them, he traversed the danger area carefully and cautiously, wincing when he moved on account of his wounds. They would be dealt with soon enough, until then he would endure. 

 

Finally approaching, he noted Solus was nowhere to be seen, although his bound Tear was present. He had a feeling, his apprentice had faired equally as himself in combat, if not worse. Or he would be standing beside the necromancer. Speaking, he looked at Inmortos while clutching his ribs, trying to soothe some of pain as he applied a temporary bacta patch. Not that it would do much, but it would suffice until on the flagship.

 

 "Greetings brother Inmortos. I see you decided to join the fun, I came close to ending a young Imperial Knight, a soul you would have loved, however he proved a far more worthy adversary than I gave him credit for. And the Fanged God deemed he would live another day by intervening. I hope we shall meet again someday, to finish the game we started. But for now the only solace I shall have is my wounds and perhaps a chance to sate my anger on others here. 

 

Which reminds me, where is my apprentice? Have you seen him...I can feel him, it is weak but he lives still. I wonder if he had a similar encounter as myself. What has become of him."

 

 

 

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"The universe started in darkness at a time when light didn't exist, and that is how it will end. Chaos and suffering is what brings us together. In chaos a man or woman will show who he or she really is and in suffering they will speak the truth. We are darkness incarnate, we are the evil. This cannot be denied, even by me. But without us there is no redemption, passion or order." - Darth Akheron

 

I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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Gliding through the earth-rippling explosions of the world, Inmortos moved. He seemed completely unaffected and unphased, nearly drunk upon the rapidly rising tide of death. Even a world that was mostly evacuated had millions of lives left to claim. Their deaths in ones, tens, hundreds, and thousands filled the air with thick power, as thick as the blood that ran and sizzled beneath the fiery orbital onslaught.

 

Seeing the stumbling Akheron materialize before him down the shifting and shattering block, Inmortos raised an intrigued eyebrow. He had hoped that the warrior would have faired better. He could smell the life-leaking wounds through the bacta. As they closed, Inmortos paused, his robes swirling about his skeletal form as the soldier of war spoke and closed the distance. He listened as Akheron spoke, his hands vanishing into his heavy robes just as his cowl obscured his rotted face.

 

On 4/24/2022 at 7:35 PM, Karys Narat iv-Adas said:

 

 "Greetings brother Inmortos. I see you decided to join the fun, I came close to ending a young Imperial Knight, a soul you would have loved, however he proved a far more worthy adversary than I gave him credit for. And the Fanged God deemed he would live another day by intervening. I hope we shall meet again someday, to finish the game we started. But for now the only solace I shall have is my wounds and perhaps a chance to sate my anger on others here. 

 

Which reminds me, where is my apprentice? Have you seen him...I can feel him, it is weak but he lives still. I wonder if he had a similar encounter as myself. What has become of him."


Once the Sith warlord stopped talking, Inmortos nodded forward, bidding the warrior fall into step with him, the canine Tear tailing along behind. He let the Sith’s words mull about his mind before he finally responded a block later as a skyscraper collapsed in on itself with a tungsten rod thread through it’s core.

 

”A soul,” he spoke, considering his words carefully as he gingerly removed the shattered true body of Solus and held it aloft in front of them as they walked. “Is of little use to me unclaimed. I had hoped to gather more than the refuse of the Rebellion.” The necromancer’s words were heavy with disappointment at the losses suffered by both of his fellow formulating Sith triad. “To be plucked from the grasp of death, by death itself is” . . . . . . “Distasteful.” 
 

The group approached the open ramp of the Eternus, the ornate vessel a dark void of stillness devoid of anything except the raised dias containing his ancient stone coffin. Inmortos rolled the fractured crystal from his hand into the air, allowing gravity to take it as it fell towards Akheron’s hand. He did not watch it fall as he swept upwards into the craft, his voice carrying over his shoulder. “Our fleet is suffering delightful losses in the skies above. Already my newest vessel has been erased from existence. Their lost lives empowering my soul. Come and we shall leave this place. Perhaps maybe then, you might repay me with a worthy soul in exchange.” At the entrance to his ship, Inmortos turned and gestured, bidding Akheron, Solus, and Tear aboard.

 

Once aboard, the ramp retracted and doors closed with a deathly finality. Lying down within his coffin, Inmortos allowed his body to fall slack, his soul exiting ghostly with a final breath as it inhabited the dead mangled body of the Falleen prison Solus had sent him. The body sat up erect, angled and unnatural with rotting bodily fluid still dripping from it’s battered skull.

 

”Tell your ship to meet us at these rendezvous coordinates,” the undead body garbled as it tried, and failed, to look back over it’s shoulder at Akheron. He offered a bloodied slip of paper with coordinates scrawled in an unsteady hand. His onr eye rolled back in his head as the body turned and stared at the controls, the craft lifting off from the ground and rocketing upwards through the atmosphere.

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In the haste of the moment, the heat of her passion clouded her judgment for a brief second and she fell to her baser demons. Her anger filled her heart and her bloodlust filled her nostrils as the two intertwined. But the moment would be brief, for unlike her opponent,  she did not have the stomach for it. As he stepped into her attack, her vengeful face turned to horror. And in that moment of horror, she was caught off guard.

 

As her blade bore through flesh and bone, her eyes widened and she felt disgust at herself, causing her to step back, her recoil from battle being the moment that his blade sliced through tendons and minor veins as it carved up her neck. As the pain rushed through her, her mind could not keep up, Tay'Lor on the defensive as she deactivated her blade and reeled back as best as she could, caught by her own devices.

 

Fear, disgust, confusion, panic, all sought to break her mind in the brief second of exchanges. And then she felt it, as his crimson blood froze over and bashed at her face. One... she felt it collide against her face and her vision blur. Two... she felt as if her body would go limp and her mind threatened to resolve into unconsciousness. Three... she felt as if death would be a welcomed relief as the glass like substance tore flesh and revealed broken bone. Her body clung barely to remain standing. And in that brief moment, instinct would be her only salvation.

 

In an attempt to separate the two and save her self, Tay'Lor reached inward and found her last remaining strength. Grasping her blades tight, Tay'Lor rolled her arms forward and unleashed a wave of telekinetic energy, her grasp upon the blades losing grip as they activated and barreled toward the Sith's neck before she fell into unconsciousness and bleak darkness.

 

((3)) It was fun brother. Just wish I could have gave you more.

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Akheron nodded as he took the co-ordinates, once aboard and pocketed what remained of his apprentice. It was probably a little humiliating to be stored as such but for now, he had few other choices. It was as he thought...he has suffered just as much as himself, if not more so and yet he knew it would be a lesson learnt. Although broken as with all Sith they would be remade anew, stronger from the experience. But first he would need a new body, easily rectified once aboard his flagship. If it had survived the battle raging above. 

 

From the sounds of it, the fight had been fierce and the Clan had suffered heavy losses, and yet they were necessary and he knew each Lord-Captain knew the risks and accepted their lives as sacrifices to the Fanged God. In the end, Darkness would win by burning the planet to it's primal core, the losses would be honoured and the dead avenged soon enough. For now the Clan Brasganu had done it's part and would regroup to rebuild.

 

Stepping to a console, Akheron sent a message above.

 

 "Captain Garrus, take what remains of the Clan and regroup at these co-ordinates I am sending. I shall meet the flagship there. Although we have suffered, our losses shall not be in vain. These sacrifices shall be remembered and avenged soon enough."

 

 Receiving a acknowledgement the trio departed the planet, one soon to be ground into dust. Although Akheron did wonder where the performance was leading them, questions soon to be answered. In the meantime he would use the trip to heal in a bacta a tank and have Stitch-Mouth make a temporary body for his fallen apprentice. 

Akheron.png

 

 

 

"The universe started in darkness at a time when light didn't exist, and that is how it will end. Chaos and suffering is what brings us together. In chaos a man or woman will show who he or she really is and in suffering they will speak the truth. We are darkness incarnate, we are the evil. This cannot be denied, even by me. But without us there is no redemption, passion or order." - Darth Akheron

 

I survived the Great JNet Outage of 2012

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Vorin vs Charlemagne

 

    Vorin, you did an excellent job balancing the distance and the manic intimacy of Cold Mind, with my one criticism being that you ought to put Cold Mind on your sheet as a courtesy to opponents and mods.

 

    Charlemagne, there are a couple of issues that I saw on your side of the duel. First off, in your second post you pretty clearly show Charlemagne tapping into the Dark Side, despite being an Imperial Knight. The post makes reference to her having done this in the past, and somehow having found a way to do it without having any consequences. First of all, no. Second, these are the kinds of important events that absolutely should not be done in backstory that isn’t even mentioned until the duel. The story that staff will use to validate your characters’ actions is the story that is told on the site, not any headcanon that only you have access to.

 

    The other thing that I want to address is the choice to go unconscious at the end of your last post. That alone in many cases is enough to lose a duel, and I am hard pressed to think of when it would be a good move. At the end of the day, duel posts need to make a convincing argument for a character’s victory, and this choice did more for Vorin’s case than Charlemagne’s. 

 

Duel Outcome: Vorin wins

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Whether it was by the will of the Force or just simply he was attempting to block out and not think about what could transpire to Raven, Kirlocca found himself within the halls of the Rebel Alliance Headquarters. The noise from outside seemed loud and almost bombarding. It echoed within his ears, ringing ever so slowly within his mind subtle images of what he feared was coming. The Jedi Code offered up no comfort, no way out of it. His own self doubt played the game within the game of taking control over his mind. He battled against it, declaring that such reasons why he couldn't simply dismiss anything was due mainly to the fact that he hadn't truly recovered from his fight with Sheog, the crazy mad Sith Hutt, along with the fact he hadn't truly been back apart of the living for very long opposed to his time as one with the Force. 

 

Comm chatter picked up ever so slightly, noise for the background really. The words didn't matter, the voices within the comms gave way to emotions, and within those emotions also revealed something along with the Force. There was some panic, some concern and an overall sense of dread. The Jedi Master had to force himself to stop and reach deep into the Force. He could feel waves of life filled with emotions that ranged from everything he had already felt. But there were a few presence that were void of such emotions. They felt cold, stern, almost absolute within acceptance. He had felt such things before, but never to the intensity that he was feeling them now. He opened his eyes, knowing where they were and what he had to do. He looked down and realized he had no lightsaber, as he lost the one given to him in his fight with the Mad Hutt. A quick glance around and all he could see were a few vibroblades. Using the Force to pull two of them to him, he knew that they would have to be enough. And I really should craft another lightsaber soon. 

 

He quickly took off towards the more cold presences within the Force. His own movements seemed fluid, like oil moving along with a rushing water stream. He knew the Force was with him and guiding him, even though he just had his prior doubts of the Jedi Order. His own doubts and mind seemed to quiet down as he joined the current that the Force was already moving towards. He knew his purpose was to serve the way he always had. Defense of what could not be defended. His own body and skills would be used the same way that they have always been used, whether it took his own life or not. He had to be as absolute and resolute as he always had been if he was to counter such an opposite within the Force. 

 

Moving quickly through the corridors, he found himself standing before three Mandalorians. All had visors of a different type, not the traditional t-shape, but rather a solid horizontal line. They all also wore the battle skirts of the Mandalorians. Their armor was a mix of colors and all different, yet they all held some form of either colors of blue, green or black. He knew vaguely that the colors meant something, to which he only truly knew that even still within many of the cultures and different sects of them that all held a typical honor system of three of the colors, which were blue black and gold. Blue was the only color he knew off the top of his head, which meant reliability.

 

His own presence was known about before he even turned the corner, as one of them quickly pulled off a few shots his way. Had it not been for his own precognition within the Force, he would have been dead. He quickly bent down and moved rapidly towards the right of the corridor, which would have been an unnatural movement for many except those trained within the Force. The movement signaled to the three that he was indeed a Jedi, and it clearly flagged them down on who it was they were now engaging against, as one shouted- “It’s the jetii verd Wookiee!” He’s heard the term before. Once called it be foe turned friend Fett, or as others knew him by, Moon Knight. He took it as a badge of honor to be known by others within the Mandalorian culture. 

 

He leapt into the air towards them in a lunge style, bringing up both blades in defensive posture. None of them took a shot, but instead backed up and two withdrew their blaster weapons in favor of unique vibro weapons to wield against him. Landing he offered up a smile, knowing that it would be a good test for him and that none of them would hold back, giving their all. He wouldn’t allow them to get the upper hand by getting the first swing. He brought the vibroblade within his right hand towards the Mandalorian on his right, while using his left to sweep out towards the one of his left. In this instance with the somewhat shorter corridors and his long reach, he was able to make swings in ways that would drive many backwards and in complete defensive modes. 

 

Not these Mandalorians though. The one to his right caught his swing and used it to spin inwards closer to Kirlocca, while the one on the left used the reach to put pressure on the blade and attempted to pin it down, forcing him to deal awkwardly with the other on his right. Without any hesitation, he withdrew his left hand, using his own momentum to spin around the one of his right, which ended with him being directly before both. They already began to push, driving different blows towards him, forcing him to choose either defensive stance or a riskier attack stance against both. The pressure was on and he felt his own mind racing faster than it ever had before. He opted to stay on the offensive side, as it would help drive him into a position of disarming quicker. WIth quick reflexes, he placed one foot against the wall and used it to help him lunge forward at both, but instead of choosing to defend against both blades, he opted instead to charge one head one. His own blades caught and moved the one vibro weapon, which was ax-like in form. It pushed and then pinned down against the armor, while his other blade caught his upper arm armor section awkwardly and pinned in, allowing for the Jedi Master to push the attacker backwards towards the opposite wall with great speed. 

 

The second blade which belonged to the other attacker caught Kirlocca on the shoulder as he moved past him, or her. He really couldn't tell. The blade cut cleanly, but not to the bone. Blood spilled upon the ground and left a trail as he moved and pinned down the one Mandalorian. Not wanting to let the injury remain exposed for a second attack, he drove his foot into the pinned down Mandalorian’s helmet and used it to spin off the wall and towards the other Mandalorian. Even before he landed, he took note that he did not see the second attacker any more. In fact, as he landed, he realized that he did not see the third at all during the battle thus far. He kept both blades in a defensive posture now as he scanned the corridor to see where they went. He then heard something from behind. As he turned, he realized it was the Mandalorian he pinned down, who now held up a thermal detonator as was speaking in Mando’a. He didn’t need to know what was being said, the detonator was active and he only had one chance.

 

He used the Force to take three full steps before lunging into the air, turning as the familiar sound of a thermal detonator going off rang in the building. Holding up his paws before him, he attempted to use the Force to push against the wave of energy and mass chaos heading his way. The blast caught him and threw him towards the complete opposite side of the corridor, having his full body slam hard into the wall. His vision slowly went in and out of focus as he tried to remain present enough to fall into a healing trance to give himself the best form of survival. As he did, his own eyes drifted towards a window near his left, only to see the other two Mandalorians outside now, both carrying something as they used their jetpacks to leave the site. HIs eyes finally closed as the thought of completely failing Raven was the last thing that went through his mind. 

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With a roar of a thousand voices, the great Bes'uliik Hades shattered the sky with its metallic rage. Bolts of light the color of a Zamarrian starset churned their way through the sky, stitching pockmarked carbon into the glittering darkmetal that made up its armor. The great beast’s rearing turned into a stumble, its claws skittering against the broken stones. The blasterfire was precise and all too familiar. Her HUD began to filter out erroneous information, filtering everything out but what she needed for war. Tros and his spitting blaster rifle became outlined in yellow, marking a priority target. The discordant chorus of voices became deeper, full of a rising hatred.

 

Terra spat a curse into the confines of her buy’ce, pressing her knees hard into the control mounting, but there was little response. Within her mind, a deepset rage was growing. She placed her left hand on the Bes’uliik’s plating, which seemed to shift in response to her touch like a ripple on a placid lake. A heartbeat and a thousand options spread themselves before her like the opening hand of a game of sabacc. Concussion Missiles, Trihexalon. Shrapnel Shells. Scatter Wave Amplifier.  

 

A thousand choices in which she could dispatch those that stood before her. Before Mand’alor. She could kill them all so easily. Greedy fingers stretched towards the armament controls. Kad Ha’rangir had dealt her an Idiot’s Array with which to decimate the Sith. Their Soldiers and their blasted… Mandalorians. Her hand dropped, and the dealer swept the cards away.

 

Ah.

 

The heavens seemed to echo in pleased laughter. Terra shrugged and slipped from the saddle, landing lightly on her booted feet upon the fractured stones. She brought her slugthrowing rifle up, watching the targeting reticle rise with it on her HUD. With a blink, she opened up the AVATAR-Link, letting it burn into her consciousness, tying herself into the fallen consciousness that was the creature’s soul.

 

…Go my friend. I will not ask you to fight against your Vod. I am Mand’alor, it is my task alone.

 

With those words, The Mandalorian let out a piercing shriek that tore at her throat, filling her mouth with the taste of copper. It was that of the jai'galaar, the shriek-hawk which had marked her people since the days of the Civil War. Stooping low, Mandalore the Bloody charged forward at an angle to right of yellow-outlined target of Tros Ardell. As she ran, she pulled the trigger twice, spitting 3-round-bursts of slugs at the man she once called brother. Her Vod.

 

((1)) 

 

((Dismounts from Hades, Returns fire with six rounds of AP))

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To the Death...

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The explosion of the door being blown off it’s hinges and slamming into the opposite wall rang in the smoke-filled air.

 

”That didn’t take long.” Gunnery Sergeant Benjamin Wood grumbled as he turned and let loose a burst of bright red carbine fire in the direction of the sound and inevitable onslaught of Mandalorian invaders. “Hurry it up boys!” He urged the others. It was hardly needed. They had heard the door being blown off the hinges and knew what that’d mean.

 

With Benjamin tucked in an alcove across the hall, Steve crouched in the janitorial closet, peering around the corner into the smoke-filled hall. His carbine hung ablut his neck as he thumbed a pair of grenades at his belt. Behind him, Rags and Christoph feverishly pulled chunks of drywall free, it’s dust mingling with the smoke in the air; their breathing ragged with the effort.

 

It did not take long before a lair of Mandalorian super-soldiers materialized from the smoke, their weapons belching laser fire down the hallway. Had the Scouts not been able to crouch behind cover, even with their Imperial issued armor, they’d have been done for.

 

Speed. That is what they were built for. Prolonged trench-fighting was a task for the Army, the Imperial Marines.

 

A gout of flame tore through the thick air. Benjamin winced as he diverted his eyes, his HUD scrambling to adjust to the sudden changes in temperature and light.

 

Inside the deceptively spacious and packed janitorial closet, Rags grunted as  Christoph elbowed him suddenly. “The heck bro?! We’re in the same team, I thought.” He stopped his complaint as a chunk of drywall fell from his gloved hand noting the reason his teammate had elbowed him. “….ooh!” His voice elevating in realization.

 

”Boom.” Christoph chuckled as he kicked an exceptionally rusted can coated with a variety of caustic and explosive gas labels. There were dozens of them, only the most potent and dangerous cleaners available for the Imperial Remnant. It did not matter the environmental cost, floors had to be kept clean.

 

The sound of gunfire at their six as the Mandalorians began to press down the hall told the sarcastic pair of soldiers all they needed to know. Time was of the essence. Hauling weapons and personnel files to a preordained rendezvous point was not going to happen. It was time for plan B.

 

Quickly stooping, Rags began to hand bottles and buckets, containers of caustic, flammable, explosive, poisonous chemicals through his arms to Christoph. The second Scout popped, twisted and otherwise removed the caps, opening the containers to the air. He tossed them through the hole, blanketing the cabinets and files. Chemicals began to mix, steaming and smoldering as they interacted; and still the duo kept pouring them on. The chemicals ate at the metal, the walls, the floors. All of it began to disintegrate at the touch of the fumes. Even Christoph began to cough through his helmet-contained respirator.

 

As the Mandalorians and their flames advanced, Steve sprung into action. Their weapons were having little to no effect; maybe this would. Maybe it would stop them, maybe it would slow them down for a minute.

 

With his thumbs, the Chiss yanked the pins from a shock grenade and a sonic grenade. He threw the ionic shocker first. A moment later the screamer followed. With any luck, the Mandos’ high tech suits would be frazzled enough by the rapidly expanding electronic scrambling field. The screamer would do it’s job after without the protections of technological sound-dampeners.

 

Nodding Benjamin kept his head tucked behind cover. He knew the play. He swung his carbine in the hall and sprayed, laying down a barrage of suppressive fire. 
 

The explosions followed momentarily and the gout of flames ceased as the invaders faded back into the smoke.

 

In the closet Rags grunted, “Thats our cue. With any luck both file rooms’ll get it.”

 

“And Steve will finally get the bath he’s been needing” Christoph smiled as both he and Rags shoved the barrels of their rifles through the hole and fired off several rounds igniting the vapors.

 

Leaping towards the hallway, the Scouts grabbed Steve and pulled him with them as a caustic explosion ripped through the closet and shook the storage room.

 

”Time t’go Gunny!” Rags shouted, the glee in his voice only slightly out of place.

 

The Scouts picked themselves up and scurried down the hall away from the Mandos. Klaxons began to blare as the in-house fire suppression system began to regurgitate choking suppressive foams and water from above filling the already smokey air with even more debris.

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Character sheet

 

Benjamin Wood

Ragnar Kran
Christoph Sokol

Krilst’eve’nuruodo

 

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Whatever Tros was expecting to happen, it most certainly didn’t. Even though he wanted Terra to dismount the giant war droid, the fact that he could clearly tell that it was not even scratched by the blaster fire was clear. He knew instantly upon Terra tossing herself off Hades that he may have made the wrong choice, provoking the one one known as Mand'alor the Bloody. He was certain she would live up to that name now. Things were indeed about to get bloody. 

 

He heard the jai’galaar even from the distance the two were at from each other, something he knew all too well that she had the ability to be heard from anywhere on the battlefield. The sound, which was delayed by the familiar slugthrower, echoed within his ears. This was a poor time to refill the cartridge on his blaster. He attempted to force himself lower to avoid the shots, which would have torn through flesh and caused massive bleeding internally even if it hit the armor that wasn’t pure beskar. His own speed wasn’t fast enough, as one dented in lower abdomen armor, a second ripped clean through his left lower abdomen. There were two loud dings of ricochets from other shots. Knowing that it either fired single shots or three round bursts, he figured two others must have gone completely astray. 
 

The pain was intense for a moment, followed by pure adrenaline kicking in, allowing for him to push through and act upon instinct alone. Slamming the cartridge in and blasting off with his jetpack, he quickly began to pour out the entire clip of sixty five rounds towards Terra, or at least as much as he could in the time it would take for him to reach her. He went full throttle towards her, keeping his finger held upon the trigger of his blaster as he moved closer to her. His own HUD showed him the distance between the two, weak spots in her armor that he doubted he would be able to land any shots on, along with her heart rate. Both hers and his were elevated, her most likely through the rage of battle. His because of his bleeding plus the battle.

 

Close range was something that would put both on their guard leveling the playing field. Although, he was now entering close range with bruised abs and bleeding from his left side, which Terra could easily take advantage of if she was to see it. There was little doubt that she wouldn't, Terra was as well trained as he was. This was going to be Jatnese be te jatnese. Only one would prevail, and Tros would not let it be him. Not on the full debut of his House in action. If it came to it, he would end the rule of Mand'alor the Bloody.

 

((2))

(Took two shots, one upon weaker armor and another through his left lower abdomen. Poured blaster fire at Terra and raced at her in a full on charge.)

Jatnese be te jatnese - Best of the best.

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Mishuk gotal'u meshuroke, pako kyore.

 

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Bloodletter seemed to hiss as it drank deep of the Jedi’s lifeblood, an appetite whet but never satisfied. Beneath that Ice which made up the Sith’s soul, lay the deep-eddying river of the Dark Side, and the Jedi’s blood spent its current into a fevered rush. Fist shattered bone, and yet the Jedi lived. Her blades came for him then, orange-fire and bitter silver, flung in desperation by the frail power of the Light.

 

The power of the Dark Side flowed within him, channeled into the promises of pain and terror upon which to feast, and the Sith Warrior spun upon his feet, the hobnail boots he wore sending scattered sparks into the stillness, sweeping the greatsword through the air in a whisper. He let that blade which had scarred him do so again, burning a line across his abdomen, while Bloodletter sent the other careening into the scattered bodies where it orange fire sputtered amongst the half-clotted blood.

 

Vorin advanced, his eyes gleaming a sulpheric yellow in the half-light, leering at the Jedi as she fell into unconsciousness. She was still beautiful, stained as she was with blood, her features misshapen with a tattered jaw. Her soul gleamed as bright as a fire in the deepness of the forest. He, and the Dark Waters within him desired nothing more than to quench that flame, to drag the girl who carried it into the muck and mire and drown her.  

 

The Sith reached the fallen Jedi swiftly, the shifting shadows of his greatsword reflecting her pale beauty. He knelt by her, his lammelar plating creaking and grinding with the sounds of fracturing ice. With armored fingers, he ripped a long line of her tunic from her, letting the cloth soak in the blood that trickled from her mouth. He bound it then into his long, white hair, beside the cloth that he claimed from the Grandmaster. The Sith’s fingers twisted in the mess of her hair.

 

…Will you let her live?

 

The Sith Warrior considered Bloodletter’s question. He could take this thing as a concubine, a slave upon which he could whet his desire, defile her purity with offspring. But he could never allow the corruption she would bring, that light that tried to purify. He picked up her head by the hair, watching her eyelids flutter, the blood dribble from her lips. His gaze shifted from her beauty to the sword that had spoken. His own voice was like the shifting of gravel when he answered the question.

 

…No…

 

Armored finger played across the Greatsword’s handle, feeling the coolness of the leather as he drove the weapon through the Jedi’s belly. He watched the toned flesh flex and spasm around the shifting darkmetal, the blood slicking away into the sword, turning its dark shadows a hazy crimson. By the hair, he dragged her lips to his, tasting of her sweetness. Of her lifeblood. A sacrifice of his own pleasure upon the alter of the Dark. Holding the Jedi’s spasming body to his, he slid the sword from her belly to her throat. The warm blood pumped with each of her weakening heartbeats upon his armor, frosting against his flesh, filling his mouth to overflowing. Her breath sputtered into his own, her pathetic, shaking mews, going unanswered by pity. 

 

And thus he sent the Jedi into oblivion, that bitter shade of the death, Master and Blade drinking deeply of her soul until even its hollow recesses were empty of life.  

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Death is No Escape

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

All around the tree-being the world burned. Chaos rained down from above and the ground itself fractured and shattered under the bombardment. Towering structures collapsed in on themselves, built in safety measures keeping them from tumbling in domino-like effect in all but the most heinous events. One such event occurred as a rogue ship plowed into a through a series of skyscrapers before erupting in a ball of fire before the aged tree’s very eyes.

 

All that Frond could do was look away, shaking his head at the futility of it all.  Yes, he knew that here, today, in this moment, lives would be snuffed from existence, many as if they had never been. He could see the trembling webs of gold and silver shudder against the onslaught as strands that bound them to the universe failed and faded into the netherness of the force itself. He had defeated the young stone; who yet lived. It seemed as if he was fleeing the battle. Perhaps to consider their words and begin himself upon a path towards true enlightenment. Perhaps he ran a coward from the fray, unawake of the worthlessness of this mortal plane. 
 

Frond shook his head, clearing the thoughts of the Shard from his mind. It made no use to dwell on it. Each was bound hy the force and free to move as it allowed. He had drawn the life from the fallen stone to heal himself, reversing the hatred the shackled stone had sought to wreak on him in his turmoil. The Neti stood strong, fresh, and ancient now amongst the turmoil amongst the desolate long-deserted streets. Those who were not required, who had not fought to remained bound to this world were long since departed. Frond could feel it in the air, the emptiness of a world bustling with life only hours before. Such was the absolute power of man. Such was his futility against the truth.

 

It was this plane that Frond was bound to, to serve the force before he too was freed from the mortal form he had been bestowed. Someday he would walk the ways of the force not hist in mind and spirit but in wholeness of being as well. Until that time, he would serve. It was for this reason now that the Neti moved with the purpose of a creeping vibe towards water through the destruction. He moved with purpose, without fear or passion, directed by a greater call. 
 

As the world collapsed about him, Frond continued to move until he came upon a collapsed structure. It was unlike any of the others, it’s purpose lost in the carnage; and yet Frond knew this was where he was to be. With a sharp crack, drowned out by the roar of the planet’s demise, and a flash of blinding yellow light that was lost to the explosions that now dotted the landscape, the solitart humanoid figure of Frond vanished, replaced by an large amorphous muscled wooden quadrupedal beast.
 

There was no hesitation as Frond leapt forward in this alternate form and with bulging viney power began to tear away at the fallen rubble. Rocks flew through the air as thick snakelike appendages added to the maelstrom tearing at the downed structure as he began to dig past the surface; deeper and deeper within tunneling towards the collapsed basement within like a burrowing rodent. He did not stop, only slowing as he felt himself drawing close to that which drew him.

 

Bursting forth into an air pocket deep within the tones of collapsed building, a small group of monastically clad beings recoiled to the other end of the small enclosure. All above them a strange cloth-like material seemed to hoover against the collapsing rubble. The force abuzz with power in this slight area.

 

Even as the bulk of the dozen regally clad monastics recoiled, focusing their minds on their task at hand, maintaining their bubbled protection, one stepped forward, an elderly burgundy-skinned humanoid with piercing white eyes. “greetings brother. The mists have drawn you to us no?”

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The quartet of cowboy troopers hustled through the onslaught of stanky liquids as they rained from the ceilings and combined with all manner of fire suppressant foams to create a foggy and slick atmosphere.

 

Clutching the rail of another set of stairs leading upwards, smoke billowed after the group as the aforementioned concoctions rained down. “Can’t say the Empire isn’t efficient.” Lance Corporal Christoph Sokol chimed as he turned to fire a few rounds over his shoulder back towards where they had set off the fiery explosions. “For good measure,” he shrugged as his commander gave him a canted look.

 

Gunnery Sergeant Benjamin Wood couldn’t argue with the simple logic, even if he was rather confident their blasters were doing little to nothing against the super commandos thick armored plates.

 

Clinging to the railing, the group slipped more than once as they scurried upwards, another explosion rocking the lower levels. “Industrial strength is right!” Corporal Ragnar ‘Rags’ Kran spouted happily. Despite the chaos around them and the death that rained down outside, the scouts of Trill Squadron were enjoying themselves. Fast-paces and chaotic, it was where they shone after all. It was up to Wood to make sure the cowboys got out in relatively one piece.

 

At the top of the stairwell, PFC Krilst’eve’nuruodo booted open the door. The most serious in the group, he held his blaster at the ready; but nothing moved in the foggy particularized air on the other side.

 

”Comin’ through!” Christoph bellowed as he slid on the slick floor past the Chiss at the door, trying his best, and failing to maintain some sort of Kaminoan surfing pose. “Oh krack!” He swore as he collided solidly with the other wall. Lumbering out of the mist another Mandalorian commando seemed to materialize. “Must’ve taken a wrong turn!” He bellowed as he fired his carbine from the hip towards the enemy soldier’s faceplate. “Got company boss!” He shouted needlessly over comms as the other three hurried to assist. Several relatively worthless bolts of laser fire illuminated the gray-white fog in a variety of flashing pink and red hues turning the scene into something more appropriate at an underworld rage than a battlefield.

 

If Scouts were known for two things, aside from playing fast and lose, one of those was just plain playing fast. Speed was the name of the game. Nothing moved slowly with them. Speed was a means of offense and defense. It was no different here. The second went hand in hand with the first. Imperial Storm Troopers were known to be fearless, bit even they could appreciate a well laid out plan to try and minimize casualties, at times. Imperial Scouts fought with nerves of steel; and so it was here. Without a word, like a well-ouled machine all four charged straight at the lumbering Mandalorian even as he began to target the men in the fog. Their white armor bo doubt helping them blend in, for once.

 

With a running start, Rags yanked a ion grenade from his belt and dropped to a slide as he zipped between the Mandalorians parted planted legs. He tossed the grenade upwards right in front of the man. “Happy Life Day!”

 

Meanwhile Benjamin and Steve dropped their shoulders in an attempt to bowl over the warrior. It did not work, but as they caught his shoulders they were already rolling around him towards his backside, swinging their arcing electrobatons towards the soldier’s neck.

 

All that left was Christoph, and as he peeled himself off the wall, he let his carbine fall catching on his sling. He grabbed randomly at the grenades on his belt, snagging both a sonic and smoke grenade, with the flick of his hands he activated both and hurled them with the force of a shockball player at the domed head of the soldier, just as flames ripped from the Mando’s arm in a gout of searing agony towards the fourth and final Scout.

 

The flames toasted Christoph’s armor and sent his helmet based sensors into a tizzy even as he instinctively dropped to a forward slide/dive on his belly. It would have been a move worthy of the holos, had it worked. It didn’t not really. When sliding blind in a foamy mess of fire suppressants a lot of things do not tend to go as planned and the Scout collided solidly with the Mandalorian’s right booted foot.

 

The super soldier knew where Christoph was, even in the melee, even as the ion grenade thrown a moment before by Rags erupted in the enemy’s viewscreen engulfing both the Mando and Scout in it’s shockingly static embrace.

 

For Christoph the world went dark, a rather terrifying place to be; and so as he clawed at the ground to try and put some distance between he and his unknown assailant, the Lance Corproal clambered to unstrap his helmet, letting it clatter to the deck plating.

 

Moments later he was hauled forcibly to his feet by Benjamin and Steve, each with an arm under his shoulder. “Run!” The commander ordered. Keeping a hand on the helmetless trooper’s shoulder, Steve led the charge down the hallway, pushing his brother beside him. Benjamin and Rags followed a step behind, spraying laser fire over their shoulders as they moved.

 

A half a minute later and the entire building shook. A tungsten rod from orbit had impacted a portion of the building, venting it to the outside world. Nearly all four of the Scouts stumbled as the ground shook beneath them before they regained their composure and pressed onwards back to where they had stashed their speeder bikes.

 

Quickly three of the four bikes roared to life, Christoph straddling the back of Rags in a less than dignified manner, clearly something to be joked about later, should they survive. Even so, eveb Steve let out a catcalling whistle over the comms; one Christoph could not hear sans helmet. 
 

“Shut it you.” Rags growled as he leaned up in the saddle having flipped a hidden switch on Christoph’s bike. 25 seconds and the thing would detonate with the force of a small warhead. “Time to go.”

 

Idling out of the cafeteria, the bikes roared to life in the hallway. It was deafening and had Christoph not been holding onto Rags for dear life he would have covered his ears. All he could do now was wince as hard as possible. Accelerating down the smokey-fog and suppressant filled hallway the group had to navigate one tight corner before they came into sight with the corner of the building that had been obliterated. Onwards and upwards they moved, accelerating all the while. A makeshift jump sent them airborne and out of the command center.

 

Their landing was less than smooth, but no one, not even Christoph tumbled as they landed, their bikes scraping the ground before the anti-gravity thrusters regained control.

 

”Holy Sithspit!” Benjamin whispered in shock, the air filled with distant explosions and raining ordinance. 
 

“We’re not getting out of here alive are we?” Steve grumbled, a slight air of concern creeping into his voice. 
 

Meanwhile, Christoph tapped rapidly on Rags’s shoulder trying to point out the obvious. “I know. I know. You’re the one who jettisoned your bucket. Boss; I’m guessing our evac is long gone. Cowardly navy boys.”

 

”Yeah…” Benjamin replied in awe as he watched the sky, his bike the point of the trio of speeders as they hurled out amongst the rubblized world. “Plan B. We go to ground. Get deep enough. Ride it out. Rags, you got coordinates?”

 

“Aye,” the intel officer agreed. “Follow me.”

 

The trio banked hard to the right, the two-man speeder falling into the lead as they raced towards a hopefully still intact catacomb entrance where a number of Allied soldiers had taken cover.

 

”Cannot believe the Sith are bombing their own soldiers, barbaric,” Steve grumbled, repulsed by the lack of common military civility. 
 

“They probably sleep well at night too.” Rags chuckled.

Character sheet

 

Benjamin Wood

Ragnar Kran
Christoph Sokol

Krilst’eve’nuruodo

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Frond stopped. He stood frozen like a cornered beast regarding those before him in the shadowy darkness beneath the surface. Overhead the ceiling rattled as bits of debris shook loose and click-clacked on the ground. The only thing that seemed to keep the world from collapsing to their end was a protective field of the force itself, a webbing held aloft on silent pillars of power to stand against the death that ran rampant across the world.

 

With a sharp crack and a flash of lightning yellow, the wooden beast was gone, Frond’s hunched form returned to the shadows. The monks did not even flinch such was their connection to the force. The elderly burnt-red-skinned shaman raised a bushy white eyebrow as he took in Frond’s new form, scorched leaves and bark; a survivor, scoured by the hellscape above. “The mists drew you to us brother, didn’t they?” He asked again, slipping an oversized shimmering cloak of every and yet no color from his shoulders and draping it around the Neti. “We have not seen one of your kind before, and yet we have foreseen your coming through the fog.”

 

Frond felt the touch of the cloak, it’s feathery weight holding him like a protective cocoon as it seemed to wrap him in it’s kind embrace, as if it had a mind of it’s own. It felt cool to the touch, contrary to the hot fiery world around them.

 

With the creak of wooden sinews, Frond’s body relaxed from the too of his branched head to the tipsnof his rooted feet. He settled without moving. “Winds of the cosmos,” he mumbled as he nodded his thanks to the elderly man. He raised his hand to gesture towards the tunnel he had come through, a tunnel other monks were already using the force to pin more of the shimmering material across. “Move rooted trees by their will.” Frond withdrew the sabers he carried, weighing each in his hands individually before collecting them in one tendrilled fist. He stooped over to lay the weapons at the feet of the sage. “Chosen to Chosen.” Slowly he righted himself, his eyes leveling with the intense compassionate dark eyes of the burgundy being. His eyes said it all. Always a learned, he had come to learn from these sages, followers, weavers of the mist.

 

Looking down the elderly mystic nodded to Frond, his sandaled foot playing with the three hilts on the dusty floor. The two Sith-tainted sabers the man separated, rolling them behind him towards the small concave of fellow monastics. “This one,” the man bent at the waist to scoop up the Jedi saber. “Keep this one. The Luminous Mist gives it as a shield.” He righted himself and pressed the weapon back into Frond’s hand. The Neti had no choice but to accept it. “Now come. You have much to learn brother. Bring your trust in the Light and see how it illuminates all around you.” Sliding an arm around Frond’s shoulders, the elder led him into the midst of the other shimmering mist-clad acolytes. The shimmering clothes and force-lofted walls glistened with light as the Mind Walker felt the force surge anew. 
 

Frond smiled. He felt . . . hope, at last.

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Glowing azure flame began to rain down on her again, blasting holes all around her. The Mandalorian gritted her teeth, tasting the familiar metallic tinge of blood that always seeped from her darkmetal jawline. Jets of molten stone began to pelt her with heated shrapnel. The assassin took a step backwards with her left foot, raising her slugthrower to send a return shot at her former Vod.

 

Rapid fire, same weapon as before

 

The rifle bucked hard in her hands, her vision turning white as several rounds of the incoming fire churning the weapon’s ballistic chamber and feeding system into glowing slag. Her fingers began to sting, and she tossed the now useless weapon onto the ground as the stored ammunition began to ignite and cook off, sending shards of brass and glowing powder in all directions. She began to dance backwards, bringing an arm up to ward off the fire, but it continued to pour in on her relentlessly. Frustration bubbled into the blood that coated her throat.

 

Spast.

 

A searing line tore its way across her left thigh, and her backwards dance became a clumsy tumble. The Gods had sent the game into reverse, the Shift had occurred, and once again Terra found herself in an all too familiar place; wounded under heavy fire from a former friend. The ground bit hard into her back, despite the attempt at a roll. Her left leg seemed far too sluggish and could barely hold her weight. The HUD showed the yellow-glow that denoted her opponent rapidly approaching, shooting as he approached.

 

Looking skywards, the Mandalorian stared into the domain of the gods, that swirling darkness of destruction. Above her the great war between Jedi and Sith was playing out, and in them she saw a fell mimicry of the eternal war between Kad Ha’rangir and Arasuum. The Destroyer had chosen her, and she would not fall in a paltry battle between former brothers.  From those heavens above, and the hells within she channeled another cry, a far more bitter and angry thing. It shredded her throat and deafened her ears, birthed into existence from the deep pit of her sorrow and boundless rage. The gods would not use her as a pawn to be thrown away when inconvenient. Like those she had trusted always had. 

 

Dragging both of her flechette launchers from their holsters, Mand’alor ignited her own jetpack to kick herself towards her opponent, at an elevated angle of approach. She would be above him, towards where the gods made their war. She continued to scream, launching round after round of alternating flechette-fire down at the approaching Mandalorian. He had come for the crown, and he would be met with lead and flame.

 

((2))

 

((Weapon destroyed, left leg injured. Fires flechette rounds in response to Tros' approach))

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To the Death...

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The blood and gore of battle increased as the combatants of the playing field known as Nar Shaddaa continued to fight. Above the space battle waged on. He hoped his own men would succeed in their mission, aiding the Sith Lord. The Zealots deployed on their own mission as Tros fulfilled his own by distracting others away from them so that they could complete their assignment he gave them. And now, he stood alone against Terra, the last Mand’alor named. The last one whom he followed. He doubted there would ever be one as good as her. For a brief second, he wondered if she knew that. But such a thought to dwell upon was a luxury in battle, one he had never received before, and even now, Terra refused to give it.

 

His diving attack, which put havoc upon her for a good moment, turned again. Her slow retreat away from him turned into a sudden launch forward, drawing two new weapons and attacking him with them. Her fire created an arc flow that went against his, which was dying out finally. Two loud pings which carried with them great pain, adding clear dents into his armor, rang his whole body. His HUD link was the next to go, as one struck his buy’ce dead near the left temple. In the small separation of his shoulder armor and his chest, another metal bolt struck, searing through his body. The pain took great intensity, almost making him forget about the pain within his lower left abdomen. 

 

He cut his jetpack off, dropping himself suddenly without warning. It gave Terra the upper hand for a moment, but it also took away her direct line of sight of him, giving slight relief to him getting torn to shreds from her flechette weapons. Landing with a loud muffled scream of pain, he rolled behind what cover he had available, which was a lone box-like object on the top of a building. There was also a billboard of sorts not far from him. But the roll already put him in pain, as his left abdomen bent right where Terra had already struck him. As he rolled, between the movement and pain, he dropped his Westar assault rifle. HIs HUD showed him the battlefield, but he could not access everything on his armor from it. He would have to do things manually. 

 

Taking aim, he fired his grappling hook at Terra using his hand upon his gauntlet. He would pull her down to his level to make the fight easier. And to guarantee it, he also used his finger to launch his single electro-dart. It would disable her tech, even her own jetpack. Upon her getting down to his level, he would end her battle today. He did not want her dead, but clearly a leg wound wasn’t enough. He needed to have her tech and hands rendered useless. Once she was even with him, that’s when his Beskad would be used against her to take out her hands…

 

((3))

(Took a shot high, along with two bruising shots and one that destroyed his HUD link. Fired his grappling hook along with an electro-dart at Terra in hopes of a strong yank/pull down towards him.)

Tros_Sig_4.png

Mishuk gotal'u meshuroke, pako kyore.

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

A bright light flashed across the Wookiee's eyesight. Even with eyelids closed, the flash startled him to some movement. His own movement had the person dragging him fumble backwards and fall hard to the ground. The sounds of blaster fire, crashes and other weapon sounds going off in the background were just that, background noise to him by this point. He turned through a weird rollover motion that gave way to some pain in his upper left shoulder from where the Mandalorian struck it. The pain felt like someone with sharp claws was holding his shoulder in a vice grip as tightly as they could. As he pushed through the pain to stand up, he let out a loud growl like noise. The person who had dragged him away from the battle was slowly shaking their own head. "I had hoped that you'd come around sooner than later. The place is falling apart from the attacks of Mandalorians. Structure damage all over. We need to get to a transport asap!" As the man spoke, he stood himself up. 

 

The Jedi Master closed his eyes, attempting to use the Force to aid him through his pain. As he did, he reached out to find Raven. Her presence was simply not around to be found. His own mind raced as to what he should do next. The man stared at him for a second, only to have another explosion go off, rocking the very place that they stood. After it settled down for a second, he spoke up louder. "Transport- there is a civilian area two blocks this way. We need to leave the planet." Kirlocca could only shake his head for a second at the man before he barked back. 

 

<< No- Raven is unconscious. We need to find her and rescue her first. >> 

 

The man looked puzzled for a second. He tugged on his own imperial uniform before responding slowly. "... Raven... the empress is gone. Misercordia and the Constantine are both destroyed. All of the reports are flooding in. She went down with her ship Master Kirlocca..." The words spoken stung a bit for Kirlocca to hear. He looked skyward for a second, locking his own eyes on what was above. He slowly began to shake his head. 

 

<< No- Raven is unconscious. We must find her. >> 

 

The imperial officer looked even more puzzled and stood there unsure of what he should do. He glanced himself upwards at the sky, only to be greeted by an explosion nearby which had him shield his own eyes from the blast before looking back at the Jedi Master. "...Transports are over here... we still need to hurry..." The Jedi Master looked towards the direction that the imperial officer pointed before nodding his head. 

 

<< Get us up in the air and I can search for her with the Force. Once we rescue the Empress, we can leave the system. >> 

 

Hesitant to follow, the officer watched as Kirlocca began to move quickly towards the docks. He didn't want to get left behind, so he quickly picked up his own pace to chase after the Jedi Master. He wasn't sure if it was wise to search for a dead person, but he felt like maybe if he got the Jedi Master in the air, the Force would show him the truth of what he had said. Otherwise, he had signed a death wish with a crazy Jedi...

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Terra’s scream echoed within the confines of her helmet, but there was no reply in the heavens. Tros did not fall. No godfall. The cards were scattered. There was only the tragic emptiness of her personal hell, the lie of triumph and importance, unanswered by cosmic reality. Her fingers seemed to lose their strength, sapped by desperation and a shattering faith.  She had served broken men, Sith and Jedi, Crime Lords, been both a Pariah and the godlike leader of a movement that had destroyed the Core Worlds. And yet. A dark cloud was forming within her mind, spreading swiftly as the light’s horizon was swallowed into oblivion. A strange quietness, bereft the voice of the gods.

 

…Does he deserve the title?

 

Where was the evidence of it? Where was the lasting strength? So many had built in greatness but all she had from years of fighting was nothingness. For years now she had attempted to snatch up the flame of passion and wonder that had come with the crown of Mandalore, but those that had faded with her Crusade. All that was left now of that beauty was rust and brokenness. Scars. Dreams of greatness that would never come to pass. Coldness crept into her fingers, spreading as ice in her veins. Yet despite those failures, her internal voice cried for her to press ever forward. Instinct to fight, but the darkness and the cold and the quietness went on just the same.

 

The HUD outlined where Tros had taken cover, on the rooftop below, behind what might have been a forced air refresher system, now smoking from several stray rounds. Metal teeth gritted together, sending sparks to sear her scarred tongue. The metallic taste of blood seemed to shake her mentally, a totem of reality of the war she fought in, more pressing now than her constant internal struggle against emotional nihilism. Yet the coldness remained.

 

There was a scraping crash in her ears, and her breath left her in a rush. An alarming red flash, and her HUD displayed a grapple line having attached to the armor plating on her chest. The assassin immediately dropped one of her pistols, grabbing at the line to detach it, her icy fingers finding the thin line, but the world went as dark as her thoughts. The initial shock of it was overcome by instinct. Somehow her electronics system had been disabled, which left her vulnerable and directionless midflight a half dozen meters above her opponent. The emergency settings on the jetpack wouldn’t last long.

 

Spast.

 

Letting go of the line, Terra ripped her buy’ce from her head with shaking fingers. Cool air, choked with smoke and the acrid smell of ozone whipped against her face, her sweat turning her face as cold as her hands. She let the helmet fall as the Jetpack sputtered on her back. The Mandalorian stared down at her opponent, and one-time friend with crimson eyes, her blonde plait of hair whipping in the wind like a battle standard.

 

The Assassin emptied her one remaining pistol down at Tros as gravity began to win the battle against her struggling jetpack sending a wave of flechettes to great the man behind his cover, before letting that too fall to the earth below. The darkness began to creep in again, crawling at the edge of her eyes. A bittersweet smile of darkmetal and blood crept over her stern complexion. She mouthed one, sad word to him.

 

...Oya...

 

With a strong pull, she grabbed onto the line that tethered her to Tros as her Jetpack finally died. Her trajectory changed to be directly towards him, aided by gravity’s pull. From her back she brought forth her vibrospear, long and of wicked darkmetal that seemed to pull in the last remaining twilight into its tip. She would fall upon him like the Taung in their Mythosaur hunts, to drive her spear through gap about the collar into the vitals beneath. There was darkness in her eyes. A bitter determination reflected in the hallows of her eyes, a gaze averted from life.

 

And so she would fall from heaven like the stars at the galaxy’s end when all would turn to night.

 

((3))

 

((Lost electronic control according to the elctrodart. Emptied a few rounds of flechettes at Tros and then made a falling spear attack. Thank you for the duel, it’s been an absolute pleasure. I’m sorry for the delays!))

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To the Death...

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What a fucking duel. Just to give you guys an idea, This duel took 3 mods nearly an hour to decide who won because you both did so well and performed so close to each other. You both had good, bad, and fantastic, And even the bad was completely in character and narratively excellent. The idea of two of the greatest Mandalorians alive spiralling through the air in a brutal deathmatch was well portrayed here, from Terra's paranoia and sense of betrayal to Tros's desire to take disarm her and take her alive. If they ever duel again I'll be reading every post. Now, onto the meat of the duel: First and foremost, 

 

Terra's final post. In her attack, she grabs Tros's grappling hook and uses it to pull herself towards him to stab him in the collar. It's an excellent move, but grabbing your opponent's weapon and manipulating it for your attack is a very grey area. It works here since the nature of a grapple attack like this is to tether the two fighters, and in doing this Terra isn't undoing Tros's attack or taking actions beyond using it for it's intended purpose- to close the gap. I would not recommend trying this often due to the innate grey area of manipulating an opponent's weapon to your advantage in a closed way like this.

 

Tros, your first post was a bit of a whiff. You made one attack against a target that you were informed was not a part of the duel. While thematic in the situation, and definitely in character, not making an attack in your first post is definitely not the greatest move for a duel post. In the future, I would treat things like this as part of the setup and make your attacks separate for the round. 

 

The barest edge was decided in the final post. While Terra is at a disadvantage, being without a jump pack or electronics to alter her course, Tros seems intent to engage her on this front with the intent of using his own blade. The deciding factor was that Terra was approaching rapidly with a long-reaching spear, and Tros hadn't even drawn his blade yet. You both did phenomenally and should both be proud, but

 

Terra is the victor, and has next post.

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