Populate A Funeral For The Many | Tsis'Kaar & SO Populate of Annaj & Abbaji

[Aspect of Victory]

A Funeral For The Many
Jutrand
902 ABY​

Spoiler

TLDR: Darth Virelia , Governor of Polis Massa, killed Tsis'Kaar aligned Sith Lord, Darth Fury , Governor of Saijo.

The murder of Darth Fury, the Governor of Saijo, was a shock that travelled across the Sith Order. As the aftermath played out, it was the Tsis'Kaar that, far from their custom, had revealed themselves. Organising a march through the streets of Jutrand, a cold, rainy night, as the great lords of the Tsis'Kaar have assembled, lifting an empty casket upon their shoulders, escorted by rows after rows of armed soldiery, helmed and masked in equal measures, those of the Wonosa, those of the Guard, those of the Tsis'Kaar holding back baying crowds, as the lords march vigil in remembrance of a co-conspirator.

Yet, it is all a cover.

The Tsis'Kaar's latest success upon Ukatis has grown within them an all too precocious hunger, of promises made long ago upon Dorvalla that have been long since forgotten by those who they were addressed to.

But never forgotten by those who had made the promise.

Along the various industrial and commercial districts of Jutrand, as deserted as they could be on an ecumenopolis, targeted explosions rung out, the leadership of the many cartels that ran the streets of Jutrand snuffed out before they even realised the danger they had been in. As blasters and lightsabres hissed their dangerous hum, lights across a darkened city scape.

Darth Malum of House Marr had promised that the filth, the chains of criminality that had gripped their great capital, would no longer stand.

The purge had begun.

Objective 1: An Honoured Entombment

The torrential rains do not bother those who march, as they near the central square of the district. It is a sombre mood as the empty coffin is soon to be descended upon the sacred grounds. A sombre mood as it is, music strums along the air, as black as usual for the Sith is the wear of the day. An opportunity to mingle with those of the imperial court is present today, an opportunity for those to celebrate the life of a man they may not have known, to plot and scheme, to build bridges, and to enjoy the mood.

Even if the mood is difficult to enjoy.

Whispers abound about the reasoning for the murder, the knowledge of the identity of the killer, as the Tsis'Kaar gather to discuss their next move, a need for protection is renewed, and a call for the replacement of the governor of Saijo is to be determined.

Objective 2: A Mass Grave

It is a long-abandoned factory that proved to have been spared the initial purge; the Grumani Syndicate had always been a particularly secretive and elusive criminal organisation, spread along the entire Grumani sector, and their leadership was particularly decentralised, each boss usually being separated by financial sector and geography, with the only item that united them being at least hypothetical loyalty to the central syndicate.

And monthly meetings that seemed on random to switch locale, it was a Syndicate that for all of the Tsis'Kaar's infilitrative advantage, they had been stumped on how to achieve.

Such that Lord of the Tsis'Kaar had finally decided that enough was enough, aligning the purge to this day of their meeting, cutting off their communications, as a courier had been… convinced, to reveal the location of their latest meeting location.

As masked agents, hidden by the shadowed darkness, begin to sharpen their shikkars.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Walking dead."

Tags - Objective 1: OPEN



From high above the procession, behind the glimmering storm-slick transparisteel of an unfinished tower's observation gantry, she watched. Not as a guest. Not as a mourner.

As a sovereign.

The air was thick with the stink of ozone and wet ferrocrete. The city below was robed in gunmetal clouds, rainfall slashing the floodlit skyline like a scourge, and still the mourners marched. Thousands—soldiers in perfect formation, masks glinting, rifles at port arms. Tsis'Kaar operatives in ink-dark robes. The faceless acolytes of Wonosa. The black standards of ancient Sith cults flown beside Imperial crimson. All for Darth Fury .

All for a man already dead long before his final breath left him.

And high above them, Serina Calis stood still as a blade yet to fall.

Tyrant's Embrace, her armor, glowed with restrained hunger in the dim tower light. The six eyes of her helm—inhuman, violet, unwavering—scanned the crowd like searchlights. Each eye moved independently, but never without purpose. They catalogued, calculated, judged. Her arms rested at her sides in quiet control, claws flexing gently with breath. She did not move to shift her weight. She did not posture. She did not need to.

The city moved around her.

This world had learned a lesson. Saijo had learned a lesson. And now the Order would learn it too.

She could see the coffin now. Carried with ceremonial weight by the Tsis'Kaar lords—figures who had once whispered behind gloved hands of ambition, unreliability, lack of control. Not one of them had the spine to admit it aloud, but they all knew. Fury had died screaming for power he didn't understand. And though Serina had not placed the blade herself, her will had curved the path that led it there.

And so the casket was empty. Of body. Of meaning. Of victory.

Let the world weep for a ghost.

Her breath misted faintly inside the mask as the soft violet glow of her armor pulsed in time with her heartbeat. The crystal node at her chest shimmered, and the glyphs etched across her torso throbbed with power—ancient symbols that had not been spoken aloud in thousands of years.

And yet she stood silent. Unyielding. A predator at rest.

Far below, the crowd parted as the casket approached the central square. Horns moaned. Drums thundered like the hearts of dying beasts. Lightning flashed—not from the sky, but from the storm within her.

Even now, beneath the mourning and spectacle, whispers spread like fire through dry grass.

Yes. They knew. But no one would speak it aloud. Not yet. That time would come. It had to come. Because the next lesson… would not be whispered. It would be carved into stone.

The helm turned.

She watched lords and dignitaries gathering on balconies and rain-drenched observation decks. Lesser monsters circling a power vacuum like carrion birds. Looking for her. Expecting her to arrive at the square. To explain.

She wouldn't. She had already answered.

Her hand rose at last. One gauntleted finger extended toward the procession. Then curved. Slowly. Deliberately.

A beckon.

Not to the dead. To the living.

The Sith Order watched itself crumble, not with screams or detonations, but with procession. It was the way of parasites—to mimic tradition, even as their host decayed. But Serina was not part of the Order.

She was becoming its end.

No one saw her there above the world, cloaked in silhouette and stormlight, but all felt her. The tower groaned around her like it feared collapse. Power radiated from her in waves—not rage, not passion, not even fury. Those were mortal things. What emanated from Serina Calis was inevitability.

An empire did not grieve a tyrant's death. It adjusted.

The casket descended. Horns ceased. The rain continued.

"One down," she whispered, her talons curling into a fist. "And the rest will follow. But first…"

She turned from the window. The black cape of Tyrant's Embrace flowed behind her, durafiber threads shimmering like bleeding ink. Rain hissed against the transparisteel now at her back. Her steps made no sound. She moved like gravity incarnate, with the surety of a blade already drawn.

"Who want's a history lesson?"

 

[Darth Kharnaz]

Objective one: Open

Kharnaz stood behind his mistress. The rain soaked his fur, reavealing the shape of his muscles beneath. He stood in his armour, not nearly as elegant as his masters but functional all the same. This funeral seemed too extravagent for a Sith Lord. There had to be something more to it.

"Who want's a history lesson?"

He bowed his head.

"I am always ready to learn, Mistress."

Kharnaz was not the scholarly type. But he imagined the coming lesson might be more practical. And besides, any lesson taught here would be bound to be important.

Yes. Today he would learn more about the Sith, and soon, how to exploit them.

Darth Virelia

 

[Velok Brokentusk]

as a courier had been… convinced, to reveal the location of their latest meeting location.

As masked agents, hidden by the shadowed darkness, begin to sharpen their shikkars.

OBJECTIVE TWO — BUT A COMPLICATING FACTOR

Velok cared not a whit for the Tsis'Kaar or the Grumani criminal guilds. He had, however, cared greatly for that courier, a reliable associate who'd known slightly more than he was aware of knowing, and who'd — by the cards and casting-bones — died without compromising any of that.

Now Velok had questions of his own, and to that end he was telling fortunes in an appropriated food kiosk right by the long-abandoned factory in question. So far he'd served three guild enforcers and a fourth had quietly disappeared and wound up, partially, in Velok's cauldron. A few fresh clean knucklebones tumbled among the older casting-bones as Velok worked out visions of the future and the past.

His sign said TELL YOUR FORTUNES, VISIONS AND DREAMS.

 

[Míriel Ver Seryan]

OBJECTIVE II: Criminal Scum
TAGS: Open

This was not my kind of operation. In fact, this was not my kind of people. I had been thrown here. Cast to do dirty work for the Order of Arcane Syn. My mixed thoughts and emotions about this was difficult. As a hunter of the Brotherhood of the Maw, and in general using my talents to fight criminals, villainy and the like was what I had been trained to do, I was not keen on it being for the advantage of the Sith. Ever since this... thing had taken over my arm, I had been subservient to it. Held back to always deal with what it was. A perversion of my form and body for the betterment of Sith Sorcerers and Alchemists.

My right hand balled up into a fist. Clenching tightly to nothing. Just expressing anger at the circumstance I had been given. A crap sabbak hand, and a crap game. However, I needed to focus this anger. Ever since I had been... cursed, I had bouts of anger and emotional outbursts. Something I was not truly used to. It was like extra voices in my head. The intrusive thoughts that swirled and wanted me to do something I normally would not. Just knowing it was the arm, this abomination that was inflicting this upon me, only angered me more. A cyclical cycle.

Garbed out to cover up, and attempting to hide my frame among the darkness and shadows. Using the force to hide my presence and sound. Slinking through a shadow as best a woman of my size and stature could do. Making sure to stay away from rooftops. As lights from the city, and even the soft glow of the night could expose myself. Creating a silhouette in the dark. Instead, sticking to the ground. Sliding between shadows and from concealment to cover and only between the two would one see me.

This meeting place was set up to be a situation for which these criminals would be meeting. Trading or otherwise gathering in a gaggle of goons. Sliding quickly through the darkness, I leapt from the shadows upon a man. I didn't control it of my own mind. My left arm slamming its fist into the back of the guys head as I landed. His body crumpling under my weight and sudden strike. My hands snatching his body over my shoulder and bringing him back into the shadows.

Rifling through his pockets, I didn't get much. Some credits, a wallet, (who carries a wallet in this day and age?) and just a simple ear piece. Likely to the other goons that he had. I gently placed it into my ear and waited. Hoping that whatever channel it was already on was the one I needed.

"This is stupid."

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Objective 1 - Darth Virelia Darth Kharnaz

The fall of the rain felt like the whispers of the dead, the secrets the living dared not speak aloud. The spirits of the dead hung about the mourners below Lyssa like the dark clouds hung above her. Silent, judgemental, suffocating.

Or perhaps the dark gloom that filled the air had nothing to do with the dead, or the funeral procession at all. The force was bound to feel opressive here, in the slick streets of the cyber city. Every reflection in the puddles of rain below belonged to a dark sider, every shadow moving through the alleys another acolyte hungry for power. The whole affair reeked of pent up energy and ambition, the stench of desperation circling about the procession like a wounded animal.

Much like Lyssa's companion who she had the misfortune of having to stand beside.

The mirialan wore a scowl under her dark hood, directed solely at the other apprentice next to her. Darth...Kharnaz, was it? A prideful and pathetic creature. Already he had taken on a Darth title. How her mistress had allowed such arrogance to foster within him was beyond her apprentice's comprehension.

Speaking of her mistress, Lyssa had stayed dutifully silent, letting the golden haired woman have her moment to observe the procession before them. Lyssa was ignorant but she was no fool. She was fully aware that there were forces at play here only her master could understand. The cyborg was still young, still earning her place in the Sith order at her master's side. It wasn't her place to fully understand the nuances of this particular event.

Not yet, anyway.

"Who want's a history lesson?"

Lyssa opened her mouth, ready to respond, but Kharnaz proved faster. The cyborg stifled a growl as he insisted he was always ready to learn. If that was true, how come she had never met him before? Never come across him in the training rooms of Polis Masa? Surely that meant that she was the more studious of the two.

"You already know that I am always eager to hear your words specifically, mistress," Lyssa insisted as soon as the other apprentice was done, almost cutting off his final words. "No other master could teach as eloquently and as elegantly as you."

A tad over eager, perhaps, but Lyssa had never been known as subtle. She shot Kharnaz a glare as she finished. "Please, enlighten us with your wisdom."

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Objective 1: An Honoured Entombment

At the head of the congregration of the great Sith Lords beheld in all his darkened grace, their lord, Darth Malum of House Marr. His shoulders heavy with the weight of the empty coffin, as the torrential rain sapped their strength with every step, the clear liquid dripping down his mask, his black plated chest, and the rubies encrusted along his armour.

Jutrand's streets could hardly ever be called deserted, but the rain had most taking cover where they could find it, even as curious, cautious eyes were alight from every alcove, every window, gazing with undescriphable whispers, at the sight of the Ouroboros circling the Hex Charm. It was not often that mere civilians saw a Tsis'Kaar lord, even less often that they survived such an encounter, even less often that they bore witness to a great gathering of them.

The lords of the Ouroboros were reclusive figures, secretive and deceptive, wielding the shikkars, they struck at darkest nights.

They were harbringers of misfortune and ill-fates, already did the Ministry of Order keep a steady hand upon the pulse of their necks, if a matter had grown to such intensity to draw the eyes of the Inquisitorious...

...Well suffice it to say it did not bode well as the garrotes circled necks.

Yet, for those willing to brave the rains, caught up in the perimeter of helmed soldiers and masked agents who silently kept them at bay, equipped with weapons that by reputation and sight alone were enough for most to keep at least a respectable distance. Unlike with most matters of the Tsis'Kaar, this gathering held no great mystery. It had been with sombre reception that the word had been given, that in the Marr District a march was to be undertaken... a march was not an unfamiliar sight for the citizens of Jutrand, for it was a common enough sight for they to bear witness to the newest expansions of Sith armouries, as helmed and armoured soldiers took the roads, and escorted with them machines built for murder and war.

But this march was rather different.

A funerary march, a governor murdered, their killer escaping justice. The courtiers of the Imperial Court assembled at the far end of the passage, sitting up in cloistered positions, watching with barely scathing gazes out towards the silent marchers, bedecked in finery and purpose, none of them trusted the Tsis'Kaar who only years ago had attempted a coup of the imperial governmen, none of them trusted the Tsis'Kaar who by their very nature were untrustable.

The Emperor had not seen fit to honour his most shadowed lords with his presence, but that served them well enough. As the announcements begin.

"We have gathered here today, to mourn the loss of Darth Fury, the Governor of Saijo who was so brutally murdered..."

The one who wore the mask of a once Dark Councillor tilted his face to the sound, as he looked upon who had been gathered.

​

Objective 2: A Mass Grave

His ear buzzed with new reports, if they were not of continual success, he might have been annoyed.

"The Muur Clan's leadership has successfully been executed."

"The Sith Dragon Company's front locations have been successfully raided."

"The Dark Gentlemans' main assets have successfully been seized."

All too familiar names rung out across in his mind in the deluge of constant success, the main powerplayers and brokers in the Jutrand underworld destroyed in a single night, as by the moment the day's blaring rays pierced through the muck and grime of the city's streets... it would only be greeted with chaos.

Chaos that his Tsis'Kaar would be ready to fill the void of.

Alas, he was getting far too ahead off. Wiping the mask of the condensation that pulstulated across its surface, gazing ahead, at the lone factory, that if all would go well, would be the coup de grace to his operations of tonight, the destruction of the Grumani Syndicate. If, it went well. The masked Sith Lord smirked beneath his cover, all knew the old adage of plans and meeting with the enemy.

The black glass hissed as it was unsheathed, as the lord in blackened plate offered nods to his surroundings, the night and rain providing all the cover they required.

As across the surroundings of the factory, wraiths began to advance.

Míriel Ver Seryan Velok Brokentusk

 

[Kali'ka]

OBJECTIVE I​

Tag: Darth Virelia , Darth Kharnaz , Lyssa Clauda

​

The pomp, the droning dirge, the massed ranks, the facade of honoring the dead. Kali'ka peered down at the funeral parade from beneath a drawn hood, water dripping from it's edge. She stood a bit away from Serina, loathing to be counted among the pair that clung to her. Only because she wished to be the one to dote on the Mistress.

The Kiffar sorceress was clad in her preferred leathers, typically bared, inked skin shielded from the rain by a black cloak. Within the shadow of the cowl only a single glowing cybernetic eye could be discerned. The acolyte, pursing her lips at the scene below, saw the crusty formalities not as an honor to the dead governor, but a fanfare to the machinations of Serina Calis.

Even if she did not yet fully understand them.

Kali'ka had a distaste for the politics of the Sith, though she would learn at the feet of her mistress, a governor herself. It was a necessary evil, if she were to continue on her trajectory for power. So, in spite of her chafing at such intrigues, the Kiffar remained studious. She had to, she was not alone in vying for the Mistress' attentions.

Her gaze shifted, taking in the thick-headed Shistavanen. He was unfamiliar, too new. Clad in his armor, he was imposing in strength, but what he knew of true power, Kali'ka guessed it was very little.

But Lyssa. Oh she was something different. Kali'ka saw the rage-fueled Mirialan as a direct rival. They were, begrudgingly, more similar than the Kiffar would like or admit. Nor would she confess an affinity for Clauda that plagued her. Like a sister you hated, but she was still your sister. It only drove Kali to dislike the cyborg even more.

When Serina's purred her question, the big one and the clever one replied like sycophants. Kali'ka's eyes rolled beneath her hood. Standing, she turned to face Serina, fixing her gaze on her. The Mistress would know Kali'ka was listening, without the acolyte having to offer a syrupy response.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

OBJECTIVE 1: Boring Funeral

Funerals were so immensely boring.

Why waste time honoring this dead fool?

He died. He was weak.
​

Nefaron had come to attend this little spectacle for the sake of appearances. Though he was no official member of the Tsis'Kaar, he had allied with the Lord of House Marr and therefore thought it best he make an attempt to honor their traditions, no matter how ridiculous. He had, of course, considered taking part in the purge of the Grumani Syndicate, but he thought it better to attend the public festivities. He had more than proven his worth on Ukatis; there was no reason to waste time wiping out a pathetic syndicate.

Of course, it was a shame they had to be destroyed. They had been the most eager partners in providing slaves in the past.

Oh well.​

Though he was not at Malum's side, Nefaron was close enough that his presence would be recognized. In truth, the death of Darth Fury had no impact on his plans, though of course this did provide some benefit to his ally, Lady Calis, though of course they could not meet this day to keep up appearances. From his elevated position, the Corpse Lord escaped the rain as he watched the procession pass by below. Silently, he sipped at a goblet of wine he had brought for the occasion to fight off the boredom. In truth, he wished Malum had been more willing to accept his advice, for the Dark Lord would have enjoyed having the late Darth's body to study in his laboratory on Anoat. He'd spent many hours secluded on his fortress world as of late, creating vile monsters and horrid toxins for future use. Would the Lord of the Tsis'Kaar be pleased by such developments? Unlikely, but Nefaron would win his future wars for him.

He wanted to be Emperor? Did he not?

Nefaron could get him there. At least for a few moments, until a dagger was driven into his back. ​

The Corpse Lord smiled at the thought and took another sip just as the speech began.

"Brutally murdered? What a joke." ​

Nefaron spoke to himself, the disdain practically emanating from him at this point. He almost wished someone would attempt to assassinate him to end his boredom, then he might at least find this day somewhat entertaining.

TAGS: Open​

 

[War Marshal Helix]

Objective II: A Mass Grave
Tags: Darth Malum of House Marr / OPEN​

Helix checked his internal chronometer, then checked it again. It was time. The droids' metal feet clattered across the rain-slick streets as they moved. It was a small fireteam, six models aside from himself. It was enough.

These were the new models, fresh off the line. Their movements were fluid, quick, professional. Full of practiced deadliness. Some were new consciousnesses. Others were battle-hardened veterans, their data transferred from the old B1H line. All moved like they'd been fighting together for years, despite the youngest droid present having come out of the factory some 36 hours ago.

Helix held up a hand. "This is it." His wordless thought-command washing across their minds. "Stack up." The colony extended a finger towards a grimy metal door, one indistinguishable from the row upon row of others they had passed. The droids halted, swarming quickly into a breaching position outside the aperture.

One stepped forward, pressing the barrel of a phosphor-shard shotgun to the rust-caked doorknob. Helix didn't see doors like this often. Even poor worlds had sliding, automatic entrances. This was something else, a thing with a mechanical opening mechanism and hinges that presumably swung inward. He shook his head.

Were it up to him, he'd simply dissolve the wall and create a more unexpected breaching point, but the droids wouldn't always have him here to do all the work for them. Let this be a learning experience.

"Breach on my mark." A heartbeat's pause. "Mark." The door exploded, nearly turned to powder by the impact of the weapon. Using such a sophisticated technology to breach so ragged a barricade might be wasteful, but it was effective. The occupants were surprised. One or two quicker ones were drawing weapons, but with fatally slow reaction time.

The droid with the shard-gun fired again, this time at a sentient just inside. He fell, nearly bisected by the impact. The rest of the droids surged inside, placing shots with pinpoint accuracy. The whining howl of phosphorus blasters echoed out into the street, then faded.

One den of squalor cleared. Helix resisted the temptation to torch it. It was the Emperor's property, like all things on Jutrand. As such, minimizing structural damage was a priority. As likely as not, Empyrean had no idea this house even existed, but that was beside the point.

"Site six cleared." He reported, sending a curt message across the coms to Darth Malum of House Marr . "Ready to move on the Syndicate's HQ on your mark." Helix had spent much of the night eliminating expendable Grumani-aligned persons of one sort or another. Dealers, customers, informants, people whose cousins' sisters' best friend might once have dealt with the Syndicate. Loose ends. Not the main prize, but elements that needed to be trimmed all the same. As always, the thankless, inglorious trigger-pulling fell to him.

Just as well. He'd quite had his fill of meetings as of late, and was almost glad to have people shooting at him again. This was tedious grunt work, but it needed to be done, and he was the one who would be missed the least at the funeral. He'd not known Fury, but the Tsis'kaar seemed to be making a great deal of hue and cry about his untimely demise.

Helix nudged the mangled remains of the first hostile to die, prodding them with one clawed foot. The shrapnel from the Headhunter had really done a number on the corpse. It was difficult to tell what species this might have originally been. No matter. It was trash now. Some of many that would be cleaned up tonight.

 

[Lucette]

Lucette had arrived with little intent on aiding the Sith Order. Rather she was there mostly to observe the workings of an empire her grandmother had time and again overseen in some capacity or another. She had wandered the world, wrapped in her usual purple and black the colors of House Raaf. The sigil in silver, neatly clasped over her shoulder as she walked with hands behind her back. Somewhere nearby lurked an abandoned factory, and a food stall, however odd to find it here she thought to herself. Adjusting her cloak, she wandered a little more and found Velok Brokentusk

The sign read, TELL YOUR FORTUNES, VISIONS AND DREAMS.

"Oh." She simply said rather, uttered, "how peculiar of a sign, and a stand, and of all places." Lucette approached the being- wait- Whiphid. "Hello, don't believe we've met, Lucette Fortan-Raaf." The Dosuunian gestured to his sign, "alright, I suppose I'll see what you're offering. Although I ask, what payment do you seek?" Nothing even if a scam, came freely, especially a scam.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Objective 2: A Mass Grave
Vakhari Lutris

​

Now a shadow among shadows, Lysander glided through the alleyways like a wraith. A shroud was wrapped around his lower face, hiding the lines of his jaw, but not the determination etched in his gaze. Strands of wet hair clung to his forehead and cheeks. But he let them stay, unwilling to risk drawing attention with even the faintest movement.

There was another shroud, one woven from energy around him now, masking each heartbeat, his breath, and any trace of life that could potentially betray him and put others at risk. This was his first mission alongside the Tsis'Kaar, one that promised to be darker and more brutal than anything he had faced before. Yet he did not feel burdened, but summoned instead, to answer his cousin’s call, in both blood and honor.

Korriban had stripped him down to the rawest version of himself, then crafted the pieces into a weapon.. something more dangerous.

Deep inside his mind, despite the icy focus, Lysander’s thoughts drifted to Sibylla Abrantes , wondering if she would mourn what he was becoming. Guilt twisted in his gut, for he wasn’t the boy she once knew. Another message had been written, but it remained unsent, buried like a letter in his comms. Perhaps she’d already moved on; that would’ve been for the best. But somewhere, beneath the charcoal layers of garments adorning him now, he still hoped the junior representative hadn't forgotten him.

Soon he came to a halt just below an overhang. Rain pooled at his feet. It was quiet now, almost too quiet, which told him others were in place too. A gloved hand slipped to the curved hilt at his side, fingers tightening around its familiar weight. Like a predator stalking prey, every sound, every exit, every angle, was stored away.

 

[Darth Strosius]

Objective: 1 Sanctify the Mourning
Equipment: Lightsaber - Sword - Dagger - Robes
Tags: Darth Malum of House Marr / Darth Nefaron
--------------------------------------------

Even in the seemingly ever-present downpour the hooded Wonosan entourage were cloaked in wisps of smoke, their ornate incense burners swaying with each step that they had taken in the funeral procession. Typically the followers of Darth Strosius avoided Jutrand like a plague but now they stood proud alongside the rest of the Tsis'Kaar procession. The reason being of course that their Prophet Himself was leading them, swaying an incense burner of His own.

Events such as these weren't His typical scene either, not when there were criminal elements in need of quashing, but His presence and those of His followers had been requested. A show of solidarity and a subtle reintroduction of His followers for the watching eyes of the wider Sith Order to gaze upon. A necessary albeit somewhat vexing concept given how placid it was. He would much rather be purging the scum of Jutrand rather than putting on a show for the oppressed and their oppressors alike but such was the nature of politics.

As Darth Malum began what was likely to be some grandiose address for the event at hand, the Lord of Wonosa did find Himself somewhat relieved to be merely partaking in the funeral rather than leading it. He had led far too many such occasions already and there would undoubtedly be countless more to come. At least this time He could allow Himself to feel some sort of ease and simply air His condolences alongside the audience and procession members rather than being forced to garner attention.

 

[Vakhari Lutris]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania

A strange day it was, but.. Was there ever a dull moment here in Sith space? There was plenty to complain about though, such as this rain for one. The heavy droplets crashing down onto the girl as she squinted her eyes, peering to try and see through the thick veil of rain.

As Lysander von Ascania would stalk around the corner his eyes would behold a pittable sight, a snow garbed girl being soaked in the torrent of rain, seeming to be speaking with a small quadrupedal droid.

"Well did you not check the forecast for today?"

The droid's lights dance, as if it were speaking.. Yet nothing could be heard.

"Preposterous! M0rtis you were to check the weather report this morning while fetching my coffee, rather simple compared to the task of terminating the pale one."

She raises a finger, a smile adorning her face.

"Ah but at least we now have documented proof that blades cannot keep it down!"

The smile soon turning into more of a pout than anything.

"Not even the ECLM kept it down, very inconvenient."

The droid would steadily turn itself to face in the direction of Lysander, sending out a scan.

"Huh? Well- Yes? No, I can't say that I care- wait.. No, I do."

Vakhari gives a simple wave over to where she believed Lysander was, though with the downpour it would be hard to fully make out his appearance. The strange girl however, her distinctly snow white garb was the polar opposite to his.. Whoever she was, she bore no distinct Sith markings, and her force aura held a strange sensation. Seeming to have a flavour of dark, yet each time you peered you would feel as if you were being watched.​