Private Arks & Empires

[Darth Prazutis]

Unknown Regions, Malsheem...

"Emissary Ascania, I reach out on behalf of the Sith Dyarchy. Included in this message are hyperspace coordinates, head there now. There are certain guidelines to abide by for this encounter. Arrive with a single vessel, weaponry powered down. If more than one vessel is detected, you will be fired upon. You have been cleared for two life forms, if more than the permitted life forms are detected once your vessel is scanned, you will be fired upon. Once you are within the designated area do not deviate from the course set out for you, or you will be fired upon." - Darth Vornoth, Voice of the Dyarchy​

A single message, a set of hyperspace coordinates somewhere out in the darkness of space, in the very middle of nowhere by all accounts. That was all the word that would be received before the channel died, no return would be answered. Deep in a vacant stretch of space in the wake of a vast nebula of blue-green wonder, something stopped. It was easily among the single largest constructs ever forged by the living, carving its legacy deep into the bones of history forever. Its size defied all comprehension or expectation, a surface of rune carved black metal so dark it drank in the stars light around it.

In fact its position before a nebula was the only reason anyone could tell it was even here at all, so dark was its surface it moved like a colossal wraith through the vastness of space. Its center holding an opening so vast few ships ever existed that couldn't enter through the maw of this vast monster. This massive goliath radiated the dark side with such strength, it pulsed like a living, beating heart of darkness, for it was Malsheem, Ark of the Sith.

All around it they came.

A storm of hyperspace jumps followed the giant as it settled so many so quickly, it was impossible to count them all. It was an armada of such immense size, entire sections of the galaxy could fall at its wrath. Those who understood what they were facing would know this was the bulk of the Shadow Armada of the Kainate. They traveled alongside Malsheem at all times, a protective barrier between the ark and anything that would dare threaten its safety. Vessels of all shapes and sizes surrounded Malsheem, its last defender was the Eternal Rule, Flagship of the Kainate. It was considered the duty of all Kainites to defend Malsheem when called upon, no duty mattered more than to keep it safe. It was the deepest held conviction by all who followed the creed of the Eternal Rule.

Malsheem constantly traveled the void of space always moving, ensuring it couldn't be easily hunted by those desiring to destroy the beating heart of Kainite power. Afterall it was the birthplace of empires, its design such that all current and future Sith Empires could spawn right within the industrial apparatus contained within the worldcraft. The Shadow Armada surrounded Malsheem as it came to a stop its vessels spreading out. Prowlers began mapping every inch of the nebula, while others uniquely designed to detect hidden or cloaked vehicles swiftly scanned their surroundings to ensure nothing remained that they couldn't see. Traffic was surprisingly high around the vessel, as if complacency didn't exist when it came to the worldcraft. Even now the vessels seemed to prowl like wolves.

They waited for something, someone...

Lysander von Ascania | Dominique Vexx​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Dominique Vexx Darth Prazutis​

Lysander was convinced that the Dyarch's gaze was already trained on him; every quiver in the Force marked a lesson unlearned. The message echoed again in his mind, nerves unspooled. More than ever, he was acutely aware of how much he still had to learn. Emissary, instructor, member of the Covenant's council; the titles came easily enough.

Today was pivotal in some ways. The Republic's High Chancellor was arguably the most significant non Sith political figure he'd met so far, and one of the few who challenged him with diplomacy instead of another lightsaber. The Covenant would forever provide ample opportunity for swordplay. But perhaps the original invitation sprang from something simpler. She had been the first to extend trust after the events aboard the Trinity. Not without caveats, but he could have been dismissed entirely. Escorting her beyond the Black Wall was, in a sense, the repayment of a courtesy. And he suspected this would not be the last time their paths crossed. Too many conflicts stemmed from ignorance; he'd already waged wars born of people convinced they understood each other.

Maintaining strong relations with the Kainite was also vital; from fortresses and access to their technologies to aid on the shared battlefields, it was still only the beginning. After all, Lysander was forged in the shadows of the Holy Worlds; to finally witness the Malsheem felt like a grim gift.. at least for a Sith.

Outside the viewport, the fortress cleaved through the veil of the void, a continent ripped from the carcass of a dead star. The pulse of the Kainite's Heart, a monolith of nightmares that devoured the light of the nearby nebula smear.

Between them in the cockpit, a small carafe rested in its cradle. Tea had been steeped, and the scent of it opened in the air around them. It was dry with a distinct mineral note drawn from Ukatis groundwater. Two cups were ready; the second chalice rested within Dominique's reach. It was one of several rituals that always grounded him. A quiet hearth, however small, as they drifted into the maw of an unconquerable empire..

Glancing over to the Chancellor, he was curious to see what her countenance did with the view of splendor. "For what it's worth, I'm grateful you accepted my invitation. Most prefer their assumptions kept at a safe distance."

Lysander drew a careful sip. "Which brings me to wonder.." Steam trailed from his lips as silence stretched, like a page waiting for ink. "What assumption about the Republic do you find yourself correcting most often?" Gentle pressure coaxed the cup to rotate before another slow sip washed across his tongue.

Looking ahead once more, he followed the Armada's patterns. The Merregon-class Transport's weaponry was offline; the course was locked in. Nothing left to do but wait.

"And please, no political platitudes. I'd prefer an honest answer."

 

[Dominique Vexx]

A bad idea. That was what they would call this. More emphatically, but boiled down to its simplest form what Dominique had planned was a bad idea. After the abduction of then-Chancellor Kalantha, few would consider accepting an invitation behind the Black Wall without an armada a good idea. Some would even find the very idea an affront to sense and sensibility.

Then again, Dominique wasn't one to write off relations with the Sith as most would. As a Corpo, she was not inclined to sever relations with prospective clients without good cause. As things were, however, good cause would be found inevitably. Darth Carnifex and her had agreed that much was certain. Today, tomorrow, or a hundred years from now the war would happen. Yet, as she'd told the man to his face, it was her job to put it off as long as possible.

Which given recent events might not be so far off as she had hoped.

Dominique's countenance was... quite relaxed, in fact, as her golden eyes peered out the port at the Malsheem. If anything, its size had registered as part of a long-running calculation concerning the amount of material, construction personnel, operations personnel, fuel, and every-day supplies that would be needed to build and maintain such a creation. Had any of its materials come from or through Denon, she wondered? It was larger than the Death Star and she'd considered that wasteful expenditure -- not that she would ever have told the Galactic Empire not to build it, by all means give corporations all the credits. Was this Malsheem equally unnecessary? Perhaps if she knew more of its capabilities...

When Lysander spoke up, Dominique leaned back from the port to look over at the man with a small smile. "I couldn't pass up such an opportunity. Forgive me if my reactions are dull by comparison, I have heard few have the honor of being even this close and living; while I do not understand its symbolic weight, I am taken by its design." And the amount of credits it took to build and maintain it. If only Denon had exclusive rights to build something so imposing.

Yes, Denon was rich (for some), but it could always stand to be richer.

As her host spoke, Dominique reached out to retrieve the cup of tea he'd poured as she'd been busy examining the Malsheem. She allowed the scent of the brew to fill her nostrils in the silence. At last, Lysander sued for brutal honesty.

"That the Republic is weak and ripe for harvesting." Dominique's eyes flicked up from the placid surface of the tea to Lysander's eyes a moment before she brought the brew slowly to her lips. "Mm, delightful," she remarked concerning the tea as it was gently lowered. "Has the Republic been forged into a uniform ingot of iron? No. But I hope our adversaries recognize that our lack of conformity while a weakness is also -- used wisely -- a strength. We can contemplate ideas that would otherwise have never seen the light of day. Avoid the gridlock of people fearing a brutal end for failure. Splinter and reform more readily than layers of metal that fail to fuse and separate requiring the entire ingot be made anew." Empires had their strengths. Dominique wasn't one to decry Imperial rule as being outrageous or deplorable. It was full of corruption that a Corpo could exploit, but that very same weakened the whole in time. They exploited it hopeful of extracting their fill before the end. Lysander must have heard people wax on about the failures of Empires many times by now, so she'd spare him the lecture; rather, she gave him precisely what he wanted, her take on the Republic. Notably, what weakness she saw in it.

"Ultimately, neither of us are right and neither wrong in isolation." Dominique chuckled to herself. "Given sufficient time, everything we've done and have yet to do will happen again. You see, Lysander, we're victims not of fate, but of repetition. As time goes on lessons and sacrifices are forgotten, and all that went before comes again. Which is why I strongly oppose a hot war between our two people. In the short term, everything changes. But it doesn't take long before the cycle starts again. If we but broke the cycle..." the Chancellor's free hand rolled slightly. Who could say what might happen.

Dominique paused to look across at Lysander over her cup. "And yourself? What do you find people presuming about the Sith Covenant?"

Lysander von Ascania | Darth Prazutis​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

For a time, there was no answer.

The Merregon-class transport continued along the prescribed approach vector, its weapons cold, its engines disciplined beneath the invisible hand of coordinates it had not chosen. Around it, the Shadow Armada moved with the patient menace of predators circling a wounded thing, every vessel holding formation with a precision too absolute to be merely practiced. Prowlers slid through the dark like knives half-seen in smoke. Sensor craft drifted in deliberate arcs along the nebular veil, their arrays turning toward empty places where lesser powers would have seen nothing at all.

Then Malsheem opened.

The aperture at the heart of the worldcraft was not a hangar in any conventional sense. It was a wound in the face of a manufactured moon, a circular abyss large enough to devour cities and still leave room for the machinery of conquest to breathe. Around its rim, rings of black metal rotated with cathedral slowness, each layer carved in Sith runes and broken by shield projectors, docking spars, and cavernous manufacturing galleries. Red light pulsed from within, not bright, but deep and arterial, as if the whole construct possessed a heart and they had been invited into one of its veins. A voice came through the transport's comms. "Merregon-class vessel, identity confirmed. Life-form count confirmed. Armament status confirmed." It was not Darth Vornoth this time. The voice was colder, flattened by machine translation and layered beneath something organic, something watchful.

"Maintain present velocity. Manual course correction is prohibited. Guidance authority has been transferred to Malsheem Approach Control. Any attempt to resist docking capture will be interpreted as hostile deviation." Outside the viewport, the stars disappeared. The transport passed beneath the first threshold and into the maw. For several seconds, there was only darkness and the faint tremor of overlapping shields crawling across the hull. A shimmer of blue-white passed over the transparisteel as the vessel entered the first scanning field. Then another. Then a third, red as dying embers. Each one peeled across the ship with intrusive thoroughness, measuring heat, mass, weapon signatures, biological presence, chemical traces, active electronics, dormant electronics, hidden compartments, and things no Republic port authority had ever possessed the imagination to name.

Beyond the fields, the interior resolved into scale. The throat of Malsheem was lined with descending levels of docking platforms, crane-spines, tram gantries, armored causeways, and immense cofferdam gates built for vessels many times larger than their own. Far below, shipyard pits burned with furnace-light, where skeletal frames of warships hung in assembly scaffolds like leviathan bones suspended over an industrial underworld. Automated foundry arms the size of towers moved with tireless certainty, welding, cutting, shaping. Swarms of droids crawled along hull sections and gantry rails in synchronized clouds. This was not merely a station. It was an empire in the act of building itself. The Merregon drifted past one open manufacturing gulf where rows of starfighters hung nose-down from magnetic racks, incomplete wings unfolding as assembly limbs fitted armor plating into place. In another, armored vehicles rolled from fabrication bays onto heavy cargo trams, their hulls still smoking from the heat of fresh-forged metal. Farther in, through a break in the internal architecture, there was a glimpse of something that looked almost impossible within a construct of war: Towers. Streets. High-walled habitation blocks layered beneath a dark artificial sky.

The City of Dis. It did not sprawl outward like the cities of planets did. It rose, descended, folded over itself in tiers and terraces, stacked between the great structural ribs of the worldcraft. Vast residential strata climbed in sheer walls, broken by balconies, enclosed walkways, tram arteries, devotional plazas, and narrow windows burning with pale institutional light. Above them, the ceiling vanished into smoke and distance, ten kilometers of vertical gloom crowded with suspended transit lines, security platforms, and the silhouettes of industrial conduits crossing from one layer into another. There were banners there too. Black. Crimson. The sigils of Eternal Rule hung from megastructure walls like the standards of a civilization that had never known sunlight and did not miss it. Holographic proclamations drifted across the facades. Statues of Sith Lords stood at transit junctions, immense and severe, their outstretched hands aimed toward the central axis of the worldcraft.

Toward the Imperius Spire. Even from the approach corridor, it could be seen in fragments: a colossal central shaft piercing the layered body of Malsheem, sealed behind kilometers of armor, watchtowers, lift cores, and restricted causeways. It was not one structure so much as a vertical dominion, a black spine running through the Ark from the reactor depths toward the sacred heights. Entire districts seemed to bend around it. Transit paths converged toward it only to be cut off by blast doors, checkpoints, and interdiction gates. Around its base and upper approaches were closed sectors, their walls cleaner, darker, more heavily guarded. The domain of the Dyarchy. The transport's course banked away before the view could linger. Ahead, a hangar opened from the inner wall of the maw, its entrance framed by layered blast shutters large enough to seal a capital ship within. The bay designation appeared across the transport's console without request.

DIS APPROACH HANGAR SEVEN-AUREK. DIPLOMATIC PROCESSION HOLD.

The landing was not chosen by the pilot. Malsheem took them. Invisible tractor fields seized the transport with clinical gentleness, overriding momentum until the vessel glided into the hangar with the quiet obedience of an offering placed upon an altar. Rows of red guide-lights flared along the deck. Shield curtains rippled behind them as they crossed the threshold, and the outer immensity vanished behind segmented gates that closed one after another, each impact shuddering through the hangar like the fall of a fortress door. The bay itself was vast, though by Malsheem's standards it was only a minor receiving chamber. Its ceiling disappeared into darkness broken by cargo rails and suspended defense turrets. Along the walls, maintenance alcoves housed articulated loader-arms, refueling spars, armored lifts, and transport elevators descending into lower logistical arteries. Beyond the far side of the hangar, a wide runed blackstone viewing barrier looked out into one of the upper arteries of the City of Dis, where trams moved through the gloom like illuminated serpents.

Hundreds of figures waited in perfect formation.

Koshûtaral Sentinels. Shadow Protectors. Crimson Cloaks. The red-armored enforcers of House Zambrano's will.

They stood in immaculate ranks along the landing path, cloaks falling from their shoulders in dark crimson sheets, armor polished to a martial sheen beneath the hangar's low red light. Their weapons were lowered, but never lax. Their posture carried the unnatural stillness of men and women raised from childhood to understand that duty was worship and hesitation was sin. Above them, security drones hovered in disciplined silence, lenses rotating with insectile precision. Rotary autoblasters tracked from recessed ceiling mounts. Door-fields glowed faintly across side corridors. Every exit was controlled. Every balcony was occupied. Every shadow had been assigned a purpose.

At the base of the landing ramp stood Darth Prazutis.

The Shadow Hand of the Kainate waited alone before the ranks of His guards, and yet alone was the last thing He seemed. Darkness gathered around Him as if drawn by gravity. He wore no warplate, no monstrous shell of alchemized iron, no battlefield crown wrought for conquest. Instead, He was robed in Zâvrai Kôzkar, the Veil of the Shadow Reign.

The regalia drank the light around it.

Black folds of Shikkari Shadow-Silk and living Death-Weave moved with a will too subtle to be wind. The fabric didn't simply hang from His towering frame; it flowed, tightened, and breathed in response to unseen command, as though the abyss itself had been taught obedience. Blood-forged aurodium embroidery traced ancient Sith runes across mantle, cuffs, and hem, each sigil pulsing faintly like embers buried beneath volcanic glass. Obsidian Voidshard threading shimmered only when the light failed to touch it, a contradiction woven into cloth. Blackstone accents rested at his belt and collar like ritual foci, ancient and severe.

His presence arrived before His words. It pressed into the hangar with suffocating weight, a ceaseless darkness that choked all things into submission before its titanic storm. The air seemed colder where He stood. Sound carried less freely. The distant machinery of Malsheem dimmed beneath the oppressive gravity of Him. For those unaccustomed to the true dark, there would be whispers at the edge of hearing, the suggestion of screams buried beneath silk, the sensation of standing before something vast enough to make courage feel temporary.

When the transport's engines wound down, the hangar did not stir. No one moved before Him. Pressure equalized. Locks cycled. The ramp lowered with a hiss into the cold air of the Ark. Only then did Darth Prazutis step forward. "High Chancellor Dominique Vexx." He said, His voice carrying through the chamber with calm authority. "Emissary Ascania." His gaze passed from one to the other, heavy with the knowledge of their names, stations, histories, and uses. There was no surprise in Him. No curiosity openly displayed. Whatever thoughts moved behind those eyes remained buried beneath the discipline of a being who had spent more than a century standing beside thrones, building empires, breaking nations, and teaching history to kneel.

"Welcome to Malsheem." Behind Him, the massive inner doors at the rear of the hangar began to part, revealing a processional causeway beyond. Through it waited the City of Dis in all its oppressive grandeur: Streets of black stone and metal, towers rising into darkness, banners stirring in recycled wind, crowds held back behind magnetic barriers, and above it all the distant thunder of machinery that never slept.

Prazutis turned slightly, allowing them to see what waited beyond the reception bay. "You have crossed the Blackwall. You have passed beneath the guns of the Shadow Armada. You now stand within the Ark of the Sith." A pause followed, deliberate and heavy. "Malsheem is not a fortress alone. It is not a shipyard alone. It is not a palace, nor city, nor temple, though it contains all of these things. It is continuity. It is insurance against extinction. It is the answer to every age that believed the Sith could be scattered, starved, besieged, or forgotten."

His gaze shifted to Dominique. "The Republic builds coalitions between worlds. The Kainate built a world that requires none." Then to Lysander. "And from this world, empires may be born as often as history demands them."

Lysander von Ascania | Dominique Vexx​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Dominique Vexx Darth Prazutis​

Lysander turned the little cup in his hand, fingers tracing its stem as steam curled toward the viewport. At first, he said nothing; his pupils captured the planet sized fortress before them. "There is nothing to forgive," settled into the space between them, and be meant it. "In fact, it's an excellent place to begin. What something is built to do, and what is built to look like seldom align." From experience, the second always outlasted the first. More importantly, he noted, was that she didn't arrive with a scripted answer. He wasn't even sure how he felt about their destination. Whether that reflected poorly on him or accurately on the Malsheem itself, who was to say.

With a swivel, the Chancellor filled his field of view. The coldness in his gaze thawed from the candor. The tea hovered beneath his nose, capturing the aroma. New ideas pressed against the walls of his convictions, smudging them askew. The Point Emissary didn't fire back an immediate rebuttal that one might expect from a Sith. Even then, he took a needed moment to reconcile her words against philosophy he'd been forged to uphold. Power could assume countless forms.

"So you're saying the Republic survives by constantly adapting itself. I've often wondered if that level of flexibility, while impressive, ever creates a sense of vertigo for the people living within it. Sometimes it feels.. mm, so disorganized that it's impossible to pin down where the actual power resides, which makes it frustrating for those of us who prefer knowing exactly who's in charge."

Admittedly, it was challenging not to offer a critique. Old habits, years of doctrinal influence.. it could have been a combination of things, really.

"It's a very practical way to view governance. One that accepts uncertainty as the price of being open to new ideas. And I don't think you're wrong about the potential for discovery. When you remove the threat of complete failure, you do invite a different kind of ambition. People become willing to explore ideas that might otherwise never survive first contact with reality." The cup lifted in a small salute to her perspective.

"It's just interesting to compare that to my side of the aisle, where we tend to believe that you cannot forge anything significant unless you are willing to risk everything at once. Many of my people prioritize the strength of the finished product over comfort of the process." A nod followed. "But listening to you, Dominique, I see the appeal of your approach. It manages to keep going, regardless of how many times it has to break itself down to do so. It is a very remarkable way to govern, I'll give you that."

Curiously, when the lens turned back toward the Covenant, he found there was no shortage of answers. "I know what people say about us.. that we're cruel, power hungry, and that every handshake is hiding a scheme. And, sure, some days we aren't exactly winning any popularity contests. On our bad ones, we give them plenty of reasons to think that way."

One shoulder lifted in a half shrug. "But those aren't the assumptions that concern me. People look at the Covenant and assume we hold some master blueprint tucked away somewhere. Some believe every campaign is just another step toward some glorious finish line. I once believe that too, back when I was an acolyte. It's a comforting narrativee, isn't it? That we're building something permanent. Yet the older I grow, the more I distrust anyone claiming they've reached the final chapter."

A crooked smile pulled at his cheek, perhaps a means of balancing honesty with grace. "Well, if I were a gardener, I'd look at your sector and see nothing but weeds choking the crop." But the humor vanished like smoke in a gale. Pinpricks of light flickered. Darkness blanketed the viewport. Crimson light bled into the cockpit, scanning the ship like some entomologist studying a trapped moth. Outside, the transport ship capitulated, drawing near the hangar, engines soon dying with a whimper.

There was a final intake of the tea; the warm sensation bloom across his tongue. Porcelain clattered against the console before a silent check-in with Dominque to confirm she was ready before he moved. Lysander stepped off the ramp. As he crested the unfamiliar floor, he didn't immediately look to the horizon of Malsheem. Dipping his head, the bow was fluid as it was precise. "Lord Prazutis." He didn't look up immediately, maintaining deference to his station. "Standing here at last is a profound honor; Chancellor Vexx and I remain deeply grateful for this invitation."

Once abandoning that position, his attention snapped toward the gates. The blonde stood there for a long moment, watching the banners snap. Then, turning back to their host, he admitted, "It truly is breathtaking. I have long awaited for the chance to see how this 'continuity' lives and breathes. To be frank, my curiosity has been a taxing companion for far too many years, so I am eager to see how the rest of it operates. Every element appears to tell a different part of the story. If you'll indulge us, I would very much like to see how it all fits together."

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Dominique hummed as she looked over at the man. Difficult to know whom was in charge was it? Everyone -- inside and without -- should hope they did not demand she prove out her authority. How many warning shots would it take before they recognize the sort of person the Chancellor was?

Remark aside, it was pleasant to have the man not proclaim she was 'full of it' and dismiss her assertion out of hand. After all, she didn't claim it was the best system in the galaxy. Merely the best form of government when you took into account the failures of all others that had been tried. No one, after all, wanted perfect governance. Not even the Sith. Perfect governance perfectly reflected the values of precisely one person in every citizen's day-to-day -- the one at the top.

"Strange thing about weeds, Emissary." Dominique tipped her head slightly. "Even they only grow in fertile soil." Was that a judgment of the Sith? A defense of the Republic? The Chancellor declined to volunteer an answer to unasked questions.

"The Republic Charter does not tolerate oppression, Emissary. You'll find our two parties constantly in conflict publicly." Sheer fact and little Dominique could do anything about. She had her own internal politics to deal with as he did. "If, however, I were afforded a choice, a stable and less war-like Covenant would be far more preferable than one at war with itself and those around it." Oppression was not desirable. A fact that'd made her quite cross when the Black Sun Syndicate had dared move in Denon's direction despite the laissez faire understanding that should have existed between them. Yet, provided its heel was not on the throat of the Republic -- and by extension Denon -- Dominique was no Crusader. So, would it not be better if the people in the Covenant could find some means of stability and happiness in whatever way was permitted?

Golden eyes slid toward the viewport then as the ship drew near the opened aperture. Dominique naturally wondered whether the armament of this technological horror was comparable to what Denon possessed due to Ayumi's studious creation? Put another way, whether they could stave off an attempted blockade of their own world. Protect the Republic, of course. Of course. But, maybe, if there was only one card left it wouldn't hurt to make sure it was keeping her heart and soul intact.

"How thorough," the Chancellor mused to herself aloud at the scans.

From the way the City of Dis was laid out, Dominique might have thought it an excellent reflection of home. Excellent save for the fact there wouldn't be rogue, counter-culture deviants lurking in dark places and living life to the fullest at any cost. Oppression. It was not something Denon would benefit from. The deviance was a feature and not a bug; a fact Dominique tried her utmost to ensure Ayumi did not extinguish by accident what so many Corpos had yearned to do deliberately.

"Reminds me of the Pentaplex," Dominique remarked concerning the Imperius Spire being difficult to ignore. Well, Corpos and Imperials (or Sith) did tend to get along for a reason -- they weren't overly concerned with lofty ideas, and far more pragmatic in all things. Though at times they did go overboard; such as when they built enormous centers of command.

At last the ship arrived in some docking bay or another and the Chancellor rose to join Lysander as he moved toward the ramp.

She stopped beside Lysander as Prazutis welcomed them to his domain. Admittedly, Dominique was impressed. Its grandeur, certainly, but also the man's civility. Not because he was a Sith, but because a man of lesser ability would have been overeager to try taking Dominique hostage at the onset rather than even feign discourse. Of course, she hoped Prazutis wasn't feigning either.

"Lord Prazutis," Dominique pressed a hand to her left breast and tipper her upper body forward slightly in greeting, "it is a profound pleasure to make your acquaintance. The Malsheem's reputation precedes it, but falls far short of adequately describing its splendor." Likely because they didn't let anyone they didn't trust -- let alone spies -- enter or leave with anything more than a cursory look at the place. Even Dominique had declined the Intelligence branch's suggestion she carry discrete scanning devices on (or in) her person for the trip.

Speaking of which, the man gave them a moment to admire that splendor. One which Lysander accepted gladly. Not that she blamed him. Under other circumstances Dominique might even allow the mask practiced over the course of her lifetime to slip. To think of many people, how much resources, and the investment of credits and time required to construct such a thing in space... Denon hadn't been built in a day. Neither had Malsheem, but it hadn't take hundreds or even thousands of years either. Presumably. A feat of engineering and manufacturing achievement.

Being the Chancellor of the Republic, Dominique's attention was more toward what Prazutis had said rather than what he'd shown. Blackwall. Shadow Armada. Ark of the Sith. Impressive titles all pointed out as a demonstration of prowess and perhaps a low-key threat.

"A monumental achievement worthy of an enduring people," Dominique replied after Prazutis proclaimed the tireless purpose of the Malsheem. "A vessel of unified purpose and understanding. The Emissary and I were just discussing the peculiarities of our differing approaches to governance on approach, in fact. Such unity is to be commended and is a considerable strength in its own right." Prazutis was their host and it would be a touch disrespectful to call into question the presumably 'unshakeable' strength of the Malsheem and all it stood for. Now, if the man invited further discussion on the topic then the door would naturally be open for sharing such thoughts. In private, perhaps, so as not to disturb his many and perhaps countless in attendance observing them.

Lysander von Ascania | Darth Prazutis​

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The Dark Lord listened.

That, perhaps, was the first lesson Malsheem offered them beyond its immensity. The Shadow Hand didn't interrupt the Emissary's reverence, nor did He seize upon the Chancellor's compliment with the satisfaction of a lesser ruler eager to see awe reflected in foreign eyes. He stood before them in the cold breath of the hangar, robed in darkness, surrounded by soldiers, machines, and the titanic body of an empire, and allowed their words to settle without hurry.

Only when both had finished did He incline His head.

"A generous assessment, High Chancellor." His voice didn't rise to fill the hangar. It didn't need to. The chamber seemed built to carry Him. "Splendor is often the least useful part of power. It impresses the eye, but the eye is easily deceived. A throne room may be made from gold and still govern nothing. A fleet may shine in parade formation and still fail at the first true test of logistics. A fortress may look invincible from afar and be rotting behind its walls." His gaze moved briefly to the vast inner doors behind Him, where the City of Dis waited beyond the threshold in layered shadow. "Malsheem was not built to appear eternal. It was built so that, should every throne fall, every capital burn, every fleet be scattered, and every ally prove temporary, something of us would remain capable of beginning again." He turned His attention toward Lysander then, the weight of His presence settling not as rebuke, but as recognition. "Your curiosity does you credit, Emissary Ascania. Too many Sith mistake familiarity with power for understanding of it. They stand before a weapon and think they have grasped war. They stand before a temple and think they have grasped faith. They stand before a machine and think they have grasped industry."

A faint pause.

"They have grasped nothing. They have only named what they see." Behind Him, the Koshûtaral Sentinels shifted as one. Not in display, nor in salute, but in simple adjustment to a new movement pattern. Two columns peeled away from the reception line and began advancing toward the opened causeway, taking positions without shouted order. Their boots struck the deck in measured sequence. The rest remained motionless, red cloaks still as blood beneath glass. Prazutis began to walk. "Come." The word wasn't abrupt. It was invitation and command made indistinguishable by long practice. As they moved beyond the diplomatic hangar, there was no procession arranged for spectacle. No choir waited in the avenue. No kneeling masses filled the concourse. No banners unfurled in choreographed reverence. The doors opened, the sentinels led, and Malsheem simply continued.

That was the more oppressive thing.

The causeway passed through a corridor of black stone and brushed metal wide enough for armored vehicles to move abreast. Its walls bore shallow channels of red light that pulsed with the slow rhythm of unseen systems. Underfoot, the floor was immaculate, polished to a dark reflection broken only by the subtle seams of blast partitions. The air smelled faintly of ionized metal, recycled atmosphere, oil, and something older beneath it, incense perhaps, or the residue of rites performed too often for the walls to forget. Through long viewing slits of rune-carved bloodpane, the City of Dis revealed itself in portions.

A tram swept silently through the vertical dark, carrying workers in gray-black uniforms from one habitation block to another. Farther below, a procession of maintenance drones crawled along the spine of a suspended conduit, repairing microscopic fractures without ceremony. On a terrace carved into the side of a residential tower, children in severe tunics stood in rows before an instructor, reciting something too distant to hear. At an intersection of walkways, citizens paused as the Shadow Hand passed behind glass. They didn't cheer. They didn't cry out.

They merely stopped.

Heads lowered. Hands folded. Conversation died. Then, once He had passed, the city resumed. Unspoken power. No one had ordered them to silence. No visible signal had commanded reverence. The obedience came as naturally as breath. The Shadow Hand didn't even look at them as he continued. "The City of Dis is often misunderstood by those few permitted to glimpse it." He said. "They expect a prison. Others expect a palace. It is neither. It is a civilization arranged around purpose." The corridor opened onto an elevated transit gallery suspended above one of the upper residential arteries. The scale was difficult to understand at once. Towers rose from below and vanished above, stacked with sealed habitation levels, administrative decks, devotional halls, clinics, ration houses, security alcoves, and transit stations. No district appeared ornamental, yet nothing seemed neglected. Every surface had been maintained. Every path had a function. Every movement fed into some larger rhythm. There was beauty, but it wasn't gentle.

It was the beauty of a blade kept sharp.

"One and a half billion faithful and their households reside within these strata alone." Prazutis continued. "Administrators. Engineers. Fabricators. Clerks. Medicae. Teachers. Quartermasters. Generations born beneath the hull of the Ark, raised in the doctrine of Eternal Rule, trained from childhood to understand that survival is not an accident. It is an obligation." It left ut the over one and a half billion military, industrial, scientific personnel, and others that rounded out the complete population of Malsheem.

His eyes moved to Dominique.

"You spoke of unity as a considerable strength. It is. But unity is not sameness, despite what many of our enemies prefer to believe. Sameness is brittle. Sameness produces obedience until conditions change, then panic when no one has been taught to think beyond instruction." They passed a junction where three transit lines converged. One carried sealed cargo pods marked for the production strata. Another bore personnel in crimson-trimmed uniforms toward a security checkpoint. The third moved silently upward, vanishing toward restricted levels closer to the Imperius Spire. As Prazutis approached, the flow altered around Him. Like blood making room for the heart's command. "Unity is alignment of purpose." He said. "Not absence of thought. The Kainate does not require every servant to possess the same talents, fears, ambitions, or opinions. It requires those things to be bent toward the same end." He glanced toward the Chancellor, cordial, almost conversational. "In that respect, High Chancellor, your Republic and the Kainate are less alien to one another than your Senate would find comfortable. Both are built upon the management of difference. You preserve difference by allowing it space to contest itself. We preserve it by binding it to a hierarchy strong enough to prevent contest from becoming dissolution." The faintest suggestion of a smile touched His mouth.

"Each method has uses. Each has costs." They continued onward. The Koshûtaral Sentinels ahead came to a halt before a broad overlook. Beyond it, an expanse of Dis opened beneath them. It was not the deepest part of the city, nor the most sacred, nor the most industrial. It was simply a functioning artery of Malsheem, and that made it more valuable than any staged demonstration. Hundreds of levels layered upon one another in the dimness. Vertical lifts moved like glowing beads along tower spines. Enclosed bridges crossed impossible distances. Banners hung from walls large enough to dwarf starships, their black fields marked in crimson. At intervals, monumental statues of ancient Sith Lords stared down from the architecture, not placed as decoration, but as reminders. Beneath their gaze, ordinary life continued with disciplined precision.

A school cohort filed across a bridge.

A medical tram slid into a receiving alcove.

A squad of Koshûtaral Sentinels inspected a transit node without interrupting civilian movement.

A freight elevator large enough to hold walkers descended from above, carrying newly fabricated components toward some unseen logistical mouth below.

There was no parade. No gaudy theater display for the diplomatic procession, and absolutely no wasted motion. Prazutis stopped at the overlook and rested His hands lightly before Him, sleeves of shadow-silk falling over one another like smoke.

"This is the first truth of Malsheem." He said. "Not the guns beyond the hull. Not the shipyards. Not the laboratories, nor the forges, nor the engines that move us through the dark. Those are expressions of power, but not its source." He looked out over the living strata. "The source is discipline sustained across generations." For a moment, the Shadow Hand allowed the silence to remain. Below them, the city moved in ordered layers, endless and indifferent to being observed. Then His gaze returned to His guests.

Lysander von Ascania | Dominique Vexx​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Dominique Vexx Darth Prazutis​

At first, Lysander's reaction to the Malasheem was no different than breathing in the mountain air of Ukatis. Pivoting his attention back to the Shadow Hand, his expression was smooth as a still lake and dangerously relaxed for someone standing in the presence of a titan. "You’re not wrong about that, my lord," Lysander said as he gave a small, appreciative tilt of his head. "Most treat the galaxy like a blunt object, just swinging it around until something breaks. It’s a bit tiresome to watch, really. Many become so obsessed with the weight of the hammer that they forget they’re supposed to be building something, not just smashing the table into splinters."

Along the way the Emissary felt a breath leave him in a sharper, involuntary hitch. ‘Twas difficult to put into words. Terrifying, clockwork serenity. Reverence of thousands. Billions of souls moving as a single nerve. He watched the way the city parted for the Sith Lord; a physical manifestation of the hierarchy he preached. Some of those words turned over in Lysander's mind. Perhaps that was the ultimate sophistication of governance; to take the boiling sludge of human, or sentient, ambition and channel it into a singular, pressurized stream. As he gathered it, the Republic bet on the unpredictable genius of the individual to drive the whole, whereas the Kainate bet on the strength of the structure to survive the individual. But in truth, there was no profound skepticism toward either; in silence, he allowed himself to become intellectually intoxicated, growing curious as to how the Chancellor might respond. A glance slid toward her, confident her answer would not disappoint.

He began to see it plainly, or so one believed. The Republic’s weakness wasn't necessarily liberty; it was the lack of a blueprint equal to the citizens it pretended to champion. He’d left it behind years ago without ever grasping the reason; youth had blurred the edges. Only now did the instinct begin to clarify.

They hit another lull. "I used to think discipline was just a solo act," spoken calmly, eyes sweeping over the stacked grid of the city below. "You know, the endless, grueling reps. The quieter stuff you suffer through when there’s nobody around to give you a pat on the back. It’s more personal."

“But what you’re talking about, well, that’s a different beast entirely. You’re not looking at an empire as a map of planets; you’re looking at it like a collection of muscle memories. Sure, you can slap up a skyscraper in a few years or churn out a fleet of ships in a decade, but.." The younger Sith's chin inclined by scarcely a degree; meanwhile, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Teaching an entire civilization to carry discipline from one generation to the next.. that is the longer investment.”

Any notions of debate were cast into the shadows; today, curiosity truly offered a far richer prize. There was even a strange sense of respite in setting his own ambitions aside, if only for these few golden hours, and allowing himself to simply be a student of the great game once more.

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Dominique smiled in the face of Prazutis' talk of a pretty exterior hiding a rotten core. No disagreement there. Corporations, after all, made use of that fact every day. Distract people with news that everything was well even if society was literally eroding right beneath their feet. People liked believing in a happy lie rather than acknowledging a terrifying truth.

As to the Vision of Malsheem, the Chancellor could admire such forward thinking. It still seemed a tad much given cultures like the Mandalorians endured no matter how many times they'd seemingly been wiped out, but there was no gain squabbling over such details presently. In a sense, one could say the same of Corpos, but just because Corpos never died out did not mean the unique qualities of Denon endured. So there was value in an Ark, of sorts. The High Republic themselves had invested in seed and gene vaults for a reason.

As their host guided them forward, the Chancellor followed without trying to interrupt the man's accolades for his crowning achievement. No one liked a wet blanket. It happened often enough on Denon when someone thought they were particularly clever pointing out how not everyone lived in the floating isle mansions, or out on Ayumi's ocean. As though they were the first to ever conceive of the notion. Or that it mattered. Darth Prazutis would feel as much if she spoke of how his order came at the cost of personal freedom.

On that note, the man brought it up first. Sameness he called it. Dominique listened to his argument, but noted there were nuances to his statements that a woman like her could fly a ship through. No one had to possess the same opinions... except they were born, bred, and brought up on Malsheem where they weren't exposed to differing thoughts or facts; and just because you could have them didn't mean they possessed the freedom to express them. It was a well ordered speech, however, she'd grant the man that. Then again, she expected no less from someone that managed to build the Malsheem and populate it with billions.

Her golden gaze slid aside to regard her companion, Lysander, as he expressed his admiration for Prazutis' accomplishment and vision.

Then her gaze returned to the biotechnological machine put on display before them. "If you hope I'll repeat some empty platitude how your way of life is abhorrent, please, let me know and I'll make sure next time to bring a Senator with me." Dominique paused to offer the gentlemen a subdued smile. "In point of fact, I find the efficiency of this society you've created an impressive feat. Little is spent on what is deemed irrelevant leaving more time and resources to matters of import. Malsheem and Denon share a great deal in common in pursuit of those ideals." Though Prazutis had the advantage of building it from scratch and not have thousands of years of baggage or backward compatibility and galactic law interfering. She was not jealous. A little envious, perhaps.

"My ideal would be that our two people could find a means of sharing our strengths rather than waste time arguing whose approach is morally superior." Despite what Prazutis said, Dominique wondered just how vibrant the artistic pursuits of his people were. In the Republic, one could explore subjects some might deem 'Dark Side.' Was that true in Malsheem? Could they explore matters of 'Light?' "After all, if there is a better way of living who wouldn't welcome it?" It would be nice if she could force all the worlds to pursue a more efficient way of managing resources in the Republic. But would Sith ever tolerant the time necessary to gradually help people be a touch less rabidly independent, and instead focus on their community? She did not want to have them running amok like the C.A.D. had terrorizing people under the assumption might would make right in the end.

"If it would not be too much of an imposition, Lord Prazutis, would you offer a thought or two on how you helped people see the value of such an orderly society?" Some might find the educational techniques of other societies boring compared to technological achievement, but research and development was not something she felt Denon -- or the Republic by extension -- lacked. It was the less glamorous topics the sort that Prazutis touted and Lysander admired that truly mattered.

Darth Prazutis | Lysander von Ascania​