Log:Knights of Ren: Tenuous Welds
Knights of Ren: Tenuous Welds
OOC Date: January 9, 2020
Location: Night Buzzard
Participants: Knights of Ren: Kylo Ren, Erisi Auslese, Oran Arcantael, and Dreman Bryce; First Order: Saanvi, Duke, and Karys
The Night Buzzard hangs in the sky above Spearhead Base, its dark panels and austere lines fitting in well with the armament of the First Order.
For the first time, the new and the old Knights of Ren are gathered in one place under their master.
The room is fairly large for the size of the ship, almost deceptively so, intended to transport prisoners by the dozens all packed into one herd. Against the far end are all the accouterments of a forge: a kiln, a wide variety of sinister tools, an anvil, clamps. The old Knights are waiting, lining the wall on either side, staged out to receive their master, a diminutive furred creature with wide ears and a pair of welding goggles strapped to his head in their midst.
Kylo strides in boldly with his followers behind him, carrying a black silk sack in his hand. "I called you back for a reason," he announces to them, dumping the sack out onto the anvil. "I went back to Korriban. I need it reforged. We have work to do." With a glance over his shoulder at those who've followed him on board, he introduces these masked figures to them. "These are the other Knights. It's time you got acquainted."
"Howdy." Erisi states from beneath hood and helmet, right hand coming up to jerk two fingers in away from her temple, face unseen though it's likely she's smiling. Maybe. Or staring awkwardly. It's hard to tell. Helmet. Hood. A soft sniff, a glance around, up, to the side, down, eyeing everything. Flooring. Walls. The furred creature. The others. A quick step out of the way then to place herself in line with the others, or nearly so, hands tucking into the pockets of her robes as she waits to see what the haps is.
Karys will not be one getting acquainted. She will in fact be standing off to the side in her armor with both her pistols drawn and resting at her sides. KS-0218 remains motionless as she takes up position after filing in behind the Supreme Leader. Her helmet allows her the ability to watch what is going on without the knowledge of where she is looking by the others but the internal comm crackles to life. <"More Knights. Lets hope they all get along.">
Familiar with the working methods of both sets of Knights, it is at this moment that Private Duke decides it's a great time to play the quiet game, as neither set of them is overly loquacious when it comes time to do evil stuff. Except Oran.
The soldier stands guard, fully understanding how ridiculous of a sentiment that is, but serving nonetheless. His blaster carbine is held at the ready and his eyes track around the room, stopping to check out the cool forge stuff.
Saanvi's helmed head cants a bit and swivels between the knights in a clear if silent indication she finds something about the meeting of the knights unusual. Like Duke, she opts to be seen and not heard.
Oran is off to the side, nearer the troopers than the Knights of either first or second generation. His arms are folded and he is not wearing a helmet; the hood of his robes are raised but the depth of that shadow is not enough to mask his expression. Like everyone else here, he seems disinclined to chatter (regardless of what DUKE SAYS), and his visual inspection of the original Knights is conducted with no attempt to pretend it's anything else. Up, down, up, they're being sized up, as is the armorer. He might be taller than the armorer. That's always nice.
Bryce had no seeming concern for the other new-old-Knights. He regarded them somewhat higher on the pecking order than, say, Random Stormtrooper #37, but that wasn't the reason behind any contempt or disregard--Rather, Bryce had taken to standing next to a figure he only rarely got to chat with: another of Luke's original students, masked, of course. Occasionally, his still and watchful posture would change as he leans over and whispers to the masked woman.
"Greetings, pretenders." One of the Knights, carrying a large, heavy vibrocleaver and wearing the modified mask of a vanquished death trooper, steps forward, pulling the weapon up into his hands and smacking his palm against the blade. "These have not faced the ritual. They cannot claim the title." The voice is processed through the trooper's helmet, coming out harsh and amplified.
"They claim /what I say/ they claim," Kylo retorts, his brow furrowing with irritation. He places the small pyramid they obtained on Mustafar next to the shards of his helmet. "A Sith artifact. It led me to a planet called Exegol. We have a new mission. A hunt. I need my knights to do it." Crossing his arms over his chest, he turns to face everyone. "Find the girl. Bring her to me."
One of the other Knights breaks in, but there's no processing on his voice. "I agree with Trudgen. I will not hunt with these. They have not been proven."
The flash of rage on Kylo's face is likely familiar to all present, and as the lightsaber on his belt is tugged down into his hand, the small furred creature steps forward. "Master," the wizened smith croaks, "Allow the ritual, allow it here. It will aid my work. Sarrassian iron feeds on anger and hate, let them fight!" he encourages, turning away to ignite the kiln.
Kylo gives the request a moment's consideration, then begrudgingly returns the hilt to its clip on his belt. "So be it."
The Pretenders. Erisi actually likes that, not that anyone could tell, but dark amusement erupts from her in waves as she fluffs out her pockets, exhaling a long breath of air as her head drops forwards, "I have so much anger in me, Supreme Leader, that it would probably do to vent a little of it. I think I'm getting a little antsy because of it." Eri offers, hands untucking from her pockets to draw out into the air before her, head tilting upwards again, "Brilliant. I always do well after a good ass kicking."
The dark armor shifts, catching the light as the tension shows minimally through the way Karys moves. She steps back to get a bit more room and her helmet turns to take in the figures across from them. She steps up beside Saanvi, drawing nearer as she begins to prepare for what is to come. The powercells hum to life as she clicks the safety off on her pistols. She starts to lift them at ready in preparation of what is to come. Knight Assests mean the ones on her side of the room and so...it means they fire.
At the elevation of bad guy emotions, Duke looks around at his stormtrooper comrades, his grip tightening on his E-11 and his thumb moving to rest against the safety. Sure, he'll die, but he'll die defending his Supreme Leader. No better way to go than that, right?
Then there's talk of a dark sorceror 'jumping in' of sorts that leaves a hint of worry on the soldier's face. And eyebrows kicks up and his grip tightens still.
Saanvi notes the bodylanguage of her fellow troopers. She doesn't seem anxious but it's hard to tell for her face being concealed. She does take her queue from her peers and take the time to check her patented fast-draw medical vest and her weapon's charge before hands clasp before her.
"I'm sorry you think so poorly of us," Oran replies to the Old Guard, unclipping the saber from his belt and snapping it to life. His tone sounds like unsurprised resignation as he adds, "We don't think about you at all." vwom-vwom, the blade hums a little as he seems to test the nearby space's restraints, got to be careful not to hit forge stuff or troopers, and Oran tsks. "Though really, you cast aspersions on us, while you have the temerity to stand between him," a gesture at Kylo, "and what he wants? You are inadequate. You are unsatisfactory." Both brows lift. "You have stupid names."
At the potential onset of violence, Bryce considered the group a moment. Then, suddenly, he leans forward and whispers to the masked woman again, before lifting a small red cyllinder and placing it into her hand. An Outer Rim currency. -Deep- Outer Rim. The seedy kind of currency. Oran's response gives Bryce a moment of consideration, before Bryce regards the others again. That'll really get the blood boiling. A sly hand signal of two fingers is motioned towards the mysterious, masked woman.
With the permission granted, the old Knights unshoulder their weapons, preparing a wide variety of melee and ranged weapons for combat. By the way those masked faces are staring in the direction of the "Pretenders", and their escorts in black armor, the stormtroopers are included in this ritual of combat.
The Night Buzzard is a prison transport, so space is small compared to the star destroyer hovering out the viewport to the starboard side, but there's enough space for a sort of arena in this chamber, and the old Knights fan out along the perimeter, giving the forge ample berth for the alchemist and smith to set to work, his gnarled fingers curling around a pot made of thick, scorched ceramic, dropping in a chunk of dull reddish ore and shoving the vessel into the kiln.
Kylo moves closer to the forge, turning his back on the encroaching clash and focusing on the shattered remnants of his helmet instead, beginning to visualize the reforged piece in his mind, focusing his intentions as his fingertips come to rest atop the work surface.
"Wait, wait - are we using physical weapons or are we allowed to, you know." Eri asks as she unhooks her whip with her right hand, the left one lifting up to make a little dashy-doo through the air to accentuate what she's talking about, "You know, both? Mix it up?" A look to the Real Knights, then to the Pretenders, "I don't want to interrupt some sacred ritual by smelting someone's skin off if I'm not allowed - I mean .." There are things worse than death.
Why wait for the first strike to come from the opposite side when the inevitability is there. Karys grits her teeth, grinding them together as she lifts her pistols and fires off rounds towards one of the more heavily armored figures. Who knows what it is and she likely cares less. Bolts flare and jump across the distance with only one finding its mark but it certainly is good enough in that moment as she readies to move around in the dance that is likely to follow.
Planting his right foot back a bit, Duke's rifle is raised and pointed at the Old Guard. Intent has been established, and despite no order having been given, he opens fire on the shabbily-dressed Knights of Ren, his E-11 barking to life. Two shots smack into the Knight that Karys opened fire on, putting him down for the count, and another shot flies wide of his intended target.
This is probably going to hurt. A lot.
Saanvi's weapon is yanked from her holster and lifts, her gaze apparently already having chosen her target as there's no roaming or sweeping once her weapon is up the sight trains directly on on Cardo and she commences firing like she might be too busy later to get her shots in so better spend her ammo now!
"We're us, Erisi. Everything is allowed," Oran voices his general opinion on matters ranging from general daily conduct to bar-fighting Kylo's old buddies from college. "I don't think we even /have/ rituals that are not improved by anger, hatred, and grievous bodily harm. If we die..." Dryly, "It probably turns out a better helmet."
He steps to Trudgen first, the one who was talkin' smack first and foremost, but Knights are not easy prey. Or at least, Trudgen isn't, and he evades harm with a combination of crafty dodging, and lifting his enormous sword to block the red blade in a ferocious shower of sparks.
Bryce had secretly hoped Oran would have run Trudgen through. It wasn't that Bryce had much care for whether Trudgen continued to live, but, talk trash get wrecked. All the same, the Warden made no apparently shift one way or another, at least publically, with what he thought. Strength was their defining quality, after all. Taking what you wanted was their legacy, and right now, they wanted to take the lives of some "Pretenders".
The old Knights are no laughing matter, despite Oran's mockery of their names, and when the fighting begins, it's nothing short of brutal. Trudgen's massive cleaver fends off Oran's saber with surprising ease, the masked figure using the wide blade like a shield before swinging it in wide, sweeping blows at the other man.
Ap'lek's robes shrug off the first sputterings of flame that Erisi urges to catch in their folds, and his axe, a Mandalorian design, whistles in a fiendish arch as it clips the side of the helmet she wears, leaving a tiny score in the surface.
Kuruk is gunned down immediately by the troopers, dropping his rifle to the deck while Cardo returns fire at Duke with his arm-mounted blaster and Vicrul's menacing scythe rakes across Karys's armor, biting into the betaplast like it was paper.
Behind all of this, the kiln glows, and the smith sinks a pair of thin wires into the molten red metal. Deft fingers secure the largest piece in place on the clamps, and the first piece to be rejoined. Sparks sinter and dance from the black pitted surface as the red binding iron is applied by means of the electrolytic soldering irons the smith holds, and the air is full of the seething anger and resentment acted out via the fighting.
Shhzzzzzznnngggg. As the axe whizzes past her head Erisi will make some sort of throaty noise, eyebrows raising in surprise, the woman never having really been attacked in that manner. Flying axes?! She's in the big leagues. With whip in hand she begins to flick it around, trying to swing it in something resembling skill, the thing swishing this way, smacking into the ground there, flicking up to the ceiling to lick it, hitting all air, ceiling and ground, and nary a thread on Ap'lek, "Gah, I need to stick to what I know." She breathes out, already sweating up a storm and feeling winded. She pauses in the unwieldy whipping of air to let the weapon straggle to the ground as she holds the handle, left hand lifting up to wave, "Okay, Okay - I'm good, smack me again." Fingers curl into palms. Wiggle wiggle. She ready.
The sound the scythe makes across her armor is not a pleasing thing and the actual cry of pain from Karys mingles with it. The vanguard member steps back, staggering to a knee as she grunts and winces. That scythe definitely draws some blood that begins to flow down her leg and over her armor. She hisses through her lips and tries to send off a few shots towards her attacker while trying to keep aware of surroundings. Breathing heavily as she tries to stay on her feet, she back pedals again once she staggers up back to her feet.
Thrown back by the explosive round fired from Cardo's arm cannon, Duke smacks into the wall, his chest armor torn to ribbons and blood quickly from the new hole that's there. Groaning loudly in pain, his hand comes up to dab at the tender skin, eliciting a near hiss from the man.
Hefting the blaster carbine back up with his free hand, Duke fires a shot straight into the chest of Cardo, securing some amount of revenge, before he turns his blaster to fire a pair of poorly-aimed shots in Trudgen's direction.
Saanvi sees both Duke and Karys get hit and reports crisply <<Medic inbound to seventy seven. Stand by, Eighteen, you are priority next.>> She powers off her blaster, jams it into her holster and sprints towards Duke, kneeling beside him but unlike those meddlesome civilian medics she does her level best to not impede his view of targets or ability to fire while she works, whipping out medical supplies and tossing sterile wrappers and single use dispensers so quickly it's almost comical the rate at which she litters the area around them.
Oran Arcantael keeps Trudgen along against that huge sword. Chop! Block! Shove! Stumble! Crafty low swing! Not crafty enough; denied a satisfying skewer. Phone pose ahhh
"He'll survive," Bryce says, nodding towards Duke. "You risk your numbers to treat him. The Knights are not above attacking a Medic on the battlefield," Bryce offers thoughtfully, encouraging Saanvi to consider her actions. He wondered if any of them would attack her as she saw to Duke's wounds. Maybe that wouldn't be sporting. His critical eye turns to Erisi a moment, studying her as though he were watching a holovid.
At the forge, Kylo is focused purely on the reconstruction occurring with the helmet, as piece by piece, the mask that was shattered in the clash with Ruanna is put back together, the skilled work of the alchemist speeded by the turmoil in the room. The gaps glow with a baleful light that seems to pulsate with the tension of the fight.
Trudgen's sword continues to hold up to Oran's abuse, though its surface is scorched in spots and lines where the saber made contact, and neither has managed to do any damage to the other. "You're good," the masked man admits, through what must be gritted teeth. "But we're better."
As if to emphasize that point, Vicrul's scythe bites deep into another trooper as Saanvi rushes over to Duke to patch him up, ignoring the unspoken rules followed in many military circles regarding medics and their sacred duties. Nothing is sacred, everything is permitted!
Ap'lek twists with a whirl of heavy black fabric, bringing his mighty axe to bear on Erisi with cruel intent, seeking to put an end to the woman's amateurish antics with the chainwhip, but finds himself stymied by what happens next.
SCREE. Erisi screams like a short-arsed banshee when she sees Ap'lek bearing down on her, teeth bared behind her mask, the sound grating and not at all warriorish. It's the scream of an imp, a gremlin, someone who has given into their anger. The whip is tossed down and the woman gives into the thing which comes naturally to her. Destruction, "RAAAAAGGGGH." Gloved hands raise into the air and punch out, fingers unfurling as she lets a ball of flame explode forth from between both hands, hitting Ap'lek in his center of mass, trying to knock him back, "You are the /past/, /we/ are the //future//." Hissed out from beneath helmet teeth, steps taken forwards to advance and bear down to finish the job.
Still groaning against the wall, Duke takes a deep breath and pushes himself up a little with his free hand, his eyes looking down at the scored armor and bleeding hole in his chest. No time to bleed, though; his Knights are in trouble. Noting Oran's difficulties with Trudgen, Duke shifts a little, pulling a knee up and using it to stabilize his next shots. The trigger is pulled again and a trio of bolts loose. Two of them miss their mark by a wide berth, but the third strikes true, hopefully giving the tiny Oran an opening. It's not like he needs a very big one. Because he's small.
Saanvi ignores Bryce-tending to her wounded peer who perhaps was just one blaster bolt from being nothing more that a recycled number and empty bunk. Of course Bryce's caution proves well founded as she is stepping back to to assist Duke to his feet she herself is hit. She's set to skittering back a couple of feet with a pained cry. One hand applies pressure to the breach in the armor while the other frees her blaster from it's holster and brings it to bear.
Oran shoves his saber free of Trudgen's irritatingly resistant sword, ducking out of Duke's line of fire for just long enough not to get shot before he whips the saber back in and spears it through the shoulder of Trudgen's sword arm. The moment of pain is enough to kick him down, before Oran looks up to assess the rest of the situation... Erisi suffering a close call, the troopers taking heavy injury, the medic scrambling to help them, while Bryce...... talks about shooting medics.
"You are /trash/," he snaps. "You are worse than trash, because refuse at least had a purpose before it was cast aside. You mean to just sit there while the Vanguard gets cut to pieces? Are they not your problem? Are they /beneath/ you? Myself and Erisi, also beneath you? Do you feel more allied with 'Trudgen' and friends, that you're so unwilling to stand at our side? Fine. Stand at theirs." He has no chance against the ultra-fast, more experienced Knight, but he's swinging anyway.
There's a flash in Bryce's mind as he senses it. Curse your surren and inevitable betrayal, Oran! It comes too slowly, with Oran's vitriol spit well beyond Bryce's ready hand. The first strike is dodged, the lightsaber scoring part of the walls of the ship. By the second, Bryce's inherited lightsaber is brought up to turn away the blade.
It isn't immediately Oran that faces Bryce's hand, though. An arcing, viper-quick strike reaches out to snap at Vicrul. In a fluid motion, Ap is struck as well. Finally, in a blitzing, blurred motion, Bryce turns on Oran as well. His dedicated, surgical hand kept the blade from killing any of them. But the message was probably recieved.
"I am the First of Kylo Ren's sworn, Warden of the Knights of Ren. ALL of the Knights of Ren. Is that clear enough?" He asks, his cold blue eye scanning between them.
"/Enough!/" The voice is unmistakable; processed, amplified, deepened. The Master of the Knights of Ren turns, his face concealed once more by the reforged mask of mottled chrome and black, shot through with lines of bright red Sarrassian iron that fades to a dull glow after the outburst. "This ritual is /over./ And you will remember your place." The vacant black void covering his eyes turns from Bryce to Oran and then the rest. "You hunt together. You hunt for /me./ You will find the girl, and bring her to me. You have no other conflict. You have no other leader." The helmet stares wordlessly towards the old Knights, variously gathering themselves up to tend to their injuries. "Deep down, you know this. Do not forget it. The consequences would be... unpleasant."
He steps towards the female of the old guard that Bryce shared a moment with, the only one not holding herself together. "Land on the Finalizer. I have an announcement to make to the Supreme Council." Then he looks around at the others one more time, shaking his head as he sweeps off to the rear of the ship to prepare to disembark.
