Confrontation Litanies of the Dark Side: Oval Carved Incision [DC vs TOC & TSS]

[Eosfor]

Peace is a Lie
There is only Passion
​

The worlds of the Sith boiled in hate and urge for absolution the Empire could no longer contained. War fever grew, as the Reconstituted Sith Empire, a mockery of the once mighty interstellar dominion forged by the blood of the Sith, was finally challenged by the fundamentalists, the corrupt, and the radicals who amassed in their thousands and waged war eternal not against the ancient foe of every and all Sith, the Galactic Republic, but the very Empire itself, looking inwards for a most violent rebirth.

Peace is a Lie; And long had peace's most corrupt cousin, order, reigned over the Sith Worlds.... Alas, no longer.

Sith Powerbases across the Empire fly their banners in defiance of the Imperial rule, challenging the already weakened government of Dromund Kaas. Civil War is about to engulf the Sith Worlds, as many champions emerge from both the Loyalist and Renegade camps, with any unity that might have once existed, now forsaken over factional allegience and powermongering.

In a wild burst of ill-intent and heresy, the Dark Crusade, lost for many months beyond the reaches of the Empire, in the Outer Rim, finally cast the mask of Loyalty aside and turned their renegade warships against the masters they once served. Led by the despised Darth @Eosfor , the Dark Crusade called to all the heretical and corrupt elements of the Sith to unite under a single banner: The Banner of the Dark Crusade; The Banner that vowed to bring war to the Empire and bring the Sith back to their old glory...

Or see them all burn.

In a bold move, recognizing the aspiring Sith powerbases that heralded new champions for the Empire, the Dark Crusade and its fleets of Sith, corsairs, pirates and cultists launched a preemptive strike against their rivals to weaken them before the civil war could truly begin....

​

The decapitation of the Sith had to be swift. The Dark Crusade must lay such painful a blow to their rivals, no recovery could possibly allow them a chance in the coming war. To achieve such an objective, the Renegades must best the mighty Migrant Fleet, a scourge of Durasteel and dark efficiency, led by @Darth Fauste . With numerous victories and a reputation that echoes amidst the iron halls of Dromund Kaas itself, Darth Fauste had become a rival that Darth Eosfor could no longer ignore.
In the devoured Minos Sector, inbetween burning worlds and screaming star systems, Eosfor's greatest champion, @Desmundor Alcademon and his Athysian Raider Fleet is sent out to intercept and destroy the Migrant Fleet, and deliver Fauste's lightsaber to his dark overlord....

In a sea of darkness, dotted by distant shards of Light, the two shall battle in a contest of wits and plasma fire to determine the one who holds sway over the Minos Sector's void....

​

The Dark Crusade's main battlefleet emerges from hyperspace over the dead world of Malachor V. Although deprived of all life ever since the great wars half a millennia ago, the planet found itself serving as the beating heart of an aspiring Sith powerbase that burned like a torch across the Stars: The Obsidian Court. Led by the sinister @Darth Malvus , they have become a force to be reckoned with by the Sith, with influence and abysmal networks of informants, operatives and assassins few could compete with. A force Darth @Eosfor wills to see destroyed sooner rather than later, if he is to win the upcomming civil war....

Gunships rain over the skies that shine by the relentless orbital bombardment. The Dark Crusade's hordes and their foul allies descend to the planetside to bring the Obsidian Court bloodletting and destruction, as the dead world of Malachor V runs red with the blood of the Damned.

​

Far from the cradle of "civilization" that was the Core Worlds, in distant dark corners of the Galactic Outer Rim, minions of the Dark Crusade perform the first act of their Dark Lord's plan of domination. While the many who once called themselves "Great Powers" of the galactic stage battle one another in a struggle for survival, the Dark Crusade reaches out to entities beyond the veil. Nefarious and corrupt, bewitched and malevolent, the tendrils of the Dark Crusade prepare to bring forth an era of debauchery that shall dwarf any past strife...

​

The War rages across the void, on the planetside and beyond. Many a champion are dragged, or choose to entangle themselves in the carnage in search of power, absolution, or simply survival. Tell your own story in this epic confrontation, as the Third Galactic War rages on...!

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

"GET THE CANNONS READY!" The Weequay roared as he paced down the narrow deck of the ship. Chains shinked as the musclar alien corsair pulled, causing the chain-wrapped munition crate to ascend from the lower deck, through the square hatch. As soon as it reached the deck's level, the ill-geared crew pulled it closer to the cannon emplacement, which they rushly loaded.

The Weequay snarled, feeling a pressure against his chest he recognized as an unnatural effect. He could not sense the Force, or whatever the strange sorcerers could, yet he had grown accustomed to the source of that energy....

He made his way through the many corsairs who rushed to their posts and hastely loaded the many batteries of the rusty hull, finally reaching the reinforced blastdoor at the far back of the deck, which led him up, to the accomodation structure that made the bridge, baring stronger resemblance to a land fortress rather than a ship's stern.
The malfunctioning ill-maintained lights flickered, the closer he walked to the main command deck. Black marks occasionally sparked on the wall with light, causing him to flinch, or even stop his fast pace, to avoid electrocution.

Finally, he heard her.

Screeching cries of hysteria, made louder by the dark powers of the Dark Side.

"Scream-Scream-Scream, Imvonvol!" the Captain's eyes blazed by the purple lightning that surged through her, down to the melted controls her palms held on. The consoles around her spat sparks, protesting to the overloading electricity flowing through their systems, as her Dark Powers dominated them, steering the ship forth.

The Imvonvol's booster engines burned wildly, pushing the rust-infested crimson Destroyer warship forth into the void, head of a five ships wedge, the vanguard of the Athysian Raider Fleet.

 

[Darth Malvus]

Malachor V - The Onslaught of Dark Eosfor

The skies above Malachor V darkened as the ominous shadows of the Dark Crusades Fleet emerged from hyperspace. The fleet, led by Dark Eosfor, one of the most ruthless and aggressive Sith Lords, bore down on the homeworld of the Obsidian Court. The air crackled with tension as the first wave of gunships broke through the atmosphere, their weapons primed and ready to unleash devastation upon the ancient, scarred surface of Malachor.

From the heart of the Obsidian Citadel, Darth Malvus, the Dark Lord of this sector, sensed the impending attack. His crimson eyes narrowed as he watched the gunships descend, the darkened skies now ablaze with the fiery contrails of the enemy vessels. Malvus had anticipated a conflict among the Sith, but not so soon. The civil war, long simmering beneath the surface of their fractured alliances, had ignited earlier than anyone expected.

But Malvus was prepared.

"Activate the planetary defenses," he commanded, his voice cold and unyielding.

The command was met with swift obedience. Across the jagged landscape of Malachor V, hidden turbolaser emplacements powered up, their targeting systems locking onto the descending gunships. The once silent and desolate world erupted into chaos as bright beams of destructive energy lanced upwards, tearing through the sky. The first wave of gunships was met with a barrage of concentrated firepower, the night lit by the explosions as several ships were obliterated in seconds.

Yet, Dark Eosfor's forces were relentless, and for every gunship that fell, more took its place, their darkened hulls bristling with armaments. They began to retaliate, raining down a storm of blasterfire and missiles onto Malachor V's surface. The ancient ruins trembled under the assault, but Malvus stood undaunted. He could feel the force of the enemy's aggression, their hatred palpable even from within the confines of his citadel.

Darth Malvus extended his hand, feeling the dark side surge through him, feeding off the chaos and destruction. He was the Dark Lord of the Obsidian Court, and Malachor V was his domain. He would not allow this affront to go unanswered. Channeling his power, he directed the forces under his command with precision and ruthlessness.

"Launch our fighters," he ordered. "Ensure that Dark Eosfor’s forces understand the cost of their betrayal."

From hidden hangars beneath the surface, squadrons of Sith fighters soared into the fray, engaging the gunships in a deadly aerial ballet. The sky became a battleground, filled with the sounds of engines roaring, lasers cutting through the darkness, and the fiery destruction of vessels on both sides.

As Malvus observed the battle, his mind was already calculating the next steps. This was but the first strike in a war that would tear the Sith apart. The Obsidian Court would not only defend Malachor V but would strike back with the full might of their forces. The civil war had begun, and in the crucible of this conflict, the true Sith would emerge—stronger, deadlier, and ready to claim their place as the rulers of the galaxy.

But first, Dark Eosfor’s arrogance would be his undoing.

Darth Malvus's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Let them come," he whispered to himself, the dark side flowing through every word. "Malachor will be their grave."

 

[Tzar Arakx]

Location: Cha Kale System / Esthorhiel​

After Tzar had retrieved his artifacts and returned whole to his home planet he swiftly slew the false Kings that had driven his people into ruin and madness. A new power was established with Tzar at the head of its armies, all of them. An area of growth for the Kuonjans had begun, ushering in many foreign onlookers.

The city of Cinra was bustling with people of various races, many came to take a look at the newly established Kuonajn might, and others came to trade information or offer their trades. The airspace above Esthorhiel was highly guarded by the Fleet of the insectoid space force, not everyone was allowed entrance to their home and the presence of armed vessels made enforcing this much simpler.

Tzar sat within his steel warship observing the location from which most vessels exited hyperspace to get into Cha kale. The hyperspace lane used to get to his system was not well used nor had it been traversed much in the time before, sadly this did not stop outsiders from trying their best to disturb the Kuonjans solitary society. The warlords knew the benefits of trade, and for now, they had allowed it to run its course, for now, they needed outsiders' resources to rebuild and restock.

Many of the neighbouring systems had sent diplomatic envoys in search of peace between them and the waring insectoids, they all bored Tzar and each envoy was quickly sent back to its masters without being given any chance to speak. All but one. When the warlord heard he had been sent a champion of Darth Eosfor he smiled, finally an interesting prospect.

Entry to his warship was granted and the champion was summoned to the throne room where Tzar would sit on his iron throne waiting for the envoy to arrive.

''Welcome traveller, you are far from home, yes, long travels have made you hungry and thirsty, yes, I offer you wine to wet your throat, and meat to fill your stomach, yes yes'' Tzar spoke with an iron tone of dominance as a horrid smile grew across his face.

A silver serving platter and a jug of fine wine were brought into the room, a foul smell came from the covered meat a smell that would not remind of any familiar meats. As the cover was removed it was clear why the smell was so ominous, before the champion laid multiple severed tongues of many different races, the same races that could be found wanting an audience with the Kuonjan warlord.

''They talked too much and said too little yes, I hope you are different my friend, yes yes'' Tzar spoke slowly as he himself grabbed a tongue from his serving platter before dropping it between his gruelling maw.

@Eosfor

 

[Darth Fauste]

As the Migrant Fleet, fresh from a successful artifact hunt, returned to their strategic position in the void, Darth Fauste, commanding the SS Machiavellian, observed the preparations of the Athysian Raider Fleet with a cold and calculating gaze.

The Weequay’s frantic commands and the hurried loading of the cannons were nothing more than a prelude to the inevitable confrontation. Fauste, with her mastery of the dark side, felt the ripples of dark energy emanating from the enemy ship, the Imvonvol. This disturbance, an unnatural pressure that even her trained senses couldn’t fully pinpoint, signaled the presence of a formidable opponent.

Standing on the bridge of her dreadnought, Fauste watched as the Athysian Raider Fleet—led by Desmundor Alcademon—made its approach. The sight of the rusting, battle-worn Destroyer warship, with its boosters blazing and its weapons being prepared, filled her with grim determination. The Migrant Fleet was prepared for this encounter. The efficiency and precision of her command was reflected in the swift deployment of her forces, each ship and unit in its place, ready for the impending battle.

The Weequay's frantic preparations aboard the Imvonvol did not go unnoticed. Fauste, with her dark power, manipulated the ship's systems and her own forces with an almost effortless grace. The scene unfolding before her was a testament to the chaos that the dark side can unleash. The cries of hysteria and the flickering lights on the enemy’s ship only served to confirm the danger approaching.

“Prepare for engagement,” Fauste’s voice, cold and authoritative, echoed through the bridge of the SS Machiavellian. “Activate all defensive systems and ready our weapons. They seek to challenge our might, and we will not be caught unprepared.”

Her orders were executed with swift precision. The dreadnought’s formidable weaponry was brought online, its turbolasers primed and ion cannons calibrated. The hangar bays released squadrons of TIE fighters and interceptors, their engines roaring as they deployed to protect the fleet and prepare for the confrontation.

As the two forces closed in on each other, the vastness of space became a battlefield where strategy, power, and dark intentions will collide. Darth Fauste, with the full might of the Migrant Fleet at her command, was ready to meet this new threat head-on. The echoes of dark energy and the relentless advance of the Athysian Raider Fleet heralded the beginning of a decisive clash.

Tag; @Hyara Hemstagon

 

[Eosfor]

@Tzar Arakx​

The thudding of the cortosis bionics forming the legs of the cyborg heralded the coming of the creature. Although it resembled a vague human form, the level of mutilation and modification made it near impossible to determine the breed that the caricature that now drew heavy breaths through the respirator once was. Such level of deformity and decay could only be achieved by decades of war and even more time exposed into the blights of the Dark Side, losing all past features of civilization to be turned into an amalgamation of cruelty and warcraving.

Such was the agent of the Dark Crusade that presented himself before the Tzar, the Slayer of False Kings. Covered by rugged cloak and tunics baring similar levels of decay the wearer did, no sign of etiquette or formality was respected. His bionic legs carried him forth, before his flesh-deprived hand was extended, for his claws to spread in a primitive sign of recognition towards the Tzar.

"Slayer of the False" uttered the cyborg with a voice twisted by a dozen malfunctioning instruments in his artificial vocal chip. "I am Lirzakarz, The Unmade, of the Dark Crusade, and bring you word of my master, Darth Nargal Eosfor Brenna Hildron Naefas Dhefion Kata the Defiler, the Fallen, the Black Guardian of Defiance, the Bringer of Light, Lord Dreadheart of Inferno, Red Lord of Pantheon, Master of Shadows, Dark Lord of Halcyon, Conqueror of Andreddha, Seeker of the Dawn, Master of Deception, High Lord of Maraan, Dark Hand of the Shroud. Word of war, and plunder, and glory, should you heed His call, Tzar Arakx Hands of Zamani, Two-Faced Sword, Slayer of the False Kings. The Dark Side beckons thee; Beckons us all to a new Dawn. Too long have the False stood masters of the stars and folk. Too long have the weak spoke louder than the worthy. My master wishes those of Power Unchained to rally in a tide of change, and thee, of all, first to be, among them, and claim a seat above the red stars worthy of thee and thine. So says, my master."

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

@Darth Fauste​

The Athysian destroyers increased their speed, breaking their formation as they did. Spiraling around the void and following fast, disordered routes, they remained distant from to the Starborn battlegroup. The energy signals coming from the four tips mounted on their forecastles indicated charging of the heavy plasma cannons that prepared to fire. And then, it happened.

"FIRE"​

Blinding beams errupted from the destroyers, aimed at the enemy warships. Concentrated fire of four heavy plasma cannons from each of the Destroyers spat right before they turn sharply to opposite directions, in a perpetual avoiding manuveur. Hunter-killers, these Athysian corsairs were experienced in their art of harrassment. Although in no way a challenge to the awesome warships that consisted the Migrant Fleet, they were a nuisance that could kill a behemoth by a thousand cuts... And a fleet, by a thousand beams of plasma.

Onboard the Imvonvol, the She-Captain @Hyara Hemstagon's muscles twitched as she let the ecstasy of the engagement to poison her mind in perverse satisfaction, exposing her to a thrill which she identified as a driving sensation to her existence.

"Feed Her!!! FEEED HEER FOR SHE AIN'T HAD HER FILL YET!" Hyara cried out, with the Dark Side's energies waving across the deck, causing her voice to abnormally echo throughout the ship. The alien crew rushed to the forecastle, hastily trying to reload the massive weapons of war to their captain's bidding.

"We will be taking fire!" the Weequay admitted, seeing the bulwark of the Migrant Fleet gradually closing the gap between them and the Imvonvol. "Raise Shields! NOW!" he barked in his comlink.

One after the other, the Destroyers raised their shields in synchrony, as if they were all aligned through some twisted way, following a choreography practiced a hundred times in a hundred battles before they performed their war-dance against the void of Minos Sector...

As the Destroyer Squadron of the One-Eyed Vulture engaged the Migrant Fleet, a far larger murder of unidentified mass became detectable through Hyperspace... The Athysian War Dance had just begun....

 

[Eosfor]

The skies over Malachor bled fire, as the Orbital bombardment pressisted, creeping across the ancient savaged landscape of the dead world, making way of their destruction only for the myriad of gunships, dropships and transports that descended from the orbit embraced by the planet's magnetic field's flaming protest against their coming.

The tide of malice suddenly opposed by countless laser bolts hailing from the surface, spawns of Malvus' wicked trickstery. One after the other, the gunships blazed in explosions that shook the very atmosphere around them, causing chained collisions of others who flew upon them driven by the shockwave of the Obsidian Court's relentless flak.

Alas, the anathema of the Dark Crusade would not be unmade so easily. For each of the burning gunships continuing their descend to the planetside with a trail of thick black smoke and screams of the trapped burning crew inside, the dread tide pressed on... Through the blinding black shroud, remnant of the terraforming viciousness of the bombardment, red lines of Defiance sparked into existence in the form of unstable kyber-spawned plasma.

The Horde had stepped to Malachor

In their thousands, endless tides of pirate detachments, troopers and berserk cultists, all far fallen in depravity and maddening rage sourced by the Dark Side's mindtwisting effects, or by the absence of any hint of civilization from the unknown or forgotten worlds from wence they had been claimed by the Dark Crusade, the hordes marched forth, led by the grim champions and their masters; The Sith Marauders, once followers of the Sith exalted for their deeds and loyalty, drenched in such vile magics and corruption, they stood now as little more than a feral manifestation of the Sith that had been for decades held at bay by the Reconstituted Empire's laws, now unleashed upon the world.

The crushing presence of the Crusade's master, Darth Eosfor, casting a freezing sensation piercing to the very bone marrow, as he sat immobile on the throne of iron and onyx, amalgamated with it through countless wires and cables and tubes, as he performed the Battle Meditation that gave foul speed and determination to the Dark Crusade's hordes....

The skies caught fire, as the Obsidian Court's fighters took off in their hundreds and bestowed harsh punishment to the Crusade's gunships that kept coming from the orbit. Burning corpses fell like rain, amidst fiery metal and bloodied wings, stripped naked by the unrelenting airborne offensive of the defenders....

Then, they came...

Shrouding the descending gunships like a locust, dozens of fighter squadrons accelerated against the Obsidian Court's offensive, led by Sith Interceptors; starships that once stood as the epitomy of Imperial technology, the Fury Interceptors were mighty starfighter-killers, piloted by Sith Eradicators.

Tendrils of black smoke and blasma fire begun forming across the skies, as the brutality of the aerial war spiked rapidly, with the Dark Crusade granting no quarter to their rivals in air, orbit or ground alike....

And so, as the battle grew, the ground forces of the Dark Crusade, amassing in oceans of troops, now advanced against the numerous objectives on the planetside, breaking in hundreds of warbands, who broke in dozens of squads, spreading like a plague set to consume the world of Malachor V....

 

[Tzar Arakx]

​

Tzar regarded the fleshy abomination with a freezing stare, his eyes narrowing as the twisted voice of Lirzakarz echoed through the chamber. The grand titles, the promises of power, and the invocation of the Dark Side were familiar and at the same time new to him, yet they stirred something in the Warlord. He had heard similar words before and declarations of glory meant to sway the strong. But Tzar felt there was more behind this one's declarations than all the other lords who claimed to be bringing change.

After a moment of silence.

Then Tzar spoke, his voice low and deliberate, each word heavy with meaning, his strange yet formal speech pattern carrying the weight of his ancient people.
"Lirzakarz, the Unmade. your master, Darth Nargal Eosfor Brenna Hildron Naefas Dhefion Kata has many titles yes, many names yes. Titles do not grant trust. trust is earned, not bestowed by mere words or dark promises yes"

He stepped closer to the cyborg, his presence imposing, his gaze unyielding. "I am Tzar Arakx, Hands of Zamani, Slayer of False Kings, yes. But first I am Kuonjan a son of Esthorhiel and loyal servant to our old gods yes, I answer to my people, my faith yes. I do not follow the whims of another's ambitions yes."

The warlord's eyes gleamed with a mixture of curiosity and challenge. "Your master speaks of war, plunder, glory yes yes. These I have known. These I have taken, with my own hands yes. The weak have always been trampled beneath the strong. This is the way of the universe. But your master is right yes, the weak have been given too much reign over our domain yes.'' The insectoid nodded his head, this statement he agreed with, it was a cause he understood and respected.

Tzar's voice dropped to a near growl, the intensity of his words cutting through the air. "If your master seeks to rally the strong to tear down the weak then he must prove he is worthy of such allies yes. I will not kneel to another false king, I will not lead my people into a false war blindly."

He straightened, his expression stern, as he delivered his final words. ''Tell me warrior of darkness would you lay your life for your Darth Eosfor'' His grin was wide and ugly, his fangs white as snow and sharp as blades.

@Eosfor

 

[Eosfor]

@Tzar Arakx​

The cyborg remained motionless while the insectoid polluted the foul air surrounding both it and Lirzakarz with the noise called speech. Decades ago, such creatures were viewed as abominations by the Sith, seeing them as little more than a disease that required a medicine; And that medicine, for the old Empire, was the purge. Many a world had faced xenocide in the beginning of the Great Galactic War, where the old Sith Order was at its peak, not fallen to politics and scheming of pointless aims... Lirzakarz could recall these times in his mind. An age of post-scarcity, for the Sith, and the very seed that corroded what once was a proud caste.

Lirzakarz produced a hissing sound, as the alien kept on talking. The defiance shown was a rod that steered to Lirzakarz's boiling anger within, even more so than what the ill-maintained cybernetics did to the parts of his brain they had been painfully pushed through.

"The weak serve" Lirzakarz declared. His talons curling by the belt, resisting the constant artificially grown urge to grab one of the several lightsaber hilts that hanged from metal rings around his waist; Trophies of slain foes, Sith and Jedi alike. "The weak Die. I follow the Dark Lord for the power He wields, and the absolution He offers in the debauchery the Crusade brings. I. Do not. Serve."

The cyborg had no intention of carrying any false beliefs for himself. Proud, as he was, he willed to do his Master's bidding, for what he received in return, regardless how pheasible or real that was, to him, was worth the sacrifice. His rage, regardless how contained, did not allow him to be questioned. Especially not by beings like the Kuonjan...

"Do not be deceived, Slayer of the False Kings." Lirzakarz continued, gesturing towards his surroundings. "This invitation is no leash that leads to servitude... My master wills to surround himself with those who's names carry deeds worthy of recognition. Whelps and teethless beasts and limbless Nexu, He has apleanty. They matter not; Slaves, to the Dark Will, such are not worthy of an Invitation, but only summons. You, Slayer of Kings, are not summoned. You are invited. Pay heed to the difference."

 

[Rul Tondar]

''Those dam rats are fighting again Mother, fighting for a dead planet how stupid'' The Skakoan spoke loudly into a vacant Laboratory.

The room was incredibly dark with only a neon red bulb supplying any source of light. Rul was bent over an operation table with some kind of flesh mass lying before him, the shining red glow hid any blood stains that could have been seen but the smell could not be concealed. A sudden rumbling most likely caused by some sort of explosion on the surface shook the entire room causing the Skakoan to slip with his utensils and cut through multiple arteries of the meat before him.

Only loud screams and curses in a different language could be heard from the laboratory before Rul stormed out, and the stock lights of the corridors revealed a completely blood-stained Rull Tondar. ''How am I supposed to focus when those fucking savages on the surface shake my laboratory every five minutes'' He screamed at a guard posted outside his room, who had little to do with what was going on, but received the wrath due to his proximity to the crazed sith. Before a response could be given Rul walked away from the man, almost instantly forgetting he had even spoken to him.

Rul strutted through the corridors on the way to Darth Malvus, one could almost hear his arrogance as he took one step after the other as if the ground itself belonged to him.

Arriving at the heart of the Obsidian Citadel Rul walked up to his master, bowing to him as a greeting before breaking out into complaints.

''My lord, Darth Malvus I realize you are doing your foremost to fend off these pirate scum but may I encourage you to keep damages from my laboratory at all costs, it is incredibly bothersome and perplexing to the point where it keeps me from my crucial work'' Rul was speaking in a selfish and almost childish sense as if he was complaining about a sibling that stole his toys.

@Darth Malvus

 

[Darth Fauste]

Aboard the SS Machiavellian, Darth Fauste watched the Athysian destroyers break formation, spiraling like a pack of ravenous beasts eager to nip at the heels of her fleet. Their erratic movements were calculated to frustrate and confound, a desperate attempt to chip away at the invincible wall of the Migrant Fleet. But Fauste, a master of battle meditation and subterfuge, knew better than to let her forces be flustered by such trivial tricks.

Her pale silver eyes glowed with an eerie intensity as she sensed the charging of the enemy's heavy plasma cannons. Her mind reached out through the Force, touching the currents of fear, hunger, and fury emanating from the Destroyers, feeling the battle's heartbeat quicken. She smiled, a cold, knowing smile. These Athysian corsairs might have skill in their hit-and-run tactics, but they were mere insects before the overwhelming might of the Migrant Fleet.

"Xeros, Vex, form the Iron Talon," Fauste commanded, her voice a cold whisper carried across the bridge. “Pin them down and break their wings.”

Commander Xeros Thrax, his experienced hands swiftly moving over the tactical display, nodded. "Understood, Lord Fauste," he replied, his voice steady. "All units, initiate Talon Formation. Lure them in. Make them bleed for every inch."

Commander Lyra Vex, at the helm of her squadron of TIE Interceptors, grinned from her cockpit. "Hit-and-run won’t save them now," she murmured. "All wings, ready for pursuit. Remember, we are the blade, and they are the prey."

The SS Machiavellian and its twin Resurgent-class Battlecruisers, the SS Dogma and SS Nihilist, began to maneuver into a tightening crescent, forming a vice-like formation that mirrored a talon closing around its prey. Flanking support vessels, the Munificent-class frigates, moved to shield the dreadnought's vulnerable angles, ready to provide supporting fire and supplies as needed.

The plasma beams erupted, blinding bolts of energy slicing through the void toward the Migrant Fleet. Fauste felt the tremors in the Force, the chaotic energies of the plasma fire racing toward her ships, but she did not flinch. The enemy sought to dance; she would make them bleed instead.

"Activate all deflector shields," she ordered, her tone calm but commanding. "Prepare the ion cannons for a focused barrage. And bring our Star Couriers to the front—let’s see if their dance continues when they cannot see."

The shields of the Migrant Fleet blazed to life, shimmering fields of energy absorbing and deflecting the incoming plasma. Some shots struck true, scorching the armor of a frigate, but the heavy plating held firm. The initial barrage from the enemy had been absorbed, and the fleet pressed on, undeterred.

As the destroyers twisted and turned in their erratic maneuvers, Fauste’s fleet responded with disciplined, methodical precision. Long-range ion cannons fired in calculated bursts, each shot aimed to disrupt enemy systems, to slow their manic dance, to turn chaos against itself.

“Deploy the Daggers,” Fauste commanded, her lips curling into a predatory grin. Twenty-seven Star Couriers, modified with cloaking devices, surged forward, vanishing into the blackness of space. "Cut them from the shadows. Make their captains fear what they cannot see."

Within moments, the Daggers began to close the gap, their cloaking devices hiding them from enemy sensors. They circled around the Athysian destroyers, ready to strike with surgical precision, delivering deadly payloads of proton torpedoes and laser fire.

As the destroyers raised their shields and continued their erratic maneuvering, Fauste's mind sharpened, sensing something darker in the Force—a deeper shadow lurking behind the Athysian formation. She felt the tremor of a far larger presence, a mass of ships dropping from hyperspace. The reinforcements had arrived.

"So, the dance has a second act," she murmured to herself, her eyes narrowing. "Thrax, Vex, ready for the next wave. We shall show them what true power is."

The Athysian War Dance had just begun, but so too had the Migrant Fleet’s relentless counterattack. The void of the Minos Sector would soon be stained with the fire and fury of their decisive engagement.

Tag; @Hyara Hemstagon

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

@Darth Fauste​

"COME AND TASTE IT, SAVAGES!" Hyara screamed, giving in to the ecstasy provided by the engagement. As the first bursts of enemy fire beamed across the void, the Imvonvol spinned around its axis, following a spiraling route inbetween the Migrant Fleet's vanguard warships. Dangerously, Hyara steered her Destroyer in the same disordered manner she attacked.

The first few volleys missed the Destroyer. The torpedoes tracing its sharp manuveuring were met by a storm of flairs. Their blasts blazed dangerously close to the enemy hulls the Destroyer accelerated over.
As the corsair crew locked the loaded cannons, and the quartermaster was about to bark yet another order, the entire deck shook, casting all onboard prone. The large alien who handled the chain crane, losing his grip, found his thick fingers caught inbetween the links, and the weight of the munition crate that he was elevating strong enough to cog them on the gears, effectivelly mutilating his palm.

For few breaths, the lights onboard gave out, dipping the decks in darkness until a surge of lightning, melting through the cable network forced violently life back to the systems.

"Get back to your stations!" the Weequay roared, realizing the danger they were exposed to. His experience did not fail him. A wide black mark on the starboard side of the Imvonvol still burned, with several parts of the external armoured hull still fiery by the kiss of the enemy fire which made it through the shields.

The other destroyers, were not as lucky. Although two more made it out of the sudden encirclement, with both of which leaving a black trail of smoke and debris from the brutal punishment received by the Migrant Fleet's offensive, the last of the squadron found itself sailing inbetween the enemy cruisers, with its main energy diverted to the plasma cannons that were ready to fire against the very flagship of the foe.

Seconds before the plasma cannons roared, multiple beams of enemy fire barraged the destroyer, effectivelly breaching through the shields. The first breach bite against the main hull, piercing light to the gun deck where the munition caught flame, errupting in a violent blast that tore the main spine off. The second breach was to the superstructures of the bridge, vaporising the shield generators and melting the command deck of the bridge, along with the Athysian captain. The last strike found the ship bent on her spine before the forecastle, and with her bridge torn open for the void to claim the corpses and screaming crew alike that got sucked out from the failing life support of the ship.
Some two dozen were the torpedoes who rainned upon the destroyer, over twice as much as the dying wreck required to be shattered into pieces flying towards all directions, with occasional blasts consuming any remnant oxygen that was spilled into the void....

A maniacal laughter possessed the one-eyed She-Captain, Hyara, who held onto the melting consoles that sparked in material torment by her lightning touch.

"MORE, MORE AND MORE, STRAIGHT DOWN TO EMPOR'S HALLS!" she cried out, revelling to the cacophony of the burned dead and the screaming dying in the void; A mere token of the massacre that was to be of this confrontation.... The stench of suffering, rage and blind determination amused the One-Eyed Vulture, as she turned her bow away from the Migrant Fleet in an attempt to re-establish her distance with the armada....

Alas, the worse, was yet to come.....

 

[Darth Fauste]

The darkness outside the viewport of the SS Machiavellian was pierced by bursts of flame and scattered debris as the destroyer exploded into fragments, spilling its crew into the unforgiving void. Darth Fauste watched, unblinking, as the scattered remains of the Athysian warship were cast adrift, burning in the cold emptiness of space. Her gloved hands rested on the rail before her, fingers tapping lightly with a sense of barely contained anticipation. This was the moment she lived for, the clash of wills and power that separated the strong from the weak.

Her thoughts momentarily touched upon the one-eyed She-Captain, Hyara Hemstagon, whose laughter reverberated through the Force like a twisted hymn of madness. Fauste felt the sadistic pleasure that oozed from Hyara’s mind—a fractured joy in the face of chaos, a manic dance on the edge of annihilation.

“Hyara,” Fauste whispered, a smirk curling across her lips. “You dance so delightfully on the precipice of death, but let me show you the art of true control.”

“Status report,” she commanded sharply, turning to the comms officer.

“Enemy destroyer annihilated, Lord Fauste. Two others have sustained significant damage but are still maneuvering. One is attempting to disengage and re-establish distance,” the officer reported. “Their leader, the Imvonvol, is still weaving through our formation, but its shields are weakened.”

Fauste’s eyes narrowed. “Let them retreat. There’s nowhere in this sector for them to hide from us. Prepare all forward batteries, and ready the graviton pulse cannon.”

“Yes, my lord,” came the swift reply. She could sense the anticipation from her crew; they were battle-hardened and ready to unleash the full might of the Migrant Fleet.

The SS Dogma and SS Nihilist began to close the gap, accelerating in tandem with the SS Machiavellian. Their long-range turbolaser batteries hummed with power, adjusting their aim, preparing for a focused barrage to pin down the retreating destroyers. Meanwhile, the frigates in the rear moved to encircle and cut off any possible escape routes, their ion batteries crackling with charged energy.

“Send the Shadow Sentries to the flanks,” Fauste ordered. “They shall emerge from the dark, like specters, to tear the Athysian prey from their hiding spots.”

From the depths of the Migrant Fleet, a dozen sleek and stealthy TIE Phantoms emerged, their cloaking devices shimmering as they engaged. Under the command of Lyra Vex, they darted out like predators from the void, moving to encircle the Athysian ships attempting to regroup.

“Hyara Hemstagon, you play with fire, but do you know the flames you stoke?” Fauste murmured, extending her hand forward, palm open. The Force rippled around her, its energy channeling into her outstretched fingers. She could feel Hyara’s madness, the frenzied energy flowing from the other captain’s deranged mind.

“On my mark… unleash the graviton pulse,” Fauste whispered, eyes never leaving the distant shape of the Imvonvol as it danced wildly in the dark expanse. “One…”

The Migrant Fleet’s formation shifted, tightening as the capital ships moved into a concentrated arc, creating a killing field between them and the Imvonvol. Shields flared, and batteries charged.

“Two…” she continued, feeling the raw energy building within the graviton pulse cannon, its charge vibrating through the ship.

The enemy destroyer swerved erratically, desperately trying to avoid the impending attack, but Fauste could sense the fatal flaw in Hyara’s approach. The unpredictability was her strength, but it was also her weakness—she would never see the trap until it was too late.

“Three… FIRE.”

The graviton pulse cannon fired, releasing a concentrated burst of gravitational energy that surged through the black void. It expanded rapidly, an invisible tidal wave of force that rippled across space, bending light and dragging debris into its wake.

“Hyara Hemstagon,” Fauste whispered softly, her eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam, “Let’s see how long you can dance when your strings are cut.”

Tag; @Hyara Hemstagon

 

[Darth Malvus]

The desolate surface of Malachor V shook as enemy dropships descended, crashing through the atmosphere with violent force. Waves of pirate detachments, berserker cultists, and Sith marauders poured out, their dark armor and bloodlust unmistakable as they spread across the landscape. From the skies, Fury interceptors darted through the air, attacking Malvus' aerial forces with ferocity. Darth Eosfor’s forces had come in full strength, their aggression matching the twisted ambitions of their Sith master.

Darth Malvus stood at the command center of the Obsidian Court's fortress, his eyes fixed on the growing chaos below. The hordes of enemies marched toward his stronghold, intent on wiping out the heart of the Obsidian Court. The looming battle, brutal and unrelenting, had begun.

Before Malvus could focus his attention on the attack, the door slid open behind him. Rul, his maddened scientist, stumbled into the room, a manic glint in his eyes.

Malvus raised his hand dismissively, the annoyance clear in his body language. His attention was locked on the tactical map, studying the approach of Darth Eosfor’s armies. He had more pressing matters than humoring Rul’s obsession with his experiments.

As Rul continued to ramble, Darth Malvus turned his cold gaze to General Zarek Korr, standing nearby. Zarek, a man feared for his ruthless strategies and brutal efficiency, awaited orders. His presence exuded the calm of someone who had seen countless battles and emerged victorious from each one.

"Zarek," Malvus said with a calm that betrayed the urgency of the situation. "Darth Eosfor’s forces are pushing hard on all fronts. I want them crushed. What’s your plan to ensure that not one of his marauders sets foot in this citadel?"

Zarek stepped forward, his voice as cold and calculated as ever. "We lure them into the scorched fields east of the citadel, isolate their pirate detachments from the berserkers. I'll deploy the Dark troopers and Sith battle tank battalions to flank them and bring the darkside walkers to pin down their forces while our turbolasers shred their lines. As for their Sith Marauders, I'll personally see to their destruction. Eosfor won’t expect such decisive action."

Malvus nodded, his confidence in Zarek unwavering. "Make it happen."

The air in the room seemed to chill as Malvus finally turned toward the scientist. His gaze, once calm and measured, darkened. With a slow, deliberate movement, he clenched his fist. Instantly, Rul's throat constricted, and the scientist’s rambling ceased, replaced by panicked choking sounds. His hands clawed at his neck, but it was futile.

Malvus spoke, his voice a low growl. "You dare speak to me of your trivial concerns at a time like this?" His fist tightened, and Rul gasped harder, his eyes wide in terror. "You forget your place, Rul. This battle is not about your experiments. This is war. And I will not have distractions."

Rul’s face turned a shade paler, the life slowly draining from his eyes as the Force choke constricted further. Malvus’s presence in the room seemed to darken, the very power of the dark side radiating from him in waves.

After a moment of silence, Malvus slowly released his grip, letting Rul collapse to the floor, gasping for air. "Get up," Malvus snapped, his voice cold and commanding. "You want my protection? Then you will release your restraints on whatever experiments you've been hoarding. Unleash them on Eosfor’s armies. Make them suffer. Do you understand?"

"If so then get to work," Malvus said, dismissing the scientist with a wave. He turned back to Zarek. "Ensure Rul's monstrosities are deployed. Let Eosfor taste the true power of the Obsidian Court."

Malvus felt the weight of the moment settle. This was not just an invasion—it was the beginning of a war that would tear the Sith apart. Eosfor had dared to strike first, but Malvus would be the one to finish it.

He looked once more to Zarek. "Prepare the forces. Eosfor's arrogance will be his undoing. And when the dust settles, it will be our banner that flies over the ruins of his armies."

Tag: @Eosfor @Rul Tondar

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

Thunderous were the engines' roaring, quaking the stern decks enough for the pale-skinned Athysians to wear cybernetic enhancements to contain their minds from blasting by the energy waves. Mesmerising was the view from the crowded bridge, as the Hegemon gazed into the warmhole of Hyperspace. His mind already flooded with visions of the battle to come.

"Exiting hyperspace in ten, lord Hegemon." he voiced out. The tongue spoken was the Danush; A crude language based of the Proto-Basic that were spoken over the eons on the distant Athysian clusters. The tall figure of the hegemon stood still, his armoured hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed archaic sword, while his long black hair bound by several leather straps behind his neck.

"Power to the main weapons system. Prepare to fire." His voice sinister, calculating, recalling the many words of wisdom he had heard from the White Warrior, until the time he pledged his allegience to the Defiler. His path was that of Balance, according to the initial vows he had taken. But alas, there was no longer denying the fact he too had fallen from the path into the whirl of corruption. This, after all, was a War. And he needed the darkest of weapons to win it. Then, he would trace his redemption to Binaros again, as he had promised himself, not to turn a dark ruler like his brother did....

A cacophony of ringing alarms and shouting of the crew consumed the labyrinth of decks, as the numberless hands rushed to their stations.
"We are firing cold in plasma!" many declared. An Athysian saying, indicating the warship would exit the hyperspace straight into the thick of battle. An ancient tactic employed by the Athysian Raider Fleets of the Old, perfected through the countless wars against the Setrionite battlefleets that matched and occasionally exceeded the Athysian machines of death.

The hyperspace spiralling lagging, light decaying to void ether. And so, they emerged!

Hulls of durasteel, garnished with elegant bronze spires and spiked patterns of alien antiquate designs of swords and twisted glyphs, statements of the crew's devotion to their ancient pantheon. Once elegant citadels of civilization planted beyond the reach of the Outer Rim's barbaric worlds, these void leviathans now bled of corruption, their masters tarnished by eons of dread and other miasma the Dark Side had to offer.

The Raider Fleets, far fallen from the Crusaders of Light and Balance they once were, now sailed the pitch space of the Wild Space, preying to the weaker worlds around the credle of their vile existance which gave birthed their very existence: Athysia. A world as forgotten and forsaken as its mutant inhabitants; Now emerging as the zealous followers of the Dark Crusade, with will to plunder and defile the Galactic Plain, united under the Chosen of their cruel patron, Dhefion: The Hegemon, Desmundor Alcademon. The Fallen Prince.

A wave of Darkness manifested, as more and more warships, each unique in design and complexity of deathdealing, the void around the Migrant Fleet was dotted crimson, as the Destroyer bait no longer held importance. Transmitting no signals, nor requests, nor terms, the Raider Fleet's sole mark was the mass of the disfigured warfleet that heralded their coming through Hyperspace, from what could only be speculated a nearby hideout, or an isolated commet, which these corsairs of gold and plasma had been latched on for weeks, to pass through any deep space probes or scout fleets of the Sith who once controlled the Sector, spreading like a disease in splinter fleets and undeclared attacks against worlds oftentimes of no significance or strategic value, for the sole purpose of causing enough mayhem the very name "Athysian" would provoke Dread to the mind of any who heard it, and even worse, for those who dare speak it...

Mere seconds were offered, from the moment the warships emerged from Hyperspace in uncomfortably close for any sane navigator distance to the Migrant Fleet, although several of its elements, engaged by the gravity well conjured by the enemy, found themselves spawning farther back, negating their initial attack's precision due to sheer distance. These, instead of blazing their long range weaponry, diverted full power to their shields, bracing for the punishment that would follow until the gap was closed, and the true debauchery could unfold...
Desmundor's eyes blackened as his gaze was whirled to the presence of the Machiavellian. He had identified the prize of the battle:

"Light them up."​

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzz~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

KZSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSRRRRRRRRRRRRRTSSSSSSSSSSS~~~~~~~~​

Beams of blinding light carved the void between the two warfleets into grid, as the many vessels of the Raider Fleet begun their assault. The largest of them, along the fleet's bulwark, sailing right behind the vanguard that pierced in a wedge to bleed a path through the enemy formation, energized their shields, serving as a shieldwall to protect the firing warships.

Roared did the long range weapons of the Raider Fleet, while destroyers jumped like swarms of flies, pulled by the stench of rot as they hasted towards the Migrant Fleet. Unlike the larger Athysian warships, these Destroyers were manned with a plethora of slaves, buccanneers and pirates recruited either through promise of plunder, or sheer fear into the service of their now Athysian masters. They were numerous, and their losses were insignificant, to the Hegemon, as they could be easily replaced, save for the Witch-Captains that owned them... They, were a bitter, yet necessary risk, given the impact they served in the field...

As the Athysian barraged roared, a handful of Destroyers, either in attempts of avoiding enemy fire, or collision, or simply due to complete disregard for their own safety by the Vanguard, were blasted by the long range fire.

Desmundor observed, as the Raider Fleet held in an arch around the Migrant Fleet, while the Destroyers, now numerous, performed the same reckless manuveurs the first squadron had performed, with now much better odds of success, save for the possibility of being shot by their own...
The Hegemon nodded, reaching out in the Force to feel his enemy's presence, while making his own known. An open invitation to a contest, should one embraced the principles of honour and pride the warrior society of Athysia did...

"Prepare the hoplites."

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

@Darth Fauste
​

The Imvonvol spinned as she manuveured through the closing grip of the SS Dogma, SS Machiavellian and SS Nihilist, dodging the punishing barrages from the hulking, in comparison, warships, while her shields flickered in instability, overstressed by the weight of fire. Relentless in her endavour, the One-Eyed Vulture flied like a deranged insect in the face of flame, followed by a long trail of torpedoes and homing missiles the Imvonvol's flairs were far too few to shake off.

Onboard the Destroyer, the machinery spat sparks, as the generator room was shrouded by thick smoke from the melting instruments. Alien crew rushed to perform corrective actions and fire control. A blinding light errupted from beneath the rigging, as an electric blast spread in tendrils of blue light, effectivelly vaporising the soft bodies of the crew in the process.

The Imvonvol's stern blazed, as the missiles found their mark, piercing through the overstretched shields and silencing one of the booster engines, with its parts cracking off from the hull, and ironically serving as unanticipated countermeasures for the rest of the long trail of torpedoes, which stumbled upon them causing consequetive explosions in the void, barely missing the Imvonvol.

Across the void, the fire-bleeding Destroyer, now engulfed in hypermatter blaze leaked of fuel and crew that lost their grip from the fiery decks that now laid bare of any external hull armour, after being flayed by the array of torpedoes. The Witch-Captain, in a final act of spite and defiance, turned the cadaver of her ship towards the SS Dogma and accelerated in a suicidal ramming attempt.

"COMEEEEE! Come and See!" The braided white long hair of the One-Eyed Witch-Captain danced like chains as her body danced to the rhythm of mayhem and stress. Lightning tendrils sparking all across the bridge deck by her Dark Side's reach. "For Dhefion's Wrath and Vell's White Hand! The River runs THICK today!!!"

M̶̼͓̩̩̊̾͜U̵̢̢̦̣̦̪̖̳̥̯̠͙͂̓̂̅̕A̸͚̔͒̒̿H̵̨̠̥̫̼̖͈͑͐̔Ă̵͎͔͂̇̾͌͊̿͋̌̿̄͝Ḩ̵̧̞̻̮̗̱̝̖̖̳̀̀̽͜͝A̴̯͒̉̂̐̀̅͝Ȟ̴̼̱̳̬͚̼̠̰̉̈́A̶̙̬͙͍̗̘͗͌̇͛̐̚Ḧ̴̲̥̥̲̠̖́́̐͗̓̈́͒́͊̽̊̀́̓͝A̴͕̩̼͇͍̤̰͇͂̓͋̉͜H̷̛͖̝̠̝̟̐̎͊̎̔̏͆̋̈́̓͊H̷̨̺̜̦̫̀͆̈́́̆̑̃̉͂͗̀͒̚Ã̵̛̰̻̘̰̫͕̔͆̽̉̓̈́̀̽̏̂͜͝͝ͅH̵̟̀̽͛͛̍̔̀̅͆͆͆͋͋̄̕͜Ȃ̸̧̙͙̺͓̲͔̪̠͍̬̲̽̀̒́̄̽̈́́̔̒̂̒̒̎͜Å̷̡͔͇̍̿̂̈̅̓́́̚

​

Silence.

An invisible wave of energy pulsed through the warship, killing all lights and weapon systems into a bleak that caused a sudden surge of panic across the crew on deck. Absolute silence followed, as unnerving as that would be, as the crew confused and knocked prone, tried to tap their way to the consoles in hopes of reverting the catastrophy that would befell them should the Imvonvol remained blind...

A light sparked from the far depths of the deck. And another. And then... BOOM!

Lightning surged through, melting her way to the weapon systems and energy transformers. The screeching of the consoles, those near it, could swear mimicked a lung-bleeding scream of a woman, creating horrific planted thoughts to the crew's minds exposed to her presence. Onboard the bridge, the One-Eyed Vulture dove her wide spread palms into the burning consoles, stretching her dark powers to the brim as she cried out in an amalgam of fear, hate, pleasure and desperation. The blood flowing apleanty from the empty socket of her eye behind the eyepatch contrasted the pale of her skin, until its flow linked with the gargling blood that was leaking from through her grinning teeth.

As the weapons turned alive, the turrets on the segmented bronze-ornated red hull turned, releasing a barrage of turbolaser fire against the revealled stealth ships. Hyara's braids lashed like chain whips, as the entire ship kicked, as the booster engines that remained alive cast light, pushing the ship forth in a rapid acceleration.

The Imvonvol turned, diverting power to her engines and shields, carving a course towards the bulk of the Athysian Fleet.

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste stood on the bridge of the SS Machiavellian, her silver eyes locked on the tactical display before her. The arrival of the Athysian Raider Fleet had been sudden and brutal, like a predator pouncing upon prey in the dark. The void between the two fleets was ablaze with energy beams, streaks of plasma, and eruptions that scattered debris across the emptiness like shattered glass. The Migrant Fleet was holding, but not without cost.

"The Athysians have caught us flat-footed," she muttered under her breath. She felt the dark, twisted presence of Desmundor Alcademon pushing against her mind through the Force, like a dagger probing for a weakness. His tactics were clever, even if driven by desperation. He had forced them into a pincer, and now the Athysians’ smaller, more agile ships swarmed around their flanks like hornets, striking and fading into the void.

"Damage report," Fauste ordered, her tone sharp and commanding.

"Severe damage to the portside of the SS Nihilist," came the reply from one of her officers. "Shields are failing, and there’s a hull breach on Deck 7. Casualty count rising… reports of fires and power surges throughout the lower decks."

Fauste's gaze shifted to the viewports, where she could see the SS Nihilist listing, smoke venting into the void from multiple breaches along its flank. The shield generators sputtered, barely holding back another wave of plasma bolts that tore into its armor plating.

"The SS Dogma has lost one of its ion cannon batteries," another officer reported. "Forward shields are fluctuating, but still holding. Rear engines damaged; we're operating at sixty percent propulsion."

Fauste gritted her teeth. The enemy’s initial salvo had been more effective than anticipated, and now the Migrant Fleet was bleeding. She could feel the anxiety of her crew like a tangible weight, pressing in on all sides. But where there was fear, there was also strength to be drawn. She focused on that, letting it fuel her resolve.

"Commence evasive maneuvers," she ordered. "Keep our formation tight, but fluid. The SS Dogma and SS Nihilist will form a protective wedge. Shadow Sentries, harass their vanguard and pick off their smaller ships. Drive them toward our capital ships."

The fleet responded quickly, moving with a practiced precision even as alarms blared across the bridge. The SS Dogma and SS Nihilist shifted into a defensive position, their maneuvering thrusters flaring to life despite the damage. The TIE Phantoms under Lyra Vex’s command vanished into the darkness once more, reappearing only to unleash devastating bursts of laser fire at the Athysian destroyers swarming around them.

"Status on the graviton pulse?" Fauste asked, turning to the weapons officer.

"Recharging, Lord Fauste," the officer replied. "We’ll have it ready in less than sixty seconds."

"Hold it," Fauste ordered, a plan forming in her mind. "We need them closer. Let them believe we’re on the ropes, that we’re vulnerable."

A deep, rumbling voice echoed across the comms, cutting through the static. “Prepare the hoplites,” came the order from Desmundor himself. Fauste felt his presence grow, a dark, corrupted thing, like an infection spreading through the fabric of the Force.

"So, the Hegemon wants a challenge," she murmured. She reached out with her senses, feeling the emotions that roiled within the Athysian crews—fear, desperation, hatred. She latched onto those feelings, amplifying them with a whisper of dark persuasion. “Let them see their own destruction in every shadow,” she said, her influence stretching across the void.

Onboard the Athysian destroyers, chaos began to spread. Some of the captains, already stressed by the frantic maneuvers and close-quarters combat, began to panic as their targeting systems faltered, communications blinked out, and shadows seemed to lengthen across their consoles. In their confusion, several destroyers veered off course, slamming into each other or into debris, while others fired blindly, striking their own fleet in the process.

The SS Machiavellian seized the opportunity, firing its ion cannons and turbolasers with calculated precision, targeting engines and shield generators to disable rather than destroy. Each hit was meant to cripple, turning the Athysians' chaotic advance into a snarl of derelict ships that formed an obstacle for the larger warships to navigate.

“Focus fire on the crippled ships,” Fauste commanded, “Create a barrier of debris between us and their main assault.”

The barrage intensified, but the Migrant Fleet was not without its own losses. Several of the smaller support vessels had been hit hard; the RS Hammer was now venting atmosphere, its bridge obliterated by a lucky shot from a destroyer that had broken through the defenses. The SS Templar, a fast attack cruiser, was engulfed in flames, its engines dead and spinning slowly into the void.

Fauste felt the impact of each loss in the Force, a pang that resonated through the darkness. But she had no time for sentiment; this was war, and war was always bloody.

Suddenly, the voice of Desmundor himself came across the comms again, his challenge clear: a call to duel, to test their strength in the open. She could feel the dark energy gathering around him, thickening like a storm cloud.

"Open a channel," she ordered, her voice steady. The officer nodded, and moments later, her voice was projected across the void, directly to the Hegemon's flagship.

"Desmundor Alcademon," she called out, her tone firm and unyielding. "You come to me as a fallen prince, tainted and corrupt. I offer you this once—surrender, and I will grant you a swift death. Refuse, and I will bury you and your fleet in the cold abyss."

There was a tense silence, and Fauste could almost feel the anticipation in the void itself. Without waiting for a reply, she turned back to her officers.

“Bring us about,” she ordered. “Prepare all batteries to fire on my mark. And ready the graviton pulse. If they want to dance in the dark, we will show them what true darkness feels like.”

She reached out with the Force, feeling the energies swirling around her, drawing from the fear and desperation of both her enemies and her own forces. She would face Desmundor and his corrupted fleet not with fear, but with the cold, calculated fury of a Sith Lord. She would turn their arrogance into their undoing, and if the Hegemon sought to prove himself, he would do so on a battlefield soaked in blood and fire.

“Wait for it,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the display as the Athysian fleet moved closer. “Wait for it… now!”

The graviton pulse fired, a massive wave of energy surging out from the SS Machiavellian, aimed directly at the heart of the advancing Athysian fleet. If they wanted a war, they would find that this void was hers to command.

Tag; @Hyara Hemstagon, @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Rul Tondar]

Suffocating has to be one of the unsatisfactory ways to end, Rul thought to himself as he felt a firm grasp constricting his airways.

The Sith did love their force-choking, as Rul thumped to the ground he first grasped for air and shortly after Rul giggled to himself. The deranged Skakoan uttered no more sounds to his lord, only bowing in agreeance without making any eye contact. He knew his place once more and would do as instructed.

Rul backed out of the command centre and into the hallways of the underground structure. He breathed a sigh of relief, out here all alone he was his own master, servant to no one and all-powerful. ''Just wait until Mother hears of this, no dreadful force tricks will save you then'' He whispered to himself scared he could still be heard from through the metal doors.

Now he had his orders, and if Rul wanted to keep his heart beating he would do best to follow them. Entering an extensive unlit room the scientist entered a few codes into a control panel. The room once dark now lit up and began humming the sounds of mechanical machines, it was a storage room where the Skakoan kept all his projects. Hundreds of liquid cryo pods stored abominations that by all laws of life should not exist. A few more inputs on the panel that managed the pods and the horrid beings awoke from their slumber. Row after row almost endlessly stretching further into the room slowly filled with H.U.S.K soldiers brainlessly awaiting orders from their father.

''Children, up above there are bad men, kill them and make your father proud'' Rul almost felt disgusted talking to such lesser beings, such freaks of nature, they might be his creations but he cared little for them and their imperfections. In a synchronized awakening, the soldiers started marching out of the room two by two, flooding out into the corridors and eventually out into the battlefield. His entire stock of H.U.S.K soldiers was now depleted as 2000 of them began their duties on the surface.

''Now to the more important aspect of today,'' He spoke allowed once more, now in the solidarity of his own chambers.

Rul was planning on scavenging the remains of burning ships and dieng pirates and allies alike to work on his next project. That the battle was still ongoing was a slight disturbance in his assembly of a new child but he had just the right tools for this as well.

​

Compact flesh droids outfitted with magnetic claws and functioning brains allowed them to differentiate between useless mutilated corpses and salvageable organs or weapons. These critters would be buzzing around the battlefield trying their utmost to avoid being destroyed, and foremost to gather anything that their master could deem applicable.

@Darth Malvus @Eosfor

 

[Eosfor]

@Darth Malvus @Rul Tondar​

The Creeping barrage of the fleet in orbit finally reached the Obsidian Citadel. A rain of blinding energy beams showered the ray shields with enough devastating weight the communication frequencies of all sides occasionally collapsed by the surging energy that sundered the surface. The deep ravines formed by the trailing beams now turned into highways for the horde's unstoppable advance to the Citadel.

Force marched onwards by the blades of the numerous exalted Sith Eradicators that loomed over the myriad pirates, slave-warriors and underworlders who once attached themselves to the Dark Crusade's armadas, now finding themselves paying tribute to the Dark Side's black irony, as justice for their greed dragged them into the very vanguard of the horde they so selfishly became part of, either of ambition, or weak mind befallen by the dread sorceries of the Marauders.

"Onwards, you maggots!" the warchiefs and chosen captains of the fodder barked to their underlings, overseeing the river of dead men walking as they rushed to their own demise; A plan well-crafted, in a perverse deliverance of justice in the eyes of the Dark patron. They were those Darth Eosfor and his kin had been butchering for decades, before his fall from grace amidst the Sith. Pirates. Corsairs. Outlaws. Fugitives. All slime and rot of the galaxy's corners, befitting only the cruelest of punishments. And so, the Dark Lord delivered.

The serpent amalgamations that were the many trailing elements of the horde approached with uncanny speed closer and closer towards the base of the Obsidian Citadel, the grand prize of Malachor V, like maggots rushing to devour a rotting cadaver. At the far back of the horde's first wave, the larger gunships had made landing, delivering to the battlefield heavy hovertanks and walker squadrons, which proceeded to advance from their now secured positions, straight to the maelstorm that was the siege of the Citadel, careless of the pirates and cultists coward, or restless enough to find themselves lagging back from their ranks. Their screams as they were stomped by the walkers, or mawled beneath the heavy tracks and energy hoverengines were painful to the ears of any ahead of them, giving dread courage to push on, as laserfire could only be better than the fate awaiting the coward and the weak.

The first self-propelled artillery pieces, large three-legged walker engines of destructions, mounted with a particle cannon each begun their waste upon the ray shields of the Citadel, dwarfed by the blinding light that beamed above by the orbital strikes, so intense, those foolish enough to behold it had their eyes burned in an instant, stomped as soon as the pain lowered them prone, by the swarming fodder that pushed ever farther.

As the first ranks walked ever closer to the rayshields, a mirroring horde of fodder marched to meet them. They were mindless. Deformed and blighted by foul enhancements, proof of @Rul Tondar 's vile genious. The untrainned pirate horde, driven almost exclusivelly by dread and the crushing power of the Dark Lord's battle meditation above, almost dictating their actions in painful mental invasions, raised their weapons and fired a storm of blaster bolts, grenades and repeater blaster barrages, while their momentum denied them the ability to hold their ground, forced onward until the two hordes merged like crashing waves in contrasting Kaminoan winds. A most gruesome hand-to-hand confrontation ensued, with the pirate horde drawing vibrowblades, staffs, mawlers and any conceivable crafted, industrial or makeshift melee weapon to cleave through the H.U.S.K. bulwark. Geonosian ratlings flied over the lines, bombarding the enemy horde with beams of dark green death, and painful stings of their electrotridents. Hulking Doshan champions jumped over the tide, devouring entire limbs with their jaws and cleaving through dozens before falling themselves, screaming taunting words and praizes to the Scorekeeper; The Trandoshan goddess who led their rampage.

The deep ravines grew shallow by the piling corpses, until the rear pirate troops could climb entirely over the walls, tracing a path over the pushing hosts to cast frag grenades amidst the enemy tide.

The comms onboard the Shadow's Avenger, flagship of the Dark Lord's armada, and seat of his power, disturbed by the brutality of the bombardment was deafening with endless transmissions of forward commanders and troop captains screaming as they failed to complete their sentances before being consumed by the violence, or crying for aid as their men fell faster than reinforcements could be fed into the line.

From his iron throne, the Dark Lord rested motionless. The darkness of the command deck breaking only by the flickering light of the torchfire, and the shine of the holographic projection of the engagement on the table before the throne. Several grim figures stood around it, each clad in despicable fashion of defiled Sith outfit, feeding to the already glooming darkness over Malachor V, as they craved the moment their renegade master would dispatch them to claim their own part in the mayhem of the surface war...