Actinic blue lightning flashed throughout the throne room, heralded by a manic roar of unrestrained rage fuelled by mania and the pain of betrayal. Like a font spewing forth apostate bile, Mejas Doto, di Primus Tenebrous Arconae shouted an inarticulate challenge, one hand holding bloodfang, his signature double-bladed lightsaber dormant, whilst his other directed the lethal coruscating currents.
There were five equites arrayed before him, their resolve unwavering despite the onslaught. Malidir Erinos, a tank of a man and a warrior of unparalleled fury wouldn’t leave the throne room the same. He’d sustain an injury which took months of recovery, and never again would he wield a weapon with the same artless finesse. Still, Sashar, his brother, had brought him into this fight, this coup. For the result, he’d gladly have paid the price again, had he known. A bargain, Malidir would later remark.
Strategos and Timeros had readily agreed to depose Mejas in such a fashion. It was one of the few times the Erinos and the Entars had seen eye to eye. The insane Zabrak was Consul, yes, and had made each of the five Arconae, but he was leading the clan down a path it wouldn’t survive. His obsession over the arcane spelled ruin, and it was their sworn duty to protect the clan from any threat - from outside or within.
Finally, there was Zandro Erinos and Sashar himself. Sashar had endured the Zabrak’s mentorship, and endure was the closest he could come to referring to it. Mejas Doto was infatuated with control and destruction. He’d only ever taken one apprentice, his Proconsul Sashar, and he demanded a high price. Sashar had forsook his family, pledging himself fully to the blue-skinned maniac, gritting his teeth as the Dark Jedi Master literally tore through his mind, telepathically twisting, unravelling his sanity to the absolute brink.
It was unending. Mejas would delve into his memories, humiliating him with his failures, shaming him with his most intimate thoughts for days on end, always scratching away at his protege’s resolve, stripping away his dignity and humanity until his very soul felt exposed, like a live wire.
Sashar had suffered.... Indignities for months for just this moment. Later, on reflection, he’d barely be able to recall the details of the battle, as Mejas had thrown more than lightning and screams their way. His true power came in the whispers and scrying of their most base, animal fears, then assaulting them with unending visions of those very fears. He was a personified nightmare, a mausoleum of hatred and vindictive spite, grasping and clawing at their minds. It distorted perception in the moment, and after the fact, it was hard to tell what parts were real.
Afterwards, there were only four of them left standing. Two Entars, Two Erinos. Between them, Mejas knelt, pinned to the floor, bellowing commands even as they slid the beskar collar around his neck, wrought just for him. Abruptly, there was silence. A silence that would last two blissful years until Mejas broke free and once again tore through Arcona, only this time vengeance was to be his only goal. The abrupt disconnection from the Force scarred Mejas Doto far more than any physical wound could. It was like surgically removing his legs. He was rendered speechless in shock and bereavement, and with his shock came an end to his crawling through Sashar’s mind.
Peace.

-=[]=-

Sashar was awake almost instantly. That nightmare was a familiar one, and after so long, it was reassuring just to remember that the darkest days of his life had long since passed. Only, something was different.
He swatted for the lightswitch on his nightstand, taking note of the cold sweat adhering him to his sheets. The mandalorian paused halfway through the gesture, sitting bolt upright. Something was probing his mental defences, testing for a weakness. Years of allowing a foreign mind to touch his had built his psychic walls high and thick with a will like a bar of beskar. But like a river carving through a mountain over millenia, everything wears down eventually. A trickle could become a torrent.
“No, no no…” Sashar muttered as he threw back the sheets and got up, running from the bedchamber to the central room of his small quarters. He threw open the balcony doors, the thin curtains billowing about him, his bare feet slapping on the cold stone and looked up with mounting dread.
It was a clear night, stars shining down like pinpricks in the raiment of heaven. Dancing amidst them was a shuttle, coming in for a landing.
“He’s back,” Sashar whispered more in disbelief than anything.
Emanating from the shuttle like a pulsar was the presence of a man Sashar had personally given a carbonite bath. There was no way he could blast his way out of that.
Still, despite all evidence to the contrary, there was no refuting it: Mejas Doto had returned.

The sky bled green. From above, a flight of K-Wings rained down a light show of death and carnage, cutting through the forest with ease. Bomb chutes opened, pouring their deadly cargo into the forest floor, causing the trees to explode and spray burning shards and splinters through the small clearings interspersed between the more venerable fauna, eviscerating any SCEPTER operatives unlucky enough to have survived the initial air strike.

Already, much of the forest was on fire. Smoke cloyed the senses, making it hard to see and breathe. The few remaining operatives, only three strong, huddled in the bombed out crater of what had once been a tree hundreds of feet high. Around them were scattered the remains of what had once been a ten-strong team.

“I think they’ve passed over.” One of them muttered. She was perhaps thirty, human, and had a bandage wrapped around her head, covering the oozing wound where her ear used to be.

A zabrak opposite her snorted. “That just means the cleaners will be coming through the area in a second. When they spot us, we’re dead.”

“Quiet! I can hear the Howlrunners.” The Nautolan hissed, clutching his rifle close to his chest.

Indeed, the eerie, chilling howl of a pack of Howlrunners tore the sudden stillness of the aftermath apart, making the zabrak flinch. Their padded feet could be heard rushing through the undergrowth, zeroing in on the hapless trio’s location. They steeled themselves for the inevitable.

Something shifted in the air. There was a tangible change in the day. Slowly, rain began to fall, its patter matting down the smoke, quenching the small fires, causing them to hiss. Through the mirk stepped a trio of figures. In the middle was a nondescript human male wearing a coat with a large concussion rifle slung over one shoulder. To his right was an imposing larger male who walked with the confidence of a seasoned fighter, yet seemed to still possess the exuberance of youth. On the middle figure’s other side was an equally nondescript human male with tribal tattoos over one side of his face.

They paused a second, then the middle figure, presumably the most senior, gestured with his right hand. The tattooed male leapt forward towards the beaten SCEPTER members, but instead of attacking them, vaulted them and stood at the lip of their crater, extending an electrostaff. The Howlrunners burst through the brush just as his weapon finished deploying. Displaying an uncanny ability with the stave, he slapped no less than three of them away before a single blaster bolt rang out, hitting one of the canine creatures in the flank. It yelped, hobbling away, and the others followed suit, yowling in distress.

Shouts could be heard in the distance, followed by the heavy, dull tattoo of booted feet on muddy earth.

“Where’s the rest of your unit?” The stave-wielding figure asked, briefly glancing behind at them.

“We’re all that’s left.” The one-eared human replied shakily, unsure of who their rescuers were.

“Call in any survivors in the area to our position. We’ll have a staging point here.” Celahir Erinos, former Consul of Arcona and Battleteam Leader of Soulfire ordered, before returning his full attention to the fore.

“Who are you people?”

“We’re The Erinos.” The middle figure replied, wielding a large, antiquated concussion rifle in both arms.

None of them looked particularly old, and only the largest of them was wearing any armour, though it only seemed to focus on protecting his limbs.

Rayze Erinos walked, no, swaggered forwards, smiling cheerfully, He un-holstered his blaster pistol and stood next to Celahir. Without preamble, it started. A trio of Weequay burst through the undergrowth, howling challenges, each wielding two short vibro-axes. Rayze shot two of them before they closed in. The third managed to get one swing in, which was batted aside by Celahir’s electrostaff, then he brought a fist around, punching the stunned alien in the face. However, his fist didn’t just break bones; it cut through the Weequay’s head, taking the top half off from the nose upwards. He and his severed skull dropped to the floor noisily. The former Consul wiped the vibro-knuckler on the leg of his pants, and turned his attention back to the fore.

A second wave came, more mercenaries pouring from the brush, prompting the pair into action. Rayze kept up fire with his pistol, felling three, but it was past the point where blasters could do much good. both drew their sabers and waded in. It wasn’t much of a fight. They cut through their opponents like they were practice dummies, and left the scene ten seconds later looking like a snuff holodrama.

“That’s enough. They’ll have zeroed our position now. They’ll try bombing again, then, when that doesn’t work, they’ll send in the heavies. Come back in.” Sashar Erinos said from the rear, hefting his LJ-50 Concussion Rifle.

He wasn’t wrong. There was a whine in the air, prefacing the assault like a valkyrie’s call. Sashar turned in the direction of the noise, took aim, and waited. A heartbeat passed. Two. On the third, Sashar fired. The weapon’s discharge sounded unnaturally loud, but it was replaced a moment later by two bombers flying low overhead, raking the forest with quad-laser beams. The corucsating blue bolt smashed into the wing of one of the two craft, ruining its aerodynamics. The K-Wing swerved violently to the left, catching the wing of the other bomber. Both craft careened downwards, smashing into the forest floor, further adding to the smoke and fire.

“Shab Sash, stop showing off.” Celahir remarked, wincing from the sound of the blasts.

“Make me.” Sashar replied, grinning smugly.

From the undergrowth, more figures emerged. Stumbling, shambling, half dead, each wearing SCEPTER uniforms. Their ‘re-inforcements’ had arrived.

“Get down, stay low, and if possible, try to hide under something heavy.” Rayze instructed, briefly looking over the stragglers. None were combat ready.

In the distance, there were shouts. Howls. Machinery moving. A lot of machinery.

Sashar moved to the front, standing shoulder to shoulder with his clansmen. “Rayze, did I ever tell you what your father’s favourite game was?”

Rayze glanced over quizzically.

“Mech hunt.” Sashar replied, then started forward at a jog.

The next half hour consisted of a lot of mercenary forces being ambushed by three angry, swearing, lightsaber-wielding Mandalorians. They came from above, from below, from any angle that wasn’t expected. Not one of the heavily armed mercenaries were left alive. Not one of the AT-STs remained standing, either having their legs sheared off by a lightsaber, or their armoured canopies popped like melons by Sashar’s Concussion rifle. The Erinos cut a bloody swathe through them, and left a message for anyone who’d ever be stupid enough to doubt Galeres’ strength.

Manually added