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Topics - Auryn

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Flashpoints and Operations / LFG Impside Dread Masters Ops!
« on: 03/06/18, 02:13:33 AM »
HAI GAIS. So myself and @Jaydek are looking to do the Dread Masters Ops on Oricon, for a number of reasons. First being, there's some decorations we'd like that are super rare that we wanna see if they'll drop, second because I have never actually 'completed' Oricon before because I have done either of the Ops; though also because, why not?

So far we have myself as a DPS, and Jay can use her Sin to tank. Who would like to join us? :D  :darkside:

Holocrons and Info Nodes / Until We Go Down
« on: 02/26/18, 12:30:13 AM »

Some Time Ago

“TAKE IT OFF!” he raged, corrupted eyes seething with anger at the blank-masked helm, “face me while you try to destroy me and my home, coward!”

The gathering wall of water was high enough now to cast a shadow over Northgalis’ lower levels, and rain from its outskirts was starting to pelt the platform they danced about on.

It was a threat. Just a threat. He wouldn’t. The bastard was just letting off steam - they both were. They’d end in a stalemate, or more likely with the echani against the floor with a sabre to his neck, being told how weak he was, which seemed to be the favourite topic of the month. Then they’d both ease off, grumble at each other. Maybe to kriff it out later. Then talk about what in the living Hell had been done with his poor brother - sent off for training, and locked up in some torture dungeon instead.

What by Force is up with you lately, Rysh? His eyes narrowed at the featureless black helm Darth Haar wore.

“Why don’t you just DIE?!” Came a holler from behind that mask, as Bælfir’s construct made from rock and bits of city reassembled for the umpteenth time behind them, ready to put the pressure on Haar’s defense again. Pure hatred laced those words.

Bælfir’s lips quivered strangely, as though he were unsure whether to smile that one down or not as some kind of… taunt? Joke? He covered up the lack of clarity with a snarl. That wave was looming ever closer. “Why don’t we go together?!”

I’ll call his bluff. Soon. He’ll stop. He’ll get over it. They’d been through too much together for this petty argument to be anything but a short, aggravated tiff.

He was still thinking that when his opponent made a feint to one side, then reached out with his duelling hand, disenganging his lightsaber. Bælfir expected lightning, or for the Force to wrap around his neck. Instead the arm wrapped around his waist and drew him in. His eyes fluttered in confusion. The grip on his own saber slipped a little as he felt the heat of Haar’s body against his for the first time in a long while.


Bælfir felt the cold press of the hilt to his back a split second before the sabre ignited.


He hung onto every word of the broadcast, still with anticipation, his nose so close to the feed that at times the holo wavered with static interference. Every now and then his Master glanced up from his work and peered over the room at the boy, suspicious at how completely engrossed he was in the broadcast, before giving a subtle shake of his head and returning to the old tomes spread out across the desk. At length he drawled without looking up, “Haven’t I given you an abundance of study for the week?”

“Finished it,” the boy replied listlessly.

“And your linguistics? Your incantation work has been sloppy as of late.”

Nu zinot gerejas,

Darth Arostos sighed tersely and beckoned with a single finger – the small holoprojector jumped off the table, and Baelfir’s head whipped around with a look of dismay as it was called to his master’s beckoning hand. He turned the device over in his grasp and considered crushing it, but no, he wanted to make absolutely certain… he thumbed the on switch and the feed flickered back to life, showing a strapping young Sith with dark, haunted eyes glaring down a nervous Imperial journalist.

“Hnn…. Ryshias. Darth Nolus’ boy. You have an interested in him?”

Baelfir’s jaw slackened a little, as though his Master were old and dull and it was completely not acceptable that he had no concept of the Sith in question’s fame. “Have you not been following his progress through the war with the Republic? He is an unstoppable force, they’re all saying so. He’s not even that much older than me and he’s out there winning entire planetary conquests single-handedly. They say he could take on Darth Malgus himself, that even the Emperor favours him.” His eyes flashed briefly with anger. “How come you don’t let me join the war effort? I hate being cooped up here studying all the time.”

A wry grin twisted the old man’s coarse crimson features as he rose from the chair and made his way towards Baelfir’s study, leaning heavily into his gold-encrusted cane with each second step. It was a bother, which kept him inside more often than not to prevent the risk of peers and fellows from seeing weakness, but the disease had eaten through four cybernetic leg and hip braces before Darth Arostos had conceded defeat. The cane itself; a mocking gift from one of his daughters. ‘This is why I prefer the company of the little Echani’ he’d sneered.

He watched the boy unabashedly eye his withering frame with a subtle measure of dismay, expecting the same answer as usual.

“The Emperor favours no one, if his silence says anything about his care for our vast Empire… and last I checked, a fair bit older than you, my child. Some Sith may find amusement in dressing up younglings in armour and velvet cloaks and sending them into battle, but it is not a past-time of mine, and I would loathe to see you obliterated after all the time and energy I’ve put into that empty head of yours.” The cane lashed out, whacking the side of Bælfir’s brow before he could pull it away, and he hissed with the sting of it.

“You excel at the alchemical arts. You are not a brute-force fighter to be thrown at Jedi like a Hutt-ball in a death match – our way is of learning and creation. Science and old Sith Magic tempered together. You will help the war effort in your own way. Perhaps your creatures will one day stalk across the fetid swamps of Balmorra, or block out the light of Tattooine’s twin suns.”

Another reminder of what he was apparently so good at, yet not what held his interest or desire. Baelfir turned his cheek, and Arostos watched the way his stubborn chin jutted as he forced his annoyance and frustration out the window instead of up at his Master. Wasn’t their Code, their way, about following desire, finding your power there? In a brief lapse of judgement he peered towards the dreary distant forest mountains bordering Kaas City, and not for the first time in his young life, considered running away to find the destiny he desired. The cobbles Arostos placed before him were tedious and boring. They made him feel weak, to hid behind constructs or bury his nose in books when the other apprentices were learning to level buildings. When they were being shoved out of shuttles to the hard, unforgiving surface of Korriban and told to do or die. How thrilling. He wanted to be powerful. Powerful, like Ryshias. He saw himself standing at the young Lord’s side, sabre in hand, ready to show his new master what he could-

“Ow!” He snapped, cringing away as Arostos’ cane clipped his opposite ear.

“Ungrateful ape,” The pureblood muttered, though without contempt. Curiously got the better of the old man, and after a little while of watching the child refuse to reach up and rub his bleeding lobe, he asked, “Tell me what else you think of him. This Lord Ryshias; tell me what the Force speaks to you of him.”

“I think he’s bad news.”


He angled a bored look towards the eternal pessimist that was his brother, eyebrow shooting up. “I know. You’ve made your feelings on the matter perfectly clear. Many times.”

“I’m an intelligence agent. If you don’t trust my judgement, then trust my intel.” Fælan sighed huffily. Bælfir noted with some amusement that, despite decades of separation and growing up far removed from one another, it was much the same sigh he himself made when equally annoyed. “Do you know what surrounds Darth Haar in all of his records, reports and holo-files – and these are the ones that aren’t triple-encrypted by the Sphere of Mysteries?”

“Countless victories and adoring fans?” Bælfir brought his delicate crystal glass up and studied the light striking colour through its sharp edges, sipping at a deep mauve wine nonchalantly.

“A very high body-count.”

“My goodness, you’ve really not been paying attention to the Empire’s main activities at all, have you?”

“Not the bodies of our enemies, brother,” Fælan corrected testily, and Bælfir could practically hear his thin layer of patience being sanded coarsely away, “to all those around him. His men, his allies, most likely a few lovers – and his Master’s previous work in Mysteries was a time and resource sink I’m struggling to find even a speeder parking fine in relation to. There is nothing good to be found in an alliance between the Valefor and his power base.”

“On the contrary, an alliance between us is exactly what the Valefor needs – he’s a strong presence within the Empire, and I’m not sure if you’ve been to the last few War Room meetings but they’re mostly still screaming about hunting down and beheading ‘those Valefor traitors’.”

He lowered a lopsided smirk towards his twin. “An ally to speak of our allegiance to the Empire, such as Darth Haar, is a precious asset. Especially with that blob of a human being Malagant and his spittle-filled ravings that for some reason, members of the Empire are swayed by.”

“I just…” Faelan’s rigid shoulders relaxed some, and he leaned idly against the countertop.

“...Look. I’m about as Force-sensitive as a trash compactor, so my opinion counts for naught. I get it. but my instincts have never let me down. I don’t like him, Bæl. He is as powerful and renown as he is unpredictable. There are accounts of his cruelty that even for a Lord of the Sith, seems… excessive.”
Bælfir tried to search for a way to say ‘your gut doesn’t like him probably because he tortured you for information and you don’t remember’ that would somehow soften the blow – found nothing, and returned to drinking instead. If he was to be fair, and honest, that incident was the perfect example of Ryshias’ breed of ‘excessive cruelty’ Fælan was trying to explain.

Indeed, at the time he had thought it fairly excessive, considering he hadn’t expected to encounter any issue with sending his brother to the Citadel on some boring paperwork errand… but his thoughts were never on-point, when a fancy was involved.

In fact… It was that cruelty that interested him. Or, part of what caught his attention. It wasn’t like the other Sith, the rabid dogs who fought for scraps of power and approval, who were constantly at each other verbally and physically in any setting, seemingly desperate to go ‘No, I am the most powerful, witness me’. ‘I am powerful, you are nothing’; ‘no, I am powerful and you are nothing!’. Ryshias didn’t engage in, or need that. He had not those fragile insecurities. He knew he was powerful, and when he wielded it, ‘excessive’ was the only available word.

“What experiences have you had so far with Haar’s representatives that has you so insistent?” Fælan continued, insistent. “There are a dozen other, more predictable, less murderface Sith we could ally with that would give just as useful a sway. Sith who are more wanting for our resources, too.”

Bælfir came back from his thoughts, recognising that stubborn look from the mirror, and knew the other wouldn’t stop until he believed he’d completely and verbosely made his point. They did both like to talk, in different ways.

He spun the chair around to face him with a slow, bemused smile. “We’ve met up a few times. One of those, I was fairly drunk and it was at Dancer’s Palace, which is hardly what you’d call some sort of serious conspiratory battleground. He was there with that pinched, angry pink lesbian Kitaree and I commented on his new haircut. S-so much death,”

“Bælfir,” Faelan simply returned the look with a thin frown, and an accusatory stare, “tell me you’re not sleeping with him.”

Bælfir winked, swirling his finger around idly in the air and causing the wine in his glass to rise and dance around it like a hypnotised adder. “Not yet.”


The red tattoo was afire, making the skin stretched across his chest burn and smart and feel of agony each time the material of his tunic brushed against it. Baelfir ground his teeth together and pressed on through the narrow corridor. The closer he got, the more fiercely the pain accosted him, his vision beginning to swim and double. Zaharoth was impatient, just as Ryshias had said. Now that he knew where the other fragments of him resided, he was impatient to become whole again, and he would tear the three of them apart the first chance he got.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Pain he could take – the unknown, the issues facing them… what had his Master said? ‘Each problem has a solution, so waste not your energy on fretting with the how or why, but focus it on finding the shortest path to your answer’. He wondered briefly if that was the philosophy Darth Arostos had held in mind as he’d been making the incantation to burn that tattoo into his screaming apprentice’s chest while he sealed away the fragment of Zaharoth within.

Solution. He forced his mind to a sharp point. There was a solution to this. There was a solution to every situation that ever was. He was an alchemist before anything else, and this - this reeked of it. Arostos would have built an out into the formulae. He wasn’t so eager for breakthough that caution would be thrown to the wind. An alchemist always played with fire. An alchemist without care was a dead alchemist.

He remembered siding down the wall, and how nice and cool the tiled floor was against his skin, and the pain abating some as his brother and his polarity approached, to help drag him to his feet.

“So was it worth it?” Fælan asked coldly. “Was it worth this? You and your bloody bleeding heart. He’ll be the death of us both.”

Alchemy wouldn’t kill him; but obsession might, he thought.


The rain from the impending tsunami still fell lightly into his eyes, and the wave never came as the roaring of the water subsided. The wound – the gaping hole the black-cored lightsaber had driven through his body – smarted and burned, but he couldn’t feel anything beneath it. The blade must have gone right through his spine.

One last, final, deadly embrace. The climax.

He felt Ryshias heavy footfalls pass by his head, towards the edge of the rooftop garden’s platform. He reached out limply to snatch at his ankles like a child.

I did everything for you.

He felt a child, too, in his stupidity. In his admiration. For the first time, laying there with smoke rising from his burnt armor and clothing, with such clarity of mind that he could feel his life ebbing away on the Force’s current… he finally understood the worry of the brother he had distanced, and sent away - another care of his that had been crushed by this damnable man.

I saved you. I came for you. I released you from Zharoth.

My suffering released you from Zaharoth. My brother’s suffering released you from Zaharoth.

Irmenu’s suffering released you from Zaharoth.

Without me you would still be pitiful.

Do you hate me, because… His breath rattled out painfully. His lungs struggled to expand again, full of heat and sitting atop a ruined diaphragm.

...because I loved you?

Words pierced through his clarity. He heard the Darth say something about being free from weakness, but his senses phased in and out, and the sky above began to blur and bloom. Sweet dropletsof rain fell to his tongue as his mouth opened wide, trying to breathe.

“Enjoy the rest of your life, unless these are its last few moments.” Darth Haar turned to glance down at him, a grin in his voice. The curtain call.

“I just don’t care anymore.”

Bælfir screamed for three days and nights.

The sheer fuel of his anger crept into every pore, every cell; forcing his lungs to pump, holding his last moments together like cupped hands sloshing water into a bucket, trying to save the ocean. He was alive with fury. He was fury. It stained his eyes blood red and his porcelain skin with dark, ugly veins, and he screamed.

The epilogue.

The doctor drifted over to his side with an injection. ‘He needs kolto,’ he heard. ‘He can’t keep on like this. Need to knock him out, get him into a tank.’

His hand rose into the air. Clenched. Twisted. The man fell to the floor with his spine in pieces.

No healing, no drugs, nothing for the pain, Baelfir seethed.

He wanted to feel all of it, he said.

He wanted to make sure he remembered this for the rest of his life. The agony. The betrayal. The hatred. Burnt it into his brain, as the lightsaber had burned into his body.

Every single moment.

Events and Occasions / The Irmenuan Masquerade Gala
« on: 02/23/18, 08:57:10 PM »
To celebrate the return of Irmenu to the galactic trading stage after almost a year of absence, Prince Bælfir Yosoth, Warlord Protector of Irmenu and Pretty AF Sith, would like to cordially invite you to a decadent celebration of fashion and over-indulgence.

Behold, Totally Not Manaan Irmenu

Location: Bælfir's Manaan SH.

Time and Date
Server: Saturday, March 10th, 5pm til late
Australian: Sunday, March 11th, 12pm til late
(The early start is on purpose - want to be as accessible as possible, so that people may come and go over the course of the evening as they please.)

Faction: Both. No fightin'. Remember your '/me' emotes won't be seen cross-faction :)

Dress Code: Formal, extravagant, fancy, outrageous! Headgear that covers your face to some extent is a must.

For SH Invites:
Imperial: Whisper Bælfir (Alt code 0230) or Sèlaan (Alt code 0232).
Republic: TBA
Can't finds us?: Drop a line in RepublicOOC or ImperialOOC, we'll get t'you :halo:

There will be novelty prizes for:

Most Creative Ensemble

Best Ridiculous Get-up That Actually Works

Best Use of Dye

Most Impressive Cheap-Ass Outfit (No orange or purple items used!)


- For extra thematic fun, please have your nameplates turned off at the event.

- A decent bar-fight is all in good fun, but if violence breaks out those characters would likely have to be escorted off the property ICly. So keep it entertaining, but light. Only one Force-choke each. :P

- There will be an allocated area for the ball itself, but you are welcome to wander off and RP elsewhere in the Stronghold for privacy, or check out my dank minimalist set-dressing. (read: I am not rich, so the whole place is not decked out :P )

- That said, this is an All Ages event, so please do not ERP anywhere in the Stronghold. Not even in Bælfir's bedroom.

- Bælfir still represents the Valefor. Do not come to this event to throw around 'rawr Valefor traitors to Empire rawr'. I am not interested in spending the entire event explaining for the umpteenth time why the Valefor are not traitors, to deaf ears. You will just be thrown out. :halo:

- Out-Of-Character bullying or drama will not be tolerated, and result in an immediate ban from the SH.

Media Gallery / Auryn of Worlds
« on: 02/14/18, 01:12:10 AM »
I been makin' planets.

Two of the three planets in the Yggdris System, Wild Space:



I hope compression has been kind to them - they're too dark on one of my screens and too light on another. >_>

Events and Occasions / Masquerade Ball The Second
« on: 02/12/18, 07:30:23 PM »
After some fond reminiscing with @Noth and inspiration from all the fab outfits on the forum lately - yeah, we need to do this again.

For those of you who remember the first Masquerade Ball, it was a cross faction event themed chiefly around fun costumes with fun masks. We hung around on this one ledge at the Organa Estate, had some chill, admired and giggled at each other's outfits from the most extravagant to the most ridiculous.

I'd like to take it up a notch this time around.

To celebrate the return of Irmenu to the galactic trading stage after almost a year of absence, Prince Bælfir Yosoth, Warlord Protector of Irmenu and Pretty AF Sith, would like to cordially invite you to a decadent celebration of fashion and over-indulgence.

Location: Bælfir's Manaan SH.

Time and Date
Server: Saturday, March 10th, 5pm til late
Australian: Sunday, March 11th, 12pm til late
(The early start is on purpose - want to be as accessible as possible, so that people may come and go over the course of the evening as they please.)

Faction: Both. No fightin'. Remember your '/me' emotes won't be seen cross-faction :)

Dress Code: Formal, extravagant, fancy, outrageous! Headgear that covers your face to some extent is a must.

For SH Invites:
Imperial: Whisper Bælfir (Alt code 0230) or Selaan M'soth.
Republic: TBA

There will be novelty prizes for:

Most Creative Ensemble

Best Ridiculous Get-up That Actually Works

Best Use of Dye

Most Impressive Cheap-Ass Outfit (No orange or purple items used!)


- For extra thematic fun, please have your nameplates turned off at the event.

- A decent bar-fight is all in good fun, but if violence breaks out those characters would likely have to be escorted off the property ICly. So keep it entertaining, but light. Only one Force-choke each. :P

- There will be an allocated area for the ball itself, but you are welcome to wander off and RP elsewhere in the Stronghold for privacy, or check out my dank minimalist set-dressing. (read: I am not rich, so the whole place is not decked out :P )

- That said, this is an All Ages event, so please do not ERP anywhere in the Stronghold. Not even in Bælfir's bedroom.

- Out-Of-Character bullying or drama will not be tolerated, and result in an immediate ban from the SH.

Cantina / WWOHS?
« on: 02/07/18, 04:41:27 AM »
We all know the guy. From his edgy one-eye mascara accident to his pointy "Hey look I'm a bad guy!" goatee to the nasal-y way he practically vomits 'slave' at you like the very word tastes like dogpoo.

A friend and I who recently made new Sith characters have been having a good ol' laugh about how much we love to hate Overseer Harkun, and what our characters would really say or do to him if they had the chance.

So! Let's have some fun with exactly that.

If your Sith character had been trained as an acolyte under Overseer Harkun, however long ago; What Would Overseer Harkun Say, and what would your OC say right back?

Holocrons and Info Nodes / One Good Thing
« on: 02/04/18, 06:07:13 AM »
One Good Thing

With lungs full of smoke and a mouth full of blood, Hazaly was mumbling her death rites through sooted tears when she saw the stranger on the horizon.

Her vision swam in and out of focus, mostly out of. Scraped, pale fingers gripped and tore at the wilted grass beneath her as she pulled herself forward on her belly. One of hers she thought, trying so hard to bring him into focus. His back was turned, surveying the destruction laid out below, her once-home; good. Maybe she’d be able to get one last kill in before the Seiðr came for her soul.

Breath rasped haggardly through her teeth as she reached for the nearest something on the ground to use as a weapon. An axe, please, Oddgrimr almighty she hoped it was an axe. Broken-nailed fingers clawed for the hilt of what ended up being a club - not just any club, either, but one small enough to be the training ‘toys’ they gave the younger members of the tribe, padded with cloth to soften the blow. Her eyes stung and the memory of small arms clinging to her legs and wrapped around her waist or clutching her shoulders in a piggy-back ride drew a rugged sob from her.

Another sob was stamped roughly out of her when a foot came down on her back, pressing her sharply into the ground. The soft earth beneath from recent rain caved gently to her body. Nails scraped wood. Just a little more. Take them both down. Then die quick. Die before she eats you.

“You there!” The voice above swam through water to her. “Who are you?!”

She watched the blurry stranger turn. A slender dark patch silhouetted against the smoke and fire rolling out of their village over the gnoll. Though Hazaly could barely make him out, something clenched in her gut. That deep-seated power she’d never used, the power that the witch was sucking out of her brothers and sisters, told her something was wrong. He was wrong. Not the same wrong as the Seiðr.

The man above started making strange sounds. Choking. Pressure raised from her back - then the sound of a sickening crack brought his entire body down on top of her. She grunted breathlessly into the ground. Through watering eyes, the mannligr approached…


A loud pop from the crackling fire snapped Hazaly awake.

“Don’ sit up,” a voice out of sight urged harshly, “you ‘ave cracked bones.”

The smell told her ash trees, the oil they secreted poisonous to all but the surface-dwellers - the sharp air and the sounds of gentle creaking far below said the hut was up in the massive branches of said trees. Hazaly looked around slowly. She couldn’t have been out for too long - her eyes still stung from the smoke, and the soreness in her limbs was still young.

“Is this th-mmn,” She hadn’t taken the disembodied advice, and hissed sharply. A weathered pair of hands forced her back into the reed cot she lay on.

“How many,” she demanded at a rasp, head swivelling around to try and catch sight of her company as they struggled to get her back down, “How many??

“One more if you don’ lay still.”

The voice cracked like a whip, bringing with it recognition to the girl’s weary mind. Valhashra, the shamaness of the Norden Ash Tribe. A woman she had known, respected and slightly feared since she was small, since the truce between all the northern clans and the Council of Nords hard brought them together. Cowed before her authority, Hazaly whimpered and relented. The room tipped with her, dizziness overcoming her along with the thick smell of woody incense from the fire, and ash oil from the Seiðr’s anointed headdress. Valhashra hummed in the background, sometimes whispering words and verses with Force-magic curling around her tongue, between chewing on the herbs she combined slowly and carefully to a thick paste. 

Small slivers of wind made their way through the thick cloth flaps draped over the doorway, rustling through racks of hanging bunches of dry herbs, knocking together chimes made of bleached, hollowed bones. A Seiðr's hut was sacred - a place of healing and death, and the Force. Hazaly wandered what the soul-sucking witch's hut looked like. She imagined the skins of men strung up as its tarps, deer skulls adorned with blood-painted beads. The things of bed-time stories.

“Four,” the woman said at length, “includin’ you.”

Hazaly heaved with a miserable sob. She brought up a hand to cover her face, not wanting her weakness to be seen, trying to set her jaw.

“Come now,” the old woman scolded, not unkindly, bracing the girl’s cracked ribs with a surprising strength, “y’must be brave. There be much more ay’head.”

“Th-that’s nearly everyone,” Hazaly gasped, each lurch of grief wracking her sides with agony.

“An’ yet not everyone,” Valhashra responded simply. She settled back away near the head of the cot, and Hazaly heard the sound of a mortar scraping in a pestle, back and forth, round and around. Could that paste get any pastier? The sound of it, and the subtle rise of the herbs within to join the incense already thick in the air was a hollow comfort.

“The gods want ye fer somethin’, fer certain. Oddgrimr had his eye on you that day. The mannligr saw it too, this old woman thinks. One who brought ye in.”

Mannligr. Their Old Word for stranger, holding mysterious and negative connotations, a bad omen. A mannligr meant change, trouble, upheaval of their ways… not always the bringer, but rarely the savior. Hazaly swept her thoughts over the blur of a man. She couldn’t recall any details other than the unease, and how he may have been the one to kill the goon who’d tried to crush her into the ground. If he’d saved her, she thought grumpily, the very least he could’ve done was to make sure that asshole hadn’t fallen right on-top of her--

“Where you think you’re goin’ then?” Valhashra went sharply as the girl eased herself up over the side of the cot with a wince.

“To talk te him,” She breathed, gaze locked ahead with determination. Pain of the body was nothing to the hardened Mountain tribe… she’d overcome. She had to - there were so few of them left.

Hazaly found him at the very edge of the village, on the last and smallest platform by the side of a run-down storage house that seemed to no longer be in use - the walk had been hard, the climb down a ladder to the lower platforms nearly a fall, but it was as far as they would allow him into the village proper. The Ash Tribe, one of the oldest of the northern area and devoid of men, were known to be highly superstitious and entrenched in the Old World. Hazaly wasn’t surprised they had barely let him over the threshold.

She knew he’d seen her approach -though he remained sitting against the wall of the shack gazing out towards the forest - by the way a hand had reflexively shifted to a cylinder clasped to his belt. Light sword she thought. Weapons of the Jedi and Sith, of Zakuul; factions that meant nothing around here. Not in these mountains, not on this planet.

He felt so wrong, and looked wrong to match it. Something she couldn’t place, the way a person simply set one’s teeth on edge - ordinary enough a human, other than the strange green lights in his pale eyes, and the slender dark veins sneaking up from the neckline of his tunic. Sickly? Or was this the corruption of the Sith she’d heard so many dramatic campfire stories about?

“Hey, you,” She demanded, hating the sound of pain in her own voice.

He didn’t move or respond - he was like a statue, and she was having none of it. Limping up, arm around her side;

“Hey, you,” she repeated, and kicked the side of his boot.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” He asked quietly, barely flinching. His voice was low, a little rough around the edges, just like he was. “I felt three broken ribs…”

“Y’saved me.” Colour rose to her freckled cheeks, staining each dot darker and angrier, “why me? Why me an’ no one else, Mannligr?”

He let her confusing mix of feelings hang in the air a little while, then said simply, “I’m not here to save anyone.”

Still, he didn't turn his head. For some reason that made her more upset. The words were so infuriatingly departed in emotion… and it was such a lack of respect, to not look in the eye with whom you spoke. It was frowned upon in the north.

“You’re not from ‘ere. Your voice s’all wrong.” Her gaze went again to the bladeless hilt at his hip. She noticed a second one, on his other side, though both were scratched and worn. “You one o’ them… Jedi? Sith?”

His chest wobbled briefly with silent, bitter laughter. So the statue could move. “What’s it to you?”

“If y’are, I can only think o’ one reason your lot’d be so far out from that Republic, or Empire, or whichever.” Cold blue lit up her eyes like jagged ice, “You’re ‘ere te kill her, arencha? The lone Shamaness from the Blood Nebula. Seiðr Yadash.”

“No,” His voice almost drifted off with the wind, towards the distant fogs amongst the mountains that were once here home; and for the second between twilight and evening the mannligr looked far older and more weary than he had before, trembly hand moving to massage his heart,

“I came here to die.”

Events and Occasions / Irmenu Falls - Gods of the Arena
« on: 05/24/16, 09:23:00 PM »

Warlord Bælfir Yosoth,
Knight Protector of Irmenu and warden of the Yosoth family,
would like to cordially invite you to christen Irmenu's new gladitorial arena...
in blood.

Event Date: 4th June 2016  (5th for Australians)
Event Time: 7pm PDT (12pm AEST)

All Valefor allies, Imperial and Unaffiliated peoples are welcome.
Only combatants need sign up.

Do you have what it takes to prove your strength in the arena?


  • Combatants may only fight weaponless, or with traditional vibroblades. This is to be decided before the match.
  • This is a test of physical strength and ability - use of the Force is not allowed.
  • Combatants are expected to be appropriately dressed down in the traditional simple robes of an arena fighter.
  • For applying combatants - the fight is over once you have knocked out or floored your opponent, or if your opponent surrenders.
  • For slaves - upon winning the fight, a defeated slave may plead surrender, but their final fate is at the decision of Warlord Bælfir or his honoured guests.
  • Combatants may surrender with a two-finger command.


Realtalk: I've been watching Spartacus and thought this would be fun. Plus we'd already made the arena. Might as well use it!

This will take place in one of those nice little temple bits on Yavin - characters there to watch will do so from the above floor balcony, and characters there to fight will remain below. There will be a maximum of six combatants allowed, Thus three rounds. Whoever has the highest 'score' in the first round will be faced by the winner of the second round, to determine the winner.

The winner of the night will receive 1 Million Credits, and have their name etched into the stone walls of the arena as its first Champion.

[OOC PvP rules for this coming soon! :) Please use this thread to express interest in the event.]

Cantina / Hiatus is the new Black
« on: 04/13/16, 03:10:51 AM »
RL is kicking my butt, and I've flaked out on a couple of things and feel terrible about it -.- so probably best to put up a thingy here.
Going dark until the end of April - a lot going on and I can barely concentrate on what I need to do, let alone on keeping up with RP and the forums and my story post and stuff :( (NOT THAT THAT STOPS ME FROM STRESSING ABOUT THEM LOL) Anyway with my interest for playing the game waning a little it will probably be good for me to spend some time away.

Valefor folks and Smuggly folks, stuff I said I would do is in the works, promise. You'll see it coming early May! I love you all, mostly. Except for that fugly Hawking guy. Who invited him anyway?

See you all soon :lightside:

Events and Occasions / Irmenu Falls - The Arena
« on: 04/05/16, 06:43:32 AM »

There'll be no Irmenu evening this week as IRL things will keep me away from the game and most Valefor peeps are busy with work and school and the like.

Next week, however...

The Arena

[Watch this space! More into coming soon.]

Events and Occasions / Irmenu Falls - Opening Night!
« on: 03/28/16, 11:30:44 PM »

"Welcome, denizens and allies of the Empire. Consider this an invitation; The Valefor welcomes you to their planet Irmenu, where we shall socialise, negotiate, entertain and dine in splendor, in celebration of Valefor's 5th Anniversary of allegiance with the Empire.

This being the first of many nights that the Valefor will dedicate to diplomatic relations, we have a formal ball area that will open at the height of the evening on the date listed below. Smart casual or Formal attire is enforced. We will begin the night with a welcoming speech by the organiser of the event and Warlord of the Valefor, Irmenu's Protector, Lord Bælfir Yosoth, then proceed with the rest of the night.
This will be primarily a meet and greet and reunion of Imperial allies, with no formal or war business to be discussed at the present time, until the weekly gathering is in full swing and our guests are comfortable enough with one another to discuss important matters. We must not forget the heart of what it means to uphold modern Sith values and powers, even while at war. The war is the life in our blood, but it must not consume us.

Opening Night will only involve the three front rooms of Irmenu Falls, the official function estate located on the centre of Block Ersei-Four of Northgalis. These rooms are beautifully furnished and cater to modern living and design, with a touch of Sith heritage along with Irmenuan aristocracy. They include the main area - the formal ballroom;

A statue of Darth Arostos in his prime watched over the ballroom from high above...

A VIP cantina and gambling area down the corridor to the right open to all attendees;

And a natural hot-spring to the left, for those after a more relaxed, or perhaps intimate gathering;

Warlord Protector Bælfir and other rulers and members of the Valefor will be present that night to join in on the chatter, discussions, and answer any questions our allies may have.

Rashelle Inuit
Representative of the Irmenuan Ambassador

PS: If a disagreement is to occur on the floor of the event, the involved guests must either stand down upon request, or challenge one another to a duel via the traditional glove-slap method. At this point the event will be paused, and relocate to the Gladitorial Ring for the duel to be carried out until either first blood or death for honour, as well as the entertainment of the other guests. By accepting this invitation, you agree to these terms."


A new event for Imperial RP~! Proudly brought to you by <The Valefor>.

This first night will act as a casual start to what will become a weekly event, but things will heat up very fast; with the promise of Gladitorial arenas, garden parties, tutorials and conferences, war meetings, and much more. We want to see how things will go so the first night is a relatively low-key Imperialish meet-and-greet; though as stated above, if you wish to start a duel, it will be handled as a formal even by the guild officers :P

Date: Wednesday 30th March PDT (Server) / Thursday 31st March ADST (AUS)

Time: 8pm (Server) / 2pm (AUS)

The Valefor Stronghold, Entrance and side rooms only.

The RP area will be located in Valefor's Guild Stronghold, which is listed privately - simply ask for one in the ImperialOOC chat prior to or upon event start, or whisper Bælfir (symbol is Alt 0230) or any other Guild members who will announce themselves in chat.

:darkside:  We hope to see you there!!  :darkside:

Media Gallery / Hunks of the Old Republic 2016 Calendar
« on: 11/20/15, 05:18:30 AM »
So, after @Erakleon and others making countless jokes about me drawing a male-model calendar of peoples characters, I thought - why the hell not? And we're gonna do it for charity.

My idea is this: I'll put up a list of months at some point before January. People can 'reserve' a month for one of their characters. You maybe only apply once per player, which means you get to choose one character and apply with them. Reserving a month for your character means donating a certain amount (undecided as of yet) to the charity in question.
I have not decided on a charity yet - unsure of whether I should contact a particular charity, maybe through the 501st, or just have people donate a certain amount to a charity of their choice and show me the receipt. It will probably be the first option, to be able to keep tabs.

At this point this is just an idea - I'm trying to gauge interest, it's not yet a definite. So any opinions and helpful hints are welcome, and please don't ask to reserve a month yet, or I'll just ignore you.

For instance, this project largely depends on whether I can get up to date with my commission list by the end of the year.

Rules & Other Things

- Yes, I do mean a load of our characters possibly shirtless and in empowered, adorable, or sexy poses. For charity.

- Yes, it's called 'Hunks of the Old Republic', so it will be male characters only. If this idea goes ahead and goes well, and I'm still here or not dead in 2017, I might do a 'Successful Women of the Old Republic 2017 Calendar'. #reversesexism, right?

- That said if you have a character who identifies as male, or agender, you can still apply with them.*

- Yes, Imperial characters are allowed, 'Old Republic' is just referred to the time period.

- These will not be in poor taste. Trust me, I'm a feminist. :halo:

- Yes I will chat to you about preferences for how your character is depicted.

- The 'no genitalia' rule stands. It's a calendar. Plus we wouldn't want anyone getting penis-envy towards Reithan.

- I am not obligated to accept your reservation :halo: . I am the artist, I call the shots. Although if for whatever reason I decline to accept, I will do so politely, privately, and with good reason**. If that does not sit well with you, you are still verymuch welcome to donate money to a charity anytime you like. :aww:

- Oh and yeah, only one character per person. That said, if you're adamant, I am happy to put two characters on one month, for maybe an extra fee towards the charity***

- And yes charity means only real money will be accepted. At the moment I am thinking of having a base amount people can pay, ($30-40), but they are welcome to pay as much extra as they want.

- The charity will likely be an Australian one. Mainly because of the strength (or lack thereof) of the Aussie dollar, meaning what you donate will be significantly more in AUD. I am thinking it will either go to a childrens charity, or mental health charity.

- Might be teaming up with a fellow artist so we can do alternating months. again depends on interest.

*Yes, this is fair.
**'I don't like you' is a good reason. So is 'you're mean'.
***Not sexing each other though.

Enthusiasm, questions, comments and stuff concerning the topic in general is very very welcome :) Gogogo!

Holocrons and Info Nodes / The Skyfallen Legacy: Unsung Aeons
« on: 11/14/15, 08:04:57 AM »
The third and final tome of the Skyfallen Legacy.
Very soon after Reithan's death.
Thanks to @Audaine for giving me two pages when I asked for a paragraph. :aww:


Cold world.

Whispering echoes on the wind.

Why am I here? What did I just ask?

Cold world.

Who’s footsteps are these behind me?

Why am I here?

Cold world.

I’m lost.

The lone miraluka stirred, waking on cool iron criss-crosses. A metal grate, the quiet hum of life support against her ears. Her hand smoothed lightly across the depressions in her face, failing to find a veil across her features.
Her brows furrowed as the headache settled in. A quick hand set to her belly to ensure everything was right where it needed to be.

“Cursed Ashla, what…” momentary confusion took root.

Where was she? She reached out with the Force—No, this was her ship. The deep echo of her familiar dark side Force tainted these walls.

The miraluka concentrated, stretching her attention inward. Why was she here?

Cold world.

Seeking something prophetic.

Wake up. Snap out of it.

Cold world.

“Cold,” she whispered as she prepared a hot brew of tea; poisoned with far too much sugar, and milk to properly taste the tea itself. The woman stepped back through the airy halls of the Fury-class interceptor, to the bridge. She gazed out the durasteel hull to the empty, infinite drift that was space.

It was turbulent; what traces of Force existed in the great empty expanse whirling in nebulous patterns to the Miraluka’s vision.

“Figured out where we’re going, Overseer?” asked the woman.


“For Bogan’s sake; I’m at the beck and call of my own kriffing starship.”

Take this.

Distorted artefact; difficult to clutch.

Intoxicating to watch.

Don’t look too long—it will consume you.

Ravage you with no mercy for your plea to cease.

Wake up.

Now donning her Inquisitorius attire, she stood powerfully at the helm of her ship. The Memor Facio punched through the hyperspace tunnel into realspace, right outside the orbit of Telos IV. With a quick course alignment, the vessel narrowly avoided colliding with some of the fleet remnants of what seemed to be Imperial carnage—plenty of damaged or destroyed Imperial warships.

The woman paid the wreckages (and salvage tugs) little mind, staring with intent to the world beyond her. Her hands clutched a nebulous holocron of warped design.

“I didn’t say you could die,” croaked Audaine.

“But it’s alright. I’ll remake you.”


It jerked. Wheezed. The jaw dropped and the body shuddered up out of control, straining, a haggard and desperate gasp sucked in through dry lips. Chest tightened, then released, and it fell back with a clatter against the table with hands at it's throat. The room was a blur of bright lights and blue and it hurt, and he couldn't breathe - no, no, now, yes. His throat unclenched and air flooding in, expanding his lungs. Life breathed through a body that had been dead moments ago.

The corpse breathed.

The Trading Floor / LF Sith Recluse Chestpiece, can art
« on: 10/25/15, 04:19:42 AM »
I know, I know, it's hella expensive on the GTN. But I want it - I can't pay the GTN ask, but there are other things I can offer!

- Drawing Commission. Any character you want, doing whatever you want (yes even a nudie if you swing that way). A full-colour, full-character commission from me is usually worth around anywhere between $40 to $75 AUD depending on the contents of the request. Here's an example of my artwork.

- Item swap. I've not got much, but I'm sure i have a few things that are worth something to you, and I can throw in some creds as well (just obv not as much as the GTN is asking).

So, let me know if we can do business :)

Holocrons and Info Nodes / He Ain't Heavy
« on: 10/10/15, 10:21:47 AM »
"Are they what you'd hoped, Lord?"

The woman's snow-white eyes stared into his defiantly. He watched the muscles by her jaw clench with pride at his casual insult of the Echani; she had spirit, and she was strong in the Force, though she was a little more angular and hardened in look than what usually drew the dark lord's fancy. Beautiful, definitely, but not to his tastes. The only sign of wavering were the hands by her sides, while-knuckled and trembling just a touch as they grasped at the tiny, pudgy fingers of her two boys.

"Very much so..." Darth Arostos grinned lightly to himself, his yellow gaze falling to the younglings huddled against their mothers legs. Twins, though even if they had been born separately the Echani always closely resembled each other, the children near carbon copies of one parent or the other. Even at their tender age – nearly three, he guessed – their jaws were angular and their eyes fierce and intelligent, just like their mother, with one a bit more shy than the other, more-completely hiding behind the woman's lean and muscular form. The tall, willowy Darth knelt and his head tilted towards the one on the left - the shy one - reaching out to lay a bony hand on his head – but the boy recoiled and blurted out a high-pitched “NO,” ducking behind his mother.

“Fælan,” She scolded, “Don't be rude. Darth Arostos is our guest – and you will address him as 'my Lord',”

“Don't be rood,” the other boy, Bælfir, cooed in repetition.

The pureblood near-chuckled, with a mirth she had not expected, “Do not fret, my good woman, he is a child. I do not expect him to understand how to be appropriate,” his stained teeth were revealed as his thin lips parted, “my own children are much the same.”

She relaxed, but only a little, as a mother nexu might cease baring her teeth but still stand stoic and at attention in front of her cubs. A smart one – hopefully they had inherited her mind as well as her looks. He regarded her with a measure of curiosity, absently stroking at one of the long, pierced tendrils dribbling from his chin. She did not seem desperate, and if her stoic exterior was a facade that hid sorrow, it was not known to him. Though she still seemed to care for them. Perhaps she simply figured they were going to a better life.

His eldest daughter appeared then, draped in a simple black cloak, her hands folded before her. “My lord father, the shuttle is here,” She reported plainly.

“It is time to say your goodbyes, then,” Arostos nodded to the Echani.

She bent to one knee, and turned the boys by the shoulders to face her. The shy one was sniffling. The other reached over and petted him atop the head, while she grasped them both by a cheek, and offered each a level gaze in turn. “Look after each other,” her voice was firm, but not unkind, “you are going into a new family, but you must not forget your blood. Come,” She instructed each of them to turn a palm to her, face up, and with a knife pulled from her pocket she sliced a little cut on each. Fælan cried, and Bælfir sucked in his bottom lip in upset but did nothing more. She repeated the action on her own hand, and then pressed it firmly into the cut palms of her children. Once, twice. Then she held their own together. Deep red dribbled down pearly skin.

“You are two halves of one whole. Never forget this.”

After that, they had made very little fuss with the departure, and slept most of the way back to the capital. Arostos' daughter, Kerult, was mostly silent on the return journey, and spent a good deal of it standing over the boys with her arms folded, watching them huddled together in a passenger seat. Their mere presence irked her, made her energy stiff and resentful, and her father practically basked in it. He had been nurturing her hatred and pride for years now - if the twins added to it, then they were only doing him even more of a service.

“Which one are we killing, again?” She called over her shoulder, though careful not to rouse them.

“Can you not tell?”

“Not when they won't come unstuck from one another like that.” Her ruby-red eyes rolled.

The Darth appeared just shy of her side, with a muted cough and wheeze into his fist, then draping the arm around her shoulders. “Fælan. He is the issue. The greatness is within the other, Bælfir. He will make a fine apprentice, and a finer Sith.” His gaze fell, devoid of emotion or regret, upon the two younglings curled beneath the thin thermal blanket. “Yes... much greatness.”

Kerult's bottom lip stiffened. “Perhaps one day you will tell me why our family needs the likes of a low-born mutt Echani to rise to greatness when you have me and my sisters, father.”


She heard the grin in his voice as his grip left her shoulder, and felt her blood boil. “I suppose you want me to do it then?” She whispered furiously.

“Yes. Make it quick and clean, no fuss is necessary.” Arostos was already moving back towards the cockpit, suppressing more ailing noises. She hoped he coughed up a lung, and choked to death on it. “Take him out into the forest and stab him through the heart. Leave the body for the beasts to eat.”


He was pitiful, but Kerult wouldn't deny that the way his tiny pale hand clutched at her deep-red one didn't stir idle maternal instincts within her. They were pretty little things, the two Echani boys, and neither had kicked up much of a fuss when she'd lead Fælan away from the family houses into the dewy, cold forests of a dreary Kaas morning, lightsabre gripped firmly in her opposite hand. She did like children when they were quiet.

Her plan hadn't formed fully, however, until she came to the clearing at which she had planned to kill the boy. He looked up at her with those big, pathetic white eyes, blinking back raindrops, and she scowled down at him.

“Father thinks you're useless. He thinks I am useless too, did you know?”

“No,” He replied.

“We're out here so I can kill you. Do you know what that means? Death?” At the lost look on his face, she huffed, and put her hands on her hips, “Younglings are so blissfully ignorant; it means you go to sleep and never wake up again.”

“Oooh,” The tiny stupid thing still didn't seem to understand the gravity of it. He began to suck at the cut his mother had left on the meat of his palm.

“Anyway, he wanted me to kill you, because you're a problem. You're his star-child's only weakness.” A grin began to tug at the corner of her lips. He blinked up at her, a finger shoved in his mouth. She set her hand on his head, and smoothed his bangs out of his large, pale eyes.

“So listen to me very carefully, little spore...”


[Twenty Years Later]
Dromund Kaas, the Estate of Darth Arostos]

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. No, I-- I have to get away from you. You've got more of a chance if-”

“No,” he reached up and gripped at the back of his neck. That face, a mirror of his own, now with an ugly wound splitting the skin of his cheek and nose, stared down at him twisted in desperation. Bælfir grinned back the pain. The world was exploding all around them, a mess of sound and colour, fire and blastershots and lighting,

“don't you dare leave again.”

“If I don't leave you'll die!”

“Heh,” the taste of it, too. Bitter, coppery, “Oh he of little faith,”

The deafening crash came, as it always did, followed by the demons in gold armour with their glowing ice-blue eyes and the stink of death on them. He threw his hand out, reflexively, and the Force ignored his call--

“My Lord?”

Bælfir's eyes flicked open. The isolation of his small meditation chamber was complete – the voice had come from the holocom panel on the wall, which blinked in the dim red glow of the room. He rolled his shoulders and stretched like a lazy cat in the morning sunlight, at ease despite the violence and danger of the vision. It had worried him the first twenty times, maybe – now it was too familiar to cause him any disturbance. Rising from the floor he gestured at the panel and a button depressed, connecting the call from his end.

“Good morning, Adva. Is the building secure?”

“Yes, my Lord, as you requested. All communications and traffic in and out have ceased, and this will remain for four hours. Did you... spend the whole night in your meditation sphere again?”

“I did. I can't abide an empty bed.”

“Charming. Once you freshen up, Proceed to Interview Room Besh. He's waiting there for you.”

Bælfir's memories of his early childhood were unreliable. He vaguely recalled a woman that was probably his mother, a lower-class community on the other side of the planet from Kaas City, a cut on his hand. As the turbolift descended to the lower levels of the building, he tugged off the glove of his right hand and ran his thumb over a tiny white scar on his palm. It was barely a nick, but he'd had it all his life. He never paid it any mind, not really, but now... it tingled, ached. He regarded the mark curiously. The more he tried to focus on the feeling, the less tangible it seemed.

The lift doors opened on two guards lying prone on the floor.

He frowned and instantly ducked to the side, shielding himself from view within the curve of the cylindrical tube, and spun his sabrehilt up from his belt into his grip. The loose glove fell to the floor. Bælfir frowned to himself... he had sensed no danger.

“Adva. Lock down level two.”

“Already done. I'm sorry my Lord, I should have noticed sooner.”

“Apologise later. Do you have his position?”

“I would, if the camera weren't all disabled for firmware updates at your command.”

“Ah, hindsight.” He tipped his head, and darted out of the lift, stepping nimbly over the bodies. The hilt was a comfort in his hand, but he didn't activate it yet. If their captive was nearby, it would give away his position, and he wasn't in any condition to fight blind... not with that man so close-by.

There was a blaster shot and a cry from down the left corridor, followed by the clunk of armour hitting the floor. Bælfir swept towards the sounds, though by the time he rounded the corner the culprit was gone, and there was another dead guard on the floor with a hole in his chest. His teeth ground behind his lips. He wasn't used to a delicately constructed plan falling to pieces so suddenly and uselessly through his fingers. It made humiliation rumble in his gut, which festered quickly into anger, and the dark side...

...the dark side did not reply.

Which was probably why, kneeling over the dead guard, he didn't sense the kick to the face coming. The heel of the boot hit his jaw so hard it dislocated. He fell onto his hands, jerking his head up the moment his vision cleared and raising his sabre hilt – coming very quickly face-to-nozzle with a blaster. Bælfir froze. Yep. None of this had really gone to plan, not at all.

“I wouldn't move if I were you.”

The face staring at him down the barrel of the blaster was a mirror of his own. Pale skin, snow-white hair and eyes. Sans tattoos, and with his hair trimmed and swept to the side in a neat and boring. A nervous sweat decorated his brow, and the front of his standard-issue uniform was rumpled and stained with scorch-marks.

“Don't try anything,” He muttered, “I know the state you're in, and I've killed Sith before.”

Bælfir slowly reached up and fastened his hand delicately around his slackjaw, and twisted it back into place with a pop and a groan. He rotated it once, twice, his attacker waiting with tense patience for some form of acknowledgement... then finally the young lord met his identical gaze once more and grinned that nexu grin of his from ear to ear.

Well. You know how to spice up a family reunion - don't you, brother?”

He Ain't Heavy
[Prologue - End]

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