Faction Chaos Is a Ladder | THC

[Sariel Cyrane]

Objective: Get a sense of loyalties
Location: Djo Fortress, Dreen
Oufit: Formal Dress
Tags: OPEN

The arrival of House Cyrane was announced without the procession expected of one of Relephon’s noble families. No matriarch descended from the waiting shuttle. No elder daughter came empowered to speak with the full authority of the line. Instead, Lady Sariel Cyrane entered Djo Fortress.

The distinction would not be lost upon anyone familiar with the carefully measured language of Hapan politics. Sariel was no insignificant child sent to occupy a chair, but neither was she her mother nor the heir who stood before her in the family succession. House Cyrane had answered Cortana Djo’s summons, yet it had not placed its full weight behind her claim. Not yet.

Sariel walked beneath the ancient banners in deep violet silk traced with burnished gold, the gown tailored closely through the bodice before falling in long, layered panels around her. Fine chains draped from her shoulders and threaded through her dark hair, their gemstones catching the hall’s light with each measured step. The elegance of her attire did little to disguise the bearing of a woman more accustomed to the command deck of a warship than the passive observation of a court.

Two Gilded Talon Marines entered behind her. Their presence was restrained rather than ceremonial, each maintaining enough distance to avoid crowding their lady while remaining positioned to reach her within seconds. They watched the hall with the practiced stillness of soldiers who understood that nearly every person present might become either an ally or a target before the gathering concluded.

Above Dreena, the small Cyrane fleet remained on standby. It was not large enough to decide the fate of the Cluster by itself, but it was disciplined, armed, and close enough to respond should the supposed sanctuary of Djo Fortress prove less secure than promised. Sariel had not brought it to threaten her host. Neither had she left it behind merely to appear trusting. Trust was a luxury for families that survived by being wrong only once.

Her dark eyes moved across the assembled court, taking in noble delegations, Chume’doro, mercenaries, pirates, and foreign dignitaries with an interest that remained carefully short of open scrutiny. House Djo had cast a remarkably wide net. Whether that spoke to Cortana’s ability to unite disparate powers or merely to the desperation of her position remained to be seen.

Then Sariel’s attention settled upon the dais. She had no affection for queens raised by foreign hands. Whatever their stated intentions, outsiders had already placed two women between Hapes and the freedom to determine its own future. Cortana Djo, at the very least, represented a possibility born from within the Cluster rather than imposed upon it. Sariel hoped the newly crowned claimant would gather enough influence to challenge them both. Hope, however, was not a currency House Cyrane intended to spend openly.

When Tala’ri Djo offered her life and blade, Sariel remained among those watching. The oath was impressive in its conviction, though Aurellia’s interruption swiftly reminded the hall that blood and courage would not shield Cortana from every challenge. Sariel’s expression remained composed as the venom passed between the rival branches of House Djo.

This was why her mother had sent her. Not simply to listen to declarations, but to see what remained once ceremony met resistance.

At an appropriate opening, Sariel stepped forward far enough to be formally recognized. She offered Cortana a graceful bow—deep enough to acknowledge the authority claimed within these walls, but lacking the submission of Tala’ri’s pledge.

“Lady Sariel Cyrane of Relephon,” she introduced herself, her voice calm and clear. “Commander of First Talon Strike Force, here on behalf of House Cyrane.” Her gaze rose to meet Cortana’s. “My house has heard the call of Djo Fortress, and we have come to witness what future you intend to build for Hapes.”

There were warmer words she might have offered. There were also harsher questions she might have asked. For now, this was enough. House Cyrane had come. Whether it would remain—and whether its talons would eventually close around Cortana’s enemies—depended entirely upon what Sariel saw next.

 

[Irulan Al-Zahir]

Location: Djo Fortress - Dreena
Attire- Dress
Personal Effect- Ornate Spice Smoking Pipe
Tags: Makar Clyne


Makar's approach did not go unnoticed by Irulan. She played a neutral face, despite the inner annoyance of a male approaching her. Out of everyone that could have taken notice, it of course had to be one of them. But no one said that trying to reconnect with your Hapan cousins would be easy. Especially since many of the other Hapan nobles seemingly were mingling with one another or perhaps trying to get an audience with the new Queen Mother. Irulan allowed the pirate to lean close to her, enough so their conversation could be heard through mere whispers.​

"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."

Irulan's servants glanced at one another and then to their Heiress. Irulan looked to the pirate, perhaps with a bored but remaining neutral expression. She snapped her fingers and one of her servants handed her an ornate pipe. Irulan took a nice long slow drag of it before then blowing a puff of orange smoke. Some of it may have hit Makar's face, but she didnt on purpose. Or that is what she will say. The Heiress of Sikarra looked around the gathering once more as she responded to the pirate.

"You must be a leftover for when the Black Sun used to control the Mother cluster. Back when Hapes was puppetted by nothing more than criminals. It is good that Black Sun retreated into the shadows of the underworkld." Irulan glanced at the man as she gently gave herself more space from him. "You and perhaps others like you are here to see if you can continue your lifestyle as pirates. Whether or not this new independent Hapes Cluster will best serve your own interests or not. Usually when it comes to Pirates, its all about how much credits you can obtain through your various hmmm nefarious operations."

​

 

[Cortana Jade]

She didn’t answer; not immediately.

Her silence lingered for a few more heartbeats -- right now everyone was expecting her to show her hand, or lead with a speech about how she’s different, or perhaps something else entirely.

Without a thought to ceremony, she descended the dais. And by the end of her slow saunter, when she reached Tala'ri, she extended a gloved hand without a word, drawing Tala'ri Djo back to her feet. As the woman rose, Cortana's hand lingered only long enough to straighten the shoulder of her attire where it had shifted after kneeling against the stone floor.

"Accepted." She met Tala'ri's eyes. "Keep your oath, but keep your judgment with it. If I falter, I expect to hear your voice before I hear my enemies'." she nodded.

A beat.

Then her voice rose again as she released Tala'ri's shulder, though she was addressing someone else. “You’re right,” she agreed, latching on to Aurellia interruption. “Queen Mother, you came...” She continued. There was neither warmth nor contempt in the title. Only then did she turn, before walking into an open square. "Queens have failed. Their protectors have failed. Their councils have failed. History has already answered a question for us; blood and titles alone are not enough." she continued.

She allowed the room to settle before continuing on, internally she knew she wanted her to fight her for the room.

"This court exists because Hapes currently has too few places where we can speak freely about our future without another empire deciding the outcome." Her attention returned to Aurellia, she studied her for a moment. "You accepted my invitation; that was a choice."

Without waiting for a reply, Cortana looked back across the chamber. "Now, let there be no misunderstanding." Cortana's voice carried across the hall. "While any claimant to the Crown stands beneath the roof of Djo Fortress, they stand beneath my protection. They have my word. No rival will be arrested. No guest will be murdered. No blood feud will be settled. Not here."

She allowed those words to settle over the room, as she moved closer to Aurellia, "You and I will have our disagreements. Perhaps one day we'll settle them." She said, her expression remained unreadable; blank but solid. "But not while another power profits off of them. We can remove them...together."

"The question before this court is not who shall inherit this cluster, It's whether there will be any of it left to inherit."

A beat.

"Every person in this hall wants something." Silence. "Good. Now let's begin negotiating honestly. The floor is open."

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Where I have passed, grass will never grow again.

​

Such beauty graced this hall that once Gerra entered his eyes cast about and drank in these finely fashioned Hapans entire. Most comely were they, these queens and duchas and princesses of Hapes. The warlord’s broad lips curled into a cruel smile to accompany his lecherous gaze.

Few in the room could rival his height, even without his golden armor. He could feel the eyes of the court upon him. His grin broadened and he glanced at the white-haired, black-eyed priestess amid the Vahlans. Vatrës would know how much he enjoyed an audience like this, hostile or no.

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

A rumble of laughter rolled from Gerra’ shivering from his lips in a timbre as deep as the roots of a mountain.

But then the Queen spoke and his brow furrowed.

"While any claimant to the Crown stands beneath the roof of Djo Fortress, they stand beneath my protection. They have my word. No rival will be arrested. No guest will be murdered. No blood feud will be settled. Not here."

“Bold. To be anointed while the Queen yet lives. But then the Mandalorians were bold to think their incursion into the Mists would be more than mere temporary nuisance.”​

When he spake, his oiled, rich words filled the room with ease. So odd for a barbarian from the Firefist.

“A joint purpose then… the strength of the noble houses and the corsairs of the Outback combined? Together, we shall unseat the Mandalorian puppet.”​

His eyes shone like two stars, burning and filled with delight at the prospect of violence.

“Put her and her ilk to the sword.”
​

The Vahlans and freebooters behind him began stamping their feet in a beat.

“And chase them from the nebula.”
​

Louder now, their boots stomped upon the hall. And Gerra stretched out his arms, wingspan immense, to either side as he looked up to the ceiling.

“Behold. I swear now that I shall make such an offering of Mandalorian screams to Vahl, goddess of destruction, that they will be heard on Mandalore. Even across the gulf of stars.”​

His eyes tracked back down and looked from Aurellia to Cortana.

“What say the Scion of Djo to this?” ​

Cortana Jade Aurellia Vatrës Dhalis Makar Clyne Rixa

 

[Rixa]

Rixa had stayed quietly by her mother's side as Cortana started to meet people. The floor was open for more meetings.

Rixa had been halfway through a quiet comment to her mother when Gerra started.

“Put her and her ilk to the sword.”
​

The Vahlans and freebooters behind him began stamping their feet in a beat.

It was the foot-stamping Vahlans that did it. Not the booming declaration.

Rixa snorted a laugh.

"Rixa," hissed her mother.

She brought one hand up sharply to cover the bottom half of his face.

Lysara did not look at her. "Keep quiet."

"No one will hear me over this," Rixa protested. "But...the stamping..."

A few nearby nobles glanced their way. Rixa gave them a flat smile and turned back to her mother.

Lysara’s voice stayed quiet. "He is offering ships and blood. That is what we came for. The theatrics are his concern, not ours."

“What say the Scion of Djo to this?”

"Wow, just wow," muttered Rixa, just as the halls had fallen into silence. People would have heard that.

Her mother rolled her eyes. She was mortified, but Rixa had to cover her mouth again to hide the wicked grin.

 

[Vatrës Dhalis]

Attend you, all. She comes.

Vatrës braced herself for the blinding pain that sometimes came from the goddess' wrath.

It didn't come.

There was stony silence for a few moments, if one could classify the lack of a goddess chirping into some kind of interdimensional walkie-talkie directly into one's brain as 'silence'. The Avatara could feel her presence there; she had not gone away. She simply was not angry, as Vatrës had expected her to be. He had pledged the Vahlans to a cause not their own. Vatrës' own indignity rose in her, sharp as a blade, cold as a blade fresh from the deep freezer.

You are upset, my little flame, Vahl observed from the shadows. Vatrës did not bother to deny it. The purpose of their people -- the great struggle of their lives, of the lives of Vahla since the Desolation -- was to find a way back home and to create a life where they would be joined in sacred union with their goddess. They could build empire from Vahl's throne, they could put down the nomadic pursuits they had been forced to and return to the life they had always been meant for: conquest and empire.

What Hasuras Na-Gerra proposed to do, therefore, was sacrilege.

Yet, the goddess made no such condemnation.

He spends the Vahla, our -- your -- children. Like coin, Vatrës raged internally, her black eyes fixed on the back of Gerra's gilded armor. And for what? These people will not aid in the search for our home. They can barely unite around the principle of not being conquered, and that is their own self-interest. He will throw away Vahla lives for his own vainglory, or else in defense of a woman so weak as to have lost her own throne.

I cannot gainsay it, Vahl answered, her tone measured. And yet, Gerra is My Champion. He must be left to his own devices until the time is right. You, little flame, are bound to obey. He is Champion because of his will and his strength. This requires that he be allowed to do as he would. You would do well to remember your respective places, Vatrës. Unless you would prefer to be... reminded?

Vatrës shut her eyes tightly to suppress a shudder of fear.

No, she thought. It will be as you say, my Lady.

All will be as I command, little flame. If you must worry, worry as to being fit to take up your part of the affair.

​

​

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Kinley Pryse dresses like she slept in a cargo hold and drinks like she owns the vineyard​

The Djo Fortress was exactly the sort of place Kinley Pryse usually avoided.

Too much marble. Too much perfume. Too many people convinced the galaxy owed them a bow.

Still, word had spread quickly enough that even the Outer Rim had heard whispers of the gathering. Letters of Marque. Hapes. Nobles, military officers, private interests, and ambitious opportunists all converging beneath one roof. Wherever powerful people started talking about fleets and commerce, credits were never far behind.

Flint had made one thing abundantly clear before sending her. He wanted credits. He didn't care how. That suited Kinley just fine. A profitable opportunity was still a profitable opportunity, whether it came wrapped in silk or durasteel.

She hadn't bothered trying to blend in. While noblewomen floated through the halls draped in expensive fabrics and glittering jewels, Kinley arrived in worn brown boots, fitted trousers, a white shirt beneath her weathered duster, and her trademark cowboy hat pulled low enough to shadow one eye. The hat earned disapproving glances almost immediately.

She ignored every single one.

Instead, she helped herself to a glass of exceptionally expensive alcohol free liquor and silently congratulated the Hapans on one thing, they certainly knew how to stock a bar.

The looks continued.

A smuggler among royalty.

A mercenary in a room full of polished aristocrats.

Someone who clearly hadn't read the dress code.

None of it bothered her. If anything, it made the drink taste better.

Hapes itself wasn't high on her list of favorite places. Beautiful? Certainly. Wealthy? Without question. But the endless etiquette, subtle insults, and constant social maneuvering exhausted her more than any firefight ever could. She could, however, appreciate one peculiar Hapan tradition.

Interesting place, she mused, watching another elegantly dressed woman casually direct her husband with effortless authority. They've got the right idea about who's actually in charge.

As conversations shifted from pleasantries to politics, Kinley became even quieter.

People began staking positions.

Making promises.

Hinting at alliances before anyone had laid all their cards on the table.

Kinley had no intention of joining the chorus.

She leaned against a pillar with her drink, content to watch the pieces move across the board before deciding whether it was worth sitting down to play.

Her loyalty belonged to Black Sun.

That wasn't negotiable, at least not if she wanted to stay alive.

But loyalty, she had learned, was different from business.

And for the right price...

Business could be remarkably flexible.

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Sariel Cyrane]

Objective: Get a sense of loyalties
Location: Djo Fortress, Dreen
Oufit: Formal Dress
Tags: OPEN | Rixa

Sariel remained silent as Cortana descended from the dais. The answer given to Tala’ri’s oath was not the one she had expected from a newly crowned claimant. There was no triumphant acceptance, no demand that others follow the example, and no attempt to turn the pledge into a spectacle of unquestioned loyalty. Cortana raised her cousin and told her to keep her judgment alongside her oath.

That earned a measure of Sariel’s respect. Not allegiance. Not yet. But respect. Her mother had likely anticipated as much when she chose Sariel to represent House Cyrane rather than one of her elder siblings. Lady Mareth had not needed another voice susceptible to the romance of House Djo’s return, nor someone who might confuse a shared enemy with a rightful sovereign. She had sent the daughter she trusted to remain inflexible when the room began offering easy answers.

Support against foreign rule did not require blind submission to Cortana Djo. Nor did hostility toward the puppet government mean every weapon raised against it should be welcomed without scrutiny. Hasuras na-Gerra demonstrated that distinction almost immediately.

Sariel watched the golden warlord proclaim blood, screams, and slaughter with all the restraint of a bombardment. The stamping of boots rolled through the ancient hall as his corsairs and Vahlans answered him, turning an offer of military aid into something between a war chant and a religious rite.

Ships and fighters were valuable. Sariel commanded too few of the former to pretend otherwise. Yet any commander who promised carnage before discussing objectives, authority, or limitations was as likely to become a future problem as a present solution. Pirates might be pointed toward an enemy. Zealots could be promised worthy prey. Neither arrangement ensured they would stop when Hapes told them the war was over.

Her gaze shifted toward the sharp, poorly concealed laugh that interrupted the silence following Gerra’s declaration. The young woman in red had covered her mouth too late. Sariel’s lips threatened the faintest hint of amusement as the pirate’s mother attempted to restore some measure of dignity to their corner of the hall. The contrast between them was more informative than Gerra’s entire performance. One stood in immaculate naval dress, measuring the military value beneath the theatrics. The other looked as though she would happily mock every crowned head in the room if doing so did not jeopardize her next contract. That, at least, was honest.

Sariel crossed the hall at an unhurried pace. Her two Gilded Talon Marines remained where they were, distant enough that her approach could not be mistaken for intimidation, though neither ceased watching the room.

She stopped before the pair and inclined her head first toward the uniformed woman. “Captain Venn,” Sariel greeted, recognizing both rank and service before allowing her attention to settle briefly upon Rixa. “I believe your daughter expressed what several in this hall were thinking, though perhaps with greater volume than most would risk.” There was no reprimand in her tone. If anything, a restrained trace of dry humor accompanied the words.

Her eyes drifted toward the massed corsairs before returning to Lysara. “Ships and blood have their uses,” Sariel continued. “Discipline has more.”

She allowed that observation to stand for a moment. “I understand you intend to petition for letters of marque on behalf of her crew.”

Only then did Sariel turn more fully toward Rixa. She studied the pirate without the open disdain many Hapan nobles might have offered. The sword, the pistol, the exposed markings and deliberate refusal to conform were all choices. Sariel was more interested in what lay beneath them. “House Cyrane has spent generations learning that an unconventional asset is still only useful while it can be directed,” she said. “So I find myself curious.”

Her hands rested lightly before her, gold ornamentation glinting against the deep purple of her gown. “If the Crown—or whichever authority survives long enough to issue such a commission—names the Mandalorian occupiers as your quarry, would you accept Hapan operational direction? Restricted targets? Reports of action?” Sariel tilted her head slightly. “And when the occupation ends, would you surrender the privilege as readily as you accepted it?”

The question was direct, but not hostile. Pirates gathered throughout the hall had come expecting coin, targets, and legitimacy. Sariel was willing to discuss all three. What she would not offer was trust merely because their appetites presently pointed in the same direction. A slight smile touched her lips. “Or would the Red Rixa consider that far too much obedience for one contract?”

 

[Galina Zel’tan]

Open​

Galina lingered five steps behind Cortana Jade , always. Flanked to her Queen claimant's right, the handmaiden kept her hood drawn, but her eyes up.

Beneath the volume of her jewel-toned robes, flesh burned. Nearly the entirety of her left arm was wrapped in bandages so tight that it hurt to move her elbow. Nothing about her gave away the pain. Even children in the Hapan court were taught to mask weakness.

Lady Zel'tan was not a particularly bloodthirsty woman, but the Vahlan warlord - terrible as he was - spoke to her. Not directly, but his thirst for Mandalorian lives was something she privately reveled in.

Hapes was a glittering jewel above all else, and those who intervened - be they Alliance or Mandalorian, Sith or Jedi - were self serving, reckless brutes who only ever made a mess of things. The Alliance had propped up insurgents and slain their Queen, and now the Mandalorians seized the world to raise up their own Queen while joining Sith in slaying Jedi.

There were two Queens here, too. Galina's hard gaze slipped from the towering Hasuras Na-Gerra to Aurellia . A crown of barbs, it was. Something that dug into your skull from every angle until it reached the very core of you.

Few could handle it. Galina herself could never. Cortana was made of, as her mother had put it, stronger stuff.

The handmaiden remained quiet, a wallflower among thorns.

 

[Rixa]

Lysara inclined her head the precise amount required by protocol towards Sariel Cyrane

“Ships and blood have their uses,” Sariel continued. “Discipline has more.”

"Lady Cyrane. Your assessment is fair. Ships and navies require discipline. They," she said looking to the pirates, "are not part of our navy."

She did not look at her daughter, though the warning in her posture was clear.

Rixa, for her part, had stopped trying to hide the grin. She studied Sariel with open interest, one eyebrow raised, glass still in hand.

"He might look a gold twat, but the reputation isn't without merit," she snorted.

Lysara cleared her throat as Sariel continued.

“Or would the Red Rixa consider that far too much obedience for one contract?”

"Operational direction. Restricted targets. Reports." She ticked the points off on her fingers. "Sounds a lot like having a boss. I’ve had those before. They don’t tend to last."

Lysara’s jaw tightened.

Rixa continued before her mother could interrupt.

"I’ll take the letters. I’ll hit the targets you name, provided the pay’s right and the jobs don’t get my crew killed for someone else’s pride. I’ll even send a report if it keeps the paperwork happy. But the moment someone starts telling me how to run my ship or which of my people I can risk, the arrangement ends. Quietly or loudly. Your choice."

She took a slow drink, eyes still on Sariel.

"As for handing the privilege back when the occupation’s done…" Rixa shrugged. "If the work’s finished and the credits are paid, I’ve got no interest in hanging around a cluster that already has too many queens. I’ll be gone before the ink’s dry on the victory speeches. This is not my scene."

Lysara finally spoke, voice sharp and controlled.

"What my daughter means is that she understands the value of a clear contract. She will honour the terms she agrees to. Nothing more, nothing less."

Rixa gave her mother a sideways glance, then looked back at Sariel with a crooked smile.

"Close enough."