Public Great Review at Carida - Imperial Event

[SOVCOM]

GREAT REVIEW AT CARIDA

Order • Authority • Continuity

Carida did not celebrate softly.

Across the immense parade grounds of the Imperial Academy, order had been arranged with a precision so absolute that it seemed less prepared than engineered into the world itself. Banners hung from the high review galleries in black, crimson, white, and gunmetal grey. Academy standards stood in regimented rows beside campaign colors, officer pennants, and the preserved sigils of formations long absorbed, reformed, or remembered only in the language of ceremony. Every surface had been polished. Every line had been measured. Every cadet knew where to stand, where to look, when to breathe, and when not to.

The Academy had opened its grounds for the Great Review.

It was, officially, a celebration of Carida's martial legacy. A public review of its cadets, instructors, veterans, officers, and honored guests. A display of doctrine, discipline, endurance, and continuity. The sort of occasion in which the Empire reminded itself that its strength did not begin with a single ruler, a single war, or a single fleet, but with institutions capable of shaping ordinary recruits into instruments of command.

Unofficially, it was what all such Imperial gatherings inevitably became.

A place to be seen.

A place to measure others.

A place to speak in guarded courtesies, to exchange polished remarks beneath marching banners, to remember old campaigns, to inspect the next generation, and to decide which officers, units, and officials were worth further attention. The Academy provided the pageantry. The Empire provided the hierarchy.

Above the main parade avenue, the first formation of cadets already stood at attention in ranks so straight that the lines seemed carved into the stone of the square. Their armor and dress uniforms reflected the morning light in restrained flashes. Instructors moved between them with quiet severity, correcting a collar here, a shoulder angle there, a rifle held one degree too low. No correction was spoken loudly. It did not need to be. At Carida, embarrassment could be delivered in silence.

Beyond the parade field, the proving grounds were alive with preparation. Armored walkers stood in formation at the edge of the demonstration zone. Assault teams checked breaching charges under the supervision of academy engineers. Marksmanship cadres waited beside range officers and target drones. Further still, heavy weapons crews prepared for controlled live-fire exercises that would later thunder across the valley in timed sequence, each barrage designed not for destruction, but for instruction.

The day would proceed according to academy order.

First, arrival and formal reception.

Then the Grand Parade and inspection.

Then doctrinal demonstrations, veteran panels, live-fire displays, and academy presentations.

At dusk, the military tattoo would begin.

The final hours would belong to drums, torchlight, honor guards, the Roll of Service, and the lowering of the academy standard before the assembled Imperials.

For now, the event remained in its opening movement.

Shuttles descended in ordered intervals toward the reception concourse, each arrival logged, announced, and directed with exacting ceremony. Officers of the Academy stood ready to receive guests according to rank and station. Senior commanders were escorted toward the review galleries. Veterans were directed through the Hall of Service, where old campaign standards had been displayed beside the names of distinguished graduates and fallen instructors. Cadets selected for public duties stood at rigid attention along the processional route, their eyes fixed forward even as famous soldiers, officials, and commanders passed within arm's reach.

Some visitors came with retinues.

Some came alone.

Some wore medals earned in campaigns that had already become doctrine lectures. Others wore uniforms too new to have known battle but too ambitious to hide it. Intelligence personnel blended into the formal machinery of the event with practiced ease, indistinguishable from attachés, adjutants, aides, or quiet observers assigned to ensure that an Imperial celebration remained Imperial in every respect.

The Academy gave all of them the same thing.

A place in the order of arrival.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

At the far end of the parade ground, the central dais had been raised before the academy standard. Its design was severe and monumental: black stone, polished steel, narrow crimson banners, and the sigil of Carida set above the command lectern. Behind it, the review stand rose in tiered terraces for officers, dignitaries, academy command, and honored guests. From there, the entire field could be seen: cadet battalions arrayed in formation, armor waiting in reserve, ceremonial guards posted at fixed intervals, and the long avenue down which the Grand Parade would later march.

A deep tone sounded across the grounds.

Not loud. Not theatrical.

Final.

The arrival window was beginning to close.

Across the parade field, cadets adjusted into full ceremonial posture. Conversations in the reception galleries lowered. Academy adjutants stepped into position near the central walkway. Honor guards brought their rifles to the ready with a single synchronized movement that struck the stone like one weapon in one hand.

The Great Review had not yet begun in full.

That would come with speeches, marching ranks, engines, weapons fire, doctrine, music, and the disciplined spectacle of an institution presenting itself to the Empire.

But the Opening Phase had begun.

Now came the arrivals, the formal greetings, the inspections, the first quiet assessments between commanders and officials, the old comrades finding one another beneath campaign banners, the veterans measuring the cadets with hard eyes, and the recruits trying not to stare at the living weight of Imperial history walking past them.

Carida stood ready.

The Empire had been invited to look upon itself.

And one by one, beneath the academy standard, the Imperials arrived.

Cadence Vex | Ronhar Tane | Evander Thule | Marlon Sularen | Amarra Nova | R'ayne Asara

OPEN TO ALL IMPERIAL CHARACTERS! ​

Issued under Imperial authority

 

[Tiber Fel]

TIBER FEL

Regent · General · Architect of Obedience

:: Transmission Classification: Dorn-Obsidian // Authority Confirmed // Compliance Expected ::
:: Objective: Evaluation ::
:: Targets: OPEN ::

Carida did not welcome gently.

It received.

The world lay beneath a hard military sky, its academy grounds spread out in geometric perfection below the descending shuttle: parade avenues cut like blade-strokes through duracrete, banners hanging in ordered rows, armored formations standing beneath the open air with the patience of men and women taught that stillness was a discipline. Beyond the central review ground, live-fire exercises cracked against distant ranges, flashes of light briefly staining the horizon before vanishing into smoke and dust. The sound came late, rolling over the academy like restrained thunder.

Tiber Fel watched it from behind the black ridges of his helmet.

He had seen many Imperial pageants. Too many had mistaken spectacle for strength, too many had dressed decay in polished armor and called it continuity. Carida was different. It did not need ornament to justify itself. Its brutality was institutional, not theatrical. Its pride was not shouted but drilled into the spine. Every marching column, every polished breastplate, every recruit holding their posture beneath the eyes of their betters spoke to a truth older than the regimes that had risen and fallen claiming ownership over the Imperial name.

Order endured when men made it endure.

The shuttle came down at the edge of the review concourse, flanked by two TIE escorts that screamed overhead before banking away toward the military air lanes. Its landing struts struck the pad with a hydraulic hiss. For a moment the craft remained sealed, black against the pale stone and grey durasteel of the academy. Then the ramp lowered.

The first to emerge were troopers of the 501st.

They descended in disciplined pairs, red unit markings cut across their armor with severe restraint, rifles locked to their chests, their movements exact enough to seem mechanical and human enough to be more unsettling for it. Veterans, most of them. Men and women who had served failed states, temporary crowns, emergency councils, provisional warlords, and collapsing commands — and had outlived them all. The old legion had become many things in the mouths of others. Under Fel, it had become a verdict.

The Imperator's Fist.

The Risen.

They formed without shouted command.

Only once the path had been secured did Tiber Fel appear at the top of the ramp.

He wore black armor of fluted, archaic severity, its plates catching the Caridan light in cold, broken lines. A dark cape fell neatly from beneath the weight of his pauldrons, its inner lining a red so deep it showed only when the wind took it. Upon his chest sat the muted relief of his emblem, neither ostentatious nor hidden, worked into the armor like a claim cut into stone. His helmet turned once across the review grounds, the narrow visor giving nothing away.

Then he descended.

There was no flourish. No raised hand. No theatrical pause for those who watched. He did not arrive as a conquering hero, nor as some courtly ornament seeking applause from cadets and dignitaries. He came as an officer of the Empire entering a place that understood what the word was supposed to mean.

At the base of the ramp, the 501st snapped to attention.

Fel passed between them, his stride measured and unhurried. Academy aides approached with the correct precision, offering the formal courtesies owed to an invited Imperial commander. He acknowledged them with a slight inclination of the helmet, nothing more, and allowed himself to be directed toward the reviewing galleries where officers, veterans, instructors, and honored guests had begun to gather.

Around him, Carida continued its ritual.

A company of recruits marched past the central avenue, boots striking in unison. Armored vehicles stood in presentation lines beyond them, their crews immaculate beside machines built without softness. Somewhere across the grounds, artillery crews demonstrated timed deployment drills before a watching cohort of younger cadets. The smell of heated metal, fuel exhaust, leather, rain on stone, and disciplined bodies under ceremonial strain carried through the air.

Tiber slowed only once.

A line of academy recruits had turned their helmets toward him as he passed. They were too well-trained to stare openly, but youth always betrayed itself in fractions: a delayed blink, a tightened jaw, the faintest adjustment of posture when legend, rumor, or merely the promise of war took physical shape before them. He regarded them for a moment, the visor unreadable.

They would inherit nothing by admiration. They would inherit only what they were prepared to seize, preserve, and pay for.

"Remember the ground beneath your feet," Fel said, his voice low through the vocabulator, not raised for ceremony yet sharp enough to carry to those nearest him. "Carida does not teach you to be seen. It teaches you to remain standing when the galaxy attempts to make you kneel." The nearest recruits stiffened further. One of the instructors, older and scarred across the cheek, gave no visible reaction beyond the faintest approval in the eyes.

Fel moved on.

When he reached the assigned assembly area, he did not take the most prominent position available. He stood among the Imperial delegation with the grave composure of a man who understood both hierarchy and symbolism. The Review was not his. It belonged to Carida, to the academy, to the veterans who had earned their place, and to the recruits who still had to prove whether they were worthy of the uniform placed upon them.

Yet his presence altered the air around him all the same. Not by disruption. Not by spectacle.

By the quiet suggestion that the past had not died cleanly, that its fragments had learned to march again, and that some men who had served in the shadows of broken regimes had emerged from them not diminished, but sharpened.

Beyond the galleries, the parade drums began.

Tiber Fel turned toward the review ground.

The Empire, in all its surviving pieces, had gathered to look upon itself.

He watched in silence, and judged what could still be forged.

Order is not negotiated. It is enforced.

 

[R'ayne Asara]

great review at carida

[]

An Untold Awakening

​

weapon: draconic scourge
outfit: attire
tag(s): open

The black shuttle descended through the iron-gray skies of Carida like a carrion bird gliding toward a battlefield long stripped of its dead.

Through the viewport I watched the mountainous world rise beneath me, its jagged ranges resembling the exposed vertebrae of some colossal and long-forgotten monstrosity sleeping beneath the crust of the planet.

Carida had always possessed a certain brutal elegance, a world where discipline was forged through hardship and where generations of Imperial officers had been tempered in the furnaces of ambition.

I had arrived to attend a sequence of ceremonies hosted by the Imperial Academy, a parade among them.

How delightful.

There was something almost amusing about the precision of military pageantry. Mortals marched in immaculate formation beneath banners and brass, believing order itself could hold back the impending doom.

The shuttle settled upon the landing platform with a low mechanical groan, and I emerged into the cold mountain air, my robes stirring like shadows disturbed from a crypt.

The Academy loomed ahead, vast and severe, carved near the mountainside with all the warmth of a mausoleum. Its colossal facades of midnight stone and pale durasteel rose in tiered layers, each line and angle speaking of authority, obedience, and permanence.

I passed beneath towering arches engraved with Imperial iconography and entered the grand complex, my footsteps echoing through corridors vast enough to swallow leviathans whole.

Officers, cadets, and dignitaries drifted through the halls like particles caught in the gravity well of a dying star, each unaware of the deeper currents moving through the Force around them.

At length I arrived at a privileged vantage overlooking the parade grounds below.

From there the assembled formations stretched across the immense plaza in flawless geometric ranks, a living mosaic of white armor and dark uniforms framed by the grim mountains beyond.

Then the first academy drums began.

Their thunderous cadence rolled across the grounds and reverberated through stone and bone alike, each beat sounding less like music and more like the heartbeat of some ancient slumbering god beneath the world, awakening for a moment to witness the ambitions of fleeting mortals.​

 

[Evander Thule]

Tags: Open

​

Whatever else one could say about today's Imperial remnants, one couldn't accuse them of lacking confidence.

Confidence was exactly what one had to have in spades, to throw such a spectacle in such dire times. Thule saw very little worth celebrating, but it was impressive display of gall nonetheless.

Recent Imperial history was a grisly tapestry of humiliation woven upon humiliation, defeat layered over defeat. The Imperial cause, in all its many fractious faces and guises, had achieved virtually nothing of real note within the past half-decade.

That is, unless one counted the complete refutation of the Imperial ideology as a whole as an achievement. In a way, it was. Such incompetence and cowardice approached the superhuman in its sheer magnitude, and deserved to be studied.

Thule was not normally prone to pessimism, but the universe had a way of hammering it home in one's soul. Things were very bleak indeed. Bleak enough that he'd decided to quit looking for order and begun quietly assembling it himself.

The fact of the matter was that they had lost. Victory was no longer an option; it was now a question of preserving what could be preserved at all costs. He'd begun pulling together a small cadre of scientists, soldiers, other die-hard types like himself. The ones so consumed with zeal that it bordered on (or crossed over into) lunacy.

As with his prior trip to a certain detention center, this was largely a fact-finding mission. Getting a feel for how things were going, making the occasional ally where possible.

Allies were fine; friends were not. Superiors were even worse. Thule had decided, after Lothal, that he was done owing fealty to anyone else. Not one ruler existed who was worthy of his loyalty, not any longer. If anything was to be saved, he'd have to do it himself.

Nonetheless, even he couldn't deny that it was a stirring sight. Fresh young faces aplenty, snappy uniforms, plenty of misguided enthusiasm. It tugged at his heart in a very real way. Thule occasionally had to remind himself that he too was young, at least as biology reckoned things.

He didn't feel it. The nightmare ruin of a face behind his semi-permanent life support helm certainly didn't look it. More than that, though, he felt the wear and tear in his spirit. Ground down by horror after endless horror before he'd even touched his third decade, now arrested there forever by events long out of his control.

It was a reminder to never get caught up in the splendor of places like this again. No matter how much one might wish otherwise, the past was a closed door. No amount of force could break that door down, nor any amount of subtle artifice bypass its iron lock.

He knew better than most, had spent years battering at that portal with all the considerable ferocity at his command. All for nothing.

So it would be here. Before long, most of these proudly-paraded troopers would be hacking out their last few tortured breaths in a trench somewhere, used up and discarded by leaders too proud to learn hard lessons.

Such were the cyborg officer's thoughts as he stared down at the assemblage, hunched like a gargoyle on a public balcony. Dour, but he supposed every celebration needed a spoilsport. Someone had to keep their feet on the ground and their head out of the clouds.

 

[Cadence Vex]

Location: Carida
Equipment: Imperial Reclamation Authority Officer Uniform, Standard Issue Sidearm, Concealed Holdout Blaster, Standard Military Comlink, Datapad
Tags: Amarra Nova | OPEN

Cadence Vex stepped from the shuttle a pace behind Moff Amarra Nova, exactly where an aide belonged. Not ahead. Never behind enough to appear inattentive. Her polished gray service uniform had been inspected twice before departure despite needing neither inspection. Every seam lay perfectly flat, every rank plaque aligned, every strand of blonde hair secured into a precise knot. She carried a slim datapad against one arm, already populated with schedules, introductions, seating assignments, and enough contingency notes to survive three unexpected changes before breakfast.

The cold mountain air of Carida greeted them with military severity. Cadence welcomed it. There was something comforting about worlds that understood discipline. The parade grounds stretched before them with almost mathematical precision. Cadets stood in immaculate formations while instructors corrected imperfections so slight most visitors would never notice them. Honor guards held motionless beneath banners that spoke not of celebration, but continuity. The entire academy seemed less constructed than engineered into obedience itself, a monument to institutions rather than individuals.

Her smile brightened just enough for the officers assigned to receive the Moff. Warm. Approachable. The pleasant young aide accompanying an important dignitary.

Cadence exchanged practiced greetings, offered courteous thanks, and quietly verified arrival details against her datapad before falling naturally back into place beside Amarra. Anyone watching would likely conclude she'd earned such a prestigious assignment through efficiency, enthusiasm, and perhaps a measure of youthful charm.

They would not be entirely wrong. As introductions continued, blue eyes wandered only when propriety allowed. She noted who greeted whom first. Who received genuine respect instead of obligatory courtesy. Which officers wore campaign ribbons with easy familiarity and which seemed almost self-conscious beneath fresh decorations. Which veterans attracted quiet nods from strangers. Which conversations ended the instant another figure approached.

Every expression.
Every hesitation.
Every relationship.

Nothing was written down. It never needed to be. Cadence's datapad remained filled with schedules and official business while the far more valuable intelligence settled neatly into memory, filed behind an expression that suggested she was merely admiring the pageantry like any other young officer attending her first Great Review.

With Moff Nova's itinerary firmly in mind, Cadence glanced once across the immense parade field where the assembled formations awaited the beginning of the day's ceremonies. The Empire had gathered to celebrate its martial tradition and the institutions that sustained it.

Officially, she was there to ensure her Moff's day proceeded flawlessly. Unofficially...

The Empire had brought together an extraordinary collection of people worth remembering.

 

[FN-999 (restored)]

​

CARIDA, REVIEW GROUNDS
TAGS: OPEN
N I N E S

FN-999 had little hope for today’s review.
​

The might of the Empire and the ideals it represented had been steadily declining ever since the fall of the New Imperial Order. The Dark Empire had been a mockery run by a narcissist and megalomanic who to this day still considered himself a true Imperial. The Imperial Confederation and Diarchy were imperfect solutions that took little in the way of internal contradictions to collapse from their fragile foundations. The short-lived Empire of the Core had almost immediately revealed itself to be a front for yet another cabal of Sith cultists. Even the reincarnation of the First Order which FN-999 owed so much of his early life to had proved little more than a self-absorbed, dysfunctional dumpster fire of a state that could barely approach a fraction of the might of the original.

Now only isolated warlord states remained, their tiny flames flickering uncertainly amidst the rising tide of the Sith, Mandalorians, and High Republic. The Final Dawn, Tarkin Initiative, and the Imperial Reclamation Authority struggled with internal strife nearly as often as they tried to keep the Imperial spark alive. It truly spoke to the sad state of those who inherited the Empire that the most stable and well-equipped of their lot was centered on a literal scrapyard.

Erskine Barran would be rolling in his grave.

The trip to Carida from the Unknown Regions had been a long and arduous one, skirting Sith space on nearly the entire second half of the journey. Even now as he stood on the planet’s surface, FN-999 knew the peace could be broken at any moment. After all, Carida was only a stone’s throw away from the High Republic, which would undoubtedly seize upon the opportunity to capture the last of the Empire’s heirs if they ever caught word of the review. It was for good reason that he walked with a squad of stormtroopers at his side at all times and a stealth carrier hung in orbit to pick them up at the first hint of danger.

As always, FN-999 was equipped in full standard stormtrooper armor. The only visual trait distinguishing him from his guards aside from his towering frame was his pauldrons: both silver ultrachrome rather than the standard issue duraplast. They were the only parts of his First Order issued armor he had kept, equal parts a memento and a warning. There would be no recreating the past. The only way forward was a better future, or at the very least keeping the flame alive for at least one more day.

FN-999 had little hope for today’s review.
But he would see it through to the end.​

 

[Ronhar Tane]

CAPTAIN RONHAR TANE, TK-3301
CARDIA, PARADE GROUNDS
OBJECTIVE I: IMPERIAL REVIEW

Though Ronhar was here for many different reasons, the main one was for him to learn.

Given the increasingly bold attacks from the Wild Space Rebellion, Ronhar was hoping to achieve two things here today. Firstly, he wanted to personally verify the condition of the so called Cardian Imperial Academy for himself, to see firsthand just how prepared the next generation of Imperials recruits were for the current set of challenges facing the galaxy. Secondly, Ronhar wanted to network, or rather he HAD to network, as he attempted to continue shoring up support for the Mahporeem Imperial Remnant. Despite the state of the galaxy and the collapse of the Imperial Confederation, the Imperial Remnant was continuing to gather pace, having a total of nine planets under its complete or partial control. A paltry amount compared to the empires of the Sith and Mandalorians, but everyone had to start somewhere, and prior to this the Imperial Remnant had ever only had a presence on Mahporeem itself.

For a little over two year's worth of time, it wasn't really to bad of a start for the Imperial Remnant.

For the moment, Ronhar stood perched above the ongoing parade, observing the various components that made it up: cadets, walkers, military vehicles, and even a few flybys from various Imperial ships. On the outside, everything seemed in order, though Ronhar knew that any issues affecting Cardia's military structure would be hiding deep beneath the surface of what was being presented to him. Hopefully he wouldn't really find anything of note, but only time would tell what his informal investigation would bring.

As he turned to walk away from his position watching the parade, he spied a rather unusual looking individual, one he almost mistook for a droid at first glance. But he was no droid, though to say he was "human" was not entirely accurate either. He was much like Ronhar: a cybernetically enhanced individual to the point that it was difficult to tell where man started and machine ended, though as extensive as Ronhar's implants were, his seemed to be even more drastic.

A bit cautiously, Ronhar decided to walk over the man, since if anyone knew what it was like to be going through what he must be going through, it would be Ronhar. Ronhar very obviously and deliberately walked toward where Evander Thule was located, and he asked him:

"So what's your thoughts on the parade below? Would you say that it passes muster?"
​

Spoiler: Ronhar's Loadout

• Head
  • Helm of Authority
    • Rangefinder
• Torso
  • Tashai Coat of Coins
  • Mk 45 Protective Vest
  • "Kitetsu" Force Energy Cycler
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • Miniaturized Smoke Grenade Launcher
    • Empty Automated Weapon Mounting Point
• Arms
  • Tashai Coat of Coins
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • NZ Medpack Display
    • Retractable Vibroblade
    • NZ Pangolin Type 1/A Reactive Armor Plating
• Legs
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • NZ MAM MkII Jet Maneuvering Gear
• Cybernetics
  • Mod V Cyberarms
  • Cyberlegs Mod III
• Weapons
  • Burnblade
  • Prototype Sonic Pistol
  • Mahporeem Acid Rifle
  • Model 216 "Big Game Hunter"
• Ordinance
  • Two Rhydonium Grenades OR Three Mk II Viral Bombs
• Medical Supplies
  • Carapace Knitters
  • ABC - Aerosolized Bacta Cannisters

TAGS:
Tiber Fel
R'ayne Asara
Evander Thule
Cadence Vex
FN-999 (restored)
OPEN

 

[Evander Thule]

Tag: Ronhar Tane ​

Thule's sepulchral visage shifted its position only slightly as the other man approached, enough to show that he'd heard the question. Otherwise, the figure might as well have been made of stone, still looking out at the vast training fields of Carida.

For a long time, he was silent. Long enough that the other man could be forgiven, should he assume no answer was coming at all.

"I'm not sure what muster looks like anymore." Came the response finally. Short, honest, free of pretense or illusion. "Their discipline can't be faulted. Clearly motivated and confident, that shows in their straight shoulders and backs."

"Well-armed, well-trained, capably led and equipped." A shorter beat of silence this time, terminated with an ugly, gravel-slide noise that might have been a quiet chuckle. "They'll get eaten alive out there."

"Takes one hell of a lot more than the conventional to survive some of the things they'll be expected to face. This time next year, I expect four in ten will be dead. Another two no longer fit for duty due to injury, physical or mental. The last four might learn a thing or two and survive to be of use."

"None of that's their fault. Soldiers are only of use when they're not hurled away into the hereafter for no reason. Too much of that going around lately." The apparition turned around finally, studying his visitor.

Soulless lens met soulless lens. In some ways, it was like looking in a mirror. A selfish part of Thule felt in instant kinship with the man. It wasn't too often one met another cyborg, at least one whose reconstruction was as... radical as his own. It was an experience that was impossible to describe unless you'd lived it.

"Can't say I've seen you at these gatherings before." Came the blunt assessment. "But then, this is my first in a while. What do they call you?"

 

[Tiber Fel]

TIBER FEL

Regent · General · Architect of Obedience

:: Transmission Classification: Dorn-Obsidian // Authority Confirmed // Compliance Expected ::
:: Objective: Evaluation // Measurements ::
:: Targets: FN-999 (restored) | Evander Thule | Ronhar Tane | Cadence Vex | R'ayne Asara ::

The parade below continued with the indifferent precision of machinery.

Boots struck duracrete. Armor moved in disciplined rows. Standards lifted and dipped in sequence as the formations passed beneath the reviewing galleries, each company rendered briefly into ceremony before the next replaced it. The sound of distant live-fire exercises rolled over the academy grounds in low intervals, less a disruption than a reminder of purpose. Carida did not celebrate as softer worlds did. Even its pageantry carried the odor of cordite.

Tiber Fel had listened before making himself known.

Not from concealment. There was little about him that permitted such a thing. Black fluted armor, heavy pauldrons, dark cape, the ridged helmet and narrow visor, these did not vanish into a balcony crowd. Yet he had approached without haste and without the need to immediately impose himself upon the exchange. Men revealed more in unguarded assessment than in formal report.

The cyborg's verdict was bleak.

Not inaccurate.

That was the more irritating part.

The officers and dignitaries nearby made way for Fel almost by instinct, their conversations thinning into quiet fragments as he came to the edge of the balcony. Two troopers of the 501st remained several paces behind him, motionless, red unit markings stark against white armor. They did not intrude. They did not need to.

Fel's visor settled first upon the parade grounds below, then upon the two figures already in conversation.

"One hopes," he said, his voice low through the helmet's vocabulator, "that the Empire has not declined so far that muster is now measured by optimism."

Only then did he turn fully toward them.

The statement had not been loud, but it carried with the clipped authority of a command deck. It was not a joke, not quite. There was too little softness in the delivery for that. Still, it acknowledged the remark without dismissing it, and gave neither man the easy insult of pretending the concern was mere bitterness.

He regarded the stranger in the life-support helm for a moment longer. The damage was severe. More severe than most men survived with their faculties intact. Whether that made him fortunate or cursed was a matter Fel had no interest in deciding.

"Their discipline is adequate," Fel continued, looking back to the cadets below. "Their equipment is adequate. Their enthusiasm is predictable. None of those qualities will preserve them if they are spent like parade ammunition by commanders who mistake attrition for resolve."

A fresh formation passed below, rifles angled across their breastplates, young helmets turning in unison toward the central review dais. The academy had done its work well enough. The question, as ever, was whether those who inherited that work would have the restraint not to waste it.

"That has been the recurring disease of our age," he said. "Not a lack of courage. Not even a lack of materiel. Squander. Fragmentation. Petty commands fighting private wars beneath dead banners, then calling the wreckage sacrifice."

Fel's helmet shifted slightly toward Captain Tane, acknowledging the man without yet presuming familiarity. Cybernetics, armor, bearing. Soldier. Officer. Not ornamental. There was weight in him. Enough that Fel did not immediately categorize him among the ceremonial spectators.

"You asked whether it passes muster," he said. "The parade does. The academy may. The cause will not, unless men stop confusing survival with victory."

A low thunderclap from the artillery range followed the words, arriving late across the field.

Fel let the silence sit for a moment. Then he looked to Thule again.

"Four in ten dead by next year. Two broken. Four educated by catastrophe." The helmet inclined by the smallest degree. "A plausible estimate, if they are deployed as most Imperial forces have been deployed in recent years."

There was no outrage in him. No performative offense taken on behalf of the institution, the cadets, or the uniform. Sentiment was cheap, and Carida deserved better than cheap sentiment.

"But casualty projections are not laws of nature," he added. "They are indictments. Of doctrine. Of command. Of political purpose, or the absence of it."

Below, the march cadence shifted. A new block of troops entered the avenue, older than the academy cadets, their step less polished but heavier with experience. Veterans, then. Or instructors. Men and women who knew the difference between a clean parade ground and a killing field.

Fel watched them with more interest.

"Carida can produce soldiers," he said. "It always could. The more relevant question is whether the remnants can produce something worthy of spending them on."

He turned from the balcony at last, granting both men the full attention of that dark, unreadable visor.

"Do not let me interrupt the introduction," Fel added, his gaze moving briefly between them. "I find the conversation more useful than most of what has been said from the podiums today."

It was not praise in the ordinary sense. From Fel, it was closer to permission for candor.

His attention returned to Thule.

"You speak like a man who has watched too many formations march beautifully toward extinction." A pause. "Good. The Empire has an excess of men who can admire straight backs. It has fewer who can tell whether those backs are being lined up before a wall."

Then to Tane.

"And you, Captain, if you are here to inspect more than the polish, inspect the instructors before the cadets. Recruits inherit the virtues of training. They also inherit its lies."

Fel stepped to the balcony rail, placing one black gauntlet upon the cold metal edge. He did not lean. He stood as though the review ground itself were a tactical display.

"Today is useful," he said. "Not because it proves strength. It does not. A parade proves only that an institution can still arrange its symbols in the correct order."

His visor fixed on the marching ranks below.

"What matters is whether anyone present still remembers how to turn symbols into power."

Order is not negotiated. It is enforced.

 

[Marlon Sularen]

---

G R E A T_R E V I E W_A T_C A R I D A

FINAL DAWN
CARIDA, COLONIES

---

It had been a while since Sularen had attended an Imperial military parade, that being the parade he had personally organized to celebrate the Confederation's triumph at Atrisia, having played a key role in destroying the Galactic Empire's Third Death Star. It was a pitiful reality, the fact that the last greatest triumph Sularen had ever experienced was against other Imperials. Even if they were manipulated and controlled by the Sith, the fact that it had been so long since Imperials had even enjoyed any victory only showed how far they had fallen from the glory days of the Third Imperial Civil War, which only infuriated Sularen as he had been pushed out of the New Imperial Order in its infancy.

Nowadays, the Imperial movement was scattered and fragmented, divided amongst various Imperial Remnants, each with their own ambitions and some viewing themselves as above the others. Sularen himself controlled one such Imperial Remnant which was holed up within parts of the former territories of the Imperial Confederation, its influence limited to roughly half-a-dozen worlds: the Final Dawn. Like the other Imperial Remnants, the Final Dawn had to scrape the barrel to maintain its fragile sphere of influence while dealing with the growing threat of the Wild Space Rebellion.

Now, the Supreme Commander stood amongst the other high-profile Imperials that had gathered to evaluate and observe the military parade as it proceeded. He recognized some of the individuals, such as Captain Ronhar Tane and even General FN-999. The others were unknown to him, which did present the perfect opportunity to network and build connections with other prominent members of the Imperial movement. If the Final Dawn was to successfully emerge as the leading force amongst the Imperial Remnants and spearhead the path towards Imperial unification and resurgence, then he needed to build connections with the other Imperial factions and present himself as the best possible leader for a reunified Imperial movement.

Thus, Sularen quietly approached Captain Tane and the two other individuals he was conversing with, silently eavesdropping on their conversation until the perfect opportunity to present himself had arrived. When that opportunity had arrived, the Supreme Commander did not hesitate to introduce himself and slip into the conversation. "Turning symbols into power is something anyone can achieve." Sularen began. "But power is fragile and needs constant maintenance. I've seen so many Imperial Governments rise and fall because its stewards failed to understand that principle. A lesson i myself have had to learn twice before."

"Captain Tane, it's nice to see you once more," Sularen said as he greeted the Mahporeem Operative. He then turned his attention to the dark-armoured individual and extended his hand to him for a handshake. "Marlon Sularen, Supreme Commander of the Final Dawn."

---

Tags | Tiber Fel | Ronhar Tane | Evander Thule | FN-999 (restored) | R'ayne Asara | Cadence Vex | OPEN​

 

[Amarra Nova]

Location: Carida
Equipment:
Ornate Dagger
SE-14r light repeating blaster
Datapad Filled With Cultures Of The Galaxy
Tags: Cadence Vex |Open

Amarra remained silent but poised as she watched the parade down below. With Cadence Vex standing to the right of her, the young Moff and her subordinate were gathered with the various other Imperial leaders or warlords that have answered the summons. Cardia, the planet of choice was a rather safe option. Carida had been a loyal Imperial world far before Amarra's time. An entire planet devoted to Imperial military service. To Imperial rule. To Imperial order. As she stood there with Cadence she listened to the others give their thoughts, about the parade down below.

"I'm not sure what muster looks like anymore." Came the response finally. Short, honest, free of pretense or illusion. "Their discipline can't be faulted. Clearly motivated and confident, that shows in their straight shoulders and backs."

"Well-armed, well-trained, capably led and equipped." A shorter beat of silence this time, terminated with an ugly, gravel-slide noise that might have been a quiet chuckle. "They'll get eaten alive out there."

"Takes one hell of a lot more than the conventional to survive some of the things they'll be expected to face. This time next year, I expect four in ten will be dead. Another two no longer fit for duty due to injury, physical or mental. The last four might learn a thing or two and survive to be of use."

Amarra could see the analytical analysis in that. Centuries of Imperial rule had turned Caridan culture to one of military discipline. No doubt that there were families who have long lineages of decorated military service to the Empire or some form of it. When merits becomes badges of superiority and honor to pull yourselves above others. Competition and ruthlessness must be common amongst the people of this world. But there was truth that no doubt that these soldiers down there, many of them perhaps will not return home alive. It's nice to have all this discipline and miitary tradition for parades but when it comes to actual conflict, experience is what matters. Amarra could scarely remember a time when the Imperials were a threat to the galaxy militarily. She mused at how these soldiers would fare against Sith abominations that come out of their labs.

"Four in ten dead by next year. Two broken. Four educated by catastrophe." The helmet inclined by the smallest degree. "A plausible estimate, if they are deployed as most Imperial forces have been deployed in recent years."

There was no outrage in him. No performative offense taken on behalf of the institution, the cadets, or the uniform. Sentiment was cheap, and Carida deserved better than cheap sentiment.

"But casualty projections are not laws of nature," he added. "They are indictments. Of doctrine. Of command. Of political purpose, or the absence of it."

Below, the march cadence shifted. A new block of troops entered the avenue, older than the academy cadets, their step less polished but heavier with experience. Veterans, then. Or instructors. Men and women who knew the difference between a clean parade ground and a killing field.

Fel watched them with more interest.

"Carida can produce soldiers," he said. "It always could. The more relevant question is whether the remnants can produce something worthy of spending them on."

Another tactiful assessment. A planet can produce all the loyal soldiers an Empire needs, but its the commanders and leaders that must now what to do with them. Even now among the gathering, there are many Imperials who are apart of different factions. Each with their own goals and ambitions. No different than the history textbooks where it was discussed about the fall of the very first Galactic Empire and the aftermath of its collapse. Amarra did wonder if such an Empire can be united again. But that would be putting aside egos, agreeing on doctrine, and poltiical ideology. Amarra then moved slightly closer to Cadence as she placed a hand on the railing, looking down at the parade. She spoke softly to her subordinate.

"What are your thoughts, Cadence?" she mused "The gathering here, the parade, this is all nice yes. But i am sure you have started to piece together why we are all here. So lend me your thoughts for but a moment."

 

[Cadence Vex]

Location: Carida
Equipment: Imperial Reclamation Authority Officer Uniform, Standard Issue Sidearm, Concealed Holdout Blaster, Standard Military Comlink, Datapad
Tags: Amarra Nova | OPEN

Cadence allowed herself a moment before answering. Not because the question required time. Because the best answers often sounded as though they had. She kept her attention on the parade field where cadets stood in impossible alignment beneath banners that represented generations of Imperial service. Around them, conversations continued in measured tones, officers greeting old comrades while quietly appraising new faces. It was a celebration, certainly—but one where nearly every greeting carried a second purpose.

"I think..." she began softly, "...the parade is almost incidental." A faint smile touched her lips. "Carida is reminding everyone that institutions outlive personalities. The cadets, the demonstrations, the ceremony..." Her eyes drifted across the assembled dignitaries. "They're the backdrop."

She felt the lightest pressure against her back as the Moff shifted beside her. It didn’t last long and was hidden from sight impossible to distinguish from the closeness expected of an aide accompanying her superior. Cadence neither acknowledged it nor moved away, continuing as though nothing at all had happened. Or at least nothing out of the ordinary.

"The real review isn't happening on the parade ground." Her voice remained pleasant, conversational. "It's happening here."

A subtle inclination of her head indicated the reception galleries, the clusters of governors, admirals, generals, intelligence officers, and ministers exchanging measured smiles. "Every Imperial power has sent someone worth noticing. They're observing one another as much as the cadets. Measuring discipline. Competence. Influence. Determining who carries themselves like a leader before anyone has given a speech."

She looked toward Amarra with the same open expression she wore whenever taking dictation or confirming an itinerary. "If Carida teaches officers how to command, today teaches the Empire who might someday be worth following." A small pause. "Or worth watching."

The final words were delivered almost absentmindedly, as though they had simply occurred to her. Then Cadence smiled again, bright and disarmingly youthful. "I suppose that's why I like assignments like this, Moff. Everyone believes they're here to watch the parade." Her gaze briefly returned to the gathering of Imperial officials. "So they forget they're part of the performance."

 

[Captain Charles]

CAPTAIN CHARLES
Great Review at Carida | First Trip with the Wife (Hannah Charles) ​

---

Charles didn't particularly care to be here. He had been a part of reviews before as a cadet and had found them boring. Even as a commissioned officer, not standing at attention baking in the sunlight, he still found them boring, which was why he carefully planned his squadron's arrival to be as late as possible without being late. He felt bad for those cadets. He knew what it was like. It had only been a couple years since he had graduated from an academy. Barely three months since his crews completed their specialized training under his veterans. He remembered distinctly keeping dignitaries away from his crew's training sites. He didn't want them to suffer unnecessarily like he did. He brought his attention back to the present. Duty called. He would do his best not to fall asleep.

Charles arrived with just his wife for good reason. His ships were still working up, meaning his crews needed every second they could get onboard their respective ships. Training, no matter how good, could not fully replace experience. Another reason why the voyage mattered. A safe voyage through friendly territory would be a perfect chance to test their skills. He was proud of his men, so far they were doing well. He decided to grab some drinks, Hannah instantly taking his arm as they walked through the crowd of gathered dignitaries. He saw Ronhar nearby and acknowledged him with a nod before heading to the bar.

"Two wines please."

"Of course, red or white?" asked the very polite bartender.

"Two reds please."

He watched the bartender pour the drinks. Beside him Hannah was scanning the crowd. She was wearing her formal black dress. The specific understated elegance of someone who had been an Ambassador and knew what appropriate looked like. It was also the only one she had brought from Castillon.

Charles by contrast was wearing his grey green working uniform, what every naval crewman of First Scouting Squadron wore, which was essentially a tropical-weight Gaberwool uniform with armor and helmet optionally worn over it. He was in fact wearing his armor and helmet, shining them for just this occasion. His leather boots were always shined. A habit he kept from the academy.

The contrast in outfits wasn't missed, much to his wife's displeasure.

The bartender placed the drinks in front of them. Charles took them and paid the tab. He turned his attention back to his wife, who was still busy scanning the crowd.

"See anyone interesting?" he asked dryly, his boredom slipping into his voice.

"A couple." replied Hannah, turning back to face him.

They began to walk back towards the balcony.

"Those two are dangerous." she whispered, leaning into his ear.

"The Sith? Yeah I know. As for the blonde…? Someone jealous?" he replied teasingly.

She swatted him lightly, her diplomatic composure barely managing to rein in her jealousy.

"I'm kidding. I'm kidding!" he replied, raising his free arm to protect himself.

"You better. And DON'T LOOK at her again." she snarled, before regaining her composure. She retook his arm. Then took a sip of her drink.

"Anyways, as you were saying?" asked Charles, scanning the room quickly. He was as much looking for a convenient exit as observing the people around him.

"The blonde is not who she seems. The way she is acting right now. It's a fake exterior." replied Hannah, the diplomat taking over from the jealous wife.

"Can I look back now?" he asked.

"Yes, oh for the stars." she replied, nearly gasping in shock. Charles had turned his head 180 degrees away from her, looking dramatically in the opposite direction.

Charles snapped his head back, his military bearing instantly returning. They were now just standing in the middle of the room. He hoped their chairs weren't taken.

"She seems like some kind of intelligence asset." he mused, processing the analysis his wife had just given him.

"I agree." said Hannah.

"The Moff seems my age. A bit young for such a position don't you think?" said Charles.

"Funny coming from you." replied Hannah.

He decided to ignore that comment.

Links:

• Characters:
  • Captain Charles
  • Hannah Charles NPC
• Ships of First Scouting Squadron
  • Stryker II Imperial V Class Star Destroyer
  • Vengeance Class Cruiser
  • Bullet Class Frigate
  • Runner Class Fast Transport
  • Interdictor Class Cruiser

 

[R'ayne Asara]

great review at carida

[]

An Untold Awakening

​

weapon: draconic scourge
outfit: attire
tag(s): open

I reclined within the shadowed comfort of my chair, red fingers with midnight nails resting lightly upon the armrests as the Imperial Academy continued to thunder with life below.

The parade grounds stretched outward like a living machine of devotion and discipline, every formation moving with mechanical precision beneath banners that fluttered beneath a sky stained in hues of iron and dying gold.

One magnificent presentation followed another; cadets marching in flawless cadence, walkers advancing in solemn procession, and squadrons screaming overhead like predatory beasts crossing some ancient cosmic hunting ground.

The spectacle stirred old memories within me, memories buried beneath decades of darkness and devotion.

Beside me, an Imperial Officer seated to my left finally leaned closer, curiosity overcoming whatever discipline his rank afforded him. He cleared his throat and asked if I was new to the Imperial cause, what my name was, and remarked that he had never seen me before.

A faint smile crept across my lips.

Without looking at him, I reached over and gave his right knee a gentle pat, as one might soothe an anxious animal. "You ask a great many questions without taking a breath, sir."

My gaze remained fixed upon the parade grounds where countless white-armored figures moved in perfect order beneath the watchful eyes of monuments and banners. For a moment I simply watched them, watched the Empire breathe through its countless servants, before speaking again.

"Your concerns regarding my loyalty, as for the Imperial cause, sir, I was raised upon Sith ideologies, but the Imperial Heart has pumped since my first kiss of breath."

The words drifted from me like incense from a funeral censer. Then, at last, I turned my head toward him, meeting his eyes as the distant roar of engines echoed across the academy.

There was amusement in my expression, though it carried the unsettling weight of something ancient lurking beneath calm waters. Gently, with a trickle of the Dark Side, I briefly haunted the Imperial Officer's mind; plucking what I desired.

"Now, Captain Varhase, do you still wish to know my name?"​

 

[FN-999 (restored)]

CARIDA, REVIEW GROUNDS
TAGS: Amarra Nova | Cadence Vex | OPEN
N I N E S

A commotion caught the old general’s attention.
​

Half a block away to his left, a group of people had gathered to talk. Two figures immediately stood out to him. One was Ronhar Tane, the promising young captain who had saved his life on Brosi. The other, he noted with disgust, was Malron Sularen.

A first-class opportunist, Marlon had wasted no time transforming the shattered remnants of the Imperial Confederation into his own personal fiefdom. His arrogance had always proven a detriment to the Imperial cause, leading him to make short-sighted decisions that earned him nothing but enemies. Recent events had only reinforced this view of Marlon in FN-999’s head. His eyes and ears in Wild Space told him that Malron’s final dawn had recently been blacklisted by the entire Hauler’s Guild. And the reason behind it? He had destroyed a cargo-laden freighter owned by one of the most influential shipping firms in the Unknown Regions for little more of a reason than to flaunt his power to the Wild Space rebels.

What the Empire needed more than anything else was leaders who knew how to apply a reasonable degree of force. Surgical strikes on rebel bases or even blockades of noncompliant planets were far more effective than Marlon’s piratical actions while also isolating the target from contact with their allies, preventing mass retaliation.

Yet even if Marlon deserved to be chewed out for his suicidal escapades, FN-999 saw his commitment to the Imperial cause as above simple grudges, however justified they were. What the next generation of Imperials needed to see was not further infighting, but a united front against those who would want to drive the last sparks of the Empire to extinction.

So FN-999 wisely shifted his attention to another group, a pair of young women who seemed to be having a discussion of their own while watching the review. He walked over towards the pair, picking up bits of their conversation as he drew closer.

"I suppose that's why I like assignments like this, Moff. Everyone believes they're here to watch the parade." Her gaze briefly returned to the gathering of Imperial officials. "So they forget they're part of the performance."

“I hope you aren’t excluding yourselves.” remarked FN-999, as straightforward as ever.

With a simple nod of his head, his guard fanned out, still as alert as ever but giving the trio the privacy to speak their minds.

“Of course, the same applies for me.” continued the general. “FN-999, from the Caragachi Enclave. Unknown Regions."

Though he gave the occasional glance to both women, his helmeted gaze never left the procession below for long.

“As I was saying, we are all participants in this review in one way or another. Just as we look to the soldiers for reassurance, they look up to us as inspiration. Some may see a vain, disinterested commander and grow jaded about the idea of serving the Empire. Others may see a leader or group of leaders alert and at attention and feel reassured that they are fighting for the right thing."

"It is wise to remember that it is not only the troops who are being judged here."

 

[Captain Charles]

CAPTAIN CHARLES
Great Review at Carida | With Hannah Charles | Fine Let's Talk​

---

TAGS: FN-999 (restored) | Amarra Nova | Cadence Vex | OPEN​

"I'm getting bored out of my mind." said Charles, matter of factly staring off into the distance.

Hannah and Charles had shifted their attention from the distant Moff and her Aide back to the parade. They had walked down the street over by where FN-999 and his guard were standing. Charles was thoroughly bored. He unsheathed his vibro knife and started fidgeting with it, spinning and tossing it like someone who was very familiar with the weapon. He didn't care if others were judging.

"Put the knife away. Others are watching." hissed Hannah softly.

"So?" replied Charles, indifferent. He continued to toss the knife, its sharp edge sparkling as it caught the sunlight.

"So, put it away." she said quietly, snatching the knife and stuffing it back in the sheath on his belt.

He sighed. Left with no other options he would go socialize. He looked around scanning to find the most interesting person in the room. The silver stormtrooper would do. The young Moff and her Aide were there too chatting with him. It was a good opportunity to learn about them.

He walked over to the trio, his wife at his arm, slipping past the occupied guards like it was just another stroll in the park. She didn't protest, realizing the same opportunity he did.

"Greetings General. Captain Charles of the Mahporeem Imperial Remnant. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He looked up straight through the General's visor on his helmet. The guy was huge but it made no difference to him. Hannah by contrast gripped his arm just a little bit tighter.

"Greetings to you as well Moff and Aide-de-Camp." he continued, glancing briefly at each of them before returning his attention back to the General. He let his wife handle the two women.

"Hannah Charles. His wife and Former Ambassador of Castillon." she said, before turning her attention to the Moff and Aide.

 

[Ronhar Tane]

CAPTAIN RONHAR TANE, TK-3301
CARDIA, PARADE GROUNDS
OBJECTIVE I: IMPERIAL REVIEW

Evander Thule responded with a depressingly accurate assessment of the cadet's future in the galaxy, albeit one that was perhaps on the higher end of potentially incurred casualties. Still, he certainly wasn't wrong, and in all honesty, Mahporeem had been in the same position itself not too long ago. They had used to be just as green, if not even more inexperienced, and their introduction into galactic conflict had been a real trial of fire. Perhaps he could help the academy avoid the same fate.

Ronhar respectfully listened to everything that Evander had to say until the cyborg asked him for his name. It was one of the main reasons that he was hear, after all. Ronhar nodded along with Evander before he formally introduced himself.

"Captain Ronhar Tane, TK-3301 of the Mahporeem Imperial Remnant", he began. "You may have heard of us out in the Outer Rim, where we were fighting the Sith for the last two years. That was a nasty campaign, even with the support of the former Imperial Confederation, and I'm sure you know that it didn't lead anywhere. Well, maybe not for the TIC, but for Mahporeem at least it's given us a modicum of control over some of those lawless territories. I have to say, these Caridians remind me of the Imperial Remnant when we first reintroduced ourselves to the galaxy. Naive. Overconfident. Cocky. I'm sure such illusions will be shattered once these boys get their very first taste of live combat", Ronhar continued as he glanced back toward the ongoing pararde.

Any additional musings he might have had were cut out by the approaching Tiber Fel , who up to this point Ronhar had yet to meet. If Evander Thule 's presence could be described as "frightening", Fel's was more intimidating, though both men were equally unnerving in their own unique ways, radiating power in a manner that someone like Ronhar could easily detect. They were men that Ronhar would want to get on the good side of, as they were sure to be valuable assets to the ongoing Imperial cause.

Fel, much like Thule, had a rather bleak assessment of Carida's future, encouraging Ronhar to directly report to the source of its troubles: the officers and instructors running the institution. It was a problem that had plagued the Galactic Empire of old and new, and a issue that had sped up the demise of the Confederation. An incompetent solider was a problem: an incompetent officer was a overarching failure.

Ronhar turned away from Thule to address Fel.

"Then I shall do just that. I do hope what I see will be to my liking. But if it is not, well, we'll just how to correct any failings that might present themselves. Care to walk with me, gentlmen, assuming you have no prior engagements or commitments?", Ronhar asked Evander Thule and Tiber Fel . He wanted to have more time to get to know these two, to really pick their brains about the plight of the Imperials and to secure their future support and cooperation for the Imperial Remnant. But, if they declined, there were plenty of others that would be equally important for Ronhar to know, though these two were of special interest to him.

Regardless, he would get his answers one way or another, and what better way to do so than to see things with his own two eyes?

Just before Ronhar could leave, he happened to hear a familiar voice coming up behind him, also commenting on the fleeting nature of power and symbols.

“The pleasure’s all mind, Supreme Commander”, Ronhar replied as Marlon Sularen approached the trio. Ronhar shook his hand warmly, glad to see that the man was in good spirits, at least for the moment.

“We were just about to get to know some of Cardia’s officers a bit more intimately. Care to join us?”
​

Spoiler: Ronhar's Loadout

• Head
  • Helm of Authority
    • Rangefinder
• Torso
  • Tashai Coat of Coins
  • Mk 45 Protective Vest
  • "Kitetsu" Force Energy Cycler
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • Miniaturized Smoke Grenade Launcher
    • Empty Automated Weapon Mounting Point
• Arms
  • Tashai Coat of Coins
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • NZ Medpack Display
    • Retractable Vibroblade
    • NZ Pangolin Type 1/A Reactive Armor Plating
• Legs
  • Wampa-Pattern Industrial Exoskeleton
    • NZ MAM MkII Jet Maneuvering Gear
• Cybernetics
  • Mod V Cyberarms
  • Cyberlegs Mod III
• Weapons
  • Burnblade
  • Prototype Sonic Pistol
  • Mahporeem Acid Rifle
  • Model 216 "Big Game Hunter"
• Ordinance
  • Two Rhydonium Grenades OR Three Mk II Viral Bombs
• Medical Supplies
  • Carapace Knitters
  • ABC - Aerosolized Bacta Cannisters

TAGS:
Evander Thule
Tiber Fel
Marlon Sularen
OPEN

 

[Evander Thule]

Tags: Ronhar Tane / Tiber Fel / Marlon Sularen

​

"Captain Ronhar Tane, TK-3301 of the Mahporeem Imperial Remnant"

Ronhar Tane. Thule was distantly familiar with the name. Mahporeem had been one of the few to roll with the punches after the Confederation's fiery demise, and had astutely used the resultant bedlam to secure their own position. That showed a degree of quick thinking and adaptability on Tane's part, transforming a catastrophe into a small personal success. Maybe if they'd had more like him, things wouldn't have had such an ugly end. Alas, one had to work with what one had.

Naive. Overconfident. Cocky. I'm sure such illusions will be shattered once these boys get their very first taste of live combat"

"Quite so." He said, giving a clicking mechanical nod in agreement before they were joined by two more visitors. "Delusions of invulnerability are the single greatest poison gnawing at the bones of Imperial doctrine. Mortal discipline doesn't mean much out there anymore. Times have changed."

"Still, I don't mean to be overly dour. Once issues are identified, they can be trimmed away to allow newer, wiser doctrines to flourish."

Thule's attention shifted slightly to their guests. The first was tall, black-armored, and direct. Thule didn't know him, but then, he didn't know most people here. He too seemed to share Thule's own bleak realism, at least to an extent. That was a point in his favor.

"You speak like a man who has watched too many formations march beautifully toward extinction." A pause. "Good. The Empire has an excess of men who can admire straight backs. It has fewer who can tell whether those backs are being lined up before a wall."

"I have." A simple acknowledgement of fact. "Enough to give me a distaste for it. If delusions of invulnerability are, as I've posited, the knife in the heart of the Imperial way of life, then waste is almost certainly the knife at its throat, prepared to finish the job."

"With respect to the minds behind the Imperial Confederation, making open war with the Sith Order was a waste of almost incalculable proportions, and one that, thanks to those aforementioned delusions, was repeated twice. Imagine what position the Imperial cause might be in now, if it still had those weapons, tools, and lives to call upon. Instead, those soldiers are fertilizer for Brosi's trees, or corpses for the Sith to puppeteer. The Empire is no longer the galaxy's premier power, and it does not have infinite blood to spill or ammunition to fire any longer. It is past time we started acting like it. Leave pride at the door, stop trying to prove the truth to an uncaring galaxy, and display instead the sort of patient calculation that built the Imperial creed in the first place."

The second man was a little better-known to him, as one would have to have lived under a rock to not at least have heard the name. One of the great minds in question, who'd built the Confederation and then allowed it to slip away. Still, and unlike some, Thule did not hold Sularen entirely accountable for recent failings. Placing the burden for years of humiliation and short-sightedness on one man was an emotional reaction, and failed to capture the larger geopolitical scope of their current predicament. No single person was to blame; the disease was cultural, spiritual. It had eaten the entirety of Imperial civilization alive for years. Whatever one thought of his methods, few currently alive had fought harder or suffered more for the Imperial cause than Sularen. That meant something, and was worthy of commendation.

"But power is fragile and needs constant maintenance. I've seen so many Imperial Governments rise and fall because its stewards failed to understand that principle. A lesson i myself have had to learn twice before."

"Wisely stated, but perhaps it's more accurate to say that structure requires maintenance. Power is the most natural, effortless thing in the world." The cyborg relaxed a little, leaning against the balcony's railing. "Are you gentlemen familiar with the works of Karis Nemik?"

"I could forgive you if you aren't. He lived and died centuries before your birth. Nonetheless, he was quite instrumental in establishing the first inklings of organized anti-Imperial thought. Mr. Nemik was a bright young man, but like many young men, too absorbed in railing against authority for its own sake. The crux of his writings was that power is contrary to nature. To quote:"

"The Imperial need for control is so desperate because it is so unnatural. Tyranny requires constant effort. It breaks, it leaks. Authority is brittle."

"Rubbish. Control, authority, order. These things are as natural as the air you're breathing. Leave four beasts in a cage, and the first thing they'll do is establish an alpha. Instead, supposed liberty requires constant work, constant vigilance, constant battle lest one man begin to claim superiority over another. The moment that happens, that battle is lost."

"The Empire never dies, no matter how low it falls, because the bent towards Imperial thinking rests in the nature of every man, woman, and child. One will only be rid of Empires when there are no minds and hearts left to make them."

"That said, power's a fickle lover. She goes to whoever has the means to have her for the night, and knows no favorites. Right now, that's the Sith. If you do not hold power, hold order, then it will go to another instead. They are dangerously close to becoming the only Empire that matters. That part is where structure comes in, and the labor begins. The Empire has categorically failed to properly woo power, so she has sought another. If we would woo her back, then it will take time, wisdom, and patience."

"Or to put it another way, just because power is natural and effortless does not mean that we are the ones to hold it."

Care to walk with me, gentlmen, assuming you have no prior engagements or commitments?

"I'd be delighted, Captain Tane." He said finally, breaking off his scholarly observations with jarring suddenness. "I was beginning to worry that I'd be trapped watching parades this entire time."

 

[Tiber Fel]

TIBER FEL

Regent · General · Architect of Obedience

:: Transmission Classification: Dorn-Obsidian // Authority Confirmed // Compliance Expected ::
:: Objective: Evaluation // Measurements ::
:: Targets: FN-999 (restored) | Evander Thule | Ronhar Tane | Cadence Vex | R'ayne Asara | Marlon Sularen ::

Tiber Fel regarded Marlon Sularen's offered hand for a moment before taking it.

The pause was brief, but not empty. There were names within the Imperial sphere that could be received as mere introductions, and names that arrived with histories attached to them like chains dragged across stone. Sularen belonged to the latter. Triumph, catastrophe, persistence, command. The man had not merely witnessed the disintegration of Imperial power in recent years; he had shaped parts of it, survived other parts, and now stood among the remnants still attempting to impose design upon the wreckage.

Fel accepted the handshake with controlled firmness.

"Tiber Fel," he said. "Commander of the 501st Legion, Regent of Bastion."

Only then did his other hand rise to the seals beneath his helmet. A soft hiss followed as the pressure-lock disengaged. He removed the black ridged helm with the calm economy of ritual, not performance, and set it beneath one arm.

The face beneath was severe and pale beneath the Caridan light. Dark hair, touched with iron-grey at the temples, had been pressed flat by the helmet. His features carried the hard, spare lines of a man who had made discipline less a habit than a condition of existence. His eyes were cold, attentive, and very much alive; not theatrical, not feverish, but unpleasantly exacting in the way they settled on each man in turn.

He looked first to Sularen.

"Supreme Commander," Fel continued, inclining his head slightly. "Your reputation is known. So is the weight of the era attached to it. I do not say that as accusation. Any Imperial officer still standing today has either failed, survived failure, inherited failure, or learned to operate within its consequences."

His gaze moved briefly to Tane, then Thule.

"There are few innocents left in Imperial uniform."

Below them, the parade continued its immaculate passage across the review grounds. Cadets marched beneath hanging standards, rifles angled at identical degrees, boots striking duracrete in a cadence so clean it almost disguised how young many of them were. Beyond the ceremonial avenues, artillery demonstrations rolled like distant thunder across Carida's hard military sky.

Fel listened to Thule's final words in silence.

Power. Structure. Authority. Nature. The Sith.

There was truth in the cyborg's argument, though Fel was not inclined to grant any philosophy complete victory over reality.

"Power may be natural," he said at last. "But possession of power is not. That is where the Sith have understood more than many Imperials have been willing to admit."

He did not spit the word Sith. He did not lace it with moral disgust. His contempt was colder than that.

"The Sith Empire did not rise merely because it was monstrous. Monstrosity is common. It rose because it paired appetite with structure, brutality with strategic patience, mysticism with statecraft, terror with institutional momentum. It gave its subjects direction, its armies purpose, its warlords consequence, and its enemies insufficient time to recover from one blow before the next fell."

Fel's eyes returned to Sularen.

"The Confederation was not undone by Sith superiority alone. That would be too convenient an explanation, and too flattering to our enemies. It was undone because Sith strength met Imperial weakness at the precise point where weakness had been allowed to masquerade as nuance."

He let the words sit for a moment before continuing, his tone measured rather than accusatory.

"I do not speak of one man's failure. No single commander, however prominent, carries the whole corpse of a state upon his back. The failure was wider. It was internal. Ideological. A government calling itself Imperial while uncertain how much Empire it still dared to be. A coalition of necessities that too often mistook temporary alignment for permanent foundation. A military culture still capable of courage, but increasingly unsure what political order that courage was purchasing."

The parade drums shifted below as another block of troops entered the avenue.

Fel looked down at them.

"Such states can win battles. They can even inspire loyalty. But they do not endure prolonged pressure from enemies who know exactly what they are, what they want, and what they are willing to spend to acquire it."

His attention moved back to Thule.

"You are correct about waste. It is not merely a logistical sin. It is civilizational self-harm. Every battalion thrown into a symbolic action, every fleet committed to prove resolve rather than secure objective, every soldier spent to reassure a frightened capital that its leaders still possess will — these things do not strengthen the Imperial idea. They hollow it out."

Then to Tane.

"And Captain, your instinct is also correct. Inspect the academy beneath the parade. The cadets will show you what they have been taught to display. The officers will show you what they have been taught to value."

Fel turned slightly toward the corridor leading away from the balcony, where the reviewing galleries gave way to the administrative spine of the academy. The invitation to walk had not been forgotten.

"I will join you."

One of the 501st troopers stepped forward without being summoned. Fel handed him the helmet, and the soldier received it with both hands before falling back into place. The gesture left Fel's face exposed as he moved away from the balcony rail, an unusual concession from a man whose presence had been built in part through the severe anonymity of black armor.

As they began to walk, Fel did not take the lead by force of presence. He moved beside them, measured and deliberate, his cape trailing in restrained folds concession from a man whose presence had been built in part through the severe anonymity of black armor.

As they began to walk, Fel did not take the lead by force of behind him.

"You spoke of maintenance, Supreme Commander," he said to Sularen. "That is the correct word. Empires are not maintained by sentiment. They are maintained by systems. Promotions that reward competence over proximity. Intelligence services that inform strategy rather than court intrigue. Logistics that answer to campaign requirements rather than private fiefdoms. Academies that produce officers, not decorated liabilities. Civil authorities that understand order as a daily function, not a slogan."

The sound of the parade diminished as the corridor absorbed them, leaving only muffled drums and the occasional low concussion from the live-fire ranges.

"The Empire has not lacked men willing to die for it," Fel continued. "It has lacked men willing to govern themselves with the same discipline they demand from their soldiers."

He glanced toward Thule.

"That is where doctrinal vanity becomes lethal. Tarkinist, New Imperial, Felist, Confederation loyalist, sector militarist, civil restorationist: most of these distinctions have been treated as sacred divisions when they are often only adaptations to circumstance. The same order expressed under different pressures."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"A frontier remnant fighting insurgents cannot govern like a secure Core dominion. A besieged academy world cannot behave like an industrial hegemon. An intelligence state, a military junta, and a restored civil administration each have uses under particular conditions. The error begins when men confuse the instrument for the creed."

He allowed that to settle before adding, colder:

"And when they would rather see the instrument break than admit another hand used a different tool to preserve the same structure."

They passed beneath a high academy archway, where the walls bore old campaign plaques and polished inscriptions of victories that belonged to regimes now dead, absorbed, or disgraced. Fel's gaze moved across them briefly.

"The path forward cannot be another contest of mourning banners. Nor can it be a sentimental congress of survivors agreeing that unity would be pleasant. Unity is not pleasant. Unity is expensive. It requires men to subordinate pride before they are forced to subordinate survival."

His tone remained even.

"That is why I invoked the Continuity Standard Protocol."

The words were given without flourish, yet they changed the weight of the conversation. Not an invitation to friendship. Not a plea for recognition. A statement of mechanism.

"Not to declare that every Imperial authority must kneel to Bastion by tomorrow morning. That would be theater, and theater has already consumed enough of our strength. The purpose is narrower and more durable: identify what remains, preserve what functions, establish channels between commands, standardize where possible, avoid duplication where necessary, and prevent surviving Imperial assets from being devoured piecemeal by enemies with greater patience than our pride."

Fel looked to Sularen again.

"The Final Dawn, Mahporeem, Bastion, Carida, independent commands, stranded intelligence cells, surviving academies, shipyards, veteran formations, all of them are insufficient alone. All of them are also too valuable to be treated as disposable competitors in another succession drama."

Then his gaze shifted to Tane.

"A route secured by Mahporeem matters. A battalion preserved matters. A training cadre corrected before it poisons a generation matters. These are not lesser achievements because they lack spectacle. They are the architecture from which resurgence is built."

Finally, to Thule.

"And if the Sith now hold power more naturally than we do, then we should cease pretending offense and begin asking why. Not to imitate their mysticism. Not to submit to their appetites. But to recognize that they have imposed unity of motion where we have indulged fragmentation of will."

Fel stopped near a set of interior windows overlooking a lower training yard. Below, a squad of cadets ran through close-order drill beneath the barked corrections of instructors. Less polished than the parade. More useful.

"That is what has to change."

He turned back to the others.

"Not by holding hands beneath a shared standard and pretending the last decade did not happen. Not by erasing every doctrinal distinction in the name of convenience. Differences of method will remain. They should remain. They are often evidence that a commander understands his theatre."

A faint, humorless edge touched his mouth.

"But those differences must no longer be permitted to mature into rival religions."

Fel looked through the glass again, watching one instructor stop a cadet formation and correct the angle of their advance.

"The Imperial future, if it exists, will be built by men who can distinguish principle from preference, order from vanity, and strategy from performance."

He resumed walking toward the officers Tane had intended to inspect.

"So let us begin somewhere honest," Tiber Fel said. "Not with declarations of destiny. With instructors, doctrine, and the young soldiers who will pay for our errors if we leave them uncorrected."

Order is not negotiated. It is enforced.