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8 mos ago
Current Some of y'all are either too old to act the way you act, or too young to be taken seriously. Hard to tell some days.
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I'll be brewing up my Scion of Shadow cs. I'm thinking he'll be something of an unconventional priest, and a poet of some renown. But he doesn't publish under his real name, because he doesn't want he doesn't want his writings to have to pass under the same scrutiny that a scion is normally due.


If you're still looking for a Templar to guard your shadow poet, I have ideas.
Definitely interested in this. I would be more than happy to work up a Templar for someone's Scion.
Script



JAMMER, being the slow tank of a machine it was, had just managed to catch up to the back line of EINHERJAR's attack force when the arthropod emerged. Script swore to himself. "Couldn't be easy now, could it?" His eyes scanned briefly over to his status screens. The MAs seemed to be dropping like flies, either switching off their radios or having gotten torn up from fire. While cleaning up the rear of the Communications squad's formation, Script's left ring finger and pinky were maneuvering a back-mounted analogue stick and button on the left control stick. This swung the shoulder-mounted chaingun wildly, laying down suppressive fire and ripping through the cheap MAs still desperately swinging back for a counter offensive. The light thrum of the gun added a bass-filled backdrop to Script's harsh symphony. With most of the MAs now firmly out of commission, Script turned his sights to what was left of the battle.

<<"Good copy, Watcher, initiating! All units, go for the other batteries, then we finish off the Arthropod! Make these maggots bleed!">>

Script watched on the scanners as Banshee and Fallen Angel took this to heart, swooping towards the remaining kinetic cannons. The flash of steel alloy that was Fallen Angel seemed to be handling the cannons fine, and with most of the MAs down... Script scanned the Arthropod before them. Point Defense was going to be a problem for a more straight, forward run, and Watcher's smoke screen posed a significant issue with a direct scan. Script pushed his controls forward, thrusting JAMMER into a dead sprint towards the Arthropod's left flank, making sure to keep a good enough distance to try and avoid triggering the defense systems just yet. He slid into a small dip in the terrain, lowering itself to keep steady. The Point Defense turrets were going to be an issue, as Script saw Banshee boost up into the air to get in position for a run at the Arthropod.

Script ran a quick scan, small red triangles marking the locations of the various turrets on his HUD. Once the locks were in place, JAMMER quickly reloaded his rifle with longer-range incendiary rounds and switched to burst-fire mode. Script switched over to the local EINHERJAR comms, opening up his mic. <<"Sorry WATCHER, I can't let you have all the glory. BANSHEE, I'm opening up the left flank for you. Try not to miss, I've only got so much smoke.">> He switched his mic off, moved his left hand off the control stick to manually type in a line of code. JAMMER's legs and head locked into place as Script switched protocols. He could take a few hits from the turrets if need be. The turret scans locked in place on Script's HUD as his left hand took back to its control sticks. He manually triggered his own electronic smoke, copying Watcher's move. "Alright... Locked and loaded. Let's see if this will do the trick... worst case, I give them something to focus on."

Almost instantaneously the screen's visual feed began glitching. That was fine, as the red triangles remained locked as a static image on his HUD. Script moved his right control stick and began unloading his rifle in the direction of the locked turrets in a calculated sweep of the Arthropod's left flank. By the end, visuals were almost completely gone as JAMMER had emptied his rifle in a serious of calculated burst-fire shots. If his math was right, visual confirmation was unnecessary. Even if he had missed, the volley of shots would be enough to get the attention of the auto-turrets. But with a large smoke cloud fully obscuring the area surrounding JAMMER, the auto-turrets should fire wildly and blindly around JAMMER. He would take a couple hits... but that's what JAMMER'S armor was for. After all, better him at this range than BANSHEE.

As soon as JAMMER's rifle was empty, Script tapped the enter key on his keyboard and pulled the controls backwards, his middle fingers pressing hard into small triggers on the back of the control sticks. The leg-mounted thrusters on JAMMER activated, thrusting the AUG backwards in the cloud of smoke as Script threw his aug's arms up defensively to help further protect the cockpit from any stray fire coming his way.
WIP



Keldabe Administrative District // Mandalore // Mandalore Sector
Interacting with @Sep


Ro Nuul's footsteps matched the Hapan Prince's, trailing a polite distance to appease the two royal guards who were watching him closely. He made sure to straighten the folds of his robe to keep the lightsaber concealed once again. It was a subtle sign of peace to the guards, but even moreso it had no use being on display for this conversation. The novelty was not one that would in some way impress the Prince Consort, and Ro Nuul had no intention of putting it to use or comparing sabers. There were far more pressing concerns.

"I... did pick up on that. Come, let us leave. Honestly when I first began to make contact with the Republic I was worried about meeting other Jedi. It's not as if I have spent my time outside the Order living up to the Jedi Ideals. I suppose, not many Jedi match the Jedi Ideals of old these days." Ro Nuul pondered these words for a moment, letting them ruminate. It was hard to measure if there was a slight in these words. Even if there were... Ro Nuul could not entirely disagree. Koren continued, "So, Master Nuul. What do you wish to know?"

Ro Nuul folded his hands behind his back, looking out towards Keldabe from a nearby large window. The streets and skies were full of color and cheer. It was a welcome celebration, and a testament to the life and hope left in the galaxy. One that needed to be preserved. "I have a great many questions about the Consortium, but I feel as though many of them can wait until we are better acquainted. At present, what I am most concerned with is a personal question and a professional matter." Ro Nuul turned his gaze away from the celebrations, instead meeting the Prince Consort's eyes carefully. "I will start with the less formal of these, for both our sakes."

Ro Nuul's facial expression softened. His eyes briefly lingered on the lightsaber at Koren's waist. Ro Nuul's voice became somber, unable to mask the momentary sorrow that permeated the question. "As for my personal inquiry... I merely wish to know how you have fared since the sacking of Coruscant, and if there are any others who survived with you. Whether we live up to the old ideals or not... it is hard for an old Jedi like me to ignore the gift of reassurance that Grevious took less of us than we expected."

Ro Nuul quickly looked in the direction of the throne room, reaching out through the force to ensure there were no prying ears. He did not leave much room for an answer, before he let the sorrow pass and his voice instead resonated with its usual stoic tone. "I know very little of the Hapes Consortium... its affiliations, desires, means of governance... There are very few political entities within this galaxy that I am distinctly unfamiliar with. Standing as a voice for the Hapes Consortium... I must inquire as to your affiliations and desires in the new galactic landscape you find yourselves." Ro Nuul's eyes returned to meet Koren's, and his brow furrowed slightly. "I suppose more plainly... how do you wish for the Consortium to fit into this fractured Galaxy we find ourselves?"




From the moment we popped out of our test tubes, every moment of our lives was oriented for war. Every lesson, every second, facilitated our future as soldiers for the Republic. Of course, we live in memory of our forebearers, a testament to the sacrifice of countless of our brothers in the waves of our old homeworld. Everything we do is for the Republic. When I was deemed ready, I could have picked up a blaster and beskar and fought on the shores of Arkania like so many of my brothers... but instead, I chose duty over my own glory. I chose to become something more, so that I could better serve the people who gave us a second chance. Now, I stand ready for when my Republic or my Banner calls me. In the meantime...

Crossfire's fist met fur as an armored fist connected with a Bothan, sending the thug flying across cracked pavement. Crossfire turned his head slightly to his right, the HUD of his helmet locking in on a Jawa slowly shuffling towards a corner in the alleyway with a large bag of jangling metal. The Clone Commando lifted his right gauntlet and flicked his wrist clockwise in the windup, triggering the firing of his whipcord towards the fleeing suspect. With a delicate movement of the arm, the end of the whipcord swung around and coiled back around the Jawa, synching in to restrain him. The sudden shift in momentum knocked the suspect back, causing the bag to get tossed into the air. Crossfire tilted his head up, watching almost in slow motion as an assortment of cheap plastoid novelty buckets shaped like the Mandalore's helmet rained down around him. They clattered around the pavement as Crossfire flicked his wrist, the whipcord yanking the Jawa along the ground to his feet. Crossfire's movement was swift as he slapped durasteel binders on the Jawa and Bothan. He couldn't understand a thing the Jawa was saying as it screamed a variety of what had to be insults, though the Bothan seemed much more docile as he phased in and out of lucidity. His HUD quickly scanned and identified the two thieves, syncing up with Crossfire's datapad to allow him to quickly tap away an incident report. He tapped a button on his inner wrist, opening up a comms channel with the rest of Mynnock Squadron. "I've got two, for petty theft, Captain. How do you want to proceed?"

"Tag and release, Lieutenant. Regs will catch them at the spaceport before they leave to collect their fine."

Crossfire nodded to himself, releasing the two thieves from their binders. They quickly scampered to their feet to scurry away. "Hold it... You've still got to return the merchandise, tourists."


Crossfire gently landed on the patio of a local Clone bar called The Pods that overlooked the Avenue of Fallen Kings, situated on one of the middle floors of another one of Keldabe's many high-rise buildings. The Bar itself was still manned by a more middle-aged clone called Chip, plagued with battle scars and a robotic arm. The only other occupants of the bar were Crossfire's fellow commandoes, sporting the same blue-painted beskar'gam. They had all taken off their helmets, showing off each of their strange haircuts and tattoos. Most of the Commandoes were laughing and drinking, watching the crowds and festivities below as Starfighters raced overhead. At the bar itself, one of the younger commandoes was nursing a drink. Crossfire took a seat next to him, sitting upright stiffly and keeping his helmet on.

"You shoot any of the little imps running around yet?" The young commando took another swig of some strange blue concoction.

"We were briefed to not interfere with the New Imperials unless otherwise ordered by-"

"It's a damn joke, rook." Crash rubbed his half-burnt left ear with his fingers before setting his drink down and removing Crossfire's helmet off for him, tossing it haphazardly aside. Crossfire immediately got up and grabbed his helmet, setting it down on the bar and returning to his seat. "You don't have to take everything so seriously. It's Founding day... get a drink, play cards with your brothers... Ah, you know what, no. I've got it." Crash quickly stumbled out of his seat and wandered over to their Captain. After a shrug from the latter, Crash returned and pulled a small pass from a pouch on his belt. "Here, take this."

Crossfire raised an eyebrow as he grabbed the holographic pass that read "Security" in Aurebesh. "What's this for?"

Crash smiled, placing a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "We got a contract to provide extra security for a concert tonight, working under Clan Skirata. You're coming with me... cause if Shiri's music won't loosen you up a little, nothing will."

@Sep


"I do believe the green compliments you well, sir."

"Now now, Hawks, save all the compliments and flattery for our guests. You're in charge."

The aging clone sighed as he stood at a polite attention in the doorway while Ro Nuul adjusted the sleeves and collar of a sharp green robe with gold trim and accents. While somewhat similar in feel to his normal Jedi robes, he never quite got comfortable with the feeling of wearing something so expensive. It was a decadence that was lost on him, but it was a necessity. Willha had taught him decades ago about the importance of presentation. Ro Nuul gently lifted a finger towards a decorative golden mantle, and it gingerly lifted into the air over his head and settled down over him. The clone seemed unamused, quite used to the parlor tricks the old Jedi master employed in his daily tasks. "We've gone ahead and prepared everything to your specifications, sir. Keldabe ATC has confirmed Willha's yacht has arrived, ETA on her arrival is about twenty-seven minutes."

Ro Nuul gave a small nod. "Excellent. Have you-"

"We have an air-speeder ready at the balcony for you, sir."

Ro Nuul gave a small nod, stepping out from his second-floor bedroom in the penthouse suite, admiring the well-dressed clones setting up tables full of hors d'oeuvres. Two clones had set themselves up at the fully-stocked bar, preparing ice and setting up glasses. The food and spirits came from across the galaxy, and it had taken Ro Nuul five months of preparation to ensure he could source local ingredients to prepare dishes from the homeworlds of every member of the Free Horizons Fund's board, as well as a few notable donors. He took a bit of pride in the preparations they had made. Ro Nuul gave a small smile to the Director of Recruitment and Engagement. "I believe we've outdone ourselves, Hawks. I leave them in your care. I'm afraid I'm needed somewhere far more... dangerous."



Ro Nuul always hated events like this. Too many variables, not enough control of the environment... too many masks, so to speak. And that was not even getting started on the feelings in the room, reverberating through the force. Looks of contempt and a distinct tenseness formed knots in the pit of the Kel Dor's stomach. In the peripheries of these chambers, aristocrats and diplomats held uneasy stares as two of the most powerful individuals in the galaxy were engaged in a rather tense dialogue. Ro Nuul pushed the thought of that conversation to the side, quickly looking in the direction of several of his... compatriots, for a lack of a better word. A young Jedi and a proud Mandalorian, each engaged as well by foreign dignitaries seeking to gain the favor of the Mandalorians. Ro Nuul always made sure to be home for these occasions, offering his services as a member of the Enclaves to help divert some of the attention. Though, he was quite regretting that choice at the moment.

"Oh darling, you must come and enjoy a swoop race in my box. I insist."

An older woman, middle-aged with grey streaks in her auburn hair, hung from Ro Nuul's arm. She wore an extravagant blue robe adorned with a variety of jewels that sparkled in the light. This was, of course, Senator Sera Rashila of Corsin. She was about Ro Nuul's age... and like many in Keldabe, was very much day-drunk far too early in the morning. The Kel Dor gave a polite bow of his head. "I would be honored, Senator Rashila. I believe I will be travelling to Corsin within the next few months on business... I will make sure to bring a bottle of that Alderaanian White you enjoy." A lie, of course, but an acceptable one to keep the peace.

Ro Nuul's eyes wandered around the room. Specifically, his eyes focused in on a certain middle-aged man in finer robes. His research suggested this was the Prince Consort of the Hapes Consortium, which had only recently begun to stick its head out from under its shell to acknowledge the wider world. More specifically, though, the Prince Koren's name came back as a potential match to a Padawan from the time of the Clone Wars who had been declared missing during Knightfall. Given the slightest notions and feelings of discomfort radiating from Koren Omi-Ren from the fine clothes, Ro Nuul was fairly certain he could recognize a fellow Jedi.

Of course, all conversation ceased when the Paladin spoke. The sudden outburst and public disagreement had sent ripples of whispers throughout the assembled crowd. The tension had somehow intensified even further than it had before. Several politicians at the periphery began vacating the area, and Ro Nuul was certain now would be the best chance he would get to abandon his post here. Especially if he continued his work with a more focused approach.

Ro Nuul briskly strode through the assorted guests, stopping before two armed Hapen guards standing before Koren. Ro Nuul gave them a curt bow, before making eye contact with the Prince. "I will be frank, your highness... I do not believe this moment is opportune for making friends of the Mand'alor. If you are willing to heed the recommendation of a local... I would suggest a more jovial spot to oversee the Founding celebration. If you would permit my company, I have great interest in learning more about the Hapes Consortium." Ro Nuul looked away for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought, before nodding quietly to himself and lifting a fold to his robes to reveal the electrum-plated lightsaber hanging from a sash on his waist. "Perhaps we could reminisce about the old days as well."
Script



Silas gently swayed in his hammock, hung up in the cramped habitation module of the JAMMER, humming along to the steady synthesized beat he had playing on a speaker from the cockpit. Snug over his eyes was an old virtual headset, flashing images projecting over his eyes. While his body was onboard a dropship heading for Himinbjorg, his mind was running through an old simulation of the Battle of Bifrost. He had run the simulation dozens of times, an impossible wartime scenario reconstructed from various battle reports and fragmentations of audio-visual recordings from scrapped AUGs in the fields by EINHERJAR. It wasn't perfect, but machine learning and careful tweaking to the program made for good training in how quickly firefights can shift from good to bad... and from bad to worse. While his eyes were watching the playback, his fingers occasionally coiled around imaginary triggers. He had run this sim enough times that his muscles almost acted on their own.

The music lowered in volume automatically when a soft voice buzzed from the cockpit. It took the kid a moment to realize the briefing had started, and he quickly flung the headset off, recoiling at the sudden change in lighting. While blinking away at spots in his vision, he fumbled and fell out of his hammock and onto the metal grate of the habitation module. He groaned a little as he began pulling himself through the open hatch into the cockpit, hoisting himself up into his chair to listen to the briefing. While listening to the voice walk through the mission objectives, Silas pulled two side monitors into view and flicked a few overhead switches, activating the screens and various sensors and readouts. On the left screen ran an automated flight check of the JAMMER, ensuring no mechanical or sensor issues were being reported. On the right screen, all the AUG's sensors were running render checks of basic optical, thermal, and magnetic imaging displays. The quick flash of the thermal display showed Silas a quick view of several of his fellow pilots in their own AUGs, the faint trace of a cigarette or two glowing as clear bright spots on the sensors. He never understood mercs and their obsession with smokes. It was bad for the wires.

Once the briefing was done, several voices began calling out over the radio. Silas's view was quickly able to see small icons on his left screen with various callsigns lighting up as his team spoke up. It sounded like over half wanted to go for the comms, while a couple were eager to deal with the main force. He felt a little bit of anxiety cling up in his throat. This was his first mission, and the last thing he wanted to do was come off as too green. Some of the mercs were using their callsigns, some weren't. He took a deep breath as he unhooked his headset from over one of the monitors, nestling it over his ears and adjusting the mic in front of his lips. He flipped a switch, blocking outgoing transmission to run a quick mic check.

"One two, one two."

Nothing but static over the headset. Silas groaned, unharnessing himself in his seat and following the wires back to their plug: unsurprisingly, it was a bit twisted. Great. Silas flipped a switch on the comms array, playing the conversation on speaker while he uncoiled a fresh cable and went about splicing it quickly to fix his headset. It was quick work at this point, and a known issue with the cheap wires he usually worked with. Of course this would happen on his first day. Just as he finished his patch job, small warning lights began to light on the screen. They were dropping. Silas hastily scampered his way into his seat, just managing to get his harness on as the bay doors and clamps released JAMMER. He clutched at his controls and engaged the basic boosters to help minimize the fall... but JAMMER came down like a meteor into the landing zone. The shock absorbers helped to minimize the strain, but Silas felt shaken and disoriented. He had never experienced the kinetic forces like this before. This was going to be a lot different than his simulations.

Upon landing, Silas fixed his comms and joined the rest of the squad moving to disable the Comms array.


The air hummed like electric snow, the faint sound of radio static echoed around in the cockpit with Silas. His eyes were focused on his right screen, one hand on his movement controls while another was busy fiddling with various nobs and sliders on a sound-board of sorts that swung out of his lap. He was busy tuning between different radio frequencies, trying to get an idea of what channel the enemy was using... before finally, a small spike out of the sea of calm waves of sound. Silas pulled the nob back that he had adjusted, and flicked two switches to patch in. Silas quickly tapped two buttons on his console, flipped a switch, and watched as a loading bar filled the screen. He looked up briefly from his controls, watching through the large view-screen as Banshee, Watcher, and Fallen Angel began moving in to attack.

"Command, we have incoming! Three Matsuzawa Drive readings, closing in fast! We have AUGs on site, I repeat, we have AUGs on site! The lead's coming in at three times the speed of the others!"

"All Ultima Universal forces, we are under attack! I repeat, we are under attack!"


Script smiled slightly. It looked like the other team was engaging as well. He flipped to the EINHERJAR communications line, encryption locking in on both teams. "Turn down all radio receivers except this line, team. I'm going to start flooding their comms."

As soon as the loading bar finished and was complete, Script flipped his comms over to Ultima Universal's channel. "Let's Jam!" He pressed the play button on his sound-board, and smiled as the harsh static began to flood their comms system, bouncing off the satellite array in an attempt to overwhelm and flood any attempt at enemy communication.

Once that was in position, Script took control of JAMMER's controls and forced the AUG to kneel on his vantage point. He lowered his chassis, and flipped to his left screen to a top-mounted camera on JAMMER's back. He made a few adjustments, before squeezing a big red button on his left control stick, firing off two EMP AA missiles at the farthest Kinetic Projectile Cannon. They weren't strong enough to destroy it outright... but the farthest cannon's sensors and targeting systems would surely be knocked out until the team could move in and disable it.

With that, JAMMER slid down the small cliff with the Variable-Munitions Rifle drawn and set to burst fire as he pushed in to cover the team's rear flank... and clean up any MAs, vehicles, or cannons that Fallen Angel missed in the mad dash forward. "I bought us some time, I think... but this won't hold them long."


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