Flagg

Star Wars: The Heretic

@Blitzy@Stormflyx@Tlaloc@Chev@Wrathhog@Auz@Fiscbryne@Naril@Blackmist16

aaaaand anyone I missed, OOC is up! roleplayerguild.com/topics/184403-sta…

Star Wars: The Heretic

Name: Adamantious Xen
Species: Human
Sex: M
Profession: Pirate lord who moonlights as a Rebel admiral
Reason for being present in the Bitter End: He runs the place

Looks

Personality Description: Scoundrel, borderline drunk, crazy like a fox, maybe a bit force-sensitive

Skirmish over Ulam

The long hull of the Ancestral Right cut through the void like an immense predator through the deep. A cloud of vulture droids swarmed around its hull. Agile, dumb and easily replaced, even TIE squadrons could slice with ease through these relics of the Clone Wars. Embedded in the swarm, however, were the Admiral's prized weapons: X-Wings in escort formation, dangerous not only to distracted TIEs but even to the Empire's beloved capital ships.

The rest of the Rebel fleet- an eclectic mix of aging Seperatist vessels, stolen Imperial cruisers, and a few Alliance escorts of modern design- followed in Ancestral Right's wake.

Admiral Xen stood not on his ship's bridge, but in the elevated observation chamber that made the Providence-class's profile so distinctive. Command staff of all races, even droids, bustled around him, busy with the business of looming bloodshed. Xen's eyes tracked the progress of his vessels across a holo-projection of Uslam's orbit, occasionally glancing to the chamber's large windows for confirmation of the virtual display, on which the red daggers were closing in.

The Moff's fleet was advancing on them from three sides, meaning to trap them against Uslam itself. There was a narrow gap in the Imperial alignment, highlighted on the holo-display- through which the rebels might flee without trading fire with the attackers.

Admiral Xen had a low opinion of the Moff's abilities, but not low enough to see such an obvious flaw in his opponent's formation as anything other than a trap. More to the point, he had no interest in retreating without killing some Imperials first. He studied the holo-display.

The VSD Punisher was the nearest vessel to hand, advancing in the shadow of the ISD Vronksr. Xen had his target.

"All vessels: the destroyer Punisher is our pound of flesh. She dies before we jump, and anyone who jumps before I give the word, I hunt down. You'll wish the Imperials had gotten to you," said Xen on the fleet's command channel, "Hutt formation, please- heavy up front, nice thin tail. You may absolutely begin firing when in range."

The comms channel filled with "ayes!" and "yes sirs!"

"Intruder and Cutlass Squadrons," said Xen.

"Reporting in," crackled the COs of two fighter-bomber squadrons noticeably absent from the rebel formation, hidden among nearby asteroids and orbital debris.

"You know what to do," said Xen.

"Yes Admiral."

"Sir," said a lanky Duro to Xen's right, "Transmission from the enemy fleet incoming."

The Admiral arched an eyebrow, "Let's hear it then."

A holo-projection of Moff Whyte replaced the battlefeed in front of Xen. He did not transmit an image of himself back.

“This is Moff Wyte. I advise you stand down and surrender now, fighting only prolongs the inevitable, this is your first and final warning.”

"We've been warned, gents!" said Xen to the command staff, to general laughter. Whyte's holodisplay flickered out.

"Would you like to respond, sir?" asked the Duro lieutenant.

Xen turned to the window, where the serrated dagger hull of the Punisher grew larger by the second against the huge white orb of Uslam. A flicker of turbo-laser fire, still inaccurate at this range, lashed out at the rebel formation from the ship. In the distance, the Vronksr was cruising at full speed to support its smaller cousin.

"We'll let our guns do the negotiating," said the Admiral, "Open fire."

****

The observation chamber was dark, like the nave of a temple, the only light coming from the blue glow of the central holodisplay, Uslam's pale radiance, and the turbolaser exchange taking place just beyond the thick glass windows.

Admiral Xen stood at the holo-projector, where the ferocious and silent battle outside was playing out in miniature before him. His head was bowed, like a man at prayer.

He was not praying.

His narrowed eyes were tracking the markers for Intruder squadron as they completed their run on Punisher. He watched as the squadron CO's X-Wing flashed red, then was gone, and as the XO's ship spun masterfully out of flak and tracer fire, taking out two TIEs in the same number of seconds.

Clang. The XO's callsign was Clang.

The Admiral tilted his head a moment, seemed to consider something, then straightened up. Outside, Punisher drew near, venting flames and atmosphere from at least four serious holes punched in her hull by Cutlass and Intruder. Good sized, but not fatal. Xen would see to that. Behind Punisher loomed Vronskr, already directing long-range fire at the rebel flag-ship, shrugged off for the moment by the Right's intact shields.

The battery exchange between Xen's battlegroup and the Punisher intensified as the rebels closed on the Star Destroyer. The Imperial vessel's forward shields glowed red, with ragged tears beginning to open along the energy seams.

"Alright, get in close and ugly," said Xen, "Keep Punisher between us and Vronskr."

The Right's captain shot back a terse acknowledgement from the bridge.

"All vessels," said Xen, "get your shots in on the Victory destroyer, then jump. Scimitar and Saber squadrons stay with me, keep those TIEs off the Right and use the vulture-screen to absorb fire. When I jump, you jump. Intruder, Cutlass, Broadsword and Stranger squadrons, get out of here."

Acknowledgments crackled in over the comms. The Right pulled alongside Punisher and let loose a catastrophic broadside, popping the Imperial ship's shields in a bloom of azure and crimson light.

The rebel fleet unloaded on the un-shielded Victory as one by one ships disappeared into hyperspace, fleeing to relative safety. Not all of them were so lucky. Vronskr's guns claimed the Corellian corvette Ashland and the Recusant destroyer Gamekeep as they powered up to jump.

Xen watched their icons disappear on his display. He spat onto the deck with a sneer.

Meanwhile, his flagship and Punisher danced, the rebel ship pivoting constantly to keep out of Vronskr's line of fire. The space between Punisher and Ancestral Right was a blinding flurry of scarlet and jade. Explosions raked Punisher's failing hull and the vessel began to come apart, its serrated-dagger frame splitting crookedly.

Vronskr- eager for a chance to take the rebel flag ship- fired on its lesser cousin, obliterating it and sinking a row of shots into the Right's prow, setting scores of decks ablaze.

There was an azure flash, and it was over. The Right was gone.

Xen had fled. The only rebel ships remaining were a handful of suddenly mindless vulture droids and the burning husk of Gamekeep spinning in the void, amid the vast smoldering ruin of Punisher.

Uslam's orbit belonged to the Empire once more.

****

"...and finally, Gamekeep, with all 120 souls," said Lieutenant Mavdi, looking up from his dataslate to the Admiral.

Xen sucked his teeth and shook his head, "Butcher always takes his bill."

The Admiral was quiet for a long moment. He was sprawled lazily across the Captain's Throne in the center of the command bay, legs draped over the left armrest, a goblet wine stolen from the Moff's cellars on Uslam in his be-ringed hand.

"Hers was higher, though," he said at last, and sipped his wine, "Not that she cares an ounce for her scraping little lackeys. She'd shoot 'em all into space if it got her an audience with the old witch doctor on the throne."

The command staff paid him little attention as they busied themselves with their tasks. The half-sober pontifications of Adamantius Xen were just another fact of life in the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

Ancestral Right was idling in deep space, the hyperdrive cycling and preparing to fire once more to take them to the Bitter End, the not-so-affectionate nickname rebel deckhands used for Xen's base of operations deep in the Semiramis Asteroid Cluster. Only a handful of the fleet from Uslam clustered around the Right, the others had made other jumps to pre-designated deadzones. It was Xen's practice never to jump directly between a base or stronghold and an engagement, to confound enemy trackers. Since joining the Alliance, Xen had been given jammer systems designed to prevent Imperial hyperspace plotting, but a pirate's instincts are hard to overcome with new toys.

"We're ready to jump sir," said Mavdi.

"Take us home."

Name: Callidus
Species: Human
Sex: M
Profession: Jedi Master? Sith Lord?
History: The man known as Callidus --or, perhaps, Darth Callidus-- was thought by some on the Jedi High Council to have been a Jedi Master named Valens Sarethi, who disappeared several decades before the Clone Wars. At the time Sarethi had been presumed dead.

During the Clone Wars, some on the Council discovered evidence that Sarethi was stil alive, fallen to the Dark Side, and had taken the name Callidus. Just why they believed this is now unclear.

Since the fall of the Jedi, only confused rumors remain, though the Imperial Inquisition are searching for a heretic dark side user they believe to be the same man.

Reason for being present in the Bitter End: Is he?

Looks

Star Wars: The Heretic

The Bitter End

Welcome to the Bitter End. Elsewhere in the galaxy, it's the height of the Empire. Things are looking bad for the nascent Rebellion. Luke Skywalker is just a kid on Tatooine.

But here, the Confederacy of Independent Systems still rules. At least the pirate-lord of the asteroid city, a dashing drunk known as Adamantious Xen, insists it does, and he's fighting for it. He's a big thorn in the local Moff's side, raiding shipping lanes and under-manned Imperial bases with his rag-tag fleet of Lucrehulks and Providence cruisers. A few factories deep within the bowels of the End still churn out reliable old B1s, giving Xen something of a private army.

The Rebellion is wary of him, but he's proven a useful (if less than scrupulous) ally on more than one occasion.

The End isn't easy to find, but if you're a smuggler or a pirate or someone connected with the Hutts, it's not impossible either. It's become something of a hub for outlaw activity in recent years, the place to go if you're looking to hire a bounty hunter, contract with a team of mercenaries, contact Rebel intelligence, or maybe just lay low for awhile. Despite the security risks, Xen has been tolerant of his base becoming a hub in the galactic black market. He skims generously off the top, the better to fund his one-man fight for the Confederacy.

Question is: why are you here?

It's rhetorical. We know why. You're looking for him.

For Callidus.

Some say he's a Jedi who went rogue. Others, more versed in the occult, that he's a Sith, that he considers himself Darth Callidus, that he was a student of Plagueis. Maybe both rumors are true, perhaps neither. One thing is clear: the Empire is looking for him. There was a break-in, you see, in the Emperor's own vaults. A number of artifacts were stolen. Holocrons, some say.

We know you're here for Callidus. We know you're here because one of the artifacts taken from Palpatine's vaults-- the ancient lightsaber of to a venerable Jedi philosopher-- was recently sold in the auction houses of the Bitter End for a breathtaking sum of credits. What we don't know is who you are.

A Jedi, on the run, seeking allies?

A Rebel spy, searching for a man capable of stealing from the Emperor himself?

An Imperial Inquisitor, looking to get back what was stolen?

An aspiring dark side adept, hungry for forbidden truths?

A lackey of the pirate lord, keeping tabs on who comes and goes from the Bitter End?

A Hutt retainer, looking to make a deal on the Emperor's stolen property?

Bounty hunter? Assassin? Smuggler?

Who? Who are you, and why are you seeking the heretic Sith?

Discord

So you have pretty wide leeway in terms of character creation for this RP, which is set between Revenge of the Sith and Rogue One/A New Hope. I'm not too much of a Star Wars lore stickler, so we can take this plot in any direction players would like, though there will be an initial plot to get players pursuing various related goals. Any questions or to talk thru ideas, hit me up here, by PM, or on Discord. I encourage folks to collaborate to give characters shared backstory & existing connections.

Character Sheet:

Name:
Species:
Sex:
Profession:
Reason for being present in the Bitter End: some characters should be seeking Callidus, but I'm open to some players being at the End for other reasons.
Looks: (pictures acceptable)
Personality Description:
Character bio: in four bullets or less
Short IC scene (optional but welcomed): you can skip looks, history and personality description if you can write a brief scene that communicates some of the key info about your character.

The Black Prophecy (Dead now; requiescat in pace!)

Work in progress

Valen Sarethi

Identity: Valen of House Sarethi, head of one of the greatest Merchant Houses of Goldport; secretly also a ruling Triumvir of the Crimson Synod, the ruling body of vampires in Marleon, Goldport, and Paterdomus.

Type: Rogue Being

Myth: TBD

Star Wars: The Heretic

The Bitter End

Welcome to the Bitter End. Elsewhere in the galaxy, it's the height of the Empire. Things are looking bad for the nascent Rebellion. Luke Skywalker is just a kid on Tatooine.

But here, the Confederacy of Independent Systems still rules. At least the pirate-lord of the asteroid city, a dashing drunk known as Adamantious Lex, insists it does, and he's fighting for it. He's a big thorn in the local Moff's side, raiding shipping lanes and under-manned Imperial bases with his rag-tag fleet of Lucrehulks and Providence cruisers. A few factories deep within the bowels of the End still churn out reliable old B1s, giving Lex something of a private army.

The Rebellion is wary of him, but he's proven a useful (if less than scrupulous) ally on more than one occasion.

The End isn't easy to find, but if you're a smuggler or a pirate or someone connected with the Hutts, it's not impossible either. It's become something of a hub for outlaw activity in recent years, the place to go if you're looking to hire a bounty hunter, contract with a team of mercenaries, contact Rebel intelligence, or maybe just lay low for awhile. Despite the security risks, Lex has been tolerant of his base becoming a hub in the galactic black market. He skims generously off the top, the better to fund his one-man fight for the Confederacy.

Question is: why are you here?

It's rhetorical. We know why. You're looking for him.

For Callidus.

Some say he's a Jedi who went rogue. Others, more versed in the occult, that he's a Sith, that he considers himself Darth Callidus, that he was secretly a student of Plagueis. Maybe both rumors are true, perhaps neither. One thing is clear: the Empire is looking for him. There was a break-in, you see, in the Emperor's own vaults. A number of artifacts were stolen. Holocrons, some say.

We know you're here for Callidus. We know you're here because one of the artifacts taken from Palpatine's vaults, an ancient lightsaber that had belonged to a venerable Jedi Master, was recently sold in the auction houses of the Bitter End for a breathtaking sum of credits. What we don't know is who you are. A Jedi, on the run, seeking allies? A Rebel spy, searching for a man capable of stealing from the Emperor himself? An Imperial Inquisitor, looking to get back what was stolen? Bounty hunter? Who? Who are you, and why are you seeking the heretic Sith?

In the Hills, In the Valleys (fantasy faction RP)

Discord

In the Hills, In the Valleys (fantasy faction RP)

alright, lots of tentative interest. If I throw up an OOC page, @Kassarock @POOHEAD189 @Hank @fetzen are you still inclined to join? No worries if not!

@Rapid Reader @The Wyrm @Andreyich You folks seemed most enthused. Any interest in starting a discord to share ideas I can incorporate into the OP?

Empire of the Dead

Supple, nimble fingers; too soft and unblemished to have been harvested from the corpse of any turnip-farming rube. These were the arms of children, picked by hand from the innumerable young slain at Ludire.

I laughed out loud at this. Grim stuff.

The Black Prophecy

Interested. Would also be open to playing an antagonist on the side of the Exalted One.

Empire of the Dead

Comiriom

The School of Arts Inscrutable

Some Two Centuries Before Eagoth's Conquest...

It was known to the common folk as the Wizard's Tourney, though- of course- none of them were allowed to attend. Each year a few peasants or city folk would try to sneak past the School's gates or scale the black stone walls for a glimpse of the colorful out-of-towners weaving exotic spells. They would, inevitably, be hanged for their troubles.

To the participants it was known as the Trials, and they took place every two and a half years, always (for reasons now obscure) in Comiriom. The most talented students were culled from the handful of Arcanums scattered across Leria's petty kingdoms; along with contingents from Phrasto, Vissaban, and lands beyond as far as Nyssos. They were put through a series of grueling- indeed often macabre- challenges both mental and physical, designed to test their mastery of the elements and the transmundane.

And each Trial culminated in this. The final day. The Contest.

Magister Syverin paced the edge of the sparring circle, black robes billowing behind him. The air had a faintly sour, faintly spicy smell, the characteristic scent of discharged aether. The magister's narrowed gaze was fixed on the pair of contestants squaring off in the in ring. He was not alone. A crowd of students, magisters, and other contestants had assembled in the quad to watch the man they had no doubt would be the winner of the Trials.

Prince Callidus of Yzen.

He was fighting two other young mages at once, both dour, shirtless, tattoo-covered Phrastans wielding bladed staves. Callidus himself- tall, dark haired, clad in flowing white- fought with a simple wooden staff.

The Phrastans were giving him the hardest time he'd had all day- all three combatants were moving so quickly their staves were little more than blurrs. Fast as they were, the Phrastans couldn't manage to land a blow on the young Prince, who weaved around them and knocked aside their strikes with easy grace.

The crowd murmured in appreciation of the display. Syverin was less sanguine. He had seen virtuoso performances before. He knew the combination of rare genius and magical power was a dangerous one, had seen too many talented mages lose their minds, their very humanity, to the allure of godlike power.

One of the Phrastans managed to break Callidus' guard and the Prince let loose a burst of magical force: there was a flash of whitish light and both Phrastans staggered backwards. Callidus now pressed his advantage, sweeping the legs out from one opponent and stunning him with another force-blast.

The remaining Phrastan backed away from the Prince, mouth moving rapidly as he wove an offensive spell. The air shimmered around him and Syverin felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. The crowd fell silent.

Callidus advanced on the Phrastan, unconcerned, and as he closed the other mage let loose, sending bolts of bluish lightning at the Prince, who caught the bolts on the end of his staff and sent them harmlessly into the ground. The Phrastan did not let up however, and Callidus' staff began to char and smolder. He was forced to dodge a few of the magical bolts and begin backing away. Behind the Prince, his fallen opponent was pulling himself to his feet.

Syverin crossed his arms, waiting to see how the Prince of Yzen would pull himself out of a seemingly impossible situation. He had no doubt Callidus would, for he knew the Prince's secret. The royal line of Yzen had long been gifted with foresight, indeed they plausibly claimed Vymar the Seer as their lineage's progenitor. But Callidus was no mere gifted augur. His father was a middling mage but a harsh taskmaster and his son was the object of his vicarious ambition. It was known that as a child the Prince was denied food and water if he failed correctly to predict the day's weather.

To see hazy visions in dreams was one thing, to foresee your opponents' next move in the midst of a fight was a rare skill indeed. As he watched Callidus masterfully sidestep a magical bolt so that it collided with the Phrastan behind him, Syverin wondered if he was not watching the Leria's future conquerer. After all, such talent wedded to the crown of a powerful state like Yzen could only...

It was then that Syverin noticed the boy standing next to him: a reedy, ill favored youth of maybe fifteen, with pockmarked skin and dirty hair. He wore dirt-stained peasant clothes and his eyes were rimmed red, as though he'd been crying.

"Boy!" barked Syverin. In the sparring ring, Callidus closed with the remaining Phrastan and quickly disarmed him. The crowd cheered. The opponents in the ring shook hands, Callidus grinning, the Phrastans bloodied and fuming.

The youth glanced at Syverin and smiled, "I challenge the Prince next."

His voice was surprisingly soft, fluttering and almost girlish.

"Who let you in here?" demanded Syverin.

"I let myself in," said the youth, watching Callidus, who had turned from the defeated Phrastans and was bowing to the crowd.

"I CHALLENGE YOU, WHITE PRINCE!" screamed the boy, and he laughed.

Syverin struck the youth across the face, sending him stumbling backward into the mud. The magister was just about to call for the guards when Callidus himself strode over, smiling.

"It's alright, Magister," said the Prince, helping the boy back to his feet, "No need for that. Tell me, boy, what is your name?"

The youth smiled, "You'll know that soon enough. I said, I challenge you."

Callidus laughed, "Well I'm afraid it wou-"

The Prince paused, frowning, as he met the boy's eyes. His mouth fell open in surprise.

There was a deafening crack and Callidus was sent sprawling backwards, nose broken, blood spattering his white robes.

The youth laughed and took a step forward into the sparring ring. Callidus sat up, dazed. He made a half-hearted attempt to reach for his staff but the youth uttered something under his breath and the Prince's weapon shattered.

"You didn't see me coming did you?" asked the boy. As he advanced, Callidus' body tumbled bonelessly away from him, dragged by unseen hands.

Some in the crowd charged the youth, or hurled offensive spells at him. He paid them no attention. The spells fizzled in the air around him, the bodies where flung away with the same invisible force that had knocked back the Prince.

"Pathetic," said the youth as Callidus managed finally to break his invisible bonds and struggled to his feet, "I had thought maybe you would be a challenge. The white prince. The man who sees the future."

Callidus, gaunt face covered in blood, grimacing, sent a bolt of searing white fire at the youth, who smacked it aside with a backhanded gesture.

The guards by now had broken through the crowd, swords drawn. Several Magisters, students and Trial contestants, including Syverin, had assembled as well, staves raised and aimed at the youth, ready to unleash a whirlwind of offensive magic.

The pair of Phrastans now stood behind Callidus, ready to fight alongside him.

There was a long moment of silence as the youth surveyed the forces arranged against him, his face serenely unconcerned.

"Who are you?" asked Callidus.

"I told you, seer," said the youth, contemptuously, "You'll know soon enough."

There was a bright emerald flash, a crack of thunder, and the boy was gone.

Sour Bridge

45 Years Ago

The White Wizard stood alone on the battle-scarred bridge. Waiting for the dead.

He was alone. The armies of the living had long since fled south. Forestalling their doom.

There had been a future, once, where victory over Eagoth had been possible. Theleden, empowered by the Wizard's own magic, could have thrown down the Necromancer. Become a great king over a unified Leria.

But that future had fled. Eagoth and Theleden alike, in different ways and both unknowingly, had seen to that.

Now the only ways forward were dark paths, sinful and treacherous.

The Wizard tightened his grip on his silvered staff. It had begun to rain. Green-tinged lightning flashed in the dirty sky.

In time the Necromancer's ragged horde shambled out of the gloom. The crowd of twitching corpses stopped well within bowshot of Callidus.

wizard they hissed in unison.

"I am here," said Callidus, "for your Master."

A lone ghoul stepped out from the festering mob. Barefoot, cowled, dressed in tattered robes.

It approached Callidus and threw back its hood.

"Oh," said the wizard, "Oh, I see."