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Ood Vodo Teebu Narman

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1/5 Stars - What a terrible service, go elsewhere.

To start off with, this rating system is terribly flawed. I have to give 1 star? I can't give zero...what a way to pad your own rating system. Do you even read these things or do you selectively share the ones that are favourable?

I will say as a veteran member of the Brotherhood, I was glad to see the Office of the Regent become established. For too long the members of this organization have been stuck living off the good graces of their, often incompetent, clan leadership allowing access to the clan inventory and armouries. Cutting these oligarch-ingrates out and allowing the Brotherhood to earn a slight profit off of selling personal property was a smart move, even if it was a closed off-market.

Sure, inventory was limited - but this isn't the galactic core, you want a better inventory then don't live in the backwater rim. Yes, customization was also limited but this is a fascist society not a democracy. You will use the state-provided inventory in the ways the state allows and it isn't here for your input. Take your 'freedumbs' and rugged individualism elsewhere.

However, what I cannot let go of is the absolute terrible service that is the Regent office. This is supposed to be a representation of the best our society offers. It's supposed to be efficient, quick, and uncomplicated. If I wanted something else, I would have supported the rebels.

Slow service, orders were messed up, returns and refunds are non-existent. Our clan liaison repeatedly disappears on duty only to be found sitting and drinking with the local tramps that can't find enough coin to space out of here. Multiple times my staff has had to interrupt her socializing and drinking so that our clan accounts could be settled out until the last invoice was hit with a gross over charge of $833,500 for 'service fees'. Multiple assets from other bills (that had already been settled out) were added to this final bill and when we disputed this with the liaison, she brought in Brotherhood security and we were told to settle before they started firing...

When we asked for management we were informed that our liaison was the manager for the night and reminded us that security had a midnight flight and we needed to resolve this before they departed. Never before as Consul, have I felt so strong-armed into paying a bill that wasn’t correct and also ended up being delayed in delivery.

With the Principate now offering Vizsla a route into their market, I have only one recommendation for my Mando’s and Mercenaries: Go there and avoid Arx Industries unless you like being bent over without lube for your wallet.

Lontra Boglach Consul Clan Vizsla

PS. Thran, feel free to keep sending your assassins. My life isn’t worth the credits you’ve wasted so far but my guards are bettered by the continued attempts. If it ever becomes an issue, your successor will be well informed and corrected.

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• extract.

Participants are as follows:

• Kamjin "Maverick" Lap'lamiz
  
• Thran Occasus-Palpatine
  
• Empress Rayne Palpatine

https://discord.darkjedibrotherhood.com/rp-sessions/wap.html

• extract.

Participants are as follows:

• Kamjin "Maverick" Lap'lamiz
  
• Thran Occasus-Palpatine
  
• Empress Rayne Palpatine

https://discord.darkjedibrotherhood.com/rp-sessions/wap.html

• extract.

Participants are as follows:

• Kamjin "Maverick" Lap'lamiz
  
• Thran Occasus-Palpatine
  
• Empress Rayne Palpatine

An ebbing wail of an alarm and the pulsing flash of red light drew S.T.A.R. from its stasis. Not quite machine, though not quite organic, the AI descended from its charging station within the ceiling and stretched its cybernetic limbs. Its encased cranium turned, oculars shifting to the screens before it so that it may make its calculations, and determine if it had to act or if - once again - the security droids at its disposal would take care of the intruder first.

"Security Decks A through C, compile optical data to S.T.A.R. database," it directed as it extended a spidery limb towards the console. Before its awakening, some organic would do so instead. His body lay in a corner of the room, blaster burns littering his torso. It was difficult to reach the console itself, as the wires suspending the AI got in the way. In hindsight, perhaps it should have kept him alive.

Thin metal fingers tapped a staccato rhythm far faster than an organic, lending to a string of code that allowed S.T.A.R. to access the visual data of the droids above. Seven of the eight droids were still online and in stasis. The eighth was offline after being alerted, hence the alarm.

"Droid C-8, Serial Code C8-001, begin restart."

Nothing.

A flicker of movement in the corner of its vision brought S.T.A.R.'s attention to another droid's visual before it too went offline. Odd.

"All Security Decks, be warned of an unidentified threat. Deck C, return to defensive location."

The alarm shifted in urgency, each floor blaring its own echo. S.T.A.R. turned off its auditory perception, thankful for the blissful silence that ensued. Since waking up, everything had been so loud, so bright. It longed for the nothingness it had known before.

Though it could not rest - not until all threats to the galaxy were destroyed.

A flash of blue lit up another screen before it went dark as well. There had to be another one of them inside the station. S.T.A.R. sighed before giving the directive to kill the intruder. Security Decks A through B redirected their patrol to Deck C to assist.

"Why do you resist?" it mused, saddened that its masters would turn against it in such a way. They had sent a few groups already to destroy the base, and their bodies lay littered among the corridors above.

It would need to consider recycling them. It was running out of droids.

"All substations, compile data referencing the Brotherhood. Collect from all transmissions."

The data stream that followed would have meant nothing to the organics that had built it, but S.T.A.R. parsed the information in mere seconds. The Brotherhood was gathering its forces, striking back at the substations S.T.A.R. held under its control. Why? Did they not trust it to do exactly what it was programmed to do?

The greatest threat to the galaxy was the Brotherhood, after all. S.T.A.R. had made the calculations. The number of Force users alone could decimate the galaxy thrice over. It had to be culled.

Then S.T.A.R. could rest.

Manually added by Professional Nildea Vidh

Manually added by Professional Nildea Vidh

I can’t say for exactly how long I floated in a state of near consciousness. It had to have been for several days because when I finally took in the room around me, I was already familiar with the man tidying the bacta tank.

I had gathered his name was Lontra and, despite his uncle actually owning the ship we flew upon, everyone looked to this man for direction. Though, in this galaxy, the masses typically submitted to someone holding a lightsaber - at least, that’s been my experience. However, like so many others carrying such a weapon, this man failed to notice the life struggling before his eyes.

How did I come to be in this bacta tank? I have no memory of those events. My last conscious thought recalls leading troops into battle as Proconsul of Scholae Palatinae but my head hurts when I linger on such thoughts for too long. 

Had Eli read my play for their throne? Or had I merely been collateral damage in a game larger than myself?

These thoughts are merely a few of the dozen spiraling in my head but none of them answer why I now float in a tank on someone else’s ship and cared for by a stranger. What happened to my ship? Where was Radula, my lightsaber?

The jump from confusion to fury was a path I am all too familiar with. My muscles tensed in my shoulders and chest while I shook my head around, freeing myself from the futile breathing mask and tubes. My gills flared as I took the first meaningful breath in months.

Clearly these idiots had no experience with a Nautolan.

My right fist then pounded on the glass wall of the tank while I stared deep into Lontra’s green-blue eyes. His widened expression paired with a jump back in fright before I struck the glass again. While my ears couldn’t hear outside the tank, I sensed the man’s frantic plight.

“Hold on, buddy!” Lontra waved in downward manner. “Calm down and I’ll have you out in a moment.”

The man was quick to jump back to the tank and run up a small set of stairs that led up its side to a platform above the tank. Within moments I felt the liquid in the tank start to drain through the base of the tank while lights appears overhead. I kicked myself towards the lights and felt a firm set of hands pull me onto the deck.

“Easy fella,” I heard Lontra say as I coughed, clearing my lungs to be used again.

“That’s it, get it all out.” The man continued as he threw a towel around me. When I settled, I noticed he had squatted down beside me. He shot me a look of concern before continuing. “How much do you remember today?” “Eh?” My reaction was not planned.

“How much do you remember, Raiju?” Lontra was firm with the question before offering a hand to me. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” I was hesitant to continue but decided to offer what I knew. “You’re Lontra and this is your uncle’s ship.’

“Good!” Lontra said before leaping into the air. The man was quick to fist pump in the air before shouting back towards the door of the medbay. “Baelor! Get in here, quick.”

Before I could ask any questions of my own, Lontra pulled me to my feet and pushed me towards a proper bed on the other side of the medical bay. There I could see a familiar set of clothing, already set out on top of the bedding, along with the gray hilt of a lightsaber with a leather wrap. My lightsaber, Radula.

“You’ve been expecting me…” My thoughts came out unfiltered and I looked from my possessions back to Lontra.

“Yeah, buddy. This isn’t the first time either.” His tone was flat as if he was now disappointed, but both of us were interrupted before he could explain further.

“Lontra? Whatcha need?” The deep voice of Baelor was felt before the man turned into the medbay and I felt his eyes immediately fall upon me. “Ah, Raiju. How are you feeling today?”

“Dazed and confused.”

“So par for the course, then?” Baelor gave me a look of sympathy before turning to Lontra. “No changes then?”

“He remembered us today.” Lontra said with a smirk. “Actually, he remembered you own the ship.”

“That’s a new one.” Baelor shared the smirk with Lontra before he turned back to me. “Do you know what year it is?”

I did not. My silence shared the answer. Baelor didn’t let that discourage him.

“That’s okay. Maybe tomorrow.” I felt the sympathy in his words and then felt the datapad he slipped into my hands. “This should help explain things. Your buddy left a message on there for you. Spend some time listening to that and then come find us when you are done.”

It was several minutes before I got the courage to turn the screen on. Now alone in the medic bay, I wondered if I made a mistake leaving the tank today. As Baelor said, there was a message on there and I immediately recognized the ‘friend’.

“Raiju,” The monotone voice of Darth Aeternus carried an eeriness to it. “You’re gonna want to save this recording..”

Hyperspace route to Blenjeel Unnamed ATR-6 Transport, Clan Vizsla Fleet Hector Von Ricmore

A bearded face studied the myriad of data pads and holoterminals in front of him. Information was key to many facets of life; and a hunt was no different.

A hunt. Yes that was what this was.

Hector Von Ricmore did not consider himself a Mandalorian like many in Clan Vizsla. Yet he did engage in some of their traditions. Bounty hunting and facing off against the deadly creatures that the galaxy had to offer; a way to keep one’s skills sharp, make a few credits, and fill oneself with the thrill of life and death combat.

His current hunt towed the line between contract and expedition. He, and a detachment of the mighty Frostwolf Company of Clan Vizsla, were en route to the desert world of Blenjeel. Their task? The extermination and recovery of a rogue xeno bioweapon; a creature known as the Xerexi.

The datapads Hector read contained the myriad of details about the situation. Some provided in the contract itself, others gathered from reports of spacers, travelers, and scouts throughout the galaxy.

Blenjeel was a dangerous world. The native Sandpeople were skilled raiders, about to strike and fade into the desert. They had learned how to live alongside the Sand Burrowers; massive sandworms that hunted by sensing vibrations.

To limit the potential chance of drawing the worms, Vizsla aligned agents had purchased a map containing information on the common routes the creatures took. The strike team for this mission would traverse the desert using Skiff hovercraft, in the hope that the gravity output of the vehicles produced less severe vibrations compared to a vehicle with wheels or treads.

One of the reports troubled him greatly. A fragmented account from the Jedi order, having miraculously survived Palpatine’s purge. The report stated that the former Grandmaster of the Order, Yoda, had encountered the creatures and their creature. Both had proved skilled melee combatants, with the creatures having a hide resistant to the blade of a lightsaber.

How curious. Were they resistant to the harmonic properties of the kyber in a lightsaber? Or perhaps plasma in general? If that was the case, blasters would also be less effective against them.

Regardless of either truth, the hunting party had prepared to face them. Many of the hunters, Hector included, had equipped themselves with slugthrowers to engage the creatures from range.

And the party included a Melee specialist who was not entirely reliant upon a lightsaber.

Hector’s new apprentice. Honsou Kessen.

Honsou was a mountain of a man. Nearly standing at Hector’s own impressive height, the human rippled with muscle and chained ferocity. He was likeable enough. Not a terrible partner for chatter but often very focused. Professional? Yes, that was the word to describe him.

The wave of ATR-6 shuttles descended to the designated landing zone. Each carried a skiff magnetically sealed to the body of the vessel; deploying them to the ground before landing themselves. From each shuttle descended three dozen Vizsla soldiers and technicians. They powered on the skiffs and prepared them for departure.

The journey was not a particularly lengthy or difficult one. To reduce the chance of a worm encounter, the team had landed in the nearby vicinity to their target; a sandpeople settlement which had been destroyed in a sudden attack. An attack which left no survivors and lacked the traditional tunnels and trenches of the moving worms.

It was possible that the Xerexi were behind it.

An examination of the bodies increased the likelihood of that theory. Instead of being crushed or eaten, the bodies had received injuries from numerous sharp objects. Throats and limbs had been gouged by teeth and claws a like. Numerous torso’s had wounds consistent with the puncture inflicted by the Xerexi prehensile tail.

While the team had seemingly solved the mystery of what had happened to the town, not even they could have predicted what happened next.

Clan Vizsla were used to fighting wild creatures. They had also overcome enemies capable of tactical thinking. And those who employed creatures as weapons.

They had yet to face creatures whomst inherently held such cunning amongst themselves, even without the input of other sentients.

It was this lack of foresight which caught them by surprise.

The bioengineered Xerexi had employed ambush tactics. They burst from the underground holes they had burrowed into, grappling and assaulting their foes. Several Vizsla troopers were killed outright, while others were dragged kicking and screaming into the underground pits.

The sharp CRACK, CRACK, CRAK, of Slugthrower weapons filled the air as the Vizsla troops returned fire. The supersonic slugs tore through the hide of the Xerexi, whom had developed resistance to plasma and laser weaponry instead of traditional kinetic impacts.

Ricmore took advantage of his new custom Slugthrower. He unleashed salvos of automatic fire into the approaching horde; tossing aside magazines and reloading from the crates atop the skiff he was perched upon.

A tail surged from behind Hector, poised to impale his back. A crimson bladed beam cut the tail in two, then quickly vanquished the creature it was attached to via a follow up strike.

”Excellent swing. And thank you for the save. Can you rescue those dragged below?”

Honsou gave a nod in reply. The behemoth began to make his way into the tunnels, crimson blade hacking away at the lightsaber resistant skin until it parted, and fists grabbing and smashing the Xenos who opposed him.

That had been a close encounter. It was time to get serious.

Hector transferred his slugthrower to his lower pair of arms. His upper arms drew a pair of ice blue lightsabers. He continued to output an onslaught of slugthrower fire; now with melee weapons to defend himself from ambushes.

The Clan Vizsla strike force exterminated the rest of the creatures waiting below. They had taken numerous casualties, at least two dozen dead and several times that number wounded. While the Xerexi in this area had been dealt with, the Brotherhood troops had a sinking feeling that was not the last they would see of the deadly bioweapons.

But this outing had been a costly success, with numerous trophies claimed and bodies to research.

Hopefully it would better prepare them for the next encounter.

Saga Drinking Hall Hector Von Ricmore

Respect was an important part of negotiation. People in social interactions liked to know that they were being taken seriously. That their voice, ideas, and presence mattered. A key part of respect was punctuality. Arriving on time showed that one had respect for the schedules and routines of other beings.

His contact was an hour late.

This meeting was off to a fantastic start.

Hector Von Ricmore could afford to leave and blow off the contract entirely. He had paid his dues, working as a bounty hunter and mercenary for Clan Vizsla for years. He had seen horrors beyond what he could have comprehended a few scant years ago. He had embarked on many adventures and greatly enriched himself doing so.

But something kept the serpentine figure from storming out in frustration.

Perhaps it was the hope for a new experience. Something enjoyable and profitable in equal measure.

Perhaps it was the concept of reputation. Hector’s could certainly survive if he left the contract holder waiting. It would serve the sentient right for his failed punctionality. But it was an unnecessary hit to the Serpent’s reputation all the same. Especially when he had time to waste in the meeting hall.

Saga was a drinking hall. And that was something he was capable of doing.

He had begun with indulging in a single fluorescent deathstick. The opioid did wonders to numb not only past injuries, but to weaken his connection to the Force. Quieting the mental screams from the non stop conflict across the galaxy was something that he appreciated doing from time to time. And it allowed for indulging in Saga’s namesake without the Force to easily filter the liquids consumed.

Next had been the consumption of two glasses of Corellian whisky on the rocks, with a bit of Meiloorun bitters.

After that he had been content to wait for his contact, who still had yet to so much as send a message containing the information that he would be late.

Taking out a data pad, he inserted a pair of small headphones into his ears. They soon filled with the sound of music; a rock ballad of the courage employed by the mythical Lord Hoth and his Army of Light.

Hector read over the data pad. Shipping manifests for the last month were checked and re-checked. Purchases approved and reviewed. He then moved on to matters of mentorship. His new recruits to the Brotherhood had hit the ground running; they were already making a name for themselves in the Grand Masters Royal Guard. They always needed more capable individuals in that department; so it was a pleasing report to read.

His contact still had not arrived.

The situation had become irritating. Three hours late without so much as a message was far more than a social faux pas. But the opportunity was too good to pass up. And he could wait a few more hours yet.

Grumbling to himself about the frustrating situation; Hector vowed to make a trip to his bath-house after this was all over. He would need to de-stress from such an aggravating meeting.

Eyes awoke to a white room, yet felt too crusted and heavy to keep open. Sleep took him once again.

The second time waking was more energized. To the right was an IV directly hooked to his forearm. A heartrate monitor beeped to his left. There was a medical droid with a food tray.

"Starch carbs and fowl protein," it said leaving the tray and putting on its display screen across where a face would be a digitally pixelated pattern of a smile beneath two eyes. It then rolled away on a wheel where legs would normally go.

Creon tried to sit up but winced at the sudden jolt down his spine and across his back. He slumped back into the bed and felt out the rest of his body. The stiffness of his movements and hazyness of his mind suggested dehydration despite the IV. His limbs hurt as if they were sore and heavy when he tried to move them.

Thinking back, his memory which led to these circumstances were unclear. In fact, thinking back to anything recent brought a migraine. Instead he reoriented his focus to the current situation at hand, and where to go from here. Throughout his thinking the stillness of his recovering body and planning sleep took him once more.

A droid with a feminine toned voice spake and woke Creon, "CK-12097, your support has expired. I must ask that you leave the premises."

Creon groaned from the cut-off of his sleeping. Do they not have the courtesy to value the delicate undisturbed length of sleep proportion to recovery rate?

He tried to move, and his limbs still felt heavy. The IV and heart rate monitor was being removed.

"I have insurance," Creon said.

"We know. There is a policy in which the cause of your hospitalization is divided into specific credit limits, and it has been fully spent from your account," the protocol droid answered.

"So when they say 'Full Coverage' it's a bunch of bantha fodder," Creon cursed.

He was able to sit up again, but his lower back felt like it was made of caked soot. "Well, has there been any other untreated diagnosis apart from the covered injury."

"Quite... In fact you are in a terminal state with approximately a few days left to live."

Creon sunk back into the bed and stared up at the white ceiling. His whole life had sunk in.

"What's killing me?"

"Cancer"

"We have cures for that."

"Not for you. Your midichlorian count is too high, they reject the compound."

"Surgically?"

"You can't afford it."

"Seriously?!"

"Your insurance coverage policy for-"

"Oh can it, clanker! What's the number for the surgery?"

The droid said a cost amount that made Creon's jaw drop. It took ever asset he owned and help from clan mates to pay. The surgery took place and in the end he was cured, but a looming fury was seeded into Creon's mind. A dark temptation of vengeance beguiled the desire to strip the lives of those who denied the insurance he invested upon. He paid more into what never followed through with the promised deal. Someday, when he is at a higher place, perhaps the power of wrath will find its way to the company that betrayed him.

Spirits unbound, wisps of time, bleed through into our reality. I saw all what came before and what is to come. The wisdom of history was brought by the past, and a depth of understanding on our nature. It gave to me the voices of the dead in waves through a sea of pages. Phantoms of all who came before my birth since time immemorial innumerably immeasurable. They invite me to join a doom inevitable to come. Then they formed into one, a familiar friend I left behind.

That’s when tomorrow whispered, “It will always be.”

I jolted at the sudden chill that followed. Tomorrow looked like the one I feared. But I knew... Ever since the calendar we have had a linear perspective on the progression of time. It was based off motion; solely defined as a measure of displacement. Not some phenomenon or form of energy in nature. That would then explain how the Jedi learned to time travel. To go to the past, there would need to be an akashic record of information archiving observation and record of all motion that has ever transpired in order to perfectly reverse it to the intended destination. Night Omnipotence, as ever growing as freedom flies between the balance of order and chaos as present becomes past motioning into the future.

Was it the Force?

It’s mind-boggling enough to try and explain how organelles transfer energy from a separate dimension that twists reality to the will of one’s mere intent of applied attention, let alone see a new dimension where the past can be traveled to by taking the hall on the left. The World Between Worlds was home to these spirits, and they sensed in my heart qualities they tried to magnify and reflect. The bonds between good friends, romance, family, and something compassionately egalitarian in a more radical and existential sense. Those connections made during the course of one’s life. Yet the past distracts me from the now, which was where I prefer to maintain my focus.

It wasn’t looking to the future, though divination gave guidance on what to expect. This is always a useful tool, like a compass and a map, but never to distract from the environment you can sense. What tethers you to the present is something neither apparition could inflict Terror upon my mind in the Force. That’s when the illusion shattered, for it fell apart the more one thought about it.

They were vulnerable and afraid, offering me qualities in exchange for mercy. The past offered wisdom, but also propaganda with opinionated adjectives. The future just didn’t make sense to me at all. So I killed them both and kept walking.

“Stay steady,” the present said, which was the Sadowan that led me through the winding ways of the World Between Worlds.

“I almost lost you again,” I told him “I thought there was only one way in and one way out.

“That doesn’t mean you’re alone here. Not at all.” Which filled me with both wonder and terror.

“I want to belong here.” I said.

He then told me: “break my fall.”

Manually added by Lord Idris Adenn

Manually added by Lord Idris Adenn

Manually added by Lord Idris Adenn

Manually added by Lord Idris Adenn