Private Black and Gold

[Uros Wren]

BLACK AND GOLD
The Gilded Hearth - Chapter 1

OUTFIT: Black and Gold Beskar’gam
TAG: Darth Empyrean

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD​

IRON CHEF’S KITCHEN, THE GILDED HEARTH, NAR SHADDAA

The back service entrance of Iron Chef's Kitchen hissed open, letting in a swirl of the Smuggler's Moon's toxic, neon-tinted smog before the atmospheric scrubbers forced it back out.

Inside Iron Chef's Kitchen, the midnight rush had faded into the low hum of cooling units and the rhythmic slosh of a mop. The air was a heavy cocktail of expensive spices, industrial-grade degreaser, and the metallic tang of recycled oxygen.

Uros Wren stepped into the heat of the kitchen, his Black and Gold Beskar'gam bore fresh, ugly takeaway dish. Scorch mark of a heavy blaster bolt across his chest plate, faint smell of ozone clinging to his jetpack, and a smear of dark, drying blood across one gold-trimmed gauntlet.

He stopped in his tracks, his gaze snagging on the lone figure at the far prep station.

It was the new hand. The one who worked the closing shift with a ghost-like efficiency. Even in the dim, pre-dawn light of the kitchen, the man was an impossible contrast to the grime of the Smuggler's Moon. Hair as white as a supernova, skin that looked like carved marble, and eyes... eyes that held a steady, haunting glow of pure gold.

In his line of work, people who looked like that didn't usually end up in a basement kitchen on Nar Shaddaa.

The Warden leaned heavily against a prep table, his armor clanking softly. He reached into a compartment of his utility belt and pulled out a crumpled pack of Corellian cigarettes. He shook one loose and held the pack out toward the white-haired man, his gold-trimmed fingers steady despite the adrenaline still humming in his veins.

"Long night?" Uros asked, his eyes never leaving his employee’s golden’s.

He sparked a small lighter, the flame dancing in the reflection of his black breastplate.

"The kitchen's closed, the credits are counted, and the wolves are finally heading back to their dens," Uros murmured, offering the smoke with a faint, knowing tilt of his head. "Tough time to be the only one still awake."

He took a slow drag of his own cigarette, the smoke curling around his scarred armor.

"Uros Wren. But you probably know."​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Much of the kitchen had already left, but it had been many decades since the Emperor had been given the chance to cook with his own hands. You tended to ruin dishes when you only had one dead hand that refused to give in to your commands. Leave alone the sanitation concerns about a corpse in the kitchen. He sighed at the thought, and mindlessly, with an extreme deftness betraying his experience, continued to prep tomorrows ingredients.​

​

"Long night?", a question that broke him from his trance. He slipped the knife, cutting a small gash in his finger. It was not a pain that could even compare with living your death nigh on two decades for every waking moment of your life, but a man had to fill the role he was given. He sucked in air and grunted, sucking on the blood as he looked over to the Mandalorian.​

​

"I've heard your name around the staff.", he said, shaking his hand of the wound before pulling a cigarette out of the pack. Srina Talon wouldn't like him smoking, but what was the worst that could happen? He die from it?​

​

"Dorian Harper. You probably didn't know that.", he said with a half grin. He pulled his own lighter from his pocket, lit the cigarette quickly, then placed it back away - patting it for good measure. He turned back and continued to prepare ingredients - best to make a good impression with the Head Chef with a little extra overtime.​

​

"You uh... get in a fight?", Empyrean asked with a quick glance towards the man's armor. He made sure to look a touch nervous. In reality, Empyrean had killed thousands of Mandalorians over the years - and many he had ritually sacrificed to produce weapons. There was a real power held in their veins that could be bled from them drop by drop into sith artifacts.​

​

Oh the things he'd make with this man's blood. That, however, was not him - that was the Emperor thinking. Today he is not the Emperor, he is a simple sous chef, and a sous chef doesn't bleed warriors dry.​

​

"Can't say I'd do well in one. I always preferred hiring someone else."​

​

Uros Wren​

 

[Uros Wren]

BLACK AND GOLD
The Gilded Hearth - Chapter 1

OUTFIT: Black and Gold Beskar’gam
TAG: Darth Empyrean

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD​

IRON CHEF’S KITCHEN, THE GILDED HEARTH, NAR SHADDAA

Uros watched the man suck on his cut finger with a sympathetic wince. He'd seen enough battlefield amputations to not be bothered by a kitchen nick, but the way the man slipped; startled by a simple question, reinforced the image of a man out of his element.

"Focus on the blade, Dorian," Uros said, his voice dropping into a more relaxed, conversational tone. "Blood is a poor seasoning for tomorrow's prep, even by Nar Shaddaa standards."

He took another long drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing bright orange in the dim light.

“Mhmm, Black Sun - Hutt Cartel turf war,” Uros muttered, his gaze shifted towards the waiter’s door for a bit as he saw a flicker of light on the other side. As Dorian mentioned his preference for hiring out his violence, Uros let out a short, dry bark of a laugh.

"Hiring someone else, huh? That's an interesting preference," Uros repeated, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement.

He looked Dorian over again; the pale skin, the white hair, the eyes that looked like they belonged in a palace rather than a basement.

"I like to think I'm a generous employer by Hutt Space standards my friend, but I'm fairly certain I don't pay you enough to keep a grunt on retainer," Uros chuckled, the smoke curling around his scorched chest plate. "Hell, I don't even think I make enough to consistently hire someone as good as me. Skilled violence comes with a premium these days."

He flicked a stray bit of ash onto the floor, his gaze turning more contemplative as he studied the man's nervous-act. He felt a strange sort of pity for the guy; another soul chewed up by the galaxy and spat out onto the Smuggler's Moon.

He decided not to press the man for answers, but his curiosity still lingers within the air of the kitchen box. He let the silence stretch for a moment, enjoying the relative peace of the cooling kitchen before the next cycle of chaos began.

"Don't worry about the nerves," he added, his tone softening. "The armor stays on the other side of the door during business hours. Usually. But if you're really that bad in a fight, you picked a hell of a moon to hide on."​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

"You pay enough when they aren't on retainer, and you don't expect quality.", he laughed, sliding the vegetable carcasses from his blade then setting it aside. He turned around and leaned against the prep station, now focusing on the smoking itself. Its been a long time since he enjoyed any kind of cigarette - long time since he could even breath up until a few weeks ago.​

​

"I'm decent enough with a vibroknife-", he said, motioning to the cutting utensil on its side.​

​

"- but ask me to cut anything bigger than a womp rat and I'll probably start sweating."​

​

The truth was more severe. He had fought Darth Carnifex to a standstill. Fought entire groups of Jedi at once. Fought a dozen Mandalorian supercommandos off by himself before they captured him. These things were not just feats, but vindication - the man before Uros Wren had been what the galaxy feared at night, now only a simple chef claiming the exact opposite of what he once was. He did so with a casual shrug, and a long drag of the burner.​

​

"You one of the mandalorians then?", he said with a motion to the armor.​

​

"I've heard about some of you guys from the Holos. It all true?"​

 

[Uros Wren]

BLACK AND GOLD
The Gilded Hearth - Chapter 1

OUTFIT: Black and Gold Beskar’gam
TAG: Darth Empyrean

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD​

IRON CHEF’S KITCHEN, THE GILDED HEARTH, NAR SHADDAA

Uros took a long, thoughtful drag of his cigarette, the smoke drifting lazily toward the industrial scrubbers overhead. He let out a slow exhale, watching the way Dorian leaned back. The man's logic was sound; the budget approach to security was the lifeblood of the lower levels, even if it usually ended in a pile of bodies and unpaid tabs.

"Smart," Uros conceded with a faint, appreciative nod. "Low quality, high volume. It's the Nar Shaddaa way. Though in my experience, the low quality hire is usually the first one to sell your coordinates to the highest bidder when the blasters start heating up. You get what you pay for, Dorian; especially when it comes to loyalty."

He glanced at the cutting utensils Dorian had motioned toward. It wouldn’t surprise him if the guy was trained classically in whichever porcelain he was probably raised in, yet in the state that he is in? It brought a ghost of a smirk to his face.

"Decent with a vibroknife is better than nothing. In this kitchen, it makes you a chef. Out there?" He gestured with his chin toward the back door. "Let’s just say, I take care of those who are loyal to the establishment."

He let the smoke curl around his scarred visor, which sat on the prep table next to him, before exhaling a slow, grey cloud.

"One of them? Yeah. Clan Wren," he said, the name carrying a rhythmic pride even in the quiet of the kitchen. He tapped a gold-trimmed knuckle against his breastplate, the sound a dull, heavy thud of pure, unyielding metal.

"As for the Holos... they get the colors right, and they usually get the part about us being stubborn correct. But they leave out the smell of burnt ozone, the weight of the suit after forty-eight hours without sleep, and the fact that most crusades are just people fighting over a pile of rocks and a name nobody remembers."

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Dorian through the haze. There was a shift in his tone; the playful employer receding to reveal the wayward Mandalorian underneath the plates.

"I love my people, Dorian. Truly. There's a fire in Mandalorian blood that you won't find anywhere else in the galaxy. We're built to endure, to protect, and to hold the line when everyone else is running for the escape pods."

He paused, flicking a stray bit of ash off his scorched pauldron.

"But a fire left unchecked just burns the house down. My people have spent centuries perfecting the art of the glorious death. We're very good at it, maybe too good." He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen around them, then up toward the pulsing, neon heart of the club above. "I found that I was more useful here. In a place traditionally occupied by slimy Slugs and Reptilians, Hapan snobs, and spice-runners. It's easy to be a Mandalorian on a battlefield; it's much harder to be one in a boardroom or a kitchen, keeping the peace without drawing a blade every five minutes."

He let out a short, dry laugh, his gaze dropping to the blood on his gauntlet.

He flicked a stray bit of ash off his scorched pauldron, his gaze returning to Dorian with a sudden, surgical focus. He wasn't aggressive, but he was looking. He is curious of the man who might share his unfortunate fate, who was inches away from not making it past his past life.

"But you're a curious case, Dorian Harper. You move with a bit too much grace for a man who claims to be sweating over a womp rat. And those eyes..." He gestured vaguely toward Dorian's face with his glowing cigarette. "Gold like that usually belongs on a high-court official from the Core or a nobility from the Mid Rim. It's a very... expensive look for a man peeling tubers on the Smuggler's Moon."

He tilted his head, a faint, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"You don't have the smell of a career lifer on you. You haven't been beaten down by the moon yet. So, what brought you to this second chance in life?”​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

"Keen eye.", Empyrean said with a coy grin. He certainly had to work on his form - stoop over maybe?​

​

"No, no nobility. Nothing like that.", only partially true. He was technically of Arkanian nobility, but the Lutris lineage he hailed from was something he didn't know until he was already Emperor. The leeches that they were wanted to suckle on the tit of his wealth - something he never cared to acknowledge, let alone argue over. He dragged the smoke from the cigarette and let is go as he spoke, warbling his tone through the heavy smoke;​

​

"I was born a slave, actually." A truth. The Emperor had been born a slave without a name.​

​

"Learned how to take a beating when I was young. Got free when I was man, and been wandering ever since." A partial truth. Wandering was a way to frame it, but one would hardly consider the man who conquered half the galaxy to be 'wandering' in his aspirations.​

​

"It's not a story I dwell on, but I can sympathize. We all want to start new - get away from the expectations our life held us to. Me in chains, you in... that.", he motioned to the armor the man wore, still scorched from blaster fire.​

​

"I've been around the block a time or two, doing this job or that. Just turns out I enjoy cooking more than anything else. Even play a bit of piano when the mood suits me.", he said, wiggling his fingers.​

​

"Still - I choose not to lift weapons, even if I could. There's a peaceful existence in denying violence. You should try it sometime. You hungry at all? Could cook up a bit of something with what's left from today. All has to get thrown out anyway."​

​

Uros Wren​

 

[Uros Wren]

BLACK AND GOLD
The Gilded Hearth - Chapter 1

OUTFIT: Black and Gold Beskar’gam
TAG: Darth Empyrean

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD​

IRON CHEF’S KITCHEN, THE GILDED HEARTH, NAR SHADDAA

Uros took a long, slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke obscuring his face for a moment as he processed Dorian’s story. The Mandalorian didn't look surprised that his staff was formerly a slave. Nar Shaddaa was the galaxy's largest collection of people who had started in the dirt anyway. There was a flicker of newfound respect in his eyes. He knew a thing or two about chains, and the steel required to break them.

"Slave to chef. That's a hell of a trajectory," Uros said, his voice dropping into a more grounded, sincere tone. "It explains the eyes, I suppose. Survivors usually have a different kind of light in them. Though I'll admit, the piano part is a curveball. Most of my staff's only hobby is losing their wages at the Sabacc tables."

He let out a short, thoughtful huff of air at the suggestion of denying violence. He looked down at his scorched gauntlet, then back at the man who claimed to have traded a life of chains for a life of peace.

"Peace is a beautiful dream, Dorian. Truly. I'd love to see a galaxy where I could trade this Beskar’gam for a silk tunic and a decent bottle of wine every night," Uros said, his gaze turning distant for a heartbeat. "But the reality is that the peaceful existence you enjoy in this kitchen is a luxury paid for in blood. My blood. My people's blood. Denying violence only works if everyone agrees to the terms, and in this galaxy, the only terms anyone respects are the ones delivered at the end of a barrel."

He offered a small, weary smile; the smile of a man who knew he was a monster who traded his innocence to guarantee others safety.

"Someone has to keep the wolves away from the piano, after all. But food? Yeah. Adrenaline is a hell of a metabolic drain. If you've got something left that isn't scorched or…"

Uros stopped mid-sentence.

He didn't move his head, but his eyes sharpened instantly, the Warden snapping back into focus. Through the sound-dampening fields of the kitchen, his ears, honed by years of listening for the wrong kind of silence, caught a faint, metallic clink from the alleyway outside. It was followed by the low, distorted hum of a comms-burst, far too close to the back service door.

Uros didn't reach for his helmet yet, but his hand drifted toward the blaster holstered at his hip, his posture shifting from relaxed employer to a coiled spring of black and gold.

"Dorian," he whispered, the playfulness completely gone, replaced by a cold, tactical authority. "Step back from the windows. Now."

He didn't explain. He didn't have to. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt very thin, and the pre-dawn quiet was about to get very loud.​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Empyrean heard the noise, but he hadn't really considered the danger of it. The Mandalorian, however, knew there was a threat before them - and Empyrean couldn't help but swear under his breath. He didn't want to be forced to defend himself after admitting he can't fight - it would put a damper on his mood, and force too many questions. Without second guessing it, Dorian took on a startled, scared expression and quickly moved from the window.​

​

With a subtle touch, he grabbed the knife and fell to his knees, sliding in the hopes of finding cover behind a counter or something else solid.​

​

Uros Wren​