Junction Feast of Iron and Flame || SO/ME Junction of Omwat & Empty Hex

[Aspect of Defiance]

With the attempted siege of the Blackwall and the Maw Cluster halted, the Sith forces that had been dispatched to Atrisia returned to familiar space in triumph. The fires of war still burned across the Core Worlds, yet the Order could now stand apart and breathe the air of victory. They had proven that no enemy was beyond their reach, and that no strike against their dominion would go unanswered.

Across Sith space, governors and nobles began to host their own celebrations, eager to honor those who had carried the banner of the Dark Side into battle. Yet none of these gatherings could compare to what awaited on Jutrand. The Imperial Palace would open its gates for a night of power and remembrance, a feast to mark the Order’s endurance and to proclaim its strength before the galaxy.

By decree of the Empress Srina Talon , all Lords, Knights, and Acolytes were called to the heart of the city-planet.

The Maw Cluster stood secure.

The Blackwall endured.

The storm had passed, and the Sith remained unbroken. Within the grand courtyards of the palace, torches would burn and music would rise beneath the night sky. Those who stood in defense of the Order’s dominion would be honored before the Dark Council. Deeds of valor would be rewarded, and the names of the fallen would be spoken in reverence and strength.

The courtyard itself had been transformed for the occasion. Black stone walkways wound between towering pillars engraved with ancient Sith script, their carvings glowing faintly red in the torchlight. Long tables stretched across the open square, heavy with food and trophies gathered from across Sith space. Braziers burned beside marble fountains that shimmered with crimson dye, reflecting the fires that crowned the night. Above, banners of deep scarlet and silver rippled in the warm wind, bearing the emblems of the great Houses and Legions that had returned victorious. Musicians played from the balconies, their low tones echoing through the vaulted arches and out into the city beyond.

At the far end of the courtyard rose the Grand Terrace, a platform of black marble overlooking the gathering below. Upon it waited the high seats of power, arranged beneath a canopy of silk and flame. The central throne stood ready for the Empress, its dark surface polished to a mirror’s sheen, while two smaller seats flanked it on either side, reserved for the remaining Dark Councilors. From this vantage, the rulers of the Order would one day look out over their gathering, their station elevated above the crowd yet close enough for every voice, every toast, and every oath to be heard. The air around the terrace carried a quiet gravity, as though it already anticipated their arrival.

A gift had been commissioned for those whose actions had ensured victory. Built within the shipyards of Jutrand and refined through the skill of Sith engineers and artisans, the vessel embodied the Order’s triumph. Its frame contained elements drawn from the remnants of the conflict itself, with alloys salvaged from fallen fleets and crystals mined from the depths of Erinar. Infused through ritual and intent, it was more than a weapon of war. It stood as a symbol of unity and strength, a creation that bound those who fought for the Sith to the legacy of their victory.

Representatives of the Mandalorian Empire were also in attendance. Having fought beside Sith forces during the defense of the Maw, they had already received their due reward, yet were welcomed as honored guests for the part they had played. Their armor caught the torchlight as they mingled among the gathered Sith, a reminder that even across empires, alliances forged in battle could hold weight when sealed in blood.

As the banners unfurled and the first fires were lit, the air upon Jutrand seemed to hum with anticipation. It was a night for triumph, but also for whispers. A night to honor what had been won and to look toward what would follow.

The celebration was ready to begin.

Spoiler: OBJECTIVES

Tables laden with delicacies and exotic dishes that would have bankrupted lesser worlds fill the grand courtyard of the palace, each goblet filled to the brim with nectars and droughts of exquisite quality in their own right. And not a single plate or cup will be allowed to go empty for more than a moment.

Amidst the feasting and bustling servants a clearing has been made for an orchestra to perform their finest melodies for the attending parties. As well as plenty of room for a dance floor of course, for those that wish to partake in such things. Here the air of revelry is thick and impossible to ignore, with grins as sharp as the gleaming cutlery and conversations held between cheers that hold both congratulations and promises of future plans yet to take root.

Overlooking the main festivities and feast sits a balcony where the finest and most influential among the Sith Order flock to dine and sit with the Empress and the Dark Council. Champions and outstanding leaders from the Battle of Atrisia have been gathered to be lauded and rewarded for their service to the Sith.

Power and influence radiate from the heads of the tables as many cling to the words of their betters, eager to receive any spare grace and favor that may be given so freely at such a celebration. But take heed, for this is no simple event. As one victory is assured, the groundwork must be laid for those to come and here is where it shall be done. With polite smiles and bold declarations alike.

Across the palace grounds, the celebration takes many forms. The courtyard teems with warriors and nobles, their laughter mingling with the echo of drums and the crackle of flame. Beyond the music and the wine, opportunity waits. Some gather to forge alliances in quiet corners, while others seek to test rivals beneath the guise of ceremony. Secrets pass as easily as toasts, and ambition stirs beneath every word spoken.

Whether you come to honor the fallen, to earn the favor of the powerful, or to advance your own design, the night belongs to those who act. The fires of Jutrand burn bright, but it is the choices made in their glow that will decide what follows.

Spoiler: SIG BLING

SITH ORDER

MANDALORIAN EMPIRE​

Spoiler: TAG LIST

Srina Talon
Gerwald Lechner
Aerik Lechner
Isley Verd
Aether Verd
Lina Ovmar
Irina Jesart
Darth Strosius
Darth Carnifex
Mercy
Revna Marr
Darth Caedes
Lirka Ka
Helix
Reina Daival
Vakhari Lutris
Hasuras Na-Gerra
Lysander von Ascania
Varin Mortifer
Taeli Raaf
Renn Vizsla
Drexan Ordo
Tyr Mereel
Korran Dorn
Markus Evremonde
Quinn Varanin
Darth Prazutis
CT-312
Jorryn Fordyce
Rio Naran
Trayze Tesar
Korda Veydran
Naniti
Zlova Rue

Spoiler: SO ANNIHILATION PARTICIPANTS

Darth Strosius
Darth Prazutis
Srina Talon
Lina Ovmar
Darth Caedes
Naamino Zuukamano
Seela Leini
Revna Marr
Madrona A’Mia
Gerwald Lechner
Haro Aven
Velda Nar-Donna
Lirka Ka
Helix
Darth Nefaron
Lysander von Ascania
Quinn Varanin
Darth Carnifex
Phaelissia
Ivalyn Yvarro
Darth Avida
CT-312
Eira Dyn

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Úlfs Reiði (Wolf's Fury)
TAG - MENTIONED: Srina Talon | Naedira Darcrath | Isley Verd | Aerik Lechner

The hum of celebration rose from the courtyard below, carried upward by the scent of flame and wine. From the high balcony, Gerwald watched the feast unfold. Banners of victory hung above the crowd, their deep crimson catching the torchlight as if the night itself had been draped in conquest. Conversation rolled like a tide, a mix of laughter and rivalry.

This was how empires remembered their triumphs. With ceremony and spectacle. It was to send a message that unity could be found beneath power’s weight. Yet even amid such grandeur, the undercurrent of Sith ambition was clear. There were voices that spoke of the past while others discussed what would come next. Every word was measured and every bit of silence deliberate.

Gerwald had walked these halls before, though seldom lingered. The Order shifted like a living thing, and his interest was to ensure those he was loyal to and cared for were secure. Tonight was no different. Allies, rivals, and ghosts filled the space around him. Their presence pressed through the Force more than through sight, each signature distinct.

Jasmine and Rain.

Whiskey and Fruit Cocktail.

Iron and Fire.

Wolf and Demon.

The Dread Wolf pressed among the gathered elite as he moved about them with ease. The gold accents of his armor caught the light, and those who met his gaze found little to read there. The wolf within was patient tonight. This was not the night for rivalry. It was a night to celebrate what made the Sith Order strong.

A servant offered a tray of dark wine. Gerwald accepted a glass of whiskey, studying the reflection that rippled across its surface before taking a slow drink. It looked older. Life and experience wore their way onto his face. Even though he had not yet lived even a quarter of his lifespan, the wolf had grown beyond the number of those years. The taste of his drink was sharp and honest. It was well suited to the night’s tone.

Below, the revelry swelled. Above, the true game unfolded in quieter tones. The balcony belonged to those who measured words like weapons and weighed futures in silence. Gerwald remained among them, an unspoken challenge to any who mistook restraint for weakness. The Dread Wolf had come to watch. He had also come to remember who among them still possessed the will to lead when the fire burned low.

Among those threads of power, one shone brighter. The bond between them had never faded. It was born of their first battle together and now lived within the amulet that rested against Naedira’s skin. He reached for her through it. The jewel radiated a quiet pulse that bridged the distance between their forms. The connection hummed with a warmth that was neither light nor dark. It was something older, something alive.

Within that tether lingered the memory of what they had made together. The she-wolf that rested inside her. It seemed like it was always restless. The crystal kept the beast at bay when absence grew long, and though its purpose had been born of necessity, it had become something greater. It reminded them both that what death had once broken but the Force itself had refused to forget.

His gaze shifted from the balcony, moving across the crowded hall below. The Wolf searched for the familiar presence of his son amid the sea of faces and the hum of celebration. The Force guided the effort as much as the eye. Aerik carried himself with quiet control. His aura was steady and sharp. He displayed discipline and hunger held in balance. For a brief moment pride stirred beneath the calm. Aerik seemed to have found his place among the Order. The path ahead of him would test them both, yet the blood they shared ran with purpose.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: OPEN




Renn Vizsla stood beneath the crimson glow of Jutrand’s torches, the flickering light catching on the silver plates of his armor. Blue accents traced along the seams and edges like veins of flame-quenched steel, gleaming faintly as he moved. His helm hung at his side, clipped against his belt, a gesture of respect more than comfort. The air was thick with the scent of spice and heat, of incense and feasting, of smoke curling from braziers tall as men. Around him, the Sith gathered in decadent splendor, their silhouettes painted in red and black, laughter mixing with the hum of orchestral strings and the distant roar of engines overhead.

He had come not as a warrior, but as an emissary, a representative of the Mandalorian Empire, and of the Death Watch itself. Yet even stripped of his helm and rifle, Renn bore the weight of war upon his shoulders. His scars were not visible, but the way he held himself, unbending, observant, like a man still on campaign, betrayed the soldier beneath the diplomat’s surface.

The Sith celebrated victory as only they could: with ceremony edged in danger, joy threaded with ambition. Renn had seen such feasts before, the kind that ended in alliances, betrayals, or both. The Mandalorians knew the value of a blade and a bond alike, and tonight both were on display. His gaze drifted over the long tables overflowing with roasted nerf, spiced drakes from Nal Hutta’s marshes, and goblets filled with liquors so rich they seemed to burn through the air. Servants in black silks moved like shadows between the gathered nobles and warriors, refilling every cup before thirst could take hold.

A Sith Knight passed by him, her armor a dark mirror to his own, and offered a thin smile that did not reach her eyes. Renn returned it with a nod, neither warm nor dismissive. These were people who spoke in subtleties, who measured strength not in words but in how long one could hold another’s gaze before looking away. He found it amusing, in its own way. Mandalorians were simpler. You wanted respect, you earned it in the field, not the ballroom.

Still, the grandeur of the courtyard could not be denied. The palace had been transformed into a theater of triumph: marble fountains dyed crimson, banners of deep scarlet and silver billowing in the warm wind, every pillar carved with the history of conquest. The orchestra played something low and deliberate, music that made the air vibrate in one’s bones. It was not celebration alone, but a reminder. That victory, in the eyes of the Sith, was an act of domination, not mercy.

Renn’s eyes lifted toward the Grand Terrace. The thrones there, black marble and fire-lit silk, loomed over the crowd like gods in waiting.

He took a slow drink from his goblet, some amber nectar poured by a servant who had looked terrified to even meet his eyes. It burned in his throat like good fire. He turned slightly, taking in the Mandalorian delegation that had accompanied him. Their armor gleamed with pride, shoulders squared, the symbols of their clans catching the torchlight. Warriors at a Sith feast, lions among serpents. And yet, they mingled easily enough. The two peoples had always shared a certain understanding of strength, even if their codes differed.

A servant passed by with another tray of wine. He waved it off. For all the feasting and grandeur, his thoughts were already turning elsewhere, to what came after. The Sith would not stop here. Victory was a ladder, and there was always another rung to climb.

And perhaps, in that, they were not so different from his own people.

He exhaled slowly, eyes finding the fires that ringed the palace courtyard. Beneath their light, the Sith laughed, the Mandalorians observed, and the galaxy, for this one rare night, seemed to hold its breath.

Renn stood in the center of it all, silver and blue amidst the red, the calm between storms yet to come.

 

[Zlova Rue]

Did they save the galaxy? That was nice. And now they were having a party to celebrate. That was dreadful. There was nothing worse than a Sith Party. The smiles were blades. The scowls were blades. And the only reason the drinks weren't poisoned was because you couldn't be certain who would or wouldn't die, and which ally was pissed off enough to commit to hunting down and butchering the perpetrator in a matter of hours -- not years.

So, why was Zlova Rue there? Why was a Sith Lord of an Empire since passed, betrayed and forced into self-exile only to emerge and become entangled with Mandalorians at this particular party? Simple, really. She loved stirring the pot. Seeing as how she'd been joined to the Enclave and now the Mandalorian Empire due to a certain Cathar and all the formalities -- and given the guest list -- there was nothing to stop her.

At least other Sith and Dark Siders wouldn't mind her lack of clothing. Oh, enough to be socially accepted, of course. Leggings. Upper chest wrappings. The rest was on display though. All the traditionally inscribed Sith Tattoos that adorned the Lethan's ruby flesh. Mandalorians loved armor too much; no one could appreciate all the pain and toil it'd taken to earn these tattoos if they couldn't even see them. A matter Talohn never accepted as he constantly tried to convince her to wear armor.

Perhaps, if she grew bored, she'd put on a dance. Dignity was overrated. Honor was a nice ideal for her Mandalorian friends to hold fast to -- everyone needed a guiding light. Zlova, on the other hand, simply enjoyed doing whatever was most fulfilling. Her golden eyes swept over the crowd curious if there'd be something more captivating than idle fancy. After all, she didn't take the opportunity to visit corrupt shores often. It was the machinations of the "rulers" that kept her away. At least this Order didn't seek to literally burn down the galaxy unlike the Maw.

The tips of her fingers slid over the Sith script on a nearby pillar as she stepped fluidly across the dark plaza. What sordid, ancient rituals might be in the works, she wondered? What relics? All those baubles on display. Might there be something truly captivating amongst them? Zlova had an appetite for historical objects of power.

Open​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The Dark Lord flexed the fingers of His right hand, listening to the barely audible creaks and groans of the armored talons as each digit articulated in perfectly balanced synchronicity. Darkness hung heavy like a shroud, encompassing all that He knew. It had been some time since He'd returned from Atrisia, since He'd torn the heart out from that machine the Faithless placed so much of their confidence in. Now all that remained of it was a debris field near the world it sought to destroy, a world that didn't matter in the slightest to the Dark Lord. Had it perished before His labor was complete, it would have changed nothing.

In that time, He'd been strangely absent. He hadn't seen the Empress, even though she'd been on the station as well. He hadn't visited any of His allies, even His own family hadn't truly seen Him. The only one that had was Prazutis, but even then the Dark Lord had been uncharacteristically distant. That had since changed now, and the Dark Lord had come back to Jutrand with Prazutis to partake in the celebration of the Sith's victory over the Faithless and the perseverance of the Blackwall.

The darkness parted, and the Dark Lord's eyes beheld the festivities. It was nothing out of place among the myriad of other celebrations the Sith have held, a heightened series of interconnected moments where the ruling powers could flaunt their grandiosity, and plot against their enemies and allies alike. His eyes, blazing and mercurial, found themselves in the fragmentary glance of the Empress, who saw only a whisper of the Dark Lord amidst the multitudes before He seemed to meld into the obscurity of the masses.

He would speak to her when it was appropriate, but that time was not now.

"Such blasphemy could not be allowed," whispered the Dark Lord, a maddening gleam in His eyes. He spoke more to Himself than any other. "Not when all is to ossify." Again, the dream. It came unbidden in His most contemplative moments, and even amidst the noise of the celebration it swam before His vision yet again. The mirrors. The convergence. The voices. All speaking in languages He'd never heard yet understood without difficulty. The designs He sketched in His somnambulant frenzy, inked in His own blood.

He was stirred from His thoughts as His eyes caught the gleam of Mandalorian armor in His periphery. Undoubtedly, the cloak splayed across His broad shoulders cast a similar glint in the light, as it was formed from thousands of interlocking scales; each one carved from the beskar'gam of a fallen Mandalorian clan or family, the crest of each and every family still visible. It was His trophy, His panoply of slaughter, wrought from the terrible genocide of the Mandalorian people and the equally vicious ecocide of their hallowed world Mandalore.

"I did not know we were to entertain animals," rumbled the Dark Lord's velvety voice, spoken directly to the dark titan who walked at His side. "The Empress plays funny games, does she not?"

Darth Prazutis | Srina Talon | Renn Vizsla ​

 

[Helix]

Objective III: Echoes in the Courtyard
Tags: OPEN​

Another day, another thankless victory. No matter. Helix was past the point of expecting any accolades from his supposed superiors. The powerful took what they wanted. The Sith had taught him that lesson.

Thus, the Dzara had been born. A trio of minds more than willing to take what they wanted. An alliance of his own Privateers, Lirka Ka 's Third Legion, and Darth Nefaron 's Corpse Legion. That represented an eye-watering amount of raw military force, but the Dzara was about more than that. They were recusants true, in spirit if not yet in open action. They had split the Tsis'kaar, seized much of its remaining assets, and gotten away with it scot free.

That was the only victory Helix cared about. The bloodying of the Galactic Empire's nose was just icing on the proverbial cake. Nonetheless, they had answered the Emperor's call and made examples of some of his enemies. He, Lirka, and Phaelissia had turned vast swathes of hallway into scenes out of a nightmare. He didn't even want to speculate on what the rest had done.

Of course, the Emperor had rewarded them by vanishing. Helix could not especially blame him, and found that in the end, it mattered little. The Dzara was something that had been bubbling under the surface for a long time. Whoever was or wasn't on the throne was not something that mattered one whit to the Chain.

It had been a fun diversion, but little more than that. Whether Atrisia stood or fell was no longer the warlord's concern. Predictably, though, the wider Order had reacted like a colony of stinging insects, coming together and violently escorting their foes off-premises. To test their open fury had been foolish, and the Empire should have known better than to try.

He couldn't help but wonder about the next conflict, and the next, and the next. Helix fancied himself a bit slyer and more capable of nuance than the next homicidal conqueror. There were easier ways to get what one wanted, and he had mastered most of them.

He certainly didn't see any other droids surviving and thriving in an environment like this. Most beings didn't have what it took, and most droids certainly didn't. Helix was different. Older, wiser, and something a little uglier and a lot darker than a computer in the shape of a man.

To thrive amidst the Sith as one who could not touch the Force was a constant uphill battle. To thrive as a droid was in a different category of difficulty entirely, and Helix was not above regular self-congratulation about the fact. He rested in that comfortable niche of being useful yet underestimated by those above him, which had allowed him to amass a great deal of power in a very short time. Joining that power with the Dzara had been a wise move, and one that Helix was very optimistic about.

Yet, it wasn't quite enough. As he'd told Lirka not long before, he wouldn't rest on his laurels as so many did. It was a big universe, after all, and he had nothing but time to peel it open and study how it worked.

 

[Darth Prazutis]

The night bowed when they came. The courtyards of the Imperial Palace thrummed with music and murmurs, lacquered in torchfire and the sheen of victory. Red script bled from the pillars, coils of smoke writing carrion poetry in the air; fountains cut like obsidian mirrors where the water had been dyed the color of memory. Banners shivered. Names were spoken. The Blackwall endured despite the best efforts of the Galactic Empire, the Faithless challenge had been cast away. Shadows thickened along the avenue of carved braziers, their light bending as if some colossal weight pressed down upon the evening. A hush spread ahead of it the way grass lays down before a storm. The hush swiftly became a drawn breath.

Then came the Mortarch and the Black Iron Tyrant. The Mortarch didn't wear the panolpy of war for the celebration tonight, instead He wore its consequence. Black and red formal tiling flowed across His frame like a monarch's funeral, deep sable cloth cut in severe lines, tailored to make his breadth feel architectural rather than merely immense. The edges were pinned with knife-fine strips of bloodsteel, and threadbound sigils that swallowed light. A narrow mantle rode His shoulders: flayed velvet and nightglass, stitched with runes so faint they were visible only when a torch guttered, like constellations glimpsed between cloudbreaks.

On each forearm, ceremonial bracers hugged the bone with predatory intimacy, living blood iron hammered from the trophies of the Mandalorian Genocide and quenched in an ocean of ash. Within the red-black metal, something subtle moved: the slow pulse of captured oaths, a dim heartlight that shimmered when his hand flexed. At his throat, an amulet of the same hateful make lay like a brand, links interlocked from fused clan-crests, the chain's minute runes drinking the courtyard's glow. Its weight was history. Its gleam was a verdict handed down. Each piece forged from the blood of a culture consigned to oblivion.

The Dark Lord didn't hurry, not for anyone. He let the night take Him in, let the sound of His tread, soft for a man so vast, become a metronome to which the crowd recalibrated its courage as His presence washed over the room. Mandalorian plate flashed in the corner of His vision. The torchlight made a mockery of their polish; it picked out hairline fractures like tiny fault-lines, old repairs like scar-tissue. The old hunger stirred in Him, not for slaughter, not tonight, but for the perfection of inevitability. He had nearly ended their people once. He could do it again. The amulet at His throat warmed, as if it remembered the screaming.

Beside him the Dark Lord's cloak whispered, a crown of broken lineages. Carnifex's presence was a tidal scar carving through the revel, cold, inexorable, the answering gravity to Prazutis's abyssal pull as the Eternal Dyarchy stood united. They were a catastrophe given two shapes. "I did not know we were to entertain animals." Carnifex rumbled, velvet hiding razors. "The Empress plays funny games, does she not?" Prazutis's mouth curved, no humor, only the slow unsheathing of a thought sharpened beforehand. "Animals can be trained." He said, voice pitched low enough that the words were felt rather than heard. "And collars are most instructive when buckled in public."

He turned His head fractionally, like a mountain consenting to acknowledge a storm. The Mandalorians would see Him see them, He made certain of it. Old blood remembered the taste of fire. Those who stared best would test themselves against the place where the world seemed thinner around Him, as if looking too long at the abyss would teach the abyss their names. "The Empress plays to the room." He went on, gaze sliding toward the Grand Terrace where silk moved like water about to decide it is wind. "She knows the price of victory is paid twice, once in blood, once in spectacle. Let them drink. Let them sing. They can tell themselves what they need to."

The chain at his throat tinged softly, metal speaking to metal, as He shifted the drape of His mantle. He let His attention traverse the carvings and the trophies and the faces, tasting the currents beneath the celebration. Triumph gilded the surface; beneath it, the old Sith symphony: Envy like glass dust, ambition like hot iron, fear like rain on stone. Good. It meant the Order still breathed properly. They slowly moved taking in the palace. Music swelled, chose to become a procession rather than be trampled by this one. A master of ceremonies, brave in that particular way of men who think duty makes them immortal, began to speak titles. He barely begun announcing the presence of the Eternal Dyarchy before their combined shadow seemed to move of its own will, and the words collapsed into a reverent silence that didn't feel like failure. "I've met their Mand'alor previously. One of Isley's brood." The Dark Lord said to Carnifex. "The child certainly doesn't lack for confidence. He drowns himself in it." He lifted a hand. Not high, just enough for the motion to draw the eye like a blade being presented for inspection. The bracer flexed; faint veins of ember-red ran across it and sank back, as if sated, His hand fell to his side.

Darth Carnifex | Srina Talon | Renn Vizsla​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti ​

​

The courtyard struck Lysander like a wall, the warmth and clamor of life rushing to meet his senses as he began stepping out into the open air of the terrace. The evening wind tugged at the hem of his tunic, brushing against the opulence of his attire. No longer garbed in the simple fabrics of the academy, he now donned that of deep maroon and obsidian. Fitted leggings and belt tied it all together, a quiet statement that felt like

It’d been months since his last visit to Jutrand. The academy on Desevro had swallowed him whole since the battle over Atrisia, aboard the Death Star. Lysander hadn’t planned on bringing anyone at first. But then he remembered Nanit, aware that she didn't have the opportunity to leave the academy often. Most days she was buried in drills, expectations, and the same endless routine just as he was. So, this felt like the perfect moment to pry her out of it for a day or two. It was a chance to breathe somewhere that wasn’t lined with sabers and lecture halls.

Slowly, he moved through the sea of guests, sharp emerald orbs scanning about each gathering. Naturally, the long tables overflowing with fruits and roasted meats were first to catch his attention. The rich scents tried to lure him in with the promise of indulgence. He’d noticed goblets too, not that he was one to care much for alcohol. Servants fitted between those clusters of Sith and Mandalorians. Strange, how the sight of those bucket heads still brought back memories of Theed.. back before descending into the dark. Naboo clearly left more than one scar he never truly moved on from.

Turning his head slowly, he noted the Togruta who'd matched his stride as they wove deeper. He was curious about her read on the place. On Desevro, Lysander dimmed his aura so to speak, edges less polished, just a modest attempt of blending in with rhythm there. But Jutand wouldn’t require such subtlety; here, it pulled an older posture from the teen, the one still felt natural. Each step seemed to carry more purpose now, chin slightly lifted with an aristocratic air, and as always, unapologetic. Maybe even dangerous should the situation call for such.

With a low voice, it shaped to reach her beneath the orchestra's swell. “First impressions?”

In truth, there were many questions hovering, but he only let one more leave his lips, one with that dry edge that she was probably used to catching.

“Too much, or is it tolerable?”

​

 

[Mercy]

​

Location: Along the sidelines
Objective: Eat, drink, consume
Tag: Gerwald Lechner | Srina Talon | Quinn Varanin

The annihilation had not been the marked event to her, the way it had been to others. She had breached into the Death Star itself, with the aim of challenging the Core-Emperor and finally end the Kaggath in her favor. But while the challenge had been extended, in the end the conclusion had been rather unsatisfying and uneventful.

At least together with Hasuras Na-Gerra they had managed to take the throne-spire of the Death Star while the duel had still raged within. After they had left, they received word that the Death Star imploded.

The reason for it was uncertain. Some claimed it was a consequence of the dark ritual the Emperor's sorcerers had been conducting. Others gave the glory to one of the admirals of the Imperial Confideracy. Privately Mercy wondered if the throne-spire being ripped off of the Death Star by way of the stolen Star Destroyer played a role in it.

In the end it didn't matter, they had won and were here, the Empire and the Emperor weren't.

Quinn invited Mercy personally, giving her a seat at the metaphorical and physical table, which the Sith Lord felt reasonable. She might not have stopped the Annihilation, but she thought that the fact their group managed to walk into the Death Star with a challenge and coming out of it practically unscathed deserves some good old ego stroking from all sides.

"Don't mind if I do..." Mercy purred sweetly as she snatched one of the flutes from a passing servant. And then immediately downed it, as if it cheap liquor or orange juice, instead of expensive champagne.

"Now... do I start piling on my plate now or do I wait to watch the show..."

 

[Naniti]

A party? A celebration? And some of the most influential Sith in the galaxy were attending? Naniti knew of them. Some only knew their name; muckity mucks too lofty and unapproachable for a mere acolyte to meet. She at least knew a little more. Not a lot; she didn't have some galactic network of spies, or a Master that divulged every secret. Just public things. Their picture, for instance. It didn't hurt to know when you set foot in the room with someone that would kill you for the slightest of perceived insults -- assuming they noticed your existence at all. Dangerous game Lysander was wading into. Sounded exciting.

Training clothes didn't make the cut for such a prestigious event. Not because these people deserved it, but Naniti didn't need one of those overbearing types ruining the evening going on and on about her attire being inappropriate and how acolytes these days showed no respect for their elders. Alright, yes, and it was a good excuse. Even Togruta enjoyed dressing up. Something different. Something special.

While Lysander had opt for maroon and obsidian -- worthy colors for the event -- Naniti had chosen gold and obsidian. A little flashy for an acolyte, but wasn't overbearing ego a sign of a "healthy" Sith? And, yes, again, it was just an excuse so she could. The gold adorned the crown of her head, the bindings of her forearms, belt of her waist, and a tail coat about her legs. Meanwhile black leather adorned the upper arms, torso, and loincloth. A healthy mount of violet skin along the torso and legs was on display as well. By far nothing like the sort of thing she'd wear at the Academy. Not just because some instructors would get ideas, but because her fellow student would be too focused on trying to 'grab' her instead of fight her. It might be a valid tactic to seduce your enemy to their death, but it wasn't how she was going to live her life.

Difficult not to notice the way Lysander carried himself as they strode through the crowd. Naniti didn't pay any mind to anyone that did get an eyeful of them; her attention was with her chaperone and host for the night's affair. He'd always said he spent time away from the Academy. Records confirmed as much -- again, no super spy, but the galaxy loved record keeping -- but it was interesting to see him in this element. Not on a mission to capture or kill. No instructors scrutinizing your every move and goading idiots to attack you for training purposes. He knew how to handle himself in this sort of crowd though -- he was confident, self-assured.

Naniti didn't feel half as comfortable. Might have something to do with the outfit, but she was not going to regret it! Even so, milling about with a bunch of people that sought to claim the galaxy for themselves and no one else was not her every-day sort of activity.

"So this is what ruling an Empire is like," the Togruta replied as her blue eyes scanned the festivities and those in attendance. "You don't even get to taste this level of wealth at the Academy. Is that supposed to make us hungrier for it, do you think?" Or was it to keep them from being distracted and lazy? Whatever the case, it certainly was impressive. Would have cost a fortune to put all this together, and Naniti bet they hadn't so much as looked at the cost before agreeing to it.

The Togruta turned to look at Lysander. "Do you think they notice? The food, the drink, the musicians... the way people look up to balcony with envy and hatred? At times those of power seem so detached. Consumed by whatever drives them." Naniti didn't elaborate on whom she saw, when, or how, but as far as first impressions, she wondered. They didn't look at the cost. Did they even look at those that attended? Was this an effort to reach out and celebrate, or just another means of self-congratulatory promotion and an excuse to see certain people that otherwise lurk in dark places? An acolyte couldn't help but wonder what it must be like at such levels of power and authority.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Varin Mortifer]

ECHOES IN THE COURTYARD​

“What the hell am I lost?”

He pulled his datapad closer to his face as he squinted to get a better view of the map. The half empty bottle of whatever liquid was given to him hung loose in his fingers as he accidentally poured some on the street.

A snort caught his attention as he looked down to see the liquid falling onto the snout of his tuk’atta pup Sinew. The hound quickly shook its head and gave him a slight glare of annoyance followed by a low growl.

“Oh! Sorry about that. Here, a token of my apology.”

He knelt down pouring some of the liquid into his palm offering it to the pup.

Sinew gave a short sniff before giving a couple of laps with his tongue taking in the bitter liquid courage. After finishing Sinew looked up at Varin with eyes of excitement, panting like a common hound as he held onto the leash to steady Sinew.

The sounds of celebration and revelry filled the air as Varin took in the view. Jutrand, practically the capital of The Sith Order. Its streets now heavy with people enjoying their time, socializing, spreading their stories of battle. But Varin couldn’t help but feel unworthy of attendance. He didn’t fight in the siege of The Black Wall. His attention was needed elsewhere at the time. But when the empress calls for all in attendance you don’t necessarily ignore it.

Varin looked down at Sinew with a smile.

“Maybe we will see some familiar faces. What do you think?”

Sinew gave a short huff as they began to walk the streets. Already his body felt heavier after consuming his beverage. He stopped to look at one of the crimson flaming torches, admiring the color. Slowly he brought up his hand collecting a small piece of the flame between his fingers. The flame would slither and flex around his digits like a small serpent. A soft sigh left his lips as he continued down the street in search of any possible familiar faces. If he happened to stumble upon the feast well, he sure wouldn’t complain either. But to him that was saved for those who did fight.

Tags: OPEN​

 

[Darth Strosius]

​

Tags: Lina Ovmar / Open!
--------------------------------------------

This was a terrible idea.

A horrible, wretched, awful idea. And He would know, He'd had plenty in His time.

Yet even still Darth Strosius found Himself setting foot into the palace grounds on Jutrand all the same. His attire was without its usual protective layers of armor and heavier robes, instead being purely ornamental in their ornate crimson patterns amidst the overall black ensemble. As always His mask concealed what was undoubtedly a look of unease, one displayed clearly by the withered and tense trails of pale tendrils which seeped from His back.

And even more surprisingly than His appearance at such a formal event, He wasn't alone either. "You owe me for this." The masked man hissed under His breath to Lady Ovmar as He let her take the lead, arm in arm up to the balcony overlooking the main festivities. "I know I said that this would make us even for all that...business in the past on my part." A rather sore topic that He'd rather not tread on here of all places, in truth.

"But I'm altering our agreement. This is far worse than what I've ever done to you." He had no doubt that Lady Ovmar would swiftly rebuke that remark but He would hold His ground all the same. Prancing around at a celebration such as this was nothing short of humiliating. Not to mention outright insulting given some of the other attendees that He did His best not to noticeably glare at.

 

[Aerik Lechner]

WEARING: xxx | TAG: OPEN​

The courtyard lived and breathed around him. Music carried through the air, a rhythm that moved through conversation and laughter until it became part of the night itself. The torches burned high, their light bending against glass and polished stone. Servants wove between the tables, their movements practiced and unbroken. They did their best to keep every plate filled and every cup overflowing. The sound of it all was constant, but it carried a warmth that he had not realized he missed. Celebration was not empty. It reminded people why they fought in the first place.

The Second Legion gathered near the lower steps. They were the same and yet different. Months had passed since Darth Prazutis had taken him to Dromund Kaas, and in that time the Legion had continued its work. He saw it in the way they carried themselves. Confidence. Weight. The marks of those who had earned the right to be here. Their greetings came in quiet nods and measured looks. No one needed to speak. They understood what it meant to return after being called elsewhere. The silence between them held respect.

Aerik accepted a drink as a servant passed. The wine shimmered in the torchlight, deep and clear. It tasted fine but lacked the comfort of mead. He thought of it for only a moment before another memory replaced it that came in the voice of his mother, Naedira Darcrath . She reminded the pup to behave. The words had not been harsh. They had been knowing. He could still hear the calm in her tone, the way her eyes had seen through the surface of his restraint. The memory lingered like the taste of the drink itself.

The orchestra changed its pace, and something in the rhythm caught his attention. It reminded him of Naboo.

The hall.

That red dress.

Her gold mask.

The way Quinn Varanin had looked at him when he offered his hand.

He could still feel the warmth of her breath near his ear, the sound of her voice when she told him to lead. For a moment the memory pulled him back to that dance, to the slow rhythm that had started as uncertainty and ended with confidence he had not known he possessed. The echo of her touch lingered longer than the music itself.

Aerik looked toward the dancers gathered near the center of the courtyard. Their steps followed the same measured tempo as their bodies moved as one. His chest tightened slightly with a faint reminder of what it had felt like to be guided by someone who understood rhythm better than words. The memory stayed with him, though the song was different.

The crowd around him carried on. Voices lifted with pride as the Legion retold the story of Atrisia. Every victory had its price, but tonight was for those who survived to remember it. His gaze drifted upward to the balcony above. The pup could feel the familiar gravity of his father’s presence pressed at the edge of his awareness. The Dread Wolf was watching, silent but near. The connection between them carried no command. It simply existed as it always had for as long as the boy could remember. It was something steady and known. Darth Prazutis was also near. It seemed he was not far from the gravitational well that was Darth Carnifex .

The wine was gone before he noticed. The cup rested on a nearby table almost forgotten as his hands clasped behind his back. The air was warm, and the night heavy with the weight of triumph. Celebration surrounded him, but stillness came easily. The music continued. The sound carried through him, mixing with memory until the line between then and now faded.

For the first time in a long while, the noise did not feel like a distraction.

It felt alive.

 

[Lina Ovmar]

Tags: Darth Strosius | OPEN


This was a wonderful idea.

Not only would it keep her entertained for the entire evening, but it would be a good exercise for her hot tempered companion to practice playing nicely.

All those that had been at Atrisia would be on the balcony at some point, not to mention the usual power heads. It was a den of vipers and truth be told, she didn't want to arrive alone. There were other she could have come with, but if she was honest, Lord Strosius was the one she wanted by her side. Not just because she was enjoying his company of late, but because his natural ability to piss everyone off around him would make for a good show.

Her gown whispered as they walked, its deep crimson gown accented with gold that hugged her slender figure, a high neckline concealed the lattice work of scars beneath, her arms were bare, save for the gold bracelets that adorned her wrists. Her hair was loose, dark waves cascading over her shoulders, pinned carefully out of her face with a ruby encrusted hair piece.

A smile curled her lips as she felt him tense under her hand, his hissed complaint reverberating from beneath his mask. "Severed heads, on a crate of wine." she reminded him, quietly before patting his arm. "Come on, it won't be that bad." Her gaze swept over the others that were settled on the balcony. "If it gets too hard for you to keep a civil tongue, just ask me to dance."

She shifted her emerald gaze to his masked visage, smirking. "I promise I will accept."

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Outfit
Companions: Leshanna Dromar | Haro Aven

​

This was not his first party, and it certainly wouldn't be his last, however it was the first that he was celebrating in the company of both his girlfriend and best buddy. Naamino had received the summons, like all who'd participated in nullifying the Imperial threat, and immediately began planning. With the princely funds provided by his Master Elmindra Xitaar , the young man had no trouble securing himself well tailored formal attire. In fact, he decided that he wanted to treat both Leshanna and Haro to some fine formal wear too for such a special occasion.

Since it was still a formal military function, and because they were under the observation of their superiors, the trio needed to be on their best behavior. However, the party was picking up into full swing when they arrived arm in arm— Leshanna looking absolutely radiant in the dress Naami picked out for her. Naami's broad shoulders looked broader still thanks to the cloak he wore, and his finely polished black boots made him just that much taller than normal.

The orchestra serenaded, libations were free flowing, and the air of celebration was downright contagious. Ever the tightly wound, Naamino carefully let his icy eyes rise to the balcony where their superiors watched over them, attempting to make it look like a casual glance. At some point, he and Haro would surely need to present themselves. Both to be acknowledged for the part they played at the side of Darth Caedes , but also in order to ensure their compliance with the summons was acknowledged in totality. Even though it was a night for enjoyment and festivities, Naamino Zuukamano was ever diligent to his duties.

"I'm so grateful to be here with you," his gaze warmed as it slid sidelong to where his girlfriend stood at his side, "With both of you," he added as his eyes took in the well dressed visage Haro who was at Leshanna's other side.

 

[Irina Jesart]

Wearing: XXX
Tags: Gerwald Lechner | Open​

Irina had not been at Atrisia though it hadn't been for lack of desire to be there. When she'd found out her Master had fought without her she had been hugely disappointed. It wasn't that he didn't believe her capable, the Dread Wolf would never have taken her on if that was the case, it was simply that he had not deemed it necessary to take her along to the war games between the Mandalorians and the Sith. The Dread Wolf was at the beck and call of the Empress, it would not be the last time he would simply pack up and go without bothering to summon her.

Which meant Irina had to make the most of what time she did have. She stood silently at his side, hands clasped behind her back, clad in a dress of green and gold. This was an all to familiar affair for the former noble, false smiles, underhanded insults, quiet scheming with furtive glances towards enemies. She'd played this game all her life, masking the truth, reading the lies. It reminded her too much of home and everything she had lost.

Her gaze scanned the festivities below and she blew a soft sigh out of her nose, wishing she was down there with them, not here witnessing deception on an entirely new level. The tray passed them, Gerwald pluckign a whiskey from it, while she snagged a glass of dark wine. Her fingers drummed idly against the stem, the first sign and only outward sign of her boredom. One that stopped abruptly when she felt him, his presence again brushing at the edge of her senses until she extended them, tracking him in the crowd below.

"Aerik is here." There was a warmth in her tone that was not normally present. "Are we likely to see him tonight?" she asked, hopeful.

 

[Madrona A’Mia]

Jutrand
Palace
Head Of The Table
Outfit
Theme

Tags: Darth Strosius | Lina Ovmar | Open

​

Swaying near the balcony to music drifting up from below, A'Mia Madrona seemed content people watching and dancing alone. Her attire was simple but elegant, and showed a bit more of her rich, red-brown skin than was usual for her. The neti's vine like hair matched the color of the gown and was worn up in a neatly woven crown, with gilded leaves interspersed through-out.

A'Mia might have been content to mostly keep to herself and mingle with the occasional familiar face, but two particular presences sharply drew her attention. With an almost gleeful glide, the arboreal woman wove through the crowd toward Darth Strosius and Lina Ovmar . On her way, those large blue-green eyes caught the gaze of another most welcome sight and A'Mia wiggled long, slender fingers in a small wave at Mercy as she passed by. Coming up beside to two she'd gravitated toward, the neti caught the tail end of what was said.

"Oh you're in for a treat, Lina," A'Mia chirped brightly, "Despite how dour the Prophet always portrays himself, he really is an excellent dancer."

The woman loomed over them both this night, at nearly seven feet tall she looked rather more like a woodland spirit than the clever Sith they knew her to be. She curtsied to Alisteri, then turned to Lina and took her hand. Bowing to kiss the top of it with cool lips before straightening up.

"Aren't you just a lovely looking pair! What brings you here tonight?" Questioning eyes considered Alisteri once more, given that his presence was most surprising, "Other than the summons, of course."