Faction Ascended Splendour - [Dark Court]

[Darth Virelia]

Ascended Splendour

The summons had spread like wildfire — not through the holonet, not through open channels, but through the whispering lattice of the Court itself. A hundred thousand signals, carried by rumor and ambition, converged on one command:

Return to Malachor. The Queen calls her Court.

For weeks, the Spire had loomed silent above the storm-torn surface, its violet lights dimmed, its gates sealed. Now, for the first time since the conquest of Malachor and the subjugation of Nathema's scarred heart, the fortress-world breathed again. Obsidian towers flared to life, drawing power from the planet's wounds. The air hummed with energy — as if the world itself knew that something momentous was about to begin.

The great causeways of the Spire filled with processions. Figures of interest arrived in gilded convoys; soldiers lined the ramparts in perfect order. Pilgrims of the Dark Side — adepts, alchemists, and assassins — gathered like moths to flame, each desperate to catch even a glimpse of the woman whose will had forged their empire from dust. The banners of victory unfurled, each marked with the sigil of the Court.

Within the grand hall, the preparations were almost complete. Thousands of candles burned with alchemical fire, their light shifting in color and scent. Music drifted from unseen instruments — slow, hypnotic, deliberate. The tables were laid with the fruits of conquest: bloodwine from Nathema's cellars, meats and minerals pulled from the veins of their corrupt empire itself. Above it all, the throne stood waiting at the far end of the chamber, carved from seamless basalt and veined with living light.

It was an ending, and a beginning.

The Dark Court had conquered. It had survived. And now, it would become something new.

The Queen would speak soon — to name her new orders, to reward those who had earned her favor, and to establish a hierarchy worthy of her dominion. Knighthood, Dukedom, and the coming Exarchate — the bones of an empire that would aim to outlive all others.

Outside, thunder broke over the Spire. Inside, silence followed.

Every whisper, every gaze, every breath waited for the sound of the Queen's voice.

Here starts, the Dark Ages.

Objective One: Feast of Ascension

The great doors of the Spire opened with a hiss of ancient hydraulics and a low groan that echoed across the violet-lit hall. The Feast of Ascension had begun. Beneath the towering pillars and obsidian arches, the Dark Court assembled — nobles in polished armor, commanders in ceremonial black, and lesser courtiers cloaked in shadow. Each had come to witness history unfold, and to carve their name into it.

At the far end of the chamber, the Queen's throne sat empty — not by neglect, but by design. It was the unspoken reminder that all gathered here existed in anticipation of her arrival. Servants moved through the crowd with precision, bearing silver trays and crystal decanters filled with shimmering alchemical wine. The air was heavy with incense, spice, and tension.

Rumors ran like wildfire through the gathered elite. Some whispered that the Queen would reward her greatest servants with new titles — that she would name Dukes to rule the fiefs of Malachor and Nathema, and raise the first Knights to defend her new empire. Others spoke of a higher council yet to come — an Exarchate that would embody her will beyond mortal measure.

For now, the court waited. Conversations sharpened into contests. Old debts were repaid in subtle gestures; new alliances were born in half-smiles and quiet nods. Every glance, every phrase, every motion was political — an invisible battle fought beneath the trappings of celebration.

Stake your claim. Make your allies. Become one with the Dark Court.

Objective Two: Spire in Shadow

Far below the grand halls of the Spire, where the violet light faded into crimson gloom, something moved. The servants whispered first — a missing quartermaster here, a vanished guard there — but their concerns went unheard amidst the fever of celebration above. The Feast of Ascension drowned out everything. Yet the silence beneath the Spire was wrong. Too even. Too deliberate.

The lower levels had always been forbidden to most: relic vaults, power conduits, and the ancient foundations that predated the Queen's arrival on Malachor. They pulsed now with erratic energy, as if something beneath the stone had awakened. Security patrols reported distorted readings and static interference; the Spire's internal systems flickered, briefly revealing fragments of old maps and forgotten sigils.

Then, a body was found — armor scorched, eyes glassed over, a whisper of burnt ozone in the air. The conclusion was inescapable: someone, or something, was moving through the Queen's fortress unseen.

While the nobles feasted and plotted above, those attuned to such disturbances would feel the pull of the lower halls — the call to descend and uncover the truth. Is it sabotage, heresy, or something older and far worse? The Spire's foundations have secrets that even the Queen has not yet spoken aloud.

Descend into the shadowed corridors. Follow the echoes of the disturbance. Discover who dares to violate the heart of the Dark Court — and decide whether to reveal it, claim it, or bury it forever.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Here starts, the Dark Ages..."

Tags -

Virelia stood before a pane of obsidian glass, her reflection fractured by the slow pulse of violet light that ran through its veins. Beyond it, Malachor's storms boiled — endless, merciless, alive. Lightning crawled along the surface like veins of some great sleeping beast. The fortress breathed with it. So did she.

How strange, she thought, that it had come to this.

There had been a time — not long ago, but it felt like centuries — when there was nothing but ruin. When her name had been erased from Sith records, her legitimacy broken, her followers scattered to ash and exile. When all she had were her apprentices and a handful of mercenaries who believed not in her title, but in her defiance. Exile, they called her then. Failure.

Now, the galaxy whispered her name again. In inevitability.

The Dark Court had been born of desperation — a refuge for those who no longer fit the dogma of the Sith, nor the delusions of the Jedi. A congregation of predators who had lost their packs. At first, it was a flicker — a hidden alliance carved from the bones of the old faithful of Polis Massa, born in the silence between stars. Then came Malachor, reclaimed from ghosts. Nathema, tamed from madness.

Her will had become infrastructure.

She traced a finger along the seal of the Spire's command dais, feeling the faint thrum of power beneath her glove. Each pulse was an echo of conquest — All of it fed here, into her fortress, into her dominion. Into her.

The sound of distant music drifted through the corridors — low, rhythmic, ceremonial. The Feast had begun. They were waiting for her. The commanders, the alchemists, the zealots who now wore her sigil like sacrament. She could picture them all beneath the vaulted hall: posturing, scheming, hungering. Exactly as they should.

Her lips curved faintly.

Once, she had sought a place among the Sith — an empire of power through unity. Instead, she had built something far truer: an empire of control through desire. They did not follow her because they must. They followed because she had made them want to. Because she had made the idea of her irresistible. Or at least, the power she offered.

Her reflection stared back — serene, unblinking, terrible. No longer Serina Calis, no longer apprentice, no longer exile. Only Virelia. The Queen of Malachor. The architect of a new dominion.

She turned from the window, her steps silent on the stone. Her throne awaited. Her Court awaited.

 

[Iskera Valest]

Each coil of incense twisted upward like a living thing, pale against the violet light, as if reluctant to leave the warmth of the altar below. Iskera watched it with the same kind of focus she might have given to a patient on the verge of death. Every motion meant something. Even the way the smoke died near the ceiling told her how the air moved in this hall — how it breathed, and how it could be poisoned.

She adjusted the clasp of her wrap, smoothing the black fabric against her throat until it sat precisely where she wanted it. There were a thousand eyes in this chamber, and even if none were upon her now, she would not give them reason to remember her for the wrong thing. Subtlety was survival.

Her gaze swept the crowd. The nobles glittered in their obsidian finery, each trying to outshine the next with ornaments and titles they hadn't yet earned. She counted three faces she'd sold antidotes to, one she'd once almost killed, and another who might have tried to kill her if not for a misfired ambition years ago. Her time in the crime world has only given her, unsavoury connections.

She moved through them like a whisper, her glass never quite empty, her smile never quite true. Words came to her like tinctures — measured doses, carefully mixed. One too much, and they'd suspect manipulation. One too little, and they'd forget her altogether.

The Queen's throne stood at the far end of the hall, still empty — and in that emptiness, Iskera found her mirror. Power, distilled to silence. The kind of silence that made the heart race and the mind dream of opportunity.

"Fitting," she murmured under her breath. "The seat of inevitability should make them wait."

She took another sip of the alchemical wine, its burn tracing a perfect line down her throat, and smiled — faintly.

Tonight, the Court would fracture and reform, as all organisms did under pressure. And when it did, she would already have her place within its bloodstream. Not a knight, not a duke, nor an ex criminal used to clearing other's messes, but something quieter. More necessary.

A poison with a name.

Tags - Darth Virelia

 

[Vharra Theskar]

"Exile didn't break me. It burned away what was weak."

Tags - Darth Virelia Iskera Valest

This "Feast of Ascension" only further proved to Vharra that her theory that the sickness that had inflicted itself on her people was a Galaxy-wide phenomena. Food. Wine. All going to waste on those who did not truly need it. She had refused more than once the offer of some kind of beverage or snack. She was not here to enjoy herself.

Others might be focused on the empty Throne, and await the arrival of this Darth Virelia...Yet not her. Her gaze burned into the Throne, as she could visualise the only empty Throne she truly wished for. A Throne charred and broken beneath her own hand. That was what this was for her. A means to an end. The term ally mean nothing to her. An ally was one to be discarded to the pyre. A betrayal to be used to further yourself. That was what she had done at home. All according to her plan.

For now, she just had to make herself at home amongst the people. A small wrinkle of disgust on her face as she took in the Nobility. Very few she knew herself, but she had experience with having to deal with their like back home. Of course, this was somewhat different here. None of them perhaps cared that she was basically a Bastard. None of them even knew. Yet at the same time, she knew all of them had their own agenda. None were here out of the kindness of their own heart. All of them were to progress their own station...And in a way, Vharra was actually like them.

It disgusted her.​

 

[Darth Keres]

Objective: Feast of Ascension
Gear:Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor / Basic Lightsaber
Tag: Open





The air of the massive room, so delicately decorated for this extravaganza breathed in vibrant colors of purple and other complimenting colors, was filled with aromas from bountiful harvests from other cultures within the growing Empire and the chattering and laughter from those already in attendance. Several small pockets of people and other represented species were gathered about, each pocket speaking of differing topics and subjects, undoubtedly most political in one form or another.

Carisma, recently gracing the other attendees with her presence, listened on to the various banter as she passed by, putting faces to memory: names would come later. Her path was different, not like those other Acolytes and Apprentices who went so bravely into the depths below to chase ghosts and monsters. Foolish, not bravery, was her opinion on the matter. No, her path was here; among the delegates and political advocates. Politics ruled the masses, milititaries merely enforced policies. These were the exact kind she would cling to, hearing whispers she should not: leverage being the motivating wheel of politics.

The ghost-obssesed young Sith was no fool. Her Master, Darth Virelia , was not immortal, her life would not burn forever in some eternal flame fable, but one single vision, Empire case in point, should thrive through immortality; not die with its creator, hence for a successor. Politics. Political manipulation. Here to learn from the sly foxes themselves.

A brief glance in the direction of the empty throne, before taking her seat at one of the elaborate and intricately designed tables, filled her heart with wonders. One day, it would be hers.

 

[Darth Dreer]

Objective I: Feast of Ascension
Tags: OPEN​

Dreer materialized with a snap of displaced air, taking a moment to brush some bookshelf-dust off his shoulders. He'd been absent-mindedly sorting various paraphernalia in his quarters, and had all but forgotten that this meeting was taking place.

Of course, even if he had prepared, it was unlikely that the scholar would have worn anything nicer. His entire wardrobe seemed to consist of ragged, patched travelling clothes, each set moldier than the last.

If Dreer was aware of his gross violation of decorum, he didn't show it, merely taking a seat and folding his hands across the table without a word. He looked for all the world like some form of enormous, mangy bat, hunched over the table and picking idly at the delicacies in display.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Virelia was not present. No matter. Dreer was not a man of abundance, whether in power, wealth, or most other metrics one cared to go by. The one thing he had in enormous supply was time. He could afford to waste some here, like one might dispense a few crumbs to a beggar.

Dreer had little doubt that he was soon to be treated to a spectacle that would make the wait more than worth it. The forthcoming tide of sycophancy would make for a moderately-amusing show with his dinner, if he cared to take any. The conjurer was not normally in the custom of attending dinners (or other social events, when he could help it) but figured it would be prudent to remind the Dark Lady of his recent helpfulness.

No doubt that was the purpose of this little charade. To remind everyone of how the structure worked. Such reminders must be as frequent as they were forceful, if one wished to stay at the head of so cutthroat a pack for long.

Dreer was content, therefore, to show up and accept whatever credit was given to him with all the false humility he could muster. He'd play the dutiful and unambitious scholarly type, make himself indispensable over time, and enjoy the benefits of his new home for as long as the ride lasted.

In truth, he'd rather get his claws on the artifact recovered from their last little jaunt, but regrettably, that was not currently in the cards. One couldn't have fun all the time, it seemed.

 

[Aaliyah]

OBJECTIVE 1​

Aaliyah moved fluidly among those assembled. Her glowing, lavender gaze slid over the various creatures that drew breath. Their conversations were amusing to overhear. The points of her ears weren't merely to suggest she had become a vile and nefarious creature. Of course, their blood sang sweeter than their words. In some cases. There were those whose blood screamed for her to steer clear lest she wretch for the next year unable to get the taste out of her mouth.

Once her eyes lay upon the one she sought, Aaliyah all but emerged out of the crowd in front of them in the blink of an eye. "Governor Calford. What a delight to see you attend such a prestigious gathering."

"Ah, yes," the middle aged man in a well-worn suit gave a soft laugh not certain who this Cappuccino woman was that addressed him. "It's a pleasure, Miss...?"

Her fingers curled against the underside of the man's chin while her thumb slowly moved across to still his lips. Bright, lavender eyes stared lidlessly into his. Together with a warm and melodic voice sweetly, he was swiftly lulled into a state of euphoric embrace. "Now's not the time, my Love. You and I should speak privately. About the future of your world. The two of us can accomplish great things together." Aaliyah slowly slid a contact chit into Calford's suit pocket. "You will call me." Black lips spread out broadly as forcibly imposed her will upon the man.

It wasn't that he was of weak mind. Someone easily turned would be better killed in favor of another. No, Aaliyah had simply practiced her art for a considerable length of time.

"Of... of course... My Lady," the man slowly and breathless answered.

With a soft chuckle, her fingers fell from his chin. "Enjoy the party, Governor." Her eyes were slower to leave his face than her body was to turn back into the crowd. The last thing he'd remember seeing was the curve of her lips, and all he knew was that he absolutely had to get in touch with her later. The reason for that need never even crossed their mind.

With a little productive work accomplished, Aaliyah turned her attention to the masses. There was something in the air. More than the Darkness that lay over this world. More than the pregnant pause imposed by Darth Virelia's seeming absence. No, it was... not quite apprehension. Uncertainty? A guarded study? Too many eyes watchful for blades and still feet. That was it, the party was an absolute drag!

Gasps followed as Aaliyah ascended into the air and floated over the heads of the creatures below. It only took a moment to get to where the musicians were playing something classical. Something smooth and unobtrusive.

"You know something with a beat, do you not?" Aaliyah met the eyes of each of them that'd stopped playing to gawk at the woman that'd arrived by air. The lukewarm response drew a snarl of disbelief. She stepped forward and stabbed a nail into the forehead of one holding the strings and drew it back just as quickly.

He reeled, bent nearly half over backwards, but on his feet, before snapping to his full height again.

Aaliyah threw a hand off to the side to conjure the microphone from the nearby stand. "One, two, three." With that the flying, corset-wearing guest had the band playing something with a great deal more energy and volume than before. They were all free to talk their heads off, but first the Sangnir wanted their blood pumping.

Like a gift from the heavens, it was easy to tell
It was love from above, that could save me from hell.
She had fire in her soul, it was easy to see
How the devil himself could be pulled out of me.
There were drums in the air as she started to dance.
Every soul in the room keeping time with their hands.​

Did her position and authority matter? Aaliyah's hips moved to the beat as her voice shook the mighty pillars of the chamber. Anyone that thought less of her for a performance would be corrected in due time. A problem for a different place, and a different time.

Once the number was done, she looked back at the band and commanded they keep up the energy. The microphone was tossed to a pretty thing Aaliyah judged to have a voice to her -- intuition born of centuries of prowling the galaxy. With a laugh she slowly strode out toward the crowd with her arms held high and a grin on her face. With so many faces alight with wonder or dumbfounded by the turn, things had gotten so much more lively.

Just because they were creatures bathed in darkness didn't mean they couldn't have fun. In fact, they were meant to have the most of it! The galaxy was theirs for the taking.

Darth Virelia | Iskera Valest | Vharra Theskar | Carisma Rostu | Darth Dreer | Open​

 

[Iskera Valest]

Laughter, surprise, even a few scattered cheers. Iskera's head turned slightly toward the commotion, though her expression didn't change. Aaliyah's performance was many things: bold, calculated, disruptive. But mostly, it was a test. Someone had decided to remind the Court that chaos could be beautiful if it wore the right perfume.

She approved. Quietly.

The room had come alive. Conversation resumed in more earnest tones, the crowd leaning back into itself with renewed appetite. Iskera used the distraction to move, her steps soft and deliberate, slipping between clusters of nobles like a whisper through silk. The wine in her hand glowed faintly violet under the chamber lights. She didn't drink this time. She wanted her senses sharp.

She saw Vharra in the crowd. Smart woman, she would have to be negotiated with later.

Another caught her eye, Carisma, though Iskera didn't know of her name. She could feel the hunger pulsating from a system away. Ambitious.

It was then she noticed him — the man who didn't fit.

He was slouched at one of the long tables, an island of indifference amid a sea of calculated vanity. Ragged clothes, travel-stained; fingers idly picking at the table's offerings. He wasn't performing for anyone. That, in itself, was performance enough to catch her attention.

Iskera drifted closer, drawn by the quiet gravity of someone who seemed to be exactly what he appeared — or else, very practiced at pretending.

"Unusual," she said as she came to stand beside him, her voice a low, even tone that somehow cut through the murmur of the room without rising above it. "Most men who sit alone at a feast like this want to be seen doing so."

She set her untouched glass down on the table near him, not opposite but oblique — a line that could be conversation or threat, depending on how he handled it.

"Or are you simply immune to spectacle?" she added, tilting her head, eyes flicking toward the performance still shaking the far end of the hall.

She smiled faintly — very curious. "Good. I was hoping to find one person here tonight who wasn't intoxicated by their own reflection."

A pause. Then, lightly: "Iskera Valest." She did not offer her hand; gestures of civility had a way of defining hierarchy too quickly. "Alchemist, for the Court's less visible needs. You look like someone who traffics in things the rest of them would rather not acknowledge exist."

Tag - Darth Virelia Carisma Rostu Vharra Theskar Aaliyah Darth Dreer

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Mystery Dungeon?"

Tags - Objective 2 - OPEN

The scent hit her first.

Burnt ozone, metal, and something older — like the breath of a storm that had never left.

Veyra Kryze crouched beside the body, her visor throwing fractured light over scorched armor. The edges of the corpse shimmered faintly where heat had fused durasteel to bone. She didn't speak. The dead didn't need questions, and the living didn't deserve her answers. One gloved hand brushed the mark along the wall — a streak of carbon scoring that cut too deep, too clean. Something foreign.

She rose slowly, rifle slung across her back, and let her senses stretch outward. The dark feeling in this place didn't hum — it throbbed, like a pulse under pressure. Every few seconds she caught the flicker of movement just beyond the corner of her perception, like the Spire itself was watching her. Perhaps it was. Everything here served the Queen in one way or another — the machines, the stones, even the ghosts.

The others had been too drunk on celebration to notice the disappearances. She'd noticed. She always did. The Queen's feast had its purpose — to bind, to promise, to distract. But Veyra was no courtier, no schemer drowning in violet light and false worship. She was the hand that enforced the Queen's order when words failed. And tonight, something had moved beneath Her Majesty's throne that did not belong.

Her boots made no sound as she stepped through the lower corridors. The light from above barely reached here; the walls were wet with condensation, breathing in rhythm with the Spire's great heart. Pipes hissed like serpents, carrying power deeper still. Somewhere below, a generator stuttered — once, twice — then went silent. The darkness thickened, alive with faint static.

"Show yourself," she muttered, her voice low, more command than request. The helmet amplified the growl until it filled the passage. "Or I'll drag you into the light myself."

No reply. Only the quiet, mechanical breathing of the Spire.

Veyra reached to her belt and unclipped a flare. She cracked it once against the wall; violet flame burst to life, spilling a pulse of sickly radiance across the floor. The corridor stretched ahead like the gullet of some colossal beast, lined with sigils she didn't recognize — not Sith, not mechanical, but older. The symbols rippled faintly as the light touched them, drinking in the glow.

She frowned behind her visor. "Old blood," she murmured. "Old ghosts."

A hiss answered her — electric, close. Instinct took over. She spun, beskad half-drawn, eyes locking on a shape peeling itself out of the wall like liquid shadow. It was tall, wrong, its surface rippling with faint purple light.

What was it?

 

[Rowena-022]

Location: Lower Levels, Shadow Spire - Malachor V
Thread Objective: Spire in Shadows
Tag: Veyra Kryze

Rowena-022 was among the first to volunteer for the mission. The unsettling disappearances and whispered anomalies plaguing the Shadow Spire’s lower levels could not be ignored; they were a blasphemy, a stain upon the sanctity of her Dark Lady’s domain. Whatever manner of entity was behind the events, the gynoid would not suffer it to persist.

Thus, as Veyra Kryze examined the guard’s body, Rowena’s sensors hummed with activity as they scoured the gloom for lurking presence. She had registered phantom movements several times before, but her scans had yet to yield anything actionable or concrete.

Frustration slowly began to creep through her circuits. However, Rowena had her own method of addressing it, the same that she always employed.

Devotion.

"I am the doubt in the quiet moment.
I am the fear in the unlit corridor.
I am your nightmare made manifest.
And in the Dark Lady’s name, I come for you!"

The words of her prayer came as sharp, synthetic hisses, the liturgy burning away frustration with each chanted verse and forging it into focus. Her movements immediately regained their predatory grace, her photoreceptors lighting up beneath the fringe of her synthetic hair as her carbine traced a lethal promise through the shadows.

It was then that Veyra cracked a flare against the nearby wall, igniting a flame the hue of sacred violet to illuminate the corridor ahead. Although the gynoid had not needed the light to perceive her surroundings due to her multispectrum optics, in observing how the symbols seemed to drink in the luminescence, she realized that this was a side of the Spire that she had yet to see.

She frowned behind her visor. "Old blood," she murmured. "Old ghosts."

“Symbols of the idolatrous and the profane,” she seethed in agreement.

Not even a second later, Rowena’s auditory receptors registered a hiss from her periphery. The gynoid pivoted, her carbine rising to point towards the sound. Her photoreceptors caught sight of a shade manifesting from the wall. Its figure was tall and spindly, a void given form that drank the flare’s violet light like a blot of ink upon parchment.

Her reaction to the thing was neither curiosity nor confusion. Instead, her gaze narrowed, the carbine in her grasp primed to purge the blasphemous entity at a moment’s notice!

Spoiler: Loadout

• Specter Attire System
  
  • Energy Shield
    
    • Phase III “Force Avenger” Energy Shield
• FAE/W-12 Assault Carbine Mk. II
  
  • Attachments
    
    • 1-5x FAE/S-08 Electro-Sight
    • Silencer
  • Ammunition
    
    • Extended Magazine - Controlled Penetration
    • Standard Magazine (4) - Controlled Penetration
    • Standard Magazine (2) - High Explosive
• Nox M-10 “Wraith”
  
  • Attachments
    
    • 1-5x FAE/S-08 Electro-Sight
    • Nox Suppressor
  • Ammunition
    
    • Power Cell (10)
    • Gas Canister
• FAE/MDE-02-S1 Semiautonomous Seeker Thermal Explosive (4)
• FAE/MDE-02-S2 Semiautonomous Seeker Thermal Explosive (2)
• Miniaturized Infrared Smoke Grenade (2)

 

[Caera Kryze]

She had never trusted the silence of victory.

Even now, as the echoes of the Queen's feast shuddered through the Spire's foundations like the heartbeat of some vast, sleeping god, Caera Kryze felt only unease. The upper halls throbbed with revelry — laughter, wine, the sharp ring of crystal and arrogance — but beneath it all was the hollow sound of absence. It gnawed at the edges of her awareness like an old wound reopened. Something was wrong, and the Court was too busy congratulating itself to feel it.

She left the celebration without ceremony. Her helm sealed with a hiss that drowned out the music, and the world sharpened into clarity. The corridors narrowed, lights dimmed, air grew wet. The Spire's song changed — from triumph to warning.

A good Queen's Guard kneeled to her instincts. Caera's had been honed in the screams of sieges and the silence after. She trusted the quiet dread that now crawled along her spine.

Her descent took her past the murals of conquest, each one lit by candles that bled violet flame. The faces of fallen enemies flickered on the walls — ghosts immortalized by the Queen's will. Caera paused before one she recognized: an undead soldier she'd gutted on the plains of Nathema. The paint seemed to ripple. For a moment, she could swear the corpse blinked.

She didn't linger.

Her boots carried her lower still, until the music of the feast became a memory. The air was thick with ozone and old power. The kind of air that clung to armor and never quite left your lungs. She caught the echo of movement ahead — faint, familiar — and the soft bloom of violet light from a flare.

Veyra.

Of course it would be her sister who had already found the trail. Always first into the dark. Always hungry for whatever truth others feared.

Alongside her was the faithful Rowena, someone Caera took a particular interest in. The Dark Queen deserved her worship, but that kind of devotion was something Caera could only ever desire.

Caera's rifle shifted to low-ready, the faint hum of its charge like a pulse beside her own. "You couldn't wait five minutes for backup, could you?" she murmured, voice steady but laced with dry irritation.

Tags - Objective 2 - Rowena-022 Veyra Kryze

 

[Qyssiyana]

Location: Grand Hall, Shadow Spire - Malachor V
Attire: Dress │ Shoes
Objective: Feast of Ascension
Tag: Darth Virelia Iskera Valest Vharra Theskar Carisma Rostu Darth Dreer Aaliyah

Qyssiyana entered the grand hall just as the woman with rich cappuccino skin began to sing in a voice that was equal parts powerful and mellifluous. A smile tugged at her lips, her lekku swaying to the beat as the singer’s voice carried through the chamber. She found herself drawn to the woman’s eyes, which were a striking hue of electric lavender that seemed to generate their own light in the hall’s artificial twilight. Unfortunately, before she could study them further, the woman tossed the microphone to another singer, a female Lethan Twi’lek who quite seamlessly wove her voice into the melody.

From there, Qyssiyana’s attention drifted across the grand hall, surveying the assembled faces. A figure clad in ragged traveling robes ( Darth Dreer ) materialized in a pop of suddenly displaced air, causing the Elryssia’s tattooed eyebrows to arch in surprise. A woman with long, jet black hair and ashy gray features took a seat at one of the long tables, her gaze calculating and sharp ( Carisma Rostu). Another woman caught her sight then; Iskera Valest , who she immediately recognized from the mission to Ilum. She observed her for a few moments as she approached the man dressed in ragged robes and struck up a conversation. Then, she saw a Zabrak woman ( Vharra Theskar) with horns not dissimilar to those possessed by the cappuccino-skinned singer and eyes that were just as striking. However, the Zabrak’s eyes were a deep, molten orange rather than a luminescent violet.

And lastly, seated at the head of the grand hall was the Dark Lady herself, her presence alone causing Qyssiyana’s heart to race inside her chest!

Nevertheless, Qyssiyana settled her breathing, a tentative smile teasing on her lips. Feeling a burst of confidence, she decided to approach the cappuccino-skinned singer ( Aaliyah ), gliding her way through the crowd to reach her. Soon, the woman stood before her—statuesque and magnificent.

And Qyssiyana, with as big a grin as she could muster, offered her a delicate, fluttering wave of her fingers in greeting!

“Excuse me,” Qyssiyana spoke up, her voice soft, yet distinct enough to cut gently through the ambient conversations. “I apologize for the interruption, but I loved your singing!”

 

[Aaliyah]

Objective 1​

Aaliyah laughed and smiled at the rich and powerful gathered as they acknowledged her talent in singing. How thoughtful of them. Surely, none of them had any sort of lewd thoughts running through their heads. Certainly not the one or two whose eyes quickly shied away when her bright rings turned toward them. Those were the ones that understood. A woman able to fly over their heads with a siren's voice, and the Reaper's smile beckoning them to their small death? What wasn't to bask in in those moments?

Then a striking creature slipped through the crowd. Quite the physical opposite of Aaliyah herself, of course. Near white with blue lips. But those eyes... Aaliyah purred as she stepped closer to narrow the gap between them. The minions nearby weren't half as intriguing as this woman. There was something in those eyes that spoke of being of a kind. To say nothing of all those round curvatures that would lead many to their demise.

"No interruption at all, my Love. I would love to speak with you for a moment." Aaliyah leaned forward, but held fast to the woman's eyes -- one of them, keeping all three in focus at once was difficult. "If you would like, I offer private lessons. Performances. Opportunities for women in search of... purpose to simply share with one another where no one else would overhear." It wasn't the same as her own abilities, but there was something similar. Aaliyah wanted to know more of it. Give such delicious talent the opportunity to shine on its own stage.

A Sangnir had to get her entertainment and company where she could. Few measured up. This one had potential.

Qyssiyana | Open​

 

[Darth Keres]

[]

Objective: Feast of Ascension
Tag: Qyssiyana / Darth Virelia / Iskera Valest / Aaliyah

"Have you met this, Queen? I hear she can be eccentric," the man said, breaking the peaceful silence Carisma was enjoying. "I'm very familiar with our eccentric Queen. I'm Apprenticed to her," came Carisma's reply, feeling the early signs of annoyance seeping in. The man leaned back, whistling slightly. "Oh, you must be important then, sitting here at this table with us adults as a kid, impressive." Carisma cringed. She hated being called a kid. Kids played with toys, cried when they skinned knees, and were heavily reliant on their parents; Carisma was independent, she was Sith: the only toys she played with was her lightsaber, she didn't cry when she felt pain, she embraced it, and she defiantly didn't need parents ruling over her.

"Everyone is important," she replied, shifting her eyes toward the older, pompous man briefly before returning her gaze forward, "Until they are not." Any thoughts of quieting this man had failed, instead it motivated him to continue the line of conversation. "I believe we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Ambassador Jonesy," extending a hand, a smile on his face. Ignoring the offered hand, Carisma slowly turned her head in his direction, wanting to erase that smile from across those lips; but refrained from acting like a kid. "I would be lying truthfully if I told you it was a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador. You say wrong foot, I say you miserably failed in making a first impression. First you offend me by calling my Queen, my Master, strange and unconventional. Secondly, you called me a kid. a kid?"

Carisma tapped the sleeping hilt adjoined to her waist belt, the action drawing the attention of the ambassador as he looked down, then back up. "Tell me Ambassador Jonesy, how many kids do you know that play with these toys?"

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • Basic Lightsaber​
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
• Accessories​

 

[Darth Dreer]

Objective I
Tags: Darth Virelia / Iskera Valest / Vharra Theskar / Carisma Rostu / Qyssiyana / Aaliyah ​

Dreer responded without making eye contact at first, seemingly fascinated with the opposite wall. "Not immune." He said carefully. "Just perhaps drawn to a different type of spectacle." His voice was soft, oddly accented, and cultured, though distant. Dreer had an air of perpetual distraction, as if paying the universe around him only the most transient of attention.

"I find I function best outside the spotlight." He continued, turning to face his visitor. "I wouldn't know what to do with it, if it rested on me." Noting, as if for the first time, that everyone else present was dressed more casually, Dreer lowered his hood and removed the mask from his face.

The visage underneath was memorable only in its unmemorability. Dreer was young in appearance, though wilderness living and regular travel had done their damage. Premature gray flecked his short brown hair here and there, framing a pair of profoundly weary eyes.

"Darth Dreer." He said by way of returned courtesy. "When I figure out what it is I do here, I'll let you know. I'm certain Virelia will tell me eventually." His eyes flickered around the room, studying it all in a few moments.

Dreer wasn't sure what to make of his visitor, but kept his tone neutral, even, and informal. It wouldn't do to go making enemies this early. He decided his usual inoffensive bookworm routine would work best. Modesty, mixed with a dash of social ineptitude. It was an easy routine to master, since it was mostly true.

Mostly. Dreer hadn't survived this long by being entirely clueless. Or entirely harmless.

"Nothing so grandiose, I'm afraid." He said, a thin smile briefly flickering across his lips to displace an otherwise-perpetual frown. "I'm a historian. An archaeologist. I traffick in dead things and dry facts. Though few things are less popular or less acknowledged than the past, it's true."

Dreer was being at once truthful and untruthful, as was his custom. Some of the "dry facts" one could dig up out of forgotten places could scour the mind and soul forever.

"What use the Court has for a tomb-raider remains to be seen."

 

[Kyber]

Objective: 1
Equipment: 3 hidden lightsabers, Cloaking Device, Holographic disguise matrix
Disguise:

Spoiler

Tags: Engaging: Vharra Theskar | Indirect: Darth Dreer Iskera Valest Carisma Rostu Qyssiyana Aaliyah

Kyber had been spending his time deep within the bowels of Malachor working on perfecting his variant of the Rakghoul plague by merging it with nanogene spores which was something that Kyber had quite some trouble getting to play nice together. The temptation to ignore was summons to continue on his experiments was high but doing so would cause too many risks plus it would be important to find out who the supposed 'Exarchs' are and maybe Kyber would stake a claim for one of those titles.

Kyber had learnt from his time serving as a Viceroy within the CIS that despite the fact he was a Shard controlling a droid body and not just a simple droid, most people still would not take his presence seriously. Kyber may have liked to not stand out put still there is a difference being not standing out and being on purposely ignored. If Kyber was coming to this feast then he was going to at least pretend to be human via good old holographic technology. Kyber took the form of a frail old man who had a multitude of old scars covering his face with an unkempt beard and finally the disguises left eye was cloudy white attempting to replicate a blind eye with cataracts.

It had been a long time since Kyber had been to a social event and considering his hidden inorganic self was unable to enjoy the provided food or potentially poisoned wine. He needed something to past the time or he was going to shut down via boredom. That was when it hit him, the delicious stench of disgust radiated within the force. Intrigued Kyber strolled to its source.

"Is That One not a fan of thrones" Kyber spoke trying to modulate his voice to be that of an old man but one with keen hearing would most likely be able to hear hints of robotic sounds as he spoke

 

[Vharra Theskar]

"Exile didn't break me. It burned away what was weak."

Tags - Directly Kyber Indirect: Darth Dreer Iskera Valest Carisma Rostu Qyssiyana Aaliyah

Vharra raised an eyebrow at the man talking to her. If she heard the robotic whirl and sounds, she didn't let it be known. Instead she folded her arms along her front, turning her gaze back over towards the throne. A flicker of flame behind her eyes, as if she wanted to melt it down to scrap with just her own gaze.

"It's what they stand for. A Ruler shouldn't sit. They should lead, by example. By charge. Thrones are where people go to grow fat, and lazy. To designate their work to others."

It was why Vharra would make no grand claim for any of the Exarch positions she had heard of. The Flames did not request. They burned. They took what they deserved. What was given to it. A Fire with ambition far too great for its own good would find itself quickly snuffed out. The strongest flame, the brightest flame always started slow. Steady. Growing over time.

"Perhaps this Virelia will prove me wrong. Perhaps she won't. I'm only here as I was invited anyway."

She was not always one to accept every invitation sent her way. But the idea of visiting the Dark Court had been a prudent one. It had also been an educating trip. More and more, she was finding the sickness that rested within the bones of the Galaxy. A sickness that could only be purified through Flames. But all in good time. In a way, it was almost amusing how far Vharra was falling down her own rabbit hole of sickness. Not even noticing it as she shook her head.
​

 

[Mika Tai En]

Ascended Splendour

Objective: Feast of Ascension
Location: Spire, Malachor V
Outfit: Feast Attire
Tags: Darth Virelia | Carisma Rostu | OPEN

​

Mika wasn't sure how she fit in here. A feast was no place for her. She was made to be a soldier. Then again, she was made to help bring order to the galaxy, and her new tutor was not about that. The new focus of Mika's life was about gaining power. For the moment those gains would go towards Darth Virelia, the Dark Queen. The young knight somehow bet that her teachings would lead to Mika taking that power for herself.

In the meantime, this party was a good show of power. The opulence of the setting scored what the Dark Queen had gained since being expelled from the Sith Order. The food was rich, not only in the sense that a chef would describe cuisine, but expensive as well. It was far beyond what should be catered to a simple knight like Mika. She suspected that the Dark Queen would admonish her for it if and when Mika's new teacher arrived, but the young recent convert had temporarily reverted to her timid ways. Instead of jumping in and finding someone to converse with Mika stayed to the outer edges of the gathering. She observed and waited for permission to engage. It was a bad habit she would need to be broken of.

The spectacle of the cappuccino-skinned flying singer captured Mika's attention with an awed gasp. She wondered if the Dark Queen could teach her to be so bold. Mika knew such boldness lived inside her, but she had only been taught to tap it down. Not to let it rise and show itself. She watched the show with rapt desire to join in, but no idea what her voice or body would look like should she try to sing or dance. The only dance Mika knew was with a blade in her hand. The other thing of intrigue came more to Mika's sight when the singer passed to microphone on. The Dark Court was more diverse than she was used to. An "alien" species that Mika did not recognize from any of the holos she had studied approached and started a conversation with the singer.

As Mika continued to take in the scene, waiting for the arrival of her teacher, she heard the "conversation" between a girl/young woman (Mika was not good at judging biologic maturity) and who she overheard was an ambassador. A smirk formed on Mika's lips as she heard the ferocity at which the girl dismissed the poor ambassador. Also, hearing the girl claim to be the apprentice of the Dark Queen, Mika gathered up all the confidence she could and approached. "Wish I could speak to others with power like that…Are you really the Queen's apprentice? I am not sure that I can make that claim officially, but I come here by her command. I'm Mika." the former redhead stated with a nod of her head, now topped by hair of a more wine color.

 

[Veyra Kryze]

"Mystery Dungeon?"

Tags - Objective 2 - Rowena-022 Caera Kryze

The first thing Veyra noticed was the smell.

Not the ozone anymore — this was worse. Sweet, almost floral, but wrong. It crawled down her throat like perfume made of rot. The flare's violet light caught the walls, and she realized the blackened stone was no longer stone at all. It pulsed — slow, languid, alive. Something wet gleamed between the cracks, as if the Spire itself had begun to bleed.

Her visor's filters struggled to adjust, static flickering across the HUD. Readouts warped. Power signatures bled into nonsense, bioelectric traces where no life should exist. The words in the corner of her display glitched once, twice, then vanished completely.

"Corruption," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her gauntlet brushed the wall — a mistake. The surface moved, rippling under her touch like flesh under heat. A thick, translucent film clung to her armor, crawling in slow threads before she scraped it off with a curse. The residue sizzled faintly.

The flare guttered once.

Veyra's heart gave a single heavy thud. The violet light wavered, and for the briefest instant the hall went dark — and in that darkness she saw it. Shapes, half-formed, shifting through the membrane of the walls. Hands pressed outward, boneless and searching. Eyes opened where there should have been none. They stared without seeing.

Then the light flared again, and they were gone.

Her jaw tightened. "I've seen what alchemy does to metal," she hissed, "but this… this feels like the Force itself is sick."

The corruption spread in veins, crawling along the floor toward her boots, seeping from the cracks between plates of basalt like sap from a wounded tree. Each pulse matched the rhythm of the Spire's distant heart. It wasn't random — it was synchronized. Controlled.

She drew her beskad again, the blade's violet edge sparking against the moist air. Steam hissed where it met the spreading filth. The smell worsened — burnt sugar and blood.

A tremor ran through the corridor. Dust fell from the ceiling, followed by a deep, resonant moan — not mechanical, not seismic, but organic. The walls convulsed once, as if exhaling.

"Rowena, Caera—" she started, then stopped herself. No. Her duty was to move forward. To find the heart of this infection and cut it out.

Every instinct screamed to retreat. Every lesson drilled into her since childhood said otherwise. The Queen's fortress was sacred. No foreign corruption would claim it while Veyra Kryze still drew breath.

She advanced through the corridor, blade forward, every step sinking faintly into the softening floor. The purple growth thickened with every meter — now more like a network of veins, glistening, pulsing faster with her presence.

A voice whispered from somewhere deep ahead — low, wet, echoing from the stone. It wasn't words, not really, but rhythm. Like the sound of her own heartbeat played back through a grave.

 

[Calyx Sundrift]

O B J E C T I V E- 1
Vharra Theskar | Kyber | Darth Virelia

Calyx studied the great hall and its uneasy guests.

The flames in the fireplaces and the tall candles shifted in colour, casting the dagger-like black columns in restless hues. Along the walls, sleek tables shimmered beneath the weight of exotic fruits and lavish dishes. Servants moved like murmurs among the guests, their trays glittering with crystal glasses and uncertain smiles.

By all outward measures, the gathering was magnificent. Yet the apprehension of the guests was palpable. Those summoned spoke in hushed tones, their glances sharp and fleeting. Others lingered at the edges, pressed close to the stone, as though the walls might offer some measure of protection. And there were those whose faces carried the vacant look of people who would rather be anywhere else.

At the heart of it all loomed the black throne. Empty, and all the more commanding for it.

That, Calyx thought, was the flaw of the Dark side and its empires. They endured only through a single will. The court assembled here was a nest of ambition. Vain, self-serving, and eager to scatter at the first fracture in Virelia’s dominion. For that reason he had always preferred the republics and the alliances. Where leaders, at least in pretense, pursued ideals rather than power.

And yet he too had come at her summons.

Keeping to the periphery, Calyx slipped between clusters of nobles. He had not yet taken a place in this court, and until he did, anonymity was his safest ally. He had gone to careful lengths to remain unseen. The Amulet of Many resting cold against his skin, its quiet enchantment erasing his presence from the Force. To embrace the Dark side here, with everyone already on edge, would be tantamount to a declaration of war. No, better to keep his activities buried beneath the surface.

Not everyone shared that restraint, however.

Calyx’s attention was drawn to a woman who seemed almost alien, perhaps human only in voice. She glided above the crowd, moving toward the musicians. No sooner, and her voice echoed through the black halls in song. He studied her with wary fascination, and quietly resolved to steer clear. She exuded danger as much as allure. A combination he’d never learned to resist with any success.

While he lingered, weighing his next move, the murmur of nearby conversation caught his ear.

"Thrones are where people go to grow fat, and lazy. To designate their work to others. Perhaps this Virelia will prove me wrong. Perhaps she won't. I'm only here as I was invited anyway."

Before he could stop himself, Calyx stepped closer to the pair - an old man and a horned woman whose expression was more guarded than the words implied.

“I fear you’ll find most here in agreement,” Calyx said, inclining his head in greeting, though his gaze remained fixed on the empty throne. “That has me wondering, how can anything powerful or lasting be built, if it depends on this single, irreplaceable linchpin?” He gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “She’ll need confidants who can look beyond personal gain. And frankly-” His eyes swept the room. “I suspect there are precious few here who qualify.” He let a faint smile touch his lips before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Ah, excuse me. The name’s Calyx Sundrift. I'm with Kanjiklub.”