Dominion After Taxes | SO Dominion of Empty Hex

[Darth Empyrean]

There was no declaration of war—only the echo of ambition.

In the aftermath of the Sundering Dawn, as hyperlanes collapsed and order crumbled at the galaxy’s edges, Darth Empyrean invoked the ancient right of emergency tithe. From the throneworld of the Empire, he summoned forth the Third Legion, a force unlike any the Sith had wielded before. It was not made for conquest, but for reclamation. And its heart—its soul—was the Darklight, an ark-flagship birthed from secrets and sacrifice, now tasked with binding the broken galaxy back together under Sith dominion.

The Darklight was not a warship.

It bore no turbolaser batteries, no planetary siege arrays. Its enormity came not from firepower, but from its purpose—civilizational expansion. Designed as a mobile capital and bastion of logistics, culture, and exploration, the vessel served as both myth and mandate. Where other fleets subjugated, the Darklight would integrate. Where other Sith burned, this Legion would plant the sigils of rebirth. And yet, even in peace, the presence of so many Sith aboard a single vessel carried with it the weight of silent threat.

To fund this endeavor, Empyrean invoked the Tithe of Worlds.
Each planet within the Empire, whether held by Sith, military governors, or distant vassals, was required to offer tribute: personnel, resources, navigational data, or entire fleets. This gathering, held in the upper spires of the Darklight’s administrative complex, was the first of many. Here, Sith Lords, aristocrats, scientists, and visionaries gathered to pledge their support—or withhold it. Behind each donation was a maneuver; behind each gift, a price. The Legion’s foundation would be built from politics as much as logistics.

Yet there was a current of awe beneath the maneuvering.

The halls of the Darklight were unlike anything seen since the height of the Infinite Empire—vaulted crystal ceilings refracting stars through gravitational lenses, Sith-etched architecture whispering history into every corridor. It was a palace of purpose, a moving empire, and the embodiment of Empyrean’s will. It made plain what the Emperor desired: not merely expansion, but order. An Empire not of ash and bone, but one of permanence, certainty, and fate.

And so, beneath crimson banners and blacksteel spires, the Convocation of the Shattermarch began.

All were welcome who wished to pledge, to observe, or to conspire. From warlords with fractured fleets to archivists bearing ancient starmaps, from apprentices sent in their masters’ names to foreign dignitaries invited for spectacle alone—the Darklight opened its gates. This was not a war council, but a crucible of diplomacy, strategy, and ambition. And in the space between oaths, promises, and lies, the Shattermarch would take shape.

Objective I: The Tithe of Worlds
Each Sith present has been called upon to pledge resources to the Third Legion—freighters, fuel, battle-hardened crews, or arcane relics of navigation. Debate rages on the fairness of the demand, but none deny the prestige of contribution. Publicly, pledges are made with ceremony. Privately, many negotiate for favor, territory, or strategic exemptions. This is a moment to raise one's station—or undermine a rival’s.​

​

Objective II: The Cartographers' Accord
Scattered maps of forgotten routes, half-traced signals beyond the Firefist veil, rumors of Rakatan ruins and alien civilizations—the Darklight’s path must be chosen. Gatherings of Sith navigators, scouts, and seers convene in cloistered lounges and holographic chambers, each presenting findings and suggestions. Empyrean demands clarity, but each Lord has their own agenda for where the Shattermarch should strike first.​

​

Objective III: The Echo of Empire
As dignitaries and Sith alike mingle, a deeper conversation unfolds—what kind of Empire will rise from this campaign? Shall the Shattermarch be a cultural endeavor, a soft imperialism, or a new breed of occupation altogether? Philosophers, engineers, and Force-adepts each have theories—and hidden goals. In this moment of prelude, the future character of the Third Legion hangs in the balance, shaped by the words and will of those present.​

 

[Drazen Lutris]

Objective 3​

Tag | Open

The room was darky and smoky, an alcove built just off the main hall. Drazen entered, grabbed his own cigar, and ignited it with a snap of his finger. Letting smoke trail behind him, he found his seat with the others - some smoking, some making a face at the smoke, and the rest angrily placid. He beamed at them all.​

​

"Well isn't this just a great gift my brother has bestowed upon us?", he mused.​

​

"The Third Legion. The Darklight Legion! We're going to bring those lost worlds back into the frey kicking and screaming if we need. I say this entire thing, this whole Force-damned Legion be turned into a weapon of killing and maiming. Wouldn't that send all the messages we need to old worlds?"​

​

"Bend the knee, again, or be broken?"​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

Objective III

The Sepulchral had come with sweeping grandeur, a procession of the deathly pious. Priests in crimson robes, replete with sacred hymns and emblazoned with ancient symbology, strode forth to preach the deliverance of the Dark Side; the Unending Night. Paladins of the dark faith stalked like leashed predators, hungry eyes watching warily from within veiled expressions. Arbiters of faith saw impurity everywhere, especially from within; their bodies bearing the scars of endless self-flagellation.

Above it all, the arch-liches of the Sepulchral covenant. They moved ethereally in a dreamlike trance, otherworldly and frightening. They congregated around the Voice's presence, that dark malignant dread which seemed to anchor them to the world itself. Like the priests, the Voice wore the vestments of spiritual authority, but interwoven within the armored plating of a warrior-king. In this, He was both bishop and soldier, preacher and king, deliverer and destroyer.

He strode forward into the smoggy alcove, a towering beacon of shadowy unlight. His eyes fell upon the Emperor's brother, the slightest twinkle of cruel mirth dancing in those soulless orbs. "Submission or annihilation, in the end are they not one and the same? Whether by the tightly wound fist or the strangulation of eroded autonomy, do those who stand now in our grasp suffer the same indignity regardless? It is amusing to see them scramble. I am eager to see what destiny they will cling to, for a sheathed blade grows dull in the absence of war. And truly, all the galaxy should be our whetstone."

Drazen Lutris ​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Objective: BYOO

Empyrean had declared this to be their newest Legion, exploratory and docile in its efforts. Compared to the Second and First, that was to be the case at least. For now, he walked the faux gardens with his wife and Empress, Srina Talon . He studied the would be greenhouse with an interested expression, out of character for him. One mind was on identifying the flora, the other thinking about what would be done for their Imperator.​

​

In his mind, he imagined he would eventually announced Lirka Ka as the Imperator. She would become the scapegoat, forced to be his victim as he used them to sow discontent win the Kainite, or serve as an idol when they used that power to break away from them. One or the other.​

​

Empyrean was always a machine built on politics, and this would be no different than before. Let the Kainite burn because he chose to let one of the greatest members taste a world outside of Carnifex's thumb. With his death long since approached, he would need to think about the Empire for his heir - and the Kainite was too powerful to trust to not break the Empire into civil war.​

​

The next Emperor, whoever they were, would not have the capacity that he did in power - nor would they have the political influence Srina did.​

​

That would be the greatest hurdle for them to overcome - to be beyond them both, in all things.​

 

[Lirka Ka]

OBJECTIVE I
TAGS - Open

Lirka had never seen the birth of a Legion before.

For the first and the second, she had been lost away. Fighting and plundering her way through wild space on her decades long crusade to finally reach the confines of the Empire, and proper civilization, once again. Since her return, she had heard the whispers and the turning of the gears of a third legion rising up alongside its fellows: the day had finally come. It was unlike anything Lirka had seen before, this grand force of reclamation, it reminded her of her days stranded in Wild Space yet elevated and inflated by the attention of the Emperor himself - a true force to tame the unknown. It was rather odd that she was so giddy at this new prospect to venture out into the dark unknown once again, in the grand scheme of things she had really only just gotten back.

For her great age, Lirka was still at least a bit childish. It was new. It was exciting. It offered the endless possibilities of the unknown at her clawtips. And in great eagerness had she answered the tithe, admittedly she was not a proper commander of men anymore, nor was she the ruler of one of the many worlds that encompassed Sithdom - even if she had spent plenty of time on Anoth now. She was merely eager, the echo of ambition that the shattermarch sounded resonated within her wretched form in a way this lot would never truly understand. The Primordial Darkness demanded evolution, and so would she evolve.

Her dungeon ship, Shackles of Ambition, hung in the gathered assembly outside the Darklight now. A vessel of deep cruelty and the ministry of order’s foul work - but Lirka knew better than any that the difference between a dungeon ship and a cargo liner was really just what you stuffed in the cells. Yet her vessel was but a minor fraction of Lirka’s answer to the tithe.

Walking the halls was her armored form, metal feet thudding through the halls as she admired the craftsmanship of this place. The Darklight spoke to that meager vestige of Sephi that still existed within her monstrous design, even if she had to admit that it was perhaps a bit…gaudy for how utilitarian she had become in old age. At her back stood an assortment of soldiers, Kainites clad in the equipment of the ministry to mask that they had been among her marauding raiders before. Survivors of the bout on Vassek, survivors from her crusade in Wild Space. Murderers, scoundrels, scum, warped by the tutelage of the Administrator into their cruelest selves. The favored among them even wielding the bizarre alien weapons of Lirka’s own design - metal things designed with pure sadistic cruelty.

Yet they too, were the meager fraction of the Tithe. For the crown jewel of her offering? None other than Lirka herself, the Lash of the Kainate turned to the service of the 3rd. A ready and willing soul prepared to march the path to Firefist and bring that chaotic place to heel under the purview of Darkness.

With clawed hands clasped behind her back, and half cape billowing with her brisk pace as she finally entered the meeting hall. Slit-lenses scanning over the gathered assembly to note who else had made their offerings to the newly-risen 3rd, what monsters would follow in the wake of Lirka Ka as more and more ships jumped out of hyperspace with each passing moment to feed the growing armada.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Silken lies and rigged promises."

Tags - OBJECTIVE ONE: Lirka Ka



There was no welcome. Only gravity.

The Darklight loomed ahead like a prophecy fulfilled—an ark of sovereign intent suspended in the void, its obsidian hull refracting distant suns through prisms of artifice and intention. As her shuttle coasted into the docking veil, Serina could feel it. Not heat. Not magnetism. Something older. Weight. Not physical, but ideological. Myth pressed into matter. Will calcified into a star-borne throne.

She didn't speak as they landed. She didn't need to.

The ramp unfurled like a tongue of judgment, and Serina Calis descended with all the slowness of deliberate thought. Her presence was not heralded by fanfare nor security—only the soft hiss of environmental sealant and the hiss of polished boots against permacrete. Those stationed at the entry hall stepped aside instinctively, not because they recognized her, but because some part of them did.

Her eyes drank in the interior of the ship's vast reception wing, and already she knew: This place was no vessel. It was a crucible. Every seam, every blade of architecture, had been etched with symbols of legacy and dominion—not garishly, but with a kind of monastic severity. The Darklight was not beautiful. It was absolute.

And that was what made it magnificent.

She paused beneath a vaulted star-lens that cast refracted constellations onto the polished blackstone floor. Above her, a mural of Sith victories—some true, some aspirational—glimmered like battle scars across the heavens. A lesser woman might have looked up in awe. Serina looked forward. Always forward.

She moved again, hands clasped behind her back, every motion engineered for purpose. Where others would gesture for attention, Serina drew it like a riptide—quiet, inescapable. Cloaked in shadow-silver, her silhouette cut through the hall like a scalpel through silk.

The ship was already alive with movement: governors, warlords, visionaries, and vipers gathering to pledge, perform, and poison. The Tithe of Worlds would not simply be weighed in metal or manpower. No—this was theater. A war of gifts disguised as tribute. Every offering a veiled threat, every pledge a whispered ambition.

She had brought something, of course.

Something rare.
Something uncomfortably necessary.
Something that could not be replicated.

And something that would not—could not—be forgotten.

But it was not time yet. Let the others cast their lots first. Let them boast and posture and clamor for the Emperor's gaze. She had no need to shout to be heard.

Or the gaze of Lirka Ka , apparently.

Trifling. Slightly.

Serina took her place near the perimeter of the grand assembly, where the air was colder and the lights less forgiving. A place for observers. For predators. Her expression remained unreadable, carved in the same disciplined elegance that had ruled laboratories, battlefields, and worlds alike. Only her eyes moved—watching, calculating, listening to the murmurs echo through the Darklight's cathedral spine.

They would all come, soon.
With fleets. With treasures. With hopes for favor.
And when they did… they would see her.

Not merely a governor.
Not merely a sorceress.
But a consequence.

 

[Festerruman Sachiel]

"No crowns.
No gods.
No chains.
Only the great coil that writhes beneath all things.
Apophis, you who need no name,
Slither through the bones of the world and shake it free."​

Objective 1
Tags: OPEN

The Wyrm of the Final Hour translated into the system like a sledgehammer. Vessels not even remotely close to it trembled with smaller vessels being thrown entirely off course by its brutal exit from hyperspace. It was a truly hideous ship. Nearly five kilometers long, the amalgamation of a dozen captured Alliance or Mandalorian cruisers and battleships looked like they had been crushed in a trash compactor. The front of the starship, if such a thing could even be called that, was dominated by two massive frigate-sized harpoons. The bits of their victims still clinging onto their barbed tips testified to their effectiveness.

Garish symbols and words hundreds of meters in size daubed any surface not occupied by a weapon emplacement. Nearby Sith picket ships had to turn off their sensor suites quickly as operators who examined the markings too closely began to collapse into seizures or suffer massive aneurysms.

Finally coming into resting position alongside the Darklight, the Wyrm took its place among a dozen other dignitary vessels before vomiting thousands of shuttles from the jagged gaping holes that sufficed as its hangars.

A single shuttle broke off from the others to enter the massive hangar reserved for high-value personnel. A small parade of malformed penitents poured forth from the groaning doors of the spaceship. Eyes blinked from flesh where no eyes belonged—on ribs, palms, kneecaps, even toes. Tongueless gaping mouths sang litanies in languages that were obliterated for a reason.

These worshipping creatures were flanked by honor guards in black armor, either holding banners displaying the sign of their Goddess. Others waved censers that belched a sickly-yellow caustic fog that veiled a massive figure that the vanguard congregated around.

Several delegates in the hangar balked at this debauched scene. They quickly turned away and gave the new arrivals a wide berth.

One of the Sith Troopers stationed at the entry hall broke from his cadre and stepped in front of the procession. He barely attempted to hide his sneering demeanour. Surely the magnificent flagship wouldn't tolerate the likes of this vile ilk. "My apologies. Maybe you have the wrong hall. I suggest turning right towards the observation rooms while the assembly-"

Suddenly, the trooper began to scream before dropping to his knees and clutching his head. He began to repeatedly slam it against the ground.

One of the malcontents emerged from the mass of chanting worshippers. He drifted inches above the ground, his gnarled fingers twisted in solemn reverence. Skin like petrified bark flowed down his arms. His face—if it could be called such—was a high, angular growth of scarred flesh, littered with dozens of open, weeping eyes blinking out of sync. A jaw full of polished teeth split the lower half of his head in a perpetual grin. Fractures began to scatter around the creature like the air was made out of glass.

The other Sith soldiers moved forward, but suddenly stopped as they doubled over and began to violently wretch the contents of their lunch. It very quickly became an unfortunate fact that they had lowered their face guards. At least the ship's sanitary custodians need not worry about cleaning up.

The disrespectful soldier's helm began to crack open on the thirteenth blow.

"Enough," declared the figure that emerged from the cloud. Three meters tall, it beheld in its gloved hands a riding crop. Its face was hidden behind a rasping iron mask, "Enough, Vel'Xa. We are here to bring the Emperor a most wonderful gift. A disrespectful toy soldier or two will not hinder us."

Vel'Xa blinked with all one hundred of its eyes

"G-g-get out of my head!" the Sith Soldier shrieked, "I didn't mean to kill her! We were kids! It didn't know that would hurt her!"

"Whatever punishment his masters will dole out for his discourteous greeting, I am certain he will infinitely prefer the oblivion you would have granted."

Vel'Xa nodded. The formerly unmannerly soldier lay sprawled out on the floor, unconscious but alive, while the Sith Troopers stopped retching and allowed passage.

"You were only doing thy duty," the figure said as he walked past, "All is forgiven."

The Troopers looked up for a moment. Despite the agony they had just gone through, they almost seemed enraptured by his words and their eyes followed his fingers as he made a sigil in the air. "May Apophis bless thee."

They kept staring into blank air long after the procession had moved on.

The doors to the Grand Assembly opened. Festerruman Sachiel, Warmaster of Pandemonium and Prophet of the Great Serpent, entered to take his place.

 

[Taeli Raaf]

Objective I - The Tithe of Worlds
Subobjective - The Disturbance
Lirka Ka Serina Calis Festerruman Sachiel @others for the objective eventually
​

When the Emperor had decreed that the Third Legion, as it formed, would be focused upon reclamation rather than conquest, it had intrigued more so than the other formed legions had so far. While she certainly did not have any designs on commanding it, she knew who the Emperor was preparing to name as its Imperator, she was more interested in helping provision it and guide its direction. Already, per the understanding the new legion would need assistance in establishing stable routes given the recent disruptions to the hyperlanes and support for colonies, her corporations were already furnishing the Third Legion with several Lominsa-class corvettes and four Gagazet Manufactory ships for their use in the expansion.

It was the beginning of her offer, per the tithe called by the Emperor, but she intended to speak with the presumptive commander of the forming legion to understand what they might desire more specifically in terms of resources.

But it seemed a situation was beginning to develop that was calling her attention, pulling her away from the preliminary discussion she was having with the governor of Javin to see what was occurring. Heels clicked on marble and crystal as the Lady of Secrets descended upon a scene of several Sith troopers and what had happened to them, a frown immediately forming as she clicked her tongue. Her appearance brought the affected soldiers to attention, as best they could given the unfortunateness that had struck them. Whatever had affected the soldiers on duty at this gathering of political entities, the entourage of... figures had drawn the attention of a Dark Councilor.

And she had been so looking forward to a quiet evening of maneuvering and deal-making.

With all the dark grace at her command, amethyst eyes smoldering in annoyance and her powers beginning to come into display for those to feel, her stride would begin to move towards the entourage of misshapen additions to their gathering.

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Madelyn Lowe //:
//: Attire //:

The introduction of a new legion was something of a spectacle. Allyson had been around for a couple, but never one as herself. Even when the GADF announced units or showcased ships, when she was a fighter pilot, she was usually part of the event.

Some part of her missed the simpler times. She got missions, flew a fighter, and then came home. There was a natural comradery within a unit; everyone looked out for each other. As she looked out the shuttle window, Allyson blew a few strands of brown hair from her face.

Her eyes never left the window as she used it to look at the woman beside her. Madelyn looked focused, reading whatever information was on the data pad about the third legion and the tithes that the Emperor had called for. It was interesting, one of the few times she had seen the Empire come together for something. Yet, of course, there was the power grab and the influence one would gain if they contributed.

Madelyn seemed reluctant to give in to Allyson's plans. She wanted to know what the third legion entailed. The Corellian only knew bits and pieces, she had been too busy with other matters while the whispers of the legion were created. If Madelyn offered the Corellian's aid, it meant Allyson didn't have to use her other avenues.

Finally turning her head, Allyson continued to watch Madelyn. She could see the resistance on her brow as she continued to read the data pad.

Reaching over, Allyson wrapped her hand around the Minister's. They were alone in the shuttle, and the staff that lingered about the shuttle were loyal to none but the ministry and their Minister.

"It's going to be okay, I promise - my ideas always work out."

---

//: Objective 1 //:
//: Serina Calis //: Lirka Ka //:
​

The fanfare of the arrival of the Minister of Order occurred around Allyson, she had long released Madelyn's hand and returned to being just an agent, just the simple aloof Corellian that was often seen at the woman's side. As much as she seemed disinterested in the things that were going on around her, Allyson watched and heard everything. Her nature was an act that kept them distant and others from suspecting how she particularly felt about the Minister.

As pleasantries were exchanged, Allyson stepped away for a moment and quickly scanned the room. A den of snakes all wanting the same thing. Power and glory. Two things that faded faster than smoke in the wind. Allyson would never understand that desire.

It was quite the sight, seeing everyone talking to each other, deals being struck while others did their best to hide their intentions. Allyson was never a fan of gatherings like this. Even in the Alliance, the snakes always slithered through the grass.

As she stood waiting for Madelyn to finish her duties, Allyson let her gaze catch the child governor of Polis Massa. A cocky little grin spread across her face as she let her arms cross lazily over her chest. She waved to the girl, her fingers wiggling to add a playful emphasis.

Their last meeting hadn't gone as one had hoped, but it was nice to see the girl not causing any problems. That may be why the gathering had sounded so quiet when they approached.

The room had the typical faces, including the ambitious Governor Calis and Lirka Ka. Both provide quite the issue for her and Madelyn. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Madelyn had freed herself from the gathered group.

Slinking up next to the woman she nodded her head in the direction of the two.

"While I expected Calis to, of course, be here, I didn't expect Lirka. What is that elf up to…" Allyson whispered, her eyes narrowing slightly at the girl and the elf.

A better thought crossed her mind as she leaned in closer for just a brief moment. "As always, you look fantastic, Maddie." Allyson pulled away and gave the woman a cheeky grin.

"You still okay with offering me as your tithe?"

Spoiler: Tags

Taeli Raaf Festerruman Sachiel

 

[Festerruman Sachiel]

"No crowns.
No gods.
No chains.
Only the great coil that writhes beneath all things.
Apophis, you who need no name,
Slither through the bones of the world and shake it free."​

Objective 1
Tags: Taeli Raaf

Sachiel was loath to leave his homeworld. Between proselytising the word of his Goddess to occupied worlds and overseeing the raising of billions of soldiers, he had been forced to delegate his foreign affairs to his trusted agents. But recent discoveries by his spies had unveiled an opportunity deep within the planned zone of expansion birthed by the Sundering Dawn that would never come again. If he could amass enough influence to claim a few select worlds, his millennia-long plans could be greatly accelerated.

One of the creatures in the procession suddenly stopped and began to wail at Sachiel, breaking him from his silent planning.

"Oh? We have well-wishers?" he turned around and cocked his head curiously.

His Honor Guards muttered oaths into their comms as they quickly formed a wall between the approaching newcomer. Ceremonial mauls remained in their sheaths, but it was clear that they stood ready to draw at a hair's trigger.

"Please, my children, my loves," Sachiel rested his gloved hands on their shoulders and softly pulled them back so he could step forward. "Your dedication to my protection is appreciated, but unnecessary, for we are amongst dear friends."

The Honor Guards instantly stood down and moved back.

The Prophet of Pandemonium regarded the woman approaching him. It wasn't hard to discern her Corellian birth, but the way she held herself indicated her raising had taken place elsewhere. Her eyes, most of all, blazed a quiet displeasure that could have flash-boiled a cup of water across the hall. Despite his period of recluse from Imperial Affairs, he recognized the newcomer as Taeli Raaf. A woman well-versed in studies regarding the mutilation of flesh, a field that he, too, had begun to dive into. But where he had merely started to tread water, she was already exploring the deepest trenches.

Yet he still asked, making sure to make the sigil of Apophis across his chest as a sign of respect, "Please forgive my most excitable flock. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

The garish mask he wore and the choking sounds of his rebreather belied his honeyed and sweet voice. Yet it wasn't hard to discern the poisoned wine that lay beneath.

 

[CT-312]

//: Jacen Breska Adean Castor | OPEN //:
//: Weapons: LO-18D ASSAULT RIFLE, & Vibroblade Knife//:
//: Attire //:
//: The Darklight //:
//: Objective I: The Tithe of Worlds //:

​

Well this was unexpected. Patrol and guard duty in a meeting hall. It wasn’t any ordinary meeting, whispers and talks of a Third Legion forming were heard over the encrypted private comms for the Troopers. CT-312 was standing inside the room off to the side by the wall in the shadows. Hoping her Camouflage armor wouldn’t distract or attract any unwanted attention. Leaning against the wall with her weapon in front. Silently observing as Sith Lords came in one by one.

The atmosphere for the Scout got denser and thicker. As alarming as it was for her, it was something she had come to terms to live with. Deducing that whatever this feeling was, it’s individual based. CT-312 scanned the room. Only recognizing a few, whom she had fought alongside during a mission. Eyes shifted to her assigned squad. MB-1782, Shield Trooper and TK-2142 were standing at her sides.

A sudden commotion caught all three Troopers attention. It was at the doorway. Pushing off the wall, at attention, hand gripping her weapon. MB-1782 and TK-2124 waiting for CT-312 orders. It seemed a group of the Empire’s Troopers had gotten on the wrong side of a guest who was trying to enter in. ‘The Empire’s Troopers are lacking.’ Noticing the Dark Councilor stood, making her way to the poor soul that disturbed the ongoing meeting. CT-312 relaxed her grip. Using her left hand, silently tapping on the shoulders of both troopers. She stepped back into the wall, resuming her lean. The two other DeathDrop Troopers looked at each other and nodded. Both silently walking along the meeting room walls, careful not draw attention to themselves.

“Radio check, status report” CT-312 muttered into the encrypted private commlink, her words silent to anyone not tuned into the helmet’s secure channel, contained entirely within the helmet’s sealed interior. Knowing that her squad wasn't the only assigned DeathDrop Trooper present, remembering seeing TK-710 and his squad around.

"Loud and Clear, TK-2124 reporting in. All clear here"
"Affirmative, MB-1782 checking in. Clear"

Spoiler: Nearby|Tags

Lirka Ka Serina Calis Taeli Raaf Allyson Locke Festerruman Sachiel

 

[Adean Castor]

TAG: CT-312 | Jacen Breska | Open
NEARBY: Serina Calis | Lirka Ka | Taeli Raaf | Festerruman Sachiel | Allyson Locke | Madelyn Lowe
OBJECTIVE: The Tithe of Worlds
APPAREL: X

Long ago, Adean had trained herself not to see that which she would find disturbing. In the midst of adapting one persona after another, she had no time to balk at horrors that should be perfectly normal to the name she operated under at a given time. If her artifice was to be discovered, it wouldn't be by that, if she could help it. And so she buried those feelings - terror, disgust, and the like - deep down, where they licked at her belly like dairy on a muggy day. Still present, but shut out enough to ignore under the pressures of performance.

Brassius was quite adamant in looking straight ahead as they slipped into the meeting hall, doing their best to ignore the commotion that'd risen behind them. The guard slamming his head into the ground was cruel yet tolerable and not altogether surprising, given the titles and ranks of those gathered. When the others also joined and the retching began, Adean took that as a cue to increase her pace. To the wondering eye, the way Brassius straightened their tunic and posture once they were no longer in earshot of the retching, one could assume they cared more for their clothes than the guards being made to suffer. That was an illusion Adean wasn't opposed to maintaining. It was, after all, far better than the reality.

Her attention was more scattered than she'd like after that display, in search of something to redirect herself, yet careful not to listen too carefully lest that noise reach her ears once more. She couldn't help but notice a Dark Councilor making her way where Adean had just came from. Curious, but nothing she was remotely interested in following up with. Still, a small, microscopic part of her wondered if perhaps an introduction would be in her favor.

It was better to remain invisible. That was what Adean had convinced herself, at least. So rather than linger on lofty ideas, she continued her scanning, searching for something to do, someone to listen in on.

What caught her eye instead was a trooper leaning against a wall, armor decked out in camo. It was a curious sight, to see a trooper leaning and alone rather than at attention with their squad. Curious enough that Adean couldn't help but poke at that thread.

"You do realize this is a meeting, not a jungle, right?" the acolyte asked, approaching the trooper with a gait that could hardly be taken as threatening. "Your camouflage is working in reverse here, I'm afraid."

 

[Darth Meritum]

Objective 1
Tag: Serina Calis // Lirka Ka // Adean Castor // Taeli Raaf // Festerruman Sachiel // Allyson Locke // Madelyn Lowe

There was a habit for every Sith who entered a room to try and make a show of it, always believing themselves the baddest of a room full of bad. It was always a dissapointment for Meritum, and today was no different as he watched many, including Festerruman Sachiel , enter with bravado and callous abandon for any amount of decorum. As though their sycophantic compatriots would endow them with any semblance of respect.

Meritum would have even had to gotten involved, were they to truly have tried to fire upon Taeli Raaf - he couldn't allow a Dark Councillor to be attacked openly, not that she would have needed him to help afterall. The Emperor wasn't far from here, and while his throne behind Meritum lay empty, there was only a split second between violence and his appearence. There was nothing but violence left in that dead, husk of a man.

"Welcome, all ye who gathered for the tithing.", Meritum said as he stood, clearing his throat and resting his hands at the small of his back. He would not sit the throne, as it was not his place - even if this was just the Imperator's pseudo throne. Instead he stood beneath it, on the stairs so all could see him.

"You have been summoned for this emergency conclave by the Emperor - as each of you are to give from your own free will an allowance that will allow the Third Legion to form. This is the ship Darklight, and there will be just rewards for those who give the most.", he said with a glance around.

"Please, step forward and offer what you will. The Emperor can hear us, see us, even if he is not present with us."

 

[Jacen Breska]

THE TITHE OF WORLDS ​

WEARING: Jacen’s Second Legion Armor
EQUIPMENT: DC-902d
LOCATION: :: The Darklight ::
TAG: Adean Castor CT-312 | @Open For OBJ1!!!

Whoever said service to the Sith wasn’t rewarding? You got to go to new and exotic places and kill new and exotic things. Sometimes the things you killed were of this plane. Sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes they were amalgamations of different things into one things. Sometimes the places were cold. Sometimes they were Hell. Sometimes they were just normal places.
Truly, never a dull moment. And today looked to try to continue that trend. A simple meeting of dignitaries and elites from across Sith space. Should be easy, Jacen thought. Should just be security. Maybe look professional. Of course it wouldn’t just be that. Not entirely, that’d be ‘too’ easy…

Jacen and his squad were posted on overwatch in the main hall, a raised platform off to the side next to the observation rooms. Close enough to intervene if anything required it or immediately retaliate if some would-be instigator got smart. As he sat, leaning forward against a safety rail observing the figures moving about the space, Jacen couldn’t help but shake his head at the thought of having Trooper security at a place like this. Some of the most powerful beings in the Empire would be here today. What was he going to do that they couldn’t? Then again, he thought, only a rare few of the Sith he’d interacted with were…stable. Maybe that’s the benefit he brought to the Empire as a whole, and to this place today. Stability.

As if making his point, a group of what Jacen assumed to be dignitaries entered the main hall on the far side, and were immediately encountered by the Squad of troopers assigned to the front. And within a few moments, the entire squad was screaming and banging their heads against the ground as the group just carried on, never a care in the world until stopped by another figure Jacen didn’t recognize. Nor did he care too. His shocked face, hidden by his helmet, maintained its gaze on the troopers. With a heavy sigh, he pushed off the railing and shook his head.

Power without restraint, he thought to himself, madness.
The fear and darkness he felt just from standing in this room seemed to grow exponentially, and just like that he had wished to be anywhere else but here.

“What the hell just happened to the Welcome Mat?” A voice behind him asked before stepping forward and pointing, “You don’t need to point, Luc, I see it.” Jacen responded. Luc turned to look at him and shrugged, “Well?”
“I don’t know, either they did something stupid, which is unlikely, or one of our Lords took offense at something, which is more likely.” he held his hands out, and acted as if he was weighing them, “Would you like me to find out?” He asked, dropping his hands and looking at Luc.
“Oh, would you be a dear? You going to go ask the group that did it?” Luc asked, a very apparent ingenuine tone in his voice.
“Nope, but I’ll assign you to Welcome Mat if you keep it up,” Jacen said, jabbing a finger at Luc, who held up his hands in defeat, snickered, and went to join the other trooper in their squad, Huck, back further onto the platform.
He thought to radio and ask, but a feeling in his head immediately distrusted comms. He didn’t want anything he didn’t control to talk about something that may earn him the ire of an unstable Force user.
Jacen turned back and looked over his shoulder at his two men, “Don’t discuss what happened over comms. Matter of fact, don’t talk about it at all. I’ll go talk to the other teams, see what we want to do about the Welcome Mat. You both stay here, copy?” Both troopers nodded, and Jacen returned the nod before turning and beginning to descend the stairs, making his way to another team's location.

He tried to ignore the retching and general discontented sounds coming from the mess of troopers on the ground.
A familiar site stuck out to him, amongst the dark colorings of the setting, shining like a beacon was the Camo armor pattern of CT-312 and next to them a familiar shape in a tunic. As Jacen approached, he began to recognize the woman. He quickly snapped to attention as he approached, and nodded his head as opposed to bowed as he greeted them both.
“I’m…not entirely sure how to greet you. So, in the interest of not being killed,” He bowed, “It’s good to see you again,” He raised and looked at 312, “Fancy seeing you here. Only the finest establishments, huh?” He asked with a light chuckle before his laughter died. He looked over at the troopers, then back at 312. “Why.” he asked simply, with no inflection in his voice before turning to look at Brassius again. “You can’t do that, can you? Certainly wouldn’t do it to me, think of the fun we’ve had.”

Jacen thought about that mess after he had finished speaking. The powers of the people in this room...scared him. He'd be a fool to not treat them with absolute reverence, because otherwise would lead to...that. So what happened? Did some Trooper, stationed here, knowing what today was, why they were there, decide to insult or slight one of these nigh incomprehensibly powerful beings? Or did one of these incomprehensibly powerful beings of their own accord with no reason behind it at all decide to torment a squad of soldiers?

He hated that the answer wasn't satisfying with either possibility. On the one hand, absolute incompetence and stupidity. On the other hand... Best not even think about it.
​

 

[CT-312]

//: Jacen Breska Adean Castor | OPEN //:
//: Weapons: LO-18D ASSAULT RIFLE, & Vibroblade Knife//:
//: Attire //:
//: The Darklight //:
//: Objective I: The Tithe of Worlds //:

​

Not moving at first, CT-312’s visor remained fixed ahead. The expressionless helmet betrayed nothing of the person beneath it. Scanning the room, she mapped out the exits. Just a precaution, especially after the commotion that had occurred. Movement in her peripherals caught her attention. Green eyes looking in her direction. ‘Chit.’ So much for going unnoticed.

Her eyes shifted to the side, noticing an approaching figure. They weren’t in Trooper uniform, nor anything that screams guard duty. The figure wore a sharp, form fitted, high-collared outfit that was black and grey with a bit of gold trimmed accents. ‘Sith Lord?’ Tracking the figure, CT-312 noticed their change in gait. It wasn’t the usual intimidating stride majority of the Sith Lords favored. Not a threat, no. It was curious. Calculated. Those were the dangerous ones. Not being able to tell their true intentions.

"You do realize this is a meeting, not a jungle, right?" the acolyte asked, approaching the trooper with a gait that could hardly be taken as threatening. "Your camouflage is working in reverse here, I'm afraid."

Slowly CT-312 turned her head to the Lord, subtly tilting her helmet in a sliver of amusement. As if the Scout Trooper didn’t know that the Camouflage gear stuck out like a sore thumb in the room. “That so?” CT-312’s voice cackled softly through the vocoder. “I figured if I stood still long enough, I might blend into the room.” With a quiet, fluid motion, the Camo Scout pushed off the wall. Motioning a standard Imperial salute. “CT-312, My Lord.” she said simply. “How may I be of service?”, standing at attention.

Catching another movement behind the Lord, a familiar silhouette in the distance approached the two. Recognizing it to be TK-710. The Scout Trooper's brow raised at the interaction exchanged. It seemed these two were already acquainted. As TK-710 looked at CT-312, she nodded back at his greeting.

He raised and looked at 312, “Fancy seeing you here. Only the finest establishments, huh?”

“Likewise. Better than snow or sand.” Remembering their missions they were assigned together on. “And the floor here doesn’t try to kill you.” her head motioned towards the area of the Empire’s fallen Troopers. CT-312 gave a simple shrug and subtle head shake as to TK-710's inquiry of the incident. Heck if she knew. Disapproving. Her attention to the Lord’s answer.

A voice cut through the room, taking attention off from the entrance of the collapsed Troopers. Darth Meritum spoke of why all were gathered in an emergency conclave. A tithing. Voluntary. Rewards for those who contributed the most. The Third Legion would be born from this room. Be it fed by pride, funded by fear, driven by greed, or fueled by power—CT-312 would watch. And remember.

The Camo-clad Trooper glanced at the Lord beside her. Curious if she planned to offer anything to the Third Legion.

Spoiler: Nearby|Tags

Lirka Ka Serina Calis Taeli Raaf Allyson Locke Madelyn Lowe Festerruman Sachiel

 

[Kaila Irons]

TITHE OF WORLDS​

Wearing: New armor + Mask
Tag: Quinn Varanin Taeli Raaf Jacen Breska CT-312 Adean Castor
Nearby: Darth Meritum Lirka Ka Madelyn Lowe Serina Calis Festerruman Sachiel

Anathemous was not above petty politics. That didn't mean she liked it.

It put the young Darth on edge every time she entered one of these rooms. Not because she feared those present, in fact there were increasingly few she feared, but rather she feared the fallout that would wash over them all when she inevitably tried to kill one of them again.

Already a third lightsaber sat upon her belt, and it was not of her own creation...

Where others made a show of their entrance, the lord of Echnos simply walked in. Past Festerruman Sachiel and whatever cruelty the creatures were inflicting upon the empire's front line of defense. Her only sign of acknowledgment; the disgusted curl of her lips as she passed by.

"This is exactly why I come to these carrion feasts." she whispered closely to Quinn Varanin .

"I know what power you and I gain will one day solve problems like... them."

Her mood however lightened some upon spotting Taeli Raaf , who received a respectful nod from the tall blonde. Darth Arcanix had always been a voice of reason whenever she and Anathemous shared a room, to say nothing of the Dark Councilor's aid afforded to Echnos.

Then there was Jacen Breska , who's helm she'd seen a number of times now, always in heavy fighting by her and Gerwald Lechner 's side. So too stood CT-312 , who's camouflaged armor was paradoxically the most recognizable among the ranks.

"Soldiers." she said with an accompanying dip of her chin as she stopped before the pair.

Though she did not yet know them by name, she knew of their service to the Second Legion. Gerwald Lechner 's legion. Her legion, in that she commanded a portion of it's forces in his name.

"Ma'am." the governor also inclined her chin to Adean Castor , before quickly turning her attention back to the troopers.

"If anyone does that to Second Legion personnel," she glanced towards the disastrous scene by the entrance, crossing exo-muscled arms over her armored chest.

"Tell me. It will not go unanswered on my watch."

Then it was Darth Meritum 's voice which drew her golden eyes to stare over broad pauldrons, reminding the young Darth that her priority should be tribute to the Third Legion, to her chagrin. She'd already given so much to the Second, men, resources, her own blood even. While necessary to the security of their order, she did not know the men of the Third like she knew The Wolf's men.

And Anathemous did not trust what she did not know.

​

 

[Serina Calis]

"Silken lies and rigged promises."

Tags - OBJECTIVE ONE: Lirka Ka Quinn Varanin Kaila Irons Taeli Raaf Darth Meritum Festerruman Sachiel CT-312 Jacen Breska Adean Castor



The wine was flawless—an Obroan vintage, crisp and mineral-rich, with a closing bitterness that lingered like withheld judgment. Serina preferred it that way. Sweetness was for the naïve. Bitterness told the truth.

She raised her glass again, tilting it toward the Governor of Mala, who met the gesture with a boyish grin and a theatrical clink of his own. He was handsome in a way that hadn't yet hardened from politics—cheekbones a little too perfect, hair that looked like it belonged on a holodrama poster, and the kind of magnetic charm that made aristocrats lean in just a little too far when he spoke. And he used it. Constantly.

"And then the Duros delegate realizes," he said, voice pitching toward scandalous glee, "that the 'secured phrik shipment' he'd been bragging about was actually a mislabeled crate of synth-soy bricks. You've never seen a man go from imperial authority to culinary disappointment so fast in your life."

Serina laughed—quiet, unguarded, lethal in its softness. "Did he try to salvage the situation?"

"Oh, gods no," the Governor replied, swirling his wine. "He fainted. Straight onto the repulsorlift platform. I had to issue a minor condolence statement while pretending not to cry with laughter."

"Diplomatic heroism," Serina intoned with a slight tilt of her head. "You've truly done the Empire proud."

He raised a hand solemnly. "If there's ever a medal for restraint in the face of overwhelming idiocy, I expect you to present it personally."

"I'd forge it myself," she replied. "Out of synth-soy."

They both laughed again—this time with the kind of shared, conspiratorial mirth that carried through subtext. Neither trusted the other, not truly. But that wasn't required. Not here. Not now. There was something refreshing about exchanging sharp words without cloaked threats.

Still smiling, the Governor leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "You know, I think you're already too much for the Sith to handle. Half the room looks like it wants to applaud you. The other half looks like it wants to disintegrate you."

Serina's smile turned razor-thin.

"I hear that often," she said lightly, taking a sip of her wine. "Especially after Saijo."

He nearly choked. "Oh stars, that was you, wasn't it?"

"Technically, I was merely conducting an unscheduled restructuring of planetary governance."

"You invaded, looted their planetary vaults, and bombed their planet while watching from orbit."

"And I gave them a forty-minute window to evacuate."

"As if."

"Efficiency," Serina said, cool as the crystal in her glass, "is a virtue."

The Governor pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. "You're going to make someone try to assassinate you."

"Let them," she murmured. "I could use a new outfit. Something dramatic. Blood usually stains nicely."

He stared at her for a beat, then shook his head, grinning. "You're terrifying."

"And yet," she replied, brushing an invisible fleck of dust from her sleeve, "you keep sitting next to me."

"That's because I have impeccable taste and a death wish."

"Possibly both."

From that point their conversation flowed easily, deliberately apolitical, laced with the kind of half-ironic charm that two clever people use when pretending the galaxy isn't falling apart outside the viewport. The boy had promise, she thought—charm weaponized as soft power, the sort of quality that could be sharpened into something useful. It was a game, and one she enjoyed playing for once.

But then—

The doors shifted. The room inhaled.

A noise, low and distant, reached them through the cathedral acoustics of the chamber. Not words—just disturbance. Like something had gone wrong.

Her jaw tensed. The goblet froze mid-sip.

Not here. Not now.

She did not turn her head. She sensed the ripple before she heard the details. Something outside the chamber had escalated. Her blue eyes narrowed slightly—not in fear, but in contempt. How utterly predictable. There was always some child in a mask trying to make a name for themselves by setting the room on fire. And yet, in this particular gathering, with this many assembled players, such chaos wasn't clever. It was suicidal.

And she knew exactly who would be cleaning up the mess.

Darth Arcanix.

She had been unusually... considerate during their last confrontation. Too considerate, perhaps. Serina had expected retribution, dissection, perhaps even a quiet assassination. What she got was courtesy. Not forgiveness—Sith don't forgive—but something more unsettling: measured regard. Arcanix didn't waste energy on things beneath her.

And so Serina knew with bone-deep certainty: whoever was causing the noise outside would not leave whole.

A subtle smile ghosted her lips. She sipped again.

It was at that moment that Allyson Locke entered.

A flicker of disruption stirred beneath the surface. Not panic. Not resentment. Just... memory.

The Corellian moved with that frustratingly casual gait that masked a mind like a vibroblade—always angled, always listening. Serina's eyes met hers across the chamber. For a moment, time folded. She remembered their last exchange—tense, bitter, unfinished. There were things she'd wanted to say then, cruelties she'd rehearsed and buried.

Someone who should of bled for her insolence.

But today?

She smiled.

A poised, unmistakably warm expression formed on her lips, and she offered a single, graceful wave—fingers tipping like a blade dipping into water. A mask, but a gentle one.

Let her wonder what it meant.

And then came Quinn Varanin.

The room changed again.

Not in noise, but in wavelength. Serina felt it before she saw it—the way the ambient Force bent slightly, as though space itself made room for her. Platinum hair caught the light like woven starlight, hazel eyes skimming the crowd, unreadable but devastating. Quinn moved like a question that didn't need to be asked, and for a moment, Serina's breath caught in her throat.

Should she have kissed her harder that fateful day? Or not at all?

No. Stop.

Serina took another sip of wine and gently tapped her holopad under the table. No one else saw. Just one brief message sent across the HoloNet's local field.

To: Q. Varanin
Message: Hey Quinn! Good to see you!

Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a pulse in the dark.

She forced herself not to look again. Not yet.

More Sith were arriving now—governors and lords in embroidered robes, petty alchemists with delusions of grandeur, war-beasts posturing like caged animals hoping someone would mistake feral energy for power. All of them so different, yet united by one glaring, agonizing commonality: they were so fucking stupid. Their stupidity was not always loud—though often it was—but it was always present, woven into the way they mistook cruelty for cunning, spectacle for strategy, and obsession for strength.

A few of them, the most nauseating of all, still clung to obsolete fantasies like love, as if power could be shared without being bled for. They weren't Sith. They were sentimentalists with lightsabers. She watched them like a predator might watch diseased prey—curious, but unwilling to feed. Let them cheer for each other's mediocrity. When the culling began, they'd be the first to fall.

Then Meritum's voice cut through the chamber like a ceremonial blade. The Tithe had begun.

Her posture straightened. Wine glass lowered. No more humor. The Governor of Mala glanced her way, sensing the shift in her gravity. He said nothing—wise of him.

Serina folded her hands in her lap and remained seated.

She would not be the first to speak.

Not yet.

Let them call out fleets, declare legacies, offer relics and ships and bloodlines in full view of the court.

And then—then—when the noise had built to its most deafening—

She would show them what silence could do.

 

[Adean Castor]

TAG: CT-312 | Jacen Breska | Kaila Irons | Open
NEARBY: Serina Calis | Lirka Ka | Taeli Raaf | Festerruman Sachiel | Allyson Locke | Madelyn Lowe | Quinn Varanin | Darth Meritum
OBJECTIVE: The Tithe of Worlds
APPAREL: X

A wave of relief tickled at Adean's senses as the trooper seemed to play along with her observations. So the evening wouldn't be entirely grandstanding and declarations, fantastic. A sliver of personality would do wonders for navigating a room of manipulators. Brassius found themself faltering a fraction when the trooper shifted to a salute. Well, no, Brassius had no issue with it, Adean, however, found herself caught momentarily off guard. Even dressed in finery, she was an acolyte at most, a fraud at base. She held no real status or title, most certainly not 'Lord'.

And yet that was the role assigned to her, so a lord she would be for the evening.

"At ease, CT-312," she said with her full chest, posture, which had already been quite straight to fit the expectation of a Zambrano, tightened a hair more. "I was merely curious as to your status this evening, considering your armor's unique coloration."

Another joined them, a silhouette that was vaguely familiar, that turned to full-blown recognition once he spoke. "I see you're fairing well," she offered in greeting, a hand almost instinctively curving upwards as if bidding him rise. Attention was once more brought to the unfortunate troops at the entrance. "That is a secret for me, I'm afraid," a wry smile, albeit muted in comparison to their previous meeting, tugged at Adean's lips. "Though I trust you would not give me a reason to do so, hmm?" The true, honest answer was that it was well beyond her skills, though it'd be a fool's decision to admit so here. Whatever assumptions were made about her status, she fully intended to let them remain as such. A touch quieter, she added, "Some of us are not as inclined to such superfluous displays of barbarism."

Phantom retches drifted into her ears at the thought, nearly sending a shudder down her shoulders, saved only by the presence of a newcomer. It was to be expected that an agent of the Tiss'kar would keep some sort of tabs on important names among the empire. In doing so, Brassius recognized Kaila Irons just enough to offer a bow of the head and a "Governor," in a returned greeting. Another wave of relief tugged at Adean as the Governor addressed the troops once more. It was good to see another, especially one in power, did not care for the entrance hall display, though Adean had to wonder how much of it was care for the troops and how much was more a sense of ownership over them. The latter was often the case, at least in her own experiences.

Darth Meritum 's voice rose over the crowd, calling forth those paying tribute to the Third Legion. Brassius' arms crossed over their chest, chin tilting to see who would be the first to step forward. "And now the real game is afoot," she murmured, almost to herself. "Who gives what...and why?"

 

[Jacen Breska]

THE TITHE OF WORLDS ​

WEARING:: Jacen’s Second Legion Armor
EQUIPMENT: DC-902d
LOCATION: :: The Darklight ::
TAG: Adean Castor CT-312 Kaila Irons @OPEN for anyone on OBJ1!

The simple shrug from CT-312 caused Jacen to shake his head and sigh in disappointment. Not at the gesture, just at the situation in general. What masters they chose to serve. The intervention of the Dark Councillor, Taeli Raaf , though he could not hear the conversation from here, did put his mind at ease a little. With a quiet grunt, he shook his head and tried to will the event out of his mind. He could do nothing now, save to ensure he did not suffer similarly. But try as he might the images stuck inside his mind. More so then horrors he'd seen, horrors he'd fought. At least he knew where he stood with Starweirds, Diarchs, rogue Droids, and demons.
Jacen was thankful for the helmet hiding his face, he was sure he was sweating uncontrollably, but he turned his attention back towards Brassius and smiled under his helmet before he shook his head softly, “No my Lord,” he answered with a slight chuckle, “I’m on my best.”

I kind of have to be. All the time, he thought to himself.

A touch quieter, she added, "Some of us are not as inclined to such superfluous displays of barbarism."

He listened as she spoke, the smile fading underneath his helmet, but it returned after a moment of quiet pondering, “And on behalf of everyone who serves in the Legions, thank some of you, my Lord.”

He bowed his head again, and turned as more people entered. He snapped crisply to attention and immediately followed it with a bow as Kaila Irons approached. “My Lord,” he greeted respectfully, rising to listen to her as she spoke.

The exact Hierarchy Jacen was expected to follow was a bit confusing at times, but he did know Lord Anathemous was near the top. Lord Lechner above her, and the Emperor above him. That much was clear to him. Of course, being a smart trooper, Jacen would accept orders from any Lord or Lady of the Sith, but they’d fought together, she’d earned his respect and loyalty on top of his obedience. Lords Lechner and Anathemous, two points on the board for Sith worth serving, worth being loyal to. But…still, something tugged at him. Some inkling of pride was nagging from somewhere inside himself. What his Lord Anathemous had said, ‘if anyone does that to Second Legion personnel…’
“None of us are stupid enough to be in that position, my Lord…” He said aloud before taking a deep breath and muttering underneath it, “...I hope.”

He bowed again as Lord Anathemous made their exit and turned to partake more fully in the actual reason this assembly had been called to begin with. As much excitement as this incident had caused, it was easy to forget it wasn't why they were all there. But it would be something that would stick with Jacen for a long time moving forward, he was sure of it, looking at the troopers as they were finally being attended to and taken away by medical personnel.

It was an ever present fear serving the Sith created. Stories passed through the barracks now and then, whispers about troopers executed for failure. Jacen’d never seen it before and he wanted to believe they were mostly exaggerations, or deserved. He understood what the Empire was, knew how brutal it had to be. He knew what had to be done to bring order to the galaxy and he knew only the Sith could do it… but the power in this room just made him feel small. He knew that sometimes order had to be established by any means necessary, sacrifices had to be made and punishments rendered. Perhaps someday would be Jacen’s last, he’d get on the wrong side of some Lord or Lady and that would just be that. An ignoble end. That was the fear that you just accepted as part of the risk.
But that line. If anyone does that to second legion personnel. It hadn’t been about justice, or even outrage. It felt more like a declaration of ownership. ‘They don’t get to kill you because you belong to us.’ It made Jacen feel like cattle. He was branded, owned. Property of the Second Legion. Anyone of those soldiers could have been the next TK-710. But their master wasn’t here and his was. And that was his saving grace, his shield, he thought. Not that he was a good soldier, or loyal, or even useful.

He just wasn’t theirs to break.
​

 

[Lirka Ka]

OBJECTIVE I
TAGS: Serina Calis Taeli Raaf Jacen Breska CT-312 Adean Castor Allyson Locke Kaila Irons Festerruman Sachiel Madelyn Lowe

It was a beautiful assembly. All pride and bravado, of monsters and murderers clambering together into the halls of the Darklight. Lirka could taste holy war in the air, their purpose felt almost divine. So many faces, forced together under the Emperor's black banner. Forced under the newest banner of the Third Legion. The room almost felt like a bubbling pot ready to explode, Lirka relished it.

She took note of the ones she knew. The grand annoyance that was Serina Calis . The "greatest spy in the Galaxy" and her perhaps most unfortunate co-worker Allyson Locke . The metallic form of her would-be-assassin Kaila Irons . The troopers CT-312 and Jacen Breska who had become something of fascinations for Lirka after their many bouts - they had certainly survived longer under strenuous conditions than the poor sods that had been guarding the door. Lirka paid the coming ordeal little heed - in her preferred circles such bouts of violence and the butting of heads were to be expected.

Today, all were meager things. It was the Emperor's proxy Darth Meritum that drew the attention of her lenses. The rest of the rabble she could deal with later, partake in the ever-present politicking of the Sith. For the words of this conclave made that thumping in her chest grow ever stronger, the fires of ambition growing to higher peaks with each passing moment.

She would be the first to answer the voice. Lirka Ka the patriot - odder things had certainly happened before.

Stepping forward with the metallic thud of her heavy boots against the floor, chest puffed and pride emanating. She let her own voice cut through the crowd - at least slightly amplified by the systems that laid within her helmet. Her options for the tithe may have been limited...yet

"I am Lirka Ka. To the third, I offer all that I may! At my back, stands my warriors: veterans of raids aplenty in the chaotic lands outside our Blackwall. Outside Darklight, my ship and all that is held within its confines. And most of all-"

Lirka was a Sephi at heart, even in her horrible evolution. And with that came a flair for the dramatic, her blade snapped to her hand and unfurled. Gleaming songsteel thrust into the air, the dark light of this place glimmering upon its features.

"-I offer myself! My blade for the third!"

Many in the gathering were willing to watch, and wait. Under all normal circumstances, Lirka would have most certainly joined their ranks. Patience was a virtue rarely appreciated: but sometimes one needed to be loud, boisterous, the heaving blade that would cut through the silence and ignite the fires of passion with its sparks.