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

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

The witch's tongue claimed the last of the pale man's kiss, before her talin held his push for yet another taste. The Athysian openned his eyes, to see her flaming gaze piercing through his mind. The following breath was shared in silence.
"I will be with you" she whispered in seductive words, as she gently caressed the side of his neck with her talons, carving a bloody thin trail as she did so. Then, she brought the talon to her own throat, following the same ritual, only to then place her bloodied long black nail against the wing of the starfighter the pilot was leaned against.
"Throughout the fight." she continued her bewitching whispers. "Go, and bring me tales of glory and deed...."
In a sudden shift, she openned herself in the force in a devouring dark outburst, felt clearly by the man, as her foul last words were spoken as harsh as the Athysian people were.
"Or drown in the river's black waters, if you don't."

Her words like daggers carving a wound of dark will into the man's mind, who kept his glare as she stepped back. Now determined, he jumped over the large red starfighter, holding onto the many spikes of bronze that decorated it in the same Athysian fashion the very warship they were in was.
The noise of the hundreds of technicians, crew and support personnel flooding like an ant colony around the dozens of large interceptor fighters like his own was deafening. Fuel hoses were attached, while the men performed last minute maintenance and preparation, and the several crimson-dressed witches cast the final chants and spells upon the pilots and interceptors alike, before they were off to the battle they viewed as a veneration of their dark pantheon...
And so, the Hoplites were ready, as the loud alarms overcast the cacophony on the hangar. One after the other, the Hoplite engines burst into roaring, casting long flaming tongues from their ehausts like a dragonbreath, reaching out to fry the crew and technicians who ran away from their reach. One after the other, the Hoplites took off, emerging out of the hangar decks a grim omen of their pledged contribution to the blood-stained void.

"Our vanguard is taking heavy fire!" one of the operators reported, continuously sliding between the many holoscreens that projected the damages sustained by the forward warships that shielded the Athysian fleet. "The Athelagon and Taravalon's shields are down on 45%! The Memnon is operating on auxiliary shield generators!"

Unmoved was Desmundor's glare from the Machiavellian. "Prepare the horns."

"Lord, Hegemon! We are receiving a transmission from the enemy flagship."

The taunting of @Darth Fauste echoed on the bridge, as her voice was played aloud.

"The enemy formation is manuveuring. The Taravalon has identified a gap in their formation." The operator extended the holoprojection to the main consoles, ahead of Desmundor.
The Hegemon nodded slightly, pondering. "She is letting us in." he smirked. "She should know better, than to leave the devils in, for they may never leave.... Launch the horns."

The rear warships accelerated, diverting power to their up to now nearly unharmed shield generators, as they sailed through the battered vanguard, replacing them while the once vanguard, now energized their weapon systems and succeeded as the barrage continued, now ever more focused to the SS Nihilist, which the swarming locust of Destroyers now seemed to target, closer and closer, challenging her shields with torpedoes and plasma cannonfire.
Unlike before, this time, the vanguard warships pushed in, steering ever closer to the Migrant Fleet's warships. The first offensive was of the Ignisir and the Athys, both massive dreadnoughts who pushed to sandwich the Nihilist between what would soon be a dreadfully close exchange of long range fire...

The sheer proximity of the unfolding confrontation made any effort to protect the hulls of the battling behemoths immaterial. Beams went clean through the ray shields, piercing several decks in a fiery maw of death. Particle cannon emplacements were dislodged from their mounts, turning the crew members they fell upon to little more than dark red stains on the shell filled decks. From the Athys, dozens of boarding torpedoes were launched as soon as the ship went in range, mawling through the thick armour of the Nihilist in furious determination to impregnate her with the Sith warbands and Marauder boarding parties they carried within them.

"We are detecting an energy surge from the enemy flagship." the operator spoke up, as soon as the figures presented themselves on the holoscreen. The statement serious enough to cause Desmundor's eyes to turn low, to the shared data before him.
"Must be some sort of-"

"Pulse." Desmundor growled, returning his eyes to the view of the battlefield, as the enemy pulse shockwave was strong enough to be seen with a naked eye, blinding the massive warships in its passing.
The decks fell dark for several moments onboard the advancing warships, while a handful of the destroyers begun hovering aimlessly in the void, indicating the death of the systems onboard.

The effect of the beam on the main Fleet, however, was not as painful. Unlike the cheap, ill-maintained Quardent-Class Destroyers, the larger warships were marvels of Athysian engineering, each crafted to withstand confrontations such as this. Although countermeasures to such type of Pulse weaponry was not in the Athysian arsenal as of yet, having been exposed to little if any confrontations against such weapons, the Athysian ships sparked in what could only be defined as Force Lightning momentary taints, as the Dark Side's looming presence over the confrontation grew spiking. The eyeless priestesses and adepts that resided deep in the temples embedded in the intestines of the foul warships forced their masters' will over the durasteel, moving the operators and engine crew like marionettes, as the systems were brought forcefully back online.

This thin moment of silence, from the Athysian ships, gave the Migrant fleet a most needed breather. The wake of the pulse found the battle brought to an even ground, with the Nihilist facing two dreadnought warships in close quarters, with multiple boarding torpedoes latched onto it like ticks, while the SS Dogma was shadowed by several Destroyers that had attached themselves to the hulking warship via long wires of the Grabbling Hooks, now allowing the many fighter squadrons and boarding torpedoes to lodge themselves upon it, seemingly ignorant of the easy prey the Destroyers now were for the rest of the Migrant Fleet's rearguard...

 

[Darth Malvus]

Malachor V – The Counterattack Begins

The battle for Malachor V raged on as Dark Eosfor's forces pressed their assault against the towering citadel of the Obsidian Court. Explosions echoed across the blackened fields as Eosfor's ground troops, cultists, marauders, and pirates surged forward, intent on overwhelming the planet. But as their forces closed in, they were met with a horror unlike anything they had ever seen.

From the depths of Rul's laboratory, the H.U.S.K. emerged. These unholy creations were abominations—twisted remnants of once-living beings, now fused with dark alchemy and cybernetic enhancements. Their soulless eyes glowed with an eerie light as they shambled toward the invaders. Once they engaged Eosfor's ground forces, the chaos began. Their relentless drive made them an unstoppable force on the battlefield, tearing through the enemy lines without mercy.

At the same time, Commander Zarek unleashed the full might of Malvus' ground armies. Tanks and walkers rumbled across the surface, their turrets locking onto the marauders and pirates, raining death upon them. Zarek, ever the strategic genius, coordinated with the Sith alchemists, who imbued the soldiers on the field with dark side energies. Their strength surged, their reflexes heightened, and their attacks became devastatingly precise.

Above the battlefield, Darth Malvus was calculating his next move. The enemy had made the fatal mistake of engaging him on his home turf, where his forces were strongest. He had prepared for this moment for years, and Malachor V was not just a planet—it was a fortress, a labyrinth of defenses designed to decimate invaders.

With a subtle wave of his hand, Malvus ordered his Sith alchemists to unleash dark curses upon Eosfor's ground forces. From the skies above, tendrils of black lightning arced down, sapping the life force of the enemy. The marauders stumbled, disoriented as their own hatred and fury were turned against them. Sith warriors, empowered by the alchemists’ dark rituals, surged forward, lightsabers igniting the darkness as they waded into close combat. Blades clashed, and screams filled the air as Eosfor’s forces faltered.

But the true tide-turner would come from the skies.

"General Kaela Draal," Malvus commanded through the comms, his voice cold and authoritative. "You are to take back the skies. Crush Eosfor’s fleet and reduce heavy fire on Malachor. Show them no mercy."

Kaela Draal, the fierce Twi'lek general, responded immediately. Towering and imposing, with her deep red skin and piercing yellow eyes, she was a master of fear. Her very presence on the battlefield sent waves of dread through her enemies, weakening their resolve. As she strode through the command deck, her aura radiated power, her influence extending to her troops who stood ready to engage the enemy fleet.

"All ships, prepare for assault," Kaela ordered, her voice unwavering. "We take back the skies. Wipe them from existence."

With her dual lightsaber clipped to her belt, Kaela oversaw the deployment of Malvus’ space fleet. The air above Malachor V crackled with energy as massive turbolaser batteries locked onto Eosfor’s fleet. The Obsidian Court's fighters swarmed like locusts, diving into the fray with surgical precision, cutting through the enemy’s lines. Kaela, ever the tactician, outmaneuvered Eosfor’s forces at every turn, guiding her ships into positions that would cripple the enemy.

As Kaela’s forces turned the tide in the skies, Malvus prepared for the next phase of the counterattack. He could sense it—Eosfor was near. The dark side energies that radiated from space were unmistakable, a clear signal that the Sith Lord was empowering his forces from aboard his flagship. But Malvus had no intention of allowing Eosfor’s presence to go unchecked.

Stepping away from the chaos of the command center, Malvus moved toward his private hangar. The sleek, black form of his stealth ship awaited him, cloaked in shadow and ready to carry him to his flagship, The Shadow Eclipse. With a final glance at his citadel, Malvus boarded the ship and took to the skies. His destination: his imposing flagship, the true heart of his fleet.

As The Shadow Eclipse materialized from its cloaking field, Malvus stepped onto the bridge and was greeted by General Xerxes Varak. The Wookiee general towered over everyone in the room, his thick fur covered by customized, reinforced armor. His eyes gleamed with intelligence and the warrior spirit that had made him one of Malvus' most trusted commanders.

"General Xerxes," Malvus said, his voice a dark whisper. "It is time."

The Wookiee nodded, his deep growl a signal to the rest of the bridge crew. The plan was set in motion. Malvus’ flagship would remain cloaked, undetected by Eosfor’s fleet until it was too late. Swarms of Sith fighters were already moving to finish off what remained of Eosfor’s armada, but the true strike would come from The Shadow Eclipse, which now set its course for Eosfor’s command ship.

As they approached, Malvus stood at the viewport, watching the battlefield unfold below and above. His empire was under siege, but he was no mere Sith Lord—he was the true ruler of the Sith. The future emperor of the Sith Empire. And no one, not even Eosfor, would stand in his way.

"Prepare the assault," Malvus commanded. "And when we strike... I want Eosfor to know it was I who brought him down."

With a single gesture, the stealth field dissipated, and The Shadow Eclipse unleashed its full power on Eosfor’s flagship. The battle for supremacy had reached its apex, and Malvus would accept nothing less than total victory.

Tag: @Eosfor @Rul Tondar

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste felt the loss of the SS Nihilist like a blade to her side, the deep, resonant pain coursing through the Force. Her eyes narrowed, her breath measured as she watched the tactical display. The ship was lost; there was no denying it now. Athysian dreadnoughts, the Ignisir and the Athys, were closing in with their gaping maws, their hulls blistered but undeterred, and the Nihilist, now a pierced beast, was riddled with boarding torpedoes and crumbling under the relentless fire.

"Initiate evacuation protocols for the SS Nihilist," Fauste commanded, her voice cold and controlled, despite the chaos unfolding around her. "All personnel are to abandon ship immediately. Shuttles, lifeboats, anything that flies—get them to the Machiavellian and the Dogma."

“Yes, Lord Fauste!” an officer responded, relaying her orders with a swift hand. On the holodisplays, tiny icons flickered to life, representing the swarm of escape pods and shuttles bursting from the Nihilist like seeds from a ruptured pod. Each one was a gamble against the void, a desperate dash through a storm of laser fire and explosions.

Fauste shifted her attention to the SS Dogma. The enemy’s grappling hooks latched onto its hull, pulling it closer like a predator dragging its prey into the depths. She could feel the enemy pilots’ malice, their intent to board and conquer. But they had underestimated the resolve of their foe.

"Bring the Dogma closer to the Machiavellian," she ordered. "We will cover their retreat."

"Lord Fauste, the tethers…" an officer started, but Fauste was already moving. She closed her eyes, extending her senses through the Force, feeling the tension in the wires, the magnetic pull, and the strain as the Athysian vessels tried to drag the Dogma down.

"Fools," she whispered to herself, a slow, dangerous smile forming on her lips. She reached out with one hand, fingers splayed as if gripping something unseen. The dark side of the Force coiled around her like a shadowy serpent, and she felt the raw power surging through her veins.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, she focused her will on the first set of tethers. The Force surged from her, unseen but potent, and she felt the metal cables buckle and bend under her command. One by one, the tethers began to snap, their reinforced metal creaking and groaning as they twisted like vines pulled too tight. The tension increased until, with a sound like a thunderclap, the first tether broke, sending the Athysian destroyer attached to it spiraling backward, its engines flaring desperately to regain control.

The next tether followed, and then another, each one crushed by her relentless grasp, the physical connection between the Dogma and the enemy ships severed with ruthless precision. She could feel the panic ripple through the Force as the Athysian boarding parties realized their assault had been halted before it could even begin.

"Continue firing on the enemy destroyers," she ordered, her voice echoing across the bridge. "Target their engines and weapon systems. Disable, don’t destroy. Let them drift—let them fear the dark."

The Migrant Fleet responded with renewed vigor. The SS Dogma, now free of its entanglements, shifted closer to the Machiavellian. Turbolaser batteries roared to life, spewing emerald fire across the void. The Machiavellian joined the onslaught, its heavy cannons targeting the vulnerable destroyers, shredding armor plating and severing hulls.

Meanwhile, escape pods and shuttles from the Nihilist streaked toward them, flares and countermeasures deployed to ward off enemy fire. Fauste could sense the fear and desperation of her crew as they fled, and she reached out, projecting a sense of calm and strength, reassuring them even amidst the chaos.

But there was no time for sentiment. She focused again on the battlefield. The enemy was regrouping, the Athysian flagship looming like a predator still hungry for the kill. She knew Desmundor was watching her, calculating his next move, waiting for her to show weakness.

“Shields at maximum,” she commanded. “Prepare to intercept their next wave.”

A sudden wave of darkness washed over her senses, and she knew what it was before the alarms even began to blare. A boarding party—this one aimed at the Machiavellian. She felt them coming, the dark presence of the Athysian marauders like a foul wind. They were using the distraction of the Nihilist’s fall to try and board her own ship.

“No,” she hissed under her breath. She could not afford to be caught off guard. Reaching out through the Force, she located the boarding torpedoes slicing through the void toward her ship. She focused, her eyes narrowing to slits, and made a pushing motion with both hands.

The boarding torpedoes halted mid-flight, as if colliding with an invisible barrier. Fauste clenched her fists, and the torpedoes began to crumple inward, their reinforced metal exteriors folding like tin under immense pressure. Explosive decompressions flared briefly, and the torpedoes, with their marauders still inside, were reduced to nothing more than wreckage.

She exhaled, steadying herself. “Maintain focus,” she told herself. “There is no room for error.”

She turned back to her crew. "Prepare for Desmundor's next move," she ordered. "Reinforce all shields, weapons charged. This is not over yet."

Fauste’s silver eyes gleamed with fierce determination. They had lost the Nihilist, but they would not lose the battle. She would make sure of that. And if the Athysians wanted to test the might of a Sith Lord, she would show them exactly what it meant to face her wrath.

Darth Fauste’s gaze sharpened, a new strategy forming in her mind as she sensed the dwindling lifeforce aboard the Nihilist. The ship was already lost, riddled with breaches and crawling with Athysian marauders, but it could still serve a purpose. She reached out to the remaining officers on the dying vessel, her voice resonating through the comms with an unmistakable authority.

"Set the core to overload," she commanded, her tone brooking no hesitation. "Prime the reactor for a full detonation. Let them have their prize—but let it be their undoing."

A moment of shocked silence followed, then a response crackled back through the comms: "Yes, Lord Fauste. Setting the core to overload now."

A grim smile crept across Fauste’s face. The Nihilist was now a Trojan Horse, a gift laced with death. As the Athysian dreadnoughts closed in, their crews likely believing they had cornered a vulnerable prey, they would soon discover too late the catastrophic surprise that awaited them.

She watched the holodisplays, sensing the growing chaos aboard the enemy ships, and whispered under her breath, "Enjoy your spoils, Desmundor. Let it be the last gift you ever take."

As the core of the Nihilist began its countdown to detonation, Darth Fauste turned her attention back to the battlefield. The enemy fleet was still recovering from the graviton pulse, and there was a momentary opening along their flanks—an opportunity too valuable to miss. She extended her senses outward, feeling the cold determination of her most elite soldiers waiting in the shadows, the Shadow Sentries.

"Shadow Sentries," she ordered through the Force, her voice cutting through the void like a blade, "move to the enemy’s flanks. Exploit their moment of disarray. Do not let them breathe."

Silent acknowledgments flickered back to her through the dark side, and in moments, the stealthy starfighters and assault craft of the Shadow Sentries emerged from the cloak of the nearby asteroids and debris. They moved like wraiths, exploiting every gap and blind spot in the enemy's formation. Their sleek black hulls, coated with void-dampening materials, blended seamlessly into the darkness of space, becoming phantoms on the battlefield.

They struck swiftly and without warning—laser cannons, missile volleys, and cutting beams carving through the unprepared sections of the Athysian fleet. Their agile craft weaved through the confusion and chaos, harassing enemy warships and escort craft alike, shattering any semblance of order among the Athysian ranks. Small explosions erupted along the flanks, as Athysian destroyers and cruisers were crippled or forced to reroute power to shields, unable to withstand the concentrated barrage from the relentless Shadow Sentries.

The Athysian flank began to buckle, caught between the oncoming wrath of the Shadow Sentries and the still-burning resolve of the remaining Migrant Fleet warships. The distraction was perfect—just enough to draw attention away from the Nihilist, still carrying its lethal payload toward the heart of the enemy's advance. The trap was set, and now the only thing left to do was wait for the hammer to fall.

"Now," Fauste whispered, her eyes gleaming with malice, "let's see how they handle the shadows."

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Tzar Arakx]

​

The warlord listened to Lirzakarz’s words with a calm that belied the storm within. The cyborg’s disdain was evident, his pride and anger barely concealed beneath layers of metal and broken flesh. Beings like him and having no right to live according to the laws of the Kuonja, they corrupt their soul and bodies with the unholiness of technology. Fortunately, the insectoid standing before him was more tolerant than most of his kin.

When the Sith marauder finished, Tzar sat back down on his iron throne, its towering form casting a shadow over the cyborg. His voice, cold and steady, cut through the tension like a blade.

''You shall tell your master of our talk here yes, you will tell him we will be there and we will fight yes, and then you will tell him to thank us for supporting him we shall take 10,000 galactic credits yes yes'' The Kuonjans where rebuilding, and that was a pricey endeavour. Surely this demand was outrageous and sure to anger these Sith marauders and their Bringer of Light Eosfor.

Tzar knew there was a great harvest to be made of battle, and to be invited to such a large one would surely bring a fortunate bounty to his people, weapons dropped by the dead, prisoners to be enslaved and Kuonjan warriors to be blooded in battle. The war however was not the unpleasing aspect of the proposal, it was who they would be sharing a battlefield with. These Sith are hateful people with a disgusting code at which they conduct themselves, this insult of flesh was a clear indicator of whom they were dealing with,

Sinful savages.

The ship was quiet, dark, awaiting one moment.

Fifty blackened ships donned with the emblem of the Kuonjan space fleet had arrived in the lower orbit of Malachor V. Using the allied vessels as a magnet for the majority of the defences allowed the insectoid fleet to come from behind. Whilst the troops were focusing on the pirates and marauders Tzar Arakx would strike at the opposite side of the base with his brothers.

First came the gravel to soften up any defending troops, backed up with the heavy fire of the Onyx Knights this would make for the first wave of the Kuonjan supporters. Tzar himself had landed further back with the rest of his army, ready to answer any response the defenders would send his way.

''Brothers we will feast well today, look at these plump pigs sitting in their pens waiting for us, waiting for their masters to free their souls'' His voice was cold with grim determination, his words heavy with inevitability as he uttered these promises, Tzar spoke in his native tongue when addressing his troops.

@Eosfor @Darth Malvus

 

[Eosfor]

@Tzar Arakx @Rul Tondar @Darth Malvus​

The holoprojection of the citadel's siege flickered, dusturbed by the power surges and flactuations that plagued the systems of the hulking warship that was the Shadow's Avenger, crown of the Dark Crusade's Sith navy. One of the hooded warlords, by now standing as one of the many who silently awaited for the single, silent gesture, a mere nod, their Dark patron would grant them, so as to unleash their part of the grand plan of bloodletting that was the Malachor V Incursion.

And so, it happened. The movement barely recognizable, as the Dark Lord unleashed yet another of his Warlords from his chains of silence, to begin their own part in the carnage. His black cloak danced around his legs, as his determined fast pace carried him across the stained corridors of the ship. It was gore, having turned now into a deep shade of brown, rotting after weeks of neglection, over the bones that vaguely resembled the Imperial personnel, or fallen Sith Loyalists or renegades alike, too cannibalized by the vermin that was the deranged crew that now manned the Avenger, in a degree they could no longer be recognized as parts of any humanoid entity, instead, had turned swollen, diseased and decaying rotting tissue, greenish in their grotesque state, as their stench caused nausia to any who walked the deck, if only it wasn't the near perpetual dark rituals who kept the crew's minds in such a mental abnormality, such irritation to one's sense served more as omen of a feast, rather than a stain or health hazard.



An almost synchronized blaze shined on all warships, as the booster engines were energized over the orbit. The Marauder Warfleet quick to respond to the challenge of the Obsidian Court's daring contest of an Orbital War. While the heavier ships presumed their bombardments, the Shadow's Avenger led as spearhead of a wedge formed by several Harrower-Class Dreadnoughts and Battle Cruisers who advanced in attack formation.

And so, the skies caught fire!

Turbolasers screeched. Particle cannons roared. Hulls cried in flaming pain; Shields bled against the unrelenting fire, as dark adepts hidden deep within the warships of both fleets casted their foul rituals in a battle spawned by the deepest void of the antediluvian Abyss, causing the Force herself to cry in horror before the defiling performed in her darkest name...
Fighter squadrons vomited by quaking decks like swarms of insects, in a battle so narrow, the dead air over malachor thickened by the red mist of falling corpses and limbs tossed by the reactor explosions amidst the confrontation, matching if not far exceeding the brutality of the ground war.

Such was a confrontation the Galaxy had yet to see ever since the Red Reaper's failed secession. Such, was a war, the likes of none but the most foul could dare conduct...

That, was Sith Warfare

The Shadow's Avenger, ship vast and deadly, having defiled the once Imperial marks that adorned her by the cultist Seven-Pointed Stars of the Dark Crusade, driven by the dark will of her master, Darth Eosfor, steered directly against the Dark Eclipse, careless of the heavy toll the enemy's long range already fiery cannons would befall her.

On both decks, crew and soldiers alike, pressed by the overwhelming dread rituals cast against them by the Sith Sorcerers went mad, with many an occasion belowdeck, in hangars, or even in the engine rooms, of deranged troopers or crew members bursting in deafening screams, tearing their very own faces from the skull and diving their flayed fingers to gauge their own eyes out, in desperate attempts to reach the pain and maddening thoughts forced in their weak minds, the impact of such to them felt physical enough to delve into such dread acts, or turn their weapons against vital machineries or their own comrades, resulting to chaotic internal blasterfights before the storm of boarding torpedoes was deployed against the Obsidian Court's warships. The warcries and promise of battle carnage echoing in the decks successfully impregnated by the Marauder boarding parties:

Kia Tave Spagga​

"To the Sword", roared by the berserk exalted champions of the Dark Lord as they brought slaughter to the enemy. A battle cry that caused dread to many a world during the time of the Halcyon Order, through which Darth Eosfor, before his descend to heresy and depravity, led a mighty fleet, champion of the Sith Empire, in a hundred and more campaigns across a hundred and more worlds.

No longer.

As the forward troops were mauled by the armour of both sides closing in to one another careless of the potential friendly fire inbetween, the heavy talks and walkers engaged in a brutal blasterfight, as the fearsome Kuonjan hive launched their assault, together with the Marauder horde closing the ruthless grip around the Obsidian Citadel. And so, the battle for Malachor went on...

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

Burning hate! Savage Wrath!

The eyeless gaze of the woman black, through the white onyx mask, marked by two vertical stripes of blood red shade, mimicking the blood tears produced by the eyeless sockets of the priestess, hooded as she wept.

Flesh weak, blood boiling, ooooh! THE HORROR! THE HORROR, PREYING GODS AND RIVER RED!

Scream, did the priestess; The Eyerea, most respected and deeply dreaded in Athysian Society. A miscarriage of the ancient past, kept for their horrific visions and Force skills, still acting a link of brass chain, for the otherwise dying world of Athysia. The twitching of the muscle caused the chains to motion. The humanoid, hooked beneath them, dripped yet another drop of bewitched blood, long kept in a state of living death. Its carved defiled body no longer able to act on the cries of desperation and the horror experiencing after the barriers of sanity and all things fathomable were flayed from within, left a shell and beckon of the Athysian vile archaic rituals...

CARNAGEEE!!! CARNAGEE!!!!

Unable to control the dark powers surging through her, the Eyerea fell on her knees and bent in manner inconceivable, enough to reach out with her twisting limbs to where no human should ever make to reach, now possessed by the summoned evils conjured by her own witchcraft. She cried in horror, blasting a wave of Dread energy that gnarled to the minds of any misfortunate enough to still walk onboard the foul warship.

CARNAGE!!! MORE CRAVEEEES- MOREE---

THE- RIVERRRRRRRRRRRR

Lightning sparked, connecting the different capital ships with their minion flotillas momentarily.
As the Destroyers blazed like motherblasts, casting the scrambled starfighters that battled a near-suicidal war between the bouting behemoths of the two warring fleets, a surge of Dark Side energy was cast like blot towards the SS Machiavellian, piercing cold consuming those onboard in lung ooze and frostbite, the weakest among them befalling to a sudden, silent death as their limbs turned black and dry.

The hundreds of Hoplite fighters losing oval iron fragments amidst the shrapnel and the torn pieces of their hulls, as the battle raged... Tinny, in size, hard to pay heed to even for the pilots themselves, less so, those locked in the intensity of the larger scale carnage ensuing. The void between the Athysian Vanguard, the dozens smoke-bleeding, adrift and battling destroyers.

Of all the Athysian Vanguard capital ships, the Taravalon had achieved the deepest pierce through the Migrant fleet's battle formation, to an ignorant's eye to be the spearhead that would split the enemy in two....

To the Ignorant's eye, that was....

"Pull them back. Now." Desmundor ordered in determined tone, almost able to see the immaterial Force tendrils the Athysian warships cast to the Machiavellian. His mind never allowed enough time to register the complaint the operator voiced. He turned, pointing his fist to him in a threat rooted in the Hegemon's bottomless rage trapped under the bones.

"I said pull the FUCKING ships, NOW! The Black Lord is coming!"

There was Light

Sandwiched between the Migrant Fleet's mighty jaws, in a defying mockery of the SS Nihilist's sacrifice, first of many, the Taravalon bent to the overwhelming barrages. Her shield generators melting, consuming the engine rooms in a primordial outburst of flaming debauchery.

There was Light

Deep in the Sanctums of the Taravalon, in the onyx temple, the Eyerea raised her bloodied hands, knelt in the pool of the hanged slaves dripping, crying in absolution towards the massive Seven-pointed star of bronze, from which points the chains hanged; One sacrifice for each of the Seven, all.

A final epitaph, before the uncontrollable blast sourced from the engine decks spread like lightning, tearing through the thick layers of savaged hulls and flooding the entire battlefield with blinding light. Taravalon died, as a birthing star amidst the chaos of battle, swallowing entire squadrons of vessels and starfighters, as the shockwave struck with enough momentum to cast whole capital ships adrift.

In the deafening horror of war, alas, the Athysian vile trickstery was yet sated, the Hegemon allowing his eyes to shut, openning himself in the Force as he blessed with whispering prayers in Danush tongue the exalted fallen of his breed, achieving the apex glory all Athysians fought for:
The Crimson Star;

It was then, when the myriad of Seismic Charges sucked the cacophony of the battlefield, casting it back out in a chaotic uncontrollable storm of energy shockwaves, forming infinitely expanding disks of catastrophe.

Within the chaos, driven by the unconceivable dark will that guided the Athysians, the myriad fighters and lesser ships pulled back behind the main armada, already accelerating beyond the reach of the confrontation to pick coordinates for Hyperspace jumps.
An onslaught of electronic countermeasures flogs the remaining Migrant Fleet.
On the far back, the Athysian support vessels and Destroyer squadrons that had disengaged prior from the fight, now hidden behind the bulk of their allies, rushed to engage the stealth ships of the Migrant Fleet that brought uncontrolled pressure to the already weakened shields of the capital ships.

Their witch-captains, seemingly blindly steering their machines of war, reached out with their senses enhanced by the rituals performed on the larger ships, trying to sense the life presence of the stealth ships crews, to engage in brutal retaliation. Some among the destroyers went so far as to accelerate with full power, their frontal four horn-like weapons reinforced with Cortosis forged blades that charged with energy, meant to cut through enemy hulls in ramming speed, entangling the enemy ship between their maws, who they would then after barrage from point blank range, or worse, board, to bring the Athysian brutality to the Migrant Fleet's Sith servants; Force sensitives, Sith or Jedi, or Sasha nonetheless, had always been most valued plunder from their barbaric raids....

 

[Darth Fauste]

The void was filled with blinding light, as the Taravalon tore itself apart, its death throes illuminating the battlefield in a violent, fiery burst. Chunks of metal and debris flew in every direction, the shockwave scattering squadrons of starfighters and smaller ships like so much flotsam in a storm. The screams of the dying and the panicked cries of the living echoed through the Force, and Darth Fauste felt each one like a dagger driven into her soul.

Rage boiled within her—black and acrid, tainting her very thoughts. Her eyes flared like twin suns, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails drew blood. The sacrifice of the Nihilist had been intended to cripple the Athysian advance, but now the Taravalon’s unexpected explosion had turned the tide once more, threatening to plunge her forces into the abyss.

"Report!" she snapped, her voice a whip crack that reverberated through the bridge of the Machiavellian.

"The Taravalon has detonated, my Lord. The shockwave has damaged several of our ships, but the Dogma is in its path!" one of her officers called out, his voice strained.

Commander Thrax’s face appeared on a holoscreen nearby, his expression set in grim determination. "My Lady," he began, his voice low and resolute. "The Dogma will intercept the debris field. We can hold it long enough for the Machiavellian to maneuver clear."

Fauste's glare softened, if only for a fraction of a second. "Thrax... your sacrifice will not be in vain."

Thrax smiled, a warrior's grin that spoke of honor, duty, and a life lived for battle. "For the Starborn Sect, for the Migrant Fleet... and for you, my Lady. We shall hold until our last breath."

With a curt nod, he cut the transmission, turning to his crew. "All hands, brace for impact! Prepare for emergency maneuvers!" Thrax shouted over the alarms blaring throughout the bridge. "Helm, redirect all power to shields. Tactical, target any large debris and keep it away from the Machiavellian. Today we do not die quietly; today we make them remember us!"

As the Dogma moved forward to intercept, it took the full brunt of the shockwave. Shields flared and buckled, and the ship trembled under the onslaught. Fires broke out along the length of the vessel, and pieces of the hull began to shear away, but still, the Dogma held, stubbornly clawing at the void.

"Thrax…" Fauste whispered under her breath, feeling the weight of his sacrifice settle upon her shoulders. But there was no time for mourning; another threat loomed.

The Nihilist was still on its deadly course, still carrying its own lethal payload toward the Athysian lines. "Evacuate the Nihilist! Get every soul off that ship!" she commanded, her voice carrying a desperate urgency. Escape pods and shuttlecraft launched from the Nihilist, streaking toward the relative safety of the remaining ships.

"Activate the Gravity Well Projectors!" she ordered next. "We will not let them escape. Not now. Not after this."

The Machiavellian rumbled as the Gravity Well Projectors came online, casting invisible tendrils of energy across the void to ensnare the Athysian fleet. The gravity wells distorted space itself, creating a field of force that would make it impossible for the Athysians to jump to hyperspace. Ships would be dragged back, their engines protesting as they strained against the powerful gravitational pull.

Fauste extended a hand, her anger focused into a singular, burning desire to crush her enemy. She reached out through the Force and felt the physical tethers binding the Athysian destroyers to the Machiavellian. With a flick of her wrist, she tore them away, twisting and snapping them as though they were nothing more than threads. The metal groaned and shrieked, and the tendrils shattered under her might, sending the Athysian ships tumbling backward.

"Open a channel to Desmundor," she commanded. When his face flickered into view on the holoscreen, she did not wait for him to speak. "Desmundor," she began, her voice cold as the void itself, "do you truly think you can escape the wrath of the Sith? You bring your paltry tricks and your savage rituals to this battlefield, thinking they will save you from the fire that comes for you? Look around you, Hegemon—your ships burn, your warriors bleed. Do you see now the folly of your arrogance?"

Her words dripped with contempt, her eyes blazing with fury. "You thought to bring the devils into my house, but you forget, Hegemon, that I am the devil's keeper. You are trapped, Desmundor. You and your entire fleet will die here, in the cold dark void. There will be no songs sung of your victory—only a whisper of defeat."

Aboard the Nihilist, the core’s countdown reached its final moments. The ship's structure began to shudder violently, its reactor overloading, building to a critical mass. The vessel, now empty of its crew, hurtled forward like a comet, a Trojan Horse set to explode among the Athysian ranks.

“Now, Nihilist,” she hissed, “finish this.”

And then, the Nihilist erupted in a blinding nova of light and death, an explosion that outshone even the death of the Taravalon. The shockwave rolled outward, tearing through anything in its path. Smaller ships were vaporized instantly; larger ships were rocked and damaged, their shields failing in the wake of the tremendous blast. The explosion consumed everything in its immediate radius, turning Athysian ships into little more than twisted, molten wrecks drifting through the void.

"Press the attack!" Darth Fauste commanded, her rage turned to a dark exultation. "We have them now. Let none escape."

The void seethed with dark energy, the remnants of the Taravalon’s explosion still fading into the distance. On the bridge of the Machiavellian, Darth Fauste felt the touch of something vile and ancient crawling through the ship. A sinister force had infiltrated her domain—a ritual unleashed by the Athysian witch-captains. The acrid stench of dark magic tainted the air. She felt the life slipping away from some of her crew—coughs, gasps, and the silent collapse of those whose bodies had succumbed to the sinister effects.

A shudder ran through the Machiavellian as life support alarms blared, alerting her to the sudden death toll from the dark ritual. “My Lord, the Athysians have used some form of dark-side sorcery!” shouted an officer, panic rising in his voice. “We are losing crew—lung failure, frostbite… some of them are already—"

“Enough,” Fauste snapped, cutting him off, her eyes blazing with a terrible light. “They think they can cripple us with such parlor tricks?”

Fauste took a deep breath, harnessing her fury, turning it into a weapon. She would not let this insult go unanswered. “Order the fleet to recall. Pull all forces back to the perimeter of the Gravity Well Projectors. We are not giving them another opportunity for their vile conjurations.”

Her decision was immediate and absolute. She knew she could not risk more lives against such a power. Her people had already suffered enough, and the wound to her pride and command was too great to ignore. She would make this personal. Her voice became cold steel. "Prepare my starfighter."

The officers hesitated for a fraction of a second, but they knew better than to question her. “Yes, my Lord,” they chorused.

Fauste strode from the bridge, her dark cloak billowing behind her, every step purposeful, her rage palpable. She would meet this threat head-on, carve through their defenses herself if need be, and tear Desmundor from the stars with her own hands. As she descended to the hangar, she felt the dark tendrils of the Athysian ritual still probing through the ship, still feeding on her people’s pain. It only fueled her further.

Within moments, the hangar bay of the Machiavellian roared to life. Technicians and pilots scrambled to make way as Darth Fauste’s personal starfighter—a sleek, predatory craft of white durasteel—was brought forward. She climbed into the cockpit, her fingers moving over the controls with the fluid ease of a master pilot.

The canopy sealed shut with a hiss, and the starfighter's engines roared to life, the ship trembling with barely contained power. Fauste’s eyes narrowed as she locked her sensors onto Desmundor’s flagship, the Athysian warship that had dared to launch this assault.

“Desmundor,” she muttered to herself, her lips curling in a snarl. “You wanted war, and now you will have it.”

With a flick of her wrist, she pushed the throttle forward, launching herself from the hangar into the cold embrace of the void. Her starfighter surged forward, a streak of darkness amid the burning wreckage of the battle. She maneuvered through the debris with practiced ease, weaving between the hulks of destroyed ships, the cold vacuum around her a maelstrom of light and death.

"Commander Thrax’s sacrifice will not be forgotten," she vowed quietly, her voice resolute, "and your defiance, Athysian, will be your undoing."

With a grim determination, Fauste opened the comms channel to her fleet. "All ships, maintain formation and prepare for a renewed assault on my command."

She could feel the eyes of her officers upon her, even through the distance of the void. She knew they would follow her lead; they would die for her if she asked it. But this, this final blow against the Athysians, would be hers alone.

And with that, she angled her fighter toward the Athysian flagship and accelerated, streaking toward her enemy like a comet of vengeance, ready to carve a path of destruction through the heart of their forces.

Fauste’s plan? To crash headfirst into the bridge of Desmundor’s ship.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

The battle raged. Desmundor observed as his fleet abandoned his offensive and adopted a defensive stance. Many of the operators reported the buildup in magnetic pull caused by the Gravity Well, effectivelly restraining both fleets in the engagement. He did not appreciate the state of affairs. His mind twisting as he searched within for ways to reverse the situation, only for an operator's voice to provide what his mind could not.

"Lord, Hegemon. We are receiving a transmission from the Machiavellian."

"Pass it through."

The Hegemon tilted his head in a moment of recollection and realization, as Darth Fauste taunted him through the holoprojection.

"Seems you have forgotten who you are fighting, Sith." he answered, resting his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword. "We do not fear Death. As a matter of fact... We just called to Him...." he smirked, nodding to the holo. "You want me to stick around? Then provide me with a challenge worthy of the Crimson Star. I thought the Sith were tougher. You pitty the dying. We exalt them. Perhaps when I get a proper bout, I show you how true warriors face death. Before I cast your cadaver to the River, with my name written on your forehead."

He had no intention of coming to terms. This was a holy war, for Desmundor. He would meet his end, should a worthy foe presented themself, otherwise he would bleed every Sith champion until he made his way to Korriban itself. This was what he pledged himself to.

As the transmission ended, cut off by Desmundor himself, feeding to the sensation of Fauste's boiling anger, he turned and traced the Sith's starfighter as she accelerated towards his position. His eyes fixed. The closer she came to the Athysian vanguard, the stiffer the hunt. As if carying the stench of prey, Fauste's ship attracted the marauding Hoplite interceptors who flocked like flies over a carrion to taste on the glory her beaming rage promised. Seismic charges, blaster fire and scissor manuveuring pursued Darth Fauste, as she made her way under the pressing concentrated fire of the turbolaser batteries from the capital ship that served as the Hegemon's flagship, and her surrounding support ships, determined to cast her into the void. A hot invisible hand pulling Darth Fauste through, as Desmundor's determined whispering felt like fuel to the burning fire of her anger. He did not wish her dead. He did not wish to protect himself from her. He too, craved for the confrontation. He invited a contest. He led her to him.

The body of the Sith fell on the deck. A trail of gore and scattered limbs traced the corridors of the deck all the way to the torn site from whence the Athysian raiders boarded the Nihilist. In their brutal onslaught, led by nothing but the foul Battle Meditation of their eyeless priestesses and sorcerers. With no form of modern technology or sophistication, the Athysian legion, the Vrea Preata, in their tongue, pushed deck after deck, slaying all life onboard as they cried out the war cries "To the River! Nether awaits us all!". The archaic weaponry used by the dark warriors signified their eons of isolation in the far reaches of the Wild Space, yet advanced in ways that made them dread foes of any among the civilized galaxy, even the Sith themselves.

As the Athysian boarding parties scourged their way closer and closer to the bridge, the Nihilist experienced a sudden surge of energy. Driven by selfless pride and what could only be described as overzeal of dying a warrior's death, the Athysians paid no heed. As the blast doors of the bridge were finally cast open by the particle cannon of the auxiliary Athysian troops, the dark champions flooded the deck, laying waste to the crew onboard. But alas, in a blinding cast of light and fire, all cries onboard were silenced as the Nihilist joined the Taravalon as a black ark, carrying the lives of thousands onboard and around it to the Netherworld, where their path became ever since unknown....

The Athysian fleet maintained their defensive formation, gradually withdrawing while pressing fire onto the Migrant Fleet, attempting to establish distance between the two. The battle grew to a stale, as the bulk of the Athysian fighters, those who survived the massive blast of the Nihilist and the Taravalon, withdrew, under the cover of the main fleet's barrages against the Migrant warships.

"Lord, hegemon, an enemy ship is heading towards us!" one of the operators declared.

"No... She is." Desmundor formed the vague shell of a smile, observing the enemy's deflection and manuveurs as the entirety of turbolaser turrets and anti-air emplacements targeted her, followed by a trail of rampant Hoplites. But regardless damages sustained, Desmundor knew, she was not their's to claim... She, was HIS.

As the starfighter flew ever closer and ever faster towards the bridge, Desmundor stepped backwards. Controlled, intended steps as his eyes had became locked to the coming starfighter. He brought his hands aloft, spreading his palms as his muscles stretched to the taint of the Dark Side. He reached out with an invisible tendril summoning the Force around the starship, casting his will against its silhuette to implode it in a crushing might that could potentially bend its shape inwards enough to trap or even squash the Sith inside.

A blaze shined at the eyes of the bridge, atop the first of the many towering spires that made up the superstructure of the sterncastle accomodations, atop of which the bridge was located. Flame tongues devoured the bridge, melting down consoles and vaporising the operators and crew on deck, amalgamating the starfighter in a black burning debris no longer recognizable from the bridge deck itself. Some of the emergency covers extended, containing the compressed air that vaccumed everything not heavy or attached enough to the burning deck into the void, yet some of them were far too damaged by the crash of the starship to unfold, leaving a strong outward current looming on the destroyed bridge.

"Welcome onboard, Sith" his determined voice sounded.

Lightning blared around the crystal sharp blade of the alchemised weapon held by Desmundor, as his gripping hand sparked it into life, distinguishing himself from the thick black smoke, quickly envelopping everything in a blinding black cloud that followed the strong current of the void, sucking any remnant life support oxygen yet remained on the deck.

"Shall we begin..?"

The dark flagship drifted, as black smoke fountained from her bridge, causing a gap in the Athysian vanguard. The reflector shields struggling, having soaked enough fire to be effectivelly disabled. Her surrounding warships accelerate, while Destroyers move towards her to use their grabbling hooks to tow her behind the main Athysian bulwark... A rare moment appeared; And yet, the very thickness of the Athysian formation made any effort towards the flagship a near-suicidal endeavour.... And yet...

Would it worth it?

 

[Darth Fauste]

Fauste resisted the pressure that threatened to buckle her ship into a ball of scrap metal. Her own Force abilities came to bare and kept the ship intact long enough to reach her destination. Part of her, the scholar that strove to learn as much as she could, marveled at her reflection in the opposing ship for all of a second before the collision.

The impact rattled her bones, but the pain only sharpened her senses. The crash of her starfighter into the bridge was a calculated risk, and the fiery wreckage that enveloped the command deck of Desmundor’s ship was proof of her determination. Darth Fauste was thrown from the cockpit as the twisted metal screeched to a halt, her rebreather mask already in place. She took a single breath, tasting the acrid smoke, the scent of molten metal and burning flesh.

Then she moved.

From within the swirling black smoke, her figure emerged—a light among shadows, but unmistakable in its predatory grace. Her silhouette was framed by the smoldering wreckage, the smoke parting like a curtain around her as she stepped forward. Her white cloak billowed around her, singed and tattered from the impact, but intact enough to flow with an ethereal quality as though alive with malice.

Her eyes glowed a sickly, sulfuric yellow through the mask, burning with the rage that had fueled her mad charge. They pierced the smoke like a beacon of malevolent intent. A cruel smile twisted beneath the mask, though it was hidden from view. She reached out with her hand, fingers curling into a fist, and summoned the crimson blade of her lightsaber.

With a snap-hiss, the red blade sprang to life, cutting through the haze like a blade through flesh. Its glow cast long, jagged shadows across the broken surfaces of the bridge, and the hum of the lightsaber was a low, menacing growl that promised only death.

Desmundor’s voice had taunted her, but now it was swallowed by the crackle of her blade and the hiss of the damaged life-support systems. The Hegemon had dared to invite her into his lair, to claim her as his prey, but she was no quarry; she was the hunter.

“Your words are empty, Desmundor,” she hissed, her voice distorted through the mask, amplified by the Force to echo across the ruined bridge. “You speak of death like it is your ally, but you will find only me.”

She moved forward slowly, deliberately, each step ringing out on the metal deck. The air itself seemed to tremble with her approach, a tangible manifestation of her rage and power. She could feel the force of the vacuum pulling at her, trying to tear her from the deck, but she was rooted like an ancient tree, her body a pillar of dark intent. The smoke swirled around her like a living shroud, cloaking her in darkness.

Desmundor’s silhouette emerged from the other side of the bridge, his form illuminated by the sparks and flames still dancing from the crash. His alchemized blade crackled with dark energy, a stark contrast to the brilliant red of her lightsaber. The currents of the Force swirled violently between them, a tempest of dark energy colliding with greater darkness.

“You think yourself a warrior,” Fauste continued, her voice low and dangerous. “But you have not faced a true Sith. I will show you the folly of your arrogance.”

With a flick of her wrist, she pointed her blade at Desmundor, a challenge that needed no words. Her rage was a living thing, a beast of shadow and fury coiled in her chest, ready to strike. She felt the Force surge around her, dark and terrible, feeding on the hatred in the room—the deaths, the destruction, the chaos. Every life snuffed out, every soul torn from its vessel fed her power.

And then, like a shadow springing from the night, she moved.

A blur of white and black, she darted across the wreckage-strewn bridge, her lightsaber carving through the air with deadly precision. The smoke billowed in her wake, and the floor shuddered beneath her feet. She brought her saber down in a vicious arc aimed at Desmundor’s head, intending to cleave him in two, only for the Hegemon to parry with a swift, brutal motion, sparks flying from the clash of their blades.

They moved like titans, the air charged with power, their blades singing through the smoke-filled air. Desmundor pressed forward, his strength undeniable, his alchemized blade biting through the space between them with vicious intent. But Fauste was faster, every step, every twist, every slash guided by the Force. She ducked under a sweeping strike and countered with a brutal kick, sending him back a step, just enough to gain her ground.

“You dare speak of fear?” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “I have walked paths darker than you could imagine. I have faced demons that would break your mind. You are nothing. You are a shadow playing at war.”

Emotions threatened to boil over.

Fauste let loose a scream of fury, amplified by the Force, a scream that shook the very walls of the bridge, a scream that heralded her next attack. She lunged at him with a fury that defied reason, her saber a crimson blur, her movements almost too fast to follow, her strikes aiming for any opening she could find, seeking the moment when his guard would falter.

For she was not here to simply fight him. She was here to break him. To tear him apart. To make him understand the meaning of true power.

And she would not stop until Desmundor lay broken at her feet, his body nothing more than a ruin, his soul torn asunder by the raw, relentless fury of the Dark Side.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

The Hegemon of Athysia was not a title inherited, nor a position ever enjoying the slightest form of tranquility. In the archaic warrior society of Athysia, in which those who drew breath had tales of glory, or shameful disgrace, in a hierarchy that only favoured renown and broken restraints. It was in such a world, he had grown up, and it was in such a world he had tasted enough blight to find himself in Rishi years later. It was for such a world, and the values rooted within him, that he chose to stand by his patron, forsaking any past will of retribution over those who had wronged him and deprived him of all he held dear. But no...

His fate was predetermined from the moment he beheld the very Gods who had brought Athysia to the decadent state she now was; A dying world. And yet, they mustered a Raider Fleet of three Hive City States upon the calling of their long lost patron. He was the one blessed with the curse of leadership, bestowed upon him by the very patron he now stood an exalted of.

Desmundor's gaze was that of barely contained anticipation. To him, a challenge was a rarity, with a horde of champions craving the glory of the kill. He had to acknowledge, her determination that brought her thusfar had earned a certain proportion of respect. Then again, he lowered his witchblade, and she fell dark, effectivelly vanishing him in the thick smoke.

"If words are empty, do not waste them." he spoke. He reached out in the Force to pinpoint his opponents position, while he slithered around the debris, approaching the Sith, wasting no effort in tactics, or diversions. He wanted a fight. He wanted a glorified kill that would farther his mark on the fleet. All that, in the presence of Death, nonetheless... A perfectly timed event he could not have possibly planned any better...

As her flurry of strikes came, he pulled himself left and right, dodging as many of the attempts as he could, without truly using the blade, until the final binding strike that found both weapons sparking as lightning made them one single screeching song of devastation, from whence the ode continued as the two exchanged blows in speed unnatural, driven by their attunement to the Force.

Desmundor was confident. He spared no opportunity, demonstrating the effectiveness of the witchblade against the lightsaber's much more advanced concept, yet standing toe to toe with it. His technique, alien to the elegance of the lightsaber forms, was a crude, linear pattern of movements, heavily based on the synchronized powerful strikes, and charging of the blade through Force means to farther the cutting capacity, or might of the strike itself, vaguelly resembling the antiquate fighting styles adopted by the old Sith species in the times before the emergence of the Exiles, and the formation of the Sith Order.

"You are strong, Sith. But you are Blind." he pushed himself against his blade, in a low bind. "Death is coming for us all."

Outside, in the void, the battle raged still, with the bulk of the Athysian Vanguard barraging the Dogma who steered dangerously close to their positions. This time, there were no boarding torpedoes, nor bold assaults, instead, the Destroyers lunged from behind the Athysian bulwark and after casting their painful beams, they pulled quickly back, to avoid any further exposure to the Migrant Fleet's cannonade.
The entire Athysian force gradually pulled back, continuing their efforts to establish a gap between the two fleets.

The flagship, however, being struck at the bridge, went adrift and exposed herself to the Dogma, who the rest of the capital ships recognized as a threat, focusing their efforts to overwhelm or force her to retreat.

 

[Empor]

@Darth Fauste​

There was no colour the eye could define. The bogs that extended as far as the dense mist allowed were shallow. The water, or whatever outworldly liquid bogged there, reflected the blackness of the surrounding environment. No sound could be heard, save for the occasional cackling of the strange shadowy entities that lurked beyond the mist.
An ethereal form wandered, causing no disturbance in the bogwater, as if its entity was not manifested through material projection. Passing through the bogs, the entity gazed with its hooded, eyeless mask, too unconcievably deformed in manner demonic and unreal to be described. Suddenly, wind blew from beyond the shroud, breaking the perpetual staleness of the bleak environment. The figure lifted its gaze towards the coming of the wind.

The freezing presence of foul energies caused a feeling of undefinable discomfort onboard the Machievellian. Suddenly, unpredicted cries of panic were received through the internal communications channels coming from several levels in which crew had perished to the Force-inflicted frostbite, accompanied by an incomperhensible distorted chorus of screeching, yelling and blaster fire, before the transmission was cut off.

More reports came from the infected decks, with holocamera recordings revealing the awakening of the fallen into a living-dead state, deprived of any functions of their vitals, while many among them, after being shot by the defending crew, were disemboweled or had limbs torn off by lightsaber strikes. Some of them, having been crushed by machinery or shutting blast doors twisted their bodies in grotesque unnatural manner, regaining their ability to move across the decks. None of the crew's efforts truly diminished their blind determination to cannibalize their once comrades.

And so, the real face of the Athysian attack manifested itself onboard the Machiavellian, as Death, finally, had come for the Migrant Fleet.

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste could feel the rising tension between herself and Desmundor, each strike of their weapons crashing against one another like tidal waves colliding in an eternal storm. Sparks of pure energy erupted as her red lightsaber met his archaic witchblade, creating a dance of light and shadow that filled the smoke-laden bridge. Her breath came heavy through the rebreather mask, its filter hissing with each exhale. The darkened atmosphere only heightened the glow of her sickly yellow eyes, which now bore into her opponent like twin stars of hatred.

She had to admit, Desmundor was more formidable than she had anticipated. His movements were raw, aggressive, and driven by a singular purpose — to kill, to conquer, to leave nothing but destruction in his wake. There was no elegance or restraint in his form, only a primal, animalistic hunger that matched her fury blow for blow. Yet, she sensed the depth of his confidence. His arrogance was palpable, a misguided assurance that he could best her with sheer willpower alone.

"You think death frightens me?" she snarled between breaths, circling him like a predator assessing her prey.

Before she could lunge forward, a sharp crackle echoed in her ear — the urgent voice of the Machiavellian's captain piercing through the intercom.

"Lord Fauste! The fallen have risen onboard! We are overwhelmed by some foul necromancy — the dead are attacking us! Orders?!"

Darth Fauste's mind raced. A surge of anger swelled within her. She could feel the Dark Side screaming in her veins, demanding destruction and carnage. Yet, clarity cut through her rage like a blade through fog.

"Vent the infected decks," she commanded with cold authority. "Purge every last one of them. If a single corpse remains, I will personally see you thrown out of the airlock."

She could almost hear the hesitation in the captain's voice before he responded, "Understood, Lord Fauste."

Her lips curled into a grim smile beneath her mask as she sensed the ripple of terror spreading throughout the Machiavellian's crew. Desmundor's crude trap had been sprung, but she would not be so easily caught. Her attention shifted back to him, feeling the Force flow between them — thick, tainted, and alive with fury.

"You brought this upon yourself, Athysian," she hissed. "You came here to die. Now, I will grant you that wish."

Suddenly, another voice broke through the comms, desperate and urgent, "Lord Fauste, the enemy is attempting to create distance! We can't pursue them much longer!"

Fauste's gaze flicked back to the battle unfolding outside, the Athysian ships tightening their formation, their firepower relentless. She had expected a challenge, a fight worthy of her name, but there was no honor in fighting an enemy so desperate, so eager to bring about their own end.

"Retreat," she ordered coldly, knowing that the crew would bristle at the command. "Fall back to our rendezvous point. I will deal with Desmundor myself."

"But, Lord Fauste—"

"Go!" she roared, her voice a thunderclap of command. "You will not defy me. I will find my own way out."

The transmission cut off. Fauste turned her full attention back to Desmundor, her eyes blazing with determination. She surged forward, her lightsaber a crimson blur, battering his defenses with renewed ferocity. Each strike was more powerful than the last, each parry sharper and more precise, driving him back toward the edge of the damaged bridge.

And then, a sudden realization struck her. The Dogma. Its engines burned bright in the darkness of space, hurtling forward with a speed that defied its size, its trajectory aimed directly at Desmundor’s flagship. The realization dawned on Desmundor’s face as well, and for the first time, his confidence wavered.

Fauste smiled beneath her mask, knowing that her flagship had taken her command to heart.

The Dogma crashed into Desmundor’s vessel with a deafening explosion that rocked the very core of the Athysian fleet. A wave of force rippled through the ship, sending it careening toward the nearby rogue moon, pulled by its gravity, like a burning comet descending into oblivion.

The bridge erupted in chaos, and Fauste leaped back, avoiding the falling debris. She saw Desmundor, his face twisted in anger and disbelief as his flagship began its rapid descent into the moon’s atmosphere.

"Your death is near, Hegemon," she taunted, her voice carrying over the roar of destruction. "I will carve my way through your corpse to escape if I must."

She stood there, lightsaber ignited, framed by the storm of fire and smoke, a figure of dark power against the backdrop of a dying ship. Her heart pounded with the thrill of battle, her senses sharp, alive with the chaos around her. She knew this was far from over, but she relished the fight.

The void would be her stage, and death, her audience.

"Come then, Desmundor," she called out through the din, her voice a razor's edge, "Let us see who meets Death first."

—-

The corridors of the Machiavellian were in utter disarray. Flickering emergency lights cast erratic shadows that danced across the walls, creating a dizzying, chaotic ambiance. The shrill wails of the alarm filled the air, punctuated by panicked cries and the horrific sounds of tearing flesh, blaster fire, and the grotesque, unholy groans of the risen dead. The infected decks were no longer under control; they were a battlefield of fear and death.

The undead moved with unnatural speed and strength, their eyes vacant, their movements jerky, yet relentless. They were twisted shells of the men and women who had once served under the banner of the Migrant Fleet, their broken bodies driven by some foul necromancy. Crew members — those still alive — fought desperately, using anything they could find, but it was a losing battle. For every ghoul that fell, another rose from the blood-soaked deckplates.

Deep within the ship, the captain stood in the command center, his face pale and set in a grim determination. He could hear the frantic shouts and screams over the intercom, the sound of bones crunching and bodies collapsing like bags of flesh. A bitter chill coursed through him, despite the sweat pouring down his face.

“Bridge to engineering,” he snapped into his comms. “Prepare to vent decks six through twelve immediately!”

A voice crackled back, tense and strained. “But, sir! We still have crew on those decks—”

“They are already dead!” the captain barked, slamming his fist down on the console. “Do it now, or the entire ship is lost!”

The hesitation on the other end was brief but palpable. Then, after a moment, “Understood, venting in ten seconds…”

The captain closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the console as the countdown began. He could hear it, the faint beeping as each second passed, each sound like a heartbeat, counting down to oblivion. His thoughts drifted to those men and women, their faces, their voices. He knew some of them, had served beside them, shared meals and stories… Now, he was about to consign them to the cold, unforgiving vacuum of space.

“Five… four… three… two… one…”

A deep, mechanical rumble vibrated through the Machiavellian, and a loud hiss echoed throughout the infected decks. Emergency seals broke away, bulkheads retracted, and the airlocks opened with a thunderous roar. A violent gust of wind swept through the halls, pulling everything with it — bodies, debris, the walking dead. The undead, clawing at the walls, their mouths gaping in silent screams, were sucked into the void, their ghastly forms spinning out into the emptiness.

The living too — those who had been fighting, those who had clung to a last shred of hope — were torn from their positions. They screamed, some in terror, some in defiance, as they were yanked into the abyss. The sound of their cries was lost in the rush of decompression, their faces twisting in horror before they too vanished into the darkness beyond the hull.

Inside the control room, the captain opened his eyes, his expression hardening. “Status,” he demanded.

“Decks vented, sir,” came the reply. “All infected areas are clear. Structural integrity holding.”

The captain exhaled, his shoulders slumping with the weight of what he’d just done. “Good,” he muttered, though the word felt hollow. There would be no mourning, no funeral pyres for the fallen. Only the icy silence of the void to serve as their graves.

“Order all remaining sections to fall back to the core,” he commanded, his voice like iron. “Prepare to retreat at maximum speed. Get us out of this deathtrap before the entire fleet is compromised.”

The Machiavellian groaned and shuddered as the engines roared to life. With thrusters blazing, the ship pivoted, angling away from the battle that still raged outside. The hull, scarred and smoking, began to pull back, moving away from the Athysian fleet. Its shields flickered and sparked, but held — barely.

“Engage full retreat!” the captain ordered. “All hands, brace for evasive maneuvers!”

In the background, the Gravity Well collapsed.

The Machiavellian surged forward, engines flaring, leaving behind the hellscape of the battle. The captain stood firm, knowing that they had escaped the immediate threat but at a terrible cost. His hands trembled, but he steadied himself against the console, his jaw set.

“Lord Fauste will find her way,” he whispered, though it was more to himself than anyone else. “She always does.”

Behind them, the void swallowed the decks they had sacrificed, and the Machiavellian pressed onward, retreating into the dark reaches of space, leaving behind the chaos and death that had claimed so many of their own.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

Desmundor smirked, as if he could hear the captain's plead through Fauste's earpiece. He nodded, feeding to the dread and discord that spread across the very flagship of the Migrant Fleet like a rampant plague. He did not trace her as she vultured around him. He remained still, entirely trusting his senses in the Force to guide him to her next attack.

"I told you, Sith..." he spoke in solemn, cold voice, no longer baring the irritating mockery he had spoken before. "Death has come for you."

Silently, the Hegemon awaited; Foreseeing the much anticipated steps of his battle-ritual come into a revelation of the Athysian warfare's wicked form. Each dead, a sacrifice; Each blade gored, a rite to the foul entities that held the Athysian minds under a pseudodivine grip, kiting them to their ways of corruption. First were the living dead. Then, came the sacrifices. Then, the withdrawal of the Athysian Fleet. In Desmundor's mind, these were signs of a winning confrontation.

As Fauste turned to the view of the battle beyond the bridge, hardly visible by the ever-thick shroud of smoke emitted from the burning deck, Desmundor remained still.
"I did not come here to die, Sith. I came here to bring Death. And Death, has befell you and yours." his solemn voice sounded, yet umoved the man from his semi-meditative battle limbo. "You just cannot see, for you are Blind."

And then, she spoke the word, black and reverberating to the ear of the Hegemon.

Retreat

There could be no gain without loss. No blessing, without enough sacrifices. That was the Athysian way of life, the warrior society that had kept the dying world alive throughout the eons of torment and isolation. And now, finally, Desmundor granted the greatest a victory to the warmongering fragmented champions of Athysia. A masterfully crafted plan; A Rite of Carnage, summoning powers to the Athysian mind unfathomable.

As the Sith thrusted herself against him, his muscles ignited into action the final moment, as if he could see the very attack behind him without the need for his eyes. So enchanted was he, by the foulness of the Athysian rituals, Fauste's footprint in the Force was felt so clearly, he could anticipate her strikes as much as he had anticipated the battle's course, thusfar unshaken.

A bright light pierced through the thick shroud, as the Dogma accelerated ever closer to the flagship, casting her blare over the hulking Athysian capital ship, which roared any cannon that had line of sight to it in defiance of the innevitable ramming. And then, there was light-

In a clash of scale inconceivable, the Dogma amalgamated with the Athysian flagship in an outburst of flames and energy blasts, casting shockwaves enough to fail the nearby Athysian capital ships' shield generators and swallow entire squadrons that were yet to reach their hangars into oblivion. The power of the collision made the Athysian engines, already wounded by the stealth ships' assaults, to be vomited out of the hull in a blazing inferno, as the hulking amalgamation of both wrecks were cast adrift, finally embraced by the gravitational pull of the nearby celestial object. A Rogue moon; A hulk of dead stone and foul air washed by no starlight to spawn life pure into it, now pulling the warships whole as prize. A final sacrifice to the Death the Athysians so ignorantly had brought upon the battlefield...

Alas, a blessing's greatness matches the sacrifices offered.... Or demanded!

Desmundor, upon the brief moment of unspoken stalemate of the duel, came to feel in his bones the gravity not sourced by the artificial pull of the ship, now weakened by the failing systems. The air turned heavy, painfully inhaled, while the blinding light cast a radiant wave of burning heat that was endured by him only through an invisible barrier cast around him, effectivelly protecting Fauste as well.

Darth Fauste's challenge finally felt real to the Hegemon. He shook his head, fuelled by renewed Defiance as the burning ships descended closer and closer to the moon. Every alarm ringing, as the Athysian crew and detachments abandoned the ship like vermin escaping from a burning barn. He, however, did not allow himself be filled with fear. No, he knew this was a price to be paid, for the mayhem he conjured.

"Foolish Sith." he declared, adopting an aggressive posture. "Neither of us shall leave this flaming tomb. We shall both go down in flames. I in the Citadel... You... in the River. So help me Dhefion!" he cried out, finally throwing himself against the Sith, in a flurry of blows crowned with tails of lightning waving down upon the Sith, as his eyes turned fiery, possessed by the Dark Side's corruptive influence now flowing free through him.

 

[Empor]

@Darth Fauste​

The blackness, once still, now turned into a nightmarish motion that sparked unlife into the bleak gloom in who's embrace the bogs endured. The grim figure lowered its head, eyelessly gazing upon the bubbling water as colourless steam popped from within their exploded shells. More and more bubbles popped from the shallow unknown of the bogwater, as vague echoes of the carnage reverberated like whispering songs of fear and death across the nightmarish realm. The figure embraced this, feeding in the symphony of destruction that harvested nothing but sorrow and blood in its cacophony.

"I am Fear" a chorus of a thousand voices uttered in synchrony, from the mouthless masked face of the figure. "I am Death."

Out, in the void, the Athysian fleet advanced. The Destroyers, now emboldened by the enemy's retreat, scourged forth to snap any last fragment of excitment they could out of the bloodletting, while the larger warships discharged swarms of gunships and deep space droids, scanning the entirety of the void for life signs. Those unfortunate members of the Machiavellian's crew, suffocating now in the cold depths of the endless black, were collected in dreadful efficiency, brought onboard the hellshells of the Athysian warships...

Fuel, to the dark rituals and trophies of the mayhem brought upon the Migrant Fleet, now collected as bounty to serve as venerations of the unforgiving Athysian pantheon of Shadow. Many of the captured were hooked and hanged by brass chains, above the ritual onyx chambers the Eyerea performed their foul magics; Others, snatched by the corsairs of the Destroyers, disemboweled by the wicked Witch-Captains and nailed living in their dying state, against the cannons, or welded on ships prows, affixed with rebreathers to prolong their horrific torment, now serving as hideous crowns of triumph.

Such was the cruelty of the Athysian Raider Fleet; Such was the army mustered by the Hegemon, yet loyal to their exalted warlord. As the dread harvest ended, the Athysian ships gradually followed the Migrant Fleet's example and departed into Hyperspace, while few of the Destroyers set course for the rogue Moon, to salvage any of the crew that could have survived, and answer the Eyerea demands of picking the Hegemon who only they still believed was alive...

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste's eyes blazed with a fierce, unyielding determination. The Dogma's brilliant collision with the Athysian flagship had sent shockwaves through both the ship and the Force, a sudden surge that made her senses flare with painful intensity. The surrounding structure shuddered violently, groaning under the immense pressure of its descent into the rogue moon’s gravity. Fires blazed around her, casting long shadows that danced and flickered like phantoms.

The Hegemon’s strikes came fast and relentless, his blade and lightning moving as if they were extensions of his very soul. Fauste deflected and countered, weaving her crimson lightsaber in sharp arcs to meet his blows, sparks flying with every clash. The air grew heavier, the oppressive weight of the moon's pull thickening the already stifling atmosphere. Every breath she drew was labored, the heat of the failing engines pressing against her like a molten wave.

Desmundor's corrupted eyes flared with malevolent intent, a reflection of the dark energies coursing through him. Fauste could feel it too, that tendril of the Dark Side whispering promises of power, clawing at her resolve, tempting her to succumb. But she did not yield. She was a master of these shadows, not their slave.

“You are so certain of your victory, Athysian?” she taunted, sidestepping a vicious swing and countering with a quick, precise thrust aimed at his shoulder. “You think you know Death? You think you are Death?”

Her words cut through the din of their clashing blades, a venomous whisper that sought to puncture the swelling arrogance within him. Desmundor's face twisted into a sneer, and he doubled his onslaught, every movement heavy and direct, his strikes raining down like a torrent of anger.

Then it came — the final jolt. The ship, caught in the rogue moon’s gravitational embrace, hit the surface with catastrophic force. Metal screamed and tore, a thunderous cacophony that drowned out all thought. The violent impact hurled Fauste from her feet, her body launched like a ragdoll through the shattered remains of the bridge.

She slammed against a crumbling wall, her armor absorbing some of the shock but not enough. Her body twisted, and she was sent tumbling, flung into the void through a breach in the ship’s hull.

The low gravity of the moon caught her mid-fall, and she bounced across its barren surface, skipping like a stone across a still lake. She felt something snap in her side, a sharp, white-hot pain that radiated through her chest. A broken rib, maybe two. She winced, using the momentum to roll back onto her feet. Her breath came ragged now, every inhalation a stab of agony, but she forced the pain aside. Pain was an old friend, one she had learned to master long ago.

The ground beneath her was jagged and uneven, a desolate landscape devoid of life or light save for the dim glow of the dying star far in the distance. Smoke and debris from the ships’ destruction settled around her like an ashen shroud. Her eyes focused through the haze, and she saw Desmundor emerge from the wreckage, untouched by fear, his face still twisted in that hateful grin.

Fauste's lips curled into a snarl. She tightened her grip on her lightsaber, her eyes never leaving him as she summoned the Force, letting it flow through her, around her. She could feel Desmundor’s presence — a boiling cauldron of hatred and violence, but underneath it, something more. Something deeper. Something darker.

She closed her eyes briefly, extending her senses outward, probing, reaching for the edges of his mind. The surface thoughts were clear — anger, pride, the lust for combat. But she delved deeper, slipping past his defenses, her consciousness like a dagger moving silently through the shadows of his psyche.

"Who do you fear, Desmundor?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fires. "What name haunts you? What face would turn your blood to ice?"

She felt resistance, a mental barrier hastily erected, but she pushed against it with the full weight of her will. Her own thoughts became a blade, cutting through the fog of his mind, seeking that which he sought to keep hidden.

“Show me…” she breathed, her voice filled with venomous command. “Show me the face that makes even you tremble.”

She felt his mind waver, the briefest tremor of uncertainty, and she pressed harder, her senses sharpening, searching for that one fragment of fear, that one buried thought that could unravel him, if only she could find it.

Darth Fauste's eyes snapped open, locking onto Desmundor's. She could feel the darkness pulsing around them both, the battle now waged not just in the physical realm, but in the very space between their minds.

“Come now, Desmundor,” she taunted with a wicked grin, feeling the shift in the tides. “Even Death has something it fears.”

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

How ignorant did Fauste's words sound to Desmundor. How Blind she truy was, was an expected and yet fascinating reality that struck him like a thunder, the more the fight between the two evolved, a vain struggle that only a fool, or a dreamer, could see point in, considering the descend the hulk had set down to the rogue moon. And yet, Sith and Athysian, Dark Lord and Hegemon, continued their bout, as if what would determine the outcome of it would not be a blinding nose dive into a dead world...

"You are blind, Sith; Refusing to see what's clear in your eyes, only repeating hollow threats and shallow promises... You face a Hegemon, now. Stand up high to your posture, or cast your own self to the void and spare us both the trouble!"

There would be no time for a reply. No, the judgement of the final sacrifice of the battle befell the amalgamated ships, as they crashed, bending like tin cans against the boot's pressure, as they instantly dug a crater on the moon's rocky surface. One moment, Desmundor was facing Fauste with blades bound and glaring piercing to one another, and on the other, there was blackness.

He twitched, grunting as he felt the pain finally kicking in of his wounds. Although his armour, carved as it was by the force of the multiple crashes against many of the crashing ships' shrapnel and naked rods, still held, his body harnessed within had suffered greatly. His leg bled, so much so he could not feel the exact extend, or place of the wound. His abdomen in horror, twisted and pumping liquids to his trachea, causing him to vomit, only to realize the low gravitational pull of the moon he found himself now trapped on....

He shook his head, blinking in hopes of ridding himself of the pain that presisted. Crawling towards the burning wreck, he tore a rebreather from one of the burning cadavers, hanging impaled by the bend hull that formed spikes proper. An unlucky descend, now claimed by Death like many before him in this fight.

Standing up, he pushed through the burning wreckage, blackened by the thick ashes that levitated in the foul atmosphere, until he walked forth, before his fated nemesis: Fauste. His mind flooded with a blind hatred now manifested to the Sith's face. He stepped forth, drawing his blade in preparation for yet another cycle of violence between the two, refusing to back down from the contest.

"Failed in the blade, now seeking to make ammends through trickstery, Sith?" he shook his head in disgust, as he focused his efforts in denying the Sith entry to his thoughts. Her presence was like grave talons, carving incisions through his mind in search of the soft prey to feast on. He could not allow her the joy.

He walked forth, closing the gap until some fifty paces separated the two, where he halted. Around them, the burning wreckage.

"Athysians are what cause Dread to your kin... You do not want to know what makes our hearts beat..." he muttered, knowing full well that speech was meaningly in this renewed contest of wits.

Once again, just like the trap set by ship, he openned himself up to the Force, allowing Fauste to delve into his mind...

A deep ravine carved through the sharp rocks by the flow of the greenish toxic waste that consumed any life form, perverting it in diseased blight with its touch. A burning ship, cast from the greenish skies by the myriad of flak that still dotted them, black marks deprived of the shockwave they produced by the time they exploded. The black trail of the starship still holding, not yet cast away by the wind, indicating the course of it, until it crashed against the polluted ground.

Jungles, feral and vast as far as the eye could see, under a blue sky. The unmistakable Rishi landscape, marked in the memory of any who visited the distant world. There, against a hanging cliff, the tunnels carved in enlargement of the cave network, now facilitating welding and retrofitting operations, as Hoplite interceptors are being repaired, deprived of the ornate glyphs and Athysian bronze; Exiles, scattered in the far reaches of the Outer Rim... The figure of a grown man with black beard and blue eyes approached, as Desmundor observed the works. The man's robes indicating a Jedi Master.

A storm consumed the Rishi landscape, folding forth the alien silhouette of a world unknown, where a battle raged. A battle of many, yet none recognizable. A battle of Shadows. A battle of Ghosts. And there, suddenly, the large black portal formed, a tear in reality, before the winged hideous creatures of incomperhensible antediluvian form emerged, clawing their way over the battlefield, grasping warriors without mind, dragging them back to the blackness...

I̷̙͑̍̈́͐̃͌̓ ̶̘̰̗̱̞̱̩̝͂̉̑ả̵̡̝̻͓̖̄͋̊͛͌̔̄͘̕̚m̴̢̠͕̟̳̖̩͒͊͗̈̿̎́̕͜͠ ̵̭̘̤̫̝̯͉̈̏̍F̸̠̖̰̗͔̰̓́̓͆͑͘̚ḛ̴̺̖̗̦͍̖̠̜́̄̑̉̃ạ̸̮̘̀̏̾̓r̴̢̨̳̻͙̳̣̮̤͑̏̓̔̾​

The voices of aliens and humans, young and old alike, all blend together as the demonic chorus echoed in Fauste's mind, the deeper she delved into the Athysian's mind. And yet, this influence; This invasion of cosmic horror bore no resemblance of Desmundor's own will; Even the very psychic touch felt cold, devouring; Nothing that could be chained by any means of Flesh or Bones to call real... It was there, over the nightmarish realm that reverberated with the traction of souls amalgamating in a black liquid shape, flowing in streams of unmasked bane, that Desmundor's soul grew cold, in the presence of what could only be explained, regardless how chaotic, or unnatural, a whole different entity conjoured through antique Force Rituals to enact on its ever growing hunger for Fiving Force... There, hid the whispers of perpetual depravity and famine, driving the cold invisible blizzard that laid waste to the Machiavellian's crew. It was to this abomination, on who's name the mayhem brought by the Athysians was offered....

And in such knowledge, blackening the mind of the Hegemon, were the words spoken, transmitting the sensation they had been spoken so a million times throughout the battle, yet never loud enough to be remembered; Yet, Fauste's attunement in the Force could trace their touch...

Î̴̪͑͠ ̶̧̛̩̜̩͗̃̃̀͆͗̓͑͝ã̶̧̧̨̳̼̫̘͈̝̰͌̓͑̿̓͒͛̂͝m̶̛̤̺̱̾̔͘͝ ̴̛̼̫̂̇̈̊͐̋̏̆̕͠͝D̶̙̹̖̟̖̓͗̓ě̴̡̎̍̃͊͒̇͌͌̚a̵̬̮̤͌t̷͍̼͚̜̣͕̝̘̲͕̗̿̊̉̐̌̍͋̇͐̅̈́͝ḧ̸̨͇͔͓̝́͆̓̋̊̓̀͂̕̕̚ͅ​

The Hegemon shook his head yet again. The chains now revealled, there could be no other way but that of the grim veneration. Ancient, in his belief, Desmundor had awoken horrors that had been slumbering for generations untold, now brought forth to the Dark Crusade's vanguard. He was no mere pirate lord, nor a renegade Sith that fought because such was the only thing that kept him from insanity. No...

He, and many among the Athysians, fought for the chance of redemption, having fallen false for eons on end, defiling the creatures they perceived as "Gods". In a path of absolution, the mayhem and bloodletting of the Dark Crusade's grim followers, the Athysians, was nothing more than an unending odyssey of achieving what they viewed as Apotheosis; To die a warrior's death, for the glory of their cruel Gods. And, if they achieved it, they would then be offered a chance after their mortal end...

"You see, now, Sith?" Desmundor spoke in barely contained wrath, as he battled Fauste's will to pierce his mind, now letting her be trapped in nightmarish thoughts that plagued his own mind, while returning the favour by casting his own piercing claws into her mind, knowing well that to have reached thusfar meant that she would have to be focused...

"Death... Knows no name; But Fear; And Death."

 

[Darth Fauste]

Fauste's pity for Desmundor was almost instantaneous as the connection formed between their minds, mingling her thoughts with the dark, fervent madness that fueled his every action. His visions came to her like the contents of an old tome — a familiar sense of fervor, yet tainted by desperation. Her initial sense of superiority was tempered by something else: a profound recognition of a soul lost in the service of darker gods, searching in the abyss for some semblance of meaning.

She did not recoil from the images; instead, she examined them as a scientist might a specimen under a lens. Even as her consciousness floated through his tortured memories, she remained detached, scrutinizing each fragment of his existence. A twisted ravine carved through rock by toxic waste, a desecrated land devoid of life; she absorbed it all with a cold curiosity. His vision was strange but not unique among those who treaded the dark side. She had seen countless people consumed by their need for significance, clinging to dark deities and lost causes, offering themselves up for some cosmic favor that never came.

But when his patron deity began to materialize before her, she felt it — a shiver that traveled down her spine, forcing her to recoil for just a moment. Her instincts screamed to pull back, but she resisted, determined to understand. The black portal, the clawing creatures — they felt alien, ancient, a realm beyond the reaches of even the darkest Sith knowledge she had studied. An entity so far beyond Desmundor, beyond the mundane battles of mortals, yet it had chosen him, of all beings, to champion its cause. It unnerved her, this thought. For a brief instant, she wondered what a god like this would want with him… or with her.

Yet, even as she analyzed the cosmic terror with the detached curiosity of a scientist, the connection allowed Desmundor's probing will to slip into her own mind.

The images came swiftly, too fast for her to suppress. The first, a sharp memory; her childhood on Eshan. The harsh, cold temples of the Echani, where she had been molded and trained, her identity shaped by an ambition not her own. The eyes of her instructors had always been calculating, their words like knives cutting into her psyche. She had been created, a halfbreed of Echani and Shi’ido heritage, for one purpose only — to become the perfect spy, a weaponized being who could shift form and infiltrate any enemy. The memories of endless drills, of testing and training her abilities to change shape, to become anyone or anything at will, filled Desmundor's consciousness. He would be able to feel the cold metal of the training halls, the whispers of ambition, and the ever-present judgment in the eyes of those who surrounded her.

Then the vision would shift. A darkened Sinkhole Station, filled with the stench of death and the metallic taste of blood. A younger Fauste, no more than a teenager, stood amidst the remains of the Mind Walkers, their bodies broken and twisted, scattered around her in grotesque display. Blood spattered her face; her hands trembled, both in fear and a dark satisfaction she could not quite reconcile. Desmundor would feel a surge of emotions — fear, confusion, a hunger for something more — but the memory was murky, unclear, a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit together.

The next memory is almost comforting in its clarity. Her time with her mentor, the Twi’lek Sith Lord with red skin and eyes that burned with purpose. A devout Revanchist, she had taken Fauste under her wing, nurtured her, trained her, forming a bond that was as close to family as Fauste ever knew. Desmundor caught glimpses of their training, their shared plans and whispered confidences. He could feel the warmth of that bond, the strength that Fauste had drawn from her mentor's relentless ambition.

But then… darkness. A pitch-black void, vast and consuming, like the event horizon of a black hole. There was a hunger there, primal and bottomless, a feeling of staring into the maw of something beyond mortal comprehension. It was not an emotion — it was an emptiness, a gnawing void that devoured everything it touched. Eyes appeared in the darkness, cold, predatory, unhinged, followed by a twisted grin, unnatural and too wide, stretching from ear to ear on a featureless face. Abeloth emerged from the blackness, an inhumane horror given form, a presence so overwhelming it threatened to eclipse Fauste's very being.

And then, with a force that resembled the crushing weight of a dying star, the Bringer of Chaos ejected Desmundor from her mind.

Fauste stumbled back, disoriented, breath heavy, her heart racing. She could not understand — there was no memory of Sinkhole Station in her mind, no knowledge of Abeloth’s influence. She knew only the instinctive fear that gripped her soul. For a moment, she could feel it — feel the power of something beyond her understanding, beyond the Dark Side, beyond the known universe.

“What… did you see?” she demanded, her voice a mixture of fury and a barely contained tremor. Her eyes locked onto Desmundor’s, demanding answers even as she struggled to make sense of the fragments left behind in her own mind.

In hindsight, she should have placed more effort into shielding her own mind. Fauste chastised herself for the mistake. There was no telling exactly what the man had seen, the remnants fading before she could latch onto them. If she managed to survive, the Migrant Fleet and the Starborn Sect would need to remain vigilant. The last thing they needed was for Desmundor to have seen something that would compromise their operations throughout the galaxy.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste
​

The Hegemon remained still. His once craving rage-driven malice had turned to a maelstorm of conflicting emotions. He knew that his mind would not be compromised. It was not any spell, or shielding technique he himself had concentrated on, no. It was that he himself believed that to pierce through his mind was to find the dark that lurked behind it. A horrific influence that had infected his mind ever since he made that pact. He knew the cost. And yet, the victory he had claimed through it, in his eyes, was worth the price.

To find a similar, of not greater darkness in Fauste's mind was to him unthinkable. By all accounts, it was he who made the supreme sacrifices and gained the favour he wielded to this day; She was a Blind. A pawn of the false dominions that ravaged the stars in flavoured words of peace and security, yet the same being the harvesters of sorrows for those blind enough not to see the masters of puppets, and the game of theirs played over the backs of millions if not billions of souls. A dance, many vulturing entities craved to enter, more than willing to latch themselves upon those foolish, or desperate enough to be their hosts; In many ways, just like what Desmundor was, for the Black Lord, that very moment.

Was Fauste too from a dying world? Had she too lost all she could have held dear, to serve what he did, the way he did? Did it matter? Regardless their contest of arms, skill and wit, the symphony of destructions they had crafted had yet to cease its deafening music of death, pain and strife. Desmundor knew, whatever this war devolved into, one thing was certain:
Anarchy will soon reign. And the Athysian Raider Fleets, shall feast upon a hundred worlds in their pilgrimage of bloodletting and debauchery.

He shook his head, the foul vision of the chaos fiend that reached out from through the Sith's mind still looming in his thoughts, with him yet unable to wrap himself around what he had beheld. He lifted himself up, dizzy and spent, as his muscles begun twitching. The excess powers he had once wielded had dissipated, giving way to exhaustion and spasms of his famished tissue. Those evils summoned, with the mayhem ended, had gradually retreated to the dark pits of the Netherworld from wence they had emerged from.

"Enough." he demanded.

He lowered himself to pick the fallen sword. He did so after extending his palm, a hidden trial of himself to feel whether or not his powers had already been drainned. He could not know how long he would remain in this desolate moon. He had to make due; And yet, Fauste, the antagonist that had granted him an epic contest worthy of the Gods' presence, was yet to fall. This must have meant something. She wasn't just a Sith. This wasn't just a fight.

"They had their fill of bloodshed." he sheathed the blade by his belt. A symbolic gesture. "Neither of us is to die on this rock. Our place is there..." he eyed the black star-adorned sky, over which occasional illuminations emerged and faded as more and more debris from the naval confrontation found themselves embraced by the gravitational pull of the rogue moon.

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste steadied herself, forcing her breathing to slow, the echo of her memories fading back into the depths of her mind. She had seen only fragments—fleeting images of her childhood, the cold halls of Eshan, and the stern, watchful eyes of her Twi'lek mentor. Faces long buried under layers of ambition and darkness, ghosts of a life she had all but forgotten. What had Desmundor seen when she breached his mind? She couldn't say. But it hadn't been what she had seen in his.

Something had gone wrong in that exchange—a sensation that clawed at her thoughts like a wild animal. A strange, nagging feeling lingered, a hint of some unknown darkness lurking in the corners of her mind, like the brush of unseen eyes. A flicker of desperation rose in her chest—the need to know, to understand what he had seen. Why did he recoil, as if witnessing some horror she could not perceive? The thought gnawed at her, but she mastered herself quickly, burying the urge under layers of discipline and control. She would not allow herself to be driven by panic or doubt. Not now.

Desmundor’s voice cut through the silence. “Enough.” His words were more than a demand—they carried weariness, resignation, and perhaps even a shade of respect. He sheathed his weapon, a gesture she recognized as symbolic, an unspoken truce amidst the wreckage of their conflict.

Fauste met his gaze, her eyes narrowing slightly. Whatever he had seen, he was still standing. She could feel her own body aching, a dozen wounds demanding her attention, but she refused to show any sign of weakness. Instead, she chose to make her own move, to answer his with a gesture that spoke of both trust and defiance. Her blade of her lightsaber vanished, the weapon returned to her hip.

“You’ve earned a truth,” she said, her voice sharp but measured. “Lyanna. That was my name before I chose the path of the Sith. Before I took the title of Darth Fauste.”

She watched him carefully, gauging his reaction, looking for any sign of understanding or surprise. Her expression remained calm, a mask of neutrality that concealed the churning thoughts beneath. She could still feel the pull, the gnawing need to know exactly what he had witnessed in her mind, but she pushed it aside. If he had seen something more, something she could not fathom, she would uncover it in time.

Turning her attention to her wounds, she tore a strip of cloth from her cloak and began to bind the gash on her arm. The sting of pain was a welcome reminder of the reality around her, the cold, harsh moon beneath their feet, and the debris falling slowly from the sky above. Desmundor had cost her much today—lives, resources, and time she could ill afford. Yet, he had also proven himself worthy of something she rarely granted: her respect.

She glanced back at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. Whatever had happened between them, whatever visions or horrors had been glimpsed, their battle was far from over. They were both still standing, and she would find out what he had seen in time. For now, she would let the silence stretch, let the void between them grow, and wait for the next move.

Her eyes took notice of the demolished communications device on her wrist, destroyed in the crash. Contacting the Migrant Fleet for an extraction had become impossible. Fauste exhaled sharply in a brief moment of irritation before looking to the only other occupant of the moon she now stood on. It was difficult to gauge if he had some method with which to contact his own people or it was destroyed much like hers.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a comm device, would you?”

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

Desmundor took few steps closer to her, closing the distance inbetween. His advance slow. He allowed his breathing to banish gradually the tension that once consumed him. His focus now was entirely on denying the Sith, who was once called Lyanna, to recognize any weakness, among the many in muscle, flesh, blood and mind alike, that had left him a shell, after the grand possessions in the maelstorm of battle. And now, without the Healers? It would be a bleak and painful time of recovery, he knew the Sith musn't witness, for it was a weakness well-hidden, by the Athysians. Regardless the truce in action alone, in the future, she would still remain the champion he had to fell. And he, the exalted one who would bring ruin to her, until their final battle was fought alast.

Then again... Lyanna?

"You changed your name...?" his eyebrows narrowed in confusion.

His steps finally bringing him close enough for the parting of the grovel by his armoured footwear disturbing the unnerving silence of the rogue moon more than the roaring flames of the wreckage did, now in the distance. He stopped, some five or so meters away from the Sith, not wishing to invade what he considered a personal space, in their state of uneasy truce.

It soon became clear to him that she had lost communication with her fleet. It became further apparent, when she inquired to him about it, in a voice that only signified the desperate state they were in, so much so, that the fatigue and brutality of the fight left only dissappointment as a natural response to any dead end that befell them.

For many, such an opportunity would be grasped as leverage to best one's foe in the moment weakest. But, for an Alcademon, more so, Desmundor, such a victory would be ill-sung, and the echoes of their fight regardless how significant would be short-lived, as the Gods would grand no blessing to those who acted on deceit.

"They will come." he answered coldly. "I would worry more about the when. Our oxygen can only hold for so long..."
He readjusted the rebreather on himself, before turning his gaze up high, to the stars adorning the sky. It was there, when his eyes traced yet another "falling star" descending from the void. In the absense of a star, strong enough to bless the world with light, that is, the smallest object fell as if engulfed in blinding light, vanishing in the blast that planted it against the moon's dead surface.

Regardless his exhaustion, an unexplainable urge suddenly sparked in his senses. This was a moment that he had never experienced before, a chance to look his antagonist to the face with no masks of power or prestige to twist their words in ill-intent or scheme. Whatever they spoke of now, would be theirs and the gods' to store. And that thought brought Desmundor an unexpected excitment. This was no pirate swine, nor Huttese smuggler, nor Outer Rim outlaw. Of these, he had lived among for far too long, to his recalling...

But a Sith Lord?
This was entirely new to him. And of all, this was the very champion he viewed as chosen for him.

He sat against the stone and shut his eyes, allowing himself a moment of reflection. The Dark Side still tainting him, yet the fatigue allowing little to be taken away.

"We cannot fight like this, after the bout we had, Lyanna-" he gave in finally to his curiosity. "Darth Fauste." he lifted an eyebrow, offering the Sith a gaze of contempt. "Like... You have forsaken your bloodline....? Who does that?"