Battle of Saleucami - Wetlands

[Dmitri]

@BLADE @Korvo

The assault on Saleucami had been unexpected. No one had expected Hutt aggression, especially after after the creation of the Demilitarized Zone. No one had expected a Coterie mole to betray the planet's security, letting in Matukai infiltrators. But the Hutts were attacking. Dilara Senza betrayed the Imperium. And Matukai agents were on the planet.

The Matukai dispatch was personally coordinated by the leader of the cult, Xeus Qel-Droma. Vowing to end the Sith, he had joined the Hutt campaign to join the war once and for all. Rebel leaders knew the Imperium was keeping a close eye on the Demilitarized Zone, expecting it to be attacked. Instead, the Hutts turned their attention to Saleucami, source of the first major conflict between the Galactic Alliance and New Sith Imperium. The Matukai, aided by the Mandalorian Tal Varen, had entered the planet two days prior to the Hutt armada in order to spy on imperial forces and locate any Sith on the planet. The Matukai were in luck. Originally, the Dark Councilor Ebberla Daw was supposed to be on the planet for the unveiling of her monolithic replica, but she had the opportunity to view the statue during her stay on Velmor and had subsequently cancelled her visit for Saleucami. Instead, the main Sith presence were acolytes. Among their ranks was Zhen, whose recent exploits had landed him as Sith adviser to the Governor-General. Now Zhen found himself as a military adviser, aiding in the counter-campaign against the Hutt offensive.

In the early hours, Zhen had sensed a powerful Force presence on the planet. It had been hidden at first, but as the battle bloomed, the secrecy wilted in favor of combat. The presence was pinpointed to a farmstead in the Wetlands, which had turned into an impromptu command post for the planetside Cartel forces; specifically, it was the base of operations for Qel-Droma's dozen Matukai operatives on the planet, coordinating assassinations against a few Sith acolytes. Commandeering a Beskad shuttle, Zhen flew to the farmstead under the cover of fire. Qel-Droma had sent his operatives to attack Sith acolytes. Now it was Zhen's turn to have an acolyte attack him.

 

[BLADE]

What to some looked like tedium was in fact the first few blossoms of advanced consciousness. Push out and touch the universe. Exhale. Reach down to your tippy toes. All that rubbish.

Breathe in. Out.

Chapter I: Zhen Master

"Ooooommmmm..." he didn't quite look like an idiot because really there was no one else around him (and if anything the rather bovine Governor might have found himself impressed with this auditory display of the Sith Arts) and in fact this bit of kale-and-yogurt-yeah had come in handy, hadn't it? It had been after the eight meeting on the CORESEC initiatives on Saleucami with M. Zhen trying to explain the nuances of strategic hamlets to the Governor and that --no Governor, these hamlets weren't some kind of delicious roast animal-- that he had retired to his apartments in the capital with an o'er large bottle of Malted Bastion Dark and a headache that seemed to have infiltrated deep beneath his pores and seemed rather intent on digging out his eyes. From the back. With an ancient dull spoon.

The irony of battling a mental and physical insurgency simultaneously had not much appealed to him --he was a literary sort of fellow but he was sensible enough not to show those affectations around the rest of the rather sanguinary Sith (rah-rah drink the blood of our enemies, gouge out their spleens with their spleen bones... Sith are not very good at physiognomy.)

Still there had not been much to do. Soporifics made him a bit stringy, and the insurgents had taken to shelling and even bombing parts of the capital so it's not like one could get a bit of nap and who's your uncle around here.

Instead he'd meditated. It wasn't a tremendous labour, he supposed. His manner of touching the Dark Side had always depended on a bit of distance and compartmentalization. That was really the difference between the Dark and Light innit? He'd seen Jedi from a distance bow into their Talent, reach out for it and fill their metaphysical cuppa. Outside the self and yet not. Harmony. Balance. Presumably puppies and rainbows and all that shite.

The Dark Side was far more sensual. Sybaritic. A bit of totalism even. You didn't draw from it. It drew through you. Rather a nasty high. Pain. Backlash. Inevitable really: even the Dark knew there was such a thing as harmonic reverb. The most potent Sith reveled in it. Became one with it, like that liminal bit of not-scab between new skin and the crust. He remembered a medal ceremony in which one of the Big Beasties from the Dark Council had attended. The woman had a unique sense of style and a penchant for going on and on about her tea (bit twee really) but the tightly coiled darkness, the madness...

Well it'd made his guts feel like they were full of dingy cold laundry water, the kind that snaps your skin and makes you think "well maybe I'll just put on that old Bastion Ballyballs jumper on again."

Ben shuddered.

His own method simply let the Dark Wash over you. Discipline. Control. Sharpen your anger and your humiliation into something near brainy.

And then brain yourself. In a sense.

So he'd sat in the antechambers of his surprisingly posh apartments with its entirely too appetizing-looking potpourri and refilled his stores of mental and Force energy. For hours he'd sat there, his schedule cleared, his mind occasionally doing little astral doodles of the Governor of Saleucami meeting a grisly and hilarious end when he felt a wallop of Force energy.

Welp. They were... yes. There.

And this was obviously just a bit too convenient, wasn't it? The strange reversals on Saleucami screamed betrayal; as a Sith he knew that instinctively, every corpuscle pointing a... corpuscley finger at some bint or bloke. But this? This screamed of trap.

The Sith Who Would Not Have a Headache smiled.

Perfect.

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Turn to stone
When you're gone
I turn to stone.
Yes
I'm turning to stone
'Cause you ain't comin' home
Why ain't you comin' home?!

Chapter II: Shipping and Handling not Included

From the black box of Imperial Shuttle 022-15

Investigator's report: The curved armature of the ship seems to have taken on severe blaster scoring, though the damage itself seems ironically to have been staved off --and then precipitated-- by the usage of heavy weaponry by the opposing faction. Some type of heavy shell (depleted uranium or heavier isotope) sheared clear through tEngine Two. Not catastrophic if not for the unusual weight loadout of the shuttle. Still the request was put in by the ranking Sith agent in the area, a Mssr. [REDACTED], acting SITHSPAD to the local Proconsul.

Very, very curious. But curiouser still was...

REPORT ENDS HERE

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The People are the Sea in which the Revolutionary Swims In

Chapter III: Finding Farmers

This had been a matter of days of preparation and something that the Governor had actually proved rather useful for. Oh, certainly, he was an inbred gobshite with the mental acuity of one of the swamp-banthas on this planet, but he also had a sort of deft populist touch. The young Sith had gotten tired of eating rubber spiced Kessel fowl and Space Slug with mushroom duxette along the Governor's many campaign "stops" (yes there was going to be an election but let's not get too into the weeds about what was obviously a formality?)

In retrospect it should not have surprised him that the outlying towns and chateaus were so easy for the Enemy to blend into. Nor should it have surprised him that the farmers themselves were either undecided or ambivalent about the whole thing. They traded with the Rebels, gave intelligence on the Imperial bureaucrats and tax assessors who had double-taxed their barn once too often and otherwise took no sides.

They also didn't much care for or about strangers. Not enough to get a good look at his face. It was why with simple dress, a smile on his face, and just the slightest caress of the Force that he made... friends. It had been part of his program here before anyhow. It was not like the Sith (especially with such conveniently convenient traitors) could afford to waste manpower truly pacifying the planet. A bit of the old heartstrings and pocketbooks would have to do.

It was why he knew the best place to buy the cataledj of the marsh shepherds, with their elongated reticules and deep brass cylinders. It was why he knew the area with the Rebel scum (ugh so unoriginal) was frequented by farmers looking for a bitter green that when braised turned your mouth blistery (but tasted meaty enough to make thin winters stews more palatable.) It was why he knew the best place to buy farm potage for your pigs, and the best place to find helpers for your soil.

It was also what made his Plan come together.

With a grin, he called for his shuttle.

With a bit of luck and not some surfeit of Sith cunning he might be off of this planet. He might not even see Governor Gobshite ever again!

Hope springs eternal.

 

[Xeus Qel-Droma]

THIRTY-SIX HOURS AGO​

Lightning. Thunder. A deluge of rain thrashing in the howling gale. It was a storm, perhaps a hurricane, perhaps not. For over twenty-four hours, a dozen sapient beings, Matukai warriors, had stood still in a meditative stance. The elements spiraled around them as lightning crashed down in the wetlands, reverberating the vibrations from the booms of thunder and its deafening crash. It was a ritual of theirs, a tradition, to meditate in harsh circumstances before a battle. But it was not often for them to weather tropical storms, but it was valued. It embodied what they were, what they strove to be. On worlds where others would witness their tribulations of training and quests for knowledge, they would ask the question; 'what does it mean to be a Matukai?'. Power. Through luminous comprehension, a Matukai attained true power, channeled through the natural medium of their bones and flesh. Like them, the storm was raw power—a pure and unstoppable force of nature. The Light was the essence of comprehension. As two sides to a single coin, both were necessary. Thus, the Matukai were both the question and the answer.

As the eye overcame them, the Matukai warriors broke their meditations. Dispatched as infiltrators for the aim of espionage against the enemy, the Rebellion had constructed an outpost for them in the demilitarized zone of the Saleucami wetlands. Their purpose was to identify Imperial forces, particularly with the objective of intercepting and engaging members of the Sith Order. That night was to be their last before their operation began. At the break of dawn, the dozen Matukai warriors were to be dispatched into the field to terminate the casters of Darkness present there. Even the Acolytes of the Sith were to be neither excluded nor underestimated.

PRESENT​

At the first light of the following day, the dozen Matukai warriors charged out into the field, leaving each one on their own quest to vanquish their Sith targets. Xeus Qel-Droma was the field commander of the Saleucami forces, but his role was that of the tactician, the 'general', in a sense. He was not an operative this time, and remained at the forward base. Nonetheless, he was in an active theater of war, and had donned his warskin, with his wan-shen stabbed nearby into the floor. He'd left his helmet off, as he usually did. He'd habitually used it more as a convenient communication's system to begin with, as it tended to stifle the clarity of his senses.

Sitting on the ground inside the now-empty base, seeking to center himself with the relative silence of the farmlands surrounding him, Xeus allowed his natural senses to expand. He was partial to experiences the euphoria of supercharging his senses without the harshness of sensory overload. From his location, he took in the world around him. The babbling of a brook, off in the distance. A flock of avians gliding through the skies and the crops of the fertile wetlands gently brushing against each other in the wind. It was peace personified, and in stark contrast to the extremely harsh climate of Karvoss, where he was trained. But he knew better than to let it lull him into a state of security. This was Saleucami, the surreal place where the war, in the minds of some, truly first began. All around the world, wars were being waged, fighting was intensifying. Rebel forces, including the corpulent—in more ways than one—Hutts. For now, his only job was to await the sign of those of his charge returning. But either from experience or intuition, he knew that even if he'd keep himself out of the fighting, the fighting would find him eventually.

 

[BLADE]

Listen baby, ain't no mountain high,
Ain't no valley low, ain't no river wide enough baby
If you need me call me no matter where you are,
No matter how far; don't worry baby
Just call my name; I'll be there in a hurry
You don't have to worry,

Chapter IV: Ain't No Mountain High

Ingress into the wetlands was not particularly onerous. Well. At least from the Southeasterly Side. There, the Grand Saleucami drained into a delta and over the years built up a veritable wonderland of methane, thick air, and tremendous humidity as was expected from a marsh. Zhen's route was initially as commodious. From gentle stream banks to a untraveled but yielding trail among the wildflowers to the snuffling sounds of cliffside ungulates --Bloody hell this was turning into a travelogue wasn't it? Well, suffice it to say that for a few hours on, it was rather easy going. The only real obstacle was The Ring, or the local name for a range of Fourteeners that girdled the wetlands delta like a breastplate or a really nummy porkchop surrounding some applesauce. Or perhaps a duck breast folded over a gentle reduction of--

--He... might have been a bit hungry.

Knew I should have noshed on those potpourri. Well, as good a chance as any to snack.

From the dry goods depot, he'd bought a fried confection that the locals made from porridge that had set up and been mixed with a saccharine syrup. It was... very sweet. With a twist of his teeth he drew on his water skin and washed down the treacle sweet.

Bloody hell!

He grimaced, wanting a snap of something savory to adjust his tastebuds, but at the least he was wakeful for this next leg of his journey. Up, up, up the incline went, the farmer trudging with his faded repulsocart (the local means of carrying materia when you had no donkey nor speeder) a nod to both potential Rebel and other farmers he met on the road. With every step, his tongue swished in his mouth, aching for the sweet relief of salt (heh!)

It was to his relief that he found one of many stands, a mainstay in the area. A fleshy woman manned it, playing an angular melody on a faded woodwind. Compact (no more than five inches long), and with a reedy and occasionally empyrean sound, these flutes were dubbed lung-callers on Saleucami and used by tremendously skilled shepherds both to help with location (the sharp melodies could bounce off the sheer mountain reliefs--though he'd already committed a map to memory) and to pass the time. She might have been a handsome woman with the relief of youth softening the hatchet-face she currently wore, but her eyes were still bright and she played the lung caller with tremendous alacrity.

Some yearning in him stirred, memories of terrible begging days and washing speeder windows and learning a melody or two to leaden someone's giving hand.

Their haggling was not voluble; the woman drew on a pipette of a purple-looking liquid, before moistening a pince-nez as long as his arm. Through the haze of smoke, she silently pointed to her instrument. Her interlocutor did not bother wiping it off. He paid for it with some of the local currency and bought also some of her pickles and preserves, as well as the special coarse salt for canning and brining them, considering their elements essential to his plan.

A few experimental blows and whistles later, he doffed an invisible cap at the woman, forbearing for a moment how filthy he looked (and thus how well he fit in) before settling on.

It did not take long after that to reach his destination. He'd not used his Talent at all, and knew no others sensed him. It wasn't like he was pants at fighting, per se. He'd simply always had talents that involved around cunning, and nerve... and... well hiding.

He was a small thin man with a pointed face and cool grey eyes, and while he appreciated the sort of savagery of his "Battle Buddy" the great Wookie warrior ne plus ultra, he'd be quite alright thank you with being a Middle Management sort of Sith. The kind with fuzzy slippers and generous thread-count blankies. Right after this.

And besides his foe --well he'd read the intelligence dossiers. Made the body into a temple... that could crush your temple savvy? Not being pants at fighting did not of course translating at going toe-to-toe with the Big Beasties of the Light (Grey? Tan? Ah no matter.) That and he supposed he felt a bit guilty about subjecting these ax-faced, brine-canning people. He couldn't really make a case for a political break with the Imperium --they'd built him up, bone and sinew-- into the stringy, rat-minded man that he was. But they could leave as soon as possible, couldn't they? He felt no great love for these people, don't go thinking he was getting soppy or wobbly, but he felt a kinship (with feeling) at the idea of simply being left to your own devices.

Perhaps everyone would get their happy ending wouldn't they?

He looked completely harmless, and really he personally was. He made a circle around the farmhouse, collecting the yum-yum greens and conscientiously replacing their soil with his repulsocart mixture, a simple caitiff-looking man yet solid enough in bearing regardless. Completely unremarkable. It only took a few minutes and then he retreated, not willing to draw the attention of his would-be foe. It took him an hour to reach a distance he judged optimal. He drew his commlink and his catalej --the spyglass.

And waited.

 

[Xeus Qel-Droma]

Every twitch of the muscle, every pulsation in his veins. He could feel all of it. Matukai were trained specifically to be in tune with their bodies. Even beyond their wan-shens, a Matukai's body was their ultimate weapon. Inhaling deeply, engrossing himself in the expansion of his chest and the feeling of his lungs filling with the crisp, clean air, Xeus broke his own silence with a whispered recital.

"Begron faal Rovaan Miin. Grik verkiir faal Vokun do Tarvok.
Begron faal Nizah Vun. Grik verkiir faal Vokun do Lo.
Begron faal Nibo Hil. Grik verkiir faal Vokun do Nurzir.
Begron faal Rokah Pahrk. Grik verkiir faal Vokun do Duziirah.
Begron faal Dunahkei Hah. Grik verkiir faal Vokun do Krasfaal.
Begron faal Zosahlos Slen. Grik verkiir faal Vokun do Vosod.
Begron faal Kaarn Zii Grik verkiir faal Vokun do Ruth.
Nunon muz heim ko―"​

Xeus broke his meditation as his heart's pace quickened, ever so slightly. Something had become amiss, something he almost didn't notice. A sharp whiff of air filled his lungs again as the Matukai inhaled sharply through his nostrils. There was a scent. A foreign scent that he didn't recognize, and it was close, nearby. Had it not been for his prior state and practices during his meditation, he wouldn't have ever noticed it. Something was near, and it didn't smell like any native animal he'd come across before. It was a sharp and yet sweet scent, with an aroma of vinegar. He'd recognized that scent before, but it wasn't alone. It was a conglomeration of odors, all foreign.

Rising up and mounting his weapon to his back, Xeus quickly glanced the surroundings, having emerged from the back door of the farmhouse. Although he could not hear anything resembling the footsteps of a person or animal, what he saw led him to assume they'd recently departed. And now, he was sure it was a person. The dirt was disturbed, but assiduously so. This was not the work of any beast, and that was the worst indication of all. Even some of the crops had seemingly been raided.

Leaving his helmet behind, Xeus immediately set off. There were too many unknowns, especially since now the enemy, assuming it was the enemy, had gathered intelligence on him.

...pickles?

That was the scent, strong and piercing, but with a mellow scent. Slightly sweet, but carrying the smell of vinegar with it. Whoever it was had likely eaten them earlier the same day. Outside, the smell was stronger, almost repulsive. Xeus couldn't stand the stuff. But while he still was unaware of who had been creeping around the Matukai outpost, he opted not to take the direct path of tracing them down. He didn't know how long ago the unidentified person had departed, although from the disruption of the plants and muddied earth, he could estimate what was either their vector of approach or departure. Recon from afar was his choice objective. Not willing to linger any longer at a potentially compromised location, the Matukai warrior took to flight, racing toward a constellation of trees, an area of forestry, before taking to following the foreign scent from before.

For the better part of a standard TU, Xeus traversed the wooded area. He still had the scent of the mystery person, and carefully trekked toward it. It was still a ways off, but the Matukai drew his wan-shen from his back nonetheless. No one ever died in taking caution.

 

[BLADE]

Pressure
Pushing down on me
Pressing down on you
No man that strong
Under pressure!
That burns a building down...

Chapter V: Pressure

Clever people often understood clever people rather well. And watching from the lens of his spyglass, Ben could tell from the set of the man's shoulders and the strain of his jaws that he was sure something was wrong. Clever bloke. Ben saw as the man began to make his way for the treeline, his nose -bloody hell was he sniffing?

The ickle (well not so ickle anymore) Sith Acolyte gave himself a covert sniff and then grimaced.

He smelled of something tart that was best drenched over crisps. The smell was slowly dissipating though, so he'd no fear that the man could track him. Still, it was a bit of sloppiness wasn't it?

Oh well. He had a few trump cards. And the man, tree line or not, was soon to be very dead.

He tapped on his comm unit.

It did not take long. The neat fields around the farmhouse warped and cracked all around his foe, who was dead set on making it to the tree line. So far. Yet so close. Ben took no pleasure in this and saluted his enemy. A brilliant plume of light belched out and made contact with the air. Underground, fire turned marsh into ash, and snaked into the farmhouse, where the Rebels had directed their efforts from. Intelligence caches, interrogation rooms, a collected legacy of attempts to make the Empire's life *very, very* difficult.

And of course, collections of their weapons and ammunition. It was unnecessary, the blast was building to be very big. But it certainly did not help.

Less than a fraction of a fraction of a second later, the farmhouse, and dozens of meters around it were engulfed in a white hot plume of ash.

The trees, twisted and old, bitumenous and full of petrified wood were licked with thick arms of ropey flame. The blast grew and grew, and its tentacles reached int the woods, setting off a massive, sweltering fire.

Ben drew out his second part of The Plan. The fire and tremendous explosion had destroyed everything in its wake, and still it burned. He could no longer see the man --presumably a carbonized cadaver-- but the cataledj was very good at seeing through local fires (the locals were not above resorting to slash and burn) and his... surprise would be enough to put him down for good should he have miraculously survived.

 

[Xeus Qel-Droma]

As the Matukai warrior took his first few steps outside the farmhouse, his movements had become a blur. A visible blur, but ghost-like haze nonetheless. Unaware of the circumstances surrounding him potentially being compromised, Xeus metabolized the Light within him to the extent he could. And as the dust whisked around his foot, splashing into the muddied ground below, it tore and burst underfoot.

The Matukai specialized and relied on the Force to bless them with speed beyond the limits of the body's natural production. His own feet looked more as if they were floating above the ground, leaving behind a scattering wake, than clamping into the mud, step after step. By the time the first second had passed, Xeus had crossed roughly a hundred meters. Another second had passed. Then another. Then five. Then eight. Then ten.

After passing a kilometer, Xeus had first felt it. A rupture in the ground like a quake. As if frozen in time, Xeus had enough time to turn around so that he could see it arrive with his heightened perceptions. Like a supernova, a brilliant burst of light, vaporizing water in the ground and air, setting fire to wood and the green productions of the ground, and blasting away all in its path. Expanding as such an incredible speed, Xeus had barely taken another step before he made his final stand. Between using the Force to empower his reflexes and the already heightened senses from using the Force to speed himself physically and mentally, the Matukai warrior shifted his focus as strongly as he could.

He could not run, escape or evade it. Hardening his body, flesh and bones as hard as he could, his feet were swept from the ground as his body was propelled in a dervish of force and fire. His body slammed into tree after tree, whipping in the air as his limbs twisted and shattered. Between the countless debris and projectiles being flung through the air and the burning atmosphere all round about him, his eyes were slashed and bled as objects tore into them and fires seared them.

His armor scorched and melted, fracturing and breaking apart into and off his body as he was flung from the midst of the detonation. The bones in his limbs, arms and legs alike, shattered and twisted past and beyond their breaking points. What hair was on his head burn away almost in an instant as his mangled body finally cascaded through the ordeal as a half-dead lump of broken bones and burned flesh. Although he still drew breath, what was left was an almost unrecognizable torso with glowing metal seared onto his carcass, ironically keeping his body in one piece. A time passed, Xeus himself couldn't tell how long, as his bleeding lids flickered, with his last sights being surrounded by a sea of fire before darkness forever overtook the light from his eyes.

 

[BLADE]

The end of a melody is not its goal: but nonetheless, had the melody not reached its end it would not have reached its goal either. A parable.

Chapter VI: All Good Things...

For a brief, shining moment, the body of his opponent broke through the miasma of smoke and explosive grit that had blanketed the wetlands. He could see it there, floating and twisting through space, no longer mastered by any single will. White heat so hot it shone brilliantly and hurt his eyes reflected off of his body. Blood and ash made his extremities gritty. The body suspended for a moment at its apex and then with a dull whoosh cut through a plume of ash and salt and smoke.

Thud. Already the smoke cleared and the Sith saw it sink slightly into the marsh. He drew out his rifle scope and zoomed in, noting that its sensors still picked up vitals (as did his craft in the Force.) He did not consider killing this man, whoever he was, for he might be a good font of intelligence. Instead, he stood up, absentmindedly creased his pastoral costume, and then blew on his flute, searching for...

There! The comm signal was just barely strong enough.

His orders were simple. Transport with emergency medivac capacities. Another covert sniff. Ripe. Oh and his usual uniform if you please.

With a single empowered vault, he jumped next to the body and waited. Alive and relatively stable of all things, though he could sense shattered bone and torn sinew, ruined ligament and tissue nearly burned away to nothing. He looked about the body. A weapon of some sort. If his theory was correct (and he was usually correct) that was the wan shen. One could barely tell now, the traditional handle having flown off with the force of the explosion, and the blade itself droopy and half-melted in places, looking like some kind of demented birthday cake topper.

Ben picked it up and looked at it and then again at his fallen adversary. For a moment, his shrewd grey eyes considered something and then with a twitch of the Force, he made a hole, about six meters deep by two meters wide and tossed the blade in. He didn't even have to bury it. The tortured landscape puckered and cicatrized around it, seemingly eager to begin healing itself.

"Best I can do, mate." He told his captured quarry regretfully.

And then the transport arrived. A woman in brisk medic's robes and her droid helper loaded the body onto the transport.

He took advantage of the few remaining trees not entirely pulverized by his explosion to have a change of clothes.

"Almost feel human again." He muttered to no one in particular as the transport left the area.

He looked at his suspect and winced. His metal pseudo-body glittered in the morning sun, and he twitched and moaned involuntarily as the medic-woman worked on him, her mouth set in a line so severe it seemed to have been slashed on there by some stentorian headteacher.

Ben looked away.

"Almost."

Fin