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

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste watched as Desmundor stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. She could feel the caution in each of his steps, the effort to conceal his own exhaustion and pain beneath a mask of stoic calm. Her gaze did not waver as he approached, her eyes narrowing slightly as she sensed the weight of his unspoken thoughts, the quiet tension that lingered in the air between them. Even in the wake of their brutal clash, she remained alert, aware that their truce was little more than a temporary reprieve, a fragile moment of stillness in a storm that had yet to fully pass.

He stopped, close enough to speak without raising his voice, yet far enough to maintain a distance. He seemed to struggle with her name—her true name—uttering it with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

She tilted her head slightly, considering his words, before answering. “The name is a tradition among the Sith,” she began, her tone steady and calm. “To take a new name is to embrace a new purpose, a new identity. The old self is cast aside, its weaknesses burned away in the crucible of power. ‘Darth Fauste’ is the title I earned, the person I became when I accepted my destiny as a Sith Lord. It is a mantle of authority, a declaration of intent.”

Her eyes flicked over him, studying his reaction, gauging how much he understood of the Sith traditions. “But that does not mean Lyanna is gone,” she continued, softer now. “Lyanna is who I was, who I am… beneath it all. A foundation, a reminder of where I came from. She carries the traits that would be seen as weaknesses in a Sith—compassion, doubt, fear… but also curiosity, a hunger for knowledge, a sense of honor.” A faint smile crossed her lips, as if she were almost amused by the contradiction. “In a way, both names serve me. They balance each other, as my mentor taught me. Darth Fauste commands, she fights, she destroys. Lyanna remembers, she questions, she seeks.”

She paused, letting her words hang in the air for a moment, allowing Desmundor to grasp their meaning. “My mentor always believed that a Sith should master not just the Force, but themselves. True strength lies not just in wielding power, but in understanding its source, in knowing when to unleash it… and when to hold it back.” She shifted her weight slightly, feeling the sting of her wounds but ignoring them for now. “To her, balance was everything. It is why I still keep Lyanna close, even as I walk the path of Darth Fauste.”

For a moment, silence settled over them, filled only by the faint crackle of distant flames and the slow creak of shifting metal in the wreckage around them. Fauste found herself drifting into her thoughts, reflecting on her own words. It had been years since she had spoken so openly of her dual nature, of the two halves that made her whole. She wondered, briefly, what her Master would think of her now, standing on this desolate moon, facing a warrior from a distant world in the aftermath of a battle that had tested every limit of her strength. Was this the balance she had spoken of, or merely another step into the abyss?

She shook off the thought, her mind sharpening again. Desmundor’s question had pricked at something deep within her, a reminder of her path and her purpose. She would not let herself become lost in introspection. Not now, when there was still so much at stake.

“We are not done here,” she said, breaking the silence at last. “There will be another fight between us, of that I have no doubt. But until then…” Her eyes shifted upward, towards the debris slowly drifting down from the void above, the wreckage of ships scattered across the moon’s surface. “We cannot fight if we do not survive. You are right that our oxygen will not last long. There may be oxygen containers among the wreckage—supplies left behind when the ships fell. If we’re to live long enough for another battle, we should start scavenging now.”

She met his gaze once more, a spark of determination in her eyes. "Do you agree, Desmundor? A temporary alliance… to ensure we live to fight another day?"

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

There were so much he could point out against the Sith, yet for a brief moment, he simply listened, her words providing an unexpected tranquility in his mind. Was it the thought of him dying in a nameless moon that filled him with dread? Was it the possibility his Athysians would never come? Was it that she could be herald to a much different era, just like the Jedi was back in Rishi?

His mind spinned simply by toying with the idea...

"If you still hold onto something, why deny it? Lyanna lives, even if Darth Fauste says otherwise. Names are not just to give us a sound to be beckoned. They are a story. Our story." he retorted to her explaination, driven by both curiosity and pitty for what he could see himself on the Sith. "The Fallen Prince, is what I am called. And I will always be, even if now I stand a Hegemon, after five hundred years since the last." He purposefully extended his hands, shaking his shoulders in a rather unfitting attempt of a jest, tapping on the Sith's reference of humour. "Besides rocks, which we have apleanty here... I do have a palace, and all...." a chuckle sounded from his rebreather. He let few moments to pass, counting on the Sith's reaction.

"But no..." He said then, his voice this time turning solemn. "To forsake that title would be to deny what I already have done. I am the Fallen Prince. And I will always be so. Otherwise any titles or names or alias after it are meaningless... No?" he turned to her. "Who is Darth Fauste, if Lyanna is forgotten? Who would follow the one with power knowing not how they achieved it? If I get to strike the final blow, your chain will be carved Darth Fauste, Lyanna. For they will have to know, she was not just a Sith. Our fight was worthy for Death to come and witness. And it will be again."
There was no hate in his words. The malice, the rage and the summoned darkness, now gone to leave a blank shell of a person, as far as the aura around him revealled. And yet, speaking of their future contest was as exciting as the building of a whole new empire. So engraved to his culture was war, it bore little meaning the why, compared to the who.

"It would be wise, yes" he agreed to her offer. "If anything yet remains of the ships... Might get us few more breaths..." he admitted then, signifying the severity of their occasion as his gaze shifted to the distant wreckage. The flames yet to dissipate, feasting ravenously to the spilled fuel and life support that still spat oxygen trapped in its pipeline maze, tainting the debris that had long lost any resemblance to either of the ships that consisted it.

"I shall fell you in battle, Lyanna-Fauste" he spoke in a clearly mocking tone, standing up and offering his hand to her. Another symbolic gesture, perhaps? Or simply an act? "Great warriors do not deserve to die on rocks."

His strange warlike nature indeed emitted a form of warrior's honour. To the Athysians, it seemed, it only mattered to meet death in the field of battle, more than winning in it did. Desmundor could have grasped the chance, given he was indeed capable and not entirely broken by the fatigue that still caused a heavy toll on him, and strike at her in a number of deceitful ways. This could have all been an act for her to lower her defenses? And yet, his stance revealed no such indications.
He did not want her dead. To him, it mattered little if he would win or lose their engagement, less so, how the war would unfold differently if she or he died then and there. To him, her dying on that rogue moon meant that he would be deprived of the chance of killing her in the battles to come. A glory lost. An achievement, lost.

And who would sing for a false strike to a dying foe? That... Anyone could do... And none would sing songs of it...

 

[Darth Malvus]

The battle over Malachor V raged on with an intensity that lit up the dark skies and the void of space above. Flashes of laser fire and the explosions of destroyed ships illuminated the heavens, as both sides fought for dominance. The Sith alchemists under Darth Malvus continued to weave their spells of confusion and chaos upon Darth Eosfor’s forces, turning his own tactics against him. With each whispered incantation, Eosfor's fleet commanders began to falter. Under the influence of the alchemists’ dark sorcery, the cohesion of Eosfor's armada unraveled, leaving key ships without leadership and vulnerable to attack.

Malvus, deep in the heart of his ship, sat cross-legged in meditation. Dark tendrils of the Force swirled around him as he empowered his warriors and alchemists, amplifying their connection to the dark side. His mastery of Force meditation allowed his entire army to grow stronger, more vicious, and more determined. Eosfor’s tricks—his reliance on manipulation and empowering his forces from afar—were now being used against him. Malvus was bleeding his enemy dry from within.

On the ground, the battle was no less fierce. General Zarek Korr's forces had ground to a stalemate against Eosfor's marauders and berserker cultists. Zarek, ever the tactician, shifted his forces into a defensive formation, using terrain and Sith walkers to pin down the enemy. Eosfor’s troops were formidable, but Zarek was relentless, refusing to give an inch.

It was then that a new threat emerged. From behind the citadel, a foreign attacker revealed itself—an unknown fleet disguised as Kuonjan allied ships. They had slipped past the chaos of the space battle, attempting to strike Malvus when his focus was on Eosfor. But Malvus trusted no one. Not even the immortal Emperor, should he still live, could have taken him by surprise. The disguised fleet had fallen into the trap of their own arrogance.

General Kaela Draal, a commanding presence above the battlefield, moved swiftly to respond. Her forces were already decimating Eosfor’s ships, but now they adjusted their focus, shifting to intercept the intruding fleet. Her twin lightsabers flashed as she directed her fleets with a mixture of brute force and precise strategy, cutting off the disguised attackers from their support and pinning them against Malvus’ formidable defenses.

"Show them the price of betrayal," Kaela snarled through her comms. Her forces struck with deadly efficiency, overwhelming the intruders and forcing them to retreat or face annihilation.

Meanwhile, on the ground, Zarek's forces pushed forward once more. Empowered by Malvus’ meditation, they fought with renewed vigor, breaking the enemy’s lines and sending Eosfor’s ground forces into a disorganized retreat. But just as Zarek's forces seemed poised for victory, another wave of Tzar’s forces—a faction unaligned with either Sith Lord—emerged from the rear, threatening to encircle the Sith troops.

Malvus’ acolytes, empowered by the dark side, moved swiftly to counter this new threat. Sith warriors charged into the fray, their crimson lightsabers a blur of destruction as they engaged Tzara’s forces head-on. Sith battle tanks rolled across the field, their turrets raining down explosive fire on the enemy, while dark side walkers stomped through the battlefield, obliterating anything in their path. Dark side bombers soared overhead, dropping their payloads with precision, disrupting the attackers' formation and driving them back.

Back in space, General Xerxes Varak, ever the brutal tactician, had set his sights on Eosfor’s flagship—the Dark Eclipse. With a nod from Malvus aboard The Shadow Eclipse, Xerxes ordered the main blasters to fire. The massive energy weapons charged with a low hum before unleashing their deadly blasts toward the enemy command ship. The Dark Eclipse was hit with such ferocity that the shields flickered, struggling to hold.

Now was the time for the killing blow.

As Eosfor’s fleet crumbled and his ground forces faltered, Malvus prepared for his final strike. But for now, the citadel remained focused on defense, its walls bristling with turbolaser batteries and force fields. The enemy may have pressed close, but Malvus’ citadel was an impregnable fortress. Every step toward it came at a high cost to Eosfor’s forces, who were now bleeding men and machines in droves.

With both Kaela and Xerxes dominating the skies and Zarek’s forces holding firm on the ground, the balance of power shifted. Malvus, ever the patient tactician, knew that victory was within reach. He stood tall, the weight of the dark side swirling around him like a storm. The Sith civil war may have begun, but it would be Darth Malvus who ended it—with him as the undisputed ruler of the Sith, the future emperor, destined to conquer the galaxy.

Tag: @Tzar Arakx @Eosfor

 

[Eosfor]

@Darth Malvus @Tzar Arakx @Rul Tondar

And so, the battle for Malachor V continued with ever-increasing intensity. As the fleets collided and the orbital war, once presumed uncontested, now engulfed into a maelstorm of violence. The Dark Crusade flogging the numerous pirate and underworld elements forth, providing enough live fodder for the Sith armada to close in almost unhinged from the Obsidian Court's hellfire now let loose.

Chaos reigned.

The very fact that thousands upon thousands of souls were thrown in a mindless carnage on a planetary scale to fight over a Dead world seemed overlooked by the clashing titans of the Sith Empire, all the more eager to carve the millennia-old interstellar dominion into shards of hate and iron resolve, too proud to search for reason before commiting to bloodshed.

On all accounts, the conquest of Malachor V served no significant strategic value for the Dark Crusade; Too far from their strongholds in Minos Sector, and too well-defended to be breached in a swift strike, which was the initially presumed strategy of Darth Eosfor's unprovoked assault against the Obsidian Court, needless to add, no resources or any tactical advantage could be mined from the planet's dead stone. Alas, the Dark Lord paid no heed to such reasonable claims that should prevent any strategist in investing on this reckless chaos.

Darth Eosfor, in his defiance of all discipline and rules of war, planned and executed the bold move of attacking Malachor, for a single reason, that due to wickedness and layers upon layers of Sith schemes went unnoticed for decades. A reason that, in the upcomming war for the Sith legacy, would prove a painful thorn in Eosfor's back:

Darth Malvus.

To attack a powerbase such as Darth Malvus' Obsidian Court was to establish the scale and provoke the powers that had yet to emerge as majors within the Sith, long before the real sides of the civil war were formed. A message that would be heard loud and clear all across the Sith worlds and beyond:

The Dark Crusade fears none. The Dark Crusade halts for none. The Sith would be turned into Darth Eosfor's champions; Or swallowed whole by the relentless and unstoppable onslaught of his armies, from Minos to Dromund, and from Oricon to Hoth alike!

Thousands of fighters, bombers and interceptors swarmed in the lower orbit, buzzing like locust inbetween the hulking warships that blazed eachother with barrages of pure light, sending lesser vessels by the hundreds down the planetside in a rain of black ashes and screams of pilots set aflame, choosing to jump to the void instead of be fused with their broken ships by the heat of the flames dancing wildly from through the burning engines.

The cacophony of thousands of failed communicated transmissions on the bridge of the massive Mandalorian warship indicating the crew reaching their breakpoint. Each of the Beskar-clad warriors onboard having long cast away the Mythosaurus' tusks, in favour of perverted glyphs and seven-pointed emblems welded on their armours in forsaking of the Way. The Dar'Manda horde fought in the very tip of the Crusade's naval spearhead, filling the enemy ships with jump troops and boarding parties, brought into a fighting trans by the sorceries and toxic spices consumed prior to the engagement. Their minds lost, with bloodletting and slaughter becoming their sole purpose, to the point fighting broke in the very decks of the Azalus-Class Dreadnought "Kuryida".

The pirate ships around the Kuryida turning in horror, taking their chances to disengage driven by the Obsidian Court's vile sorceries that found feeding ground on the Rattataki and Duros weak minds... But the Dar'Manda of the Kuryida would have none of it. Their minds fortified with a harness of will and Teras Kazi focus, as strong as the defiled beskar dressing them. The Kuryida openned fire against the fleeing pirates, sparing her main guns to punish the weak instead of battling the enemy's strong. A decision, they would soon come to regret....

As the main Obsidian vanguard ships push their assault, the Kuryida's hulking speartip was soon overwhelmed by the crushing might of the Obsidian Fleet. In a consequetive release of light and radiant heat, strong enough to charge the nearby ships' deflector shield generators, the Kuryia dove her nose towards the planetside. Her anti-gravity generators failing all the more she was pulled by the dead world's gravitational pull.

The durasteel behemoth, trailled by continuous turbolaser fire and beams that purged the shield generators from place, now carved massive wounds on her blackened hide, casting her from orbit engulfed in the fires of vengeance. The black trail of the Azalus Dreadnought curved, marking her descend against the black surface of the world, now seemingly turned to a foul state of life's most hideous perversion. Endless tides of troops, tanks, vehicles and monstrous creatures alike flooded every corner of the blackenned wasteland, flowing like a tidal wave of destruction towards any and all sides, as the hail of gunships continuously deploying more and more troops for both sides.

In a single instant, the entire continent shook in a quake that had not been felt by the dead stones of Malachor ever since the planet's doom half a millennia ago, as the flaming dreadnought's descend ended in a blinding light in the very middle of the battlefield, momentarily vaporising thousands of troops that were dwarfed to insignificant, as the main reactors of the ship errupted in a molecular calamity. After eons in the embrace of darkness, a new star was born in Malachor's own surface, toppeling entire mountains of sharp stone into shrapnel that were kast for kilometers away like artillery shells, and digging a crater so deep, the location became impassable for any of the warring sides.

Back in orbit, the two warring flagships finally met, igniting the most brutal of confrontations. As the batteries of both Dark Eclipse and Shadow's Avenger roared unceasingly, boarding torpedoes were launched from the latter's platforms, piercing through the Dark Eclipse's hull to discharge their dark payload. And so, while the hordes of minions clashed on the planetside, in orbit, the real champions of the Dark Side exchanged spiteful blows in defiance and heresy.

Lightsabers bound. Lightning blazed. Carnage reigned. The decks of the ships transformed to arenas of exalted slaughter, with blood and zealotry flowing apleanty from both sides, drenching the ships with tainted cadavers. And as blood rained and feral forests of fire spanned the shadow shells of continents, the final act was yet to be performed. With the Dark Eclipse and the Shadow's Avenger tied in epic struggle, the ground shook as the heavy artillery of the Sith Marauders begun their own offensive against the citadel's walls. Jump pack troops climed the flak-covered air to reach the top of the citadel's curtain walls, while massive beams from lowered capital ships pierced yet another layer of deep duraconcrete, casting entire squadrons and artillery emplacements to the sea of war beneath in each of their blinding bites against the citadel.

The greatest of all champions of the Dark Crusade, however, boarded the Eclipse. As boarding torpedoes and grabbling hooks pulled the warships ever nearer, many among the possessed Crusaders jumped on their own from one hull to the other, carving the exteriors or battling the very turbolaser batteries with explosives and mines.
It was there, amidst the many infested decks, where the hulking amalgam of hate, rage and ill-intent stepped forth, releasing a mighty wave of blackest will and infamy across the Dark Eclipse, taunting to all those who could muster the wits to challenge the Dark Lord.
Darth Eosfor had made his move, to rid the Stars of his one, true target, of this onslaught:

Darth Malvus.

Chained by black lightning, Sith warriors were tossed overboard to the maw beneath the battling fleets, resembling myriads of flaming serpents devouring the blackness of Malachor by the sheer size of the assembled contingents.
The Dark Lord roared in monstrous Force Screams again and again the war cry of the Dark Crusade, collective statement of any and all plans or tactics most resembling the renegade cause, empowering further his champions that turned rampant by his very presence in the battlefield, his malicious aura consuming the decks with the dread and destruction he brought forth. And so, he roared, taunting any and all around him:

KIA TAVE SPAGGA​

 

[Darth Malvus]

As Darth Eosfor’s secondary ship sacrificed itself, taking the brunt of the damage intended for his flagship, the vessel plummeted toward Malachor V’s surface in a fiery descent. The wreckage of the massive ship created a burning trail as it crashed into the desolate landscape, sending shockwaves through the ground and devastating anything caught beneath it. The carnage it left behind was a twisted mess of flame and debris, but the battle was far from over.

Eosfor's retaliation was swift and brutal. His flagship launched a barrage of torpedoes that struck The Shadow Eclipse with terrifying precision. The ship’s shields absorbed most of the blows, but not without a shuddering impact that reverberated through its hull. Darth Malvus, standing tall on the command deck, gritted his teeth in frustration. While the damage was minimal, it was a reminder that this would be no easy victory.

"Initiate immediate repairs," Malvus ordered coldly, his voice like ice over the comms. "I will not allow that mongrel to have even a moment of satisfaction."

Despite the onslaught, Malvus couldn’t help but feel a twinge of surprise at Darth Eosfor’s boldness. For the Sith Lord to challenge him head-on in his own stronghold—on the sacred soil of Malachor V—was a move that carried both madness and cunning. Yet Malvus had no intention of falling victim to his rival’s wild berserker tactics. He was no simple marauder. His strength lay in the shadows, in strategy, in weaving traps so complex that even the most ferocious enemy would find themselves ensnared.

On the ground, General Zarek Korr’s forces pressed forward with unrelenting force. Sith walkers and tanks tore through Eosfor’s infantry, crushing them underfoot as Zarek's tactical brilliance unfolded. The enemy pushed, but Zarek’s seasoned warriors were more than a match for the marauders and berserkers in close combat. The defenses around the citadel held firm, even as enemy forces attempted to scale the towering walls.

Above, General Kaela Draal led the Obsidian Court’s fleet with her usual precision and terrifying efficiency. She dispatched orders as her dual lightsaber flashed in her hand, ready to join the fray if necessary. Her forces battered Eosfor's remaining ships, pushing back against the invading fleet in an effort to maintain air superiority. Kaela was an imposing figure, her red skin and piercing yellow eyes sending waves of dread through the hearts of her enemies. Even the fiercest of Eosfor's pilots faltered at the sight of her fleet's unwavering ferocity.

As the citadel faced direct assault, Malvus turned his focus inward. Speaking into his comms, he called on his mad scientist, Rul, whose unholy creations were critical to the defense.

"Rul," Malvus growled, "release your H.U.S.K. creatures. Let them tear apart anything that dares touch our walls. You have a stake in this fight now—your precious labs will be the first to burn if they break through."

Atop the citadel, automated blaster turrets came to life, raining down fire on the marauders attempting to scale the walls. Sith assassins, cloaked in the shadows, moved like wraiths among the chaos. Striking from unseen vantage points, they eliminated Eosfor’s commanders and disrupted his forces, sending confusion and fear rippling through the enemy ranks.

Malvus’ army fought with precision and stealth—his warriors, trained in the arts of deception and misdirection, were the embodiment of his own philosophy. Where Eosfor’s forces raged in brute force, Malvus’ troops struck from the shadows, using their surroundings to their advantage, always one step ahead of the chaos.

The battle in the skies intensified as the Obsidian Court's forces continued their relentless assault. Kaela's fleet maintained dominance, but the arrival of the disguised Kuonjan ships had forced her to redirect a portion of her forces. Even still, she pushed onward, determined to take control of the battlefield in the heavens. Her flagship launched volley after volley of turbolaser fire, tearing through Eosfor's remaining ships with ruthless precision.

Down on the surface, the Shadow Striders—elite Sith stealth vehicles joined the battle. They struck from the shadows, sabotaging Eosfor’s tanks and artillery, turning the battlefield into a deadly maze for their enemies. Medical teams moved quickly, transporting the wounded back to safety while Dark Side bombers flew overhead, dropping payloads on key enemy positions to further weaken Eosfor’s assault.

Back aboard The Shadow Eclipse, Malvus issued new orders. "Prepare for a full offensive. Focus all fire on Eosfor's flagship. I want that ship turned to scrap."

The Shadow Eclipse’s heavy cannons rotated into position, charging once again. The sky lit up with the furious glow of energy blasts as Malvus unleashed his fury upon Eosfor’s flagship. He could feel his rival’s presence in the distance, brimming with rage and defiance.

But Malvus was far from finished. He would not rest until Eosfor’s forces were utterly annihilated. This was more than a battle for dominance. This was Malvus proving that he alone was the true master of the Sith—the future emperor of the Sith Empire.

And none would stand in his way.

Tag: @Eosfor

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste stood motionless, her gaze steady on Desmundor as he spoke, the cadence of his voice slow and deliberate, almost thoughtful. It was not the response she had expected—certainly not from one whose earlier rage had threatened to consume him whole. She had seen warriors like him before, men of pride and honor, bound by a code they believed was written in blood and stone. But Desmundor's words carried an unexpected depth, a sense of understanding that tugged at something within her she rarely allowed to surface.

He spoke of names as stories, of titles that carried the weight of one's past. His voice, though solemn, lacked the malice she had anticipated. It was strange to hear him talk about his own title—the Fallen Prince—with a mixture of humor and pride, as if the weight of the name had become part of him, an identity he both accepted and defied. Fauste listened, her mind absorbing his words while remaining locked in the truce they had formed. This strange moment of peace, set against the backdrop of a battlefield, was an anomaly in her life, one that unsettled her in ways she would not admit.

She looked past him to the burning wreckage, the flames that danced among the debris casting long shadows across the barren moon. The silence between them now was heavier, not because of animosity but because of the reality they faced. The oxygen would run out. Their survival was measured in breaths, and yet they both stood there, warriors caught in the brief pause of their inevitable conflict.

Desmundor’s words about forsaking his title brought her mind back to her own choice—to leave Lyanna behind when she became Darth Fauste. Who is Darth Fauste, if Lyanna is forgotten? His question lingered in her mind, striking at a truth she rarely acknowledged. Lyanna had never been forgotten. She had been compartmentalized, stored away in the recesses of her mind, a part of her that she could not entirely sever. Perhaps that had been her mentor's greatest lesson—that balance was not about erasing one identity for the other, but about accepting both.

Her mentor's voice echoed in her mind as she thought of the woman who had shaped her, a Sith Lord whose own name had been spoken with reverence and fear. She had taught her that power without understanding was hollow, that to truly wield the Force, one must understand every part of oneself. That was the only way to avoid becoming a slave to it. She had insisted that she never forget where she came from, that Lyanna's compassion and curiosity were not weaknesses to be purged but tools to be wielded.

Desmundor had unknowingly touched upon this delicate balance. The person standing before him was both Lyanna and Darth Fauste, and always would be. She smiled, just a faint tug of her lips, as she considered this.

"You misunderstand," she said finally, her voice cool but without the edge of disdain it often carried. "I have not denied Lyanna. She is very much alive, just as you say. But I chose to become more than her. Darth Fauste is not a mask I wear to hide weakness—it is the culmination of strength, a title earned through blood and will. Lyanna is the foundation, but Fauste is the structure."

She paused, her gaze flickering up to the void of space, where debris still fell like dying stars. "My mentor believed that to truly master the Force, one must master oneself. That means understanding both the past and the present, the light and the dark. Lyanna is my past, but she still informs my choices. She tempers Darth Fauste’s rage, her ambition. Without her, I would be nothing but a weapon, blind and aimless. But with her… I am complete."

There was no need to elaborate further. She had offered him more insight than she typically allowed others to see, but perhaps that was the nature of this truce. In this brief moment, stripped of their power and armies, they were simply two warriors bound by the inevitability of death.

Fauste glanced back at Desmundor, watching his expression as he spoke of their future battle, of the songs that would be sung for their final contest. The corner of her mouth curled into a smirk. There was no doubt in her mind that this would not be their last encounter. But she was no fool—she had no intention of dying here, on this forgotten moon, reduced to a mere casualty of circumstance.

"Then let us ensure we live to meet again," she said, her voice returning to its usual cold command. "We may have fought, but I respect a worthy opponent. Our war is far from over."

Her gaze followed his to the wreckage, and she nodded. "We’ll need more than just hope. The wreckage may still hold something useful—oxygen, fuel, perhaps even parts to repair communications. We won’t survive long if we stay here."

She stepped forward, ignoring the sting of her wounds, her posture as straight and unyielding as ever. When Desmundor offered his hand, she looked at it for a brief moment before taking it, the gesture laden with symbolism. There was no need for words. She didn’t trust him—she would never trust him—but for now, their goals were aligned.

As their hands parted, Fauste turned her attention back to the wreckage. "Come then," she said. "Let’s see what this battlefield has left for us."

The thought of scavenging for survival didn’t bother her—it was a temporary setback, nothing more. In her mind, she was already planning her next move, her return to power. Whatever happened on this desolate moon, Lyanna and Darth Fauste would endure.

As the pair worked together to strip the wreckage of anything of use, a comfortable silence befell them. Occasionally one or the other would call out a particular discovery. Lyanna, ever the scholar, considered a number of topics to fill the silence. Her information network spanned the entire galaxy and they were damn good at their job. With that in mind, her lack of knowledge on the man and his people was startling.

Desmundor had a reputation and she was very much aware of who he was. Instead her Starborn had never bothered to study Athysian culture at any depth. Her mind buzzed with questions that she sought an answer for, ranging from mundane to religious. Perhaps… “Do the rest of your people glorify war, bloodshed, and death as much as you?”

Her mind returned to the visions that she had seen within his mind. The fate of he and his people. Their planet. If they were all so hellbent on death, what allowed them to maintain their numbers? On the surface, it seemed like courtship was out of the cards. Even as her mind raced, her eyes and hands were diligently at work scavenging.

Speaking of— “I found two refill canisters. You can take one, it should buy us both at least another two hours.”

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste
​

The hunt for resources was a rather bleak affair. For all intent and purposes, neither of the ships amalgamated by the clash were to be considered anything but a burning pile of debris and trapped death for any unlucky enough to find themselves drawing breath after the final crash. Desmundor paid little heed to anything around the crash site. Any threat to befall the two would be a herald of dark will far beyond his own, to face off, especially judging by his condition... And oh, was he in a dire state...

"What's the point of winning, if only to be rid of an obstacle that defines you, Lyanna Fauste? Live an Athysian life, and you shall find no purpose in victory if won dishonourably." he answered her inquiry. "The Athysians have not forgotten why they fight. It's to show those we serve we are still worthy of their command. I was chosen to lead the Hives in reconciliation. Doing it in false ways would be a lie. The Gods see through all lies. If we lack, we are taught. As I was, when I failed. Now, I have repented in ways that made me worthy again." his glare to Fauste momentary, yet revealing a wave of emotions, from determination to despair, and from pain to blind hate. "Not many are offered second chances. Yet I was offered a God to fight in my stead. Now, I fight in return."

As the two scavenged their way in the wreckage, many an occasion they lost line of sight, driven by either hope or evidence of something valuable having survived beyond their reach. Such were precious moments, to Desmundor. He always grasped the chance, bending his body in heed of the growing sense of pain by the unseen wounds beneath the blood-swolen armour and silently screamed. His mouth openning, his teeth gritting, his muscles stretching, yet no air allowed through his trachea to produce the most desired cry of pain.

As soon as steps, unable to be masked by any means judging by the chaos of destruction within the wreckage, brought Darth Fauste near, he inhaled his pain in silence, readopting his past confident posture in a theatrical performance. He would not allow pitty to taint his name in the eyes of the divine-sent adversary. Especially now, in their moment of weakness...

"Another holocommunication... thing..." he spoke; his voice hinting to the state of the instrument, far too impacted by the heat that had spiked during the reactor explosions to be repairable. "Makes you think if tech is worth counting on..." he muttered to himself.

Their journey deeper in the wreckage brought them to a shallow husk of what once was a supply depot onboard the Sith warship, now conjoined with the invasive decks almost vertically developping themselves into it. Scattered charred mutilated remains of crew from both ships decorated the sight of catastrophe, while the capsule of an escape pod was cracked open, too late launched to avoid being caught inbetween the hulk's fiery tombsite. Desmundor made his way to it. A brief look in it showed the flames that had yet to complete their feast on the three or so melted cadavers. He did recognize a broken long range comlink at the very hands of one of the fallen passengers. He picked it up, counting the cables that hanged from the broken side of the machine like intestines spilled from a revealed abdomen.

"We have a long-ranger..." he announced. "With Some parts, I should be able to get a transmission out." he speculated. His time in the Outer Rim within the pirate worlds of the Veil of the Sith had granted him knowledge over such alien, to him, devices and engineering. He had learned by experience, as his exile had necessitated such problem-solving knowledge to allow his ventures in Rishi and Roon. Now, after years, it felt his efforts finally paid off, in a way most unexpected.

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

@Darth Fauste
​

The Weequay stepped on narrow hangar deck, now quaking by the cacophony of loud, rust-infested starfighters. Their engines, as crude and archaic as their mothership, sparked in fiery life. The Weequay, unphased by the noise and spiking heat of the burning fuels, reached for his comlink.
"Scan the moon blind. The Captain wants the Hegemon found, or you all are dianoga fodder before we push port!!" he barked. His voice intimidating enough, the pilots required no further instructions before taking off, choosing to forsake discipline that hardly was a characteristic of these corsairs in the first place, in hopes of gaining little more time to complete their daring quest.

The blast doors openned, as the starfighters took off from the hangar. The Witch-Captain's long white braids hanging like chains over her dove head which felt too heavy to lift in its height. The shaky pale hands turned black by prolonged exposure to lightning harmful even to herself gripping weakly onto the curve of the bone that was once part of a human, or at least humanoid, hip, now fitted in an iron rod socket and made a walking stick.
"Captain!" the Weequay protested her approach, rushing to her side as her free hand was raised aloft. She muttered indistinguishable phrases, interrupted by the Weequay's grip that held her to her height. Her muscles weakening by each breath.
"You should rest, Captain! I will find you your Athysian!"

The Witch-Captain pushed her strength to lift her head, her one-eyed gaze cast through the white chain-like braids, towards the distant view of the Rogue Moon's planetside.

"He is out there... I sense it... I sense it!"

"If-" the Weequay halted, realizing the reprecautions of such a sentance. "WHEN he is found, you should not be seen like this, Captain."

"No..." Hyara growled in admition. "Bring one of the captives to my chambers..." she then instructed, a wicked smile forming despite her weakened state.

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste moved through the wreckage with calculated precision, her eyes scanning for any sign of life-saving resources among the charred remains. The scene was grim, even by the standards of a Sith. The twisted metal, the stench of burned flesh, and the oppressive heat reminded her of countless battlefields where only the strongest had walked away. But this time, there was no walking away until they found what they needed.

Desmundor's words echoed in her mind, his talk of honor and the will of his gods a stark contrast to the Sith teachings she had been raised on. Yet, she could not fully dismiss his perspective. There was a truth in his belief that the fight was more than just the act of killing—it was about what the fight represented. But Fauste had never cared for the approval of any god, let alone an unseen one. The only approval she sought was her own, and victory was measured not by honor but by power.

"The obstacle defines me?" she mused aloud as they scavenged. "Perhaps. But I am not beholden to it. My goal is to transcend obstacles, not live bound to them. The Sith seek power because it frees us from limitations—whether they be physical, emotional, or moral." Her voice was cool, but there was a flicker of curiosity there, a spark of something more introspective than her usual rhetoric.

The wreckage seemed endless, each twisted piece of debris a reminder of their precarious situation. As Desmundor vanished from sight, Fauste's focus shifted entirely to the task at hand. There was no trust between them, only necessity. Yet, she could not deny the strange camaraderie they shared in this moment. Two warriors scavenging for survival in the aftermath of battle—a temporary alliance forged by circumstance, not choice.

She knelt beside a section of the wreckage, brushing aside a layer of soot to reveal a half-buried container. With a flick of her wrist, she called upon the Force to lift the debris, revealing a small stash of supplies—rations, but no oxygen. Fauste frowned. It was something, but not enough to guarantee their survival.

When Desmundor spoke again, his voice pulled her attention back to him. She stepped over to where he stood, examining the long-range comlink he had found. "A long-ranger," she repeated, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the damage. "If you can get it working, we may have a chance."

Her gaze shifted to the broken comlink in his hands, then to the wreckage around them. It was a slim chance, but she had learned long ago that survival often came down to seizing even the smallest opportunity. Desmundor's experience in the Outer Rim, as unexpected as it was, now seemed like a lifeline.

"Do what you can with it," she said, her tone commanding but not dismissive. She was no expert in repairing such devices, but she understood the value of having someone who could. If push came to shove, she may even be able to use the Force to guide her hands for repairs. For now, their survival depended on him.

As he set to work, she allowed herself a rare moment of introspection. Desmundor’s earlier words lingered in her mind, stirring something she had not thought about in years. His talk of second chances, of redemption through battle, was foreign to her. Sith did not seek redemption—only power. And yet, she could not deny that her path had changed since becoming Darth Fauste. She had discarded Lyanna not because she was ashamed, but because she had needed to evolve. Lyanna had been soft, naive, too willing to compromise. Fauste was the opposite—ruthless, determined, and focused.

But had she truly left Lyanna behind? Or had she merely buried her under layers of Sith ambition? Fauste’s eyes flickered to Desmundor, who was working in silence. Perhaps there was a parallel between them—two warriors shaped by their past, yet seeking something more. But where Desmundor sought honor and divine approval, Fauste sought only power and freedom.

"Your gods see through all lies, you say," she said after a moment, breaking the silence. "What do they think of failure? Of those who fall short despite their efforts? Do they show mercy, or are they as ruthless as the Sith?"

Her question was not entirely rhetorical. Desmundor’s belief system fascinated her in a way she hadn’t expected. She wondered what drove him to continue fighting, to keep seeking redemption in the eyes of his gods, even as his body faltered. The Sith had no gods, only the Force—and the Force cared nothing for mercy or honor. Only strength mattered.

But perhaps, in some way, they were both bound by the same thing: the need to prove themselves. The only difference was the audience they sought approval from.

As Desmundor worked, Fauste scanned the area once more. "I’ll search for parts," she said, her tone brisk. "There might be more in the lower sections of the wreckage." She left him to his task, moving deeper into the remains of the ship.

Despite everything, a small part of her felt the thrill of the challenge. This was survival at its most primal, a reminder of the power dynamics that governed the galaxy. Whether through strength, cunning, or sheer will, they would both escape from this moon. Darth Fauste was a woman of her word if nothing else.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon

 

[Rul Tondar]

*Click*
Music flooded the silent chambers of Rul Tondar the mad Skakoan.

*Click, Click, Click, Click*
And now the rhythmic noise reached levels of intense volume that shurley could be heard far from the Lab from which it originated.

''Perfect'' Rull stretched his arms out by his side as he took a deep breath from his oxygen suit, his eyes closed and mind void of any outside worries. A moment later the Sith cloaked himself in a large see-through bib apron, tight latex gloves, and a face cover.

''Now mother, you must close your eyes for this, it is nothing for a lady of court to see'' Before the scientist lay now a pile of fresh flesh, corpses and their limbs, weapons gathered from the battle above, a truly chilling sight that stirred most others.

There were no screams there was no time, his lord had spoken, what came next was fire.

The first wave of creations was made of the half-living. Their minds were awake but at the brink of emptiness, this made them easier to break and control yet also had the con of instability and a short-lived duration after the operations. ''Not to threat my little one, you still have use for me'' He talked to the barely sentient being lying on his operation table, its body had been blown to shreds on the battlefield, and what remained was a chest with a barely attached head. If it was a soldier from his master or one of the attackers Rul cared little, now they were his.

It was complete, his newest horror creation. A soldier or rather a walking bomb. Its bodies are filled to the brim with highly unstable fluids that could cause minor creators to form after detonation. A potent but uncontrollable weapon.

Spoiler: The Creation

Credit

Its semantics were scanned into the computer and soon robotic arms came from the ceiling, grabbing bits and pieces from the pile of flesh, and starting the recreation of the original subject that Rul himself designed.

Slowly, one by one these beasts would be released into the care of his master generals, tools to be used by those who knew better uses for them.

''Now what shall we make next'' The mad Skakoan had grown a vicious smile across his face.

@Darth Malvus @Eosfor

 

[Tzar Arakx]

The Sith fight and die, their drive is to rule over others, and their culture is power and death. Yet not all Sith are warriors, some rule without the might to back it. Now the Kuonjan warriors would share their culture with these feeble men. Give them nothing but take everything from them. These words, words of their king guided Tzar and his men as they were sent from their home to kill and plunder.

The first attacking force of Tzar was now trapped between two forces, with no way back, and no way to reinforce their lines. Tzar's hand was forced, either he would throw all his forces into the battle leaving no reinforcements or he let the first of his armies get decimated, wasting their lives and dishonouring their deaths.

''I pray that you all ate well and hardy this morn, for tonight we dine in hell'' Tzar raised his praised sword to the sky giving the order to charge, and so the whole might of the Kuonjan crashed against the ground forces of Darth Malvus. Thousands of Champions and Kuonjan warriors forged in the war would be met by the defending troops. As the Trapped First army saw what came their way, their warrior spirits rose from the grave their hope was back and with it their fighting prowess. The cries of men being torn apart by blades and angry warriors would soon drown out the other menial noises of the battlefield, Kuonjas fought with a rage yet unseen in the galaxy. A race which prided itself in nothing but its skills in killing would certainly need more than a small redirection of troops to halt their advance.

Up above aerial support tried to keep any bombing runs at bay allowing the ground troops to cut through the weak men that stood between them and their brothers in need. It would be rough but the numbers and skill favoured the attacking insectoids.

Tzar himself would have gladly met his foes in the front line but his alter ego had ulterior plans. As his exoskeleton began to shift and mould into his secondary form a cold breeze would start to form on Malachor V. The first and last winter on this arid planet had come.

As dark clouds began to form above the battlefield Tzar began meditating whispering words of old, eyes shut and in a trance that force users would recognise as the source of this winter.

@Darth Malvus @Eosfor

 

[Desmundor Alcademon]

@Darth Fauste​

Desmundor could not deny the curiosity of the Sith. Although presumed to be dark, cruel branch, she had proven to have quite a few similarities with the likes of him. A thought that bothered Desmundor in many ways, yet chose against voicing any of them. For now, he could only observe and perhaps learn from the strange balance established between the two, as sensitive as the smoke against the air; All it would take would be the softest wind to scatter the black column.

"They do" he replied to her when she inquired about his Gods. Such kind of questions were rarely, if ever, addressed in Athysia; Ever since he could remember, the theocratic warrior society that was his breed did not delve in questioning tradition or ammending past knowledge. Instead, they based themselves and their entire being in what he had discovered to be a fallacy... Dhefiron was nothing more than a remnant of the past, waning as soon as the real Gods appeared in Athysia. Just like the Athysians, a shade of the past, now facing much greater foes. But he would not allow them to fade in history. Not if he remained worthy a champion.
"The Gods are our leaders. Our patrons. They don't care of conquests, or riches. Those... Credits, you all seem so gluttonous for. We need none of that." A lie, even he could recognize. Although having no currency, the Athysians were desperate for resources to feed to the ever-ravenous industries of their dying world. Masking it in a religious way did not alter their state. Something he, among very few other Athysians, had learned in his time in Roon and the Outer Rim... He had been revealled the faults of his breed.

"They push you to achieve your fate. It is not always about achieving it. But it is always about not giving up. I never did." he then explained. "And look at me now. I owe them that." That much, he did mean. He was the first Hegemon in millennia who could claim the very gods truly had appointed him such. A fact that only added to his responsibility towards Athysia, in his eyes.

As the two separated in the labyrinth of deformed hallways and burned decks, he dug through the charred remains of an operator who had by then be fused with the console he used to work, due to excess heat. Desmundor looked over his shoulder and after ensuring the Sith was not in sight, he pulled cables from the console and connected them with the commlink device he had scavenged before. He pressed the transmission button few times, and then tore the cables off, breaking part of the device in the process.

He drew a breath, and then continued his path inbetween the debris...

 

[Hyara Hemstagon]

@Darth Fauste​

The Imvonvol glided in the orbit of the rogue moon, until her engines were silenced. The gravitational pull being sufficient in the la grange point, the destroyer begun orbiting the moon without need of propulsion. Most of her power was cut, allowing the crew to save energy as they performed repairs from the many wounds received during the battle.

Onboard the bridge, service droids and mechnics dragged entire parts of the ship's monitoring systems from the lower decks, replacing the previous who's electronics had melted almost completely by the taint of the Witch-Captain's powers surging through. Welding, wiring and retrofitting quickly turned the Imvonvol into a workshop, the crew too accustomed to such rapid repair efforts by then. A cacophony of ill-transmitted orders, barking officers and complaining deck hands consumed the narrow decks, while the hangars were drained of starfighters, all scouting the moon for any sign of life.

It took hours, until one of the crew officers approached the Witch-Captain who was lying on stacked consoles at the back end of the bridge, forming a form of "bed". Her hand occasionally brought aloft, playing with the flickering light of the lightbulb that hanged right above her. Her long pale braided hair dressing the console beneath her head like a chain fabric.

"Captain." the Weequay spoke up, approaching the Athysian.

"What is it Glund..?" she grimached, her eyes still focused on the lightbulb.

"We received a transmission, Captain."

"There's a whole Raider Fleet out there, Glund... And we are running behind schedule. Big daddy Eosfor would be upset, if we miss the fun..." her voice twisting from sloth-tainted to utter mockery, mimicking a voice vaguely resembling a young child's.

"No, Captain... It came from the Moon."

As soon as Glund mentioned the Moon, Hyara's motions froze; Her mind suddenly summoning the thoughts of the Witch-Captain she was, as the information brought to her demanded action.

"Frak. That guy can't die, can he?" her lips slitting in a wide smile. "Fine." She exclaimed, letting her hand fall to the sides. "Trace it. Send the squadron to fish him out... Tell the boys to wear their shine... We gonna have royalty onboard!"

 

[Darth Fauste]

Darth Fauste pressed deeper into the wreckage, her mind only partially focused on the task at hand. The twisted corridors and burnt-out consoles around her were nothing more than the remnants of a lost battle—one of many she had survived over the years. Yet this battle had a different weight to it, a lingering sense of something unfinished. Desmundor’s words still hung in the air, but she pushed them aside for now. His gods, his beliefs, his unwavering conviction—it didn’t matter. What mattered was survival.

But as much as she tried to dismiss it, his quiet conviction intrigued her. It was rare to find someone so unwavering in their faith, someone who genuinely believed in a higher purpose beyond power and control. In some ways, she found it almost admirable, though it was a weakness in her eyes. The Sith had no need for gods or patrons. They were their own masters, bound only by the pursuit of strength.

She paused in front of a shattered viewport, the distant stars barely visible through the smoke and haze. Desmundor’s words echoed in her mind: “The Gods push you to achieve your fate. It’s not always about achieving it, but about never giving up.”

Fauste scoffed quietly. Never giving up—it sounded noble, but in her experience, it was often a fool’s path. The Sith didn’t cling to false hope. They adapted, evolved, and if necessary, abandoned one path to find another, stronger one. The galaxy didn’t care about perseverance or honor. It rewarded power, and only those who could claim it would survive.

Still, there was a kernel of something in Desmundor’s words that gnawed at her. She wasn’t sure if it was his belief in his gods or the fact that he’d survived so long clinging to them. She had shunted off her old self—Lyanna—because she had no use for weakness as a leader, and yet Desmundor wore his past like a badge of honor. Perhaps that was the difference between them: Fauste had embraced her Sith identity to better herself, while Desmundor held on to the warrior he had always been, shaped by his gods and traditions.

Her commlink had been destroyed earlier, cutting her off from her fleet. She had no way to summon the Migrant Fleet or the Starborn Sect, no way to command her people. It left her vulnerable in a way she had not felt in years. She despised the feeling, but it also sharpened her senses. There was no safety net now—only her own cunning and strength. She would survive, and when she reconnected with her fleet, she would make sure the galaxy remembered the name Fauste.

Her attention snapped back to the present as she heard Desmundor moving somewhere in the wreckage. His footsteps were slow and methodical, his movements less precise than hers. She could sense him through the Force, a steady presence, but something felt off. Fauste narrowed her eyes. Desmundor had been a strange one to read—an enigma wrapped in faith. But the Force rarely lied. There was something… calculated in his steps.

She allowed the faintest hint of a smile to curl at the edges of her lips. He was trying something. She didn’t know what, not yet, but she would soon enough.

She made her way toward the lower levels of the wreckage, letting her hands brush over the broken surfaces as she moved. Every step was measured, every decision calculated. Her mind, as always, was a battlefield, weighing possibilities, manipulating outcomes, preparing for any confrontation. If Desmundor thought his gods would guide him to victory, he was mistaken. In the end, it was not faith that won battles—it was strategy. And she had always been the better strategist.

Reaching the lower deck, she found a broken-down control panel, remnants of a long-dead system still flickering faintly with power. Kneeling beside it, she began to scavenge for parts, her hands moving swiftly as she picked through the wreckage. Every piece of metal, every circuit board was potential, a tool she could use to survive.

She thought again of Desmundor, of his belief in something greater. She didn’t share his faith, but there was something to be said for his resolve. Perhaps, in another life, he might have made a worthy Sith—if only he could learn to let go of his gods.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound—static. Fauste stilled, her senses sharpening. The sound was coming from Desmundor’s direction, but it wasn’t the sound of malfunctioning equipment. It was deliberate. The commlink.

Fauste’s eyes narrowed. So, that was his game. She had suspected as much, but hearing the faint burst of transmission confirmed it. He had been tampering with the long-range commlink, and now he was trying to hide it. What was his angle? Was he sending a message? To whom? It didn’t matter. Whatever his plan was, Fauste would ensure it served her own ends.

She rose to her feet, her lips twisting into a cold smile. Desmundor, you play a dangerous game.

For now, she would let him think he had the upper hand. But when the time came, Fauste would be ready. She always was.

Tag; @Desmundor Alcademon, @Hyara Hemstagon