OOC:

A post by Jegora

Jegora stood deceptively at ease in his brown and silver armor. He wore the ultra-light plate like a second skin, the precisely engineered suit allowing for maximum freedom of movement while providing superb protection against blasters and even lightsabers. They were marvels of engineering, these suits of armor that all the Eagles wore. They were also extremely expensive. While Jegora had never been quoted the exact price of each suit, he estimated that they had to be worth tens of thousands of credits apiece. A small sum, really, in comparison to the vast fortunes that the Order controlled, but still…in aggregate, the cost was astronomical.

Glancing around at the gathered Dark Jedi, Jegora could barely repress a shiver of excitement. More and more, he lived solely for the thrill of battle, for the thrill of meeting an enemy in combat and destroying him utterly. Such a large scale engagement was something Jegora had anticipated for a long time. So far he had only tested his skills against weaker individuals, lowly men and women who could not command the power of the Force, and as such were beneath his notice. These new enemies, however, showed promise. They were certainly strong, if the Council’s reports were accurate, albeit untrained, and Jegora looked forward to showing them what a true warrior was capable of. Caution tempered his bloodlust, however. He had not made it this far without knowing when and where to unleash his power. He would meet these so-called Reborn in combat, and he would crush them utterly, but he would do it on his terms.

A tingle down Jegora’s spine roused him from his reverie. His finely honed, Force-amplified instincts were buzzing, and he could almost feel the weight of someone’s—or something’s—gaze. Turning, Jegora scanned the crowd before spotting perhaps the only other person currently present, besides Raziel himself, who could have inspired such feelings of unease. Like the Headmaster, the dark-robed woman was  a council member, and as Jegora met her gaze he could feel the weight of her attention like a hammer blow. Jegora had once imagined that he was fairly well acquainted with Kami Sharpe, but that illusion had been shattered upon arriving at the Citadel. As Jegora watched, the Krath Scholar inclined her head slightly, a sign of respect. Jegora returned the gesture immediately, although his slight bow might have been a little deeper. The Krath were always touchy, slightly neurotic even, and Sharpe was one of the Order’s most potent individuals. If things went according to plan, she could very well become a significant ally. Jegora saw no reason to offend such a powerful individual, especially one who could very easily become quite useful.

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Jegora surveyed the progress that his warriors and their students had made readying themselves and their supplies. There were only two dozen members of the Eagle Sect, and only a quarter of those had earned the title of Marauder. The rest were upper-level students, Adepts who were capable warriors but had not yet completed their final trials, and apprentices of the Marauders themselves.  None the less, there were still half a dozen Eagles who had earned the right to wear the signature armor, and they struck an impressive sight. Each Eagle was an expert combatant with a variety of weapons, most notably the lightsaber. What’s more, each individual had certain Force talents and expertise that made them even deadlier in battle. They were effectively the epitome of fighting capability, deadly in any number of situations and against almost any type of opponent.

They were not, however, soldiers.

Jegora had been struggling with this fact ever since he had learned that the full might of the Order was marching to war. His Eagles were extremely capable warriors, and they were utterly lethal combatants, but for the most part they weren’t military men. Only two or three had any military experience at all, and only Jegora had ever been an officer, had actually commanded men on the battlefield. Soon the Eagles would be on the frontlines of a war, very likely commanding professional soldiers. It would be a new experience for most of them, and Jegora wasn’t really sure how the Knights under his command would deal with their new responsibilities. 

Ultimately, however, Jegora knew that they would soon find out. The upcoming war would serve as a definitive test for the Order. The weak would be culled from the ranks, and the strong would be further tempered in the fires of battle and strife. Those who could not hold their own would be destroyed, either by the Reborn or by those they had once considered allies and friends. The inept and the incompetent could not be allowed to survive, lest they become a drain on the resources of the Order, weak links that caused even more harm. Liabilities were unacceptable, and Jegora was ready to do what was necessary to ensure that the whole of the Order was honed to a razor’s edge—even if that meant ending the lives of some of his own Eagles. 

He watched his subordinates work for several more minutes. By the time they were nearing the completion of their assigned tasks, he felt a massive power source slowly approaching the shuttle. He turned, wondering who could cast such an incredibly large shadow in the Force. Perhaps not surprisingly, he was greeted by the sight of three black-robed individuals making their way slowly towards the shuttle. These were the Masters of the Order, the undisputed lords of Force, and even Jegora’s limited senses could ascertain that the amount of power they wielded was staggering. As they paced their way towards the shuttle, Jegora felt a slight shift in his immediate surroundings. He turned, curious, only to come face to face with the Headmaster of the Order. Raziel stood calmly, seemingly unperturbed by the approach of the Masters. A small shiver went down Jegora’s spine as he realized that the Headmaster had approached so silently that even his own finely tuned senses hadn’t perceived the approach. Jegora knew that Raziel could have easily killed him if he had so desired, and he himself would have never known. It was not a pleasant feeling, this knowledge of his own lacking, and it was one that Jegora loathed with a passion.

Smothering his rage and being so easily startled, Jegora waited silently for instructions. It was difficult to maintain his stoicism, but he didn’t have to wait long.

“Load the rest of the men. We leave soon,” Raziel said curtly, before moving off to intercept the Masters. Jegora nodded an affirmative, then watched the Headmaster march off. Truth be told, Jegora hated taking orders, although he was quite good at it. He had been a soldier in his previous life, a pathetic being bound to do the will of others. He was something more now, having transcended those old limits, but he still found himself subordinate to those even more powerful. His ultimate goal was to break all the bonds restricting him, to have no master but himself. It was a lofty goal, and one that would take much patience and perseverance, but Jegora could be patient when it suited him. He would bide his time, take his orders, and when the appropriate moment presented itself, he would strike. If there was one similarity between the politics of the Order and more visceral combat, it was this: the timing had to be flawless.

Forty five minutes later, the transport was airborne. Aboard were a hundred shock troopers and approximately two dozen of the Order’s finest Jedi, including the Dark Lord Kadann himself. While the Force users on board did not represent the full might of the Order, it was a goodly portion of its most capable members. All of Jegora’s full Marauders were aboard, and Sharpe had brought several of her most prominent Lions along as well. The massive transport was also carrying half a dozen of the Orders new ETA prototype starfighters. The prototypes were extremely quick and maneuverable, but their armaments left something to be desired, and no one really knew how they would fair in actual combat. Still, they provided the Order with a capability that the Reborn would not expect, a capability that could prove vital to the success of the upcoming war.

Seated deep in the bowels of the transport, Jegora let out a slow breath, relaxing his muscles and letting his mind wander. As he slipped deeper and deeper into a meditative trance, he didn’t notice the feral grin slowly stretching across his visage. Soon, he would do battle with worthy opponents. Soon, he would test his power against those who might finally prove a challenge. And with each opponent Jegora conquered, he knew that his own power grew. With each enemy he crushed, his own strength increased tenfold. If this war went anything like Jegora anticipated it would, he would soon have the supremacy to make his move, and he relished the thought of finally striking out against those who thought him tame.

OOC:

Kami Sharpe

Kami stood calmly amongst the shifting mass of heavily armed men. The sounds of a military campaign had long since become unfamiliar to her. The snap of ammo cartridges locking into place. The creak of armor scraping against interlinked plating. The hissing of air between clenched teeth as soldiers stretched muscles in readiness. Once…many years ago, these noises had been commonplace in her guise as a Lieutenant of the Vast Empire Army. Now they only served to recall a faint sense of nostalgia, for days far more simple than those that she presently sought to survive.

“Sharpe.”

The clipped military tones of the commander of her kill team drew her from her reflections. A veteran soldier in his early 30’s, Sergeant Winters had only ceased to mockingly call her ‘Jedi Sharpe’ after she had threatened to commission another to lead in his place. It was obvious to everyone involved in this operation that the VE soldiers were uneasy about their alliance with the shadowy members of the Order.  After all, they were the elite members of an experienced fighting force, and had until now fared just fine without the aid of arrogant, glow-stick wielding upstarts. Their contempt, and their ignorance, was completely understandable. Nonetheless, they were not prepared for what they would face out on the field of battle. Their disdain of Kami and her comrades would not hold once the Reborn joined the fight.

“All men accounted for.” Winters forced himself to straighten his shoulders in a dutiful display of respect as he reported, “Awaiting your orders.”

Kami flicked her green gaze to the lined face of the Sergeant, “You are surely a capable enough officer Winters. I would suggest that when we are finally given the order to move that you retain command.  If I have an issue with any of your orders at any given time I will interject, yet I have no wish to interfere with the effectiveness of this unit.”

Winters posture eased slightly at the rare acknowledgment of his skills, “Er…thank you m’am. In that case, with your permission, I’ll go and discuss tactics with my XO?”

His comment went ignored as Kami’s attention drifted elsewhere.

A group of black-robed figures stood to her right in quiet discussion, a great expanse of space between them and the rest of the waiting forces. It was a subconscious urge, the instinct to move oneself away from the concentrated power of the Dark Council, and one that most non-Force sensitive’s succumbed too without realizing. Kami had not bothered to attempt to include herself in their discussions. As the newest member of the Council she had a great deal to prove before she was completely accepted within their ranks.  Raziel had cautioned her on numerous occasions that her obsession with the discovery of knowledge had singled her out as self-seeking in the higher ranks.  Her quest for power had inadvertently made her a threat. She displayed far too much impulsiveness in a Council that generally erred towards caution.

As she watched the cowled head of Kadann rose to seek out the commander of his own kill team, a decorated Major who stood forward at the subtle summoning. The two conversed for a moment before the Major span about and hefted the rifle from his hip into his arms. A voice well used to carrying over the roar of battle cut through the strained silence,

“Move out!”

Without a single word, the mass of men shifted formation and started forwards at a slow jog towards their individual targets.

Kami swept along with her own group, gesturing for most of her Krath to fall into place behind her. Unlike the Sith, most of her Sect were not overly proficient at combat. With the exception of a few veteran members of the Sect gifted with their own kill teams, the rest of her small group would be staying within easy reach of her for the duration of the assault. She had spent far too long, and expended far too much effort to callously risk her budding ranks to enemy blaster fire. They deserved a better fate than death on the battlefield and she would do everything in her power to ensure that they survived for as long as possible.

The first sounds of blaster fire rent the air as the armed ranks of the Vast Empire slammed into unprepared enemy lines. Kami’s team veered to the left of the first encounter, continuing on their wide path about the bulk of the enemy forces. Winters had express instructions to deliver his Jedi group into the midst of the Reborn where they could do the most damage. On the other side of the battlefield the members of Eagle Sect would be doing the same. It made little to no sense to waste their potentially lethal influence on the pawns of their adversary.

“Incoming!”

Winter’s shout was all the warning they had before the whistling of artillery rounds became audible from above. The well-trained military members of the kill team broke ranks and scattered, continuing resolutely forwards as the first of the shells exploded amongst their midst. Kami bared her teeth as the screams began to sound, soldiers vanishing in flame and smoke as huge chunks of earth cascaded into the air. Almost without a thought, she extended a protective bubble about her, the sheer strength of her will maintaining the barrier in place as the world tipped violently at the force of another explosion. Blood spattered across her view as the marine next to her was torn in two by flying shrapnel, his upper body soaring clear of his twitching legs. Kami’s lightsaber flashed briefly as she cut the torso from the air to clear a path for her to advance.

Abruptly they emerged on the other side of the bombardment  to reveal the stolid lines of enemy soldiers.

“The mortars!” Winters voice sounded briefly again before it was drowned out by the whine of incoming blaster fire.

Almost as one, the ranks of Lion Sect leapt above the heads of the VE kill team, sabers igniting with a hiss mid-air before they landed neatly amongst the ranks of the enemy. Kami’s first blow took the head clear off the stunned soldier that spun to meet her.

Be mindful, you will sense the Reborn enter the fray.

Kami’s mental warning to her Sect was unacknowledged as they joined her in the slaughter.

OOC:

Bloodhound

Moelik Hond had barely had time to run through the regular series of thoughts and emotions that invariably followed any dealing with Two-Fists when the fight started. He was going through the pockets of one particularly dead corporal, particularly dead in that checking the mans right and left pockets required walking about three meters between the two, when bolts began to rain around him.

Given any other circumstance he would have ran for his life firing wildly behind him until he lost his enemy, but that was not an option here, a place where one’s allies where just as much enemies. Hond, instead, pulled a blaster rifle from the ground and activated his training saber. The red blade was almost completely useless, and as the Eagle’s met the enemy Hond dove to cover. The red column of energy emanating from his hilt was more an annoyance than anything, a reminder that he was the lowest one here.

From his hiding spot behind a few bodies and piles of dirt he could watch the battle commence, although for the most part it moved far too quickly for his eyes and just attempting to touch The Force, without Loren to guide him, was death. Hond laughed at himself and deactivated the training saber, securing it once again to his belt loop.

Hond might have been out of his depth with matters in the force, and lightsaber combat and basically everything to do with the The Order, but a battle, well a battle he could do. He quickly sighted down the barrel of the E-11 and fired off a shot, it missed of course but he corrected for it and fired again, taking a stormtrooper in the neck.

Hond kept separate from both the Dark Jedi and the shocktroopers, getting lost in the fray as he moved from cover to cover, taking pot shots at the enemy stormtroopers. His white robe was soon soiled brown and red from rolling in the dirt and hiding among the dead. Lightsabers danced among the living, sometimes here, sometimes there. Hond was careful to avoid them.

It was like he was still on Lopen, skulking about the deserted corridors, desperate to avoid the other residents. It was like the streets of Corellia, avoiding police. He skulked because he was powerless. It angered him, it made his head burn. It made that little ball of fire and corruption just outside his vision reach out to him, and it took all his self control not to touch it. The Force would kill him, he had yet to hold it for more than a handful of minutes before it began to consume him, and there was no one here to bring him back if he could not sever the connection himself. Hond had not asked for this, he had not asked for this burdensome power nor the people he was surrounded by. He hated every last one of them.

Watching from under the corpse of a mutilated stormtrooper Hond caught sight of his enemy. Hond ran a hand along the rifle, it was the first real weapon he’d touched since being dropped into that pit on Lopen, the first weapon that had any chance of killing. The smile that split his face revealed the yellowed teeth beneath. He aimed down the barrel of the blaster, lining up the sights, controlling his breathing, then he waited.

The mix of bodies would obscure and clear Hond’s sight picture, and so he waited until the next time Jegora Fal was revealed. Hond waited patiently, focused. Beyond the calm surface of his body and mind that were required for this kind of long distance marksmanship boiled his anger and his frustration. Moelik Hond was a man possessed of one purpose and one purpose only. Freedom, and Jegora Fal once again was all that stood in the way.

Hond pulled the trigger.

He watched, anticipation wracking his body with shivers, his mouth salivating. For a few moments that infernal ball of power just outside his vision was forgotten. He watch the bolt fly and, in a moment of confusion and conflagration, Jegora Fal was gone. Simply gone, his silver-blue lightsaber the mark of his passing has he blurred across the battlefield. Bloodhound’s bolt fizzled harmlessly on the dirt behind where Jegora had been standing.

Hond only paused for a moment, dumbfounded, before rolling on his back, still under the body, and laughed. There was no mirth in that laugh, just desperation and exhaustion. Moelik Hond wasn’t broken yet, but it felt like he was. He felt powerless, and there was no feeling as horrible as being powerless, not to a boy that had made his way on guns and crime his entire life. This was truly the slowest and saddest death he could imagine.

OOC:

Jegora

His survival instincts urging him on, Jegora Fal ran at an enormous pace, his long legs eating up ground almost effortlessly. He could feel the wrongness of the Reborn horde somewhere behind him, but he and his fellow Jedi were slowly pulling away from the largest concentration of the enemy Force users. Few things in the galaxy could run like a properly motivated Jedi, and the men and women of the Imperial Order were more than motivated. Survival depended getting away from the numerically superior Reborn as fast as possible, and the prospect of a gruesome death was more than enough inspiration for most. This determination to survive, along with Raziel’s insane maneuver, some close air support, and the sacrifices of a few idiotic individuals, meant that the majority of the Order was escaping the Reborn trap.

This knowledge didn’t brighten Jegora’s mood, however.

Inside, the Sith was a seething mass of impotent rage and helpless frustration. He had not fled from a battle since his initial botched attempt to end his sister’s life, just prior to first assuming his Knighthood. That he was forced to do so now was galling beyond what he would have believed possible. This so-called Bear had humiliated his men, and so by proxy had humiliated Jegora himself. It was an insult that he could not let stand—and yet ultimately he didn’t have a choice. He had taken the measure of the Bear’s strength, and the strength of his Reborn followers. Rationally, Jegora knew that the appropriate course of action was to retreat, bide time, and then strike at the opportune moment.  Emotionally, however, he wanted to rip the Bear apart with the Force, wanted to feel the life leave the man’s shattered and broken body. At that moment, sprinting away from a battlefield full of lesser foes, Jegora swore an oath of retribution. And as he did so, the fiery rage and frustration burning with him transformed into the cold, hard fury of patient vengeance.

It was then that Jegora had something of an epiphany. Obviously, to have his revenge he would need to grow stronger. But what he hadn’t realized until that moment was that his personal strength had somehow become inexplicably tied to his position within the Order, to the point where the two were no longer mutually exclusive. Much of Jegora’s influence within the Order, such as it was, derived from his new position as the Lord of the Eagle Sect. But the way this battle was going, there wouldn’t be much of an Eagle Sect left by the time the Reborn decided to quit the field. And so, almost unintentionally, Jegora’s new mission became to keep as many of his subordinates alive as possible. Before he hadn’t really cared if the weaker members of his Sect had lived or died, but now he realized that every Force user was valuable in some small way. The Reborn had proved that superior numbers did oftentimes carry the day, and in a flash of understanding Jegora realized that the more individuals he had loyal to him, the better.

The problem was, some of his more promising followers were trying their hardest to get themselves killed. Hond, in particular, seemed reluctant to flee. And while Jegora could certainly understand that sentiment, his empathy was overridden by his anger at being disobeyed. After the third or fourth time Hond slowed to look over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the pursuing Reborn, Jegora’s already thin patience promptly reached its breaking point. With a sweep of a hand and a surge of Force energy, he picked his apprentice up and propelled him forward several meters.

“Move, halfbreed, or I’ll kill you myself,” Jegora snarled as he kept running, passing the now-slightly stunned Hond. “You’ll get your chance, but for now you must RUN!”

Heeding his own advice, Jegora drew deeply on the Force, using it to fuel his own incredible pace. Around him his Sect members, having witnessed the exchange with Hond, did the same, and the rest of the Order followed suit. As the surviving members of the Order streaked south towards the landing zones and relative safety, Jegora realized that for the first time in a long, long time he felt…calm. It was not the cold, detached serenity that the Jedi of old adhered to, nor was it a necessary tranquil sensation. It was more a sense of resolution, a reaffirmation of purpose and resolve. The mass of his fury and his rage was still there, ready and waiting to be accessed and used, but now that pool of fire was covered by a sheet of ice. For the first time in a long time, Jegora felt like he was in control of himself and his surroundings. And instinctually, he knew that made him more dangerous than ever.

At that moment, he was shamed and humbled, forced to flee the field of battle. He was not, however, broken. He had not been defeated. Jegora Fal still had his power, his in-born natural ability. Most of his Sect was intact, and those surviving members were now battle hardened and tested. And most importantly, now he had a plan, a course of action, and he knew what to expect.

He would not make the same mistake twice. He would not underestimate the Reborn again.