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Game ⚜️ Knights of the Eternal Empire: The True Sith Trials ⚜️

Darth Dreadwar

Active member
Immortalis
GM Update
Korriban tagsets due Sunday | All other tagsets due Monday

IC: Darth Dreadwar
Hangar of the Sith Temple, Korriban



A receding black robe drew Dreadwar’s eyeless gaze, and the Dark Lord raised a hand of shadow towards the open doors of the hangar. An armoured assassin was bounding down the stairs beyond, taking the steps two at a time, and as the fleeing figure shouted at others presumably approaching on the lower floor, Dreadwar at once recognised the deep baritone, however strained by the urgency of his flight.

Darth Xxys.

No sooner had Dreadwar gathered the Force to him, ready to tear soul from distant body, than did an unexpected entourage round the corner to burst into the hangar, and Dreadwar stayed his hand. He had not seen them ascend the stairs, nor sensed their approach down the hallway from which the two dead fools had emerged, yet as their countenances became clear in the dim light, any lingering surprise at their stealth dissipated; obscuring one’s signature in the Force was no great feat for one such as Kára Volshe.

His runaway bride had brought his heirs, it appeared, and three other Sith he well recognised as the warlord, his foolhardy son, and the alchemist, as well as a fourth insignificant he did not. For one who had absconded with his children in the dead of night, and fled Zakuul without the slightest hint of appreciation for his generosity, Volshe displayed a brazen sort of bravery indeed to dare stare directly at him. It would have been polite to lie prostrate.

“We are what you desire,” she swallowed; at least her voice had the good sense to shake. “Me. Your children. And so we have come to surrender, to serve your cause.”

That seemed unlikely. While it was possible that Dreadwar had succumbed to a cognitive bias, in ascribing far greater intelligence to his intended consort than she actually possessed, it was overwhelmingly more probable that Volshe was exactly as cunning, in her own base way, as he had modelled; a sufficient number of private predictions had verified to indicate Dreadwar possessed an accurate if excessively thorough understanding of her behaviour and intellect. His mental model of Volshe, having committed to the folly of her vanity and lost the protection of his goodwill, would not surrender unless she had no other choice.

His mental model of Volshe would, however, think that feigning surrender was an appropriate risk to take if she thought she possessed the means to destroy her Emperor. She would not be fool enough to think a thermal detonator or other such crude trap would have a hope of working, but there were snares she might think were appropriate to use against that which she thought was a disembodied spirit, and it was not impossible she possessed knowledge of the means by which Insipid had delayed him for a time. One with no awareness of the illusory arts by which Dreadwar projected the phantasmal seeming of his being would not realise that Insipid had been spectacularly lucky in activating the Rakatan mind prison at the exact moment Dreadwar had been imbuing his essence into Ardeur’s form, and that such tactics would ordinarily be ineffectual against a simulacrum.

If she had brought such a snare, or equivalent, it would likely be concealed on one of the children’s persons, deducing Dreadwar would separate them from her… or perhaps not. After all, Volshe’s sensibilities prohibited her from truly following the cold calculus of logic to its necessary conclusion. Nonetheless, there was no risk in playing along; whether Volshe was truly inept enough to sincerely surrender, or whether she was attempting some gambit, he could think of no means by which she could truly harm him. He would have her send the children forth, lulling her into false security either which way, and then, once the twins had achieved a safe distance from the group, destroy the others upon the spot.

All of this was thought through in an instant, seven millennia of practice in the arts of rationality transforming heuristics into instinct, and there was not the slightest discernible pause before that carefully cultivated whisper of terror bled forth from the empty hood.

"Bid the children approach me. I would not have you retain hostages. Then cast your weapons at my feet, turn to the wall, and kneel at once, placing your hands upon your heads; do not call upon the Force at any time, or you die upon the spot." Tricking them into disarming themselves was but a secondary and wholly unnecessary goal; if Dreadwar appeared appropriately cautious in handling their ostensible surrender, threatening their death in the same black breath, they would be less likely to think his mercy implausibly magnanimous, less likely to suspect their death lurked seconds away regardless.

More importantly, the command would place Volshe in a difficult position; if Volshe had concealed the crux of her scheme upon a person beside the heirs, she would have to find some contrived and convenient excuse to subtly circumvent his orders, in spite of the fact that a sincere Volshe would not be so clumsy as to risk her death over such a tiny thing. If she did not obey his instructions to the letter, then that meant she had calculated defiance—however innocently guised—was worth the risk, and Dreadwar’s suspicions would be confirmed.

Sure enough, Volshe grasped for an innocuous-seeming excuse to disobey. Ah, so it was this red-haired girl Volshe had identified as Sol, an acolyte or apprentice by her lack of presence in the Force, who held the trap; yes, yes, one who thought themselves cunning might think Dreadwar would underestimate a random minion, particularly if Primordius was placed tantalisingly within reach alongside.

Dreadwar permitted the girl to approach, and when her fist shot forwards, a wall of telekinetic power immediately arrested her arm mid-swing. The clenched hand undoubtedly concealed the trap, as punching the shimmering shield surrounding the Dread-King would serve no purpose. How predictable.

Volshe’s theatricality was hardly convincing, either—likely a gambit to maintain innocence, in case the attack failed—and she would not escape punishment. Dreadwar extended his hand, at once moving to devour the fools before him, and for a half-second, the cortosis claws of his gauntlet merely hung aloft in midair. No life-force flowed into his waiting palm; the group, it appeared, possessed no souls to consume.

Illusions?

Dreadwar laughed. This was no attempted assassination at all; this was a gambit to buy time, for any clever combatant knew thirty seconds was all the difference in the galaxy, and it had worked! At last, it appeared, Volshe was thinking like him. “Clever girl,” he hissed.

Nonetheless, his hypothesis needed testing, and any true empiricist knew that, to avoid the pitfalls of confirmation bias, one always sought to disprove one’s hypothesis first. Dreadwar had already been readying a telekinetic wave to destroy the craft in the hangar, to rob the defenders of their first hope at escape, and he unleashed his power at once, so that he might kill two hawk-bats with but one stone.

When Sol turned to dust, and the others were hurled quite convincingly towards the wall, Dreadwar updated his probability estimates. Mere illusions would not respond to telekinesis, not unless the caster was both clever and reflexive enough to feign such, and, save for the unlikely case of holographic training droids, the possibility of holographic projection was ruled out as well.

A trickery of telepathy was impossible given Dreadwar’s prodigious mental defenses, and Volshe was unlikely to know the art of crafting Sith phantasms; besides, if she had pilfered such techniques from his hoarded lore, Dreadwar suspected his attack would have drained the victims to which the phantoms were bound. That left only one possibility.

Similfuturus.

He resumed his pace forward, fingers slicing through the air in the shape of a circle, ignoring Volshe’s attempts at confusion. Her imitation of Abeloth, that hoary suzerain of the Maw, was amusingly appropriate, although her pretenses of treachery were unconvincing—there were no traitors among the ranks of the New Sith Order, or Dreadwar would have known of such—and her attempt at Venomis, however disconcerting, merely babbled something oddly out-of-place about the worlds of the Chorlian being a beacon for the shadows beyond. “Suttachwituskak,” Dreadwar replied, the incantation rapid and precise, no more than half-a-second spent in casting.

Green energy blazed forth, striking the projection of Volshe in the chest, and the image dissipated. With the lazy curl of a finger, the remaining doppelgangers were dispatched, and Dreadwar proceeded into the hallway beyond the hangar, immediately descending the long flight of stairs opposite.

There was no sign of Xxys, but four hulking golems of wood and glass were advancing down the lower floor hallway towards him. It was unlikely Volshe had given animation to their forms, given that she had already dispatched projections, but the fact that both sets of enemies were resistant to his most awesome powers of destruction indicated whichever sorcerer had raised the golems had benefited from her counsel. Pressed to their limits, his former subjects were thinking. They were actually thinking.

Remarkable.

Still, even crude mockeries of life were not immune to the savageries of time, and as Dreadwar advanced, flame torches flickered out in their sconces, and darkness flooded the air, as if heralding its master’s coming. Only he was immortal; only he could defy death. The golems were but unlikely blips of organisation amid the seas of black infinity, and without titanium will to conquer the natural flow of the cosmos, they stood no chance against the acceleration of aeons. As concentrated entropy flowed around their forms, their glass organs turned opaque, sand trickling from between rotting ribs of wood, and the fine strands of Force energy holding together their constituent parts began to unravel, like the fraying threads of an ancient rope.

Their gait became clumsy, collapsing legs no longer supporting such great weight, and as the eldritch currents of shadow lifted from the passage, the four golems shattered against the floor.

All the while, Dreadwar had not ceased his slow and relentless march forwards, tattered cloak trailing across stone tiles as he approached the leftward bend ahead. It was then that a great gout of flame blazed forth, a violent flash of white accompanying a billowing cloud of fire and a crack louder than any thunder. The explosion consumed Dreadwar in an instant, blistering heat meeting deathly cold, and for a moment, the entire hallway was a roaring serpent of compressed flame. Then the walls ruptured, freeing the fire to lick the temple’s exposed insides, and stone crumbled, giant chunks of rock slamming into the scorched-black floor as the ceiling gave way, revealing the upper floor passageway above.


When the great light faded, and the fire receded to individual tongues of flame flicking from cracks in charred masonry, all was blackened ruin. Yet Darth Dreadwar stood, surrounded by floating boulders, that same strange sphere of malachite energy flickering around him. He was unharmed.

With a flick of his finger, the boulders were promptly cast aside, but the passageway ahead had caved in completely, and even Dreadwar’s prodigious powers of telekinesis would not clear such obstruction in a timely fashion. Dreadwar stepped forward nonetheless, the cruel tip of his cortosis sabaton extending ponderously in the air for but a second, and then with a dull boom, his foot fell upon the floor of the banquet hall. Ruin was no longer his surroundings; the collapsed passageway was, all of a sudden, twenty meters behind him, and far more pleasing scenery greeted his eyeless gaze.

Screeches and screams filled the hall, as Darth Dreadwar appeared in the midst of a panicked crowd as if materialising from the very air, standing where Nihl had stood only a minute earlier.


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TAG: No one (atlthough processing @Darth Xxys' and @Helkosh's attacks)

OOC: There is no need to use Telepathy to command one’s golems, and Pravum’s usage can be considered an automatic success.

Unfortunately, Yenøh’s continued presence in a shuttle must incur the Damage Roll from Dreadwar’s successful Force Wave targeting the hangar’s craft from last post (regardless of the attempt at Conceal Essence, which, rolling a 5 + Modifiers against DC 50, would have failed to hide her). Damage was 3 + 4 + 5 + 5 + 6 + Modifier of 5 + Bonus of 10, and as Yenøh’s maximum possible HP could only be 20, her HP is reduced to 0; Yenøh has died of Dreadwar.

Dreadwar’s usage of Bolt of Hatred rolls 14 + 25 + 10 against DC 46, and succeeds; Damage is 1 + 5 + 6 + 4 + 1 + Modifier of 5, depleting Volshe’s Doppelganger’s HP to 0. His usage of Telekinetic Kill rolls 11 + 25 + 10 against DC 40, and succeeds; Damage is 2 + 2 + 4 + 3 + 1 + Modifier of 5 + Bonus of 10, reducing Nathemus’ Doppelganger’s HP to 0.

Dreadwar’s usage of Darkshear rolls 5 + 25 + 10 against DC 10, and succeeds. Damage is 5 + 5 + 4 + 2 + 2 + Modifier of 5, reducing four golems’ HP to 0. Xxyx’ mines will be arbitrated as an automatic success against Dreadwar, with 5d6 (20) damage; this is countered by Dreadwar’s Protection Bubble, which negates 5d6 (5 + 4 + 4 + 2 + 5, also 20) Damage without modifiers, and Dreadwar’s HP is not affected. Dreadwar’s usage of Fold Space rolls 14 + 25 + 10 against DC 30, and succeeds; Effect is 22 + 5, and his attempted teleportation is achieved in full.





IC: Darth Apollyon
Underdelve beneath the Sith Temple, Korriban



The dark maw of Karness Muur peeled back as if in a distorted grimace, a frightful illusion of optics and shadowplay as the flames of Volacius’ sword shed a faint if hellish light on the six-foot-by-six-foot cavity ahead.

The opening was indeed a tunnel, and the broken stalactites and stalagmites that served as Muur’s curiously receded teeth suggested a once-natural formation that had been concealed with the unhappy visage. Nonetheless, the throat of the tunnel displayed clear signs of sapient repurposement, for six feet beyond the mouth’s claustrophobic threshold, the roughly circular passage opened up into a larger affair, around thirteen feet in diameter, and apathetic, unhewn sandstone gave way to antediluvian, unhallowed limestone bearing all the terrifying marks of unnameable excavators.

The sides of the tunnel had been chiselled away into crude walls, and it would have been tempting to describe the shape of the new passage as quadrilateral, perhaps trapezoidal, if it weren’t for the fact that the ceiling remained the stubborn arch of a circle. Whether it was the flickering light of Volacius’ sword to fault, or some eldritch geometry that circumvented all Rotkanian reasoning of Euclidean complexity, the exact dimensions of the tunnel defied easy description. What could not be doubted was that the tunnel had been deliberately fashioned to impress such dubious conclusions upon all unfortunate enough to behold it, with straight walls here and sanity-bending curved walls only a few feet further, as if confusion and madness were the architectural principles of whichever nameless forebears had carved some natural tunnel into such a passage of horror.

Beside the omnipresent cobwebs, which suggested some lurking infestation of k’lor’slugs or kinrath, mural sculpture was the dominating feature of the tunnel’s tenebrous and decayed decor. There were sinful and sinuous arabesques laced throughout the cyclopean masonry, and those learned in obscure architecture would immediately recognise the winding, tentacular style of ophidian grotesquerie, those loathsome reliefs of Caulus Tertius and Shatuun which such esteemed historians of the antiquarian galaxy as Doctor Insmot Bowen had dared attribute to abominably mysterious, pre-Republic precursors known variously as the Celestials, the Architects or the Old Ones. Would that such terribly suggestive patterns be the only source of horror!

There were other pictures, decadent and despicable, counter-sunk in low relief beside the bulging serpentine tracery of the grotesque arabesques, background depressed around three inches from the natural wall of the tunnel. Not even the sickening, censored conceptions of long-dead Asenec, the Mad Croke who had defiled The Despotica and incensed the galaxy with hateful poetry, nor the vile visions of Soshu Londahl, that elusive Ithorian who had depicted The Fourth Precept, could imitate the absolute abhorrence and malice of this foul artistry.

For all the creative and cultural diversity of the galaxy and its many races, it would become obvious, at this moment, that the styles of every civilised world nonetheless bore some residue of humanity, some hint of the republican and familiar, no matter how alien its inhabitants. Yet these reliefs were so utterly foreign and archaic as to induce malaise bordering on nausea, the woozy imprint of some incomprehensibly ancient past, concealed from all species’ eyes, now horrifically and readily apparent to all those who stooped beneath Muur’s stone lips into this waiting den of wickedness. The history they depicted, if indeed the scenery described any history of this world, was staggering in its obscenity and strangeness, and not even famed cyprian Yosyro Modoll could have stomached illustrating the orgiastic rituals of flailing, frothing madness beneath floating black caverns and grinning maws of perversity that the reliefs depicted in such shocking if primitive detail.

Although of prodigious antiquity and base aspect, the skill with which the stone had been worked was nothing but preternatural. Beyond and behind the more obvious blasphemies were strange hints of something at once more nebulous and macabre, crisscrossing lines and optical trickery lending a phantasmagoric tinge of illusory dreamscape, as if there were deeper, more fantastical layers to the crumbling, dust-laden artwork that could have only been perceived and appreciated by beings with more than two eyes. Even scenes of relative mendacity, depicting flayed, unhuman columns of bowed slaves pressed to the construction of primitive stone houses and megalithic ziggurats, possessed this ominous, unconscious underlay of menace, as if the pyramids being raised bore the subtlest hint of an apoplectic, conical face, or the windows of the too-large houses stared with an unseen, baleful gaze, a million glaring facets of some greater eye that had been deliberately and hypnotically concealed.

Cartouches, niches and hieroglyphs provided some merciful interruption to the vile and violent imagery, although the anthropoid fetishes within each niche were only marginally less horrific, tiny, snarling stone idols of three-fingered, three-toed bipeds with hulking shoulders, bent backs and stub-nosed, vaguely simian faces with tendrils dripping from each drooping cheek. Those who had seen the enemy from the battlements would recognise the familar shapes of the strange, crimson-skinned savages besieging the temple behind their vanguard of carrion, and indeed the shared identity between the enemy outside and at least certain of the entities depicted could not be plainer, for one relief, on the far side of an ithyphallic totem of soapstone, still bore the pigments that untold aeons had worn away from the others. In this scene, one of the red-skinned cacodaemons, joined by a lepidote, blue-skinned alien more readily recognisable as a Draethos, kneeled before the same black horror that littered the other reliefs in a multitudinous variety of monstrous and anthropoid forms. The charcoal paint applied to all such depictions of this chthonic entity shone with a strange, sticky sheen.


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The hieroglyphs offered few clues, however, as to this omnipotent omnivore’s identity, nor did they provide context to the atrocious scenes. Although there was a passing resemblance to the glyphs used by the ancient Sith, clearly the dialect employed was beyond the comprehension of even the most linguistically- and historically-inclined of the New Sith Order, for the queer symbols spelled out unpronounceable and garbled nonsense, often in repetition as if knowingly redolent of some blasphemous spoken chant. MNGGAL MNGGAL, THARAGORROGARAHT and DARR TAH were detestably common refrains, as was a particular, peculiar phrase of singular anxiety and frightfulness: EA EA FH’NGLUI MNGGAL’NAFH TYPHOJEM AZNAK WGAH’NAGL PHTAGN.

The stench emanating from the tunnel was almost unbearable. The coppery tang of freshly spilled blood and the obnoxious effluvia of involuntarily loosed excrement had intensified, as Catalyst dragged the bodies of the slain apprentices to the tunnel’s entrance, but the malodorous air clogging the lungs of those brave few who approached Muur’s stony countenance carried a smell far fouler than that of the recently deceased; an old, wasting death, mingled with a third scent that only the most discerning nose could differentiate from the overwhelming staleness of dry decay, a fainter, sweeter rot, redolent of mold and sickly moisture, that grew stronger if one approached either side of the tunnel’s walls.

Only Xarxes, at once cursed and blessed by the penetrating vision of the mqaaq'it, could perceive the source of, at least, the most dominant odour.

The tunnel was more than a subterranean passageway; it was a catacomb. Fifty feet past Muur’s gaping maw, near a bend in the tunnel only Xarxes could see, a flock of shyrack, disturbed by the sudden light, swept past rows of pitch-black recesses and adjoining ossuaries. Although the emaciated, mummiform bodies interred within these latter crypts could not be made out, the myriad of fleshless skeletons resting in the less extravagant recesses could not be mistaken, and the odd, mineralised texture of many implied decomposition had given way to partial fossilisation.

Too many of the skulls sported oddly sloping foreheads and pronounced brow ridges, with eye-sockets larger than anything belonging to humanity, and the claws of their skeletal fingers numbered three. It would not be difficult to deduce that their toes, concealed by the wispiest tatters of unfathomably ancient raiment or simply the darkness of a distance even Xarxes’ gaze could not penetrate, numbered thus also, and the terrifying antiquity implied naturally led one to conclude the beings to which these calciform remains belonged had been, at least, the autochthonous inhabitants of primordial Korriban, if not the elder, tendrilous and undoubtedly scarlet-skinned spawn of distant stars from a primeval age before Korriban had yet been formed. A tremendous hatefulness hung like a miasma over those distant racks of skeletons, and perhaps it was this cloud of intense agitation that repelled the touch of Noxia’s reanimating powers, as if the spirits she desired to restore to what few bodies of unwholesomely preserved flesh yet remained in the unhallowed crypts refused to answer the call of one so far separated by an uncrossable black gulf of incomprehensible, malevolent remoteness.

The eye of Xarxes was not the only means by which the frightful depths of the tunnel could be plumbed.

The mind’s eye could probe further still, and although they could not see the distant bend in the tunnel, much less around it, a vague tangle of feeling and extrasensory perception conveyed something of what lay beyond to Catalyst and Feros, a bewildering, crawling chaos of fugitive moods, memories of a future not yet lived, and impressions of an unknown distance in time and space. There was the sense of a large, open vault, and a faint reddish light suggestive of a twilit moment or location beyond the tunnel’s oppressive darkness, but Feros alone—or rather, the draconic daemon whispering within his skull—would recognise the chamber, however dreamlike and distorted, as the subterranean headquarters and breeding grounds of Darth Krayt’s once-fearsome Sith troopers, secreted away beneath the mountains of the Valley of the Dark Lords amidst a nest of deadly Annihilator starfighters.

Yet the vision was scarcely one of certain escape. Catalyst, focusing on the geography of the tunnel itself, perceived some dire obstacle barring passage, while Feros, drifting along the currents of uncertain futures, heard only screams, shrill and fearful and utterly awful, strangely mirroring the diabolical depictions of sapient sacrifice lining the palaeogenic walls in their pictorial bands. Even Xarxes, senses fainter than his kin, could perceive squalid shapes flickering in the black, malign powers breaking through stone, and the unmistakeable cry of Apollyon, begging for salvation. Even if, the Force revealed, an undignified crawl or stooping ambulation would deliver one safely through the oppressively ungenerous opening, it was obvious that some great calamity lurked in the tunnel ahead.

It was perhaps a mercy, then, that Apollyon lacked such gifts to scry distant places and distant times. She stood upon an island of blissful ignorance, lit by the faint bloodshine of gathered lightsabers in the great vault behind, amid a cavernous sea of black infinity. Her attention was yet occupied by the first mysterious doorway some distance away from the newly revealed tunnel, the ostensible hypergate of presumed Gree construction that, if Volshe spoke true, connected to that distant world or dimension of blasted black sands and lightning-cracked night whence all nightmares came.


Despite the dreadful chill permeating the chamber, sweat continued to bead upon Apollyon’s brow, and as she went to again wipe away the excess perspiration, she noticed her hand felt equally clammy. Whatever manner of physiological shock had befallen her at the sight of her master’s treachery had evidently not worn off, and there were other signs, too, of poorly suppressed panic and distress; the painful thumping of her heart within her breast, breath that came just a little too rapidly and too labouriously even for such a hasty descent down the thousand crooked steps behind. Kain’s words did nothing to lift her spirits, and indeed soured them, for she could only think that there was no time to waste on vainglory and gesture.

Nonetheless, she held her tongue, whether out of respect for her sister’s choice in partner, or out of a desire to not waste time yet further, even she knew not. Xiannarr, on the other hand, was lashed quite thoroughly, for such chastisement would not hinder them as a pointless reprimand of Kain’s already concluded posturing might. “If you’re going to illuminate anything with a fireball, Xiannarr,” she snapped, “go and do it. Don’t just talk about it.” And then she turned to Viscretus, seeking to make herself useful, bare feet splashing in the brackish water between the hypergate and the tunnel.

The instant the control console reached the hands of the true Volshe, a band of arterial light extended from the primitive machine, flickering like the striations of a scanning laser as it traced its way from the tips of the Vahlan’s toes to the crown of her head, and then the screen of the datapad dramatically changed. The Nautolan thrall’s fiddling had coaxed out only the following:


ANSWER SECURITY QUESTION TO GAIN STAGE 1 ACCESS: WHAT IS DEADLIER THAN HATE, YET FLOWS WITHOUT LIMIT?

ENTER SECURITY PASSCODE MITTHRESPHEIE TO GAIN STAGE 2 ACCESS:

Now, however, the screen flickered to an altogether more promising row of Aurebesh lettering.

BIO-SIGNATURE IDENTITY RECOGNISED: EMPRESS OF ZAKUUL. STAGE 2 ACCESS GRANTED.

Beneath, a single command was offered—not the option to reprogram the destination that Volshe had desired, but a command made all the more significant as the sense of ever-rising danger spiked to an appalling wave of imminent lethality rolling from the eldritch, abysmal doorway, and the vision of approaching sable cloaks and grinning death-masks flashed in Kain’s mind like some accursed afterimage of Aing-Tii clairvoyance. The command was simple:

DEACTIVATE GATE? YES/NO

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TAGS: @Darth Kain, @Admiral Volshe, @Catalyst, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Voidwalker, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Keres Dymos, @skira, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Volacius, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Darth Thana, @Sith_Imperios, @DarthFeros (for power usage only), @DarthNoxia (for power usage only)

OOC: Noxia’s usage of Reanimate Sith Undead rolls 3 + 19 + 10 against DC 35, and fails; the powerful spirits in the Temple’s subterranean crypts resist the call of the caster.

Xarxes’ usage of Farsight rolls 3 + 18 + 5 against DC 10. The attempt succeeds, and Effect is 2 + 2 + 4 + Modifier of -1 results in weak probing of the target area. The usage of Precognition rolls 17 + Modifiers against DC 10, and succeeds, with an Effect of 2 + 1 + 3 + 1 + Modifier of - 1, resulting in weak precognition.

Feros’ Precognition rolls 10 + 19 + 10 against DC 10, and succeeds; Effect is 5 + 6 + 1 + 1 + Modifier of 1, a moderate success. Catalyst’s Farsight rolls 10 + 20 + 10 against DC 10, and succeeds; Effect is 6 + 1 + Modifier of 2, a weak-to-moderate success. Catalyst’s Telekinesis rolls 10 + 20 + 10 against DC 10, and succeeds; Effect is 4 + 1 + 4 + 6 + Modifier of 2, and Catalyst succeeds in dragging several targeted corpses over to the tunnel at a moderately fast pace.

Thana's usage of Pyrokinesis appears to be for the purpose of creating a fire golem, and this can be considered an automatic success, with the Animate Golem power being a Sith spell that will take a second turn of concentrated effort to cast. Mirtis' attempted healing rolls 11 + 15 + 5 against DC 20, and succeeds; Effect is 3 + Modifier of 3, and Thana's HP is replenished by 6.





IC: Darth Wyyrlok IV
Entering the dungeons, Sith Temple, Korriban


With a great rending and screeching of metal, the colossal blast doors protecting the banquet hall from the invaders were torn asunder, just as Darth Wyyrlok, fourth of her name, whirled towards the stairs leading down into the dungeons.

She was not the only one to seek refuge in those lower levels, for out of the thousand adherents of the Sith yet occupying the gargantuan banquet hall, a great many had been plied by Volshe’s will to follow her and her Nagai consort without hesitation, and upon the golden-haired sorceress’ retreat, had at once surged, like a flock of hawk-bats wheeling about, from the passageway leading towards the hangars to the unhappily narrow stair of the dungeons’ opening passageway. The jostling and buffeting of the crowd around her was a thing of singular violence and anxiety, as hundreds of Sith desperately attempted to pass through the eyes of the twin needles that were the only two stairs leading into the dungeons, and there was a dreadful, agonised cry rising into the air, sufficiently shrill to drown out even the tumult of panic.

Wyyrlok dared glance behind her as she shoved acolytes out of her path, and in that moment, dearly wished such overwhelming forces of natural curiosity had not twisted her neck. From a stair adjacent to the adjoining entrance hall, leading up, Wyyrlok knew, to the forward battlements, a group of bizarre, amphibious creatures descended into the scattering crowd, their gait utterly peculiar and alien, horrific, twitching eyes, undulating at the tips of fleshy, grotesque stalks like the fronds of twisted, scarlet-tinged sea-weeds, affixing their intended victims beady, unhuman glares. But this abominable sight was not what caused her heart to seize in fright, no matter how vicious the slaughter they precipitated against those unfortunates nearest them, no matter how eldritch and abysmal their dark powers over the Force.

Nor did the sight of three shadowed horrors, entering the temple with hands and fists raised as if their dread powers had been responsible for breaching the temple’s gates, set her mind aflame, as did that unthinkable, inconceivable horror that defiled the very sands of Korriban with its horrid, patient and painfully slow advance beyond the doorway. For a moment, Wyyrlok’s eyes simply slid off that blasphemously white-robed figure of luciferous malignancy, as if her mind refused to recognise the reality underneath that deceptive, decadent and decay-stained cowl of pale death. But her eyes, her optic nerves, her splintering mind, could not find such refuge, for that white-robed abomination was only surrounded by forms of equal horror. An ocean staggered forwards, a bubbling, protoplasmic, seething mass of black oil running like necrotic blood, sprouting oozing, dead and dissolving forms like pustules from a film of liquid skin, more horrific by far than the mercifully fleshless skeletons that raced ahead of that miasmic horde of madness.

The white-robed figure was not even glancing in her direction, yet she could feel its putrid gaze all the same, see, with senses beyond the mundane, the black gulfs of its eyes, the repugnant and idolatrous windows that opened unto nightmare realms hitherto unknown to all sapience. Her mind was alight with the fire of pure, hateful venom, her body burned with the fever of plague, and her forked tongue flailed from frothing, rabid convulsions that could have been epileptic seizure or inexplicable, insane prayer, as that white-robed abomination slithered beneath the threshold of the temple’s entrance, the hem of its garment stained with the vile filth of its own profane essence, the sea of execrable horror flowing forth behind.

Wyyrlok bit her tongue with sufficient force to draw blood, as she wrenched her enraptured gaze, with the most stupendous force of will summoned from unconscious caverns of desperate survival, from the revolting god of rot, as the stench of sickening moisture and mold flooded her nostrils to mingle with the sweat of the panicked bodies beside her. She heaved and shoved with all her might, lightsaber at last igniting to impale the most stubborn lessers who hindered her path, and with titanic effort, slipped through the opening thus created to bolt down the stairway into the long, familiar passageway of the dungeons, past the iron cell in which Talon had imprisoned that first, fateful intruder of bone.

Wyyrlok did not see the smile that creased the aeon-preserved lips of that apocalyptic deity sent from blighted, unlighted halls beyond the Gunninga Gap, nor the unholy chariots of scelerous sorcerers as they rode over the bodies of the Temple’s defenders strewn about the dais outside, nor the snarling, scarlet-skinned warriors who drew their swords in tandem with the ghoulish legions beside them. But she could hear the distant cries, as the Sith yet packed in the dining hall began to die, lightsabers futilely slashing at flashing spears and halberds, lightning hopelessly fading before powers of devourment that stripped the very Force from the doomed defenders.

One particularly brave warrior rushed past Ruthic and Raspir to accost Darth Cruor beyond the gates, crimson blade of plasma swinging toward the immortal Gen’Dai’s thigh, as its Zabrak wielder screamed defiance. Rotting faces laughed about him. Such folly! Such amusement!


truesthchariots.jpg

Wyyrlok tried her best to tune out the ever-rising sound of battle and bloodshed, no matter the sharp increase of its feverish pitch, as she raced down the passageway towards Hesper and Arach ahead. The twin columns arranged by Feros and Grievance, for the purpose of an orderly evacuation into the stairway leading into the underdelve at the dungeons’ far end, were beginning to buckle, as dozens of desperate Sith surged through the passageway from the banquet hall and began to collide with the lines ahead. Wyyrlok could recognise familiar faces among the crowd—Mavros, Blodraald, a Devaronian overseer, even that soulless brute of an apprentice who had repaid the generosity of her tutelage with attempted murder—but in that moment, all Wyyrlok saw were obstacles to her path, bodies interposed between her and the sanity-stripping enemy that now poured into the temple unhindered. The worst offenders were the younglings teeming around her waist, slowing her progress to a crawl, as more bodies began to smash into her from behind.

“Lose the crechelings!” Wyyrlok screeched, voice barely carrying to the passage’s terminus, as she waded laboriously through the diminutive crowd. What strategic value did children possess? “They’ll slow us down!” Best to clear the passage by leading them into the dungeon cells lining either side, seal the doors for the Order’s worthiest to pass. Anything to live, anything to hasten retreat, anything to put behind her that glimpse of walking blasphemy which yet seared her senses!

It was then that a prodigious boom reverberated throughout the dungeons, and at once the walls began to shake, the iron doors of cells and classrooms rattling in their frames. A four-legged, golden droid, skittering towards Hesper like a spider, loosed an electronic squeal, as sand and dust was dislodged between cracks in the masonry, falling to the passage floor. Wyyrlok spied Darth Talon, at the passage’s end, turning back for only a second, before the Twi’lek disappeared into the furthest doorway on the right, beginning her hasty descent down the thousand crooked steps of broken stone that led into the underlevels lurking beneath. A second boom rolled through the passage, and it was then that chunks of rock began to detach from the ceiling near the opposite doorway on the left, and a great, billowing cloud of dust began to expand from the stairway to the Emperor’s tower.

Wyyrlok pushed forward with redoubled urgency, gasps of exertion released as puffs of frozen vapour, as the temperature in the increasingly perilous dungeons fell further. Strange, cerulean energy was swirling over her head, an ethereal mist whipping around Nathemus ahead, but she paid no mind to whatever eldritch sorcery the Lord of Agony was weaving about him, not even when the winds spoke with a guttural, gravelly voice unknown to her: “Fool! You summon us to our destruction!” There was no time for distraction, no time for hesitation, no time to waste on asking for directions like a pitiable fool, when sheer inertia and body language told her the underlevels below were what Hesper and her compatriots were shepherding the survivors towards. The dungeons were verging on collapse!


TAGs: @corinthia, @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @dragonsith13, @Grievance Vexx, @Reiis Invadator, @Metus, @DarthFeros, @Darth Xirr, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Kielor, @Jihadi Quartz, @Darth Nathemus, @Helkosh, @Darth Solus, @Cardun Vrek, @Darth Xxys, @Reatith Blodraald, @Darth Cruor

OOC:
Cruor’s usage of Battle Meditation is a buff + debuff that will largely be processed during friendly NPC and opposing PC actions, but it would be appropriate for PCs to feel unnatural despair or fear pressing against their minds as the Battlelord’s power takes hold. There is no need to roll for Aura of Uneasiness or Battlemind... yet. There is no need to roll for other players’ buffs this round.

Nathemus’ usage of Invoke Spirits succeeds with a roll of 18 + 20 + 10, and the Effect is 16 + Modifier of 1, and the spirits of Wyyrlok III and Malgus are summoned, but do not appear in physical form. Nathemus’ hostile attack with Sith Illusions rolls a 9 + 20 + 10, and does not overcome the DC of any of the Shadow Councillors targeted; the illusory ghouls fail to land a strike on the three entering the temple presently.

Hesper’s use of Telepathy rolls a 19 + Modifiers + Bonus of 3, and succeeds; Effect of 18 + Modifiers allows Sorin to receive the message with full clarity.

After consultation in PM, the exact effects of Draconis’ usage of Psychometry and Flow-walking will be redacted from this OOC note, but rolls of 11 + 22 + 10 + 5 and 15 + 22 + 10 + 5 against DC 10 and DC 35, respectively, allow the powers to succeed, with Effects of 5 + Modifiers and 35 + Modifiers, respectively, achieving complete success in his desired goal. His usage of Farsight rolls a 6 + 22 + 10 + 5 against DC 10, and succeeds; an Effect of 18 + Modifiers allows him to sense a path of potential escape ahead, i.e. the long stairway leading away from the dungeons into the underlevels beneath the Sith Temple.

Cruor's HP regenerates by 5.





IC: Cruella Vandron
Sith Imperial Garrison, Axum


The twin moons rose into a saturnine Centaxday sky, waxing gibbous in the late afternoon light afforded in the utmost reluctance by the receding sun of Solis Axum behind a dour and doleful cloud layer of sullen stratus and capricious cumulonimbus. A sour drizzle faintly drummed its dismal beat against the cold, metal carapaces of planet-spanning industry, fume-belching factories, towering smokestacks and the sunken spires of starscrapers the crude if titanic answer of sodden soil to the equally abysmal atmosphere weighing with imminent oppression above.

Strangely, the beginning of Axum’s workweek saw scarcely little speeder traffic crisscrossing the river that divided the heart of its urban sprawl. Save for the noisome vapours hissing from fabrication facilities and manufactories, the whole city seemed oddly quiet, collective breath held with astraphobic anxiety before a coming storm. The miserable metal pyramid of the Sith garrison, emplaced on the eastern bank by the victorious forces of Darth Insipid two years prior, wore none of its usual, churning uniform of aerial activity and vehicular manoeuvring, a single amber light, positioned at the top of some spindly communications antenna, blinking silently above a singularly disquieting complex of permacrete and duranium.

cruella.jpegIts three surviving occupants huddled around a computer console sprouting from the centre of the blustery, frightfully exposed tarmac of a muddy landing pad resting at the garrison’s overhanging base, surrounded by the adjoining buildings of abandoned barracks. Faint steam rose from two plasmic blades of azalea and azure held aloft in the hands of Cruella Vandron, as her eyes swept what little could be gleaned of the horizon between the mercifully obstructing barracks. Although the glow of her lightsabers risked betraying their position, it was more of a comfort that she would not waste time in their ignition, in case another ambush should fall upon them. “They’re coming,” she hissed, spying the movement—distant enough to seem eerily silent, rather than the monstrous clanking she had associated with their proximity—of the eldritch enemy marching up the river bank.

Nothing in her proud heritage, the blood of Crueya and Theala, could have prepared her for the utter abnormality and horror that had befallen Axum that fateful Centaxday morn. Nothing in her privileged training in the artifices of Korriban, the hidden histories and caliginous philosophies behind her tutelage in the prized Sith arts, could have accounted for the enigmatic and antiquarian pages of the Arturum Galactinum coming to life before her disbelieving eyes, the third wonder of long-dead Vicendi’s famed list of twenty galactic mysteries revealing itself as some nightmare from dimly remembered, pre-Republic phantasy from which Cruella dearly wished she could awaken. Save for uneasy dreams of shambling forms and horrifically clanking metal, nothing in the preceding week of mundanity and routine, overseeing orientation to Apprentice Airskipper and Acolyte Bordst upon their reassignment to the garrison from Korriban’s distant academy, could have prepared her for the awakening of the Brass Soldiers of Axum.

Thirty-five thousand statues, composed of contorted horror more than any alloy of copper and zinc, oxidised by the ages to an uneven shade of discoloured turquoise horribly suggestive of antiquity greater than even the legendary Azure Imperium. Thiry-five thousand statues that had baffled every scientist and scholar, that had inflamed the imagination and birthed every manner of frightful myth and legend, tales they had not been sculpted by some forgotten mortal hand, but that they represented some primeval, dubiously humanoid army from days before the first Coruscanti had colonised Axum by sleeper ships, variously sealed by some benevolent protector deity of inconceivable age or transformed by the malediction of some malefic magician. Thirty-five thousand statues that had drawn tourists and visitors from worlds far and wide, preserved against the elements by a vast hall of cyclopean masonry, a thoroughly-monetised attraction of eerie mystery and fantastical culture amongst the drab expanses of industry and urbanisation.

Thirty-five thousand soldiers that had marched forth at the break of dawn from the great museum that had revealed itself their mausoleum, laying waste to all in their path, butchering civilians, policemen, and Stormtroopers across long hours of ineffable savagery. Thirty-five thousand soldiers that could not be slain, but slew all who attempted thus. Thirty-five thousand soldiers that marched even now towards the Sith garrison, abandoned by its commanders in their hasty and cowardly flight while its personnel were slaughtered in the streets, with evil intent behind their ancient weapons of brazen terror.

Vandron turned to the Devaronian and half-Korun beside her, grimacing in discomfort as a gust of wind spat rain at her face. “We can only hope they received the message.”

The last hope of the garrison’s last defenders, upon finding the landing pad as empty and lifeless as the spaceport to the west: a single audio transmission sent to the Strike-class medium cruiser the garrison’s computers had detected entering the Axum system. The message was as simple as it was terrifying: “This is Dame Cruella Vandron of Axum Central Command, requesting immediate evacuation from the Sith Garrison’s western landing pad at coordinates 344.6, 668.9. Everything within fifteen miles is dead, Sith Masters evacuated without us. The Brass Soldiers of Axum are alive—and destroying everything in their path. I repeat, the Brass Soldiers of Axum have come alive, and are destroying everything in their path.”

On the bridge of the Aximand, Captain Teracotus stood in stunned silence. He had learned all Twenty Wonders of the Galaxy in his youth; undoubtedly most of the crew had, assuming typical schooling. This… This was… This was… “My lord?” The ensign asked, in a hushed voice of disbelief and awe.


TAGs: @Tobbi Airskipper, @Darth Kratos, @Kint Dranlor, @Senec Tinople, @Dorrian Shadowsun, @Rayge, @Oberleutnant Deleritas




IC: Necro Solaar
Approaching the throne room, Fountain Palace, Hapes

“I know many things of days gone by,” Necro smiled cryptically, keeping pace with the Queen Mother as she walked—nay, slithered—through the halls of her palace. “I am no Sith, and neither are you, Miraluka, but my world fell under their shadow long ago, and it is my purpose to serve as grotthu.” Necro’s pronunciation of the ancient Sith word was pristine, the “g” guttural and the “t” flicked like spittle from the intersection of teeth and tongue, again displaying that eerie familiarity with an extinct language long since forgotten by history.

Only the most learned of Sith archivists knew of the bygone breed that had lent their Order its name, a tendrilous, scarlet-skinned race of horrors whose ancestral religion had been adopted by fallen Jedi long after their empire’s fall. The Sith—true Sith—had been divided into four castes: barbarian warriors known as Massassi, priestly practitioners of black magic known as Kissai, alchemical masters and engineers known as Zuguruk, and, lowliest of them all no matter Solaar’s tone of pride, the Grotthu: servants, slaves, cultists and conquered, a medley of species to serve the red masters.

Was Solaar speaking of the Sith Empire, that once-mighty fiefdom left shattered by its Emperor’s disappearance, the very fascist imperium Dreadwar now directed Traya to assail? Surely not; such ancient terminology had long ago fallen out of favour. Although hints of the Sith Order’s primordial origins yet remained, from the believed homeworld of Korriban to the red dye and tribal tattoos once plied by Darth Krayt, no caste system had been employed by any known incarnation of the Sith cult for over five thousand years. Grotthu had, at best, become an obscure epithet, much like Sithspawn and Sithspit.

“The goal of our assault,” Necro continued, shifting the thrust of his reply to Dhe’s query, “is the utter annihilation of the Jedi. I do not speak of the Jedi in the employ of the Galactic Federation, for my master has already seen them quite thoroughly routed, and their remnants shall be destroyed by other means. I speak of the fallen Jedi and dark acolytes who call themselves Sith, who fight with the weapons of the Jedi and adorn themselves in dark mockeries of Jedi apparel, who believe in foolish Jedi conceptions of some omnipresent yet somehow divided life-energy called the Force, who fight for glory and power and do not recognise that life and all its achievements, all its creations, is a futilely flickering candlelight before the infinite Dark. Even stars burn out.”

Solaar laughed. “Perhaps my answer has too much the sound of recitation,” he confessed. “I am no philosopher of Rhand. But I know true power when I see it, and I know to be content in its service. Glorious purpose?” He laughed again. “There is no glory. The only purpose is death, and the only true power is the power to destroy.”

The entrance to the throne room, vast and resplendent, came into view ahead. Two Twi’lek sisters, skin pale as Solaar’s own, were racing past the threshold, clearly in a hurry to leave, blaster pistols held in bone-white hands. Solaar’s smile faded as he slowed his pace, fingers dropping to his own holdout weapon.


TAG: @Darth Traya

OOC:
Traya’s usage of Alter Image was pre-approved for aesthetic reasons. Dhe’s usage of Force Cloak rolls a 1, and will be considered an automatic failure due to a novice’s lack of fine control.




IC: No one
Empty space between Korriban and Bosthirda, on the Kamat Krote hyperspace lane to Dromund Kaas

In the darkness of space, energy the shade of lunar mist began to take form, strange aether coalescing into faint and macabre forms above frozen, twitching corpses. From the cockpit of the Reaper, spectral teeth and spindly claws could be perceived, as seven spirits of ethereal aspect, more horrifying than any Starweird, separated their ever-sharpening outlines from the ghostly nebula beyond.

For all their oily presence in the Force, their stationary hovering was terribly suggestive of patient waiting, not in ambush, but in anticipation of the Jen’nu’s command.

On the bridge of the Executor-class Star Dreadnaught Auspex, that doonium colossus Lieutenant Ar'váez had summoned from Bosthirda to Korriban at first sight of the diabolical pyramid-ships, this bizarre and peripheral activity remained unseen. The distant Reaper, cloaked and hidden by gossamer illusion, was on the far side of the strange, classical war galleys that approached with an atavistic air of mechanical malice, and attention was altogether captivated by the perfect grid formation of the unresponsive alien fleet.

Escorted by the Haruspex and Magus, the Hesperian flagship had fallen afoul of the same gravitational mines that had delayed the Sibyl II’s sojourn to Korriban. Yet where Admiral Ontos had been harried by Federation interdictors, the commanders of these three behemoths saw only the strange ships that rumours had ascribed to mysterious new allies of the Federation, and it was obvious that the definitively Federation half of this joined fleet had been blasted to ruin.

A single audio transmission was broadcast to the war room on distant Korriban, traversing the interstellar cosmos at tremendous speeds, courtesy of hyperspace relays, faster than even light: “We read you, Lieutenant Ar'váez. We have been pulled out of hyperspace between Bosthirda and Korriban. There is a fleet here, possibly Federation, unresponsive to hails and a warning shot. Engagement appears to be imminent.”


TAGs: @Ānhrā Māhnîu, @Darth Sedicious, @corinthia

OOC:
Anhra rolls 11 + 18 + 5 against DC 30, and succeeds. The power takes Effect with 3 + 2 + 3 + Modifier of 2, a moderate success that results in seven spectral dead being reanimated.
 

Admiral Volshe

Legendary Member
NGE Empress
IC: Empress Kára Volshe
The Underdelve


A frown creased her lips, her brow furrowing. The path of their escape was forked before her now. She could deactivate the gate and hope that a reset of the system would put an end to the incineration effect that it evidently possessed. She could send an acolyte through the gate with the hope that the gate’s identification of her would reverse the effect.

Or, she could do something entirely different. Obviously, the gate was intended to be found. Obviously, Dreadwar had intended for her to find it. There were only two options, now. Either this was a cruel joke, some plot crafted to cause misery...or there was more to this than met the eye.

She needed but a moment to think before she selected the option, there in glittering cyan, upon the screen.

No.

Deactivating the gate would accomplish nothing. If Dreadwar had intended to kill them with more of whatever creatures he had sent prior, he would have done so. Deactivating the gate would not slow the progression of thousands above. Leaving the gate open - if it was not functional - was no risk to them. He was already above them, in the Temple proper. Either he was going to descend upon them and kill them himself once the gate proved useless, or, the gate was not useless.

She looked up the moment the input was set. They did not have time to waste, for she could feel the danger converging upon them. There was more to be done, and her Force reserves were waning.

She relinquished the control panel with a single hand, and grasped the free arm of a nearby Knight, a statuesque claw gripping into his bicep not unlike the grotesques that surrounded them. Her aura, dark and malevolent, delved towards his, coaxing his very essence to her own. Her voice rose above the din, above the chaos, not betraying any hint of the pernicious nature of her grasp.

There was fear in her throat, a fear that nearly tainted the words she spoke. But they would never know it. They would not know that her heart pounded, that her thoughts were moments away from being clutched by terror. They felt the same, she knew. They feared the same, the same blood coursed through their veins. They needed to know that they could fight and that they would survive.

“Ensure we continue guiding our allies below. Each of us who lives is another day we survive,” she called, to the somewhat-small but gathering crowd. There were at least a hundred she could see, and even more beyond she could hear upon the steps. She faced them as she spoke, expression stoic, words measured, despite the fluttering heart that demanded she flee...despite the terrible chill that burrowed deep into her bones. Her stomach turned, but her voice rang clear. They could very well die, herded into the tunnels like sand sloths to slaughter. But the Order would not know. They would die as they lived: with unrelenting strength, and as the embodiment of power. “This is a war, now. A war for our next breaths. There is more that must be done to ensure our survival in these next moments. I know you fear, but you must wield it as a strength. We have survived such before. We will again.. I will ensure it.”

“I am giving us a route of escape and I am holding back the former Emperor. But, you must all act, now, to aid me. One, I require two of you to remain behind and destroy the hypergate, to ensure that our enemies do not pursue us. Then, masters of illusion and dark magic, you must put your focus on creating obstacles for them to face. Illusions, necromancy, demons, dark tendrils, I care not. Whatever you can muster in the battlements and banquet hall to buy time for those evacuating above.”


She paused, briefly, to consider the next step. Her gaze fell on Corde, then gravitated to the once apprentice of Kain who stood across the room from herself.

“Those of you who know how to bend the will of time, and who know how to shift the course of war through battle meditation and even darker methods, now is your moment to utilize such. Visualize our victory and their fall. Bolster our power, give us the strength where we may waver.”

There was something else she had been pondering, for quite some time. The army of wights and the inevitable swath of beasts she had borne witness to. Her mind had been busy scouring the depths of her knowledge, searching for some way to counter the uncounterable. Now, she knew.

A spider’s web of control…

XoXaan and Syn were tied to him. Their lives, threaded carefully through the eye of a needle, subverted into a tapestry of lies and deception that entrapped them, tying the string of their fates to Dreadwar and his whims. Thus, so were their creations. The army would die the moment the spirit puppetting it was lost to the oblivion that was Chaos.

“Those who know the arts such as shatterpoint or darkshear, telekinesis, or other such powers of destruction and annihilation, come to me at once.

She returned her attention to the screen, checking the progress before relinquishing her victim. If her attempt was successful, if she felt the revitalizing wave of Force energy within her, there was only one thing left for her to attempt.

She closed her eyes, casting her mind out into the tumultuous ocean of the Force that surrounded them, through the rogue waves of fear and madness, to find one singular essence. One essence that she could have felt from systems away, perhaps even sectors away. Frigid and malefic, the barren wastelands of Hoth in the depths of night.

Dreadwar.

She reached into the blackness, her hands gripping the console tightly. Her lithe frame swayed as his aura washed over her, her senses vanishing for but a moment, the demand she released into the void that was the once-Emperor enough to overtake her.

Her hand clutched to the pauldron, then the bicep of Lord Nihl, as the terrible void they faced became a crimson inferno in her mind’s eye. It was her hatred, her fear, her disgust, her own malevolence, all sharpened into a terrible weapon that she now wielded. Perhaps it would be futile to attempt such, but there was no one else who could challenge him. There was not a single soul who could do what she attempted. Perhaps she would fail....but perhaps she would succeed.

Obey.

It was not spoken. It was a demand, one that she intended to permeate every inch of his consciousness. She intended to bend him to her will, to break him.

--

POWERS USED:
Force Drain - 5
Mind Trick - 5

~~
TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar, @Darth Kain, @Darth Nathemus, @Voidwalker, @skira, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Darth Solus, @Cardun Vrek, @Reatith Blodraald, @Keres Dymos, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Reiis Invadator, @Grievance Vexx, @dragonsith13, @Darth Xxys, @Helkosh, @Darth Thana, @corinthia, @Catalyst, @Volacius, @Darth Xirr, @DarthFeros, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @Metus, @Sith_Imperios
 
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Darth Kain

Administrator
Staff member
Administrator
Moderator
Dark Council
Immortalis
COMBO WITH DARTH VISCRETUS

IC: Darth Kain, the Beloved King of the Stars and Darth Viscretus, the Empress of the Sith
Beneath the Sith Temple, Korriban



"The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long - and you have burned so very, very brightly..."
Eldon Tyrell, Blade Runner

The most merciful thing in all the galaxy was not the sweet kiss of a gentle lover, nor the soft caress of a protective mother. It was, undoubtedly, the inability of the mortal mind to correlate all its contents. Life was created to serve those that rest outside its clutching grip, fearing neither the toils of living nor the risk of dying. And as a servant, even if on a cosmic scale, those who lived as mortals were not to be treated the same as their imperceptible masters. For while they lacked the capacity to perceive the horrors that lay beyond the placid island of ignorance they were stranded upon, such blindness was a shield. It warded away the dangers that rested in the darkness between stars, embracing all mortalkind like a vigilant father. Ignorance was perhaps designed as a weakness, but it had been a mercy.

And mercy was not shown to the likes of him.

He was no mortal. His mind could correlate its contents. He lived not on an island, but in the depths of a black sea of infinity, painstakingly aware of those that swam around him. And he had once been complacent in his role, killing the smaller and weaker creatures of that infinite sea, a firaxan shark and nothing more.

But something had changed within the Dark Messiah. The death of Abeloth - his Abeloth - had been the catalyst, for that was when it changed. The plan.

"Our power rises," he had once told her. "We will rule the galaxy. You as its Beloved Queen of the Stars… and me as its Prince."


But the Queen was dead.

Volshe was not the Abeloth he knew, and to be quite honest, he was not sure how there could be a distinction in the first place. The connection was there, he was certain. She was Abeloth. But she was not the one that gave him his life, that guided him in his struggles, that he had sworn to serve for the rest of eternity. The woman that stood before him now had none of these memories. His mother and she had lived two entirely separate lives concurrently, and he had seen the entirety of both. His mother was a being of thousands of years, not of hundreds. Their paths did not intersect. They lived two different lives. They were, in every conceivable fashion, two different beings. He could not, no matter how much he wished it so, treat them as one. And while he had no reason, nor no inclination, to argue Volshe’s claim to the throne of the Sith, it had been his mother that claimed the throne of the stars. And if she was truly gone, destroyed by the Left-Handed God, then the line of succession came to him, and only him.

The Beloved King of the Stars would no longer swim in the black seas of infinity. He would boil them.


PicsArt_11-24-12.37.20.jpg

But this power came with undeniable responsibility, a curse as much as it was a gift, for the mercy of ignorance was not bestowed upon him. Visions of undead horror still plagued his mind, even now, as he stared into the dark abyss of the hypergate. Every fiber in his body was strained with anticipation, eagerly waiting for an army to shamble through, blades in hand. If only he had not left his own blade back on Vitae.

As Volshe doled out her orders, he could sense apprehension from the others, especially those that had just sworn their fealty to him moments prior. There was no time for a conflict of orders, not now.

“Do as she asks,” he said aloud, nodding to those who met his eyes. He knew that she had not asked, but it mattered little to him. He was more worried about a far more pressing issue than who had the loyalty of the rabble.

“Were you able to reprogram the destination?” he asked her, his eyes betraying the desperation behind them.

Her eyes snapped open as his voice summoned her focus. She would have to wait for the Force itself to tell her of her success - or failure. “It took a moment to verify my identity. I have been granted the highest access,” she said, with tone low enough the others could not hear. She tilted her hands to show him the screen.

BIO-SIGNATURE IDENTITY RECOGNISED: EMPRESS OF ZAKUUL. STAGE 2 ACCESS GRANTED.

DEACTIVATE GATE? YES/NO

The ‘no’ was selected on the screen, glimmering with the irrevocable choice she had already made.

Kain's eyes widened. "Is the option to deactivate it all that's been granted to you?"

“For now,”
she said, the softness in her voice and features not faltering for even a moment. She knew already why he had asked the question. “There are further options, I am certain. He would not have programmed it to my biosignature if he intended us to die. He would simply have done it.”

The pieces were coming together now. If he had intended us to die. She said nothing of the constant thought, the constant question that echoed in her mind. Why had the one capable of killing them… not killed them in an instant?

Unless he wanted them to live. Unless he had been telling the truth.

She inhaled. She could theorize. But she could not bank on it.

And though she had not expressed the thought aloud, even her suggestion that he did not intend them to die sent Kain reeling. Was that truly the case? Had there actually been some truth in the stories he had been told?

Ku’ar Danar had divulged secrets to him, that he had been certain of. He told Kain of Typhojem years ago, saying that the fabled Left-Handed God would one day come and destroy the galaxy, and that the Dread King intended on forging a utopia that would survive even the wrath of a god. That had been half-true, at the very least. Typhojem was real, the threat was real. But were the goals of Dreadwar real? Did he truly wish to save the galaxy as he said? Or was he willing to appease the whims of a destroyer so that he could avoid its wrath?

Kain knew one thing, if the latter was the case. Appeasing a hungry lion, feeding it the flesh of others, only ensures that it eats you last. That was a lesson he had learned in only a couple decades of life, and Ku’ar Danar had lived for thousands upon thousands of years. Was Dreadwar that much of a fool? Or was he playing the game a level higher than he initially revealed? Did he truly want the best of the New Sith Order to survive? And to what end? The Beloved King refused to be a pawn any longer, and he would not accept the lack of an answer.

He gritted his teeth. His mind was split apart, each pulling him in a different direction. Another tug of war for his soul.

He wanted to stay here, to ensure that this hypergate could be reprogrammed. Or perhaps he could even begin leading a party further into the tunnels, in case the gate was naught but a distraction. Any way to lead him further away from this planet and back into the loving arms of his family.

But he wanted answers. And he wanted the others to survive. He possessed the power to ravage the entirety of the army that bore down upon them. He knew it. It tempted him, gnawing at his alight hands like a playful pup. Show them what a New God of the Sith looks like.

“If we cannot change the course of this gate, if it is simply a way for him to slow us down, we will need more than illusions and distractions to stop our enemy.”

He gazed down at his hands. The fires began to shift to a furious crimson.

“If you get everyone below ground, deeper into the tunnels, I can stop them. We need not worry about an army chasing us if there is no army.”

She thought on his suggestion for a split second. Was he sacrificing himself? Or simply offering a solution? She chose to read the latter implication.

“I have demanded the entirety of the order to join us, here in the depths, but I am not sure they will make it in time. Those who do not make it will be torn asunder by the armies. Can you instead target the sands just beyond the battlements and banquet hall, and can we utilize a Force Barrier crafted by multiple individuals to prevent your power’s effects from infiltrating the hall?”

“I cannot,” he said plainly. “With this power I have scorched entire moons, destroyed continents. Even below ground I cannot guarantee your safety, though reinforcing barriers could help the odds. If I do this, I guarantee that our enemies will fall. But many of us will fall with them.”

“Yes. If it is of such severity, even being this many levels below will not assure we are safe. I welcome you to use the fire and power I know you wield - but only if it is targeted, for the moment.”


She looked up to the others, breaking away from the conversation only briefly.

She returned her attention to him and lowered her voice once more.

“Whatever alternative you may have as a master of pyrokinesis, use it. You should scorch the sands and raze the earth however you can until we know there is no other option but the nuclear.”

“But if it should at any point come to the survival of the few here, should any point such power become absolutely necessary, then I will give my assent… but not a moment before.”


Her voice rose again as she turned back to the crowd.

“I require the same of all those who can create a barrier of the Force to do so about our allies in the banquet hall and dungeons, so that we may annihilate the army above.”

With her attention turned to the others, he contemplated. His mind correlated its contents. And he knew what he had to do.

“Conceal my essence, then. As quickly as you can.”

“It will take a moment,”
she said, nodding. She frowned, her concentration focused on the aura of inferno that was her celestial son. She waded through it, envisioning the fire fading into a quiet smoulder, and then nothing. She held onto that vision, whispers of the Vahlan language slipping into the air. A spell of concealment.

PicsArt_11-24-04.12.43.jpgKain took a breath. He turned to the others, to his allies, and more importantly, his friends.

“May the Force serve you well.”

The fires in his palms crept up his arms, past his shoulders, and hovered above his head. Expertly forged, a crown of crimson flame adorned the head of the Beloved King of the Stars. For the first time, and perhaps the last.

And then, with luck, he would vanish.

TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar, @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Nathemus, @Voidwalker, @skira, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Darth Solus, @Cardun Vrek, @Reatith Blodraald, @Keres Dymos, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Reiis Invadator, @Grievance Vexx, @dragonsith13, @Darth Xxys, @Helkosh, @Darth Thana, @corinthia, @Catalyst, @Volacius, @Darth Xirr, @DarthFeros, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @Metus, @Sith_Imperios

Power(s) Used

Darth Kain
Pyrokinesis (NO ROLL NECESSARY)
Fold Space (5)

Darth Viscretus
Spell of Concealment (5)

OOC: The destination of the Fold Space will be discussed with the GM via PM.
 

Arach

Active member
IC- Darth Arach
Dungeons, Sith Temple, Korriban

Arach snarled at the woman who gave the orders to abandon the children, her rage almost escaping her control. If not for the crowds shoving their way into the tunnels, she would already have her blade at her throat. As it stood, the best she could do was growl out, “If the children are left behind, I swear I will make you suffer so much that you will beg for death. Without the children, the Sith won’t be able to grow. Except stagnant. We will rot from the inside. They are far more important than you.”

Arach shoved her way to the children, raising her blade above her head to avoid accidental injury. She glared at the other woman, committing her face to memory. I might just kill you anyway.

When she reached the kids, she deactivated her blade and managed to force her way behind them for protection. Her voice softened to address them, “Don’t be afraid. Hurry downstairs. You’ll be safe there.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth, then the first boom sounded. Arach’s eyes widened and her breath started to quicken. As the sound faded, she started urging the children faster. They needed to make it. She accompanied them only until they reached Hesper. The assassin gently pushed the children through, then resumed her place as the second boom sounded. This knocked debris down from the ceiling. It sounded much closer than before.

Arach looked at Hesper.
“If you have a plan, you better execute it very soon. If you don’t, then I believe you need to get yourself below. They’re almost here.”

TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar, @corinthia, @DarthNoxia, @dragonsith13, @Grievance Vexx, @Reiis Invadator, @Metus, @DarthFeros, @Darth Xirr, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Kielor, @Jihadi Quartz, @Darth Nathemus, @Helkosh, @Darth Solus, @Cardun Vrek, @Darth Xxys, @Reatith Blodraald, @Darth Cruor
 

Darth Solus

Member
IC: Darth Solus
Location: Korriban


People packed in to every space in the small confines of the dungeon hallways. Everyone seemed to get forced into the same space. Plans had fallen apart and any strategic advantage that was had was now lost. The Commandant’s mind raced as it formed it’s own plan. My charges must be secured. Reatith, Mavros, and the children. His focus was to gather those that remained. Volshe had likely gone to the under sections and so Solus would have to make his way there. She has some of the children. Her knights may keep them safe. Solus’ attention snapped violently as a shrill voice rose above the others around the gathering.

“Lose the crechelings!”

His eyes flared with violent intent and the lightning coursed it’s way across his body. WITCH! His blood boiled and scars burned. Melted flesh and broken bone filled his memory. Harsh training in vicious conditions. Broken glass and pools of blood. Her screams still filled his ears. The echoing hollow sound of a dying woman. I WILL KILL YOU! Intent and anger filled the militant man’s gaze.

“They’ll slow us down!”

Solus’ mind flashed with action. YOU DARE DEFY MY MISSION! KRIFFING WITCH! The Commandant took a step toward her. I SWEAR I WILL PULL YOUR HEART FROM YOUR KRIFFING CHEST! Black lines cracked the Commandant’s face. Every ounce of corruption pouring from his veins. Static sparked into the floor as Solus’ lightning charged. Wyyrlok moved, panic evident in her eyes. NOW!

The walls shook and tore Solus from his intended course. It is not the time. The Commandant turned back to his charges. His voice boomed and called for the attention of those around him.

“Move Children! Do not delay. Reatith, Mavros… make sure nobody gets in our way. We are moving to the underdelve.”

He had no time to think he had to get the children to their destination. Volshe was the only strategy he could think of that fit all of his intentions. He had to pass off the rest of the children to her guardians.

“Ensure we continue guiding our allies below. Each of us who lives is another day we survive, This is a war, now. A war for our next breaths. There is more that must be done to ensure our survival in these next moments. I know you fear, but you must wield it as a strength. We have survived such before. We will again.. I will ensure it.”


Solus continued pushing the children to their destination. War. War I can do. A smile crept across his chiseled features. No, the Commandant did not enjoy war. He didn’t enjoy violence or death. Such things were a means to an end and nothing more. But there was a comfort in warfare. A simplicity and an understanding that the Sith Officer knew all too well.


“Children keep moving, do not look back.”


Even in the chaos Solus would not lose the children. Even in battle, in an ambush, he would remain composed. Loss of control meant loss of strategy and failure. I will not fail. His eyes stayed vigilant. Always watching for a threat to the children. Always watching for a Blue Witch to threaten his mission. I will kill her.

“I am giving us a route of escape and I am holding back the former Emperor. But, you must all act, now, to aid me. One, I require two of you to remain behind and destroy the hypergate, to ensure that our enemies do not pursue us. Then, masters of illusion and dark magic, you must put your focus on creating obstacles for them to face. Illusions, necromancy, demons, dark tendrils, I care not. Whatever you can muster in the battlements and banquet hall to buy time for those evacuating above. Those of you who know how to bend the will of time, and who know how to shift the course of war through battle meditation and even darker methods, now is your moment to utilize such. Visualize our victory and their fall. Bolster our power, give us the strength where we may waver. Those who know the arts such as shatterpoint or darkshear, telekinesis, or other such powers of destruction and annihilation, come to me at once.

Solus took his place watching the kids. Making sure they got to the underdelve safely, everything was much easier with intent. First Solus would hand the kids over to Maladi and Volshe’s knights. Then he would have to meet with her.

TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar, @Darth Nathemus, @Voidwalker, @skira, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Cardun Vrek, @Reatith Blodraald, @Keres Dymos, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Reiis Invadator, @Grievance Vexx, @dragonsith13, @Darth Xxys, @Helkosh, @G.Kn, @Darth Thana, @corinthia, @Darth Kain, @Catalyst, @Volacius, @Darth Xirr, @DarthFeros, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @Metus, @Sith_Imperios, @Admiral Volshe

SOLUS FORCE POWERS USED/ATTEMPTED:
(Passive) Electrical Aura-4
Mind Shield- 4
Force Lightning (Preparatory Maintained)- 4
 

Darth Xxys

Active member
Moderator
Dark Council
Immortalis
(XXYS IC banquet hall)

The blast had collapsed the tunnel leading to the banquet hall but Xxys doubted this would pose more than a minor inconvenience to the Dread Emperor. Xxys could himself easily move through solid walls, and given the orders of magnitude Dreadwar was above the Assassin in sheer power, he knew death would not be stayed by his meager efforts.

Xxys looked to the crowded doorway leading into the bowels of the temple. He hated closed spaces, and was loathed to confine himself in those dark passages and he nearly opted to stay in the banquet hall to face death in the open rather than decend into the depths of the ancient temple, but his decision was made for him. The Empress had called to his mind to flee to her aid...and promises of escape.

He shuddered at the thought of those dark narrow passages crammed with the panicked masses. He nearly balked again at the thought, but his death would serve no purpose here. If he was to die it would be striking a blow to save the Empire, not as canon fodder to a mad Emperor turned murderous.

He turned and ran.

The stairs were treacherous when traversed in singles, and now they were choked with the bodies of those fleeing impending doom just a few meters above.
Down and down the stairs went until Xxys had nearly lost count. Each step he took the air seemed to grow thicker and thicker, pressing on his throat and stifling his breath. The air was filled with the smells of too many frightened beings pressed to tightly, their breath and bodily exudances assaulting his nostrils. These smells began to mingle with a far more familiar, and dreaded odor...the smell of decay, and rot...of old and lingering death.

Xxys had been in hundreds of catacombs in his nearly two centuries of life, and all held this same underlying scent of corruption, no matter the planet, or the species of those interred, the smell of death was the same.

The stairs eneded abruptly and the passage opened enough to alow for some breathing room. Xxys pushed through the press of bodies following the gossamer thread he held in his minds eye leading him towards the Empress...and hopefully, ecsacpe.


TAG: TAG: @Darth Dreadwar, @Catalyst, @corinthia, @Volacius, @Darth Xirr, @DarthFeros, @Darth Cruor, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Darth Kain , @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @Metus, @Sith_Imperios @Jihadi Quartz, @skira, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Darth Solus, @Cardun Vrek, @Reatith Blodraald, @Keres Dymos, @Kielor, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Nathemus, @Voidwalker, @Reiis Invadator, @Grievance Vexx, @dragonsith13, @Zareel Jhenan´doka , @G.Kn, @Darth Thana
 

Darth Cold

Well-known member
Moderator
Dark Council
IC: Hadzuska
Underdelve beneath the Sith Temple, Korriban



The terror of that memory still stirred in Hadzuska’s mind. The claws, the fangs, the pain and suffering from his throat being ripped out. It was short, but it was vivid. That darkness that continued to press upon his mind getting closer and closer escalating his fears, only boosted by a new feeling of despair.

But fear is what he needed. It is what would drive him to survive. The yellowish tinge in his silver eyes seemed to glow even more as he focused on the memory of those beasts. The fangs, the claws, the deformed faces and bodies. He looked to the dark tunnels. He needed them to come from there. He needed to have the others around him to feed the fear of these creatures. If they were uneasy, maybe the enemy would feel that, and feel uneasy as well. He needed those here to feed the creatures and make them real.

He could hear the grunts, growls, roars, and cries of the beasts in his memories. But it seemed so real. And so it was, as the horde of rakghouls charged out of the tunnel into the underdelve. They were as ferocious and ugly as he remembered them. They did not stop or pay heed to those with him. No they continued, racing up the stairs towards the darkness that came ever closer. They charged forward towards inevitable doom to provide him with time to survive.

They came forth into the dungeons, charging past Hesper who gave her orders in her crown of thorns. Past Krayt, or was it Feros, who could really tell as they attempted to shepherd more into the tunnels. Past Solus and Arach, who argued with Wyyrlok IV about leaving the children. Past Nathemus with his Cracks of Pain and ghostly followers. To the next stairway that led to the darkness above. They would kill, if they could, to protect their Master, their Creator. They would halt the darkness where it stood, or they would die trying.

(Powers Used: Sith Illusions 4

TAGs: @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Nathemus, @Voidwalker, @skira, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Darth Solus, @Cardun Vrek, @Reatith Blodraald, @Keres Dymos, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Reiis Invadator, @Grievance Vexx, @dragonsith13, @Darth Xxys, @Helkosh, @G.Kn, @Darth Thana, @corinthia, @Darth Kain, @Catalyst, @Volacius, @Darth Xirr, @DarthFeros, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @Metus, @Sith_Imperios @Darth Dreadwar @Darth Cruor

(GM's OOC Note: Hadzuska rolls 15 + 15 + 5 against DC 10, and succeeds. Effect is 2 + 5 + 2 + 6 + Modifier of 2, and the desired illusions are successfully created, although may appear a shade shy of full realism in motion and other subtle details.)
 
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skira

Administrator
Staff member
Administrator
Final Triumvirate
Dark Council
IC: Sol Kira
Tunnels, Korriban

“Illusions, necromancy, demons, dark tendrils, I care not. Whatever you can muster in the battlements and banquet hall to buy time for those evacuating above.”

Sol focused intently on what Empress Volshe spoke to them all, but it was as if her heart had stopped for a moment at that sentence.

Demons.

“Don’t you dare,” She thought, but the world around her felt cold. Her mind was silent. Silent.

“Zoradon… no. No.”

“It is what needs to be done,” His voice faintly whispered back, echoing through the chasm that was becoming her mind.
Her mind flashed memories of them, of when she first met him, of the hideaway place on Coruscant filled with cultists. Of the Chiss man that summoned Zoradon. Of him seeing right through her immediately, him bonding to her mind as soon as they met. She thought of him changing the mark on her skin and cursing her with voices tormenting her constantly. Of him possessing her completely. He was… the only thing to ever truly know her, whether it was her choice or not.

“You cannot stop them,” Sol was pleading with him then, trying to convince him not to do this.

“I can help stall them.”

No. You promised. You promised the voices would stay away, you promised-“

“If they return, then it will not be my doing. My child… you do not need me. You have never needed anyone from your past. Not your mother, not your father, not Korrian. No one. Get off this damned planet and find Esta. He is the only other part of you that you will ever need.”

“Zoradon-“

“You do not need me to be stronger.”


Sol fell to her knees then, gasping for air. Her eyes shut tightly as she grasped at any thread of life she could. Her chest was on fire, her heart pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear.

“Solisius,” A voice came through that darkness, echoing through her mind and repeating a few times. It was not a voice that she had been haunted by before, but instead was one that came through the force. Sol could not recognize who it came from by the sound of it, but rather the feeling that came with it.

“Esta?”

“Open your eyes,” Her own distorted voice came, cutting through the chaos her body was enduring. She opened them, squinting in the darkness. As her eyes laid on what was in front of her, she took a deep, shaky breath in.

She looked at the distorted picture of herself, yellow eyes shining bright in the darkness surrounding them. To anyone else, they would see two copies of the same person, yet both were visibly different from one another. One had yellow eyes, the other bright blue. One seemed as if it was floating in the air, the other was crumbled on the floor.

“I was connected to that arm and the mark on your face before, perhaps I still will be. Perhaps not. Only time will tell.”

“Don’t…” It was barely a whisper now, the world around her blurring and merging together in the disoriented state he had left her mind in.

“Goodbye, my Child.”

His steps were methodical, each one laced with one intent: death. He hadn’t been able to be in his true form in months and now he was unleashed, craving souls to take. Each one around him allured him, and he became acutely aware that he was surrounded by the one thing he had been craving from the moment he was created.

But now was not the time for that.

He approached Empress Volshe, a strange smile spread across his face.

“Empress Volshe,” He started, his voice coming through and contrasting his copied form of his former host, “I am here to serve you.”

From across the room, Sol sat in a state of delirium, her body slowly coming back to itself. Everything felt strange, and quiet. So quiet.

“Keres,” She whispered, looking up to her fellow apprentice.

“Help me stand?”

TAGS: @Darth Kain , @Admiral Volshe , @Catalyst , @Undying Master Xiannarr , @Voidwalker , @Hadzuska_The Jester , @Keres Dymos , @Zareel Jhenan´doka , @Volacius , @Drakul_Xarxes , @Darth Thana , @Sith_Imperios @Darth Dreadwar
 

...

Well-known member
Immortalis
Darth Cruor
Outside the Sith Temple, Korriban

In his mind's eye he watched thousands of different violent interactions, paying attention to each yet to none specifically, this is how he monitored the chaos and made sense of the battle. From this vantage point he could watch the ebb and flow of combat, feel where his armies surged and where they failed, and ensure that the True Sith armies performed to the utmost efficiency.

“You are outnumbered, surrounded, and overpowered.” The Jidia would no doubt feel his Battle Meditation descending upon their senses like a dark cloud that portended ill tidings. “All paths have been blocked, there is no escape.” Eroding their will to fight, tempting them to believe the fight has already been lost. Fear, confusion, and indecision would drain their resolve as the True Sith press in on them from all sides.

Regardless of his attempts to ensure a quick demise of the enemy one broke through the defensive line that surrounded him, the fool rushed forward thinking to strike an easy blow and fell the legendary Taral? He would find that he is mistaken.

Though loath to divide his attention he did what was required to make an example of the brave Sith, he reached out and attempted to lift the attacker high into the air and crush him in a most gruesome fashion.

Tag: @Darth Dreadwar

Powers Used: Battle Meditation 5, Force Crush 5, Aura of Uneasiness 3 and Battlemind 3 emanating from the Soulsaber.
 
Third Arrival
IC: Darth Vesper
Location: Hyperspace, Saijo Space.








They had arrived on Coruscant, they had departed. They had arrived in the space around Empress Teta, and they had departed once again. Now they were to arrive for the third and hopefully final time on this journey since departing Coruscant. The Mind Witch was beyond exhausted, yet deep within she reserved her strength, restored it even. More than exhaustion, she was starved. It was not her stomach that complained of malnourishment, no. She had been on many missions in the past, gone days without nourishment...this, this was a hunger in more ways than one. The cost for some minimal respite from her visions. Her life bond with another. Her heart hungered for the connection, even still, the blood of the Mind Witch that ran through her veins, sang, called even, for her to feed. Her hand grasped at each cuff of her pitch, crosh-hide gloves that encased her fingers snuggly, ensuring that they were well confined; the ache within yearning for her to simply remove the restraint and lay her hand, flesh upon flesh, quenching the need for the living energy of one’s mind, even that of the Imperial Knight that sat beside her. It would be so simple, easy. Like the snapping of a neck. A swift removal of her glove, her skin caressing the skin of her prey, the moment the flesh of her hand touched him, Ko would relive every memory he ever had. The reliving of every moment would consume the Knight, the memories, the sensations, the emotions, all would flood and ravish him whole like whatever had taken Coruscant.


(Stop sound 1:55)​





Yet, it was not within the Mind Witch to do such horrible things, despite the pain that overtook her.


As she was about to excuse herself Rand Ko piped up hesitantly, then paused. Vesper gave him the moment he needed without turning to face him immediately. Finally Ko seemed to find the words that he grasped so helplessly for, as if his brain could not formulate fully after what he had witnessed. His inquiry was sound, albeit short, like a child asking questions. It was understandable. The mind was a curious thing.


Pivoting on heel she faced the Imperial Knight, her face offering nothing, merely holding a professional front, a front that hid the sheer exhaustion of the woman. Her hands relaxed gently behind her, clasping at the small of her back. “Our allies.” Her answer was simple.



~*~







Hours had passed and the shuttle lurched out of hyperspace spitting the Sigma-Class and her crew into Saijo space. Vesper returned to the cockpit just before dropout, somewhat resolved with the hunger she had once felt. Resting a hand upon the leather headrest of the copilot’s seat she got straight to the orders that had been given to her.









source.gif







“Send another encrypted message to Erastus, the Moff Council, the Council of Twenty and the Federation, inform them to rendezvous on Saijo. Send them our coordinates. No stops sans emergencies. And do not drop from hyperspace.”


She paused momentarily before continuing, “Inform Erastus on Vitae to bring the death squadron fleet and to find the Empress.”


Vesper had tried in her time of seclusion to feel for the Empress, somewhere, anywhere in space, but everything seemed so distorted and distant that she was unsuccessful. “Finding the Empress and her safety are our number one priority.” She returned to her regal stance and kept her gaze firmly on the astronomical object before them through the viewport. It was here that the Mind Witch hoped that respite could be found for the crew of the Sigma-Class. They were not as equipped as she to find solitude, they too needed rest, fortification even. Here she hoped that would find that.



TAG: @Darth Dreadwar
 

corinthia

Administrator
Staff member
Administrator
Immortalis
IC: Lieutenant Sorin Valantin
War Room

Relief cascaded through Sorin's body as a voice crackled through the comms—his body sagged, propped up only by his palm on the edge of the console. A loose sigh caught in Sorin's throat, and he straightened up again as he felt the floor beneath his feet rock with what could only be an explosion. And as quickly as his relief had come, his panic returned. A barrage of things ran through his mind, his thoughts immediately going to his liege, the High Priestess Hesper, then his commander, Lord Xarxes, then all the things he should do in the next thirty seconds that would guarantee his survival—running being the very first thing. The floor continued to quake, and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Were he to stay here, engage in a longer conversation with the Auspex… he could very well die. But weighed against that was the chance that all the others below may yet live, were he able to arrange his people to render help. In the blink of an eye, he calculated the risk.

He punched the button to reply.

Hunching low to the voice input, he said, "Auspex, it is good to hear your voice. Recommending you remain disengaged and keep your distance. The temple on Korriban is under assault by unknown assailants. We will likely require your full support in case of an evacuation."

It was then that the telepathic voice of Imperatrix Hesper pierced Sorin's mind, recalling him immediately to the dungeons for a retreat into the catacombs below. She beseeched him, tugging forcefully on every thread of connection they shared. Sorin grimaced, balling a fist and pressing it to his forehead as he fought the urge to turn on his heel and run to her side. He could picture the distress in her gaze of moonlight and shadow, flitting silver held within, strands of the finest gold hair framing her creased brow and worrying mouth—by the Force, he could barely stand his own decision! He slammed his fist down onto the console as the walls around him shook. Hesper would have to get the evacuees out safely… and Sorin would guarantee their escape off-world.


 

Cardun Vrek

Legendary Member
Moderator
Jedi Council
IC: Darth Mavros (With a tiny combo with Darth Viscretus)
The Dungeons

Chaos. Utter Chaos.


That was what met Mavros as he descended into the dungeons. Desperate Sith were trying to flee to the underlevels below, all trying to push past each other to safety. Self preservation above all else was the order of the day. Lord Solus was still leading the younglings, and Mavros quickly rejoined him, pushing through the crowds. The Dunegons were close to collapse.

The whole bloody temple is coming down. Of course the only people who could destroy it for good are the Sith themselves…the Jedi would be envious.

“Lose the crechelings! They’ll slow us down!” The voice of Darth Wyyrlok IV shouted above the crowd.

You know, Krayt’s lot might be utterly insane, but for once, Wyyrlok might have a point. But...I don’t think Solus will concur…

Mavros glanced at the Commandant, and instinctively tried to take a step back, but merely bumped into someone behind him. Solus looked enraged, as if preparing to throw all caution to the wind and strike out at Wyyrlok. But Solus quickly recomposed himself as the walls continued to shake violently. Mavros glanced around.

They had to get out of here.

Now.

“Move children! Do not delay. Reatith, Mavros...make sure nobody gets in our way. We are moving to the underdelve.” Solus ordered.

“Understood, My Lord.” Mavros replied flatly, following alongside the commandant, edging out a path to the underdelve. He could see other Sith Lords ahead, no doubt trying to rally people to do their bidding.

I’ve already been ordered to help Solus bring the younglings down, so I best stick with my initial orders. That, and I don’t fancy dying.

They reached the stairs and began to descend, Mavros following Solus as they reached the bottom of the stairs and the waiting Empress.

Mavros approached the Empress, slowly, then bowed his head.

I have to do…something…

“I can try a little something to slow down the enemy. It may not deal a great wound to them, but it may slow them a little. I can try to invoke the spirits of the dead, and then send those spirits against our enemies to plague them with horrific visions.”
He said, trying his best to sound confident.

It's a gamble...

“Yes. Do so,” she said, her eyes finding him.

Mavros nodded, and stepped back. Finding an empty space on the ground, he sat down as if to meditate- his legs crossed and arms resting on them. He took a deep breath and began to draw on the dark side, channeling all the frustration and anger that he had been suppressing since all this nonsense began. He called upon the long dead spirits of Korriban, of the Sith that had lived and died here, and attempted to thrust them at the enemy that was coming to kill them all, to twist and contort themselves into whatever these beings feared most.

Make them feel fear...hold them back.

Power Used: Corpse Vision (2)

TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar, @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Nathemus, @Voidwalker, @skira, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Darth Solus, @Darth Kain, @Reatith Blodraald, @Keres Dymos, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Reiis Invadator, @Grievance Vexx, @dragonsith13, @Darth Xxys, @Helkosh, @Darth Thana, @corinthia, @Catalyst, @Volacius, @Darth Xirr, @DarthFeros, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @Metus, @Sith_Imperios
 

DarthFeros

Active member
Moderator
Jedi Council
IC: Darth Feros
Dungeons, Moving to the Tunnels
Sith Temple
Korriban

By Any Means Necessary


Feros had looked forward through the Force, but he didn't quite see so much as feel what was ahead. He heard screams, no, wails of sheer pain and terror. It made his stomach uneasy. The same way it had been uneasy the night that he'd been forced to kill Vayanna.


They were still seeming to move at a decent pace, but there were so many people that it felt like a crawl. They needed to move quicker. They were rapidly becoming outnumbered inside the Temple from the feeling in the Force. They were going to be overrun! Overpowered and outmatched! Seven Hells, they were all going to die!


"Wait. The hells? These aren't my thoughts." Feros thought.


"Well they aren't mine." Krayt replied to him, without being consulted.


Feros thought about it logically for a moment. Someone, somewhere, had to be doing one of a few things. It could be mental domination, or battle meditation. He had no real way of knowing which one it was. He knew the thoughts would begin to invade everyone in this retinue of miscreants and Lords.


"Well. I suppose I should do something about this then, at least what I can do about it."

Feros focused and opened himself to the Force, reaching out to all the Sith minds around him. He probably couldn't do much to discourage skeletons and spectres, or anything with or controlling them for that matter.

What he could do was encourage and coordinate those around him. Which is exactly what he did. He poured a steely, morbid resolve into the Force as he touched their minds. Trying to link them and coordinate their movements, attempting to move the flood to the tunnels along.

As he focused, he heard Wyyrlok talking about leaving the children. So he flooded the idea of protecting them, and possibly trampling her if she fell, into the Force as well. Pushing the idea that if the children fell, they would all fall.

"That should take care of that." Feros thought.


"All that we have to deal with, and you're worried about a clutch of whelps?"


"Yes. I am. I killed the Jedi younglings because that was war. They would have grown to be my enemy. These children will not. They are our future. And seeing as how many have died today, we're going to need them."


And then he saw something he couldn't quite comprehend. Macabre, bloated, rotting beast, parading forth from the Dungeons in a torrent. He had no idea what the hell they were, or where they'd come from. Feros moved his sabers to defend himself, but they just ran past, like they weren't even there.

"Those were rakghouls!" Krayt said.

"The hells are they doing here?"

"I don't know. But they weren't real, or they'd be tearing this crowd to shreds. Starting with the children, most likely."


That thought brought him back to the present, and made him focus again, on his Battle Meditation, and on Wyyrlok. He knew his thoughts were the same as everyone else's at the moment. He wanted to kill her. Slowly though. He wanted to enjoy killing her. He wanted her to truly feel the despair and disdain in his actions. And they didn't have time for that now. They needed to get down the stairs and into the tunnels. And find those screams he'd seen riding the waves of things to come. By any means.


Powers Used
Tutaminus - 4 (continued)
Battle Meditation - 4




TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar, @Arach, @dragonsith13, @Grievance Vexx, @Reiis Invadator, @Drakul_Xarxes, @G.Kn, @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Kain, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Darth Nathemus, @Darth Xirr, @Darth Solus, @DarthNoxia, @Jihadi Quartz, @Voidwalker, @Ānhrā Māhnîu, @Reatith Blodraald, @Darth Thana, @Sith_Imperios, @Cardun Vrek, @Darth Sedicious, @Helkosh, @Darth Xxys, @Metus, @Catalyst, @Nacros_Telcontare, @corinthia
 

Omegon

Well-known member
IC: Dread Knight Omegon

Location: Above Axum, in communication with the Sith Garrison


The message from the surface resonated across the bridge as Cruella Vandron described the situation on the surface of Axum. The bridge was left in stunned silence, the crew dumbfounded and shocked, while Omegon stood with his face passive. His mind, however, was racing. Coruscant had already been destroyed, devoured by what felt like an ancient and godlike being, and at nearly the same time Axum was assaulted by an ancient army of twisted and evil metal soldiers.


These were no disconnected events. Supernatural calamities occurring this close together on vital Sith planets? Omegon had suspected Coruscant was an attack already. This strike on Axum did nothing but confirm it. The galaxy was under assault from some force capable of destroying planets with ease, animating metal soldiers, and performing acts of sorcery that Omegon doubted even the most powerful members of the Sith order could replicate. They couldn’t be Jedi, not with the violence and lack of care for life they the attacks exhibited. And the likelihood of it being some internal feud, like a coup? Well… that was certainly a possibility, but Omegon found it far more likely that this was an outside force. Someone who had been watching and planning, waiting for a vulnerable moment to strike. A moment when Coruscant was vulnerable, and all the higher ranking Sith were gathered in one place on Korriban, distracted by their infighting…


Nausea blossomed in his stomach as Omegon began to realize the implications of what he was thinking. Korriban was a priority target, and if planet destroying hunger and living soldiers of cursed metal were attacks designated for secondary targets, he doubted the structure of the planet would survive the coming onslaught, much less the population.


They would not be returning to korriban, he decided. His companions might object, but he would make them see truth. They would rescue the abandoned trio on the surface, and proceed to a minor planet in Sith space. Omegon possessed many small safe houses across the galaxy which he could use to weather the coming storm. Zeffo was a prime candidate in his mind, but any number of planets would suffice.


His eyes snapped back into focus as the message ended. His crew was looking to him for leadership, and he would not let them down. He would know no fear, and show them why he was their master. “Ready a shuttle, charge the turbolasers, and prep the tractor beams. We have a Sith Lady to save. Take the ship into low-atmosphere, directly on their coordinates. Forward the transmission to the personal commlinks of the other survivors from Coruscant, and tell them that I am readying a landing party to extract those left on the surface. And if the brass soldiers are truly alive… the tractor beams should be more than capable of holding one in stasis and drawing it into the ship once we are within range.”


Tightening the straps for the twin blades at his back, Omegon grimaced. He wished he had his armor and blade, but that was still being held in the forge with Pythonus as he worked on Omegon’s armor. “Dame Cruella Vandron, this is the Aximand. Consider yourself rescued. We are on approach, and will have a shuttle to provide exfiltration. Our turbolasers are primed for covering fire, and our tractor beam is prepped to take captive any of the brass soldiers that we can. Keep in contact and inform us of any updates as we close.”


Unclamping his helm from his belt, he slipped it over his head and watched the HUD light up, his comms coming online. “Shuttle bay, this is Omegon. Have a pilot and landing crew waiting and armed. This should be a quick pickup, but the landing zone is hot. Pack kinetic weapons and explosives as well; I doubt they’ll harm the brass soldiers, but slowing them down or knocking them over may buy us some time.” Omegon’s steel shod boots clanged against the corridor as the engines roared, propelling them down towards their target coordinates.


TAGs: @Darth Dreadwar, @Tobbi Airskipper, @Darth Kratos, @Senec Tinople, @Dorrian Shadowsun, @Rayge, @Oberleutnant Deleritas




IC: Pythonus


Shadows danced across the walls of the forge, cast by the flickering flames of the forge. The bellows were ready and the materials set aside, making ready for the forging process. Omegon had chosen not to rest, being unable to sleep as he was. And so, taking Pythonus with him, he had come here, to begin his work on the armor.


The armor, first, was anointed with oil, lubricating the metal and preparing it for the forging process. It would take days, weeks even, before the armor was complete, but he had been trusted to complete its construction. There were armor and forge serfs, of course, but many of them knew virtually nothing of the processes they spent their lives assisting in.

In his ear, he heard the chiming and speech sent his way by Omegon, updating him of the situation on Axum. But, if he was needed, he would have been called for specifically. No, he would continue the work he had been tasked with, and Omegon would handle the surface.

Lifting an ancient thurible, he wafted the sacred ash and smoke over the components, preparing them for ritual sanctification. The ingredients of the incense had been gathered and combined by Omegon himself, and were said to contain ground up entrails of a tuk’ata, ashes of the innocent, and crushed hearts of enemies killed on the field of battle. These were all imbued with dark energy beforehand for their use in the forging process.

As the rancid scent spread through the room, mixing with the scent from the burning forge, Pythonus turned to the serfs. “The ritual is initiated; let us begin our work.”

TAGs: @Darth Dreadwar
 
IC: In the Dungeons, Knight I-Ron-Butterfly-Traya and Apprentice Karin Welko



"Dark has no meaning without light,
And for all living things
there is the final
silence.
"

Soshu Londahl



How can the limited human mind comprehend the amount of things happening around it, in such an orderly fashion to force a plan, amidst this chaos that enthralled the entire world of Korriban? I-Ron would made a simile involving the rain. You see rain, you can comprehend the concept. Now imagine having to calculate the speed of each drop falling independently, predicting the flight pattern to know where each drop would impact, and at the same time reciting the entire atmospheric process in which rain is formed.

For I-Ron, so much water, and rain, and moisture was akin to an Anathema. Raised in the desert of Tatooine, then Korriban, there was no moment in her life where water wasnt the opposite of what her beliefs were.

How could she was able to understand the Anathema and cursed vileness around her, falling like a tear in the rain? Unseen, part of the encroaching and almost infinite horde of skeletons raining down on the Sith like a monsoon.

On the other side of the spectrum, a more humane Karin was the center of ice and water of the center of sand and heat of I-Ron.

For her, it was the reckoning of fire and brimstone. When Chaos had no more room for the dead, then they would flood the skinlands, the land of the living hijacking the bodies of the dead and recently dead in order to enter into this world of flesh. Even rotting flesh would be enough, it seemed. And now, the entire True Sith armada was upon them, ready to send boiling stones of obsidian black at them at speeds unknown. Surely getting ready to bombard the temple with their advanced and quasi magical weapons if they escaped by normal and seen methods.

That much did Karin said to I-Ron.

“Our only way is this tunnel” She said “The open field would be suicide.” She said the obvious, but I-Ron was nonetheless interested in hearing what she had in her mind, making sure that she was being listened to and she knew it.

“Then this tunnel will get us to safety” She said, finally using the full tone of her female voice. “Or to a slower death”. How delighted was she in using such a voice again, still she did not resented Apollyon for barring her the use of such a gift.

“I sense a bunshin of me” the apparition, Shaitan said matter of factly. He then started to sniff the air. “It's the redhead traitor, up ahead summoning Zoradon”

“Master, let me kill her and gutt her.” Karin said, while the three of them were walking amidst the Sith Survivors, running past Wyyrlok and Arach and Solus having their discussion. I-Ron raised her hand to shut Karin.

“You will learn to put a facade for yourself and others. Do what you must do first, do what you want to do later. Put a brick in your wall, in order to find your entelechy you have to appear as stoic as a block of ice, putting the needs of the many before your petty egoist seekings, and do what you must to ensure the survival of the order.”

Karin walked alongside her master and the summoned demon took a time to consider and understand what was said. Then said: “There is no time to kill someone I dislike, we are all on this sinking ship trying to get to the boats.”

The demon Shaitan petted her head like a small child, something that Karin hated the most.

“You can eat her heart's blood at a later date” the demon assured her.

From her hands a venom was leaking, her claws ready to lunge forwards towards any enemy. She was ready to have intercourse, or kill like a slasher in a holo-drama. The dark side, personified as a beast that got its strength from her darkest emotions, was ready to run rampant. The beast was rattling in its cage, not begging but rampaging for an exit. Such action was frowned upon by Selkath society and Sith society alike. Any apprentice that was badly trained would succumb to the dark side, and be controlled by it instead of controlling it themselves. Her heart pounded in her chest like she wanted to be pounded by that cute kitchen hand, but he was surely dead by that time, killed in order to have another ghoul to throw at the army of raindrops from outside. She wanted to kill Sol, or have her way with her, sink her claws on her skin and eat her alive. And she wanted to be in the frontlines, her eyes already yellow from the vile of the dark side.

“Why are we running? There are people ready to make a stand at the entrance. We should remain here. We should fight!” The disparate Karin yelled in a moment of pure frenzy.

From I-Ron the only thing she received was a slap on her face. Unexpected, she had never done that, not even when Sol acted even worse. The beast did not rattled in its cage, but cowed in fear. Fear diminished focus, fear was the worst sin someone in the tutelage of I-Ron could feel. Karin knew it, and swallowed saliva heavily because of it. It was not to instill fear in her, she knew, but to gather her senses and focus, put some sense in the fledgling.

“We are not running.” I-Ron said, her composure gathered like flowers on a bouquet. “We are surviving.” Then glanced at Wyrlook. “A vile bitch that would kill the next generation of Sith to save her own dirty ass would never know the difference. Are you a vile and dirty bitch, apprentice?”

Karin looked onto the floor ashamed of her actions. She was suddenly overcome by the beast that emotions running rampant are. The beast that over exsanguination of the self over a cause are. The beast that uncontrolled and unchecked instinct based behaviour is.

The future of the Sith rested upon the shoulders of the next generation, that was obvious since the Sith were faxing their reckoning, the mass extinction event. They were not just holy because it showed the judge of character of each and one of them, but they were, for I-Ron, literally important. If they were not important like that, then she would have leaved them just as Wyyrlok wanted. It did not mattered the what, only the why, the enlightenment path that you took in order to justify your actions and control your inner world.

“The survival of the next generation is paramount in this operation, it's the first commandment we must follow in this extinction level event.” She responded to her master, somewhat imitating her way of speaking. “I'm sorry, Master.”

“Don't be sorry, be better” She responded laconically. “Don't deny your beast, don't deny the feelings you have inside, still. They are there for a reason, but look for a more intelligent way to act upon it. Use your beast, dont be used by it.”

Calming herself, having some order inside the monsoon of chaos that Korriban was, Karin composed herself long enough to use her beast. Cold and frigid, she started to touch the body of her sword, the Hook Sword, touching it as one would touch a lover, caressing it with love and coating the blade with its venom. At the same time she started to conjure her eldritch forces, the dark side to freeze the air around the sword, trying to add a layer of ice to act as jagged extra teeth on the weapon, freezing the water and the poison to have poisoned ice. She tried, however the effects would be seen later.

“We must keep moving, Apprentice.” I-Ron said, commanding with a hand so Shaitan would stay there, understanding that he must be placed on the stairs in order to slow down any enemy coming down. With his red eyes he would shoot fire in order to burn down the enemies of the Sith.

Then I-Ron simply started to gather around her senses. The black caverns were a horrid piece of black eldritch stone, a caver that descended upon any known history, perhaps even cutting directly to the source of all, the prima materia of history and culture. The ideological implications of everything were too much for I-Ron to handle, while Karin was marveling at the bas relief´s, the mummies ready to turn into fossils of a long past age.

They both went their separate ways inside there.

Yes, they were. Remnants of an antediluvian age, why should they put themselves in the place of progress and the new? Why would they wanted to give us chains so heavy that would make us inmmobile? For that the invaders had to be repelled, for that their history had to be erased. Karin only made the connection in a fleeting and scarce way. After all, the undead Sith of history were outside, bearing occult knowledge on weaponry and sorcery, and they had pushed them into this place. Perhaps they wanted us, the Sith, to know the identity of their executioners, but for what malevolent purpose? Would that make the sith feel even more betrayed and even more defeated in their crusade for survival? Was that what they wanted us to know? Was that what they were saying? “Yes, this is us, the ghost from your prehistory, ready to take your place”. It seemed as such. Or it was just a wild guess, a fantasy product of a vivid imagination. Bastilla, Karin remembered, would be a proponent of such theory, according to the message on the holocron she saw hours before.

Meanwhile, I-Ron gazed upon the Empress, upon Kain. Prostrating himself in front of Kain, like one would kneel before the might of a God-Emperor, she said:

“I have Mechu Deru, perhaps I could help with the gate, whatever this technology is, My Beloved King of the Stars.”


OOC Header:
Powers Used:
Karin Criokinesis lvl 2

I-Ron simply maintaned the use of her previous powers.

@Darth Dreadwar, @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Nathemus, @Voidwalker, @skira, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Darth Solus, @Darth Kain, @Reatith Blodraald, @Keres Dymos, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Reiis Invadator, @Grievance Vexx, @dragonsith13, @Darth Xxys, @Helkosh, @Darth Thana, @corinthia, @Catalyst, @Volacius, @Darth Xirr, @DarthFeros, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Arach, @DarthNoxia, @Metus, @Sith_Imperios
 

Voidwalker

Active member
Streaming Partner

CONVOLUTED COMBO: Dude, We’re Getting the Band Back Together!



IMG_9381.jpg



...na' na' na', ah lawah (thanks Pravum...)



IC: Darth Voidwalker, Darth Viscretus, Cordé Venau, Sedriss Nathemus, Sol Kira, Darth Pravum, Darth Solus
Underdelve, Sith Temple, Korriban

Death. Death, decay, sweat, and excrement made up the aroma of the underdelve below the dungeons of the Sith Temple. Emotions were running high, but it was the feeling of fear that seemed to make the stale convoluted air feel heavier than it was. Even with Kain's encouraging words, fear still seemed to hover over the members of the Sith Order like an ever present dark cloud over Dromund Kaas. The same fear that had once been an ally to them, was now being used against them, threatening to crush them beneath it's immeasurable weight as it continuously crashed down, hoping to over take them. Though many of them would never admit to feeling fear, too much pride to say they were afraid, the engulfing feeling was clearly visible, the room essentially buzzed with living energy from the dreaded emotion.

Who could blame them? The man, or the presumption of a man that they had instilled their trust in for so long, the one that as a whole, the Order of the Sith looked to for supreme guidance, their former "Emperor" was the one that led the charge. The one giving the orders to wipe them out and extinguish the New Sith Order from the Galaxy. Darth Dreadwar, the Betrayer and the Great Deceiver.

"This is a war, now. A war for our next breaths," came the words of Viscretus, who now stood next to him holding the control panel of the hypergate, taken from the thrall that she had once mentally dominated. "We have survived such before. We will again.. I will ensure it.'' Her words were bold. Especially asking for trust to be placed in her after some of those same ones had just swore their loyalty to Kain. Nonetheless she continued on in the same familiar tone that many had come to know and expect from her. "Those who know the arts such as shatterpoint or darkshear, telekinesis, or other such powers of destruction and annihilation, come to me at once.

With no words to be said, Voidwalker simply looked to the one who he had sworn his loyalty to, Lord Kain. Whatever he decided to do, Voidwalker would trust his decision and follow his lead. “Do as she asks." Kain said out loud as if he knew what the others were already thinking. The decision had been made, and orders given. Voidwalker simply nodded to his new King.

Kain had stepped closer to Viscretus and the two leaders were having a conversation as to how to best form a plan. Voidwalker overheard the plan being formed by Kain and Viscretus. It was a suicide mission, but if anyone could do it, Kain was the one. It was Kain that seemed to end the conversation, as he simply turned to the rest of them and simply stated “May the Force serve you well.”

The living flame that had built up in his palms crawled up his body and formed a crimson crown of living fire above his head. A shining Sith Lord birthed by fire now stood before them a King forged by the flames of War.

Among the group of Sith that had made their way into the underdelve besides Viscretus, the young Onderonian princess Sol Kira had made it back. At least she's safe. Voidwalker nodded towards Sol, with his stern usual look. There was much left unsaid between them. Perhaps it was for the best, but that time would have to wait. They had to survive Korriban first. Turning his attention back to Kára Volshe as she had called for those of useful and destructive abilities, she was right, this was now war and it was time the War Priest did what he'd been trained to do. Kain had told them that they'd no longer be Sith, but heirs to the stars themselves. But that would mean they'd have to shed their old skins of Sith and be reborn by the stars. Before creation, comes destruction.

"Empress Volshe, I'm here to answer your call to action. I possess many destructive abilities including telekinesis, pyrokinesis and Sith spells. As well as both Shatterpoint and Darkshear. Tell me where I'm needed. Or I'm happy to backup Lord Kain and make sure he survives. It's your call."

I only hope it's the right one, for all of our sakes.

“Yes, mother,” Cordé had whispered only moments ago, though it was long since drowned out by the chaos of the surrounding crowd and those approaching the Empress.

She inhaled deeply, the dust and terrible miasma of death in the tomb filling her lungs. Anxiety pricked at the back of her neck, burning as it crept into her scalp and tingled at her fingertips. Her brother was upstairs, and they were seemingly trapped below ground...though her mother did not seem fazed, she knew better. She had even seen an almost fearful ferocity of her father first hand, something she had rarely witnessed and never to such an extreme. She moved closer to him, lingering only a step away from him, and to her mother. She was Sith, and she would not act frightened around the rest of them. But she was frightened. She was terribly so.

She shut her eyes and steeled herself. Her hands drifted up from her waist in a motion that had become habitual whenever she used such power. She willed the threads of time to again become evident to her, but this time, she sought to gently coax them to the future she had seen before. Away from darkness, away from death, towards the single future she had seen before. Perhaps the strange doorway working, taking them to the place her mother had mentioned, not incinerating them any longer. Some sort of escape, where it seemed there was none.

She was no expert in the power, but her mother had asked for her to try. And so she did. Maybe, just maybe, her gentle nudge would be enough. Maybe it would guide them all to succeed in their given missions. Even the slightest shift could make a galaxy of difference.

She hoped it would.

Darth Pravum’s diminutive stature had become an issue, given the size of his junk minions, and one of the golems lifted him to its shoulders so he could see above the rest. Away from the adrenaline and immediate danger of the battle upstairs, Pravum became keenly aware of the pain in his chest that his earlier encounter with lavanrok discs had left him. The air was practically dripping with Force energy, the anima, or life essence, imbued within the midichlorians seeping from the dead. Pravum took a deep breath, calling it to him, bending the midichlorians to his will. This was what he had been practicing on Calipsa, studying day and night, working harder than he’d ever needed to before. Like Darth Plagueis centuries ago, he too had discovered the secret of manipulating the midichlorians, to create everlasting life. He called them to close the wounds left in his chest, to ease the pain. Trading life for life, giving those dying midichlorians once last chance to serve the Force before they twinkled out of existence, having had the unlucky fate of residing in the cells of now dead and forgotten Apprentices.

Pravum’s connection to his golems upstairs fizzled. There was no fight, no struggle. Only death. The sinister, chilling presence must have had some awesome level of power to claim the energy he’d imbued them with so effortlessly.

And as Pravum worked his silent ministrations, Volshe nodded to Voidwalker, ready to answer.

But no sooner than Voidwalker had approached her and spoken had Solus emerged from the upper levels, more of the children along with him. There may have been more, perhaps, but she had not counted. They had been close enough behind, so the others would certainly be along shortly with the remainder. She knelt down and ushered them over to her with arms partly extended, as if she would welcome all of them into her embrace.

“Ma’am, the children are here as requested. I am also here to answer your call to war.”

She nodded again to Solus, only once.

“Come here, come here,” she called to the children, voice soft. They did not have much time to spare, but soothing the children before they saw the display around them seemed like the best option. She looked to the children, more than a few of which she knew well from her frequent history lessons with the temple’s youth, where they had all gathered upon the steps just outside the archives as evening light blanketed the temple. “Soon, we will go on an adventure to another world, through that doorway. But you cannot go through it yet - it is not safe. You must stay with me.”

From her place, crouched amongst the young ones, she looked up to the others. How did one keep a few dozen children calm when all of those they looked up to were seemingly terrified?

“Deianara, Primordius. Remember the story of the great Naga Sadow and Ludo Kressh? Why don’t you tell the others all about it, while the Lords and Ladies talk? Alright?” She stood and straightened, smoothing her skirts. With a sigh, and deft work of her nimble fingers, she pulled the suspenda-adorned headdress from her curls. It was only a nuisance now.

At the same moment, Nathemus was above in the dungeon hallway. The Ghouls he commanded failed to do any damage to the leadership of the incoming horde. Hord, Malleus, and Andeddu still stood and the skeletal beings they commanded lurched forth with each passing moment. But something far worse was behind them. The presence felt like decay itself, one presence the Sedriss had never experienced before this day.

The mistified spirits of Malgus and Wyyrlok indeed appeared, but not in the traditional sense of appearing as ghosts. In time, the Dark Lord would bind them to his will, but he had no time to do so now. In this moment, it was important to communicate with his Empress downstairs. Reaching out with his mastery of the telepathic arts, he touched her mind as she had left their mental link open.

Empress, he said to her. While Dreadwar is here, the hordes are also being led by other ancient Dark Lords. I have seen through the eyes of my Ghouls, but Lords Tulak Hord, Andeddu, Raspir, Malleus, and another Rakata command the dead Legions. And what worries me further is the overwhelming feeling of death and decay that drags forth behind it all. I cannot shake it. I must bring the Temple down on top of them.

She took but a moment to think of a response. Her warm countenance chilled instantly, golden eyes darkening to bronze. She carefully prodded the connection, to ensure his mind was open to her, then sent her own response.

Lord Kain will be using his great power of fire upon them, and he may well use a firestorm. We must similarly aid in his destruction of the army however we can. Gather all you can who can form a barrier with the Force to protect those above ground from what may come next, and gather those who can aid you in destroying their army. Usher all the rest downstairs at once, then act as soon as possible. We cannot risk losing the entire Order. Whoever is willing will come upstairs to assist you.

Nathemus knew what had to be done. He'd learned over his years as a premier Sith Sorcerer how to cast invisible waves of pure destruction. Darkshear, some cults called it. Others mistakenly called it the Spear of Midnight Black, unknowing that such was a different Force skill altogether. He began preparing it, feeling the Dark power coarse through his extremities. I understand, he intoned. The time has come for me to use my most overtly destructive power, save for rending cores from stars. I will stop them and get our people to safety first.

The hulking lich stepped forth, firmly attaching his weapons to their harnesses on his back. They were not needed in this moment as he hoped they would be. "Lady Hesper, Lord Krayt, Lady Arach," he stated their names in an urgent, commanding tone. As he kept walking past them toward the mouth of the hallway, he said, "We can boulder these invaders. I do not know your capabilities nor those of your companions. But I echo the order of the Empress. Those of you who have powers of destruction, fire, and telekinetic force, aid me in bringing the Temple down on top of them. Those of you who are defensive in nature, raise up barriers of the Force to shield us and the rest of the Sith, who must head down into the tunnels, from our own powers and the powers of the enemy. Lord Kain will rain fire upon them in mere moments. We needn't be caught in the Firelord's blast, for it will kill us all if we do not shield ourselves."

Upon his last word, he was at the end of the dungeon hall that opened up to the Banquet Hall. Oh how we wished he could go back to the time where the only worry this day was if the food was bugged or who would take the throne. But they were long past such things. He peered his head around the end wall, and there they were. Two Dark Lords of legend, and one who wore the armor of the first Sith King. The line of sight was clear, while he shielded the rest of his body behind the wall. Now was the time to strike.

The illusion fell, and a thousand Ghouls suddenly disappeared. The Sedriss' full strength was needed. Andeddu and his cohorts would learn why Nathemus was now the Supreme Malevolence. His piercing crimson eyes faded to black, and he closed his left fist, intending to activate his Talisman of Concentration. He focused all his power on attempting the Darkshear, aiming its destructive might at the ancient Dark Lords, the ceiling above them, and the entrance hall beyond them. If he was successful, he hoped the Old Sith would perish or be crushed, the Temple entrance would be blocked, and the New Sith Order would buy themselves a few more moments of time.

~~​

Light returned to the Empress’ gaze as her awareness returned to the others. “These next moments are vital.”

Solus spoke again. "Ma'am, what do you need from me?"

“To defend us below via shielding or protection spells, or slow the approach of our enemies above, through powers of destruction,” she said, taking the hand of one of the young ones who now clung to her skirts.

Solus' mind snapped quickly to the strategic advantages of both. Nathemus and others were already above. They were likely taking destruction quite seriously, would more be advantageous?

"I can perform either task. With your allocated resources it may be more advantages for me to go below. Do you feel protection bubble will suffice?"

“It will provide at least some of the protection we need. If you are capable, and you can sustain it, do so.”

As Volshe rattled off her commands, it occurred to Pravum for perhaps the very first time that almost none of his great repertoire of Sith magicks were altogether very useful against their enemy, the shadowy presence he’d felt now coming to the forefront of his senses. It was clear now from Volshe’s words that it was Darth Dreadwar, former Emperor of the Sith, who came for them. A being of unimaginable power, the stuff of legends. No army of skeletons could present even half the threat such a man, if even he were a man under that obsidian cloak, did.

As she addressed Solus, Empress Volshe bent down and swept up the poor child, who seemed to only grow more fearful as the temple walls shook. She still glanced back to Solus, awaiting any further questions, but her attention moved to hushing the young one with a gentle hand upon his back and soft words that were near indecipherable.

"I can do that, Ma'am." Solus turned rapidly to go to the entrance, the area he felt he'd be most needed. He clutched his talisman of concentration in hand. After a few steps he stopped. "Please don't allow the children to be harmed."

“I will not,” she said, her tone firm. “I will protect them as my own.”

They were her own, though not through biological means. They were the future of her Order. The future, once this was all over. And they were innocent souls. She looked upon the small group, their pleading eyes that glittered in the ghostly light. Even in her most brutal moments, she could never allow them to face harm.

Her hand tightened around the child and her other about the datapad.

“Put your hand upon mine,” she said, extending her own to her once-son as Solus stepped away. “Open your mind to me.”

She again spoke as she awaited Voidwalker to do so. It rose above the crowd as a tumultuous wave of rakghouls skittered upstairs. For a moment, she feared it was from the depths of the tunnel, that perhaps the spirit of Muur had awoken…but no. Someone had decided to summon them, for they moved past without so much as a look from their beady eyes or growl from their twisted maws. They would likely be quickly dispatched by the above army - but it was better than nothing. There is more. Illusionists, for every beast or creation summoned, create more. Communicate. Coordinate. And one of you, summon a wall of illusory tendrils at the front of the banquet hall, from where the army approaches and our forces withdraw. And those who can defend us, you must create a perimeter or a barrier around the evacuees here, and some into the tunnels above. It is imperative. Or we may all die. We must ensure whatever we do does not destroy our own forces. This is of the utmost importance.”

She had anticipated not ancient lords upon the battlefield, but those such as Syn and XoXaan to be nestled away practicing their magic. “The Lords are tied to the mortal plane by amulets, crafted by Dreadwar. If possible, if you can identify them, annihilate them. If not, the army must be destroyed, through any means possible. Perhaps telekinesis, perhaps fire, perhaps deadly sight, perhaps even something as volatile and violent as darkshear. Do you believe you can do so?”

Dreadwar.

He was the main threat, everything else that assaulted the New Sith Order was comparatively fluff. Nearest them, Darth Pravum focused on the signature of Darth Dreadwar, the cold, the evil. He imagined a brain beneath that cowl, imagined the Force seeping into it, synthesizing itself into a neurotoxin. Figurative imagery, of course, but nonetheless a helpful visual he’d always employed whenever utilizing the power of Force Plague. The Force would behave as if it were a poison, afflicting the mind of the target, though on a level somewhere beneath physical. Darth Dreadwar was too powerful for any man to kill, but perhaps Darth Pravum could hit him where it hurt: his mind.

She seems confident in this plan of hers. Hopefully she is certain of these claims. Kain trusts her, at least for now. Fine, so be it.
Voidwalker extended his hand and took a hold of Volshe's. With a deep sigh he closed his eyes, allowing himself to open his mind to allow her to connect to his psyche. "Show me what these amulets that you speak of look like. Then I will begin working on a plan to destroy them. Like you said, these moments are vital."

She frowned in concentration, transferring the telepathic images of the various artifacts to them with gentle waves of the Force. A mental message, nothing more. A shadow caught her eye, glittering gold in a form of Sol Kira that was ...not her. As they approached it pulled her attention away, and she withdrew from the others as it did.

“Empress Volshe, I am here to serve you.”

The sound of a new voice caused Voidwalker to break the connection with Volshe, after she had shown the images of what he needed to target. A voice he'd heard before, but now it sounded much closer. Turning his attention to the sound of the newcomer, he was shocked to see Sol. No, this was not Sol, it was an image that looked like Sol that hovered off the ground with a smoke like appearance to it and golden eyes.

The demon. It had not been what Volshe was expecting, but they needed all the help they could get.

“To the surface,” she said, firmly. “There is an army of great power that opposes us above. Ancient lords, and a malevolent deity. We must hold them back until we can escape via the gate behind me. Rain death upon them.”

“As you command, my Empress,” He said, smiling wickedly at her. This form was… strange to him. It was strange being able to move on his own at all, to make his own choices. He moved towards the steps, and began going up as quickly as he could. He was correct when he said death would come for them all, but perhaps he was wrong about who exactly “all” was.

Through the semi translucent form of the being before him, Voidwalker spotted her, his apprentice, sitting on the ground. Stepping around the smoke and mirror copy, Voidwalker approached Sol Kira. "Sol," he said in a soft tone, "are you alright? Come on, let's get you up off the floor. You have to stand up and fight. There's still much that we have to do."

Seeing the mirage of Sol making its way to the steps leading back to the dungeon tunnels, Voidwalker felt the urge to get moving. He hated leaving Sol in a vulnerable state but she would be taken care off. "Aid Volshe in whatever she needs. You can do this Sol." He said as he made his way back towards the stars to race back up to the dungeons. As he rushed up the steps he dug deep feeling and clawing at every bit of darkness that was within in him to prepare to unleash a devastating attack. This is what he'd been trained to do, bring about destruction. The twisting steps were gruesome to traverse. He had already climbed so many steps this day, including the thousand stairs up and back down of the Emperor's Tower along with descending these same steps previously. And then everyone was moving in the same direction. He was racing up them now, with people coming down, and making sure not to collide with anyone in the poorly lit tunnel that spiraled back to the top was beyond tedious.

Voidwalker is on his way, came the silvery whisper, snaking up the steps alongside the elementalist mounting the stairs. A silent message from Volshe to Nathemus.

He was over halfway there, just a little further to go. He reached up to his talisman of concentration to help him remained focused on the task at hand. It took him a little longer to get back up the steps than when he first descended them but he was back at the entryway of the stepping back into the hallway of the dungeons. He rushed past the few that were helping guide the others into the tunnels without as much a second look. His muscles ached but he was still moving down the hallway. Nathemus was just ahead, peeking around a corner. He quickly fell in line next to the hulking lich, his back pressed against the wall. His chest raising and falling in rapid succession.

"Hell of a feast ain't it, just another day right? Kriff it! Let's bring it down!"


~~


POWERS USED:

Darth Nathemus:

Telepathy - 5 (friendly)
Talisman of Concentration
Darkshear - 5

Darth Viscretus:
“Autohit” on the Sith bb (GM approved)
Force Bond - 5 / Telepathy - 5 (friendly)

Cordé (Nirai):
Heartshadow - 3

Darth Voidwalker:
Telepathy - 2 (friendly)
Talisman of Concentration
Darkshear (Preparing)

Darth Solus:
Protection Bubble - 4
Talisman of Concentration
Lightning Aura (Passive)

Darth Pravum:
Midichlorian Manipulation (4)
Force Plague (4)

~~
TAGs: @Darth Kain, @Darth Dreadwar , @Catalyst, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Voidwalker, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Keres Dymos, @skira, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Volacius, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Darth Thana, @Sith_Imperios, @DarthFeros, @DarthNoxia , @corinthia, @Arach, @dragonsith13, @Grievance Vexx, @Reiis Invadator, @Metus, @Darth Xirr, @Nacros_Telcontare, @Kielor, @Jihadi Quartz, @Darth Nathemus, @Helkosh, @Darth Solus, @Cardun Vrek, @Darth Xxys, @Reatith Blodraald, @Darth Cruor
 

Dark Lady Makaria

Moderator
Moderator
Dark Council
IC: Keres Dymos
Tunnels, Korriban

Keres' brief hope of their imminent escape plummeted as things... seemed to stall. The thrall worked on the hypergate, only to discuss it with Lord Kain, where they were out of hearing range. Her grip on Kira had slackened, which she regretted immediately as the arm fell from her grasp as Kira collapsed on the floor. Keres flinched and stepped back, hands hovering awkwardly. She wanted to help, but she really had no idea what to do or who to talk to. And, frankly, if Kira chose now of all times to have a breakdown, Keres was going to leave her. Breakdowns were for when they were all safe and sound.

Thankfully, the other apprentice seemed to be having some sort of interesting mental breakdown instead, which was much easier than screaming or crying. Keres waited, not quite hovering, but not quite disinterested either. It was actually making her a little anxious, as her gaze flickered from Kira's crumpled form to Lord Kain and the other Lords and Ladies. If they decided to move, Keres wasn't sure they would help her move Kira, and Keres absolutely did not have the strength to do it herself.

The situation abruptly resolved itself when smoke seemed to pour out of the young woman, and Keres stepped back, startled. The smoke formed into a familiar figure, though it was somehow more... not menacing, perhaps, but intent, than she'd ever seen Kira. It was... unsettling, and Keres tracked the figure's walk to the Empress' thrall, as the smokey being answered her call.

Her attention snapped back to Kira when the apprentice asked for her help. Keres offered an arm to help haul Kira to her feet, and her gaze flickered to the figure again.

"What just happened?" Keres hissed, confused and getting mad about it. "Who-?" Keres stuttered and stopped as she finally looked Kira in the face.

"Your eyes are blue," she said, somewhat lamely. Today was getting weirder and weirder, and she would like to escape now and scream into a pillow.

TAGS: @Darth Kain, @Admiral Volshe, @Catalyst, @Undying Master Xiannarr, @Voidwalker, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @skira, @Zareel Jhenan´doka, @Volacius, @Drakul_Xarxes, @Darth Thana, @Sith_Imperios, @Darth Dreadwar
 

Darth Thana

Active member
Darth Thana
Location: Tunnels beneath Sith Temple

The raven haired Zabrak focused on her flames, letting them breath and bite at the oxygen in the air. Attempting to still give her fire a form with many bodies to defend her in this disaster storm. Thana wanted to badly to satisfy her appetite for darkness, the her eyes focused on the way the flames waved back and forth.

She still never lifted her eyes from the flames as she called forth the dark side to allow her to craft able-bodied fire guards. "Mirtis, this will take some time. You will need to guard me, are you willing to do so?" She could feel the red skinned Trandoshan standing by her as she felt some of her pain ease up. She was not at full health no but little does go a long way.

The Zabrak Master could hear all the was going on around them but she needed to focus on the task at hand. Those running past the pair as they stood there taking in the feeling of the numbers around them. Thana began to dive into her anger, her rage and her pain of the blasted event that seemed to lead them into such dangerous situations. Her mind shaping her monsters, the hands would hopefully be equipped with spiked swords on one side and fearsome claws in the other. These golems could help shine light in the tunnels and create a defense against the ones hunting the Sith...

Powers:
Pyrokinesis -4 (Continued)
Animate Golem -3 (Continued)


TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar @Darth Kain @Darth Nathemus @Voidwalker @skira @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Solus @Cardun Vrek @Reatith Blodraald @Keres Dymos @Undying Master Xiannarr @Reiis Invadator @Grievance Vexx @dragonsith13 @Darth Xxys @Helkosh @corinthia @Catalyst @Volacius @Darth Xirr @DarthFeros @Drakul_Xarxes @Zareel Jhenan´doka @Arach @DarthNoxia @Metus @Sith_Imperios @Admiral Volshe
 

Xarxes

Sith Imperator
Sith Emperor
Moderator
Final Triumvirate
Dark Council
Immortalis
Muur’s Stupid Face Combo
A Lord Catalyst, Lord Xarxes, Darth Volacius, and Darth Xiannarr production

Korriban, the Dungeons


The armored Lord’s Vong biot gazed through Muur’s fictile throat, peering into the darkness beyond as if it were light. The mouldering scent of rotten flesh and mangled, mass-piled corpses was noxious to the enhanced olfactory system of the mutant Zabrak, but it was nothing he was not used to smelling in the dank chambers of Veeshas Tuwan.
The shyrack swarm dispersing, Xarxes peered more carefully at the corpses, which seemed to him to be truly dead. He did not, however, feel wholly comfortable in the assumption that this was so, for even without opening himself to it, he could feel the sickly veil of eternal hatred lingering within the ancient stones around him, intensifying as he focused on the face of Muur.
Despite his excellent visible perception into the tunnel, he could not tell of what sort the corpses were. Three digits, sloped skulls, unnaturally-large eyeholes…they were a collection of inhuman parts, cobbled together as if they were a whole being. Xarxes should hardly be one to judge. He himself was quite unnatural at this point, owing to his self-experimentation, yet these creatures felt…wrong. He could not sense any more with his eyes, but he could deduce that these shapes, and the path to them, were not safe, but could be necessary.
The internal eye saw more: a location beyond, its details obscured to him, where blackened wraiths darted to and fro, destroying the very walls to pounce upon their Sithly prey, and their horrid structures seeking the destruction of the escaping crew.
He saw no more, and his vision returned to normal. Catching a glimpse at the impressive illusory beasts conjured before him (where were they running to?) he turned to his companions, also perceiving the tunnel and its intricacies. “A bend lies not far beyond the entryway,” he growled, sharply and to the point, “and a mass of corpses of unknown origin lie, fed on by a present flock of shyrack, within an antechamber. There is something beyond there, something dangerous. Can you sense it too?”

Xiannarr reached out, seeking to expand his senses down the tunnel and feel rather than see, what Lord Xarxes described. He was met by a wall of unexpected exhaustion. ‘What the kriff?’ Xiannarr thought to himself. Not wanting to disclose his exhaustion to his comrades, he lied.
“I can sense little more than the flock of shyrak, their movement is stopping me from peering beyond them. However between us i think we can quite easily take them out or move them on. Something tells me we can't stay here, and we can hardly go back. So by process of elimination we can only move forward, surely whatever is beyond my reach that you can sense can't be more dangerous than those that hunt us now.”
Xiannarr reached down, moving the saber on his left hip to his right hand. He hoped he wouldn't be sent into the tunnel first, still his king had commanded him to assist and he would do what he must.

“I don’t feel it either,” Volacius added, deciding that it wasn’t worth explaining to them how he hadn’t tried to sense what awaited them at the end of that accursed catacomb. It’d take precious seconds to try now, and though he knew almost nothing of the fellow Sith standing next to him, he was confident that he could trust in Xarxes’ senses. Truthfully, what he could feel was the churning of emotion within his brawny chest, a towering tsunami of primal fear and existential dread. The feelings bubbled ever closer to the surface, like water boiling over the edges of the battered cauldron that was his heart, threatening to crush the patriotic zeal that Lord Kain had inspired in him and drown him in the poisonous ocean of frigid inaction.
Volacius resisted. He had too. It was no longer just his survival that depended on it, but everyone else’s too. If Volshe failed to reprogram the hypergate, then braving the maw of Karness Muur would be their only hope. The Mirialan Sith Master knew that they needed to clear it of all danger so that the rest of the order could retreat. “I am inclined to agree with you, Overseer,” Volacius stated confidently, doing his best to keep his turbulent soul hidden as any good Admiral ought to. “We are some of the Order’s finest. The shyracks are but motes of dust in our wake.” Volacius paused for a split-second, recalling the jailer that he and Trinaya had bested in the decayed bowels of Lord Quetzu’s temple. He missed her terribly, and there was no denying that she would have already proven herself incredibly useful in their present predicament. “As will whatever this danger that you have sensed turns out to be, Lord Xarxes.”

Xarxes drew his sword, preparing for its likely necessity of use. Hopefully, his companions too would be ready. “We must move quickly. Lord K--!” He turned, watching as the shape of the Beloved King bent into concentration, a state which should not be interrupted, given Xarxes’s recognition of what he was most likely doing. Very well. Kain must have a plan.

Lord Catalyst's eyes remained closed while the discussion in front of him took place. He wasn't ignoring them, much as he would have preferred to do so, but was concentrating heavily on the warning the Force had been kind enough to provide him with. Something was in their path, though what it was he could not tell. The mention of shyracks infesting the route gave him little pause. That wasn't it, no. He wasn't about to put his neck on the line figuring it out either.

Volshe's call to arms tugged the Lord of Linguistics' attention away from the tunnel, however briefly, and any insight as to what was waiting for them at the end faded to obscurity as his senses dulled once more. He grimaced, displeased that his efforts at forging a path were so easily interrupted. It didn't matter yet though. All the foresight in the world couldn't prepare him for having to listen to the posturing and parading of those still clinging to their vestiges of control. Between Volshe's orders and Kain's dramatic flare dancing upon his brow, he felt little more than disgust. Upon processing what Volshe was actually telling them, though, he felt his power would be better used there than scouting the unknown path.

Catalyst turned back to the face of stone, gazing into its depths. Apprehension, doubt and distrust swirled around his mind. There were those dedicated to plumbing the darkness though, and he would at least bless them with what little care he could muster for them. "Volacius, Xiannarr," he spoke firmly to gain their attention, "Lord Xarxes speaks true: there is something at the end of this tunnel blocking our path. I'm trusting the two of you to clear it." His gaze rested meaningfully on Xiannarr and his lip turned up in a smirk. "I hear fire works wonders." His eyes swept to Xarxes; the hulking Arkanian seemed to be readying himself for battle. Good. He lowered his voice, imparting as much sincerity as he could into the words he spoke. "A few shyrack are the least of our worries. I trust you'll have no problem with them. I can't tell what awaits us at the end of this passage, but I know that this way will lead us to escape." He reached out to put a hand on the shoulder of his fellow Lord, only to hesitate and withdraw, opting instead for a respectful nod. "Lead them well. I'm going to stay behind and buy time. I'm trusting you to come back, if not for me then for the ones I know you do count as friends. If you don't… well, we'll all be dead then won't we?"

Xarxes was somewhat taken aback by Catalyst’s words, almost immediately assuming them to be a sort of trickery as he was prone to expect from the linguistic master. Yet his senses did not truthfully detect deception, but sincerity, and he returned the nod of respect in kind. “If we die amid this foe, we may not yet persist as spirits. Let us think only of success, Lord Catalyst, and I’ll see you on the other end.” He nearly thought to correct himself to avoid the cunning Lord’s habit of innuendo, but in that moment, neither of them had time for such foolishness or caring. The darkness lay ahead.

The Mirialan Master held back a scowl as Catalyst reiterated Kain’s orders like they were his own. Perhaps the ‘Cunning Linguist’ was merely trying to reinforce Lord Kain’s newly-declared sovereignty, but Volacius knew far too little about the man to speculate about it, much less trust in his intentions. At least he hadn’t disgraced himself by bringing Jedi to the banquet of the Sith like Volshe had.
The Empress of the New Galactic Empire had made her presence and her will apparent to all who stood nearby, much to Volacius’ dismay. She had even put out a call for practitioners of Battle Meditation such as himself, and he briefly wondered if that awful aura of fear and hopelessness was a result of their enemies making use of that exceedingly potent ability. If his conjecture was correct, the enemy’s influence would need to be countered, and without knowing what powers and strengths his compatriots wielded, Volacius knew he was potentially the only one who could accomplish that. Besides, even if he had been ordered to clear the foreboding crypt of whatever unspeakable horrors it perhaps contained, he hadn’t been given specific instructions on how to do so.
“Lord Xarxes,” Volacius said, taking a step away from the entrance and glancing warily at the stone likeness of Muur, “I agree with Volshe’s recommendation.” He made sure to call it a recommendation rather than an order. He had sworn his loyalty to the Beloved King, not the Empress. As far as the Mirialan Admiral was concerned, it was Kain who gave orders now. “I will enact my Battle Meditation, and you and the Overseer will be better-enabled to complete our mission. That said, I will still accompany you.”
Volacius didn’t wait for approval from the enormous Zabrak. Instead, he began clearing the cacophonous distractions from his mind as quickly and completely as he could. Closing his eyes firmly but not tightly, The Mirialan Admiral reached out with the Force, attempting to expand his awareness beyond his physical senses across the entire battlefield that the Temple was rapidly transforming into. He pictured the multitude of Lords and Ladies, Masters and Knights, and the ethereal connections in the Force that bound them all together, recreating the battle in his mind’s eye. Simultaneously, he looked inward, channeling his rage, fear, and most importantly, his desire to survive, until he could feel the might of the Dark side of the Force surging inside of him. For the Beloved King and the New Sith Order, he willed victory. For the great Betrayer and his obscene army, he willed defeat. Only time would tell if Darth Volacius would be able to make his will manifest.

Catalyst looked upon Xarxes a moment longer, no trace of a smile in his normally jovial visage. It wasn't a courtesy to the overly-serious Lord, merely a consequence of circumstance. He lingered a bit before turning away and rejoining Apollyon. Volshe wanted power and might; he was assuredly going to bring it. His eyes closed once more, concentration taking the entirety of his being. He attempted to will a wall of Force power into being, casting a barrier into the dungeons to protect those still fleeing. Whatever Kain was about to do, Catalyst would do his best to weather the storm.

Xarxes, for his part, turned his attention back to the tunnel and readied himself, stepping towards the gaping maw of Karness Muur, his biotic eye never wavering from its destination.

Xiannarr tried his best to focus only on what he was about to do. He glanced across nervously at the towering size of Lord Xarxes, quietly glad that he was on this side of the skirmish they were about to begin.

“Shyraks were simple creatures easily dealt with alone, but a nuisance in a pack. You try to deal with one and three more swoop in and attack you from behind. The trick here would be to ground them, grind them into the floor of the tunnels and then slice their wings clean off, unless you have an easy idea, Lord Xarxes?” Xiannarr needlessly rattled off, it was clear no matter how brave he tried to appear that today's events were really starting to get to him. This was meant to be his home, his safety. Yet here he was scouting through the tunnels like a common womp rat, fleeing for his life.

“The Shyracks shouldn’t be too much issue, but avoid getting pinned. I shall restrain them with telekinetic force if they attack. Be ready. As for you,” Xarxes hissed, turning his head ever so slightly toward his faltering scribe, “stay out of everyone’s way, and follow those who flee.” Without another word, he stepped into the tomb, making his way towards the chamber he had gazed upon before.

Powers Used
Lord Catalyst: Force Barrier (4)
Lord Xarxes: Telekinesis (4) To grip and hold in place any Shyracks or other creatures that attack him on his way through the tunnel.
Darth Volacious: Battle Meditation (4)

TAGS: @Darth Dreadwar @Darth Kain @Darth Nathemus @Voidwalker @skira @Hadzuska_The Jester @Darth Solus @Cardun Vrek @Reatith Blodraald @Keres Dymos @Undying Master Xiannarr @Reiis Invadator @Grievance Vexx @dragonsith13 @Darth Xxys @Helkosh @corinthia @Catalyst @Volacius @Darth Xirr @DarthFeros @Zareel Jhenan´doka @Arach @DarthNoxia @Metus @Sith_Imperios @Admiral Volshe @Darth Thana
 
IC: Nacros Telcontare
Location: Tunnels leading to the Dungeon, Korriban

The group worked their way down towards the dungeons where the flow of evacuating Sith were heading. The uneasiness and worry that crept about his mind was distressing. Nacros was no youngling with little experience of battle and fighting, yet this uneasiness he felt was different than what he had felt before. Sure, the current circumstances were not very favorable for them, but the feelings fluttering around his mind and mental defenses seemed to come from all around him. They felt as though they were pressing down on him, attempting to give the impression that things were about to go very, very wrong. Nevertheless, Nacros attempted to bolster his mental defenses to the best of his ability and carry on.

He came down to the dungeon hallway, and a moment later his master, Lord Nathemus appeared as well. He paused though, and turned to face the direction of the horrors that were pursuing them. Nacros knew that his Master was about to attempt something big, he could sense the Sedriss' whole being readying himself for whatever fresh hell he was about to unleash on their foes. He wished him luck, but Nacros knew that he would be of no help in this instance. He didn't want to leave entirely however, turning around and noticing the others in the hallway, he saw Lady Hesper amongst the faces. He walked towards Hesper, while grabbing his staff off his back. Nacros stood before Lady Hesper, staff in hand, and bowed slightly, "Greetings my Lady. I am glad to finally meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances." With those words, he moved into a defensive position next to Hesper and the few next to her. He would be ready for whatever would happen next, or at least he would be as ready as could be.

battle ready.jpg

TAGS: Darth Dreadwar, @Arach, @dragonsith13, @Grievance Vexx, @Reiis Invadator, @Drakul_Xarxes, @G.Kn, @Admiral Volshe, @Darth Kain, @Hadzuska_The Jester, @Darth Nathemus, @Darth Xirr, @Darth Solus, @DarthNoxia, @Jihadi Quartz, @Voidwalker, @Ānhrā Māhnîu, @Reatith Blodraald, @Darth Thana, @Sith_Imperios, @Cardun Vrek, @Darth Sedicious, @Helkosh, @Darth Xxys, @Metus, @Catalyst, @DarthFeros , @corinthia
 

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