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

[Amelia von Sorenn]

THE CORONATION​

​

​

Attire: Armor​

Weapon: Ceremonial Echani Virbosword​

​

​

Winter remembered as snow whispered against Beskar.​

​

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. ​

​

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. ​

​

And yet, Eshan itself seemed to remember. ​

​

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. ​

​

The armor ensured that the lie endured. ​

​

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. ​

​

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. ​

​

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. ​

​

The irony was not lost on her. ​

​

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. ​

​

The Galaxy believed Amelia was dead. ​

​

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

​

Aether Verd | Srina Talon | Gerwald Lechner | Open​

​

​

 

[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?”

​

 

[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]

____________________________________________________

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]

​

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.