Faction Chaos Is a Ladder | THC

[Hapan Hour]

DJO FORTRESS​

| Post 902 ABY |
Chaos, A Ladder in a Marketplace of Ambition​

The sea winds carried the smell of salt through the open galleries of Djo Fortress, rattling banners that had flown over House Djo long before there had ever been a Hapes Consortium to unite. For centuries the fortress had endured where kingdoms had not, serving as a refuge and getaway through plague, succession, civil war, and exile. Now, with the Cluster under foreign occupation and another queen seated upon the Throne, its ancient halls had become something they had not been in generations: the seat of a government in exile…one that was determined to reclaim a kingdom.

Word of Cortana Djo's coronation had spread farther than any Restorationist courier could have managed. It traveled through noble salons and military barracks, along smuggling routes and encrypted hyperspace relays, carried by whispers that the bloodline of House Djo had not ended after all. Some dismissed it as another pretender's claim. Others saw an opportunity. More than a few saw a threat.

Over the days that followed, Djo Fortress became the destination of those willing, or desperate enough, to gamble on the future of the Hapes Cluster. Loyal houses arrived quietly, careful not to be seen committing themselves too early. Rival claimants and ambitious nobles came to measure the woman now claiming House Djo's legacy against their own ambitions. Military officers carried reports from occupied worlds while merchant guilds weighed profit against principle. Pirate captains sought letters of marque as readily as opportunity, and syndicate intermediaries came to determine whether a restored Hapes would prove a profitable partner or an inconvenient obstacle. Others arrived bearing only information, old grievances, or carefully concealed intentions. Few trusted one another. Fewer still trusted the woman holding court.

Some sought a queen. Others sought leverage. A handful sought only confirmation that House Djo still lived. And at least one among them almost certainly intended to sell everything they witnessed before the week was over.

Every audience carried the possibility of alliance, betrayal, or assassination. Every pledge carried risk. Everyone walking into that room knows the stakes. Cortana received them all.

The First Throne Hall no longer resembled the ceremonial court of old Hapes. It had become a war council disguised as one. Beneath banners older than the Consortium itself, alliances were forged, grievances aired, debts collected, and loyalties measured. Every visitor understood the same unspoken truth: should any of the powers that be discover the full extent of those gathered beneath House Djo's roof, every soul in the hall would be marked for execution.

 

[Tala'ri Djo]

The salt of the sea air stung the back of Tala’ri’s throat as she stood at the precipice of the great overlook, watching the waves crash against the cliffs far below. Beyond them, the ocean rolled towards the horizon until grey water met grey sky.

It was a welcome taste. One that reminded her of childhood and simpler times. Before the blood of the throne had been spilt across Hapes again, and again, and again.

History had a way of repeating itself. Like a datachip caught in an endless loop, playing the same tired story with different names. Different faces. Different dead.

It was almost exhausting. Yet this was Hapes. This was how it was done. How the status quo remained. How families rose and fell while everyone pretended the throne beneath them wasn't slick with blood.

It is how Tala’ri kept herself relevant.

She sighed and absently flicked a loose piece of stone from the wall. Her eyes followed it as it turned upon itself, tumbling silently down the cliff face before disappearing into the swell below and for the briefest moment, she considered following it.

It would certainly be easier.

No choosing sides. No blood. No watching people she had served beside for years suddenly discover that duty meant something different to each of them. She made the thought pass before pushing herself away from the wall.

She had yet to declare her allegiance openly. That was becoming increasingly difficult. She was Chume’doro, after all. A Captain of the Royal Guard. Her oath was supposed to make questions of loyalty remarkably simple.

It hadn't.

Already there were those amongst the Guard quietly taking measure of one another. Old friendships suddenly mattered. Family names mattered more. Conversations stopped when certain officers entered rooms. Duty rosters were being studied with an attention they had never warranted before. Everyone was working out who would stand where when the order finally came.

Nothing drastic had happened yet. There had been no weapons drawn or turned upon their own. Tala’ri knew the women beneath those uniforms too well to believe it would remain that way. She gave it days, perhaps.

Someone would force the question.

Another ship passed overhead, engines briefly drowning out the ocean as it banked towards the fortress. Another arrival. Another noble house coming to declare itself before the family.

Tala’ri watched it disappear beyond the grey mass of the Djo Fortress.

So it began.

She bottled away thoughts of easier endings, straightened her jacket that was not that dissimilar of the Chume’doro she might soon be accused of betraying, and turned back towards the fortress proper.

Today was going to be interesting.

 

[Cintra Thane]

As she approached the formidable Djo estate, two voices competed for supremacy inside Cintra’s head. One told her to turn back and board her shuttle, that it was far too dangerous to be seen associating with the present company. The other simply reminded her of her station and the legacy that drove her line ever deeper into greatness.

She chose the latter, echoing the voice inside through parted lips.

“Lady Cintra of House Thane,” she said to the guards outside the entrance. Surname alone was enough to open the doors, through which she tread with careful confidence.

The hall was filled with a strange collage of personas; nobles and pirates, bankers and enforcers, loyalists and those who hadn’t a crumb of knowledge about the Consortium and its delicate politics. Cintra felt strangely at home and juxtaposed at the same time, and for a moment, the uncertainty was almost… normal.

Almost.

There was certainly nothing normal about three women vying for the Fountain Throne at the same time. Luckily, only one of them had a legitimate claim—and luckier still, that woman was the host of this precarious affair. Cintra would certainly exchange words with Cortana Jade before the evening was through, but for now, she sought a beverage. The future Queen Mother was not the only powerful player in attendance tonight.

 

[Quelisse]

Location: Djo Fortress - Dreena
Attire: Red Dress
Notable Equipment and Personal Effects: FAE/M-02 Energized Forearm Vibroblade Mk. II - Concealed │ Phase III "Force Avenger" Energy Shield - Concealed │ SR-57 Holdout Blaster - Concealed
Tag: Tala'ri Djo Cintra Thane

It was Quelisse's first day of duty at court. And a momentous day, she knew it would be. Word had spread quickly across the Hapes Cluster. The Ereneda had been announced and coronated, albeit within exile.

As a Fountain Sniper of the Chume’doro, it was Quelisse’s duty to protect her, and her Royal House.

Quelisse did not intend to shirk her responsibility. And she hoped that the other agents of the Chume’doro would be ready to make the same commitment when the time came. If not, there would be difficult choices to make. Allies and neutrals assessed for potential loyalty. Spies to root out. Traitors to purge. And, rebellious noble houses to be crushed.

Only after that work was done, could the Hapan throne be reclaimed from the Mandalorian puppet ruler.

Thus attired in the red dress that served as her outward cover as a lady-attendant of the Queen Mother’s court, Quelisse watched every guest that stepped through the entrance with a gaze that was equal parts scrutinizing and critical. She studied their gait and movements for the subtle tells of concealed weapons present on their persons. Then, she assessed them for flaws. Her eyes narrowed as a lady with a slightly slumped posture laughed in a way that was grated against her ears. She picked out another with dry lips, her smile tight as if she had not tasted water in hours. And then a third lady with poorly shaped, ragged eyebrows, grooming far too careless for a woman of her station.

She watched them all, knowing that any outward blemish of the physical form could betray a stain of the spirit.

 

[Rixa]

Aboard the Wayward Star
En route

The holo projector on the console flickered to life with a soft chime. Rixa was halfway through a bottle of something cheap and vaguely alcoholic when she leaned over and accepted the call.

Her mother’s torso resolved in blue light.

Lysara looked every bit the Hapan naval officer. Her uniform was crisp and her hair set perfectly. Rixa wondered how Hapan soldiering worked, that a senior officer and minor noble had to remain so presentable.

"Rixa."

"Ma." Rixa tipped the bottle in a lazy salute. "You’re looking terrifyingly respectable. What’s the occasion?"

Her mother didn’t waste time. "Things are moving on Dreena. House Djo has declared. Cortana is gathering support at the fortress. The occupation is not as solid as the Mandalorians would like everyone to believe."

Rixa raised an eyebrow and took another drink.

"And you’re in the middle of it, of course."

"I am a naval captain and a noble of the Consortium. Where else would I be?" Her mother’s tone stayed even, but there was an edge under it. "We need people who can move freely. People the occupation does not already have files on. People who know how to fight dirty if it comes to that."

Rixa snorted. "You mean pirates."

"I mean you." A pause. "I want you to come to Dreena, now, so that I can present you to our leadership and get letters of marque for your crew. Your crew, and any other mercenaries you can bring to the fight."

"I might be busy," Rixa snapped. She glanced down at the bottle. She had the last half of whatever this was and then she was out of both alcohol and work. Her least favourite state to be in."

"Are you just trying to be difficult now? I am asking politely."

Rixa rolled her eyes and sighed. She had only known she had a living mother for six months now. She was infuriatingly prim and proper, but she had also acted with patience and kindness. It was infuriating.

Rixa shook the bottle where her mother would be able to see it on the holo.

"Will there be booze?"

Lysara sighed. "You know there will."

"Alright, suppose I can make a detour," Rixa replied. It irked her that her mother's sigh as her patience started to wear was the same as her own.

"And for the love of the stars, I will be presenting you as both a pirate and my own blood. Could you try to look presentable when you arrive?

Rixa glanced down at her scuffed boots and the half-empty bottle, then back at the holo with a crooked grin. "You want me in a dress, don’t you?"

"That would be ideal, yes. I want at least prefer you not to look like you just fell out of a dive bar."

"That’s a big ask."

"Could you at least....cover your midriff."

"No."

"Cover your tattoos?"

"No."

"Leave your ugliest blasters behind? Just the sword and appropriately sized duelling pistol."

Rixa made a finger gun at her mother. "Deal."

Her mother almost smiled. Almost. "Just come. See if there is work that suits you. Mercenary rates if that makes it easier to swallow."

Rixa stared at the blue image for a long moment, then sighed and set the bottle down.

"Fine. I’ll come. But if anyone tries to make me curtsey, I’m shooting them."

The holo cut out a moment later. Rixa spun the pilot’s chair and raised her voice toward the rear of the ship.

"Voro! Plot a course for Dreena. And Sial, if you’ve got anything that looks even vaguely respectable in the cargo hold, dig it out. We’re going to a party."

She muttered under her breath as the engines began to warm.

"A proper Hapan party. Stars help us all."

 

[Tavian Djo]

Amidst the crowd in the First Throne Hall stood a young man of not more than twenty, with bronze-gold hair so perfectly tousled, a jawline so defined, and features so finely crafted that he appeared to be a carefully refined statute come to life.

In the Hapes Cluster, amongst their nobility, he was just another man.

Tavian gave a wistful sigh as he looked over the bright banners. He missed the fountain palace. Not that he'd really spent much time there after Aurellia took over. Djos were most unwelcome. Now someone else had done to her what she'd done to them. He wondered how that must feel, then realized his thoughts on it probably did not matter at all.

Squinting at the people filing in, he tried to figure out how many of them were relatives. So many fourth or fifth cousins. So difficult to keep track, yet his tutors had been insistent as a child. He must know the lineage, even if he was just a man and not destined to inherit anything. Did he spy Tala'ri Djo ? He thought that might be her, but couldn't be sure.

So many faces...

Glancing up at the patterns on the ceiling, his mind drifted and a slight smile curled the corner of his lips as he thought of a girl in a green dress.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Where I have passed, grass will never grow again.

Behold.

The Vahlans came.

None among them uniformed, but each as unique as a mote of whispering flame. They strode from their shuttles, bedecked in stolen gold and stolen gems, wearing plundered silks and sporting plundered weapons. No two appeared alike. They had hard eyes and cruel smiles, these world conquerors, these void reavers, these corsairs. Every one of them a cultist of the Ember of Vahl, crackling with the power of the Dark Side in their very marrow.

Spoiler

Accompanying the central band of nomadic Vahlans were pirates and corsairs of every ilk and alien breed imaginable, all come together in a forsworn court of captains which came from Telkur Station deep in the Transitory Mists.

At the front of the entourage strode the titanic figure of Hasuras na-Gerra, wearing golden armor and a cape of crimson. He wore not crown, for what had he need of such a symbol? His very presence oppressed those around him as though it were a physical weight. His heavy booted feet rung loud upon the ground and his booming laughter was heard as he jested with the other corsairs long before they ever reached the gates of Djo Fortress.

Figures of legend amongst the approaching band might be spotted to those keen of eye and knowledge who sought out familiar faces from bounty posters across the galaxy. Young hapan boys and girls watching distantly from the ramparts grew restless as they searched the group. whispering among themselves. Did Makar Clyne number among them? The Red Rixa ? The Jolly Walker ?

Herald their coming.
​

Zev Corrin Aurellia Vatrës Dhalis

 

[Irulan Al-Zahir]

Location: Djo Fortress - Dreena
Attire- Dress
Personal Effect- Ornate Spice Smoking Pipe
Tags: Open!

Information travels fast. It travels even faster when your home planet sits on a major intergalactic trade route. Word of recent political happenings in the Hapes Cluster as spurred quite the activity amongst the Sikarran nobility. With the Sikarrans being Hapan colonists from many years ago, there was always view of fondness and friendship with the Hapes cluster, despite the cultural differences that have occured. Yet Hapes was always undera foreign jurisdiction and thus Sikarra kept its distance from their cousins. But now things have changed and many back on Sikarra wish to reconnect with Hapes.

Irulan, heiress of Sikarra, arrived to the Djo Fortress in a rather luxurious yacht ship. First impressions are important and only you get one after all. She walked down the ramp in her nice dress, with four servants attending to her at all times. Her Royal Guards from Sikarra also accompanited her, but they would stay outside of the meeting area itself to show proper respect to the Hapan security already there. Irulan entered the scene properly as she took a look around.

Various faces she didnt know. Other ones that looked important, and others that could easily be forgotten. Some of the presence of males made Irulan raise an eyebrow. Perhaps they were consorts to the powerful women here? Servants? Aides? Irulan let those thoughts fly out of her mind as she then walked forward, her eyes searching as she examined her Hapan cousins. The servants followed duitfully behind Irulan.

​

 

[Cortana Jade]

The court convened only days after her coronation.

Djo Fortress had become the seat of a government in exile. Those who came understood the risk; but, they came because they all had ambitions of their own. Though she knew a few undoubtedly came to judge whether her or her house was worth supporting at all. The atmosphere...reflected the uncertainty outside the fortress.

One thing she knew, old rivalries wouldn't disappear simply because another queen had been crowned. Eline Djo had taught her the houses measured one another as carefully as they measured the length of the throne. Every pledge invited retaliation. Every bargain created another enemy. Somewhere within the hall were those prepared to support the Restoration....or see them go up in flames. Somewhere else were those already calculating how much the information gathered here might be worth to the Mandalorians, or to another claimant.

She could only think back to how she never wanted this life. And, even in her reminisce, Cortana made no effort to break any of the tension.

"My gloves, please." she requested, looking forward almost as if she could see through the door, the only layer separating her from everyone else in the next room. Her head whipped around, as she swiped them one by one and proceeded to pull them tight. "Thanks. Let's go."

A beat.

Then, "Wait, where's Aji?" she asked hurriedly, before having to step forward.

The doors clicked through their mechanical sequence and slid open, almost on beat with the herald as he struck the stone floor with his staff. She made her way up the raised dais, finding her place beneath the banners of House Djo. Cortana enters the room assuming that everyone present wants something, including herself. What she saw from above was a map...and everyone here was a piece.

"The Court of House Djo is now in session. Who seeks the First Seat?"

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

Attend you, all. She comes.

The Vahla might have expected to see the Avatara -- known to them only as one of the Chosen -- at her customary position at the right hand of Hasuras Na-Gerra where they had become used to finding her. On this day, she stood at the top of the debarking ramp until the enormous Champion had reached the bottom.

She suspected that Hasuras Na-Gerra would neither understand nor appreciate the restraint, but Vatrës was wise beyond her years and understood the obligations that came with being a guest. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps it was the ancient knowledge imparted unto her by the goddess within her.

As far as Vatrës was concerned, this was a Hapan affair. The Champion's involvement with their strange politics was...

Inadvisable, she thought.

A voice within answered, Perhaps. Yet, these Hapans may be of use to him, and by extension to Me. They are a curious people, but... any society that arranges itself with women in charge cannot be all wrong.

Vatrës wondered idly if that was a joke. Did goddesses make jokes?

We do when the occasion calls for it. Here is one just for you, my little flame: what does an Avatara name privacy? Vatrës started descending the ramp, allowing her ignorance to blossom within her mind. A childhood memory.

At this, Vatrës bit back a genuine laugh, causing a Vahla pirate to her left cast a gaze in her direction. She smiled and murmured, "Vahl's blessings, brother. Today is an auspicious day; the signs and portents assure it. Let none among us doubt it. Now... let us follow the Qhan of Khans, the Lord of Ashlords ere he may go." She met pace with the rest of the horde, her cape and robes flowing majestically, the subtle golden embroidery catching the light.

Hasuras Na-Gerra | Aurellia | Zev Corrin
​

​

 

[Isildor Laskaris]

ECLIPSE
"Everything under the sun is in tune…"

DREENA

”HOUSE LASKARIS OF THRAKIA,” the shrieking announcement of the noble house’s arrival on Dreena shrieked inside Isildor’s eardrum, sending uncomfortable jolt as if a warhammer had been smashed on top of his head. God-karkin hangover. He had been non-stop drinking ever since he touched down in this God-forsaken cluster he unfortunately got to call home.

The prince-mercenary walked behind his mother, the Ducha of Thrakia, alongside his youngest sister, the last remaining unmarried Laskaris from Ioriel line.

“Let me find myself an old friend to talk to, may I, mother?” he asked, half-sneering, when his mother had made her intentions clear to approach the newly coronated Queen. His own cousin whom he unexpectedly crossed paths with in the most peculiar situation — one that forcefully dragged him back to this wretched hometown of his.

Without waiting for his mother’s approval, hopefully before the Queen herself had the chance to capture his passing gaze, Isildor split off from the two, waltzing through the court for, you guess it, more alcohol. Without a second thought, he swiped a glass of wine, sipped his fair share, and scanned his surroundings, only to be enthralled by the next figure walking towards him.

“Lady Cintra, fancy yourself a drink?” One corner of his mouth moved, small, as he raised his glass at the heiress of House Thane. Old habits die hard, indeed.

Cintra Thane | Cortana Jade | Open​

 

[Cintra Thane]

Cintra’s gait slowed as the wine glass angled toward her, like a social spear prodding at a lioness. She couldn’t help but match the smirk Isildor Laskaris wore. Her eyes, blue as the Consortium fans and just as eager, flicked from the Thrakian noble to Cortana Jade and back.

“I’d hoped to find myself in that first seat,” Cintra admitted. It would come as no surprise—House Thane seemed always nearby when a claimant became more than someone seeking the throne.

But perhaps, especially in times like these, eagerness is not as sightly a virtue as it may seem. In the Court of Djo, cognizance and judgment—supported by loyalty, functionality, and discretion—would go much father than banks notes or gifts. There would be time, Cintra concluded with the flick of a wrist to grasp her own glass from a passing servant.

“Only if you fancy yourself some conversation, dear Isildor.” She tipped her class to toast, watching him with cool eyes.

 

[Tala'ri Djo]

Aside from a few select cultures beyond the Cluster, the importance placed upon family trees and legacies was comparatively small. Usually knowing who your brother was, or perhaps your direct cousin at a stretch, was all that was needed to navigate life.

Within Hapan society, especially amongst those of higher standing, you needed to know ever more intricate connections. Who was your grandmother’s sister? How many direct Saelin’a had she borne? Who had they married, and into what other families? It was an endless track of lines, branches and marriages, any one of which could spell disaster for your own.

Interestingly, Tala’ri’s connection to Cortana was not as complicated as some had been. Cortana descended directly from Tala’ri’s great-grandmother’s sister. There were others closer in blood, certainly, but within the elaborate power plays of Hapan culture they were practically sisters.

More importantly, they both carried the blood of Djo. That, above all else, gave them both the right to stand there.

Upon the announcement, she stepped forward.

“I, Tala’ri Nara’vi Djo, Saelin’a of the Djo Lineage, shall claim First Seat.”

She stepped down from her position amongst the gathered and moved into the centre of the chamber, stopping before the Queen in Exile. With the grace that only a Hapan could muster, she stood eye to eye with her.

“The throne has for too long been held by a pretender. False bloodlines without rightful claim have occupied the Fountain Palace. I have been a sworn protector of that throne for most of my life.”

She showed no nerves as she admitted to her position amongst the elite Chume’doro. She knew being here was potentially a death sentence. Saying all this aloud certainly was, she knew some of the faces among the crowd, she knew there were snakes among them.

Yet the movement had begun to expose the cracks within the Fountain’s protectors. Opinions were spreading and with them loyalties once considered absolute were beginning to shift. Tala’ri knew she was far from the only woman amongst the Chume’doro who had begun to question exactly what it was they were sworn to protect.

“I am a protector of the throne, and that means I must uphold the integrity of the Fountain Palace.”

Slowly, Tala’ri lowered herself before Cortana. Not quite a kneel, but something older and more deliberate; a deep bow of submission that left her exposed and showed complete trust in the woman standing before her.

“I pledge myself to my House, and to my cousin’s claim to the throne. Her blood is true. Her claim is true.” Her head remained lowered. “I shall protect her life as I have sworn to protect the throne. My Erenada! You have no equal, and I have no life beyond you. My eyes, my hands, my heart, and my blade will kill and die in your service. ”

There was no taking it back now.

Tala’ri Djo had chosen her Queen.

Cortana Jade

 

[Soraya Caldris]

[but it was a beginning]​

...and not for the first time I found myself wondering if a man could be strangled by his own lekku. Unfortunately I am not equipped to fly this ship in the event we are intercepted, I will continue to wonder, at least until there is steady ground beneath my feet.

It's a shame, as I'm only just now starting to be able to find my way to the 'fresher in the dark without stumbling...
-- Excerpt S.E.R.A. Local Entry 0938 HOURS (USER: Caldris, Soraya) | STATUS: Deleted, 0942 HOURS (USER: Caldris, Soraya)

There were two principal benefits to being on the inside of the ugly, unassuming freighter upon which Lady Soraya Caldris found herself the unwilling passenger. First, it was marginally -- marginally -- better than attempting to swim through the vacuum of space without benefit of a space suit or any kind of maneuvering. Second, being inside the ship -- whose name she either didn't know or hadn't bothered to remember -- meant she didn't have to look at its ugly exterior.

The drawback, of course, was that she had to look at its ugly interior.

The only thing worse than the ship were the manners of its master. Zel Ziveri was a twi'lek, which as far as Soraya was concerned was an absurd thing to be. Long fleshy tendrils -- though only two, which some people would appreciate -- sprouted from his head. He might have looked perfectly... well, normal, she supposed, without them. Perhaps that was why he had such a chip on his shoulder. Magnanimous as she was, Soraya tried to set that aside in her judgment of him; he could not help having been born so strikingly odd-looking any more than she could help being born positively stunning.

Some things simply were. It did no good to question or complain.

That, and he was a man. That could have been forgiven, of course, especially as an outsider. Just what he had been doing in the Hapes Cluster at the moment of their meeting was frustratingly opaque and for some reason he -- he! -- did not seem to be particularly interested in explaining himself to her. But Ziveri had been in the right place at the right time, and his hideous shoebox of a ship had been large enough for him to be convinced to take Soraya and a handful of youngsters out of danger.

It had all been downhill from there.

From then until now, the captain had been difficult in dozens of ways, large and small. He didn't take direction. He was impatient with curious Hapan Force-sensitive children prowling through the nooks and crannies of his ship. The food available was, perhaps, an explanation for why he seemed so grumpy, and though the children's complaints had not been particularly diplomatic about the fact that the vegetables on offer tasted like the sludge that comes out at the end of a hyperdrive coolant flush, they were only children. There had been raised voices, fits of hysterics, and tantrums -- mostly on the part of the children, but to say that tensions had been high and ratcheting higher would have been an understatement.

Mostly he seemed affronted at the notion that he was expected to convey the whole party to Dreena, not left at some sad little spacer backwater wherever he would next resupply. As if it was her fault that! Well, he didn't need to know that her suggestions had carried just that little bit of Force suggestion that may or may not have bordered on compulsion. Soraya herself didn't even know if it had been that, or her persuasive nature, or Ziveri's own good nature (buried deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep deep down), or her promise of recompense that had made the difference.

She didn't know for sure. She didn't want to know.

Now, she had finished buckling the younglings into their crash webbing, she made her way to the cockpit. She knew better than to try to sit in one of the unoccupied seats, so instead she leaned against the jamb of the doorway and looked at him in the reflection of the cockpit viewport, until he glanced to one side to view a readout on some screen or another, showing instead his golden profile.

Even that irked Lady Soraya, though she could not say why.

"The cargo is strapped in," she informed him, unable to keep the tartness from her voice. "How much longer?"

Zel Ziveri

​

 

[Aurellia]

Surrounded by a retinue of loyalists, backed by Vahlans, so did Aurellia walk the halls of Fortress Djo like she belonged. A bold thing, to walk into a den of those who would name you puppet and have your head, but no bolder than a coronation bathed in blood. For that stunt, Cortana had earned a begrudging shred of respect from the usurper and usurped. A Hapan affair through and through. It was for that reason Aurellia had attended this farce. The great houses would make war on one another - it was the way of the cluster. The Queen Mother would proudly welcome the challenge, and an excuse to finally smash the remainder of Djo, as she should have before. Yet, for now, they shared a common enemy.

Attending under an assumption of peace did nothing to quell the spite that weighed heavy on Aurellia's chest, however. Dressed in black and red, with a golden circlet upon her brow, Aurellia quietly scanned the crowd. She would remember these faces. When this bloody affair to come was finished, no longer would a bent knee grant you mercy. There was only a single due that would settle the debt of betrayal. When the newly declared queen made her appearance, Aurellia remained silent, observing. Who would be the first to kiss the hand? A Chume’doro, apparently. Irony dripped from the oath she swore.

"Careful now." Aurellia's words were not that the entirety of the hall may hear, but neither was the venomous remark quiet. There was a shuffling as those in front of her moved away instinctively, their backwards glances colored with anger, shock, and surprise. To interrupt was not proper etiquette in a court - but neither was its holding while one enemy still sat the throne nor your other still lived and breathed. "A protector of the royal house who has watched two queens die and another overthrown is worth little and less, cousin or not."

Tala'ri Djo | Cortana Jade | Hasuras Na-Gerra | Vatrës Dhalis​

 

[Isildor Laskaris]

ECLIPSE
"Everything under the sun is in tune…"

DREENA

Oh how Isildor welcomed Cintra’s cool, blue eyes and delicate smirk with bravado. The scent of hundreds of night he had spent under the neon lights throughout the smugglers moon has never left him entirely, leaving its mark on how his face lightens up upon certain interactions. He watches as her gaze slowly sweeps from the Queen towards him; her forethought of how the day would transpire seemingly shifted in a matter of a glance.

“Well, I must say that I’m flattered, m’lady,” he welcomed her toast with his own glass, his eyes never leaving her. The mercenary doesn’t need to do so to recognize what’s been brewing at the backdrop of their conversation anyway — an intriguing party of some he must say — it’s a skill that’s proven to be handy both in social as well as professional settings for him.

“Tell me,” the Sael’da whispered in a low, almost scandalous tone as he closen the distance between the two. “What’s your verdict on our Corsair Queen?”

Cintra Thane​

 

[Rixa]

DJO Fortress

Rixa stood near one of the side tables with a glass she had no intention of sipping politely.

Lysara Venn stood beside her in full naval dress uniform, posture perfect, expression carefully neutral.

"You could have covered more skin," her mother murmured without looking at her.

"You could have warned me the guest list included every pirate with a bounty bigger than mine." Rixa nodded toward the far end of the hall where Gerra’s golden bulk and his noisy court of Vahlans and freebooters were drawing every eye.

"You know him? Try not to start a fight before we have spoken to the Queen."

"That golden twat? I won't make trouble," Rixa promised. "But I can still laugh at the entrance."

In fact, Rixa was mildly envious of the drama they had created. That, and the bounties that were larger than her own.

"Power makes strange company." Lysara accepted a glass from a passing servant and did not drink.

"We will petition her for the letters of marque later. Properly," Lysaea continued. "In private if she allows it. Until then you will smile, you will not swear, and you will remember that every person in this room is measuring us."

Rixa tipped her glass in a mock toast toward the Vahlan contingent.

"Smile. Don’t swear. Don’t shoot the shiny pirate king. Got it." She glanced sideways at her mother. "You’re enjoying this far too much."

"I am not enjoying it at all," Lysara said calmly. "I am surviving it. There is a difference. Now stand up straight. Someone is looking this way. Do not smirk at her. In fact you are not to socialise with members of House Caranth at all."

"Oh really?"

"It was not a challenge. Red Rixa. You really think that red cloak is less gaudy than gold?"

"Ow."

That one had stung. She should have known a woman of her own blood who commanded an entire battleship of sailors would have had a sharp tongue.

 

[Careina Djo]

She’d been standing right there when it happened.

Close enough that, even now, if she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to wander back to that day, Careina could still smell the bitter reek of scorched velvet and ozone. A single step forward and she could have run the Jedi who’d killed her Queen, all the way through, before her blade ever cleared its hilt. Instead, her boots stayed rooted to the marble floored deck, watching as the Queen of Alderaan punched that plasma sword straight through Ereneda's spine and out the other side of her chest.

There’d been no sharp pang of grief, no sudden urge to weep - just a quiet, heavy stillness when it was done.

What stayed with her was the Queen’s face in those final seconds. The foolish, wide-eyed shock as Ereneda clutched at the air, lips parting around a wet gasp as she realized too late that her blood ran just as red, and spilled just as easily, as the millions she’d condemned. It felt like justice, having stood behind that throne through every hour of the blockade since it began, long before the Galactic Alliance sent their ambassadors to try and talk sense into the senseless. How many times before they arrived, did she stare at the bare nape of her Queen's neck, wondering how much space it would take to remove her head from her shoulders? The number was beyond measure. But, in the end, it was the Jedi who did what her oaths forbade.

Her sisters had noticed though, catching that fraction-of-an-inch shift onto the balls of her feet, the sharp tension in her shoulders as if to spring, followed by the deliberate choice to remain still. They’d taken her command and uniform, and she’d accepted the judgement without protest. What defense could she possibly offer, for a betrayal she not only didn't regret, but regretted not doing herself?

The memory of it faded as she felt herself drawn back to the present moment, her brown eyes finding rest on the prostrate form of the ever honorable and noble Tala’ri.

“I pledge myself to my House, and to my cousin’s claim to the throne. Her blood is true. Her claim is true.” Her head remained lowered. “I shall protect her life as I have sworn to protect the throne. My Erenada! You have no equal, and I have no life beyond you. My eyes, my hands, my heart, and my blade will kill and die in your service. ”

Watching her former sister-in-arms pledge her life so completely made something cold twist in Careina's chest. They were courageous words. Beautiful, empty words. The same ones she'd once believed in wholeheartedly, until her conscious was measured against them.

"A protector of the royal house who has watched two queens die and another overthrown is worth little and less, cousin or not."

The usurper could not have known how harmlessly her venom would slide off a soul like Tala'ri's. Nor how perfectly the sting of that insult would pierce Careina, instead. By Aurellia's measure, she was worth less than nothing. Perhaps it was true; gods knew enough of her former sisters thought as much when they cast her out.

Her eyes shifted from the claimant draped in blacks and reds and up to Cortana upon the dais, waiting to see how this would-be-queen reacted to this first challenge, of what she was sure would be many throughout this meeting.

That was what Careina had come to learn.

She hadn't answered the summons just to bow her head and bend her knee before another crown, a crown that likely wouldn't accept a pledge from an oathbreaker, anyway. Hell, for all she knew, Cortana had dragged her back from exile for the sole pleasure of lining her up against a cold stone wall and finally settling an overdue charge of treason.

But Ajinar Djo had said that this Queen was different, that he knew the measure of her spirit. That Cortana wasn't another tyrant in a fancy chair.

She intended to hold her breath until the woman proved it.

 

[Makar Clyne]

Location: Djo Fortress, Dreena
Objective: Make an Impression
Tags: Irulan Al-Zahir
Attire: Traditional garb

The night was already off to a most interesting of starts. It seemed that Aurelia was already making quite a splash amongst the nobility. The ladies of the Hapan court were already showing their claws, and that was a delightful sight! It would certainly be worth wearing some of his best silks.

Even as some of the women spat tacs at one another, there were those enjoying a peaceful night. Makar had made his plans for the evening to increase his stake in the Hapan courts, and there were a good many representatives in attendance. Hasuras Na-Gerra had not exaggerated when he'd made Hapes out to be the land of milk and honey. Of this Makar was certain...

Suddenly, a young woman caught Makar's eye, she stood out from other Hapans. She dressed as if she was a desert Queen, with reds and pinks decorating her sunkissed skin. Perhaps this woman would be receptive to a conversation with but a Pirate Lord?

He strode confidently up to her, leaning down so that his head only slightly closer to her. It was easier to keep one's voice down in such a manner. As he stood behind Irulan he spoke softly, letting his naturally deep voice do it's work.

"A bit of a spectacle this all is, is it not," Makar questioned, before offering his hand to The Heiress of Sikarra. "I am Makar Clyne, Pirate and Traveller of the stars. I would be delighted to know the name of such a precious desert rose."

The night had only just begun, and Makar's first line was laid on thick. He figured nobles liked honied words that they could easily digest. Most of the Hapans he had met liked things to be on the prettier side. Time would tell if this Hapan was any different.

His was a business that required not only credits, but conflict. Pirates with nothing to plunder were merely salors with a chip on their shoulders. A lack of plunder lead to boredom, an emotion which could prove deadly. If the crew had no outsiders to fight, their blades and blasters would turn inward.

Makar's fingers gently wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. For a short second he swirled the drink therein, it's sweet aroma not lost on the monstrous pirate. Especially when it offered a reason to wander his eyes over the joined Hapans. There were many more like himself in attendance than he realized!

"Whenever i see this many rich power players get together it speaks to me. It says there is either glorious victory coming, or something...worse..."

 

[Lukas Makuah]

He wished Father was here.

That man would be standing right alongside of the other pirates, plundering all the riches in the galaxy for all of Hapes to feast upon. His untimely death left him and Mother to lead. She was a Mark'la, making him a Mark'da. He was going to lead one day, alongside whichever House he married into. The boy knew that since Father's death, there would be no remarrying into time for Mother to birth an heir to the throne. House Makuah was going to die with his name. He was going to make sure that their legacy was longstanding until that time came.

For too long the Houses have been underneath the rule of others. A stool for the ruthless leaders of the stars to rest their feet upon. But not anymore. A clear message had been sent. Their time was now. Alliances needed to be made so they could all ensure prosperity. That is why Lukas and Mother were here, at the Djo Fortress. A call was sent out for all to come and aid the revolution.

"Stop gazing upon them. The life of a pirate is not your calling, but your Father's."

The boy's daydreaming was broken by the command from his Mother. It was true, the life of an outlaw was appealing. To be free to travel the stars, bringing riches and glory back home to Hapes. The stories that his Father told him late at night filled his head with dreams. But Mother was right...that was not his life to live. A time would come when it would be.

"Forgive me, Mother. His death is still upon my mind."

Though it had been some time since he last saw Father, his recent death still affected his family, as well as the throne. House Makuah did their best to remain strong. But the loss of their Mark'ix was devastating. Yet they needed to continue moving forward.

"Find your way through the crowd, Lukas. If our House is to thrive for any longer, we needed the help of the whole Consortium."

"I agree. I'll do what I must, for us. For our home."

Offering a respectful nod to Mother, the boy broke away from her, making his way into the crowd. In his lifetime, he had met very few of the nobles. His birth was...less than welcomed with Hapes. However, he was still among them, and he had ever royal right to be amongst them. Lukas walked with a slow pace, studying each individual he passed, waiting for the right opportunity to interact.


Tags: Open