IC: Darth Apollyon
Outside the Sith Temple, Korriban
IC: Darth Apollyon
Outside the Sith Temple, Korriban
In their thousands, they fell.
If the sky, red and angry, was a field of fire, and the black pyramids were distant mountains, immovable and unspeakably ancient, then the strange dark pods that now descended from the floating goliaths were the magmic ejecta of a thousand volcanic eruptions, plummeting through the blood-soaked atmosphere of Korriban like hail from hellish heavens.
In their thousands, they fell.
Apollyon's obsidian eyes tracked their descent, mouth parted, hands hanging limply by her side. The pods descended with the eerie silence of terminal velocity, gravity alone pulling them inexorably towards the dunes; no trails of ionised gas plumed in their wake, nor did the sky scream with the whistles of missiles.
In their thousands, they fell.
They fell until the plains of Korriban cratered in impact, sand spraying into the air with dull booms, the ground shaking with each strike. Each pod cracked open upon impact like eggs breaking upon a pan, and crumbling from the crumpled metal were bones; ribs jagged as teeth, skulls, legs. Heaps of humanoid skeletons, rolling from gathering piles of the dead, pods smashing upon the sands and scattering a hundred more.
Apollyon stared blankly ahead, blood pounding in her ears, the barked orders and panicked shouts around her a muted muddle, as if she were drowning in a tide. Kain's plea fell upon deafened ears.
The last of the pods crashed into the surface, and for the briefest moment, all was calm. The mountains of skeletons were as still as the pyramids above, crags of erosion in tattered rags. And then, like steep scarps collapsing in perilous slide, the piles began to move. Skulls snapped upwards, empty eye sockets meeting Apollyon's own charcoal gaze, thin trails of crimson lighting up within like candles of the most wicked wick.
An unearthly roar rolled across the desert, hollow as the ten thousand dead, and then the skeletons charged. A tsunami of death raced across the Wight Wastes, covering a hundred meters in ten seconds, and Apollyon, at last, moved. Her caramel hand dropped to her waist, ripping her lightsaber from her thin leatheris belt and igniting it with a screech. Two bloody spurs of plasma, the crossguard of her unstable blade, followed but a second later; the legions of the dead had already crossed another ten meters.
“FALL BACK!” she screamed, vocal chords protesting the volume she forced from her lungs, desperate to be heard over the fray. “FALL BACK!” And then the cloud of airborne sand swept over them like a duststorm, ten thousand scelerous feet kicking up the haze of war, and the waves of the dead were upon them.
His names were as many as his faces, and his faces were as many as the sands of the sea.
The long-dead despots of Tion and Cron had praised him as Mugg of Mugg Fallow, screaming his name with such foul fervour and daemoniacal devotion that the wails of their wriggling young, contorted in cruel suspension above the chasms of fiery sacrifice, could scarcely be heard over their fevered chants. The corpulent worms of Varl had exalted him as the son of carrion, Mog the Great Ghoul, giving their slaves to foul necrotic rites and blasphemous erotic dance in honour of the sticky spawn of the stars whose splendorous squalor filled the fetid swamps beyond Crakull. The Zothique, those barbarous merchants of base desires from distant realms, had turned over one-tenth of their unborn to Mordiggian of Zul-Bha-Sair, and those who had returned from those infernal treasure barges with black mouths and black eyes and dripping, distorted bodies in the misshapen, fetal parodies of men were worshipped as the chosen of the Charnel God, the children of perversion and perdition.
To those most ancient nations of Pesegam, in an era before King Adas was a squealing babe within a blood-sodden blanket, he was Lord Nihl Rahap'tor, immortal god of the Sith; to the Builders of Lehon, in an era before their pride turned them against their masters, he was the Darth Venomis, the poison to which all life succumbed. He was Mnggal-Mnggal, mockery of Horliss-Horliss, the Sickness of Odacer-Faustin, Morddoth the Deceiver.
He was the black plague, the gray swallowing, the hollower of beings. He was the bringer of affliction, the goat with a thousand young, the horseman with the black wing. He was the Rot God, the Lord of Pestilence, the horde of the Unknown Regions, the flailing, spraying infinitude of a vast holocaust writhing in ecstasy and freedom.
He was Death.
The eyes through which he perceived Korriban were not his own. Naught was, for he was the great thief of life, all his oceanic number the stolen bodies of hoarded victims. Each of his innumerable hosts lasted mere days before their bloated grey skin dissolved in trypophobic putrefaction, their macerated, lacerated flesh oozing forth the execrable filth of Mnggal-Mnggal from a thousand pores engorged to gaping orifices as large as rotten shuura fruit.
That is what made this vessel different. Seen through the eyes of mortal folly, the loathsome lictor who descended from the bowels of the Ninushodojinyaut was naught but a man, draped in robes of white finery, sulphuric eyes staring across the desert from atop an angular visage of sallow cheeks and thin lips. Seen through the eyes of the dark side, he was something different altogether; a gaping, oozing wound in the Force from which boiling black blood seethed like oil and pus.
The vessel was an ancient Sith Lord who had invited the Rot God into his heart long ago, slowing the viral maxichlorians feeding off his senescent cells through the consumption of a Jedi's midichlorian-rich heart, not knowing his efforts did not bestow the immortality he craved, but only allowed Darth Venomis to claim his prize. Baka Sadow had not been the only greedy Sith Lord to make such a mistake; how often did the unwary fall for his deceptions, embracing the instructions of occult books to unwittingly summon the great Sickness through ritual and potion. Drear and Scabrous had failed where Baka had succeeded, and perhaps their death had been a mercy, but others had sought the path that led only to him, and when the surreptitious usage of their eyes exhausted its purpose, he would claim them as his own, too.
For now, the eyes of Baka Sadow would do.
The white-robed man approached the Kissai priests convening upon the Wight Wastes, weaving around the rearmost drop-pods whence the scarlet-skinned sorcerers had emerged. The thousand eyes of Mnggal-Mnggal stared at his own approach, a host of pustule-spotted, ink-soaked corpses milling in eerie silence while an army of skeletons raced towards the temple some two hundred meters ahead, not Venomis' own, but the inferior playthings of the necromancer, prodding at the enemy's defenses. The clouds of dust that billowed in their wake provided the perfect cover for the baleful horde gathering in the gloom.
The warlords of the Massassi were assembling, Terentatek in chains before them, and the Shadow Council already numbered nine. There was Darth Malleus, chosen from birth for the charcoal skin that bore the same shade as his god, and Lord Lacerus the Foul. There was Lord Toxmalb of Rhand, and Lord Cadaverous of Ixigul, the rulers of Veroleem and Durace, the sultans of Makatak and Tulpaa. Darth Soros, risen from the salt flats of Sarafur, and Raspir the Red, and many servants beside; Atha Prime of Rennek, Elder Ruthic of the Rakata, the princes of Zakuul, the Knell of Muspilli. All lesser shadows sworn to the Father, before whom even Venomis bowed.
“Rentok sin myur belrak, Jen'azgul,” a Massassi captain knelt, shielding his eyes. “Sektok Ari sektan Zakuul, jak Taral Xen Gaal, serak mentok sin Rak sektan Vader.” The necromancer and the battlelord were about to arrive, dragons and Leviathans in tow; the Lord of the Shadow Council, and its most brutish warrior. Venomis did not acknowledge the mewling maggot's report, instead looking over at the temple where the Jidai who dared call themselves Sith fled like rats, smiling at the retreating back of a tiny, distant figure. Ah, so the necromancer had spoken true. The whore was here.
How ironic that the Leviathans of Corbos would be the weapons of her downfall.
His tongue slithered between his lips, tasting the air like a serpent. The whore's loins, that gash in reality through which he had poured into the galaxy from the darkness beyond Illathurion, was a fond remembrance. How small she had become since, the very memory of her true self lost like the scattered shards of her shattered soul. How wretched a worm, the one who had thought herself a divine mother, yet was naught but food for ones older and fouler.
Perhaps she thought to escape the fate he had decreed for her. The fate he had decreed for them all. What foolish flies, wings futilely struggling against the webs he had spun; he could feel one of them trying to escape even now, pressing against his great power with an effort he doubtless thought mighty. The flicker of a thought disabused the gnat of his notion that he could challenge a god.
Yes, he was pleased the necromancer had persuaded him to attack with leisured sloth. For a being who hollowed out children only to make their mothers choose between life and filicide, wiping the Jen'jidai out with the wave of a divine hand would be stale and shallow. It was better this way; every moment of pleasure coaxed out from every second of woe, the devourer playing with his meal, until the Lord of Mortis came forth.
As their foul suzerain stared through the miasma, thrice a dozen skeletons crashed into the array of Hesperian Guard, the clang of clashing metal drowning out the echoing crack as Xarxes was abruptly flung to his back within the circle, ribs breaking within his armour. A three-fingered hand of bone reached between thorns of silver-bladed lightsaber pikes, a rusted sword swinging towards Hesper's breast. A spear jabbed towards Invadator's thigh; an archaic blaster loosed fire at Grievance's cybernetic ribcage; an axe descended towards Draconis' neck; a skeleton pounced towards Arach, impaling itself on her lightsaber, jaws snapping at her face. A revenant bearing a strange halberd swung the head of the blade towards Skyllan, and simultaneously, spinning metal discs flew from the tip, whirling towards Xirr, Thana and Krayt a short distance away.
“FALL BACK!” the shrill voice of Apollyon repeated. She may have considered Hesper and Arach rivals, but they were still Sith; they were still living. A second later, and the dead had reached her. Two skeletons swung at her with swords of iron, and she ducked; a third leapt towards her as she rose from her crouch, and she felt a pain in her ankle as she kicked out, its skull snapping around as her heel caught its jaw, flinging it back. She attempted to backpedal, careful not to trip over the hem of her gown. She was not dressed for this.
Sith Stormtroopers opened fire on the fiends accosting her, buying her a second of reprieve. The Sith jailor was not so lucky; bereft of his lightsaber, having given it to K'Kruhk, two skeletons ripped his entrails from his abdomen with gnashing teeth, while another ran him through with a spear. K'Kruhk was scarcely faring better; four skeletons rushed at him from all angles, and his arm, broken in the Sith torture dungeons, afforded him limited range of motion; Gar Stazi was pinned by a ghoul snapping at his collar; two skeletons rushed Kain, one swinging for his bicep from the left, the other stabbing towards his chest from the right.
“I-RON!” Apollyon yelled, lightsaber frantically flashing as she retreated towards the entrance. “ACTIVATE THE—Force damn it!”
I-Ron was nowhere to be seen. The Shard had slunk inside, and with him, all hope to remote-activate the Temple's shields instantaneously. “COMMANDER! CLOSE THE BLAST DOORS AND ACTIVATE THE SHIELDS, CODE 121-ALPHA!” The Shadow Guard would carry out her orders, but the time it took to manually input the commands into the control consoles on either side of the entrance would cost them precious seconds.
It would provide an extra five seconds for the assembled Sith to retreat, before they were sealed outside with the dead, but the delay was already costly. Just beneath the archway of the Temple's entryway, Marasiah Fel sagged in Volshe's grip, arresting her momentum. The head of a spear protruded from Marasiah's abdomen, the grinning skull of a skeleton visible behind her. Two more undead had slipped past, and charged after Pravum, polearms jabbing towards his back. Two guardsmen, approaching the consoles to carry out Apollyon's orders, looked warily over their shoulders.
Outside, a javelin whistled through the air towards Catalyst, and a ghoul raced by him to attack Xxys, attempting to bash the seasoned assassin's head against the wall behind him with the pronged tip of its rusted shield. Another leapt towards Volacius, unarmed, but claws raking the air with the promise of death. Four surrounded Noxia and Metus, two shooting at the Dark Lady with antiquated blaster carbines, the third hurling itself at her with a sword in hand, the fourth slashing at Metus' neck with a vibroknife. A fifth ghoul stood between Mirtis and Noxia, brandishing a ball-and-chain mace, swinging towards the Trandoshan's legs.
TAGs: @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Kain, @Darth Xirr, @DarthNoxia, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Helkosh, @G.Kn, @Darth Thana, @Sith_Imperios, @DarthFeros, @Darth Xxys, @Volacius, @Metus, @Catalyst, @corinthia, @Reiis Invadator, @dragonsith13, @Grievance Vexx, @Arach, @Reatith Blodraald (if not yet inside with Solus), @Cardun Vrek (if not yet inside with Solus)
OOC: Xarxes attempts Fold Space. A Level 100 being is already folding space around Korriban, checking Xarxes' attempt. Xarxes' Attack Roll is 11 + 18 + 5 for a total of 34, failing to overcome the enemy's Difficulty Class of 100; the attempt to Fold Space fails. The backlash is equivalent to a 3-Point telekinetic attack, and the Attack Roll is 17 + 50 + 10, for a total of 77, surpassing Xarxes' Difficulty Class of 35. The Damage Roll is 3 + 5 + 6, for a total of 14 Damage. Xarxes' 35 HP is depleted to 21.
Mirtis attempts Prima Vitae. I don't see a need to provide a check for this power in this instance as Noxia was not concealing her presence, so Mirtis should be able to sense her.
Draconis' attempt at Dark Side Healing cannot be processed this round (pending Character Sheet).
IC: Captain Ratag
Bridge of the Wrath of Vader, entering the Horuset system
It emerged from hyperspace as a gargantuan wedge of midnight black. First, the pointed prow, sharp as a shikkar dagger and extended into ram configuration, then the behemothic bulk of the 66-kilometer Star Dreadnaught, the victims of a thousand worlds leashed to its cracked, plasma-bleeding hull like grotesque trophies of war—some of them crawling across its exposed infrastructure in the tepid mockery of life, uncertain shapes shifting in the endless black.
The Wrath of Vader blotted out the stars.
It was not alone. Emerging into realspace beside it were several abominable craft woven on the looms of tenebrific nightmare, organic in shape yet with hulls of blasted black durasteel; vast insectoids with fuliginous faces, tentacled titans with hanging pincers, a chaotic orgy of infernal machinery with rhythmically pumping pistons and hints of glowing furnaces within tucked-away legs of cybernetic protrusions. Some, most horribly, bore human faces.
The eldritch escort ships passed above the TIE Reaper conveying Ānhrā and Sedicious with frightening alacrity, and the small ship rocked in the passage of their scarlet engines, as if buffeted by the plumes of gas and plasma. But the Wrath of Vader continued to roll on by, a jet-black silhouette broadening within the cockpit's viewport like an upside-down horizon. The few details of its hull that could be discerned were visibly racing by, yet the dreadnaught was so colossal that, after the passage of a standard minute, the TIE Reaper only found itself halfway past its overhanging bulk.
It was then that the deck of the bestiary slid open, splitting down the middle to loose Draa’zekyl and its frightful rider out amongst the stars. Even from the distance of three kilometers, Ānhrā and Sedicious would be able to make out the vast wings of the star dragon beating against the void. Teraktassi's last forwarding of orders had been for Lord Cruor to convene with the Shadow Council upon the Wight Wastes of Korriban, but the track ahead would bring Draa’zekyl perilously close to the TIE Reaper, and although Sedicious' mastery of illusions had concealed the ship from visible sight, the signatures of Ānhrā and Sedicious still shone like crimson stars within the Force.
Aboard the bridge of the great vessel above, the red-skinned captain Ratag lay prostrate on the cold, dark deck. His hands were outstretched before him, yellow eyes closed as if in prayer. Shadows filled the recycled air, as slaves worked archaic machinery in the two crew pits on either side of the central walkway, heaving back and forth to the monotonous rhythm of a drum like the oarsmen of an ancient war galley.
A tattered cloak of black towered above Ratag, silhouetted against the approaching orb of Korriban ahead.
A whisper filled the bridge. "Zha. Jhaa dharou ra rehr jamijuis sssoa ali jhor." Ratag smiled, rising to his knees as bidden. The battle orders were precise, but they filled him with cold confidence; his lord's cunning had filled the fables of his youth. "Meerak ssshaa Abominor creska." The Eternal Fleet was to open fire, but spare the most powerful ships for boarding and capture. "Sssaassi kerak rotis ka rajah." The Massassi would meet no resistance.
TAGs: @Darth Cruor, @Ānhrā Māhnîu, @Darth Sedicious
OOC: Ānhrā attempts to use Force Suppression. This is not a power intended for stealth or Force signature concealment, and such novel usage would ordinarily incur a heavy penalty or simply not work, but nonetheless, he rolls 13 + 18 + 5, for a total of 36. As this falls short of Lord Cruor's Difficulty Class of 45, his and Sedicious' signatures are completely visible to Cruor in the Force. Ānhrā attempts to summon Talismans of Concentration using Dimension Shift. He rolls a 4 + 18 + 5, for a successful total of 27; the Effect Roll is 6 + 6 + 5 + Effect Modifier of 2, and both Talismans are successfully summoned, but somewhat slowly.
Sedicious attempts to cloak the ship using Sith Illusions; as this is not a telepathic power like Force Illusion, there is no need to check this ability against Lord Cruor's Difficulty Class. He rolls 18 + 18 + 5, for a successful total of 41. The Effect Roll is 6 + 5 + 2 + 3 + Effect Modifier of 4, for a total of 20, and the illusion is entirely successful. There is no need to check the usage of Battle Meditation unless interaction occurs.
IC: Ermir Marcus
Dungeons beneath the Sith Temple, Korriban
Ermir stubbed his cigarra out against the stone wall, twisting it to extinguish the remaining embers, before flicking it to the floor. The lower one went in the temple, the less care evident in its construction, Ermir found. Here, three levels below the surface, in the oppressive quiet of the dungeons, the polished tiles of the banquet hall, the gleaming durasteel of Sith Intelligence, even the flat, dusty stone floors of the student quarters, gave way to roughly hewn rocks surrounded by untidy lines of sand and dirt.
The discarded stubs of a hundred past cigarras poked out of the cracks, speaking to the many years the overseer had stood in this exact spot, outside the armoury and his old alchemy classroom, shepherding students from trial to trial.
Never had he seen students so unruly as this bunch.
Had he grown soft over the years? Once, he had instructed an acolyte to bury her own classmate in the Valley of the Dark Lords, dragging his carcass all the while. What was her name, the Zeltron girl? Had the Nautolan been killed by Ermir's hand, or the Zeltron's incompetence? Ermir did not even remember. All he remembered was that the paperwork had grown tedious, over the years; the paperwork, and the meetings. Yes, Grand Overseer, they disrespected my person in class. No, Grand Overseer, I was not aware my mortality rates were higher than any class save remedial Djem So.
It turned out the Sith needed able bodies to fight the Federation, and since the end of the armistice, excessively lethal training methods had become... frowned upon.
Perhaps he had gotten soft. Perhaps the new regulations had spoiled the acolytes across the board, resulting in a generation of apprentices who apparently thought their fortune in winning the personal tuition of a master somehow trumped obeying the instructions of Academy overseers. Or, apparently, even Lady Apollyon herself!
Ermir placed his hands in his pockets, and smiled at his students, leaning in towards them with an abruptly bent back. “The next apprentice,” Ermir began, voice deceptively soft, “to suggest being excused from their training assignment... will be doing their homework in the Valley of the Dark Lords, learning first-hand what it was like to be a slave of the Sith Empire five thousand years ago, sealed alive in their lord's tomb. Do I make myself clear?”
He leaned back, shooting Xiannarr a glare. The fellow overseer was scarcely helping things. Yes, of course Ermir had bloody sensed the disturbance in the Force. Was the feast upstairs going to be a picnic? Obviously not! When one had trained hopeful Sith as long as Ermir had, one learned to ignore the blood and fray of the upstairs world, the politics of who sat atop the dung heap. This lord or that lord, it did not matter. To the students under his charge, Ermir Marcus was lord.
“I don't want to hear about refresher breaks or masters' messages or vague feelings,” Ermir continued. “Get back in that room, put on your masks, and throw your datapads in with your lightsabers for good measure! And be quick about it!” At least one student had demonstrated basic obedience. “Except you. You, go on down.” He gave a mocking bow to Keres, sweeping his arm out to his right, indicating her to go on ahead towards the end of the passageway. There, on the left side, a stair spiralled upwards to the former tower of the Emperor, cordoned off by a simple rope and a sign restricting entry, while on the right, a stair spiralled downwards into the musty darkness, towards the unfinished tunnels beneath the dungeons.
The subterranean depths of the temple had gestated many frightful rumours among the students, Ermir knew, and it was difficult to strain fact from fiction; the crypts of XoXaan and Lacerus may have lurked below, for the Temple had been built atop the tombs of old lords, but did the tunnels really lead to a fantastic underdelve of catacombs webbing out beneath Korriban's crust? Were there actually any ghosts and shadows, or had students merely glimpsed the former Emperor from time to time? Foolish Gerthund had sworn he had never found anything more than dead ends and ancient traps, but Ermir knew not all the tales were tall; after all, two years ago, it had been Ermir and the Cathar known as Arcane who had discovered, in a vast cavernous chamber concealed behind a sealed tunnel, the resting place of Darth Ramage.
“Xiannarr, make sure these louts do as they're told,” Ermir snapped, not bothering to even acknowledge the master's craven concerns. And then he turned, making his way towards the right, dirty white robe flapping about his boots.
TAGs: @Keres Dymos, @Kielor, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Undying Master Xiannarr, possibly @Nacros_Telcontare
OOC: Xiannarr, you once again rolled a 4! 4 + 15 + 5, for a total of 24, failing to overcome Ermir Marcus' Difficulty Class of 30; your attempted telepathy had no effect.
IC: Darth Nihl
Throne room, Sith Temple, Korriban
“I do not know,” Nihl answered, meeting Sol's gaze evenly. His voice, soft and low, betrayed nothing of what lay behind that painted mask of charcoal and white. “I believe there is great danger. Hold here, for now, both of you,” he indicated towards Loharr. “Guard the heir-children.” Primordius seemed quite oblivious to the gathering storm in the Force, sitting on the steps of the throne's dais and picking at flaking leatheris at the top of his boots, but Deianara was standing apart, staring up at the ceiling with a peculiar expression on her young face.
Nihl turned towards Nathemus. “I will retrieve the Empress; no harm must come to her.” The twins were well-guarded, but who protected the Empress in this den of ophidians?
There was no room for dissension. While Maladi heeded Nathemus' command, thumbing the ignition on the yorik coral hilt of her lightsaber and standing ready beside the doorway, Nihl sprinted from the hall just as Karin entered, long-handle lightsaber held aloft but yet unlit, navigating the reception room beyond towards the growing shouts of alarm, weaving through the serving droids in the banquet hall and the clatter of dropping plates, passing Voidwalker and I-Ron without a second glance. There was madness at the entrance; hundreds of Sith caught in the uncertainty between clashing forces, the push of a crowd to leave the hall and witness the execution, and the hasty withdrawal at the sight of the dire pyramids. It was difficult to tell what was going on.
In a passageway to Nihl's left, Hadzuska was racing for the library. It came into view within seconds, the cramped passage leading out into a much larger hall that stretched left to right; there were numerous doors ahead of Hadzuska's vision, leading to classrooms and sparring rooms, but most conspicuous by far was the five-meter-tall marble archway directly opposite of the junction, positioned as if inviting all who made their way down from the daily breakfasts in the banquet hall to enter.
A vaulted ceiling and stained-glass window was visible through the archway, and many old tables and chairs beside shelves of datapads and books, stairs leading up to interior balconies filled with more of the same. Students sitting at their desks were already rising, frowning, the distant noises now stemming from the dining hall mingling with the darkening in the Force to create a general malaise.
Outside the younglings' quarters, meanwhile, an older Devaronian female, black tattoos faded against wrinkled ochre skin, accosted Lord Solus. “What are you doing here?” she rasped, rising from her desk and pointing an accusing finger towards his chest as the uniformed Commandant barreled into the dormitory hallway.
Dormitory wings were placed at each corner of the Temple, on the ground floor, and were grouped by age so as to curb excessive mortality rates; a caretaker of Sith Master rank was typically assigned to each wing, always on the lookout for intruders, and across her years overseeing the southeastern wing reserved for students younger than ten, the Devaronian crone had become accustomed to catching older acolytes trying to sneak by to remove defenseless competition, or pilfer the few precious artifacts the younglings found in their comparatively tame trials.
Separated from the banquet hall by a labyrinth of latrines, training rooms, Knights' barracks and the younglings' kitchen, the noise of battle had not yet reached the dormitories, and Apollyon's guards had yet to activate the Temple alarms.
TAGs: @Darth Nathemus, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @skira, @Loharr Talem, @Darth Voidwalker, @Darth Solus, @Jihadi Quartz, @Cardun Vrek (if preferred), @Reatith Blodraald (if preferred)
OOC: I-Ron uses Force Bond and Probe Mind, and it is the latter I am going to check. His Attack Roll is 14 + 13 + 5 for a total of 32, surpassing Sol's Difficulty Class of 10. His Effect Roll is 4 + 1 + 6 + Effect Modifier of 3 + Effect Bonus of 1, for a total of 15. I-Ron is able to easily retrieve the knowledge he desires from Sol's mind, but is not able to pilfer through it entirely.
IC: Necro Solaar
Communications chamber, Fountain Palace, Hapes
Goledriel shivered against the sudden chill. Folding one's arms was considered offensive in the presence of the Queen Mother, so she merely adjusted her dress to cover more of her breast. Her eyes were studiously averted. “If it please, my Chume, I have given my counsel,” she said, soft lilt barely betraying the quiver in her voice, a decade of practice in the lethal politics of the Hapan court. “But I cannot stop you, for yours is the will, and yours is the will of the Queen Mother, and the people of Hapes.”
She bowed, lower than her usual perfunctory nods, and straightened her skirts. “I beg leave to depart, to grant you privacy.” She made for the door almost furtively, hugging the circular wall as if attempting to skirt past Darth Traya at the greatest possible distance, but save for the nasty smile that creased his pasty lips, Necro Solaar made no move to acknowledge her or hinder her, simply side-stepping before pulling from the shadows to enter the chamber. Only a glance was spared for Dhe Ta’ Dlav lurking behind.
Unnoticed, Goledriel brought her left hand to her right wrist, and the circular blue light within the wide band of her silver bracelet flicked to red. She had tried to stop Traya, but there was no challenging her power, if the rumours spoke true; not alone. That would be up to the Hendrice Sisters, now. The comm-signal, ordinarily marked by a chime, was as silent as an assassin's pistol.
The water trickled down the walls, and Solaar's footsteps squeaked upon the polished floor. He ignored the gizka chittering around his boots, and crossed the room in five impatient strides, turning as he reached the far side of the table. “My Chume?” he prompted, looking up from the communications console, icy-blue light casting a ghastly shine upon his countenance. “Should I play the message?”
TAG: @Darth Traya
IC: Commander Threntel
Trenches, Desrini District, Coruscant
Chunks of permacrete flung themselves across the walkway, as if repelled by a sudden wind, as the Padawan's telekinetic blast went wide. Dorrian's dart of speed had been nothing short of incredible for his bulk, and the Padawan whirled, attempting to keep up with the Maelibus. Not quickly enough. The glaive descended through the air like the axe of an executioner, and sunk itself into the Padawan's shoulder, splattering the Maelibus' copper skin with blood. The Jedi cried aloud, blade dislodging as he fell to his back, but it was that same motion that saved his life, as Rayge, leaping from a contorted beam of durasteel above, swung his lightsaber at where the Jedi's head had been only a moment prior.
Rayge crashed ungainly into a crumpled speeder, permacrete dust billowing around him, as the Padawan rolled to his feet. Adrenaline kept the pain at bay, and his left hand clasped at his shoulder to stem the bleeding, lightsaber still held in his right. Pythonus had joined the melee, now, dancing around the Jedi's peripheral vision like an emerald viper, twin flambards ready to strike. Ignoring Pythonus' taunts, the Jedi weakly swung his grass-green blade towards Dorrian's legs, just as a Federation soldier opened fire on Rayge, pink packets of plasma streaking towards his back.
The soldier himself was felled by a heavy blaster bolt a split-second later, hurled to the rubble by the force of Deleritas' cannons, as black-plated Sith Stormtroopers surged from their trench, joined by a line out of Dorrian's tunnel as the speeder bikes swooped past the Imperial ranks.
The shadow of a MAAT gunship fell over the battlefield, and Omegon's heads-up display was flooded with the infrared outlines of blue-uniformed Federation officers, as they emerged from their trenches and from behind boulders of shattered starscraper, shouting out orders to withdraw. The MAAT had not yet opened fire, but it was hard to miss the twin spherical turrets on either side of the cockpit swivelling towards the rebels' retreating backs.
Deleritas' comm crackled to life, as Commander Threntel, directing troops from the Imperial trench, raised a hand to the side of his plumed helmet. “I'm in charge,” he shouted. “Boy, are we glad to see you!” The Stormtrooper Centurion did not waste a second's more time, swiftly conveying the situation to the Sith Knight. “Federation fighters are holed up in the trench ahead, looks like you've got them on the run. Turn around when you overshoot them, and we'll pin them between the infantry. Approx two hundred hostiles, infantry with light artillery. Watch out for RPS.” The shoulder-mounted rocket launchers were death to mounted troops.
In the speeder park behind the Imperial trench, shuttles continued to land. White Nune-class and black Upsilon-class, and a single Sigma-class, red as the favoured attire of its occupant, wings folding above the hull like a vulture coming to feed upon the carrion of Coruscant. In the hold, accompanied by a dozen Stormtroopers in their sable armour, was Darth Vesper.
TAGs: @Kint Dranlor, @Rayge, @Dorrian Shadowsun, @Senec Tinople, @Oberleutnant Deleritas, @Darth Vesper
OOC: The Padawan's Attack Roll from the previous round is 5 + 10, for a total of 15; this fails to overcome Dorrian's Difficulty Class of 20, and the attack fails; there is therefore no need to roll Damage against Dorrian's defensive usage of Force Reflex.
Dorrian's own attack with a glaive is 10 + 10, for a total of 20; this matches the Padawan's Difficulty Class of 20, and succeeds. Damage is 10 + Damage Modifier of 2, for a total of 12, and the Padawan's HP is reduced from 19 to 7.
Rayge is attempting too many abilities at once, and circumventing the lack of Force Jump with substitute abilities would typically have no mechanical results, but as he is leaping from an elevated position, I will consider the leap successful regardless. I will check the usage of Juyo (as Jar'Kai is not currently in play, as only a single blade is activated), incorporating the augmentation if successful. His Attack Roll is 1 + 10, for a total of 11, failing to overcome the Padawan's Difficulty Class of 20.
As Senec's lower level should not make it any easier for him to pick up Omegon's telepathic message (so rolling against Difficulty Class would not make much sense), I will perform a simple d20 for Omegon's attempt with a target number of 10; he rolled a 12, a success, so I will move to an Effect Roll. 2 + Effect Modifier of -2 for a total of 0, so no telepathic message was received.
There is no need to check Deleritas' usage of laser cannons, at least until a specific opponent is encountered.