Junction Exodus Crash || ME/SO Junction of Eshan & Tyra'Weilen

[Amelia von Sorenn]

THE CORONATION​

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Attire: Armor​

Weapon: Ceremonial Echani Virbosword​

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Winter remembered as snow whispered against Beskar.​

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She stood within the Palace of the Matron as if the cold itself had given her shape again - quiet, composed, and unmistakably real. Among the Mandalorian formations moving through the Palace of the Matron, she stood apart, not by defiance, but by stillness. Her armor bore no flamboyant sigils, no war trophies displayed for memory's sake or boasting. It was functional, darkened by age and repair, edges worn smooth. Only the faint markings of imperial affiliation identified her as Mandalorian at all. The helm never turned too quickly. Her posture was disciplined, practiced, and unmistakably that of someone who had once commanded far more. ​

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To most present, she was simply another imperial ally, one more armored silhouette answering the Mand'alor's call. Few would have thought to look twice. Amelia von Sorenn was a name spoken in the past tense across the galaxy, a casualty folded neatly into the chaos that followed the fall of the Galactic Alliance. Dead in the way, history often killed its inconvenient figures, without a body, without answers, and without ceremony. ​

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And yet, Eshan itself seemed to remember. ​

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Once, long before banners were rearranged and oaths rewritten, Amelia von Sorenn had stood in orbit above this world at the head of a Confederacy fleet, guns charged and orders given in defense of Echani sovereignty. She had fought the Mandalorians then not out of hatred, but conviction, because Eshan had called, and because history had taught her what Mandalorian stewardship could become when left unchecked. That battle, like so many since the fall of the Galactic Alliance, had been written into a different version of the Galaxy's memory. One in which Amelia von Sorenn did not survive. ​

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The armor ensured that the lie endured. ​

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No banners would announce her arrival. No escort heralded her presence. She did not wear the trappings of command she once had when she stood in orbit above Eshan, directing the guns of the Confederacy against Mandalorian warships in defense of this very world. She moved through the palace with measured intent, observing rather than inserting herself, helm angled subtly toward gathering points of influence - Echani nobles weighing the cost of autonomy, Sith dignitaries cloaked in courtesy and ambition alike, Mandalorian envoys navigating restraint as carefully as any battlefield maneuver. She noted the banners - House Varanin, House Talon, the Empire - hung not in dominance, but in balance. That, more than any speech, confirmed the sincerity of the Mand'alor's accord. ​

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When Quinn Varanin was mentioned, she watched from a measured distance, the would-be Queen framed beneath ancestral banners and converging powers. Amelia's gaze held neither reverence nor skepticism, but appraisal. Quinn was not ruling through conquest, nor through fear, but through accord - an act Amelia understood intimately. She had bled for Eshan when the galaxy still pretended to protect it. The Mandalorians had saved it when those protections finally collapsed. Amelia had known many leaders: Admirals, Warlords, Politicians, who mistook command for inevitability. Quinn was something else, a convergence of necessity and choice. The kind of figure history did not forgive if mishandled, but would fiercely defend if vindicated. ​

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Old enemies turned uneasy allies exchanged glances that carried unspoken history. No challenge was issued. No acknowledgment demanded. The Empire had learned, as she had, that survival favored those who adapted rather than clung to grievance. Amelia did not seek the center of the room; she was content to stand at the edge of converging futures, where the past could not be denied but no longer ruled. If ghosts haunted these halls, she was one of them, and proof that death, like allegiance, was sometimes only a matter of perspective. Her hand rested briefly against the cold stone of a palace balustrade overlooking Estin's streets below. Solstice lights flickered beneath falling snow, a celebration held carefully within Echani law. Once, Amelia had protected this world with turbolasers and fleets. Now she did so by standing among those who had once been her enemy, ensuring that restraint held. ​

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The irony was not lost on her. ​

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As snow continued to fall beyond the palace walls and the crown of Eshan remained untouched, Amelia waited with the others. When the time for the coronation came, she would not stand in the open as a witness nor kneel as a subject. She would remain where shadows and armor belonged - an unseen thread in the binding of empires, a living contradiction to the Galaxy's assumptions. Dead to those who would use her past. Present only where her future mattered. For a world she had once defended from orbit to choose its future not through annihilation, but through resolve. ​

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The Galaxy believed Amelia was dead. ​

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And so she waited, hidden behind beskar and silence, guarding a peace she had once been willing to go to war to secure. ​

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Aether Verd | Srina Talon | Gerwald Lechner | Open​

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[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti Naamino Zuukamano Varin Mortifer Seren Gwyn Acier Moonbound​

Lysander’s attention fell to Seren first. Upon meeting her gaze, there was no friction. His head simply inclined with a respectful nod. Furthermore, the absence of ego hadn't not gone unnoticed. For one shaped by challenge, by understanding that growth was only earned through pressure, there was still appreciation for someone who did not feel the need to prove themselves in his presence.

"You're probably right. They won't stop watching just because they're celebrating. Gives us a little chance to settle in before the night runs away from us."

He pivoted slightly. Varin's heat was always palpable.. a forge that never went cold, always carrying a taste for battle. It only made sense he’d shared more spilled blood with this Sith than any other. A curve touched his mouth. “You’re allowed to enjoy yourself, brother. Just maybe.. not at full output. Let’s try to make it through the evening without adding scorch marks across the city.”

The phrik beneath had been noted earlier; there was a telltale weight to it as well, one he’d been made aware of during one of their meetings on Nar Shaddaa; a confirmation that the Zabrak was sinking deeper into doctrinarian. In truth, it saddened him at times.. and of course, he still remembered the little-big brother Naamino from before armor became a constant necessity.

“History might suggest otherwise,” Lysander admitted, scanning the crowds of unfamiliar faces, “but tonight.. we’ll be fine.”

His own hand came up, clasping Naamino’s forearm. “Go take care of whatever it is you need. We can always regroup later.” Something wry touched his expression after releasing him. “But.. if the night does decide to test us. I assure you we’ll behave.. at least enough not to make it your problem too.”

Two fingers lifted in salute toward Acier; there was no need to say more; silence was just his way at times.. but their training spoke louder than any of that. recently.

As he finally turned to his violet partner, one brow lifted in surprise, the other lagging. A small step was taken, closing the space as naturally as breathing. “I haven’t seen an Echani duel.. I’ve only ever read about them.” Then, a crinkle found the corner of his eyes.. “I don’t imagine the holos capture it properly. So.. I wouldn’t mind correcting that little gap in my education.”

Maybe it was just a food thing, or some little energy they shared.. an understanding that needed no explanation. “And if tradition holds,” just dry enough to be playful, “we might even drift toward whatever smells the best afterward. For educational purposes, naturally.”

Awareness flicked outward to the others. A breath passed. “Shall we?”

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[Ivalyn Yvarro]

The DCV Margrave, a Frontrunner-class diplomatic vessel, rested within the designated port. Grand Vizier Ivalyn Yvarro, accompanied by her future Consort Merryn Sellek, arrived at the Palace of the Matron with a contingent of visible guards, the stoic, unmistakable Janissaries. Unseen but ever-present, the Akıncı Guard filtered among the delegation: some disguised as aides, others as plainclothed civilians. More personally, a select few were members of the Sons of the White Wolves, loyal only to Ivalyn.

Many within the Sith Order had come to bear witness to one of their own ascending the Echani throne.

Ivalyn had come out of courtesy, a diplomatic gesture to the Commonwealth's suzerain. As she and Merryn were guided through the opulent palace grounds, banners of House Varanin and House Talon hung beside the sigils of the Mandalorian Empire, fluttering gently in the temperate Echani breeze. The Palace of the Matron seemed to hum with anticipation, and calculation. Every step felt measured, every gaze observed, as if the walls themselves listened.

She had only been told the basics: one Queen had vanished, and another had been chosen.

Decades ago, the Commonwealth had found itself in a similar position. After the First Order's sudden and unceremonious withdrawal from the galactic stage, their Supreme Leader had disappeared. The Commonwealth, rudderless, left the Supreme Leader's throne untouched, a symbolic gesture, holding out for their return as they had done once before.

But time passed. And when it became clear that they were not awaiting a return, but a resurrection, perhaps even divine intervention, the Imperial Conclave had convened. After deliberation, they named House Priestly to assume leadership. The old title of Supreme Leader was reshaped into the High Queen, and under Ivalyn's sweeping reforms, that throne evolved again, becoming the seat of the High Basileus.

Funny, Ivalyn mused, how the disappearance of a sovereign forces others to act.

As she and Merryn entered the grand chamber, they offered reserved nods and measured gazes to the assembled dignitaries of the Sith Order. Darth Carnifex stood like a mountain among shadows. Gerwald Lechner, a Dark Councillor, held court with practiced silence. Of course the Sith Empress herself, Srina Talon glowed with the cold, cutting elegance of a blade at rest. Would be in attendance, and would no doubt play an important role with the impending coronation. There were others Ivalyn did not recognize. It mattered little.

She had not come to scheme. She had come to bear witness.


Darth Carnifex | Gerwald Lechner | Srina Talon | Merryn Sellek | Sibylla Abrantes | Mia Monroe | Aselia Verd | Reina Daival | Aether Verd | Adelle Bastiel | Amelia von Sorenn | [Open to Interaction]

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Ivalyn Yvarro | Darth Carnifex | Gerwald Lechner | Merryn Sellek | Sibylla Abrantes | Mia Monroe | Aselia Verd | Reina Daival | Aether Verd | Adelle Bastiel | Amelia von Sorenn
Note: I only tagged people in Objective I, but all your posts were lovely!
Location: Eshan [Estin - The Palace of the Matron]

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Avatar of Death.

That was how House Talon, how all of Eshan, had memorialized her.

Returning to the Six Sisters, for Srina, was not the homecoming that some might envision. She was Echani-proud, through and through, but there was a lengthy history that most wouldn't be capable of comprehending. Winter had come early, for the Solstice or perhaps the new Queen, and snow lay in clean unbroken sheets across the white stone of Estin. It muted sound and softened the sharp geometry of a world built for discipline and war. The air tasted of iron and cold. Of memory.

Srina returned alone.

No Praetorian or Sepulchral escorted her, no herald cried her name, and no husband to provide a buffer. She crossed the threshold of the palace with the practiced grace of one who had walked these halls before. Not as an Empress, not as a conqueror, but as a soldier, a daughter. Her boots struck the white marble that had been worn smooth from centuries of oath-taking, each step echoing faintly through chambers that remembered her voice, her blood, and her grief.

She was clad wholly in black with layers of silk and armor-weave, the fabric matte and lightless, broken only by the faint gleam of a single blackened shoulder guard. Her armor was ceremonial but real, with plates shaped to protect rather than adorn. Pale skin stood out against the abject darkness, winter white, with an expression that seemed barely human. Her hair was braided in the old way, tight, with severe lines drawn back from her face. It was interwoven with small rings of gold and silver, offerings given by sisters, by mentors, by the only Echani Queen who had ever been worthy of the title. The Palace of the Matron had been the first place she had ever sworn herself to anything.

Here, just barely more than a girl, she had knelt before Spencer Varanin and received her first directive to serve the Eshan Crown. Her location had changed throughout the decades, but she had never shirked her most important task, the only one she would take with her to her grave. Srina had fully kept her word and had done everything possible to keep Quinn Varanin alive. She was blood made of water, bonds made of air. She was not truly her mother…But she had done her best.

Srina had filled every void she could over the years…Parent, master, shield, blade, and confidant. She had never loved Quinn gently, but fiercely, the way one loved something fragile in a galaxy that devoured softness. She had cared for the little Princess immediately, drawn to her rather than her sister, at first sight. Noelle had never existed for her. Was never, her Queen. It was that same love that brought her to this coronation, that led her to cross the galaxy, to potentially place her child in harm's way.

The crown was not a prize to be won.

It was a yoke that came with loyalties that would be tested and divided.

Sooner or later, Quinn would likely be asked to choose between the well-being of Eshan and the gravity of the Sith Order. Between the glory of the dark and the beauty of the mundane. Between her people and power. If anyone could learn to juggle those things, Srina, thought it would be Quinn. But it was not an enviable position, and her first thoughts tended to revolve around protecting the young woman. This…Was the very opposite.

This was letting her go.

Srina had not yet learned to do that…But she was learning.

Her steps slowed as she neared the central ceremonial hall, and a familiar silhouette came to block her path. A beautiful woman, slightly older, but with features that were eerily similar to her own. It was not surprising that the face of the one who had birthed her was pinched and sallow. Ah.

She was angry.

Lovely.

"Mother."

Aerys Talon stood without fear from her daughter, while many would have cowered or run from the woman who was supposedly responsible for slaughtering thousands. "…You're doing it again?"

"It's good to see you, too."

The taller woman merely stared back at her daughter, unyielding, while trying to discern what her child was thinking. It had been a long time since she'd been able to understand one of her youngest daughters. "You know what happened the last time they were here. What do you hope to accomplish? Do you think that a peaceful transition of power to one of your own will erase history?"

Srina tilted her head and glanced up at the doorway, noting the Echani banners that stirred faintly beside foreign sigils that made her skin itch.

Mandalorian, sigils.

The last time Mandalorian boots had walked Eshan freely, lies had followed. Stories manufactured. Echani named slavers. Justifications written in orbit before fire rained down from the sky, and several of their cities were orbitally struck in the name of peace. She remembered the Holo-Net playing recordings of the bombardment for a full news cycle. The scream of turbo-laser fire had torn the atmosphere apart and struck without mercy. Over, and over. Killing Echani, Thyrsians, and everything that got in the way.

She had returned, then, at the head of a different banner, and had torn the threat from her world with impunity. The Confederacy wasn't used to Srina Talon asking for a favor…So when she did? Her Master was the first to answer, and the rest, all of them, were soon to follow. It was a victory. The Mandalorian Empire of old was cast out like garbage through a chute. But…Victory was hollow.

It came at a cost.

Several of her sisters had died in the impact of a capital ship falling out of the sky in the middle of Eshan City. Her people had bled. Eshan had become a graveyard, which was why her attire was so dour. Contracts replaced turbolaser cannons, and agreements stood where fleets had once menacingly loomed. Tolerance for Mandalorians, brittle and hard-earned, had replaced a policy of "shoot on sight" with something that was almost civil. Her respect for Aether Verd stayed her hand and forced her to swallow the old rage that coiled in her gut like a living thing.

This was different.

It had to be.

The crown on Quinn's head would bury the hatchet between Echani and Mandalorian alike. To weld two histories together that repelled one another like magnets meant that a single misstep would spark war. A single insult could unravel everything…And it was only Quinn, there, as a woman-shaped wall that would be present to stop it. It was a terrible burden to place on anyone, especially one so young. But…Srina had trained her well and often.

She would know what to do.

"—You won't be here when things go wrong, and they will, because you never listen. You think that just because you have a cult at your beck and call, that you're infallible—"

Srina interrupted the tirade that she had long since tuned out. It was a life skill, truth be told.

"Enough, Mother. They are not, who they were. Your new Queen ushers in this union so that the current generation is not required to suffer for the mistakes of the last."

Srina caught the seething words "Avatar of Death" from her mother as she passed, but she had no interest in bandying about insults with a woman who had no idea what it was like to exist outside of the sphere Eshan created. It made her haughty, arrogant, and with a penchant to look down on the daughter that was supposed to bring glory to House Talon. Her trajectory had gone straight to the top, and then it had plummeted, as low as it could go, to marrying an Arkanian, to being Sith.

To being their Empress.

Srina did not have the patience to listen to it. Not today. Not—When she felt like Quinn was slipping through her hands to somewhere…She could not follow. The Force coiled around her, contained, and folded inward with surgical restraint, yet her presence pressed outward all the same. Cold. With a pressure that almost felt like a storm front rolling in. Quinn Varanin was already inside, as well as Aether Verd and several other guests. She almost…Felt something familiar. Rather, someone, or the lack of someone. It was a particular...something...that Srina recognized.

Amelia?

Her elegant brow drew together for a moment... Amelia von Sorenn ?

The vampiress hadn't been seen since well before the fall of the Galactic Alliance, and there had been rumors that she had been lost, long before, but with the attack on the Blackwall, there hadn't been much time for her to investigate it. They had never met on the battlefield, but with her prowess with ships…She was not one to be discounted. Gerwald Lechner caught her eye, and so did several others, such as Ivalyn Yvarro . She did note who was missing, however, but didn't speculate in the moment. Mercy was probably off pillaging and plundering to her heart's content in the ruins of the Core, and it was probable that more members of the Sith Order were lurking about.

If she needed Darth Carnifex for any reason…He wouldn't be hard to find. Power called to power.

She waited a time before silently following behind Quinn Varanin and CT-312 at a distance as they made their way toward the waiting Echani Elders. They seemed pleased when they looked at Quinn, pleased to have a Varanin Daughter back on the throne. Pleased and touched with something akin to joy to have a glimpse of not just a future, but a bright one.

They were...Terrified…When they glanced behind the princess-to-be-queen to see the Sith Empress gliding silently behind her. The Avatar of Death, the Dread Queen, long before she had ever had a place in the Sith Order. Srina remained impassive, empty, and her gold-hewn stare had them glancing back at the waiting crown and each other. Back at the Princess. Anything, to avoid making eye contact with her.

At least some things never changed.

"Shall we begin?"

 

[Beskar]

THE CORONATION
"Blood may falter and crowns may pass, but Eshan is never without a future."​

Winter pressed its fingers to the crystal ribs of the Palace of the Matron, and the great hall answered with silence shaped into ceremony. Snowlight drifted through high arches and caught the pale stone in silvers and deep blues, turning every banner into something sharper, more deliberate. House Varanin and House Talon hung in solemn prominence, their colors steady beneath the larger shadow of the Mandalorian Empire’s sigils, arranged with intent that refused to be ignored. Armor gleamed in disciplined ranks, restrained rather than threatening, yet it still carried the truth every Echani could feel in their bones. Mandalorians had returned.

The Echani present held that reality with the caution of a people who remembered, and the hall was full of the quiet mathematics that always followed such memory. Unease lingered in the set of shoulders and the careful distance kept between some clusters of guests, and the presence of Sith in red and black drew the eye in ways that felt instinctive, wary, and resentful all at once. Yet those mixed feelings did not rule the room, not fully, not today. They were tempered by a deeper current, one that ran through Estin like a heartbeat, because the Avatar of Death was not only the Sith Empress here. She was Srina Vail Talon, daughter of Eshan, liberator of their world, and the one whose shadow had guarded the Six Sisters through nights that should have ended them.

Above even that, hope gathered, stubborn and bright.

The throne of Eshan would be filled today. The seat of Spencer Varanin, once held by the absent Noelle Varanin, would not remain vacant in a time that demanded a sovereign. A Varanin would sit it again, and whatever storms waited beyond the palace walls would find Eshan steered, not drifting.

A movement at the base of the dais drew every gaze.

The youngest of the four elders stepped forward, white draped over her shoulders like snowfall made into cloth, her hands empty, her posture unshakably sure. She turned first toward Quinn of House Varanin and offered a formal bow, deep and reverent, and the elders flanking her lowered their heads in kind, a unity of gesture older than any living witness. The hall held its breath for a single suspended moment...and then the musicians answered.

A flourish of traditional Echani music rose, regal and clean, strings and chimes threading together like a banner unfurling in sound. It was not jubilant, not yet, but it carried purpose, and when it passed, the quiet that followed felt carved rather than accidental.

The young woman lifted her chin, voice carrying through the great hall with practiced clarity.

“By law, by honor, and by the living tradition of Estin, we convene the Coronation of Eshan.”

She let the words settle before continuing, her gaze sweeping the gathered dignitaries, the watchful Mandalorian formations, the clustered Sith, the Echani matriarchy beneath ancestral banners.

“I am the Herald of the Matron, and I speak for the rite that has outlasted every war that sought to silence it. The Queen of Eshan is the beating heart of our society, the steady pulse that keeps our people aligned when the galaxy turns cruel. Through the most tumultuous storms, the Six Sisters have endured because monarchs of wisdom, strength, and character held fast to duty and guided our course. Without that light, Eshan remains mighty, but it becomes a vessel without a hand upon its helm.”

Her next words softened without losing their edge, grief given shape but not allowed to rule.

“Today, we mourn the loss of Queen Noelle Varanin. We honor her reign by keeping the ways of Eshan alive, not as relic, but as law. The throne has remained empty in respect, in patience, and in resolve. Now, in this hour, it will be filled according to honor, according to law, and according to the will of our people.”

The Herald stepped aside, returning to the line of elders, and the shift in attention was immediate, as if the hall itself knew what came next.

The eldest of the elders moved forward, her presence carrying the authority of centuries. From the gilded pillow held by one of her sisters, she lifted the crown with measured care, raising it so torchlight and snowfall-bright daylight alike could find it. It was exquisite in craftsmanship, but the room did not regard it as ornament. Not here. Not now.

Her voice was lower than the Herald’s, but it cut through the hall with the certainty of something sacred.

“This is not finery. This is not prize. This is stewardship made visible, duty given shape, and restraint demanded of the one who would lead. This crown belongs to Eshan. It does not belong to House Varanin, nor to House Talon, nor to any empire that would place its banners beside ours. It belongs to our people, to our laws, to our future.”

She held it aloft for a moment longer, and then she fell silent.

The stillness that followed was revered, the kind that demanded discipline from every throat and every restless thought. Even the banners seemed to quiet, their faint stir reduced to a whisper against stone.

When the eldest elder spoke again, she did not look to the gathered crowd first. She looked toward the space before the throne, as though addressing the history that lived there.

“Srina Vail Talon,” she called, each name placed with care. “Daughter of House Talon. Liberator of Eshan. Oathkeeper to Queen Spencer Varanin.”

The title was not a flattery, it was an accounting.

“Yours were the hands that guided and molded our monarch. Yours was the will that defended our crown when darkness sought to claim it. Thus, it is fitting and it is lawful that yours will be the hands to anoint the brow of Eshan’s Matron with the sacred duty of Queenship. Come before the throne.”

As that summons rang through the hall, the final elder stepped forward, the one with empty hands, the one whose role was voice and witness. She turned toward Quinn, and the temperature of the room seemed to shift, anticipation tightening like a drawn cord.

“Quinn of House Varanin,” she announced, her tone reverent without becoming indulgent. “The Elders and Houses of Eshan acknowledge your claim and your return.”

She lifted her chin slightly, eyes steady, unwavering.

“This day, you will be Matron to our people. This day, you will be anointed Queen. Approach the throne.”

And with those words spoken into the heart of Estin, the hall waited for motion to become history.

Sibylla Abrantes , Adelle Bastiel , Aselia Verd , Reina Daival , Eira Dyn , Mia Monroe , Quinn Varanin , Acier Moonbound , Darth Carnifex , Orvak Kresh , CT-312 , Amelia von Sorenn , Ivalyn Yvarro , Srina Talon

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

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Location: THE CORONATION
Interacting with: Open | Adelle Bastiel Acier Moonbound
Items: x x x x x

Sibylla caught the single, respectful nod from Aether Verd and returned it with a gentle inclination of her head. In the time she had spent learning Mandalorian culture and observing how its people were led, her regard for him had grown to admiration. He was the sort of leader one aspired to be -- deliberate when patience was required, resolute when strength was demanded, and struck with an iron fist if needed. She had even spoken of that respect to Aurelian, more than once.

As Quinn Varanin entered, flanked by those who supported her crowning, Sibylla’s attention drew into thoughtful scrutiny in the wake of the discussion with Mauve du Vain . She watched without haste, trying to do her best to commit unfamiliar faces to memory over Srina Talon , CT-312 , Darth Carnifex , Amelia von Sorenn , Ivalyn Yvarro , tracing silent lines of connection, blood, and allegiance. Who stood with whom, and for what reason, mattered more than titles ever did. There was much still unseen, and far so much yet unanswered.

The low murmur of her guard Orvak Kresh drew the Ambassador's attention, her hazel eyes settling on a figure she had not been certain would appear at all.

Ace.

While Sibylla’s expression did not shift from its seemingly composed and diplomatic countenance, Sibylla felt something tighten quietly in her chest. Concern followed close behind and impossible to dismiss. She returned a measured nod in his direction already considering how she might speak with him without drawing attention or intent.

That was when the familiar sight of Adelle Bastila’s beskar and the curled shape of Phantom caught her eye. A faint, almost grateful smile touched Sibylla’s lips. After signaling her guard, she stepped away from her post and made her way toward the Corellian woman, intent clear in her purpose.

She came to stand beside Adelle, gaze briefly returning to the coronation unfolding behind them.

“I find myself at something of a disadvantage,” Sibylla said softly.

“There are too many faces I do not yet know, and that is a failing I intend to correct.”

Her attention shifted back to Adelle, in cordial curiosity.

“Do any of them seem familiar to you?”

 

[Lirka Ka]

THE CORONATION
TAGS - Darth Carnifex

The whole thing felt rather distant to Lirka’s endless calculus. Eshan was a world a whole Galaxy away - though the Once-Sephi grasped its historical significance. Today ultimately was a chance to play politics, make appearances, offer a quaint golf-clap towards Quinn Varanin for the girl’s first ascension to a crown. Keep appearances, and all those little things that came with being a proper politician again rather than merely a potent liability like an Imperator always would be.

Of course she had plenty of homunculus, drones, and other horrid scuttling things to do that sort of mind-numbing work for her. So why make an appearance proper as the prime-specimen? Her mind had chosen to make special attention to a different of the guests today. The ripples of the murderous bout on Fiviune to fracture the Tsis’Kaar were still yet to be felt in full back in their distant home behind the Blackwall.

Certainly, a great many changes were inbound for the monstrous Once-Sephi. She was a creature compelled by ambition and murderous intent - so when she felt the writhing of black ichor in her veins. It seemed only proper to puff her chest and slither to he-who-had-made-her-kin, at least, Lirka would always view them as kin. Bound in black blood, whose meat had been consumed into the swirling foulness of her gestalt.

She had made little effort to encroach upon the Kainites since the declaration of Dzara. The fledgling had left the metaphorical nest - where that put her? Lirka wasn’t quite sure. She intended to find out. Normally her paranoia swelled to even more manic heights when dabbling in the Butcher King, but she had shields now. Political and military power behind the name, a firm enough sense of importance that she could not be as easily discarded as before. At least, that is what she told herself.

While the cruel nobles of this place filtered into his audience, Lirka indulged herself in silent jealously - she, and the rest of the terrible trio from Anoat, certainly would’ve enjoyed to have their piece of this pie. Instead, she merely exemplified her oddest of quirks to pop out from whatever shadow she had skulked into.

If there was one thing the monsters could share, it was perhaps the quaint humor of shifting alliances. Lirka thumped her metal feet overly with a simple casualness - it was the only proper way to broach bloodthirsty nostalgia.

“And to think, dear Moridinae felt like but a cycle ago.”

She certainly hadn’t expected to see Mandalorian kind so…amicable to Sith after their little endeavor all those years ago.

 

[Orvak Kresh]

Objective I
Tags: OPEN
Faces: X | X | X | X | X
Current Face: Human Male

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Kresh inclined his head as the Ambassador stepped away, the motion small and automatic. Another guard moved with her, spacing clean, practiced. Good. That left him where he preferred to be. Still. Overlooked. Watching.

His attention snapped back to the floor below as the hall tightened around the ceremony. He shifted into work without thinking, breath slowing, eyes softening. He mapped the room in layers. First pass was geometry. Distances, angles, exits, lines of fire disguised as architecture. Second pass was color and contrast. Armor sheen, fabric weight, who stood too rigid and who leaned like they owned the stone beneath their boots. Third pass was faces.

He broke them into pieces. Scar patterns. Jewelry choices. How hands rested. Who touched weapons that were not there. He paired each face with a hook. A scent. A cadence. A remembered flaw. Old tricks from worse rooms. He would be able to rebuild this hall later from memory alone.

The elders moved with ritual certainty. Their authority was real, earned, and fragile. He marked them as fixed points. The crown passed hands and the room shifted. Micro reactions rippled outward. Sith eyes sharpened. Mandalorian posture adjusted by a fraction. No one here was surprised, but many were calculating cost.

Srina Talon stepped forward and the temperature dropped. Kresh felt it before he named it. Pressure without motion. Control edged sharp enough to cut. He did not like Sith power, not in the abstract and not like this. Too intimate. Too absolute. The Republic had bled to stop things like her, and now stood close enough to feel her breath.

Quinn approached the throne and the hall leaned toward her. Too many titles circled that woman. Queen. Warden. Sith. Each one a blade pointed somewhere different. Kresh watched the Mand'alor as closely as he watched her. Aether Verd did not move much, but his stillness anchored the room. That bothered Kresh more than posturing ever would. Calm like that meant confidence. Confidence like that usually came from leverage.

He logged the Mandalorians next. Rank markers disguised as ceremony. Armor customized within strict bounds. Soldiers pretending this was peaceful because they had been ordered to. He did not trust them. He trusted them to obey. That was worse.

Sith clustered like carrion birds with manners. Polite smiles. Hungry eyes. Kresh felt the familiar itch under his skin. Too many predators sharing a kill they had not earned yet.

As the rite advanced, he committed every name spoken to memory, pairing voice to face, title to posture. He would give Strategic Command a report thick with detail and thin on comfort.

​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Sibylla Abrantes | Open

There was always movement. No one ever stood completely still unless ceremony demanded it, like Aether Verd standing by the throne but even he moved with breath. So Adelle wasn't surprised when she only picked out the life signature of Queen Sibylla Abrantes a moment before the woman came into view, threading her way through those gathered with a fluid grace Adelle envied. She could never glide so effortlessly.

Adelle inclined her head as Sibylla came to stand beside her. Between her feet, Phantom raised her black furred head and sniffed in Sibylla's direction for a moment before stretching a paw and yawning. The tiny spukami returned to her nap, for once listening to Adelle's command to stay put. She hadn't wanted to bring Phantom out of the ship, but the spukami would not be dissuaded. It was far easier to get her into her service vest and harness, leashing her to Adelle's belt, than it was to try and slip out of the ship without Phantom escaping.

A wry smile twisted the corner of Adelle's mouth as Sibylla spoke. She felt the Queen of Naboo's eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on the crowd gathered to witness the coronation. Quinn Varanin was obviously the center of attention, but Srina Talon stood like a gravity well, the intense pressure of her presence confined to the Empress' vicinity. Adelle barely felt the Dark from her position against the wall, but it was there all the same.

"I'm afraid you might have the advantage over me," Adelle whispered back, barely more than a breath. "The Mandalorians and the Sith don't mingle if they can help it. There's history. A Sith massacre. Mandalorian warmongering."

A soft humorless laugh escaped her, quiet beneath the ceremony taking place. "No one's here because they want to be. You can feel it."

Her eyes traveled over helms and heads alike, roving up to the high gallery above before completing the 180 degree scan. Adelle frowned ever so slightly before returning to watch the coronation, her awareness in the Force ever vigilant.

"I can name four people in this hall," she breathed. "And I'm pretty sure you know three of them already."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Eshan, Inner Rim

Deep beneath the surface, the cold chill of winter seeped into the catacombs; frost gathered across the carved walls, their cracks packed with rime and ice that gleamed in the fading torchlight. Faint footsteps clattered in the distance, the hushed movement of those who served the honoured dead, their bodies sealed within storied stonework, expressions lined with imperious disdain for those who dared disturb their slumber—a place for the dead, where the living were only tolerated. Even then, those who remained were expected to be gracious, to serve the memory of those who had come before, where the dead could be honoured and remembered.

Shaalva Baori was not a wealthy man, nor had he ever pretended to be one; the simple luxuries of a warm fire and the merriment of friends and family at the end of his days provided more than any credits could offer. His robes were simple, a selection of faded fabrics that had grown threadbare at the cuffs, though he'd mended them again and again, comforted by familiarity that clung to them, wrapped as they were around his slender frame.

For years now, his job had been a simple one, a caretaker for those who had passed, his days spent toiling away, replacing the torches that flickered still, and checking over the few systems that had been installed, rare as they were, so deep underground. Simple, but not unfulfilling. A task that deserved a living touch, even if he'd had to face more than one person who had decried his job as better dealt by droids, uncaring of the history within reach, a connection to their storied past that couldn't be understood by lifeless metal.

He had never truly contemplated that one day he would find himself among the revered dead, those whose lives were woven with tales of magnificent victories and heart-wrenching tragedies, each story grander and more poignant than his own unremarkable existence.

Itzhal lowered to one knee, crouched above the still form of Saalva, their body splayed out across the carved stonework, a trail of crimson leaked from the gap between gawking lips, their limbs twisted in an awful parody of a puppet without strings, eyes glazed in a final moment of pain from the gaping hole that pierced their torso. The Mandalorian's gloved fingers ran along the robes' edges, their frayed threads scorched black and still warm to the touch.

With care, he reached out towards their arm, cradling the limb as a hushed word activated the lights attached to his rangefinder, a soft glow illuminating the corpse and the fractures that spread across Shaalva's fingers, crushed with the imprint of a boot. After a moment, he lowered their hand, turning his buy'ce towards the other end of the small corridor he'd wandered across, provoked more by curiosity than any sense of duty on his night off.

In the muted colours of his visor, a trail of bootprints led the way.

Tags: Open​

 

[Hilal Vizsla]

DISTRICT OF LIGHT

Current Outfit



To say Hilal was not happy that the Mandalorian Empire was making "peace" with the Sith would be an understatement. In fact, Hilal was pissed off about the whole ordeal. Why would her people even entertain celebrating with those Sith monsters who destroyed Mandalore, killed millions of Mandalorian including Hilal's parents? The thought was inconceivable a miscarriage of justice. If it were up to Hilal, she'll killing every fracking Sith she saw. But alas, Hilal was a warrior: A newly minted supercommando at that. Her bloodlust still flowed inside of her like a predator hungry to devour prey but Hilal didn't want to be the cause of a political incident.

"Chit!" Hilal growled seeing the bolt drop from the leg of her variant Mandalorian Armor. She angrily placed it back onto the leg screwing it with her wrench. She decided to stay away from the celebrations mainly to resist the urge to gun down all the Sith embracing their hedonistic activates. She moved her items towards an empty room in the district mostly to work on her new armor but also sell some weapons and armor for any Mandalorians should they want to kill any Sith.

"What is it DVA?" Hilal saw her Droid Companion tossing Hilal a Hydrospanner while he began to beep. "No DVA," Hilal grumbled getting up and began to work on the multi-fire blaster cannon. "For the hundredth time I'm not going to celebrate with those Sith assholes. They all can die in a ditch for all I care."

DVA gave off sad beeps his eyes looking down while Hilal increased the volume that was on her radio. "You can join in on the festivities," Hilal said adjusting her hat. "Just know that I'm not going."

DVA gave a panicked whirr in response.

The Mandalorian sighed. "Listen," Hilal said. "If I see one fracking Sith, I don't think there'll be anyone who can stop me from melting their brains out. So for my people's sake, I ain't going to celebrate."

DVA beeped before heading to the toolbox. Hilal gave a sad smile to her Droid before returning to her repairs. Some Life Day this had been.

OOC: OPEN TO ANYONE!

 

[Naniti]

Naniti looked over at Lysander with wide eyes. He promised to behave? He said they wouldn't make enough trouble to become Naamino's problem? That was a lot of promises in a short amount of time on a world ripe for conflict.

"Yeah?" Naniti shifted a little closer and slowly fussed over his jacket. "And how do you see doing that, exactly?" Blue rings lifted from his chest to his face. "You just said you wouldn't cause 'problems.'" A smirk played across her lips for a moment. They could watch, of course, but there was no need for her to ignore the potential for an amusing exchange.

Her eyes brightened when he mentioned food. "Oh, good, maybe I'll get to explain the finer points of the culinary experience by punching the chef in the face. That's how they communicate here isn't it? A very... physical people."

"Maybe some of them will join us. Now or later. But I'm not sharing my meat with them any more than I do you, Lysander," she pressed her palms against his chest to emphasize her position. Well, she might share with him. If he was on his best behavior as he promised Naamino.

"If you're serious, I think the duels are at the Center of the Saber. Do you know where that is?" The mirth faded to genuine curiosity. Naniti had heard of the events around the Solstice, but that didn't mean she'd memorized a map of the region. They might have to figure out how to ask for directions first. The locals could manage that without punching one another, right?

Lysander von Ascania | Varin Mortifer | Seren Gwyn | Acier Moonbound | Naamino Zuukamano

 

[Mercy]

Tags: Srina Talon | Ivalyn Yvarro | Darth Carnifex | Gerwald Lechner | Merryn Sellek | Sibylla Abrantes | Mia Monroe | Aselia Verd | Reina Daival | Aether Verd | Adelle Bastiel | Amelia von Sorenn

Being fashionably late was a skill and Mercy was a practiced Master of it.

Her invitation had either been lost in the mail or never been sent. Tough to say which it was, since Quinn Varanin had been surly with her ever since the gala of her ascension to the Dark Council. Getting a word out of her had been a challenge ever since. It was why this coronation had come out of the left field for Mercy.

She had not really known Noelle all that well, just in passing, as Quinn's sister. But by all accounts she had been very firmly rooted in power. Ruled for a long time too.

And now Quinn was being seated in her place with a lot of fanfare. Mercy had mixed feelings about it. She was happy for her long-standing friend, of course. Mercy knew she had wanted a place of authority for a long time. She hoped it would make her feel whole, in a way that she wasn't now. But the mixed feelings came from the lack of understanding.

Mercy didn't understand wanting the responsibility. Desiring a cold throne under your arse that looked deeply uncomfortable. Being forced to baby-sit adults that ought to know better.

Tongue in cheek she referred to herself as the Empress-in-the-Core after declaring victory over Solipsis in the Kaggath, but that was mostly just to polish her own ego. She didn't truly desire to rule that hellscape. She just wanted to pillage it and take what she wanted from it. A far cry from trying to actually govern a whole Empire.

Quietly, carefully, Mercy slipped into the throne room at the back-end of the procession. Or as careful as a huge mountain of a warrior could be. She didn't want to distract from Quinn's moment, she had worked hard for it. So Mercy did her best representation of a camouflaged hill, sneaking into the crowd and finding a good spot she'd be able to watch the coronation from.

Easier said than done and she received at least a few glares from pushing past the nobles in attendance.

But that couldn't be helped.

At least she'd have a nice view of the events.

Mercy didn't really recognize many of those gathered besides the usual suspects. A mix of Sith, Mandalorians, High Republicans... The presence of the latter was particularly awkward.

Especially since she had just gotten back from burning one of their refinery cities down. Mercy hadn't caused a diplomatic incident in quite some time, which was a shame, those were always fun. Maybe today would be the day if one of them recognized her.

The Empress was in attendance too, which made sense. An Echani herself, her surrogate daughter involved. Mercy understood it even if she missed some of the context behind the banners and dynamics at play.

She was too distracted by the title Srina wore.

The Avatar of Death.

Now if that wasn't a title worth drinking to, Mercy didn't know what was.

 

[Everest Vale]

Outfit: Personal Armour
Equipment: Lightsaber, Eye of Ashla, Bracelet, Earrings, Wayfinder's Flare, Atrisian Dancer, Engagement Ring
Companion: Isari

Winter had come in full force to Eshan. Snow gathered along ledges and banners, muted the sound of boots on stone, softened a city built for clarity and conflict alike. Eve moved through it without ceremony, another figure among many, her presence swallowed easily by the press of bodies and the hush that came before history settled into place.

In Valery's absence, she had stepped forward, not loud or with any sort of dramatic declaration, but simply because someone had to. The work had changed her. Responsibility had a way of stripping things back to what endured and what did not, and months of hiding lives from Imperial fire, of choosing restraint over righteousness, had sharpened her in ways meditation never could. There was less patience now. Less tolerance for risk dressed up as hope. Those under her care felt it, even if none had dared say it aloud.

"Stay out of the way. Out of trouble. Do not antagonise."

The words had been given hours earlier, clipped and final. She had not waited for questions. She had not explained herself. The enclave had learned, over the past months, that she no longer did.

They had been silent for a long time now, high in the cold reaches of Eshan's mountains, tucked away among stone and wind and discipline. Too quiet, perhaps. Eve knew it. More importantly, she knew Quinn Varanin knew it too. Power noticed absences as keenly as it noticed displays.

Isari kept close at her side as they moved through the city, pale fur nearly lost against the snow, her long body weaving effortlessly between Eve's steps. She made no sound, only the faint brush of tail against cloak now and then, a living warmth pressed discreetly against Eve's leg when the crowd tightened. Once, the fox lifted her narrow head, ears angling toward the distant thrum of gathered force and ceremony. Eve did not look down, but her hand shifted just enough for Isari to brush against her fingers, grounding and wordless.

The city came to her in fragments. Echani voices low and measured. The smell of cold metal and incense. Mandalorian armour catching pale light. Sith presence threading through the air, unmistakable. Eve passed through all of it untouched, the usual brilliant blinding light of her aura presently contained and smothered. Her thick white cloak was drawn close, slim armour beneath stripped of any sigils or declarations.

She took her place quietly amongst the crowd. From there, she could see all she needed.

The Palace of the Matron rose clean and cold against the sky, banners hanging heavy with meaning. House Varanin. House Talon. Mandalorian sigils arranged with care, as if care alone could make an empire less sharp. Eve's gaze moved slowly, deliberately, cataloguing rather than reacting. Guards. Distances. Lines of sight. The way bodies shifted when certain figures passed.

Isari settled at her feet, tail curling neatly around herself, eyes bright and unblinking as she followed Eve's line of sight with uncanny focus.

And then Quinn.

Clarity came easily, as if distance meant nothing at all. Eve's single silver eye fixed on her without hesitation, piercing through layered spectacle to the woman at its centre. She did not search for darkness. She did not search for light. She watched posture, timing, restraint. How the world bent, subtly, around Quinn's presence.

Eve did not frown nor tense. If there was any degree of distaste there, it stayed buried beneath colder things. Months of skirmishes. Of running lives through narrow corridors of survival. Of choosing who lived by choosing who stayed hidden. Idealism had not survived intact. What remained was sharper, far quieter, far harder to move.

Around her, the crowd shifted, breath fogging, anticipation tightening. Somewhere, a horn sounded. Somewhere else, a cheer rose and was quickly swallowed. Isari's ears flicked at the noise, but she didn't move. Neither did Eve. Her presence went unnoticed, exactly as intended.

She held Quinn in her sight for a long moment longer than necessary. Then attention turned inward, pulled by ceremony and promise alike. Eve stepped back, Isari rising with her in silent accord. They slipped away together, white into white, fox and Jedi swallowed by the city as neatly as they had entered it.

Only the thought lingered, calm and unadorned, carried with her into the cold streets beyond.

Quinn Varanin.

I'll be watching you.​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Winter Exhibitions

Korda did not step immediately into the center of the ring.
Instead, he circled it.


Boots moved slow across polished stone, each step measured as his eyes traced the Echani architecture rising around him. sweeping arches carved with restraint rather than excess, layered balconies balanced with mathematical intent, lines drawn not to impress, but to endure. The hall carried the weight of generations, stone laid by hands that understood patience as a virtue rather than a weakness.

His helmet remained clipped at his belt, leaving his scarred face bare to the winter-lit air. Red eyes followed the curve of a support column, then the seam where two different stoneworks met.
"…Hand-cut," he muttered under his breath. "Chisel marks still visible. Hundreds of them."
A pause. Another step.

"Forty… maybe fifty workers per section. Years, not months." His brow knit faintly, not in disbelief, but in respect. "And that's without rushing."
There was no sarcasm in his tone. only the quiet admiration of a man who understood what it meant to build something that outlived its maker. Clan halls, forge keeps, warships… the language was different, but the intent was the same.


Korda's path never strayed far from the ring itself. He remained close enough to feel the subtle shift of air when other warriors moved, close enough to hear the muted scrape of boots on stone and the low, controlled breaths of those preparing for exhibition. His attention flicked briefly to the Echani overseers, not challengingly, but with acknowledgement. Their rules were clear. Their discipline evident.

Good.

He stopped near the ring's edge, resting a gauntleted hand lightly against the cool stone barrier, thumb brushing over a shallow groove worn smooth by time and repetition. How many blades had passed here? How many forms refined without bloodshed?
"…A place like this," he murmured, almost to himself, "teaches restraint the hard way."


Straightening, Korda finally turned his gaze inward toward the ring proper, toward the warriors gathering, the philosophies waiting to collide. His stance settled naturally, weight balanced, posture loose but ready. Not a threat. Not a performance.
A student of violence, waiting for a conversation at bladepoint.

Tags: anyone

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Eshan

Equipment:
Winter Attire| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

The coronation began with sound before it took shape. Music rose, threading through the hall like a current pulling everything toward the same inevitable point. Words followed... ritual, history, duty. Ace listened, still as a rock.

Ace shifted his attention when movement drew it naturally. Sibylla again. He felt the change in cadence as she threaded her way through the gathered dignitaries, fluid and precise in a way that suggested intention without urgency. She moved like someone who knew exactly where she belonged in any room, even one like this. Ace didn't turn immediately.

She didn't approach him. Instead, she redirected Adelle Bastiel and Ace watched without staring. Adelle stood near the wall, posture easy but alert, helm absent, eyes doing a slow, methodical sweep. At her feet, a small spukami lay curled, black fur stark against pale stone. It yawned, stretched, and settled again as if this gathering of empires were nothing more than background noise. Ace almost smiled at that.

Sibylla came to a stop beside Adelle, the exchange between them quiet enough to be lost beneath ceremony and music. Ace couldn't pick up what was being said, he was too far, but he continued to observe. Reading the pair's body language.

This was bound to complicate matters. Ace needed Sibylla alone. Just long enough to pass something that didn't belong in the open. But Adelle's presence closed that door entirely. Pulling Sibylla aside now would read as urgency.

So Ace adjusted. He stayed where he was, letting the ceremony advance without him. Elders spoke. Music rose and settled again. The crown was lifted. All of that was noise, useful noise, but not the point.

If he couldn't isolate Sibylla, then the message had to survive witnesses. That meant their failsafe. The cipher. He stepped laterally, not toward Sibylla directly, but into a space where proximity could be mistaken for coincidence. He didn't face her or Adelle.

"Eshan runs tight ceremonies." Ace said quietly. Flat. Observational. "Every blessing accounted for... I noticed one came through without a herald though."

There was no emphasis. or accusation. Just a simple fact, placed where it couldn't be ignored.

His eyes stayed forward. "Guess that's what happens when aliit is… a-liht."

The word was wrong. Intentionally so. Ace didn't pause to see anyone react, he just continued, tone unchanged.

"Some houses don't like being seen..." He said. "They let friends speak for them. Ones who aren't sitting the throne."

The music swelled again as the rite moved forward. That was his exit.

"Just hope no one ends up paying for favors they didn't ask for..." Ace finished.

Sibylla Abrantes | Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Lily Decoria]

Objective: 1 - Coronation
Outfit: Dress
Tag: "Templar"

Quinn Varanin was now the ruler of Eshan.

It was complicated mix of emotions. It was good that the monarchy was re-established, that the structure of governance could continue as it should do once again. However there was a cost that came with such things, they always had a cost and this was something that Lily dreaded from her last argument with Colette . Quinn was a Sith Lord, that meant that she had Jedi who were enemies, but some of those Jedi were Lily's own friends. It was confusing, conflicting sets of emotions and then amplified by the presence of Mandalorians. Especially Mandalorians who seemed to be allying themselves more and more with the Sith Order.

The Mandalorian presence for this coronation was the singular presence that her mother refused to attend the coronation. While she held deep love for the royal family and their daughter now ruling, Rose could not look past the fact it took the Mandalorians interfering once again. They were not necessarily the same Mandalorians that once attempted to destroy Eshan, but they wore the same helmets, tied to the same names and carried themselves in the same manner. It was all too much for her mother, who then demanded Lily take her place at the coronation and ensure that the House of Decoria is represented in the best way possible. A glimpse into the life that she might have to take part in later on.

Lily had to find the dress, style her hair and adorn the family jewellery. It was a process that took hours with assistance from stylists to ensure that how Lily looked and that the Echani was the most presentable that she could be. Entering the palace where the ceremony would begin, Lily noticed the waves of Dark Side energy that emanating from the number of powerful Sith Lords that were in attendance. Even Darth Carnifex was here in attendance. Which caused a flurry of nerves and caution. He was the type of Sith that Lily feared that Quinn would be, that all Sith would be like or want to be like. However, Quinn had not demonstrated that attitude, in fact from what Lily had seen and heard about, Quinn was much more diplomatic and very focused on Eshan's wellbeing over being a Sith ruler.

Which made the promise to Colette hard. So much harder to fight the ruler of your home, even if they are Sith. There was much more to consider.

In defiance of the Dark Side that swelled in the room, Lily entered, not sparkling just from the dress but also a beacon of Light Side energy. Did not matter how small the beacon might seem in the moment, Lily was attending as an Echani first but she would also not shy away the fact that there was a Jedi here. One that would be welcoming the new queen with cautious optimism that this was a positive change. It was daunting being in attendance alone, not to have Shan or any of her friends here. But Lily also knew that they would be very uncomfortable or on edge surrounded by Sith. For her, this was a challenge but one she welcomed.

To prove that she would respect the Echani leader as an Echani, and there would always be a defiant bright light in any darkness. Hopefully reassuring other Echani and Jedi with Eshan ties that this world was not under Sith rule and as long as Lily was around, she would not allow it to fall in such ways. Even if that meant protecting Quinn from dangers. A tough pill to swallow but one that Lily was growing to realise needed to be taken.

Seeing Quinn stepping out and walking towards the matron. Lily watched respectfully and bowed her head to Quinn was the ruler passed Lily, her silver eyes watching the ceremony and listening to everything that was being said. Strange to watch the new monarch take her place, it felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place. But Lily was also cautious about what the puzzle was going to reveal as well. When the ceremony ended with the announcement of Quinn being the ruler, Lily clapped her hands softly. This was going to be a very interest early few years of reign, for many will be curious as to how Quinn ruled and what influences from the Sith did she allow to leak into the ruling of Eshan?

Only time would tell.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Location: THE CORONATION
Interacting with: Open | Adelle Bastiel Acier Moonbound
Items: x x x x x

The Mandalorians and the Sith had history. A massacre and Mandalorian warmongering.

From the looks of it alone, that much was evident, Sibylla mused, even as she smiled when Phantom gave a little yawn and then settled again. A queen at all hours.

Yet it was more Adelle's bearing, and where her attention lingered, that drew Sibylla's notice. Her gaze shifted from the newly crowned Quinn Varanin to Srina Talon .

"It is certainly tense in the air," Sibylla murmured, though she did not shy from the question that followed. "But truthfully, with the Blackwall in place for so many years, even in my role as a politician, there are faces unknown to me… much less the ties that bind them."

She let out a soft breath, following Adelle's line of sight.

"Do you recognize her, then?" Sibylla inclined her head slightly toward Srina, clearly unfamiliar herself. "You seemed to be observing her a bit longer."

It was then that Sibylla caught Ace's approach, prompting a faint smile of greeting and an answering incline that mirrored the one she had given earlier.

However, what he said next drew a subtle widening of her eyes and a quickened beat of her heart. Outwardly, she maintained her composure and returned her attention to the ceremony, but inwardly a flutter of nervous anxiety stirred. Neither of them was particularly skilled in covert tactics or subtlety.

Yet there was a particular phrase she caught immediately, along with its hidden meaning. The mispronunciation sealed it. Even as her heart seemed to hammer in her chest, Sibylla replied evenly, "Quiet arrangements usually cost the most…"

She did not correct the word, and that was her answer. Only then did she turn to look at him. This time, concern shone clearly in her hazel eyes, an expression that sought to take in more than appearances, to read what lay beneath what he chose to show.

If he let her.

"It has been a while, Ace," she added softly. "How are you?"

 

[Aerik Lechner]

Tag: Skadi Lightbane | Open​

Winter pressed close around Estin, settling into the white stone spires like a weight the city had learned to carry without complaint. Snow gathered along parapets and banners, dulling their sharp lines and muting color without softening purpose. The streets below the Capitol Tower moved with restraint, not celebration, as if the world itself understood that this Solstice was not meant for joy. Eshan waited, alert and watching, with the memory of bloodshed never far from the surface.

Aerik felt that tension as he entered the open courts of the Center of the Saber. The cold bit at exposed skin, sharp enough to command attention, but it did not distract him. He welcomed it. The Echani had built these spaces to expose weakness, not to shelter comfort, and the winter only reinforced that intent.

He was aware of where he was not.

The Palace of the Matron loomed elsewhere in the city, its halls filling with dignitaries, banners, and expectation. He could imagine the space without difficulty. Quinn Varanin would be there now, standing in the place history had cleared for her with uncomfortable precision. She had not sought the crown, but Eshan had reached for her all the same. The thought followed him across the stone, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with weather.

He had chosen the courts deliberately.

The exhibitions were already underway. Echani masters moved through the gathered warriors with quiet authority, intervening only when intent strayed toward excess. No voice needed to be raised. The boundaries were understood. Aerik felt the pressure of the space immediately, the way it demanded honesty from movement and punished carelessness without apology. It was familiar, and he allowed that familiarity to steady him.

Skadi Lightbane was near where he had left her. She would understand better than most his need for the distraction of combat.

His first opponent stepped forward with confidence that did not rely on display. Mandalorian armor marked the warrior, though it had been stripped of anything unnecessary. The stance was disciplined, shaped by experience rather than bravado. Aerik inclined his head and ignited his blade. The opening exchange favored speed, each strike probing response instead of seeking advantage. Aerik adjusted his footing instinctively, guiding momentum away from himself while keeping his balance centered.

He was careful not to reveal more than needed. Still, the Echani influence surfaced in his movement despite his restraint. Weight shifted efficiently. Distance was managed rather than contested. The Mandalorian recognized the difference quickly and adapted, meeting precision with measured control. When the exchange concluded, both stepped back without flourish. The stone remained clean. Approval rippled through the observers in restrained acknowledgment.

Aerik moved on.

Time passed in a series of contained exchanges. He did not count them. Each demanded focus in its own way. A Sith acolyte pressed too aggressively and found himself grounded by redirection rather than force. An Echani practitioner tested timing closely enough to draw more of Aerik’s training into the open than he preferred. He felt the attention sharpen around him as understanding spread among those watching, though no one spoke it aloud.

Between bouts, his thoughts drifted despite his effort to keep them anchored.

Quinn’s presence lingered at the edge of his awareness. She had once stood beside him as an instructor, correcting posture with minimal instruction and sharper expectation. She had challenged him when he relied too heavily on instinct and pressed him when discipline was required instead. That she now stood on the threshold of sovereignty unsettled him in ways he had not fully examined. Pride sat alongside caution. He trusted her judgment, yet he understood how power reshaped those who carried it.

He did not know how she would view his absence from the coronation, or whether word of the exhibitions would reach her before the crown touched her head.

The presence of Srina Talon on Eshan carried a different weight. Aerik accepted the life debt without question, though he understood only fragments of the history that shaped it. His father’s loyalty to her was absolute and unyielding. His mother’s caution surfaced quietly whenever Srina was mentioned, never fully explained. Aerik felt that divide without comprehending its origin. What he did understand was that the Empress did nothing without purpose, and that her presence here would not go unnoticed.

Another opponent drew his focus back to the present. This exchange demanded restraint rather than dominance. The warrior mirrored his movements closely enough to force clarity instead of concealment. Aerik adjusted, maintaining control without escalation. The distinction did not escape the Echani masters observing from the perimeter.

When the bout ended, he stepped back into the cold with controlled breath and steady posture. Snow continued to fall, softening the marks left upon the stone until they blended back into the surface. Around him, the exhibitions continued, governed by discipline and expectation rather than spectacle.

Aerik did not look toward the Palace. He did not need to see the crown to feel its weight. Today he had chosen effort over ceremony and motion over stillness. Whether that choice would impress Quinn or offend her remained unresolved.

When he returned to Skadi’s side, the tension settled into something quieter but no less present. Eshan would move forward under new authority. The Sith Order would adapt, as it always did. Aerik carried what he had revealed without satisfaction or regret. Whatever came next would demand more than loyalty or bloodline. It would demand understanding, and that was something he was still learning to claim.

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin laughed as everyone seemed to get weary over his comment of asking for backup. Seren took his arm as he listened to everyone speak before he finally did.

“Only if it is needed, will I step in.”

He smiled, and gave both Naami and Ace a slight nod as they went ahead.

“I’ve gotten a bit better at not going overboard….in most situations.”

He remembered himself melting an entire city block one time when facing a pesky sniper. The heated clouds of smoke claiming any life they touched.

He simply raised his right arm.

“I swear I won’t destroy sections of the city. We are here for fun and enjoyment. Even though I don’t trust these mandalorians.”

He had never seen an Echani duel, it sounded very entertaining as he listened to Lys and Naniti talk about it. His thumb rested on his chin as he thought.

What would it look like? Something entertaining with grappling and overpowering? Or something more akin to fencing?

There was only one way to find out. He then realised Seren was arm linked with him. Something about that caught him off guard though it was a very delayed reaction. He quickly popped up his collar to hide his warming cheeks before anyone could see, even though the evidence was apparent otherwise.

“Uh…let's watch the duels! I’ve never seen Echani duels, it sounds like a ton of fun….do we get to participate?”

The answer was quick and a bit stumbly in his words, but towards the end he finally got ahold of himself. He was still not used to a lady being so close to him. His stomach let out a growl at the mention of food. But Varin seemed to have made up his mind. Food would always be around, to witness a rare spectacle is more important. Besides, there might be food there too, not likely, but maybe.

Varin looked around for any signs that would point out where The Saber would be located.

“Well, if need be Naniti, I can just…coax the information out of someone?”

He smirked.

Seren Gwyn | Lysander von Ascania | Naniti | Naamino Zuukamano | Acier Moonbound​