Kasador
Mygeeto
Explosions peppered the street, encompassing the road in smoke. Aul darted down the street, his trust in the Force leading him forward. The Knight had never believed in fighting for the sake of killing. It had frustrated his master, Darkblade, but this very mindset had led him to the finals of the recent Journeyman Tournament. There he had fought in front of hundreds, including the Dark Council. He had lost, to one of the Palatinaeans, but he had found a reason to fight. He fought for his brothers and sisters in Naga Sadow.
He would be there for them always.
Behind him came several Palatinaean stormtroopers. Spotting him, they produced their weapons and began firing at him, forcing the Dakhani into cover behind some still smoldering debris. The white-armored soldiers advanced on his position, their plasteel boots pounding upon ice and pavement. He sensed them in the Force, edging ever closer as they positioned themselves to flank him. A sly grin parted his lips as he pressed his back harder against the debris. Grabbing his com-link, the Knight clicked the transmit button three times in quick succession. His finger slipped off the button as he roared out of cover, dashing straight for the stormtroopers. Their first few shots missed the mark from surprise, but the well-trained warriors recovered just in time to see two Sadowans land in between them with lightsabers lashing out.
Lilith and Firith, husband and wife, both members of Aul’s Battleteam, Devil’s Shroud, fought alongside each other, covering their partner’s weak points as they wrecked havoc through the enemy lines. Aul’s lightsaber joined the caucus, carving deep into trademark white armor. Together, the three Knights made short work of the eight remaining Stormtroopers.
Pausing to gain their breath, good humor dancing on Aul’s features as he flashed a thumbs up at his companions. The plan had worked to perfection. The fight in Kasador had been fought up close. The enclosed underground city had limited the use of transports and the trio had been unable to locate the holocron they had long sought. Instead, they had been drawn into a game of hide and seek with deadly consequences for the loser.
The grey clouds from the smoke grenades lingered, a lack of a natural breeze preventing the gas from dissipating. Aul led Lilith and Firith forward along the road when a voice barked at them to halt. Kasador security personnel hurriedly took cover as a couple of security speeders followed them, their blaster cannons easily powerful enough to take out vehicles.
A voice boomed through the smoke, magnified by a loudspeaker. “I won’t say it again, throw down your weapons and surrender!”
Firith snorted in derision, “Who the feth do they think they’re talking to?”
“Well, they’ve got bigger guns than us” Lilith retorted.
“Yeah, I’m not going to argue with that.” Aul grinned, “Besides, we’ve got better things to do. Let’s scarper.”
The two Stormwinds nodded and bolted down a side alleyway. Aul quickly followed suitl. The Arcanist knew discretion was the better part of valour. No point getting killed when they could get the hell out of dodge. Nope, they were going to loop around and join back up with the main Warhost force.
Kasador
Mygeeto
Rosh spun, his lightsaber ripping through the torso of a Kasador security personnel. The Twi’lek fell wide-eyed, never once expecting a lightsaber to be his demise. The weapon snapped off, and was back in place on Rosh’s belt before the Twi’lek hit the ground. The Aedile was a man with purpose, one he was tired of being delayed. Each step was surefooted, bringing him closer to his goal.
Twice Rosh had been denied. He was not certain if it was fate, or dumb luck that had stopped him. But he was certain of one thing, this third time would see the Sadowan Proconsul Sanguinius dead. When the Naga Sadow Summit dropped to the planet to organize their forces’ defenses and capture of the pirate treasure, Rosh made this one task his personal goal. The last time Rosh had caught up with the Augur, he had managed to place a tracker. This was finally paying off. He eyed the flashing dot on the small handheld screen. His prey was close
Rosh turned down a side alley and broke into a sprint. Ahead, he heard blaster fire, followed by the periodic concussive boom of a grenade. Using his lightsaber to slice through the locks of a door, Rosh cut through a restaurant, packed with huddled civilians hoping to stay out of the firefight. He burst through the main entrance of the restaurant and found himself directly behind a small group of Sadowan soldiers. In the center of the group was his goal, Sang.
Sang became aware of him just in time to activate one of his lightsabers. Two of his soldiers fell to Rosh’s sweeping arc but the would-be assassin did not stop there. Digging his toes in, Rosh launched straight for the Sadowan Proconsul. Blades met and hissed but Rosh disengaged and dashed forth again. In a flurry of strikes and parries, Sanguinius defended himself, but was unable to defend his accompanying men. They fell one by one; collateral damage to Rosh’s fury.
Rosh was relentless. He knew sooner or later Sang would tire, and all he had to do was endure longer. He had to endure longer. He pressed his advantage, forcing the duel further down the nearly empty street. Down the road, several Sadowan forces ran through the intersection, followed closely by Palatinaeans. If the noise of the clashing lightsabers didn’t fill the air, the two would have heard the grinding of gears, and the missiles fired by the Kasador security tank.
The missile whizzed past its mark, instead, striking the street mere meters away from where Rosh and Sang battled. The force of the blast sent the pair flying through the air, landing hard, robes singed from the fireball. The tank rumbled forward, preparing to fire another shot. Rosh rolled to his stomach and gave himself a half push, half jump into the alley way to avoid the resulting blast. Behind him the wall of the building collapsed, closing off the entrance to the alleyway.
Fate once again had prevented him from completing his goal.
Time to go.
Kasador
Mygeeto
After once more unleashing her claws, the Sithspawn was capered in the blood. The once proud Sephi had fallen into shadow, the tide of war dragging her deeper yet. Ophelia’s allegiance to the One Sith had led her to trading blows with Darth Ashen, who had smashed her down without mercy and stripped her of the Force. Through experiments, the mad alchemist, Macron, had reconstructed her, twisted her. The ensuing results had been enough for Locke to censor his fellow Sons of Sadow, yet he had caught a glimpse of intelligence within Ophelia. Intelligence enough to allow the creature to stay on as Aedile. However, the heat of combat, the bloodthirst often overcame her conditioning and she relished death, even worshipped it.
Yet, not even her capacity for murder could not turn the tide of battle. It should have been a fight on three fronts, yet in the back alleys and warrens of streets, the frontlines were fluid and squads and individuals were often cut off and isolated.
Locke watched the holo-display of the proceedings change, noting the tide of battle. He had Malik with him, the Neti was a valuable asset to the Clan, his Battle Meditation was worth thirty veteran Equites alone. However, the situation was simply untenable. Locke glanced with frustration at the ever updating casualty list. Several squads had lost contact with command, and Naga Sadow’s Force-users were scattered in Kasador. There was no unified attack and the street to street fighting would only serve to bring attention from unwanted people like the Grand Master or, worse, the Galactic Republic.
No. It was high time to retreat and leave Mygeeto. The Sadowans had taken some treasures from the pirates and recovered some from the Palatinaean forces, but they had yet to recover the holocron. Despite his misgivings, Locke knew it was better to retreat than to overplay their hand. The consequences could prove too much to pay.
“Admiral Simonetti, I’m ordering a full scale evac from Mygeeto. All Warhost forces are to withdraw.” the Augur directed, his comlink active.
“At once, sir,” came the cool reply. The veteran Admiral had spent 10 years in the service of Naga Sadow. He’d seen it all and, clearly, little could surprise him. “Shuttles are en route.”
“Excellent, Admiral. I’ll see you aboard the Final Way soon.” Locke ended the call.
Turning to the Major commanding the Warhost Command Operation Centre, the Consul instructed that a full retreat be signalled across all Warhost frequency bands.
“Bring our men home, Major Lorne.” Locke instructed as he looked once again at the holo-display of the battle.
Kasador
Mygeeto
Kor Vaal limped along the silent street. It had been some hours since the combat that had so swiftly overtaken the city had moved on to other parts. Allowing himself one sigh of relief, he adjusted the bag strap that went over his shoulder.
“Should have grabbed lighter stuff,” he grumbled to himself before concluding with a string of curses.
His free hand gave a slight push on the goggles protecting his eyes, readjusting them to his vision. With a shrug of his shoulders, he continued towards the transport bay. He couldn’t wait to put this frigid hell of a planet behind him. As compensation, he would have some nice trophies to show off back on Judecca… assuming any of his closest friends and companions had survived or eluded capture.
Of course, the transport bay was on lockdown. Kor Vaal had expected this, given the chaos in the streets of the city. The security force wasn’t about to let those responsible walk free, certainly not with their lives. He dropped his bag with a thud and straightened up, stretching his shoulder in wide circular motions. He then approached the office visibly marked for bay security. The door was locked, but that wasn’t about to stop him. A flick of his lightsaber could have rectified this problem, but he opted for an alternative.
He knocked.
The door slid open.
“That you Tunot? Can you believe this poodoo? Look at these feeds!” The security guard said, without so much as casting a glance over his shoulder to the newcomer.
“Ah sorry… Not Tunot. No. But thank you for opening the door!” Kor Vaal said. Stepping forward, he slammed his open hand against the doors control panel. His lightsaber spat to life in sync with the door that shut behind him.
“Why don’t you tell me how to open the access doors here. Maybe then I’ll let you live.”
Minutes later, Kor Vaal stood assessing the ships in the transport bay, bag once again weighing down on his sore, blistered shoulders. He picked the one that looked like it would be the fastest, not knowing a thing about ships.
Now, he just needed to convince the pilot to take him to the Palatinaean fleet. He thumbed the lightsaber hilt hanging off his belt as he stepped onto the ship’s access ramp.
FFC Final Way
En-route to Orian System
Unknown Coordinates
The evacuation of Kasador had taken time. The bodies of Warhost troops had been recovered where possible in order to prevent the authorities from identifying and broadcasting any marks or identification that could reveal the Brotherhood or Naga Sadow. For all the chaos they had caused on Mygeeto, few would believe the involvement of those long forgotten “Jedi”… at least, until someone produced some sort physical proof.
Darkblade sat on a pile of crates that housed gas clips for blaster rifles, his robes dusty and burned where blaster bolts had passed through the cloth. The Anzat was filled with anger and disgust at the forced retreat and the betrayal that should have been seen coming from a mile away. The Quaestor watched Locke and Sanguinius pass him and scowled, the pair had caused a lot of deaths and lost treasures that could have benefitted the Clan. To add insult to injury, the incident would most likely weaken Naga Sadow in the eyes of the other Clans, who would circle like vultures circling carrion.
Yet, despite all that, the Anzat knew full well that the pair would be just as angry and frustrated as he. They had made a decision to trust a man who claimed to represent an Emperor, yet in the end, he had been proven to be nothing more than a vagabond, a trickster prince.
Naga Sadow’s revenge would come, at a time and place of their choosing. Darkblade so swore it. He would become their harbinger of intent and ensure that the Black Hand would have his comeuppance.
Kasador
Mygeeto
Darth Vexatus wandered the streets. The locals were beginning to crawl out of hiding now that the Brotherhood’s forces had vacated. Martial law was still in full effect, but the Falleen was not concerned. The hermit had worked to assist Naga Sadow, yet he knew that he was still hated and feared by them. He was not yet ready to return. Instead he would continue to wander, and seek answers that perhaps rekindle his connection to the Force.
The tales of his accomplishments and feats had served him well on Kasador, it had enabled the Elder to outwit his opponents who constantly expected him to do the one thing he could no longer do. He had used it to his advantage.
Kasador security forces patrolled the streets and had locked down the spaceport. Getting off this rock would be difficult, but it certainly wouldn’t be impossible for someone as resourceful as the seer.
NSD Dark Paladin
Deep Space
Unknown Coordinates
The Quarren’s boots made a dull thud as he stepped off the loading ramp of the shuttle onto the pristine floor of the Nebula-class Star Destroyer’s hangar. His eyes greedily focused on his prize, an ornate holocron. On the surface of Mygeeto he had stolen a quick peek into the files it held, and it was overwhelming. There were so many things to dissect from it, so much knowledge to learn.
Across the hanger there was a clattering, one of the transport pods dropped, spilling its contents on the floor. The loot managed to glitter even in the harsh artificial light. Lexiconus gave the pile of valuables a passing glance before picking up his feet to quickly leaving the hanger. The turbolift opened, and the sound of applause rang out. Metal against flesh, The Black Hand strode in clapping.
A cold, insincere clap.
Before Cyris could speak, which Lexic expected to be either a heated reprimand or a praise-filled congratulations, the alarms went off. Admiral Ail’en Sommetra quickly spoke up via the intercoms from the bridge.
“Red alert. Battle stations.” There was no hesitation or uncertainty in her voice. Lexic’s mind raced at a thousand outcomes. Had Kasador Security hounded them into space? Was it Naga Sadow? How could they have followed them here. Why risk it? He turned to look out the wide hanger doors, the void of space separated only by the thin shielding of the hangar entrance.
He was staring straight at the point of a Resurgent-class Star Destroyer.
“That is no Sadowan ship…” He said softly, eyes narrowing to slits. Sommetra’s voice came back just as he finished the statement.
“Hold fire. Stand down to condition two. Transports incoming. Hangars Besh-three and -four, and Cresh-two.”
It wasn’t long before multiple transport shuttles touched down in the hangar bay. Ramps came down hard and soldiers poured out in rapid order, each stepping perfectly in sync with the next. It took him a moment to recognize them, so quick they were. The Iron Legion.
Then he came. Clad entirely of white, Darth Pravus stepped lightly from his shuttle. All the Palatinaeans froze. Not one of them could have imagined the Grand Master himself gracing the durasteel floors of the Dark Paladin. The tension was palpable and Lexic swallowed hard.
Pravus paused at the foot of the ramp. Silently, he scanned the wide chamber before giving a nod, so subtle it would have been easy to miss. Not for the soldiers of the Iron Legion, who never failed to catch an order from their Grand Master. Within seconds they were grabbing the cargo pods laden with treasures and artifacts. Lexic stood there, dumbfounded as one snatched the holocron straight from his hands and tossed it into a passing cargopod.
He nearly said something then, but the words caught in his throat. It did not go unnoticed, for he saw the Grand Master’s eyes upon him. He saw to sly smirk. Lexiconus had never felt so small. In under a minute, Scholae Palatinae’s hard-earned spoils of war were secured on Pravus’ transports.
Pravus raised a hand. The room fell deathly silent.
“The Iron Throne thanks you for this gift.”
And with that, Darth Pravus turned on his heel and disappeared into the shuttle.
Temple of Sorrow
Sepros
Orian System
The silence of the grave. Death claimed all, none were immune to its touch. The events on Mygeeto had led to many deaths. Pirates, Sadowans, Palatinaeans and the locals who had gotten embroiled in their little war.
Locke seethed in silence, brooding upon the betrayal enacted by Xen’Mordin. He had trusted his fellow Consul, he had believed in giving the Sith a second chance. He had allowed an enemy to get within striking distance, like a snake ensnaring a mouse.
His mind ran through the pattern of events that had led to this result. Naga Sadow had failed in their quest to claim the holocron, Scholae Palatinae’s betrayal had hit them too hard, limiting the Warhost’s capacity to strike back. The limited rules of engagement had worked in their opponent’s favor.
“Your brooding will not serve us well.” a voice broke the silence, drawing Locke’s attention to his Proconsul.
“We have been shown to be weak. Our focus on fighting The Dominion allowed Xen’Mordin to trick us.” Locke snarled at his subordinate.
“Can you be certain that Xen’Mording ordered this betrayal?”
The glare Locke shot his Proconsul said it all.
“Our fight has always been with them, yet you know that I yearn for peace.” Sanguinius replied calmly, his presence in the Force resolute and unweilding. “The Palatinaeans have won a minor victory in the grand scheme of things. The Clans skirmish and bicker, it is their way.”
“You speak to me as if I’m a child, unaware of the happenings of the Brotherhood.” Locke berated, vexed at the situation. “I’m well aware that our illustrious Grand Master has already paid a visit to our former allies to claim his share.”
Sanguinius quietly laughed, “and yet we would do well to avoid him, you know that we harbour Undesirables such as myself here on Sepros.” The Augur turned to leave, “We’re not alone in our fight, Locke… there are others who would fight alongside us against Pravus.”
“Your words would get us killed, Jedi.” Locke wearily shook his head and moved towards his desk. “You claim to seek peace, but your words and actions invite the deaths of millions.”
“If that is the will of the Force, so be it.” Sanguinius left, leaving Locke alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t deny that the Jedi had a point, there was dissent within the Brotherhood, not all were supporters of the Grand Master. They would have to pick a side sooner of later.
The Bakuran sat at his desk for several moments before activating a hololink. A small greenish figure appeared on his desk before him.
“Yes?” the figure questioned.
“Consul… I have a proposition for you.” Locke replied.
Throne Room
Imperial Palace
Ohmen, Judecca
The Black Hand’s long black cloak, as dark as his demeanour, swept behind him as long calculated strides carried him across the throne room’s marble tiles. His reflection on the polished surface was that of a phantom glaring back up at him with searing hatred in its eyes. It had been long months since he had last graced the Emperor’s halls. Once, he might have enjoyed the lavish decor and vast chamber seeping with power. Such interests had long deserted him. In fact, he derived no pleasure whatsoever from being there at that moment. The reason for which he was being summoned was obvious.
As he had foreseen, the events of Mygeeto had had the effects of a bomb, sending ripples through not only the warring clans but the Brotherhood as a whole. He had gotten Pravus’ attention. Yet, these were but stepping stones towards darker horizons. Far darker.
A long path yet lay ahead for him.
Should the Emperor interfere…
He reached the foot of steps leading up to the throne, towering above him in all its twisted splendor. In his absence, the Emperor had apparently replaced the non-descript, angular throne with something more fitting of a Sith ruler. He could respect that, however frivolous the reasons might have been.
Upon this throne sat the Emperor, lounging with casual indifference, his left leg thrown over the armrest while his face was propped up with one fist. Cyris marvelled at how different the Emperor could appear from one meeting to the next, especially without his mask. They were two separate people, Xen’mordin and the Emperor.
“Ah, welcome, my friend!” called Xen, his voice friendly and particularly warm as he straightened up in his seat. Under the circumstances, there was reason enough to smile, but Cyris did not buy the apparent excitement.
Still, the Black Hand took knee before the stairs to pay his respects, dishonest though they were, to the man who had liberated him from that frigid prison compound on Caina. He dipped his head and pulled the cavernous hood off his shaven, disfigured head. After a quiet reverie, he finally met the Emperor’s glistening stare.
Oscura opened his mouth but Xen did not let him speak.
“You have done well on Mygeeto, Black Hand. As expected, the Sadowans have retreated. I suspect my old friend will be licking his wounds for some time. It is a shame that Locke and Sang got away though. I expected more. As for those artifacts…”
“Let Pravus have his toys, my Emperor,” Cyris interjected, speaking over Xen as he pushed himself up. He grimaced as pain shot up his spine. “This sows distrust of the Dark Council through our ranks."
“Thus securing their loyalty to me and not those fools in the Iron Legion. Yes, yes.” Cyris could have sworn that he glimpsed a hint of disappointment or sadness through the shadows that drenched the Emperor’s face. Xen’s eyes flared with conviction, joined by a machiavellian grin across his lips.
Those eyes, the conflicting emotions, Oscura thought as he locked gaze with his ruler, those are not the eyes of a sane man.
“Indeed,” continued Xen, “We have cast out this pathetic alliance and are now free to move forward unhindered. Even as they continue to wonder why you turned on Locke, our pawns resolve to follow our orders like never before. “
Cyris clenched his mechanical fist as he whispered, “And soon, the culling shall begin…”
