Dev A Very Particular Set of Skills

[Darth Strosius]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar / Adonis Angelis IV / Open!
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It wasn't all too often that Darth Strosius found Himself on a more civilized world without having to smuggle Himself planetside. Let alone one that was within the boundaries of a state that wasn't the Sith Order. Rishi was a surprisingly pleasant place, and one that the handfuls of soldiers that He'd brought along were sampling the delights of whilst He was ensuring that the meeting room was properly laid out and prepared. A couple of officers were aiding Him in that matter, mostly shifting around some crates and uploading files to the holotable in the center of the room before their hosts arrived so that they needn't waste any time with setup during their talks.

This visit was entirely unusual for a variety of reasons, normally Darth Strosius and His Order of Wonosa didn't simply arrive and cordially request a meeting with any local officials for a start, but it was a necessity. As they moved to formalize their military arm it had become quite apparent that relying on their small number of veterans and whatever leftover training programs they had from the days of the last Sith Empire simply wouldn't be enough to properly fulfill the needs of a proper force. Especially when it came to any sort of specialized soldiers. Which inevitably led to their humble request for an audience today to secure such training and insight from the Mandalorian Empire.

Of all the organizations that would even consider accepting their meeting at all, the Mandalorians could provide not only opportunity but specifically a skillset and insight into a method of warfare that none within the Order of Wonosa possessed. Their usage of jetpacks was famous for a very good reason after all and it was a bold manner of combat that Darth Strosius didn't wish to risk His soldiers undertaking without expert insight and instruction. But of course He didn't expect to simply be granted a meeting nor a training regime or equipment advice for nothing in return.

An idle glance was cast towards the crates that His officers had just finished arranging, examples of weaponry and other equipment that He was more than happy to offer up in compensation for the Mandalorians' services. Even more valuable was information though, and He'd made sure to bring a diverse spread of data along for the occasion as well which the holotable would show off in due time. He hadn't had many interactions with Mandalorians in general, certainly not any positive ones of note at any rate, so He wasn't quite certain what they might expect in return for their time and expertise. All He could do was hope that He'd prepared properly. He wouldn't be left wondering for long though, not as the doors to the meeting room opened and His officers assembled in formation behind where the Sith Lord sat waiting.

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Ever since his capture, Adonis hadn't been the same. The Imperials fundamentally changed something in the wiring of his brain while he was in custody. A darkness he had become all too familiar with, something intangible, but noticeable. A tinge of red in his vision when his emotions got high, the instinct to inflict pain when understanding was hard to come by. Little things that were eating away at the perception the knight had of himself. Darkness didn't swallow you whole, it forced you to make compromises and chip little bits away at a time. It was frightening how often those compromises made sense.

Leadership was compromise. Every title, every promotion, every new responsibility had taught him that lesson. A warrior could afford principles that a ruler could not. Adonis was no longer responsible for himself alone. All decisions carried consequences for Vaal and the people who called it home. His people didn't have the luxury of him sticking to his principles, but they also didn't deserve a despot who justified any means. Balance would be the best case scenario, and revolt would be the worst. He had been an effective leader so far, and he had no plans on letting Mand'alor down now. Even if his assignments were putting him closer and closer to the edge he was desperately trying to back away from.

Being sensitive in the Force, and also an absolute juggernaut on the battlefield, Adonis was uniquely qualified to take part in the training mission on Rishi. Even if he hated having to do it, he knew that it was good for the Empire, and what was good for the Empire was good for Vaal. He looked out over the lush jungle planet with equal parts duty and dread in his eyes. Adonis knew what he was sent here to do, his duty lay before him, though he still couldn't think about it for longer than a beat before it put a knot in his stomach.

No matter their differences, Adonis did respect competence where he saw it. The Sith had been waging a war against the galaxy for years now, carving their way through expanses sometimes untouched by the outside galaxy. Darth Strosius was a Sith Lord who had been a boogeyman to the Jedi Order for decades, his reputation preceded him in that regard. He also hadn't demanded anything from the Mandalorians, a small courtesy that was rare among Sith. Every practical instinct in Adonis's mind could find a reason to accept his request.

That familiar darkness agreed with every one of them.

He pushed it down again as the transport came in for a landing. Green ferns and tall trees reaching for the hot tropical sun whipped around as the ship touched down on the landing pad. Adonis looked back toward the other Mandalorians who had traveled with him. Hand picked for the mission ahead, just like he had been. He wondered if they worried like he did, about the Sith, or if they were more pragmatic.

When the ramp finally lowered, Adonis let another from the delegation lead the way. Today he wanted to listen rather than speak.

TAG: Itzhal Volkihar
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[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Rishi, Outer Rim Territories

Time dwindled like the fading wisps of a dying star, its radiance dimming with each fleeting second, as intangible possibilities faded and Itzhal Volkihar found himself perpetually short of the rarest of commodities. Every confrontation he faced became yet another diversion, a siren's call that pulled him away from the innocent lives crushed under the weight of ruthless crimes driven by fervent passions and cold, calculated intentions. Each unoccupied moment felt like a case slipping through his fingers like fine sand, unravelling into nothing with every tick of the clock, until it inevitably faded into the unforgiving abyss of unresolved mysteries and cold cases that haunted his conscience. The Galaxy, vast and indifferent, marched on relentlessly, paying no heed to the tireless efforts of those such as the Protectors, upholding a social construct as ethereal and conflicted as the law itself.

The journey to Rishi was far from straightforward—while credits could be gained or lost in an instant, and weapons and armour could be crafted or reforged at will, time remained the one commodity that could not be reclaimed. Nestled far from the bustling core of Mandalore and well beyond the confines of Mandalorian Space, the expedition to Rishi was an odyssey that unfolded over the span of days and hours, with each tick of the chronometer marking the distance and the sacrifices made along the way.

Since the expedition commenced, the Lawkeeper had become a ghost of sorts, rarely making an appearance. When he did emerge, it was for fleeting briefings with his fellow Mandalorian, where discussions flitted between different strategies and the goal of their meeting, often before he hastily retreated behind the iron seal of his makeshift office. The faintest of murmurs and holocomm beeps slipped through the gaps to provide what little assurance that he remained alive until his next appearance.

Amidst the disorder of hurried communications and the painstaking transfer of pressing assignments to those he deemed capable, Itzhal found himself lost in thought, contemplating the hassle orchestrated all in the name of a single Sith Lord and the contract they wished to forge between himself and the Mandalorian Empire. Images flickered in the Morellian's mind of Sith soldiers, grizzled and disciplined, rigorously trained in the art of aerial warfare by the Mandalorian experts such as himself, raining death down upon their foes.

It should have clarified his doubts and made the decision clear-cut: the exchange of resources for Mandalore weighed against the peril that could be unleashed upon the Galaxy by a Sith with a cadre of adept soldiers under their command. And yet, as the Mandalorian wrestled with a choice that should have been clear as day, the Order of Wonosa dared to defy all logic to the contrary. Itzhal's investigations into their organisation had unearthed something exceedingly rare for a Sith—a functional conscience.

In truth, Itzhal wasn't even sure he believed it. But the order wasn't quiet about its intentions, often to its own detriment, though he could respect its defiance regardless of any self-inflicted struggles. There were few more noble goals in the Galaxy than the eradication of slavery.

And so, despite all logic to the contrary, Itzhal Volkihar found himself stepping through into the meeting room to negotiate with a Sith of all things, torn between the promise of Mandalore's gain and the danger of what might be unleashed.

The chamber beyond unfolded like an expansive canvas, its high ceilings adorned with the interplay of light fixtures and subtle shadows that concealed embedded defences and less glamorous necessities. At the centre lay a holotable, pulsating with a luminous glow that spilt over its raised edges in faint hues of blue. The shimmering light danced across the ceiling, the durasteel plates reflecting the glow in a flickering halo that enveloped the table in a wave of soft light.

Around this central feature, officers manoeuvred with practised ease, navigating the carefully delineated lanes that marked their paths. Pressed against the walls, a selection of crates stood, their rugged exteriors hinting at the secrets they held within, while a select few were unsealed, their offerings displayed like a crude buffet line.

With a deliberate tilt of his Buy'ce, Itzhal Volkihar swept his gaze across the room, eventually settling on the distinct visage of a man who sat at the centre point of the chaos, "Darth Strosius, Prophet of Bogan and founder of the Order of Wonosa, I presume?"

Tags: Darth Strosius Adonis Angelis IV​

 

[Darth Strosius]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar / Adonis Angelis IV / Open!
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Darth Strosius rose from His seat as the Mandalorians entered the meeting room, His dark visor tilting to silently regard them for a moment before He pressed a gloved hand to His chest and offered a slight bow of His head. "You presume correctly." A hand that was then swept back to gesture at the officers assembled around Him. "And these are some of my people. We're all thankful for the opportunity to meet with you this day." He wasn't fully certain what disposition Mandalorians preferred but keeping the greetings formal at least might give Him some clues.

"To whom do we have the pleasure of speaking with? I must admit that I'm not quite as familiar with your empire as I perhaps should be." That wasn't to say that He was entirely ignorant of course, He knew enough to even consider such a meeting as this possible in the first place. There weren't many organizations operating within the Outer Rim that the Order of Wonosa by and large didn't consider outright threats in need of dismantling and intervention, but the Mandalorians thus far had proven themselves to be more than palatable.

If nothing else they were far better than the typical scum and villainy which oozed from each planet and system on the Rim, wishing to bring some form of order and civilization rather than simply reveling in the chaos and near-anarchy of it all like most did. That was something that they could agree on at least and it was familiar enough ground to be solid. So He hoped anyway, from what little He did know of their shared past there wasn't exactly a shortage of bad blood between the Sith and the warriors of Mandalore.

The masked man sincerely hoped that He wouldn't have to navigate around any such previous incidents, He wasn't too experienced with the art of mending divides after all. Quite the opposite some would say, although He'd have to disagree heartily. "Come and have a seat, I'm sure you have other matters to attend to beyond parleying with me and mine so I shall do my best to make your time worth it. As you know we have come to request that the skills and training of your commandos spread to our ranks, and we are of course willing to provide various forms of payment for your services."

 

[Kasir Dorran]

Darth Strosius Adonis Angelis IV Itzhal Volkihar​

Strange turns had become a recurring theme for the Darkseeker. Stranger, lately, than the violence that had always been his native tongue. Ever since the attack on New Cov, it would appear he found himself less entombed within Wonosa's enclave on Mustafar. Unfortunately, anything outside the Black Wall registered as hostile territory, and this place was no exception.

Today, only the alien humidity of Rishi was present. Sunlight upon any of the tropical world registered as some chaotic intrusion; rather than warmth, the Sagnir would feel exposed of secrets better left in the dark. He was neither armored like the Mandalorian conquerors nor draped like traditional Sith; he was adorned in simple black garb for functionality, tailored for the cessation of heartbeats. Deception was a foreign language he cared not to speak, and the role of executioner was the only truth he dared to acknowledge.

Boots traced a ghost's path across the floor. For all his years in service, his interactions with the warrior adorned in beskar had been minimal. He knew fragments of their history, gaps filled with rumor and half‑truths. But he recognized some overlap.. a respect for strength, for testing one's mettle, for the clarity that only came from combat. In another life, perhaps, he might have understood them better.

When the Prophet spoke, there was an unsettling cadence to them. Sincere, or close enough to it that, he truly couldn't tell the difference. Diplomacy to Kasir was but an abstraction, a detour from the path of blood which was the only reliable map. Confusion rippled through the internal void. Breath left the pale figure in phantom exhales, chin dipping just enough to mimic a bow.

For the time being, he took his place behind and to the left of the Prophet.