Private A Light Within the Darkness

[Alaric Veyn]

There are few things in the galaxy more dangerous than certainty. I had met Jedi who possessed it. Sith as well. They wore conviction as though it were armor; convinced that every answer had already been found if only everyone else would stop asking questions. Age had not granted me many certainties of my own. If anything, it had done the opposite. It had taught me that the Force often whispered loudest through unanswered questions.

That, perhaps, was why I had come. The ruins before me had long since disappeared from modern charts. Time had reclaimed nearly everything that those who built them had hoped would endure. Stone columns leaned at impossible angles beneath the weight of centuries, while creeping vines threaded patiently through fractured walls as though nature itself had decided to finish what history had begun. Rain had fallen earlier that morning, leaving the ancient pathways dark beneath my boots and the air carrying the clean scent of wet stone and growing things.

I paused beside the remnants of what had once been an enormous archway, resting one hand lightly against the weathered masonry. "So," I murmured quietly, more to the ruins than to myself, "you managed to survive after all." The words earned no answer beyond the distant rustle of leaves stirred by a passing breeze.

My fingers traced shallow carvings nearly erased by time. Someone had worked countless hours to place each stone exactly where it belonged. They had believed this place mattered. Perhaps it still did. The small holoprojector resting in my palm flickered briefly, comparing the fragmented structures before me with an incomplete collection of archaeological records. None of them agreed particularly well. They rarely did. Ancient history often possessed an unfortunate tendency to become whatever later generations needed it to be. I smiled faintly to myself. "Historians," I sighed. "Always so optimistic."

Slipping the projector back into my satchel, I continued deeper into the forgotten complex. Every chamber seemed quieter than the last, as though even sound hesitated to linger here. Dust lay undisturbed across the floors, broken only by the occasional footprint left by creatures far smaller than the architects who had once walked these halls. Whatever knowledge this place had guarded had remained hidden for a very long time. Which usually meant it was either remarkably valuable or remarkably dangerous. Experience suggested the distinction was often disappointingly small.

I slowed as another corridor opened before me, my attention drifting less toward the stones and more toward the Force itself. It was subtle. Not a warning. Not a threat. But simply familiar.

I came to a stop. For several heartbeats I said nothing. Then a small smile found it's way onto my face. "...Well," I said softly into the silence. "I wasn't expecting to find someone else here."

Tag: Isolde Malthera

 

[Isolde Malthera]

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados
​

Equipment: Duality Eternal _ Inquisitor Outfit

The ruins had not changed.

Time, war, and the endless reshaping of the galaxy had scarred countless worlds, yet these ancient halls remained cloaked in the same silence I remembered from my youth.

I moved through the weathered chambers with measured steps, gloved fingers brushing against stone columns etched with symbols I had once studied as a Jedi Padawan, long before the trials that earned me Knighthood.

Back then, I had walked these corridors seeking wisdom, believing in the hollow promises of peace and selflessness.

Now I returned draped in different philosophies, an agent of Imperial authority, my purpose sharpened by Imperial doctrine and discipline. The woman who had left these ruins years ago was 'dead'; in her place stood an Inquisitor forged by duty, obedience, and the certainty that order could only be achieved through strength.

I came to an abrupt halt before an ancient altar nestled within the heart of the sanctuary. It was here that I had assembled my first lightsaber beneath the watchful gaze of a Jedi Master and other Padawans, channeling the Force with trembling hands and boundless optimism.

The memory lingered like a ghost, and as I stared at the worn stone, I felt a familiar tremor ripple through the Force around me.

A presence. One I had not sensed in years.

My hand drifted instinctively toward my lightsaber, but I did not ignite it; letting my hand fall to my side. Footsteps echoed from behind, accompanied by a voice I thought I would never hear again.

A faint smile touched my lips beneath the helmet. "Of all the beings in this galaxy, Master Veyn, I'm fairly certain I was the last person you expected to find wandering these ruins," I said without turning around.

"I was just recalling my last visit here, and now another relic from my past appears before me," I added before removing my helmet, slowly turning around as my purple and black dreadlocks spilled from underneath my helmet, resting past my shoulders.

"Tell me, Master Veyn...how has the galaxy treated you?"

Tag: Alaric Veyn​

 

[Alaric Veyn]

I allowed the silence to linger for a moment after her words. Relic. The corner of my mouth lifted slightly. It was not the first time that I had been called such a thing. Nor would it likely be the last. The galaxy had a peculiar habit of deciding that anything old must also be obsolete. A curious assumption, considering how often it sought the wisdom of those who had endured the mistakes of generations before.

I stepped forward from the shadowed corridor, my gaze briefly passing over the armor she wore before returning to her face. An Imperial Inquisitor. That title carried weight. Fear, to some. Anger, to others. A warning etched into the memories of countless worlds. But fear was rarely the most useful response to something unfamiliar. And besides; the Force did not speak of a threat. Not here. And not from her.

"Relic?" I repeated, with my voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. "I suppose that there are worse things to be called." My eyes wandered briefly around the ancient chamber, taking in the broken stone, the forgotten carvings, the remnants of a place that had outlived the people who believed they would last forever. "Although I must admit, that I find it interesting that you would choose this particular place to encounter one." A quiet breath escaped me, with almost a laugh. "Most beings who wish to leave their past behind tend to avoid the places that remember it for them."

I looked back toward her, studying not the armor, but the person beneath it. "You return here wearing the colors of an Empire, standing where you once stood as a Jedi Padawan." I tilted my head slightly. "That is quite the journey between two visits."

The galaxy was full of people who claimed they had never changed. Those were usually the ones who had changed the most.

"As for how the galaxy has treated me..." I glanced toward the ruins around us, my fingers brushing lightly against a stone pillar. "Poorly, in many ways. Kindly, in others." A small smile touched my features. "It has attempted to kill me several times. It has succeeded in surprising me even more often. I have found that is generally the galaxy's preferred method of conversation." My gaze then returned to hers. "But I remain. Which, I suppose, makes your observation rather accurate. Still here. Still searching. Still asking questions that perhaps should have been answered centuries ago."

Then, with a little more warmth, I added: "And you, Isolde? How has the galaxy treated you?" My eyes briefly moved to the helmet she had removed, then back to her. "Because I suspect the more interesting question is not what it has done to you..." The faintest hint of a smile returned. "...but what you have chosen to become despite it."

Tag: Isolde Malthera

 

[Isolde Malthera]

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados
​

Equipment: Duality Eternal _ Inquisitor Outfit

A quiet laugh escaped me, low and dry, stirring the dust-laden air that hung between the old stones. The sound felt strange in these ruins, like a memory refusing to die.

I crossed my arms over my chest, my helmet dangling freely in a hand and regarded Master Veyn with a mixture of old familiarity and disciplined Imperial composure. “There's those old Jedi teachings,” I said, a faint smile touching my lips.

“It's only been a few years ago that I once believed the lessons completely.” I took a measured step backward, my gaze traveling over him from head to toe.

Time had left its marks, certainly, but not nearly as many as I had expected. The corners of my mouth twitched upward in genuine amusement.

“Perhaps relic was an overstep. You do look good, old man.”

Turning away, I approached the ancient altar that rested at the heart of the chamber. With the sweep of a gloved hand, I brushed away centuries of dust and debris before carefully setting my helmet upon the weathered stone.

The black visage stared back at the darkness while I leaned against the altar itself and crossed my arms. “As for me?” I continued. “The galaxy is the galaxy. At least it's been fair and modest with me.”

My eyes drifted toward the helmet resting beside me, its dark lenses reflecting the dim light of the chamber. Then I looked back to Master Veyn. “And that,” I said, nodding toward the helmet, “I became what the Jedi were too restrained to do. By no fault of their own, partially, if I'm being openly honest.”

My voice remained calm, absent of bitterness, carrying only conviction forged through experience.

“But church and state was always meant to be separated. While the Jedi spent years squabbling with planetary governments over jurisdiction, authority, and whether action should even be taken, the galaxy suffered for their hesitation. It's a continuous story that mares their history”

I pushed myself from the altar and slowly surveyed the ruined chamber around us; the crumbling walls, the forgotten carvings, the remnants of ideals that once seemed eternal.

“Just because I walk under a different banner now, embrace a different philosophy, doesn't mean I've forgotten who I am.”

My gaze settled on him once more, steady and unwavering.

“The difference is that my eyes are open. I see the galaxy much differently than I once did. Not as the Jedi wished it to be, but as it truly is.”

Tag: Alaric Veyn​

 

[Alaric Veyn]

The smile I'd been wearing softened into something just a touch more theatrical as she corrected herself. "Old man?" I echoed, placing a hand lightly against my chest as though genuinely wounded. "Now that is considerably harsher than relic." A quiet chuckle escaped me. "I had rather grown fond of relic."

The laughter faded naturally, leaving only the comfortable silence that often followed shared amusement. My eyes wandered once more across the ancient sanctuary before settling upon the black helmet resting atop the altar. How strange. Once, a young Padawan had likely knelt there with trembling hands and impossible optimism. Now an Inquisitor's mask occupied the same place. The stones, I imagined, had seen stranger things. "I believe you," I said at last. "You have changed. And I don't doubt that your eyes are open."

I folded my hands loosely behind my back, beginning an unhurried stroll around the edge of the chamber. "But I wonder if perhaps we both suffer from the same illusion. We look upon the failings of the Order and mistake them for proof that the opposite must therefore be better." I glanced toward her over one shoulder. "The Jedi hesitated. I've seen it." They debated while worlds burned." I took another few steps. "They were imperfect. But suffering did not begin with the Jedi." My gaze drifted toward the helmet once again. "And....it has not ended beneath the Empire." My words were gentle, not accusatory. They were simply true in the way that I see it.

"I have walked through villages erased because they stood in the wrong place. I have spoken with those who feared soldiers every bit as much as pirates. I have watched governments trade freedom for promises of order." I sighed quietly. "The banners changed, but the suffering remained."

I stopped walking and turned fully toward her. "So perhaps our disagreement has never truly been about whether the galaxy is broken." A faint smile returned. "I think we've always agreed on that. It is how one chooses to answer that brokenness."

For a few moments I simply regarded her. Not the armor. Not the rank. But her. "You said that you became what the Jedi were too restrained to become. I find myself wondering what that means on an ordinary day. What path does an Imperial Inquisitor walk when there isn't a battle to fight? What does duty ask of you?" My head tilted ever so slightly. "And..." My smile became almost boyish. "How much of that duty is yours to question?" I allowed silence to settle comfortably between us, for I knew that the pause would give her time to think. After a moment, I continued: "I ask because every Order I've ever known; Jedi, Republic, Empire, and even scholars have insisted that obedience is virtue. But I've simply lived long enough..." The corners of my mouth lifted again. "...or perhaps become enough of a relic to wonder whether wisdom sometimes begins the moment that we ask why."

Tag: Isolde Malthera

 

[Isolde Malthera]

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados
​

Equipment: Duality Eternal _ Inquisitor Outfit

I watched him with the same quiet patience I had learned to cultivate in the halls of the Empire; an art of observation, of allowing others to reveal themselves beneath their carefully chosen words.

A faint smile touched my lips at his wounded expression, the theatrical gesture, the insistence that relic was somehow the kinder title. There was an old familiarity buried beneath the exchange, something almost painfully reminiscent of a life I had abandoned.

Once, I might have laughed beside a fellow Jedi in these ruins, debating philosophy beneath the light of a fading sanctuary. Now I stood here clad in black and grey armor, my helmet resting upon the altar where a younger version of myself had once placed a trembling hand.

The galaxy had a cruel sense of humor.

I glanced toward the helmet again for only a moment before returning my gaze to him. "Perhaps relic suits you better than old man," I said, my voice carrying a trace of amusement. "After all, relics are not discarded because they are outdated. They are preserved because they endured."

His words, however, settled heavier than his humor. I had expected condemnation. Accusation. Perhaps even unwavering confusing. Instead, he offered something far more dangerous, doubt.

I despised doubt.

Doubt was the weapon that had hollowed the Jedi Order from within, the hesitation that allowed corruption to spread while those sworn to protect the galaxy debated endlessly.

Yet I could not dismiss what he said. I had walked through the ashes of worlds myself. I had seen the cost of Imperial campaigns, the desperation of civilians caught between forces far greater than themselves.

But where he saw proof of the Empire's failure, I saw proof of the galaxy's weakness. "You speak as though suffering itself is an argument against order," I finally replied, stepping away from the altar and moving toward him.

"It is not. Suffering existed before the Republic, before the Jedi, before the Empire. It will exist long after our names have been forgotten." My eyes narrowed slightly. "The question has never been whether the galaxy suffers. The question is who has the strength to impose a future upon it, to repair what has always been broken."

I let this new silence linger between us, allowing the ancient stones around us to bear witness to the conversation. "You ask what an Inquisitor does when there is no battle to fight."

A small, humorous smile formed across my face. "That is an interesting question coming from someone who prefers relic over old man." I slowly circled the chamber, my boots echoing against the weathered floor.

"The Jedi sought peace through patience. They believed restraint was wisdom. But I learned that restraint can become cowardice when action is required."

My gaze returned to the black helmet resting upon the altar. "I do not wake each day searching for enemies. I wake knowing that every decision has consequences. Every order ignored, every threat overlooked, every moment of hesitation can become another grave in the galaxy."

I stopped before him, studying him not as a Jedi, not as a relic, but as someone who had survived long enough to question the very foundations he once defended, I once defended.

"But perhaps you are correct about one thing." My voice softened, though the Imperial conviction remained. "Every institution demands obedience. The Jedi demanded faith in the Force. The Republic demanded faith in democracy. The Empire demands faith in stability. And the Sith are just a plague."

I tilted my head slightly.

"The difference is that I have chosen where my loyalty lies." My eyes drifted once more toward my helmet. "You wonder how much of my duty is mine to question."

A quiet pause followed.

"Enough to understand it. Not enough to abandon it." I turned back toward him, the faintest hint of a smile returning. "Maybe wisdom begins when we ask why. But power begins when we decide what must be done after we receive the answer."

Tag: Alaric Veyn​

 

[Alaric Veyn]

Her final words settled into the silence like another stone added to ruins already burdened by centuries. Power begins when we decide what must be done after we receive the answer. I let them remain there for a time. There was wisdom in them. And danger.

At length, I smiled. Not because I had found fault in her reasoning, but because I had recognized it. "I once knew a senator," I said quietly, "who believed that history was measured in populations." I began another slow walk through the chamber, my hand brushing across a cracked pillar polished smooth by countless hands before mine. "He would speak of millions. Billions. Entire sectors. He was not a cruel man. He simply believed that numbers made morality easier....But I never agreed."

I looked toward her. "You speak of repairing the galaxy. I have never been fortunate enough to meet the galaxy." A faint smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "I've only ever met the people who live within it." The chamber grew quiet again. "A frightened child. A farmer standing in the doorway of a burning home. A physician refusing to abandon her patients. A mother searching for her son." I shook my head gently. "To each of them...their life was the galaxy."

I rested my hand upon the ancient altar, beside the black helmet she had placed there. "If I save one village, then I have not failed because another still burns. If I spare one innocent, then I have not diminished the value of that life simply because I could not spare a thousand."

My fingers lingered against the weathered stone. "Compassion is not measured by scale. It is measured by sincerity." I turned to face her once more. "Helping others has never struck me as a popularity contest. I've never believed a life becomes less precious simply because it stands alone."

My gaze drifted briefly toward the helmet. "You say that your loyalty is chosen. I believe you. I also believe that loyalty can be among the most noblest quality that a person possesses. But loyalty has always fascinated me. Because eventually every government, every Order, every Emperor asks for something difficult." My eyes met hers. "Not merely difficult." "But wrong. So I find myself wondering...What does the Empire ask of Isolde? If someone is condemned not because of what they have done, but because of what they believe. Do you arrest them? If they refuse to kneel, do you kill them? If your orders lead you to a village where the guilty hide among the innocent; what becomes of the innocents?"

I let the questions settle naturally, without pressing them. "I do not ask because I think that I already know your answers. I ask because I do not. I have spent enough years watching institutions convince good people to do regrettable things. The Republic managed it. The Jedi managed it. I've little reason to believe that the Empire is immune."

I took another glance around the sanctuary, whose structure has survived countless lives and Empires, yet still managed to retain what they are. "Perhaps that is another symptom of becoming a relic." A quiet chuckle escaped me. "I've become less interested in what banners promise and far more interested in what they ask of the people who carry them."

Tag: Isolde Malthera

 

[Isolde Malthera]

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados
​

Equipment: Duality Eternal _ Inquisitor Outfit

The questions did not strike me as accusations. They arrived with the measured weight of experience, laid carefully between us like old munitions set upon a table by someone who understood precisely how dangerous they could be.

I remained silent for a moment, my gaze lingering upon the sanctuary's ancient stonework while I considered them. The Empire asks much of all who serve it. It asks for discipline where others demand sentiment.

It asks for sacrifice where others seek comfort. Such burdens are not unique to Imperial service; every civilization worthy of survival has required them. Yet his words stirred ghosts I rarely entertained.

I had spent enough years in uniform to know that duty was rarely tested when choices were simple. Duty revealed itself only when the path forward carved through uncertainty and left blood upon one's boots.

"You speak as though these dilemmas are inevitable," I said quietly, my voice carrying the cool restraint of an officer accustomed to difficult truths. "Perhaps they are. The galaxy has never lacked for causes that justify cruelty, nor for men eager to wield noble principles as excuses for weakness."

My eyes settled upon him then, unwavering beneath the sterile glow of my helmet's resting place nearby.

"But you misunderstand one thing. I do not serve because I believe the Empire incapable of wrongdoing. No government is. No institution ever has been."

The admission felt neither rebellious nor shameful; merely honest.

"I serve because I have witnessed the alternative. I watched worlds abandoned by indecision. I watched corruption thrive beneath banners that proclaimed virtue. I watched good people die while committees debated morality."

My expression hardened slightly as old memories surfaced from the depths where I preferred to keep them buried.

"If I am ordered to act, I bear responsibility for that action. Not the Emperor. Not the Moffs. Not some distant chain of command. Me." For a brief moment my gaze drifted toward the ancient sanctuary around us, older than Republic or Empire alike.

"Perhaps that is where we differ, relic. You have grown suspicious of banners. I have grown suspicious of those who believe they can stand entirely apart from them.

Sooner or later, everyone serves something. The only question is whether they possess the courage to answer for the consequences."

Tag: Alaric Veyn​

 

[Alaric Veyn]

For a long while, I said nothing. Not because I had no answer. Because I did. But answers given too quickly often revealed more about the person speaking than the question being asked.

My eyes remained upon her, not with anger, nor disappointment. Only in understanding. "I think that that may be the most honest answer you have given me." The faintest smile touched my features. "And perhaps the one that I expected all along." I stepped away from the altar, my boots carrying me slowly across the ancient stone floor. "You do not claim that the Empire is perfect. You do not claim that every order is righteous. You do not pretend that difficult choices are simple." I looked toward the ruins around us. "You accept the burden. And that is something that I can respect."

My gaze returned to her. "But I have learned that accepting responsibility for a choice does not necessarily make that choice correct." I let the words rest between us.

"Many people throughout history have accepted responsibility for terrible things. Some did so out of cruelty. Others did so because they believed there was no other path. The galaxy has always been full of people who were willing to carry the weight of their actions." I looked towards the ancient walls. "The question has always been whether the weight that they carried was deserved."

I walked closer to her, though not threateningly. There was no need for distance between enemies when neither had raised a weapon. "You say that everyone serves something. And perhaps you are right. I serve life. Not the Republic. Not the Jedi Order. Not any government that claims ownership over the future." My eyes moved briefly toward her armor. "I serve the belief that every person is more than the circumstances of their birth, their allegiance, or the ideas they happen to hold."

"Which brings me back to my curiosity." My expression remained calm. "You say you are responsible for your actions. I believe you. That is why I find myself wondering..." I glanced toward the black helmet resting upon the altar. "What would the Empire ask you to do with me?" My question was not hostile. Instead it was almost gentle. "Not because I believe myself above consequence. I have lived for far too long to make that mistake. I have made choices. Some correct. Some questionable. And some that I still carry with me." I folded my hands behind my back. "But I am not a Jedi representative. I am not a politician. I am not leading an army. I am not attempting to overthrow your Emperor. I am simply a man who travels where the Force leads him and helps where he can."

My gaze met hers. "So what does the Empire see when it looks upon someone like me? A citizen? A threat? An inconvenience? Would I be detained because my beliefs differ from yours? Would I be permitted to leave because I have committed no crime? Or would the fact that I refuse to belong to a banner be considered it's own offense?" A faint smile returned. "You called me a relic." I glanced around the sanctuary. And perhaps that is fitting. Relics are often troublesome things. They have a habit of surviving the civilizations that created them. But they also have another purpose. They remind people that the things they believe are permanent...rarely are."

Tag: Isolde Malthera

 

[Isolde Malthera]

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados
​

Equipment: Duality Eternal _ Inquisitor Outfit

I regarded Master Veyn in silence for several moments, my head tilting ever so slightly as I considered the questions. It was not the sort of inquiry that could be answered with doctrine or regulation.

For a fleeting moment I found myself wondering not what I would do with him, but what others beneath the banner of the Imperial Remnant might attempt.

Master Veyn was no insurgent. No saboteur. No zealot seeking to burn worlds in the name of a cause.

Yet he was a Jedi, and that alone would forever place him beneath a shadow. There were those within the Empire who understood discipline, who understood the distinction between a potential ally and a genuine enemy.

And then there were the fanatics, the embittered remnants who saw every Force-user not sworn to their cause as an abomination to be hunted.

Men and women incapable of restraint, incapable of nuance, who mistook paranoia for loyalty.

His greatest danger would not come from Imperial law. It would come from Imperial fear.

I folded my arms behind my back and met his gaze evenly. "That depends entirely on which Imperial you ask, Master Veyn." My voice was calm, measured.

"Some would see a wandering Jedi and immediately reach for binders and interrogation droids. Others would see a man who has committed no crime and leave him to his path. The Empire is not a singular mind. Not anymore."

My eyes narrowed slightly as I studied him.

"As for myself? I see a man. A potentially dangerous man, yes, because any Force-user, regardless of alignment, possesses the capacity to become dangerous. But capacity is not guilt. You are not leading a rebellion. You are not attacking Imperial worlds.

You are not attempting to undermine the Emperor's rule. From everything I have observed, you travel, you help where you can, and you keep largely to yourself."

I paused before continuing. "Would some Imperials call that suspicious? Certainly. They find certain forms of independence unsettling. But I do not consider refusal to carry a banner a crime. Nor do I believe differing beliefs justify chains.

If the Empire asked me what should be done with you, my answer would be simple; watch, perhaps. Learn, certainly. But unless your actions warranted it, I would see no reason to make an enemy where none presently exists."

Tag: Alaric Veyn​

 

[Alaric Veyn]

For the first time since our conversation had begun, I found myself genuinely smiling. Not because we had reached agreement. Especially as we had not. But because I had learned something. "I am glad." Those words were simple and entirely sincere.

My gaze wandered briefly to the ruined sanctuary surrounding us before returning to her. "I have spent enough years watching conviction harden into fanaticism that I have come to appreciate restraint whenever I find it. It is rarer than many realize." I inclined my head slightly. "You distinguish between what a person might become and what they have actually chosen to do. There are many who cannot." My eyes then drifted toward the helmet resting upon the altar. "They see a robe and conclude there must be rebellion. They see armor and conclude there must be tyranny." A faint smile touched my lips, as though I was aware of some inside joke. "The galaxy has always enjoyed making introductions on behalf of strangers." I looked back to her. "You did not."

Silence settled comfortably between us. "I suspect that I have been fortunate that our paths crossed instead of someone else's. You have given me an answer that many in your position would not." My hands remained folded behind my back. "Not because it is convenient. But because you arrived at it after thought." I nodded once. "And that matters."

My gaze wandered once more through the sanctuary, tracing cracked stone, weathered carvings, and pillars that had watched countless generations come and go. "These ruins have endured because they were built with patience. They were not erected in a day. They have not survived because they were the strongest. They have survived because those who built them understood that permanence is earned." I let my fingertips brush lightly against one of the ancient stones. "Restraint is much the same. It rarely earns songs. It seldom receives medals. And yet civilizations often owe their survival to the moments when someone possessed the wisdom not to act."

Turning back toward her, I regarded her thoughtfully. "You said earlier that power begins when we decide what must be done. I wonder if there is another kind of power. The strength to ask whether something must be done at all."

The silence that followed was peaceful rather than awkward. After a moment, I chuckled softly. "It seems that we've both become rather inconvenient people." I gestured lightly between us. "A Jedi who no longer serves the Order. An Imperial who refuses to mistake suspicion for guilt." One eyebrow rose ever so slightly. "I imagine that neither of us makes life especially easy for our respective institutions."

Tag: Isolde Malthera

 

[Isolde Malthera]

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados
​

Equipment: Duality Eternal _ Inquisitor Outfit

The sanctuary's stillness settled over me like a familiar cloak, quieting the constant vigilance that had become second nature, unlike within the Empire's shadowed halls.

My gaze drifted across the chamber's ancient stonework, the soft illumination tracing forgotten carvings and weathered pillars that seemed untouched by the turmoil of the galaxy beyond its walls.

In Master Veyn's presence, I found an ease that few living beings could inspire.

The years had changed us both, yet when he spoke, I was briefly carried back to the echoing lecture halls of the Jedi academies, where I had once sat among rows of hopeful younglings, hanging upon every lesson he offered.

Back then, I had been little more than an ambitious child desperate to earn the braid of a Padawan, convinced that wisdom was something to be conquered through effort alone.

Even now, after all that I had become and all that I had done, there remained a part of me that listened to him with the same quiet attention.

His words lingered in the air long after he finished speaking. The strength to ask whether something must be done at all. Such a notion should have sounded naive to an Imperial mind, yet coming from Master Veyn it felt neither weak nor foolish.

A faint smile touched my lips at his observation, and I lowered my eyes briefly as a dry amusement stirred within me.

"Inconvenient people," I repeated softly.

There was truth in that. The Empire preferred certainty, swift judgments, and unwavering obedience, while I had spent much of my career questioning conclusions others accepted too readily. Looking back toward him, I felt an unexpected warmth beneath the weight of old memories.

"Perhaps institutions find people like us troublesome because we remind them that conviction without reflection can become its own kind of blindness."

My gaze wandered once more across the sanctuary before returning to him.

"Though I suspect your former Order and my Empire would disagree on many things, they share at least one trait. Neither is particularly fond of those who insist on thinking for themselves."

Tag: Alaric Veyn​

 

[Alaric Veyn]

A quiet laugh escaped me. "No." I shook my head gently. "They never have been."

The smile lingered, though there was an unmistakable fondness behind it now. "I have attended more council meetings than I care to remember." My eyes wandered upward toward the fractured ceiling where shafts of light filtered through cracks left by centuries. "I can assure you that organizations possess a remarkable talent for becoming uncomfortable whenever someone begins asking thoughtful questions. It appears that particular tradition has survived every change of government."

I softly chuckled, yet soon the humor faded into a comfortable silence.

When I looked back at her, there was no trace of disappointment. Only that of quiet contentment. "I find myself unexpectedly pleased." I paused, choosing the words with care. "Not because you wear Imperial colors. And not because we agree." I offered a slight shake of my head. "We do not. But because somewhere within the Empire there exists someone willing to think before acting." My gaze then settled upon her with quiet sincerity. "That gives me more hope than you may realize."

I glanced once more toward the black helmet resting upon the ancient altar. "Every institution, given enough time, begins believing itself incapable of error. It is an old disease. The Republic caught it. The Jedi were not immune. And I suspect that the Empire wrestles with it as well." I rested my hand against one of the weathered pillars. "What keeps such institutions from collapsing beneath the weight of their own certainty is rarely another institution. It is almost always a person. Someone willing to raise a hand and ask, 'Are we certain?'"

A faint smile returned upon my face. "History seldom remembers those people. They are rarely celebrated because they frustrate their superiors. They delay decisions. They ask inconvenient questions. And every so often they prevent catastrophes that no one else ever realizes almost occurred."

I let the sanctuary settle around us again. "The galaxy owes more than it knows to such people." My eyes met hers once more. "So whether you remain an Inquisitor until your final day, or whether life carries you somewhere neither of us can yet imagine; I hope that you never lose that willingness to pause before drawing a conclusion."

A small, almost grandfatherly smile appeared. "Your Empire may occasionally find it inconvenient." I looked around at the ruins surrounding us once more. "But I suspect it will need people like you far more than it realizes."

Tag: Isolde Malthera

 

[Isolde Malthera]

[]

A Procissão dos Que Não Foram Chorados
​

Equipment: Duality Eternal _ Inquisitor Outfit

I inclined my head toward Master Veyn, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment beneath the shadow of this sanctuary.

The years had not dulled his wisdom, nor had the fires of my own convictions burned away the respect I held for the one who had once guided me as a youngling beneath the banners of the Jedi Order.

“You are correct,” I said, my voice measured and calm, carrying the weight of an Imperial who had witnessed both the brilliance and decay of those who claimed to serve a greater purpose.

“Any Empire placed beneath the watchful eyes of Imperial doctrine will eventually suffer its own internal struggles, its own blind loyalties and ignorant assumptions. That is why we Imperials can never truly get our acts together.

There are too many visions, too many interpretations of what strength, order, and progress should be.”

I paused, my gaze drifting across the ancient room around us, where echoes of forgotten ideals lingered like ghosts.

“But my convictions have always been my own. They were mine when I wore the robes of a Jedi, and they remain mine now as an Imperial.”

I lifted one gloved hand and tapped lightly against the side of my head. “I have spent so much of my life believing that this was my only path,” I continued, a rare note of uncertainty slipping through my otherwise disciplined tone.

“I never imagined that my existence would be defined as an Inquisitor, forever hunting those who defy the Empire, forever standing between order and rebellion with a blade in my hand.”

My fingers briefly brushed against the hilt of my lightsaber before falling away. “But there will come a time when I lay down both my armor and my weapon. A time when I no longer pursue the enemies of the Empire, but instead pursue its future.”

A faint, almost amused expression crossed my face. “Perhaps I will seek a different kind of power. Perhaps a seat in the Senate. Imagine that, Master Veyn...Isolde Malthera, once a Jedi, then an Inquisitor, standing before the galaxy as a Senator, speaking not through fear or force, but on behalf of those who have no voice.”

I allowed the thought to linger, a strange possibility among a lifetime of certainties. “Perhaps even the Empire requires those who understand both the blade and the burden of restraint.”

Tag: Alaric Veyn​

 

[Alaric Veyn]

For a long moment, I simply looked at her. Not the armor. Not the lightsaber. Not the insignia she carried. But her. The sanctuary seemed almost reluctant to interrupt the silence, as though the old stones themselves wished to hear what would follow. Then, slowly, I smiled. "I can imagine it more easily than you perhaps realize."

My eyes drifted briefly toward the lightsaber resting at her side before returning to her face. "The blade has never struck me as your greatest strength." I shook my head gently. "It was simply the tool your life required. The woman carrying it has always been the more remarkable part. You speak of one day laying it down. I hope that that day finds you. Not because there is dishonor in service. But because there is something profoundly hopeful about a person who spends the first part of their life learning how to wage conflict and the second learning how to prevent it."

I looked around the sanctuary once more. "These halls were never built to celebrate warriors. They were built to cultivate wisdom. Perhaps wisdom simply takes some of us longer to recognize than others."

My gaze met hers again. "If you one day stand before a senate I hope that you remember this place. The silence. The questions. The willingness to listen before speaking." I chuckled softly. "Politics has a remarkable talent for convincing otherwise sensible people that volume is a substitute for understanding."

I let another thoughtful moment passed. "When I first met you, you were a youngling convinced that wisdom was something waiting to be mastered." I smiled to myself at the memory. "I suspect that you have since discovered what every truly wise person eventually does. That wisdom is less about possessing answers and more about never becoming too proud to question them. The future has a curious habit of finding its way into the hands of those who never sought it for themselves. I find that..." I paused, the words carrying more meaning than volume. "...deeply reassuring."

With one final glance around the sanctuary, I rested a hand against the ancient stone. "We have both become relics of different worlds, Isolde. But relics have one final purpose. They remind those who come after us that every generation inherits more than power. They inherit responsibility."

I inclined my head to her, not as an Imperial, nor as a former Jedi. Simply as the woman standing before me. "I believe that those who inherit it will be fortunate if they find you among them."

Tag: Isolde Malthera