[i]Placid Xylon stood to the frigid bitterness of an elapsed space. Heart and time bound together in an eternal being, or so how many before him had concluded. Whether it be a wretched despair or a jovial love -- it was everlasting in a perpetual environment…space. However as the vindictive cold swept over his every muscle in a malicious harmony, he found no classification for himself. In spite of past triumphs and losses, presently he was left in the dark to rot…trapped in a ringlet of bygone consciousness. He was ordered to kill, thus he killed. A marauder was he once having lost so much to the reaper of death. An inexorable catalyst of anguish he had become once having been naked to the torrents in his own time, his own hell.





The Posiedon’s bridge became hailed instantly in a radiant maelstrom of white and azure. An entity naturally devoid of considerable light was flung into its excess with the entry into hyperspace. Oblong sensors and modules flickered with immense persistency in the eyes of diligent system officers attempting to make sense of it all. Apparently order had returned following months of disciplinary quandaries and lethargic attitudes.

Once an obvious sign of potential confrontation sounded, even the most insubordinate of personnel would speak a measly silence for hours. Despite being the byproduct of fear or excitement -- and possibly the loss of boredom -- it was a pleasant relief for those whom worked only harder as order declined. A system as fickle as its enigmatic creator: commanding both the personas of severe defiance and that of attentive compliance. Peculiar to say the least, nevertheless almighty on a universal scale.

"Sir!"

Eyes unyielding to the blinding flashes set onto a distant pallet, the composure of Xylon stumbled as a hoarse voice hit him on the back of the head as if to be a blunt mallet. Wincing faintly to readdress his orientation, a quick though spotty response returned in hopes of diminishing suspicions of exhaust without visual contact.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

Disdain touched his tone massively, remarkably greater than anticipated. His veneer had been lost, yet his aspirations lingered upon the Lieutenant’s professional ethics above that of personal affair.

"Captain Gerard wishes to report his recent entry into hyperspace at approximately 34:345. His estimated exit is…uh, 35:460; sir."

Stepping into Xylon’s peripheral focus, the Lieutenant was spotted to be what was considered the "common officer" in appearance. Eyes crested in a plum frame; pastel skin of powder seeming to be nearly a soggy paste; a flimsy stature rooting bare bones; and a facial expression to replicate that of a tormented ghost’s: convoking signs of malnourishment – the sacrifice of service and dedication



"Very well…may our guide serve us well."

Gash Jiren tried to remain completely calm as he stood aboard the Maiden’s Touch, his new command. But even the disciplined Jedi found that task rather difficult… in the short fleet training he’d received at the Eternal Rogue order, he’d always been fascinated by the command of the gargantuan machines. Thought machines of war, they were, they were also machines of great beauty, and art; especially the Mon Calamari ship he commanded at that very moment.

To all sides of his majestic, and somehow organic craft, the Neo-Katana Flotilla spread forth. Five Lancers, three Corellian Corvettes, a Dreadnought

“Hermes, Sunlight Dancer, Lancers Alpha through Omega, and Covettes Force’s Strength, Force’s Flame, and Force’s Light, check in.”

A cacophony of acknowledgements erupted onto the commlink in front of Gash, as the various ships in the Neo-Katana Flotilla called in to make their receipt of their Commander’s message known. The fleet had made a jump into a small, relatively uncharted system rimward of Bilbringi. Regrouping, and organizing into a more militarily sound posture was of paramount importance in taking Bilbringi- possibly the largest base of Imperial Shipyards in the day of the Empire, next to Fondor.

‘Lancer Alpha, ready.’

‘Lancer Beta, ready.’

‘Force’s Flame, ready.’

‘Lancer Gamma, ready.’

‘Hermes, ready.’

‘Sunlight Dancer, re-’

The drone of ready signals seemed to disappear as Gash mentally reviewed his carefully laid battle plan. He didn’t want this to be a slash-and-burn exercise in conquering- the former Sith had no desire to engage in wholesale slaughter. Instead, intelligent tactics and carefully-aimed shots would rule the day, taking Bilbringi for the New Republic whilst keeping it’s precious resources, and the lives of those who worked there, almost wholly intact.

“Starhead formation, on my mark. Ready… engage.”

The ships quickly began moving into a posture which would place the Maiden’s Touch at the front, and the Sunlight Dancer behind, and slightly down- providing a field of fire while still allowing for the Touch, with it’s surperior shielding, to absorb a good deal of fire from whatever enemies they would face at Bilbringi.

“Communications officer? Please contact Xylon Hexyra for me, and forward it through to my arm’s holocomm.”

‘Yes, Commander Jiren.’

The communications Officer was a sturdily built fellow, yet not all too imposing- he had that aloof air about him that was possessed by so many Imperial officers. A quick glance at him told Gash that he was probably a formal Imperial, who likely deserted in the chaotic days of the Empire’s fall. Which was good- Imperial Officers were a great deal better disciplined than New Republic ones- freedom took it’s toll on military efficiency.

The Jedi looked down at his prosthetic arm’s communication device, as a hologram of the New Republic’s head of state sprang forth. Gash spoke to it.

“Xylon? Yes. We’ve moved into position rimward of Bilbringi. We’re ready commence the assault whenever you are.”