Lol...since this is twenty years after the Battle of Yavin (where the first Death Star was destroyed), the Rebel Alliance has become the New Republic by now, and the Empire is a lot smaller than it used to be. Enough so that it won't really be in this RPG at all. Other than that, your bio's fine.

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*wheeeee* want to start *jumps up and down* pleeese

ignore my childish impulse

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

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Well, I figure PotR can just post her bio whenever she finally finishes researching for it, but we'll just start now. Finally.

--------

The mottled chaos that was hyperspace was always host to numerous ships of various sizes, from tiny starfighters to massive battleships. Somewhere between them was the ship that was now travelling through it near the Selvaris system. A CR90 Corvette, custom built, it was not at all like a normal CR90. With a larger-than-normal docking bay, it could hold up to twelve starfighters, along with disguised ones latched onto the hull like parasites. There were other things disguised on the hull as well--extra sensor packages, a few sensor-dampening suites, and several nasty surprises, all befitting pirates. The name "Hawk's Eyrie" was meticulously painted onto the bow, the only alternate colour on an otherwise matte-black ship.

Within the ship, hyperspace couldn't be seen, and the passengers and crew had long since adjusted to the different tone the hypderdrive had. A Feeorin wearing the insignia of captain stomped down the hallway, intentionally making his mood known, a not-so-silent warning to get clear. Korm's authority when not around strangers did not extend to control of the Hawk's Eyrie itself, and as a result, his discussions with the ship's commander could be quite heated, even if, as was the case at the current moment, they hadn't been talking about anything important.

As he walked, he slowly started to calm down. They would be dropping out of hyperspace in half an hour, and wait for approximately another hour before their prey emerged from a different hyperspace vector. Since he needed to be in his starfighter by the time they emerged, so that he and all of his co-pilots could launch immediately, he had more pressing things to do than fume about the utter incompetence of the captain of the Hawk's Eyrie. For starters, he had to don regalia befitting Korm, leader of the Bloodhawk Pirates. A New Republic jumpsuit would probably give him the element of surprise when they boarded their target, but it would destroy any chance of success for their mission. No, for this to work, he needed to look the part he was playing. He needed to look like a Pirate leader.

He smiled in anticipation, his sharp teeth glittering as he planned his entrance.

----------

In a completely different part of the ship, a completely different person was doing a completely different thing. The completely different part of the ship was the docking bay, with Jhoran Antoral supplying the role of completely different person, and examing his ship was conveniently the completely different thing.

The E-wing had taken some damage when an asteroid clipped its starboard cannon during what most people would call an insane landing approach, but was referred to in the squadron as merely tricky. The cannon had been repaired, but it would complicate things just a little bit if there was something protruding inside the barrel, just waiting for him to fire so that it could cause the entire weapon to explode.

So, Jhoran was scanning his ship and doing a good job of ignoring the protests of the covey of anxious mechanics that clustered behind him, assuring him that his fighter was fully repaired. It was, really, the damaged portion already having had the starfield paint re-applied, and looking as if it had never even been touched. There wasn't really any good reason for him to be lingering there, but his mind was in something resembling a maelstrom after a massive battle--a vibrant display of turmoil.

The problem was really a question--was it right for him, as a Jedi, to take part in acts of piracy? Even with the fact that all of their takings would be sent back to the New Republic, it was still difficult to get his mind around. So far, their targets were all spacers who were known to have shady dealings, but would all of them?

He pounded his head on the hull of his E-wing in frustration, then stopped when he sensed the sudden confusion from the Mechanics around him.

"I'm fine," he said before any of them could ask the question, then left the docking bay.

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Valera Solusar, Jedi Knight, sat on the thin mattress in her narrow stateroom, in the process of pulling on a boot. Well, she had been tugging it on. The footwear was forgotten now; her attention was seemingly concentrated on an insignificant stain on the bulkhead.

Jedi Knight. She could have repeated those words to herself for a week; they applied to her. She'd earned it; it wasn't a title that had been a result of her birth or an accident of parentage. And now she had to live up to it. This mission to infiltrate a piracy ring wasn't exactly how she had expected to make her debut, but it was a mission nonetheless, and somebody had to do it.

But why her? Finished with the boot, she surveyed herself in the mirror. This was definitely an unorthdox mission. Her attire ... would not have been her first choice. Pirates? Hmmm... must have thought NR Intelligence, which was cooperating on this project, and no doubt had a say in her issued disguise. Let's try something a Twi'lek warrior might like. But with more metal.

Val frowned. Where the kark was she suppose to stash her knives? The short vest and hip-tight pants, both in brown leather, allowed very little looseness where blades could be concealed. Actually none at all.

She sorted through the collection of blades on the table, picking out the thinnest specimens. The largest she would be able to manage was a fifteen-centimeter knife, sheathed between her shoulder-blades. A ten-centimeter blade went at her back, behind the wide, silver-studded belt. Two more for her boots. There were two stilettos that she could use to pin up her braid - but no. Pirates still wore helmets. Her hair might just be enough to shock merchants into submission, anyway. As a concession to the necessity of disguise, she'd dyed it red, leaving blonde streaks running through. Certainly disreputable. But then, the holsters strapped to her thighs - and the blasters in them - added a lot to that impression.

Better head to the hangar bay. She wanted to check out her E-Wing, as well as lighten up with her fellow pilots. They hadn't had much of a chance to see each other, and several of them were old friends.

Halfway down the corridor, Val turned a corner and froze, warned by the Force of an impending collision with another being. Her inanimate state lasted much longer than necessary - and when it ended her voice was flat and certainly not amicable. "You."

Jasson Xereb cocked an eyebrow. "Long time no see... Bad hair day?"

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

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Jasson hadn't seen the violet-eyed Jedi in ... well, awhile. Between missions and endless transfers, it was easy to lose track of time. Evidently, she thought it hadn't been long enough.

"Well?" he prompted, as she seemed disinclined to answer. Or just tonguetied, but that didn't happen often. Or, he noted as her fingers twitched, as if she would slap him if he pushed her anymore.

He pushed. "Lookin' pretty good," the pilot observed, brazenly running an eye over her costume. "Pick it out yourself?" He prepared to duck.

The slap didn't come, but it looked like it might be very close. "What the kriff are you doing here?"

Jasson shrugged and leaned against the bulkhead, grinning down at her. "Gorm brought me on board, last-minute. We go way back - and he wanted an XO he could trust. i.e. shove all the work on." With Gorm, it wasn't so much a matter of trust as of compatibility. Not many worked well with him, especially in the capacity of executive officer. "Since when did you start looking like a really lethal Twi'lek?"

"Since New Republic pilots started turning pirate. I'd be much obliged if you didn't mention my appearance again, Lieutenant."

Bah. Val was doing it again, turning on that rigid politeness that meant that she was almost at snapping point. She started to move in the direction of the docking bay.

He half-bowed, mockingly, as she passed him - "By all means, milady" - and slipped around the corner before she could react.

What had he ever done to deserve her antagonism, except to be himself? That could be an explanation in itself. He should think about this more - but not right now. He needed to get his kit on and start running pre-flight checklists.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

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Right now, we're all on the same ship, and everyone who's not a Jedi and is thus associated with Darklight Squadron definitely knows each other.

---------------------------

Korm used Smile 13 as he looked in the mirror, noting that it definitely gave him an air of menace when coupled with his attire. It was more than simple attire, though--it encompassed more than simple clothes. He wore the lower half of a combat jumpsuit, complete with numerous pockets for weapons and equipment, but on his torso he wore only a dark vest that conveniently displayed his muscles, which after two hundred and nine years of development were very prominent. Scars now ran down his chest and arms, as though from rather heated close-range battles, but they were very meticulously placed fakes. A tatoo adorned his left biceps, one of an animal somewhat resembling a cross between a Kamarian Bloodsniffer and a Coruscanti Hawkbat. Not a real animal, but devilish in appearance. A few of the tendrils on his head weren't real, either, instead containing disguised, flexible weapons and useful equipment. With a blaster at his hip and a vibroblade across his back, he knew he looked very intimidating, something that would increase even more so if their targets knew about all the other knives he had hidden on himself. All in all, he was looking forward to boarding the freighters they were going to be attacking.

Leaving his quarters, he headed for what used to be an escape pod hatch but now opened to his TIE Defender, a beautiful jaggedly-painted ship with superb handling. Along the way, he passed several other members of Darklight squadron, specifically Jhoran and Flight Officer Garos Darr, their two resident melee experts, oddly enough. Since Jhoran was a Jedi, it was understandable for him, but Garos Darr was a Givin, and it seemed unusual for an innately skilled mathematician and navigator to excel in close combat. Regardless, he did, and could leave more opponents than not lying on the mats wondering how they ended up there.

Telling the two of them to hurry up and get to the Docking bay, Korm walked on.

-----------

Jhoran tried not to sigh. This mission was what he had volunteered for, but he still wished he was certain whether or not participating in piracy was appropriate, even if only for a short time, and only to improve their cover. With any luck, there wouldn't be much fighting. Every single member of the squadron was a walking armoury right now, though--all were sharpshooter-level with weaponry or close enough as made little difference, and each had enough power packs or spare weapons to have a running battle that could last all day. Between himself and Garos, they had two vibroblades, five vibroknives, a force-pike, two blaster pistols, a blaster rifle, and nine assorted grenades. He felt himself rolling his eyes just thinking about it. They were supposed to look like Korm's very deadly bodyguards, but he hadn't thought that bodyguards looked like weapons lockers.

Hidden in the stock of his blaster rifle was his lightsaber, too, just in case things went very far south. All in all, there shouldn't even be the slightest possibility of them having trouble due to lack of weapons.

"Let's go," he said to Garos, picking up his pace. A glance at his chrono had revealed that there were only ten minutes before they left hyperspace and subsequently launched the fighters.

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Zayne tied the gray-green bandana around his head, the last piece of his 'pirate' outfit. The rest was an earpiece that latched to the top of the ear, then had a chain running down to another clasp on the lobe, which had a trio of spikes hanging down from it; and a set of very odd looking armour.

The armour was inspired from Mandalorian Supercommando armour. It had the same emphasis on protecting the vital areas while still retaining most of a person's mobility. The chest plate was near identical to real Supercommando armour except for the black, embossed lines that were in the shapes of tribal tattoos. The shoulder plates had a duo of spikes on each one, the outside spike larger than the inside one, both curving inward. The armour also had shin, knee, thigh, forearm, and back-of-the hand plates, all with the embossed tattoos. The boots, which looked like they connected to the shin pads, had a trio of spikes on the tips which got smaller the farther they were from the instep of the boot.

The bodysuit worn beneath the armour continued the tattoos from plate to plate. Both the armour and bodysuit were a blood red, except for the embossed lines, which were black. After his bodysuit ended at his neck, the tattoos continued on his skin all the way up his face (making him look slightly like Darth Maul), though they were meticulous fakes made by NRI. As he looked in the mirror, Zayne thought, Who ever designed this has a spike fetish. Zayne sighed and turned away from the mirror.

His outfit couldn't be helped so he'd just have to live with it. The Miraluka stepped out of his quarters and began to make his way to the hangar deck when he realized that he had forgotten most of his weapons. So he re-entered his room and slipped on the weapon's belt, which contained twin blasters and three thermal detonators. Then he took his vibroshiv and placed it into the slot on his right thigh plate made specifically for it. The weapon fit seamlessly, and just to check if it worked, Zayne slapped his hand down on his thigh and dislodged the shiv from its location. His only other weapon was his lightsaber, but in this outfit there wasn't much place for it. Looks like I'll have to use that stupid vibroblade after all, Zayne thought as he pulled it out.

The hilt was hollow, and in just the right shape for his lightsaber which was subsequently stuck in there. Zayne slipped the vibroblade/concealed lightsaber combo into its sheath on his back. Now, he was finally ready.

So far, Zayne had managed to keep himself busy enough to not think about what they were going to do; but now that he was out of things to do but wait, the thinking began. Did all pirates deserve to die? Did all who associate with pirates disserve to die? Was it right to become a pirate in order to catch a pirate, letting the ends justify the means? He just didn't know, didn't have the answers.

So, while in his ethical dilemma, Zayne made his way towards the hangar, taking the quickest route possible. Which led him right into Val. "Oh, hi," he said as he pulled himself back to reality. "Ready?"

***

Ram looked about his ship, a TIE/d Defender, what you could even call his pride and joy. He was in full Mando'a beskar'gam amour, except for the helmet that was sitting right inside of the open cockpit. The Mandalorian had his entire arsenal of weapons, or at least the ones he though he would need on this particular mission. That arsenal was: two Model 434 'DeathHammer' blaster pistols, three Class C thermal detonators, two G-20 Glop grenades, a Verpine shatter gun (blaster sized instead of his sniper), a knuckle plate vibro blade, a vibroshiv, and a standard vibroblade strapped across his back. Along with his beskar'gam amour, Ram looked ready to fight an entire army instead of just their little prey.

The Mando'a had no qualms about doing pirate work, as it would be just like his life before he had joined the New Republic, although he wouldn't be alone this time around. As Jhoran and Darr entered the docking bay, Ram was just sealing his helmet into place. He nodded to both of them as he clambered into the TIE to start his preflight checks noting that they seemed uncomfortable being walking arsenals of weapons (or at least Jhoran did, he couldn't really tell with the Givin).

_________________
Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.

Why? Why did Xereb always make her lose control? Well, not lose, in this case, but come a hair's breadth away. Was it his cocky, borderline callous attitude? Was it his treatment of her, a cross between amusement and mockery, coupled with the feeling that his statements could turn into innuendo at any moment? Was it just ... him?

What had she done to deserve this?

Another being was approaching, one very strong in the Force. Slamming up shields around her turmoil, Val turned with a smile to the Miraluka Jedi. "Hey," she replied to his greeting. "You betcha I'm ready. Besides," she continued as they continued down the corridor, "something has to be done about these pirates, and sooner rather than later. Melbar in particular is suffering heavily. We depend entirely on trade - we're talking millions starving if nothing happens to these scum. Can you imagine an entire planet having a midlife crisis?"

Val's E-wing, a little the worse for wear, but extremely well-maintained, was one of the snubfighters nearest to the hangar access. As the two Jedi entered, she ran a quick, practised eye over the engines, dragging a tender hand over the port foil. "Hey, babe, ready to roll? New paint job's lookin' pretty sweet." She raised her voice. "R7, heat her up. And double-check the laser cannons."

Sketching a casual salute to Zayne, the female Jedi swung herself up the ladder into the cockpit, pre-mission jitters beginning to flutter in her stomach. She flipped through her checklists. Just excitement, right? Sure it was ... and she'd better not screw this up.

==============

Jasson grabbed his utility belt and shot out of his quarters. Five minutes to arrival, and he should be in his X-Wing by now. Chix, his R2 unit, was running the checks on his fighter, but still - as second in command on this joyride, he should be slightly more prompt.

He hadn't had the time to don the accoutrements provided by NRI - he'd simply grabbed an engine grease-laden shirt, of which he had many, and tied it about his waist, purposely leaving it unbuttoned to display several prominent, real scars across his pectorals. A dun-colored bandana around his forehead, a blastproof vest, and the belt completed his 'disguise', although that may have been too strong a word to use. His blaster pistol slapped comfortably against his thigh as he jogged to the docking bay.

Only one or two pilots were still on the floor of the hangar; the rest were in their cockpits, engines warming over, as was his. Settling into his cockpit, Jasson scrolled through the report prepared by his astromech droid and began some manual evaluations. "This is Bloodhawk Five, I'm looking at four green lights, standing by for launch order. Sound off, ye swabs." So it was a bit of an archaic reference to sea-faring pirates, but he felt comfortable taking the liberty. As he pulled his helmet on, his comrades began to answer, their voices filtering through his comm panel.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Sweet Halo banner, Doc. Valera, you're skills are awesome.

------

Sitting in the cockpit of his TIE defender, Korm heard his comm ping.

"Reverting to subspace in 5," Captain Dienn's thickly-accented voice blared in his ear. Korm winced and decreased the volume to an appropriate level.

"Everyone get that?" Korm asked over Darklight's channel. A series of affirmatives answered his question, and he smiled in satisfaction. His squadron certainly wouldn't be known for sloppiness.

3...2...1. With a flare of starlines, hyperspace disappeared beyond the viewport of Korm's starfighter, replaced with a plain starfield, and Selvaris, a large planet smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, merchants had a tendency to trade with places in the middle of nowhere.

Flipping the switch that would disconnect his TIE from the Hawk's Eyrie, he engaged his repulsors until he was far enough away to use his sublight engines. Across the ship, five other TIEs were doing the same thing.

With dual flickers of pseudomotion, their two Skipray Blastboats emerged from hyperspace on either side of the Hawk's Eyrie.

The Corvette's bow hold was opening, and X-wings began to blast out, forming up in pairs and then heading out on short-range patrol vectors.

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Jhoran flew his E-wing out of the docking bay right after Valera, arcing up to a position slightly behind and to the right of her. They flew in the one patrol pattern that was left, since they were the last ones out.

"Bloodhawks Thirteen and Fourteen in position," he reported over his comm, hearing similar comments from the other wingpairs.

Now they were only waiting for two things--the arrival of their temporary allies from Sernpidal, and the arrival of the convoy.

Moments after he thought about it, the Sernpidal pirates appeared. Over the comm came several exclamations of surprise, expressed in some very pungent words.

They had known that their 'allies' had quite a few credits to throw around and obtain supplies with, but they hadn't expected what they were seeing. Instead of a souped-up freighter or even a Corvette, the pirates had a Sacheen-class Light Escort, a 375-meter Carrier capable of carrying a squadron of short-range snubfighters, but with a crew of only 64. The weaponry that went with it was impressive as well. Right behind it emerged an Etti-class light transport, which was evidently the pirates' freighter, which could carry considerably less than the Bloodhawk's Action VI transport, which was currently masquerading as an innocent member of the doomed convoy.

The carrier began disgorging TIE interceptors and TIE fighters immediately, and Jhoran shook his head. Obviously their budget wasn't up to the advanced fighters that the Bloodhawks had. It was nice to know that they would be considered rich by pirate standards.

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(lol, thx)

Jasson held the stick loosely, keeping himself relaxed as he and his wingmate flew their patrol pattern. Relaxed muscles responded more easily than tense; a basic physical fact that anyone knew. Idly, he spoke into his microphone: "Chix, bring up the stats on that carrier." It was certainly impressive. These 'allies' had been successful, then; the Bloodhawks should be on their guard for treachery, especially if they made substantial captures. It was too early on to worry, of course, but the thing about power was that the powerful could not get enough of it. If his squadron proved effective, the Sernpidal pirates would probably be only too happy to truly assimilate them.

He pursed his lips as the carrier's specifications scrolled up on one of his screens. "Very nice," he couldn't help murmuring.

==========

Val caught Xereb's comment over the comm channel. "You betcha. But I'm going to need more than fancy ships to be impressed." Inside her helmet, she grinned, showing her teeth in a most un-Jedi-like manner. She turned back to business. "Bloodhawk Thirteen to Leader. Are we integrating our friends into our flights or operating separately?"

She leaned forward, giving herself room to reach back and touch the blade at her back, just for reassurance. Piracy involved boarding vessels, and that usually involved close combat. Snipers like Jasson wouldn't really be needed - but she seemed to remember that most of the squadron pilots also had hand-to-hand training of some sort.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

OOC: Sorry for the long gaps between posts, but with all that I am doing right now, I don't have much time for here. Mostly I'll be on during the weekends, but I'll try to get on as much as I can during the week.

IC: Zayne flew slightly to the right of Jasson, his wingmate, keeping far enough behind that any nessary evasive manouvers on his part wouldn't force the two X-wings together. He checked over everything again, a habit he had picked up sometime in his life and never lost. it had served him well in the past, allowing him to notice things that he missed on the first or second checks, probably the reason he had never lost the habit.

Everything was still green, the same as it was the last time he had checked the systems, but you never knew what could go wrong. He scanned out with the Force over their 'companions,' the Sernpidal pirates. Zayne detected no hint of treachary beyond what was norm for a pirate, though they could be planning to betray them if there was enough money or valuables in it for them. Of course, he could be completly wrong and there were blaring signs that they were about to be betrayed but the Miralukan Jedi was horrible at reading minds unless he was in physical contact (preferable) or close proximity.

As Valera voiced her question, Zayne came up with a very good reason for them not to intigrate the pirates into their formations. Most pirates were no where near as dicisplined as a NR squadron and even if they were, there would be two command structures so some people from one flight that are relying on the other group could be left hanging if the others had different orders or ideas than them. However, he kept his ideas to himself as this was NR mission, not a Jedi one and the question was directed at Captian Korm not Zayne.

***

Ram formed his TIE up behind Korm, the captian obviously taking the lead position while Ram followed. As the Sernpidal pirate's Corvette disgorged its fighters, the Mando'a scanned each ship, noting the amorments and other upgrades on each one. The most heavily armed and modded were probably the leaders and the command chain went down from their in order of most weaopns and mods to least, thought Ram as he watched the information scroll across the screen.

After hearing Val's question, some thoughts popped into his head, but he would wait for Korm to reply before voicing his opinion.

_________________
Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.