“Nighthawk en route, Shadow Lady. We’ll land in two minutes. Talons, lock and load!”

The ringing voice of Rulvak Qurroc called out across the hangar deck of the Nighthawk. As the premier combat vessel of the Arconan military machine, it was being tasked with one mission: extract the strike team as best as they could. Having failed, unfortunately, the Nighthawk would have to take those that were left and bring them home.

Mateus looked to his allies, then sealed his T-visor helmet over his head. All around him everyone was clad differently: those dedicated Dark Jedi and Sith fought in their best battle robes or light armour. Some fought in proper battle armour, like him. No matter their preference, the team of the Nighthawk was allied in purpose: save this alliance. Bring their friends home.

Many had been cut down by the Iron Legion aboard the Suffering that day as things turned from bad to worse. Mateus was highly unsure that they could pull this off: board a Super Star Destroyer and extract the strike team deep within enemy territory? It seemed crazy. However, he was a professional warrior. There was nothing other than the mission now.

Mateus had already volunteered to be the vanguard, saber raised high, prepared to defend and heal and bond his allies. The Force weaved together meant that the battleteam was perfectly united now. That kind of unity was all that was left to save the three-way alliance, if not for the blood they were shedding together. It would bring the three Clans together for the future, at the very least.

The ramp dropped. All that were left now were bodies – battered, broken, some dead. And, at the far end of the hangar bay, the waiting rifles of the Iron Legion.

“Gather them! We’ll evac them now!”

A fireteam with a heavy repeater, brought on board by Major Kharoc Garrlan, laid down covering fire – the Legion scattered. Mateus could only think to himself that this had been suicide, as he picked up a fallen Tarenti. Suicide for the Clans. That was all this was.

Kordath Bleu sat in silence, cigarette burning in one hand, bottle in the other. He had a prime view from the out cropping he'd chosen as his perch for the battle below. Four armies had taken the field, three working alongside one another as best they could with the lack of trust between them. It was hard to believe a Clan of Dark Jedi wouldn't opportunistically stab an ally of convenience in the back when the time was right.

Not that it had mattered, assaulting the forces of the Iron Throne on their own ground had been daring, a distraction for those who'd been sent to confront the Grandmaster. Kordath wasn't a warrior and he wasn't an assassin. He sat and watched as the Iron Legion overran position after position, and waited for them to finish slaughtering the Resistance forces that had been arrayed against them. Eventually they'd reach him as well, he was certain. He intended to be good and drunk by than.

A lack of response from the team sent to hunt down Pravus was a telling sign. The Clans had overplayed their hands, this was the end.

He took a pull from his bottle, and waited.

It was as though the gods wept crimson tears of blood.

It seemed to accumulate in the air and coat anyone that came within the vicinity. Bodies lay crumpled, wounded cried out but the uninjured weren't occupied with their well being.

By the time the Arconan's arrived it was difficult to ascertain friend from foe, those who attacked were cut down with prejudice. The rest were left to fight their battles. Mingled into the out cries of those dying were the battle cries, and the silent but equally felt relief of the Shadow Clan's arrival.

No pause was given, no ground and no mercy.

The acrid metallic tang invaded the senses and there was nothing left but rage.

For the dying.

For the dead.

And for the oppressed.

None could find hope here, the last stand, desperate and savage.

Abadeer leaned heavily on the wall of the trench he’d just slid into. His left arm had been hit by a blaster, and it hung limply at his side. Taasii panted heavily, he’d been in the fighting for hours. Both the Plagueis and Tarenti forces were devastated at this point. They had no hope of winning this fight, at this point it was a matter of who would survive. Abadeer was determined to get out alive, he’d always survived and he always would, but now though his primary concern was his own safety, he was an Aedile and he had people to look after as well.

Taasii steeled himself and started running through the battlefield to locations where he knew his people to be, gathering what was left of House Karness Muur, and moving bak to the ships. Though Tarentum was an ally, Abadeer felt no cares for them. If they survived, fine. If they didn’t, that was no skin off his back.

As Abadeer directed his forces aboard the shuttle, he heard sounds overhead of approaching ships. At first his heart sunk, thinking that these were reinforcements of the Iron Legion, but soon he recognized it for what it was. The fleet of Arcona, the Shadow Lady and her forces were here, and they didn’t seem to be siding with the Iron Legion. This was just what Abadeer needed, a diversion to get his people out of the battlefield alive.

The Resistance leader could not even scream her denial. A thousand explosions pounded her brain when the Grand Master unleashed a salvo of Dark Side energy against her consciousness, a thousand realizations of impending and unavoidable disaster. She leaped from her throne, slender hands twisting and clenching in the air as though they were trying to find something tangible to grasp, something that wasn’t there.
Atyiru’s breath rasped in labored gasps and wordless snarls issued from her gulping mouth. After a moment in which she could not calm herself, she heard one sound more clearly than the din of her own contortions. Behind her came the slight hiss of the wicked blade of opportunity. The Shadow Lady spun about there, and there stood Teylas, his face grimly and determinedly set and his blade between them.
“I had hoped that my time of ascension would be many years away,” the upstart Consul said calmly. “But you are weak, Atyiru, too weak to hold the First Clan together in the trials that will follow our-your-failure.”
Atyiru wanted to laugh in the face of her attacker’s foolishness. For some reason, though, she could not find the courage or conviction to refute her aggressor at that moment. She watched, mesmerized, as Teylas’ arm slowly reared back and then shot forward. The blade unfurled its deadly edge toward the Consul of Arcona. The teeth of the blade came on eagerly and dived into Atyiru’s flesh with all the Dark Lord’s fury behind them. Searing agony coursed through Atyiru’s body, jolting and racking her and leaving an icy numbness in its wake.
Teylas stepped over her fallen husk and climbed the perfectly ornate steps to the Serpentine Throne. Despite what would come next, he could not help but smile at the simple pleasure of being the First Consul of the Dark Brotherhood.

The assembled forces pushed forwards, the colours of blades flashing as they dispatched foes all around them. We were gaining ground slowly and our objective was in sight. Gasping, Taranae swung her staff at yet another enemy as she decapitated him cleanly. The body fell to the floor as the head spun off towards her rear and she grimly stepped over the fallen remains, twirling her staff around her in a flurry of movement. She made sure that anyone who came near met hr blade first; she would ask questions later. The forces under her command had seen the change in her and knew when to steer clear and right now, she was a blur; a maelstrom of death to anyone and anything that came into range. Looking up, her eyes settled on the enemy commander and she struggled onward toward his position.

Suddenly, he gestured and a dozen or more transports dropped from the clouds, landing near him and spilling out more troops. She cursed silently. Even she knew that the tide had turned again and now it would be themselves who were fighting for survival. As the enemy pressed forwards, allies fell around her to the hail of artillery that fired towards them. She swiftly deflected a few bolts with her staff then turned to order the retreat. She hoped they had bought enough time for the secondary attack.

Keeping her staff swinging furiously, she began to move backwards, still cutting down anyone that dare challenge her and made her way slowly back to the ship. They had been so close and Pravus was almost in their grasp, but the turn of battle had caught them unawares and it was better to live to fight another day than to die for nothing.

If it feels slightly cut short, it is. I wrote too much and had to delete some to keep it within the word count.

Post Mission Sitrep delivered from Major Livana Agrona to Atty, at the tide of the battle at a portion of her Squad's narrow escape from death, I hope you enjoy it ^^"