Michael Collins
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Post by Michael Collins on Jan 21, 2016 1:01:19 GMT -8
*A Sentinel class transport set down as prescribed by a passenger*
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Di Fastski
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Post by Di Fastski on Jan 21, 2016 1:08:32 GMT -8
*Donnabhain stepped out of the ship, his feet still a bit shaky but very confident; the man he had spoken to was encouraging indeed. And moreover it rested on the mind of Donnabhain very heavily: An Tiarna was no fan of slavery*
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Michael Collins
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Post by Michael Collins on Jan 21, 2016 20:33:20 GMT -8
*Collins responded to his comm. beepping incessantly. The loud unmistakable voice could be heard - it was An Tiarna himself. Nodding his head several times the comm. cut abruptly. Collins did not delay turning and grabbing Donnabhain roughly by the arm and leading him to the Sentinel. All staff followed and the ship fired up and was gone as fast as it had landed*
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Mar 1, 2016 21:58:44 GMT -8
It takes the better part of a day for Razmik to arrange to meet with an alleged associate of a small independent spice mining outfit looking for smugglers willing to transport their product to distributors or sellers throughout the Eastern Outer Rim. The facilitator of the meeting, a sickly-looking blue skinned Sarkan named Eimhin, had given Razmik the coordinates the alleged associate would be waiting at after mooching two drinks off of the undercover Sector Ranger, and had seemed rather inebriated to begin with, making Razmik less than confident that the meeting would bear any fruit.
Accompanied only by his co-pilot, a blonde haired Morganian, Razmik sets his Nemesis-class patrol ship down atop a flat-topped rocky prominence that sticks up from the surrounding barren terrain like a defiant finger jutting up from a fist, and frowns as he leans forward to peer outside the forward viewport at the desolation stretching out before them. "Nothing on the sensors, Razmik announces to his companion after, turning from the bleak view from outside the ship, he glances at the sensor readings to see if any inbound ships are approaching. I do hope our blue friend hasn't wasted our time. I shall be quite cross if he has."
Nodding, Alessia laces her hands behind her head and leans back in her seat as she suggests, "Maybe we all should have just investigated what went down in Kessendra. I think Armin and Wen are more likely to wind up having a productive day than we are if no one shows soon."
Rubbing his chin, presently bearded as he has intentionally neglected his shaving regimen in order to look less clean-cut than usual, Razmik concedes, "You may be right. Though I can't imagine the populace here are going to be very forthcoming where details about the participants of whatever happened are concerned. It seems more likely that no one will have seen anything useful for fear of reprisals, doesn't it?"
Shrugging, Alessia says, "Depends. Armin and Wen are pretty good at getting the scoop without resorting to revealing that they're Rangers. They might get something juicy we can follow up on if this little trip of ours doesn't pan out."
Pointing towards a ship approaching their position, Razmik smiles and says, "The odds of our trip panning out seem to have just improved."
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Post by Deleted on Mar 5, 2016 22:11:50 GMT -8
The meeting with the surly Aqualish that had arrived late to the meeting arranged by Eimhin goes relatively well in Razmik's estimation; for while the spice mining outfit the Aqualish named Kishen represents is a small one, with the distributors awaiting the delivery of the spice promising to be just as small-time, the Sector Ranger believes he can use the outfit to ultimately gain access to bigger fish.
Dropping a crate of raw spice to the deck in the Nemesis-class patrol ship's cargo hold beside the one Alessia had carried aboard, Razmik tells her, "Make sure you log those, start a new file on Kishen's merry little band. We'll work for them a bit, see where it takes us and what we can learn about the other players here on Kessel before we decide how to put an end to their nonsense."
"And, hey, we get to see Taris while we're at it, Alessia quips, taking her datapad from a pocket of her jacket to start the file and logs Razmik has requested for their new assignment. How great is that?"
Shrugging with a pensive frown, Razmik points out, "They can't all be missions that take us to exotic and exciting locales, can they? I'll go and get us up in the air, let's see if Armin and Wenqian have learned anything interesting, shall we?"
Moments later the Nemesis-class patrol ship is soaring back towards Kessendra.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 3, 2016 19:07:16 GMT -8
Srecko tilts his head to the side to pin his comlink between his pointy red ear and his shoulder, freeing both hands to change his infant daughter's diaper as he continues his conversation. Leaning close to Ankine's face, Srecko makes a funny face to entertain and distract her while he says to the party on the other end of the comm line, "You're sure about those details? Ric Daklan, captain of the Silver Hawk, a black and grey Wayfarer-class transport? Anything else that might help . . . a Corellian accent? Tickling his daughter beneath her chin, Srecko lifts her legs to remove her soiled diaper as he says, That all sounds helpful, yes, tell Mr. Bateman I'm most appreciative. No, no, Srecko says with a chuckle, please assure Mr. Bateman that I bear him no ill will for what happened. Can't blame him for what transpired, can I? Ours is a business that entails a certain amount of risk, after all, and these smuggling crews are always a bit of a gamble where loyalty and reliability are concerned, aren't they? Laughing as he finishes changing Ankine's diaper, Srecko says, Too true, too true. Well, lesson learned as they say. Tell Mr. Bateman we'll be in touch once we've had a chance to set things to rights. Farewell."
Lifting his daughter after placing his comlink in a pocket, Srecko spins in a circle as he says in a sing-song voice, "We're going to find this Captain Daklan, yes we are, and we're going to destroy everyone and everything he holds dear, aren't we? Yes we are. Yes. We. Are," Srecko says, cradling Ankine in his arms gently and walking towards her crib to lay her down in it, his mind turning to what markers he can call in to begin searching for the unfortunate Captain Daklan and his crew. The universe may be vast, and full of places to hide, but not so vast that a few details such as those he has gathered about the crew that visited such destruction upon his operations here on Kessel, combined with a generous amount of credits can make ferreting out even the most secure hidey-hole a simple matter of patience and perseverance. Srecko, unfortunately for Daklan and his crew, has credits, patience, and resolve in vast supply.
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Post by House of D'Ordinii on Feb 22, 2017 21:27:41 GMT -8
==Raid on Kessel SL==
<<106 PP; T10 Sector, Kessel>>
As the three ships descended toward the planet, there were three flashes of light. One from each of the ships in secession. From the ground the flash of light & the resulting trail of smoke looked like some sort of explosion happening inside. Nearly instantly the airwaves were filled with panicked distress calls & maydays. In truth the flashes & smoke had been caused by pyrotechnics strapped to the hull for just that purpose. From their widely space starting points, the three ships barreled downward like drunken bricks.
Two of them landed heavily outside of slave staging areas, while the third landed outside the entrance to one of the mines. Three ships, three sites. Before the people on the ground could respond to the seeming accident, each of the ships sprang open & disgorged nearly twenty heavily armed & very angry former slaves. Within ten seconds of landing, a breaching charge had been placed & all three sites were ripped open. Into the gap poured the operatives of Operation Railroad, looking for slaves to free & slavers to kill.
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Michael Collins
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Post by Michael Collins on Jun 5, 2018 21:05:58 GMT -8
Pox Bubonic had worked as as a miner on Kessel for decades. Dirty work but it made for good pay. And it formed connections. None of these was greater than the friendship that he formed with Michael Collins during the IF control of Kessel. Pox sat watching men slave away tirelessly. He couldn’t figure out if the agony they’d put themselves through for a crumb was noble or just stupid. At any rate this was where he made his small fortune. The job itself made for a fair amount but it was the little extras, a blind eye here, a deal there. Tip off smugglers to a shipment one day; trip up their competition the next. And try not and make anybody's life any worse than it already was. Just keep your head down and mouth shut but see everything and talk to the right people. Collins had detected this activity and confronted Bubonic. The result was decisively to Bubonic’s favor. A lasting friendship was formed. It was Collins who questioned why should he think small when he could think big? It was then that Bubonic began working not in ounces and kilos but tons. He made a small fortune, packed away for a healthy retirement. Collins secured his promotion to a supervisor at Shipping and Receiving. The bell rang, break was time over, back to busting his back supervising poor souls busting their backs
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Michael Collins
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Post by Michael Collins on Jun 13, 2018 0:05:58 GMT -8
Bubonic was working at run of the mill inventory when his Comm. buzzed. Answering he nodded to himself several times then cut the link. He put the Comm. away and went back to the tedious work of cataloging dangerous mind altering narcotics
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Michael Collins
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Post by Michael Collins on Jun 13, 2018 16:47:26 GMT -8
Pox marveled at a the abject stupidity of the work underway. Backbreaking, often slave labor - for nothing. He could not contain the laugh. Pulling himself together he went back to counting barrels of drugs. Stopping for a moment he made a call. The wife was ok. Chops for dinner. Great if she could somehow manage not to burn them black. He forwarded a inventory schedule on a secure link. Home in an hour. Then more agonizing tales of a bored housewife that he didn't want to hear, nor cared about. Yupp this was the life
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Mórrígan Dubh
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Post by Mórrígan Dubh on Jun 14, 2018 21:17:08 GMT -8
The landing was impressive, or an extraordinary fluke; any closer and they would be parked on top of another. Mórrígan stood and exited flagging her crew with a right hand and they followed
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Michael Collins
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Post by Michael Collins on Jun 14, 2018 21:19:17 GMT -8
Pox stood waiting. Ouch! Every time he saw the girl it only got better.~Keep your cool fella, her family are loons~Smiling pleasantly
-Pox-
“Mórrígan, always nice to feel, I mean see you.”
He blushed but kept going; she was no BS when it can to business – that he knew
-Pox-
“This ship sweetie, loaded and set to fly.”
He handing her a small package then waited for a smile, or to lose his head. With these people one never could really be sure
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Mórrígan Dubh
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Post by Mórrígan Dubh on Jun 14, 2018 21:21:56 GMT -8
Smiling politely
-Mórrígan-
“Lovely to see you agin.”
Turning to her crew
-Mórrígan-
“Hit it boys!”
The men jumped and descended on the ship. She followed turning as she reached the ship
-Mórrígan-
“My uncle will take care of all cost for the trouble.”
Eyes falling on the crew returning from their walk she added
-Mórrígan-
“Make sure that these boys are covered. Understand?”
She did not await for an answer to what was not really a question or a request
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Michael Collins
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Post by Michael Collins on Jun 14, 2018 21:26:06 GMT -8
Pox turned to the crew. The captain spoke. He knew who that was
-Captain of Stolen Wayfarer-
“We saw nothing.”
Pox grinned. This was a good kid
-Pox-
“You’ll do well with that attitude.”
Quickly adding
-Pox-
“Not if some little old lady is being beat by a pair hoodlums but you get me. What was the damage?”
The Captain's right thumb gestured to the Wayfarer behind him
-Pox-
“That’s all yours now. Listen. Yous was robbed see? Real scary people… took all you had. Follow?”
The men nodded. One of the crew dropped another with a hook then kicked the man in the face
-Crewman Puncher-
“He really got roughed up.”
They all broke out laughing, aside the fool now groveling in pain on the ground
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Post by Pox Bubonic on Jul 7, 2018 22:27:38 GMT -8
Pox watched over the collection and packaging of spice for export. What a nightmare. He lit a cigarette, his vice of choice and wondered what lie in store. Another long day wound to a close. It would be another long day tomorrow. Things moved along as always and his nest egg grew. The little extras were not coming so fast at the moment but starving they were not. Still he longed for the days when those ghouls from the IF ran this scar on the universe
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Post by Pox Bubonic on Jul 8, 2018 19:57:42 GMT -8
The numbers were phenomenal.... Today alone Pox had logged 8.2 million barrels of Glitterstim. He muttered
-Pox-
"Thatta lotta junk. Yupp, yupp, dat for sure. Lotta junk."
He stopped, sitting and sighed. How many addicts would that supply? How many would it make? Bitter reality but it had to cross the mind on occasion. Gracefully for Pox it was a passing thought. Break time. How long can I stretch this one out? The barrels rolled in as he wondered. Business as usual
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Post by Pox Bubonic on Apr 9, 2021 20:18:37 GMT -8
*Small freighters moved into the sky. Business as usual*
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Dragus
The Sith Eternal
In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.
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Post by Dragus on Sept 24, 2023 6:13:49 GMT -8
A red gammaplast Sith Scout Trooper lowered a pair of electro-binoculars used to enhance the range-finder in his helmet, the visor fortunately shielding the NJ2s beautiful brown eyes from the worst of the light eruptions blooming over the horizon. Ground quakes shook the forest floor beneath his armoured boots as the Night Lord's brilliant planetary bombardment disturbed the tectonics of Kessel. Targets spotted two clicks east. Said a familiar voice the same as his own in the scout's ear, broadcast over a joint channel by another Nu-Jake garbed identically as him. Karl, as his squad-mates called him privately while well outside the ears of their commanding officers, picked up the DLT-19x targeting blaster he had left resting against a tree and dropped to a knee. Its magnification scope was linked to the HUD display of his visor, providing visual footage even before he physically stared down the lens of the scope. Just like his squad-mate had stated, streams of fleeing civilians could be seen hurrying through the forest below, desperate to get as far from the royal palace before the massive flames of the burning landscape reached it."Select targets." He stated coldly into his helmet's mouthpiece, watching as individual icons winked to life above the heads of the scurrying Kesselians seeking shelter amongst the forest. Karl picked out his own target, an ornately garbed noble with a fat paunch and jiggling jowls, sweating in the humid climate. "Fire." A dozen bolts erupted from concealed positions, taking the scattered band of unaltered human filth in synchronized lethal precision. Condensed tibanna left flaming black holes bored through skulls and made charred mangled messes of scattered civilians, dropping each and every one with the coordination of a droid super-computer. The NJ2 scout's face twisted into a satisfied feral grin as the last wisps of acrid smoke bled from the barrel of his rifle. "All targets eliminated." Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he rose from his position and continued forwards, converging towards the royal palace with the rest of his merciless kin.
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Dragus
The Sith Eternal
In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.
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Post by Dragus on Oct 8, 2023 6:40:50 GMT -8
Location: Kessel (Kessel System) | Southern Hemisphere | Kessel Castle  FFFFFFFFSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! CRACK! Electrical bolts of coherent current struck the castle's protective walls with the force of a battering ram, blasting them inwards in a shower of stone and brickwork, throwing the defenders above from their elevated positions. The broken bodies of mercenaries peppered the inner courtyard, bones smashing to jagged bits from the deadly fall, and that was if they were lucky. The few that survived were trampled by the large talons tipped feet of the war dragons the Roon Knights road, pulping any survivors to meaty ruptured flesh sacs. Spiked gauntlets tugged on man-hide leathery reigns as the slathering jaws of their mounts were tempted by the freshly spilled blood, but they obeyed the instruction of their cruel riders with loyalty that was written into their very DNA. Still smoking lances spitted panicked civilians and hired thugs caught out into the open, causing the darkside possessed warriors to toss them aside and draw the cross-guard lightsaber hilts hanging from their armoured hips. SNAP/HISS! Brilliant blood red blades of molten plasma sprang to life from fat emitters, shrieking like a chorus of wailing starweirds as the unstable dragite crystal powering each lightsaber fed the wicked weapons with the power of the sun, resonating in a deafening dark symphony that burst eardrums and caused blood to spurt from ruptured orifices.Behind the Roon Knights marched the bloody red lines of the GRRs 13th Legion, known informally as Dragus' Claw, joining the murder making with deadly bolts fired with precision from the steaming muzzles of ST-W48 blaster carbines. Underslung quarrel launchers burst open heads like grapes in a gory spray of bone shards and grey matter. Crimson coated boots splashed through the cadaverous slurry congealing across the courtyards shattered stones, hundreds upon hundreds, each possessing the same blank expression of a remorseless killer birthed on Kamino. The Nu-Jakes picked through the remains of the ruins left in the wake of the mounted charge, even as blood curdling screams rattled the windows of the castle structure as the butchery continued inside. |
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Dragus
The Sith Eternal
In front of the Empire, to all you Vader haters out there. We'll blow your planet up.
Posts: 1,406
Affiliation: Sith Eternal
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Post by Dragus on Oct 11, 2023 8:57:54 GMT -8
A slurry of congealing crimson filth spilled down the castle steps in an overflowing tide of blood, piss, and pus. The Knights of Roon, hardened warriors of wicked intent garbed in sacred Sith steel from the volcanic foundries of their home-world, murdered their way through the stone interior of the Yaruba Family estate. Each and everyone of these scions of destruction was unmoved by mercy despite the desperate pleas from the fearful royal family as they carved their way through close quarters, wielding snarling red cross-guard blades of furious plasma, leaving only smoking corpses as proof of their passage. The black hearts of the Knights were as steeled as the Sith iron plate that encased their corrupted bodies. They were the Reaper's Scythe, Angels of Death, cultist of the most religious extreme. To them this was a holy crusade, one to purge the inbred oppressors that had ruled all of impoverished Kessel from their opulent ivory towers to the South. The Roon Knights sought to liberate this world in its entirety. They had liberated the streets of Kessendra from the Pyke thugs that controlled its streets, they had liberated the spice mines from slavery, and most important of all, they would liberate this accursed rock from the most heinous of all crimes: existence. Life unshackled to the service of the Sith Eternal was anathema to their consideration. Those that did not bow before its fire blackened purpose were nothing more than ash waiting to be flaked away and forgotten. Within a short hour of breaching the castle's walls, the last of the shrill screams of the former tyrants had gone quite, replaced with the eery silence of the grave.
Commander Cestor emerged from the dim interior of the mansion, his dark robe flecked with cooling vitae, his right gauntlet dripping beads of the same. Held in his spiked embrace was the matted hair of the former king, attached to the human's disembodied head that ended in a steaming half cauterized stump that wept ichor at his feet. He disengaged the screaming lightsaber in his left hand, returning the metallic blue hilt to his belt before hoisting the head in his other hand over his back and tossing it far into the courtyard where it landed with a wet splat. The fixed horrid expression of the king's death mask was pulped by the impact, as the severed skull rolled to a stop against the far wall. As Diamios stared through the slit visor of his helm, exhaling hot breath through the grill slits beneath it, his lips twisted into a villainous smirk. He licked the wet residue from his cheek, savouring the metallic tones of fresh corpse juice. Dragus would be pleased with the results of the Knights first outing, of that the Knight Commander was certain, knowing the ruinous reptilian as well as he did. His mount raised its snout from the guts of a split open cadaver, exposing its terrifying jaw-full of fangs stained pink from its most recent meal. Bits of gore caught between its dagger shaped teeth hung from its snout like grizzly trophies. The mutant war dragon stalked over to the Knight, he patted the top of its snout with his gloved palm, pleased with the creature's service.
Turning his helmet encased head, Commander Cestor's uncompromising gravel tone boomed out from the grill slits of his Sith iron faceplate, reaching the ear of every Roon Knight in attention and most of the crimson clad Sith Troopers picking through the dead. "Raise the fanged banners of Famine!" He commanded. "I declare this site for the Sith Eternal, and rechristen these grounds as VonDragenberg Keep!" Hunched over mutant wretches the 13th Legion had brought with them as menial labourers raised on the ramparts long poles of flexible bleached white bone, each attached to a long unfurling flag of stretched man-hide sutured together from the flayed faces of the fallen, depicting the emblem of the Great Devourer. Painstakingly stitched onto gruesome banners was a fanged maw, each tooth a serrated incisor, embossed on a rotten canvas. The soldiers in attention beat their vambraces against their gamma-plast plated chests, creating a pounding chorus like blood struggling to pulse through restricted veins. All the while the forest around the newly named Keep continued to burn away, blackening the skies and scarring the land, the only sort of welcome to which the Hungering One ascribed.
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