Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Faction Ascended Splendour - [Dark Court]




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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.


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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.


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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.


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"Here starts, the Dark Ages..."

Tags -

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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.

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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 Darth Virelia
 




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

Tags - Darth Virelia Darth Virelia Iskera Valest Iskera Valest
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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.
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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 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.

 
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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.





 


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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.


 

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