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Wind howls along the exterior of the ship as it weaves between laser-cannon fire. The explosions fade into background noise, occasionally rocking the dragonfly-class dropship. Troopers standing closer to the bay doors grip onto the handholds tighter; Baras can see their arms tensing through the thick black armour. They smell of sweat, the kind that comes from trying to tame nerves before going into a tomb. A battlefield like Balmorra is a tomb, the screams of civilians echoing through the valleys.
The mountains rise from the ground as fangs, making the whole barren, bomb-torn surface look like a jaw waiting to snap shut on the wretched bodies that remain. He's studied the holo-maps extensively; learning the caves, valleys, plains and factories. This is not Baras' first battle, but he is still young and inexperienced. The invasion of Balmorra will be his most intense assignment yet, a true testament to his cunning and ferocity,his worth as a Sith. Baras does not hold himself steady when the ship veers sharp right; he closes his eyes to the physical world and opens himself to the force. Fear rises from his gut and he stokes it into anger, feeling it amplified across the planet below him in the many scars that mar the once-green landscape, in the desperate shouts of soldiers, the curses of refugees. Panic. He feels their terror and rage and he smiles beneath his mask.
Newly fitted for war, Baras wears silver metal plates that cover his chest, midsection, shoulders and head over traditional black Sith robes. Set onto those plates are embossed patterns that crawl outward. On his arms he wears braces and gauntlets of the same kind. And at his side, hooked onto his belt, is his lightsaber. Baras' hand strays to it now as the ship continues dropping in altitude towards the already on-ground forces. His gloved fingers feel the rancor tooth that makes his pommel, feeling for the difference in texture between the roughness of the wild and the sleek craftsmanship of metal that comes with the rest of the hilt in its spikes surrounding the emitter. This weapon has already served him well for many years, it will not fail him now.
Over the intercom the pilot sounds a piercing alarm that rings for three beats, signalling that the bay doors will be opening. The dropship won't land, it's one of many bringing troops and sith to the battlefield from orbit. Baras makes his way to the bay doors. He will be leading these two squads into battle, the formations coordinated alongside the other dropships and their troops while still aboard the dreadnought Relentless which is in orbit engaging in battle. The bay doors slide open and the howling billows into the main compartment. Men flinch, Baras steps closer. The pull of the wind rushes across him in currents and only now does he hold onto the ship, watching the ground blur until he sees the drop site. Raising his fist, Baras holds. His muscles coil and he leans forwards slightly.
The site comes into view - a patch of cleared ground surrounded by Imperial barricades and swarming with little minions. He leaps, and he knows his men will follow without question into death.
---
Hard mud rushes to meet Baras, but he uses the force to slow his landing. Behind him his men let go of their drop-wires, which quickly cinch back up to the ship, and perform equipment checks. Baras glances once over his shoulder then signals for them to move into formation with the other troops. Their target is the Balmorran Arms factory which has become a stronghold for the already wounded Balmorran military and the newly deployed Republic Troops. It is a fortress set into the teeth of Balmorra's mountains; difficult for troops to approach from behind or even above with all the firepower produced within the factory defending it. Tunnels and chambers run deep into the mountains so any bombardment risks the factory being destroyed. The Sith Empire wants the factory for itself, and Baras will help deliver that. If that means walking up to the front entrance with an invasion force then so be it. Their armaments are capable enough to where the losses will be acceptable for control of the whole factory.
Boots thunder to a rhythm in the dirt roads, marching in unison behind their Sith generals. Emotion feed tension, vibrating through the ground and hissing through the smoke-filled air. Beside him his fellow Sith itch for a fight. Baras can see it in the way their fists clench and strides lengthen. Flanking them are square crawler tanks tracking deep welts into the ground. Usually they would carry additional troops but these tanks are fitted to be mobile artillery for cover fire and to take out the anti-infantry cannons spread out along the raised platforms. Baras has a full mental image of the holomap and layout in his mind. He's gone through it so many times it comes to him in sleep. Each placement of the cannons is strategic, shielded from above by the rocks, wedged between towers to protect the gunner. He can admire the tenacity of Balmorran Arms as an upcoming strategist himself. It will be a great service not only to the Empire but to himself to be part of the force that subjugates Balmorran Arms.
---
It is a long march through endless tracks of bland landscape. Green turns to brown, mud turns to rock, rock hides settlements and rebel hideouts. All of two attempted ambushes are unsuccessful. Baras and his fellow sith had sensed the danger before the first shot was even primed and had ordered one of the crawlers to fire on the rebels' position. They didn't even have a chance to scream or attack or whatever such pathetic rabble usually did, and Baras had felt their absence in the force instantly. In the second ambush one of another squad's troopers had been killed with a headshot - the guerrilla forces had payed tenfold for this. No survivors. A clear message to all enemies of the True Sith Empire: resistance is futile.
In all honesty it was admirable that the Balmorrans had kept up their resistance for so long. This surface invasion was itself the fourth wave of attack and the planet's wounds showed the damage it had sustained. Most other major institutions had fallen whether it was to the security systems being reprogrammed or viruses uploaded into their computer settings; their own defences had turned on the people. Still they did not yield. Not even when their landscape was turned into a wasteland with the release of mutated Colicoids and toxic waste storage facilities being destroyed. The troops had passed large swathes of land burned by the chemicals many klicks earlier. Yet Balmorra did not surrender. Even when the orbital bombardment hit civilian towns and tore through their precious mountains rendering everything that was proud into rubble, the Balmorrans continued to resist.
Baras had mused on how such a spirit would have served well under the Empire. It still crosses his mind every time they march through destroyed settlements, some still on fire, planting the Imperial flag as they go and basing a skeleton team of troopers to finish the job. No shelter for enemies of the Empire.
Finally they reach the rendezvous, ahead of schedule.
An Imperial base hastily constructed for final preparations before the day of war complete with trooper barracks, private quarters for the sith and a war room displaying a map of the battleground. The troopers are dismissed as the evening sun sets, that angry eye blazing down at the conquerors in a promise of flame, and Baras joins the others in the war room. Baras knows all his compatriots' names, knows them by the way they stand. Angral folds his arms and stands squarely, Lenros leans over the table hands planted wide, Nankrang paces around the holotable. They discuss troop movements, timing of attacks and the different waves along with who leads what. By the time the meeting adjourns night has crept into the base but it cannot deafen the endless shrieking of turret-fire that remains their endless companion, regardless of how far away it is.
Only in his chambers does Baras remove his mask finally and set it aside on a table. Very few see a sith's face once they create their first mask. To see your opponents face is an advantage, not one that Baras wishes to afford many people. The eyes are too vulnerable, the mouth too uncontained and the neck too exposed. And a face is less important than the command of a mask; no one thinks of grey hair, pale skin and dark brown eyes when they think of a sith. To think of such things is to believe they are sentient beings that bleed just like everyone else. But the sith - Baras - are not like everyone else. The more the enemy believes that, the easier they will fall.
Removing the rest of his armour plating, Baras lays down and quiets his mind. The bunk is not comfortable and the room is barely furnished but it allows him a few hours of respite before the dawn brings a whole new hell with it.
---
They have been walking for hours. Silence blankets the troops from both sides of the sloping hills, containing the echoes of their boots. From the first rays of dawn they have been making steady progress towards the factory and now it is only a few klicks away. Angral and Nankrang, as the more senior Sith generals, lead their troops ahead of Baras and Lenros. Altogether they make a company of 300 troopers. Factoring in the crawler tanks and the now-activated Mark I war droids that march at the very front, it is enough of an army for one factory. They trudge along slower than Baras would like, spindly legs stabbing into the dirt like curled over insects. They were built by the Colicoids to resemble the Colicoids, one of the most cruelly intelligent species. Red photoreceptors on the 'head', a slab of thick armour, tell the droid who to shoot at. It will obediently march to the ends of the galaxy or be completely destroyed before disregarding its orders.
The sun now reaches position of what should be 10am, hanging in the sky and making them all sweat, just as they reach the last stretch of road before the valley widens out and circles around to the factory at the end. The open land in the middle is a death zone with very little cover apart from some craters and husks of scrap metal. Troopers roll their shoulders, steadying their nerves. They check their blaster rifles, tighten the sheath straps of their vibro-knives and check communications. Baras watches the factory silently, studying the real thing for weak points. It's one thing to look at the schematics, an entirely different situation to see it in person. Schematics can't always predict where a little extra pressure can break will or which hidden pieces will crumble under sustained fire.
The droids march forwards first, their four legs spiting the dirt one last time as their crawl to their assured destruction. All is quiet for a third of the way across the barren land, and then the explosions begin. A droid's leg digs deep into the dirt and is instantly engulfed in a geyser of flame. The leg burns away and the droid teeters then collapses. Across the field more droids meet the same fate and fall, reduced to burning scrap. Baras looks to Nankrang who signals to the tanks and they open fire. Round after round of heavy lasers send shockwaves through the durasteel walls of the factory. Loose rocks of the cliffs tumble and smash, and with this declaration the battle begins.
Blasters whine with energy and Baras unclips his lightsaber from his belt. The other sith do the same and as one entity step into the clearing. Scout troopers run along the edges of the arena-like opening, trying to get clear shots at the turret operators. The tanks take up positions flanking again and continue to rain thunder onto the mountain. Most of the mines are disabled from the droid sacrifices, leaving the path clear for the army. Angral begins a war cry, and while Baras does not care for such primitive direction, it spurs the troopers into action.
They charge.
Crimson ignites into a fiery blade from Baras' emitter as he rushes with the troops. Soldiers flood out the factory to meet them head on, forcing the turrets to change focus onto the tanks. Baras sees all this, senses the tide of the battle change in cracks that form ravines. He immerses himself in it, letting all his emotions wash over him and fuel his very cells. Blood rushes through his veins, strengthening his arms with each soldier he cuts down.
He never stops, spinning the blade as an extension of him and driving it through armour like it's nothing. The cries of men are lost to his ears, the weight of his limbs nothing in the power brought from the most pure rage. It doesn't control him, Baras would never allow himself to be overtaken by such animalistic instincts, he uses it like a beast leashed to his will. It thrashes to be set free, gnawing on each kill as if being fed a bone and pulling Baras further into the battle. It doesn't matter how many he faces, they all fall before him. Blaster fire surrounds him like a wall and he walks through it unscathed. He can smell burning flesh wherever he turns.
Readjusting his grip, Baras slaughters a path towards another vibrantly humming blade. Vivid green arcs through the air, felling black and red armoured troopers until there is a pile of bodies. Baring his teeth beneath the mask, Baras feels a thrumming in his body, rushing down his bones, snarling to be let free. He obliges, thrusting out his left hand and, with a roar, brilliant blue lightning bursts from his fingertips and burrows into the Jedi's chest. The jedi screams, their body encased in blue and white, muscles spasming uncontrollably. Their lightsaber retracts but they cannot let go, every nerve alight in their body until Baras unleashes a second wave through the first. The jedi's body folds in on itself and just as violently arches back out. Even through the shouts and blaster fire Baras can hear the sharp snap of the jedi's spine before they collapse. Baras does not think to even gloat, already carving through the factory soldiers towards his victory.
Sweat drips down the crevices of his armour and his muscles hum with power. The force is being torn apart left and right with each death around him, and it emboldens his advance on the factory. He swings his lightsaber with one hand, curling his wrist and crushing the throats of a group in front of him. They choke and gargle, clutching at their necks and finding nothing there. They go limp and he tosses them aside. Across the battlefield another Jedi is engaging with Lenros, exchanging blows faster than most men can comprehend. Baras has little taste for lightsaber combat, he lets the burning in his fingers do the killing for him, unleashing storm after wave of crackling energy that bounds from soldier to soldier. It short-circuits their weapons, blinds them, burns them alive.
Death is everywhere, and it is exhilarating.
He doesn't even notice how hard he's breathing, how focused his mind is until he lets it all go for a brief moment. The factory's troops are retreating, and when he turns he sees that the crawler tanks have made significant progress. Only one has been shot down into a smouldering wreck and one is limping along, but the rest continue trampling over mud and bodies alike. The tomb is filled with blood and bone, shattered armour decorating the surface. When he looks again at the factory he can see pockets of scorch marks all along its walls and how some sections are crumbling into themselves. Many of the turrets are no longer firing, their operators turned to ash in the seats.
He can sense victory is imminent, it calls to him hungrily and like a starving dog he answers. Once again wading through the growing piles of severed limbs and scrapped armour he and a few units of soldiers march up the steps to the main building to begin inner sweeps.
They never make it past the fourth step.
In a shrieking flash of white, Baras is flung back. Men scream, or he assumes they would have but he can't hear. He's rolling, he's moving and when he stops he doesn't know where the ground is. There's an insistent ringing in his ears, and his head hurts. Around him the ground shakes from the force of whatever new attack this is. For a few moments he lays there, stunned. The world is still too white like the inside of a star. It doesn't burn the valleys, it consumes them whole. A spray of fire from gunships that have been summoned to reinforce the factory. From where he lays on the ground among the remains of his soldiers, Baras can see their vague blurry shapes hovering in the sky. They look predatory, wings outstretched and guns pointed at him, surrounding the sith army.
Baras' fingers burrow into the ground, taking root so he can pull himself up to his knees.
His knees.
A Sith doesn't cower, a Sith doesn't yield! Baras glares up at the sky, an indescribable feeling bubbling within him. It is hot, it makes his cheeks burn and hands shake. Shame. Baras is ashamed. Baras is kneeling there in the sights of gunships and he is ashamed. Shame mounts into anger, into rage, warring between unbridled destruction and control. It forces its way up his system, filling every nerve and cell until he is barely aware of the pain in his arm and side, until he can't even remember why the sky is too bright. He reaches for his lightsaber, commanding it to his hand. Only then does he realise why the wind is so harsh on his face and why his right eye blinks too much.
His mask is broken.
Tentatively reaching up, Baras feels across the front of his mask. Around his left eye he cuts the fabric of his gloves on the jagged opening. Exposed. Vulnerable. Weak and unarmoured. Baras finds he does not care. In fact he cares too much. Let them see his eyes, let them see the unstoppable fury burning beneath his armour and let them understand that beneath the cold exterior is a vessel of raw power. And it will be unleashed upon them.
Throwing his hand forward, fingers splaying, Baras howls. It is not a scream, it is a roar torn from the depths of his gnarled soul and amplified hundredfold by the force. In a surer state of mind he would identify it as a force scream but now he only knows that he is losing control. And he throws himself into it. The force scream resounds across the space around him and ears bleed, the ground trembling beneath his feet. Lightning gathers at his command and shoots forward blindingly fast, striking the first gunship. It lurches, tries to right itself, engines screaming, then explodes.
The other gunships open fire on Baras and he flinches.
Coward!
Not one bolt hits him. They freeze a mere metre from his face, held in place by Darth Angral and Darth Nankrang who have recovered from the initial attack run. The two sith strain, widening their feet and tremble from the exertion of holding back such firepower. Lenros must be dead.
Weak.
Baras steadies his body and then throws his arms up again. This time when he calls for lightning, it is the rumbling clouds above that answer. They crackle and spit at him, the planet resentful for what has been done to it. Baras pushes harder, bending nature to his will and forcing lightning to strike where he commands. One by one the gunships catch alight from bolts of lightning, save one that flees.
The storm continues to spread, more and more clouds gathering each moment until the sky is black and angry. Baras finally releases nature but it does not leave, instead unleashing a torrent of rain. With both armies in shambles, there is little assault force left to continue advancing. They must retreat. Baras feels that sickly emotion twisting his throat again, shame, but forces himself to swallow it back down and march away. Each step his boot sinks further into the mud, the planet trying to pull him down into its mouth so the mountainous jaws can snap shut. Each time, Baras tears the earth apart for his boot back.
---
Balmorran Arms Factory did not fall today. They have few troops remaining and only one tank left. One sith is dead. And Balmorra lives to resist another day.
It would continue to resist for decades to come, a bastion of hope against the tyranny of the Empire.