Private Grasping the Wind

[Ulysses Renoux]

H O U S E • R E N O U X​

Wearing: xxx
Tag: Tycho Amnen

The dance of politics was one that Ulysses had played his entire life. There were two things he understood with an intimacy that bordered on instinct, the art of war and the science of governance. They had been bred into him, reinforced through expectation, and sharpened by a father who measured worth only by conquest and control. To that man, Ulysses had always fallen short. No victory endured long enough. No concession was ever clever enough. Perhaps that lingering judgment explained why he had clung to Jaemus as long as he had, long after sentiment ceased to justify the cost.

The three worlds along the Braxunt Run had once believed unity would grant them leverage. Instead it had painted a target large enough for the Empire to claim without hesitation. Survival required adaptation. Titles were exchanged for contracts. Keeps were traded for transit rights, resource corridors, and sanctioned expansion beyond the reach of old borders. Duke Renoux was fully aware that his father would have called it cowardice. The thought did not trouble him. The Renoux line believed in cremation. The dead did not linger unless the living allowed them to.

The manor opened before him in a sweep of light and sound that made restraint itself feel like a deliberate choice. Vaulted ceilings rose into shadowed arches inlaid with gold and obsidian, each surface polished to reflect not faces but silhouettes. Chandeliers floated rather than hung, their crystal forms suspended by repulsor fields that rotated slowly, scattering light like distant stars. Music carried across the hall, not from a single orchestra pit but from a series of elevated balconies where musicians of half a dozen species played in coordinated harmony, their instruments translating tone and rhythm into something universally indulgent.

Servers moved through the crowd with practiced grace, all of them living, all of them chosen as carefully as the art along the walls. Droids would have been efficient. Flesh was intentional. Ulysses accepted a flute of champagne as one passed, the glass cool against his fingers, the vintage old enough to have outlived at least one minor regime. He took a measured sip while observing the room through the faint reflection in the crystal.

Nobles clustered and separated in slow patterns that mirrored orbital paths. Laughter rose and fell, timed to entrances and overheard remarks. Jewelry caught the light with each subtle turn of a wrist, some pieces ancient, others so newly commissioned that their weight still announced the insecurity of their owners. Political uniforms appeared only in suggestion, tailored cuts and color choices that hinted at allegiance without declaring it. This was a gathering designed for plausible deniability.

Ulysses felt the familiar calculation settle in behind his eyes. Who stood too openly beside whom. Who watched the doors instead of the dancers. Which conversations paused when certain figures passed, and which grew louder as if daring someone to listen. This was not a celebration. It was a market, and every smile carried a price.

The opulence was enough to inspire envy in a lesser man. He acknowledged the impulse and dismissed it. Credits were no longer his limitation. Influence was simply displayed differently here. Tonight belonged to the host, to the one who could afford to remind everyone else that excess itself could be a weapon. Ulysses did not resent that. He studied it. There was value in understanding how power chose to present itself when it felt secure.

He remained at the edge of the floor for the moment, champagne in hand, posture relaxed, expression neutral. Let others announce themselves. Let alliances reveal their seams. The dance would come to him soon enough.

 

[Tycho Amnen]

It was a modest affair as these things went. The great hall, if it could be called such, was host to noble folk from half a hundred worlds. They ate, they drank, they danced, they schemed, and Tycho Amnen sat above them all in his seat at the lord's table looking down on them all.

His expression was unreadable as his dark eyes passed over the gathered, a sea of silks, velvets, and satin. Servers wove through the assembled like spectres, their bare feet making no noise on the stone.

They, the servants that is, were designed to draw no attention at all and Tycho suspected to be the thing most talked about as guests returned home. Every and all servers regardless of world of origin or species was meant to look alike. They were barefoot and topless all, men and women alike though one could not tell the difference. They wore chokers of obsidian and gold and dark veils that left whir faces a mystery. Even topless you could not tell if you were served by a man or a woman, the servers all chosen, or Tycho suspected even altered, to be as androgynous as possible.

"I'll give the Nabooians this," a boisterous and genial voice spoke loudly to his right, "they know their wine."

Tycho's expression softened if only slightly as he turned to face the speaker.

Amadeus Trask was an enormous man even in his advancing age. Over six feet tall and approaching three hundred and fifty pounds, it looked as though someone had draped a dowutin in soft yellow silk and dropped it at the feast. In their youth Amedeus had been a fierce justiciar for house Amnen, his long hair had been a dark oaky brown and in the intervening years had gone the color of snow, same for the great bushy mustache connected to his sideburns that shook and shivered every time the man laughed, which was loudly and often.

"I piss stronger wine than this," Tycho said frowning down at the yellow liquid.

Amadeus roared in laughter, shaking the table and drawing the eyes of a dozen or so nearby.

"A little heavy on the policy though, don't you think?" He asked red faced and fighting to recover his breath.

Amadeus was one of Tycho's oldest friends. He'd known the man nearly fifty years now, and so when Tycho requested to use the man's manse located on some backwoods moon in Black Sun occupied space he was not denied. The black and gold that dressed the manse's great hall made clear to any who had eyes to see that this was an Amnen sponsored event even if that fact were not strictly advertised. There were, to Tycho's mind, far too few who would recognize that truth. A hundred nobles or more and all lesser. They owed fealty to some other monarch or government or if they did they rule it was some in some place that meant nothing.

"A Lord should be able to spend their coin on what they wish," Amadeus continued, as their next course was served. A creamy fish stew that smelled of peppers and lemon with a hunk of crusty bread for dipping. Tycho waved the food away. He'd eaten his fill already on roasted vegetables, and a bloody hunk of meat crusted in herb and mint. Amadeus was yet to be full and began slurping down his stew, tearing prices of bread to wipe at his dripping mustache. "How you handle such compromises, my lord, I will never know."

"I sleep soundly with the knowledge that it's all temporary," Tycho answered cryptically.

Among the sea of nobody nobles arrived the very man this sham of a party was thrown for. Tycho raised a hand and with two fingers waved down Ulysses Renoux

It was time to set the direction of the future.

 

[Ulysses Renoux]

H O U S E • R E N O U X​

Wearing: xxx
Tag: Tycho Amnen

Ulysses noticed the wave at once, though he did not answer it immediately.

He finished what he was doing first. The man he had been speaking with deserved that much, even if the conversation itself had already run its course. Ulysses let it end cleanly, offered a nod that closed the exchange without apology, and only then turned toward the lord’s table. It was not delay born of uncertainty. It was simply how one approached men like Tycho Amnen, with neither haste nor reluctance.

The hall felt different as he crossed it. From where he had been standing earlier, the gathering had seemed indulgent, even indulgently careless. Up close, the intention showed through the excess. The servers moved with unsettling precision, barefoot and silent, veiled faces turned slightly downward as they passed. Their sameness was too perfect to be incidental. Ulysses had seen that tactic before, in courts and cults alike. It unsettled people without ever announcing why, which made it effective.

The nobles filled the space with noise and color, but little substance. Laughter rose too quickly. Compliments were given too freely. Every few steps, Ulysses felt eyes slide toward him and away again, the kind of attention that wanted to assess without committing. He let them look. He did not return the favor.

By the time he reached the raised table, the din of the hall seemed to dull, not because it had lessened, but because perspective had shifted. He paused at the edge of the platform long enough for his presence to be acknowledged on its own terms, then inclined his head.

“Lord Amnen. It has been some time..."

His gaze drifted briefly to Amadeus Trask, registering the older man with a flicker of recognition. Amadeus’s laughter still clung to the air, and the scent of wine and rich food lingered heavily at the table. Ulysses did not begrudge it. Loud men had their uses, especially in rooms where silence carried more danger than noise.

“It appears the evening has been conducted with enthusiasm,” Ulysses continued, tone dry but not dismissive. “I imagine that was deliberate.”

He did not sit. He did not step closer than invited. Instead, he stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed without being casual. It was a stance he had learned long ago, one that left space for conversation without surrendering ground.

From here, the room felt more honest. He could see who lingered near the edges, who watched Tycho too closely, and who made a point of never looking up at all. The gathering was not meant to be comfortable. It was meant to remind its guests where weight and consequence resided, and to do so without ever stating the lesson aloud.

Ulysses waited.

He did not fill the moment with speculation or courtesy. He did not attempt to steer the conversation before it had begun. Whatever Tycho Amnen intended to set in motion tonight would reveal itself soon enough, and Ulysses had learned that listening often revealed more than any clever opening ever could.

When Tycho chose to speak, The Duke would be ready.

 

[Tycho Amnen]

Deep-set amaranthine eyes, dark enough to pass for onyx in shadow, hardened unconsciously.

Tycho Amnen was not a man accustomed to being made to wait and yet, Ulysses Renoux thought to see him do just that, deliberately ignoring his summons to carry on exchanging empty courtesy with some merchant or starship captain that had managed to find an invitation.

He mocks me. That or he means to test the limit of my Lordly courtesy.

Tycho Amnen was never meant to be Lord of his house. He'd been born to hold a weapon in his hands, to be the power his Lord would wield against the enemies of their house. He was born to be the golden blade that cut away at the creeping ambition of Draco and Renoux.

The Veiled-Mother had placed a different path before him.

Tycho was in kingly raiment, wearing the very galaxy on his back. His shirt was an impenetrable black obsidian inlaid with thousands of tiny dragite crystals, and elegant constellations woven of threaded silver.

Finally the Duke presented himself with a curt nod. The laughter fell from Amadeus, the former Justicar for house Amnen surely reminded of the years of enmity and war with house Renoux and the blood he and Tycho bit shared and spilled in countless disputes against Uylsses' father.

"Lord Amnen. It has been sometime…"

Not since the tournament of The Red Sun

"It appears the evening has been conducted with enthusiasm. I imagine that was deliberate."

"Enthusiasm, Duke Renoux?" Lord Amnen asked, the first hint at amusement all night to grace his expression. "What, pray tell, is there to be enthused about?" There was no attempt to mask the derision in his tone. Uylsses Renoux had been forced to sacrifice near as much as Tycho at the feet of the empire and Tycho knew that had been as sour a cup of wine for the duke as it had been for himself.

With a glance he dismissed Amadeus, who rose swaying unsteadily and by the mere chance of luck avoided spilling the flagon of wine with his grotesquely large belly. Perhaps the Duke would see Tycho sending Trask away from his own table in his own manse for a display of power for his benefit, likely, he would knowing the man's self importance, but to Tycho it was nothing but his due.

"Sit," Tycho gestured to the now vacant seat, the many rings on his fingers glinting silver and gold in the light. The word could've come as a command, it would've been his right and it would've made an interesting test for this man that was once and perhaps remained his enemy; and yet, it had all the flavor of an offer.

The test lay on if the man could taste the conspiracy as well.

"I would learn your thoughts on this High Republic."

Ulysses Renoux

 

[Ulysses Renoux]

H O U S E • R E N O U X​

Wearing: xxx
Tag: Open

Ulysses did not mistake the dismissal of Amadeus for courtesy, and he did not mistake it for insult. It was a statement made in the language of Houses, and he understood it well enough to answer without hesitation. He inclined his head once in acknowledgment before taking the offered seat, settling into it with the calm ease of a man who had negotiated across battle lines before.

“The Red Sun feels longer ago than it was. Time stretches when too many empires decide to redraw the same borders.”

He rested his forearms lightly against the table. The noise of the hall lingered at the edges of the conversation, distant enough that the words between them could carry weight without turning into performance.

“Survival seems reason enough for enthusiasm. It may be the rarest victory our generation has managed.”

His gaze remained steady on Tycho, not confrontational, not deferential, simply present.

“The High Republic offers stability. Not purity. Not virtue. Stability. After the Empire, the Diarchy, and the Confederation carved the region into something unrecognizable, stability holds more value than pride. Jaemus could not endure where it stood, and I chose to leave before my House became a relic someone else claimed.”

He let the truth settle between them without embellishment.

“I do not believe the Republic is flawless. It moves slowly when decisiveness would help and acts quickly when patience might serve it better. Yet it gathers those who still believe order can be negotiated rather than imposed. That alone sets it apart from what we have endured.”

His attention shifted briefly across the hall, then returned to Tycho.

“Do you see opportunity in it, or another empire learning to wear a softer mask?”

 

[Tycho Amnen]

"The Red Sun feels longer ago than it was. Time stretches when too many empires decide to redraw the same borders."

It was no easy thing for Tycho to swallow the burning desire to open Duke Renoux's throat here and now at this table. For the man to so casually invoke the tournament of yellow sun without even the faintest inquiry nor flimsiest courtesy toward his grandson was an insult he would not have suffered in his youth.

Sadly, it was just another in a growing list of deaths his ego was made to suffer.

"Were it longer yet," Tycho said softly and sipped his wine.

Ulysses seized at Tycho's invitation to speak freely in regard to The High Republic and Tycho listened without interruption, his true thoughts hidden behind his lordly face, etched with the lines of time

"Survival seems reason enough for enthusiasm. It may be the rarest victory our generation has managed." Ulysses began, his gaze meeting Tycho's as equals.


That is the attitude of the orbak. He thought as Uylsses went on about the merits of survival.

In Tycho's experience survival had little merit beyond affording a new opportunity to rise and it was far from victory, especially in their case. Surviving a fight? Perhaps that was victory when faced with overwhelming odds. But running from that fight before it ever started was no victory.

Lord Tycho Amnen oversaw an unprecedented reduction of his house. The loss of their presence on Muunilist along with the associated wealth and prestige would be his legacy. He was too old to turn that battleship around. It was near to total defeat and could not be further from victory, no matter how Renoux spun it to sleep at night.

Tycho endured defeat. He would never rejoice in it.

"The High Republic offers stability. Not purity. Not virtue. Stability. After the Empire, the Diarchy, and the Confederation carved the region into something unrecognizable, stability holds more value than pride. Jaemus could not endure where it stood, and I chose to leave before my House became a relic someone else claimed."

Practicality was not praise.

"I do not believe the Republic is flawless. It moves slowly when decisiveness would help and acts quickly when patience might serve it better. Yet it gathers those who still believe order can be negotiated rather than imposed. That alone sets it apart from what we have endured."

The man has a concerning lack of pride. The thought left Tycho dismayed. His own pride soured the wine in his belly and the Duke's unconvincing attempt at indifference was a far cry from assurance.

Tycho weighed how to proceed, unsure whether the man he shared a table with was nobleman or politician. Renoux had remained dignified when sharing his thoughts, almost passive, and yet Tycho was left with the impression that the man clung to the idea of this republic's stability like a life preserver.

"Do you see opportunity in it, or another empire learning to wear a softer mask?"

He chose to push ahead.

"Rest assured if I saw other opportunity that is where I would turn." Was he referring to the republic or the Duke?

"Of course they are an empire. Their borders never stop growing. They impose their laws on once sovereign worlds. They extort their member worlds and call it taxation."

"What you call stability is merely their hands holding you still as they smother you . They are faithless-tyrants and cowards who breed men with the sole purpose to die in war, while flaunting a charter that outlaws slavery. The hypocrisy would be galling were it not so pathetically bald."

Not only was a standing army a naked threat to member worlds, it took away a great deal of their power. The ability to withhold troops in the face of overreach or unjust wars was one of the largest checks on power like-minded member worlds could play. That went away when the warmongers could simply grow their infantry in test tubes. No longer was it necessary to placate those they ruled and it surely meant occupation for worlds that should enjoy their sovereignty.

Tycho feared Uylsses Renoux was not the ally he was hoping for, that these truths which were evident enough for the blind to see, went unnoticed or worse ignored for the comfort of order.

Time would tell.

Ulysses Renoux