Diplomacy Hidden Hands | Shadows of the Empire Pt. 1

[Sora Mohc]

Velzari Tharn | Shannic Wulf | Minister Janus Vipsanius | @Others​

Nar Shaddaa, The Smuggler's Moon
Undercity Dockyards, Level 47-E



Once a promising world of technological innovation, Nar Shaddaa had long since decayed into a cesspool of desperation and wealth. It's neon lit canyons were home to the filth of the galaxy, the brokers of flesh and spice, and the decaying monuments of the Hutts. But now it bore witness to something altogether different, the silent return of Imperial order cloaked in the shrouded precision of Operation: Cinder. High above, the clouds churned with the polluted breath of smog vents and atmospheric engines from the depths beneath the high rises. Then, with an almost reverent silence, a low-rumbling shadow slipped between the towers. An Ommin-class Sith Infiltration Shuttle descended, its engines whispering as it approached it's target. Black as the void, its angled hull bore no insignia, only subtle ridges of armor and sensor disruptors betraying its military nature.

The shuttle came down slow, ominously lowering itself upon the exterior landing platform with it's struts hissing out, locking into the ferrocrete pad. A small tremor was sent through the rust-ridden deck of the landing platform below. Holo-cameras shorted, street rats fled, and ambient power flickered across several junctions as the Ommin's electromagnetic field pulsed once,.

An intentional disturbance.

Steam hissed outward from the underbelly craft, within moments it's ramp lowered, hydraulics groaning. From its descending ramp, a lone figure emerged. Sora Mohc , a towering figure clad in red carmine armor, his cloak dragging across the grit and grime of Nar Shaddaa's underbelly like blood in water. His helmet, shaped from the style of the Imperial Knights, had been reshaped to match his new allegiance: no longer a servant of the New Imperial Order, but a shield of the Grand Vizier of the Dark Empire. His expression remained hidden, his posture unyielding. Once, he had sworn his life to the late Rurik Fel , a man of unshakeable will and noble doctrine. In the fires of the Core Wars, Mohc had burned away his old vows, what remained was steel. Loyalty. Obedience. Not to light or dark, but to order.... Ignacious Korvan had offered him that, at least before he too met his demise at the hands of the Galactic Alliance. He stepped to the side of the ramp, flanked by two fellow Royal Guards, each descending with mirrored precision. At the base of the ramp, they turned to face one another, ceremonial, practiced, forming the path for their superior.

Then came Mohc again, pivoting into formation as his cloak swirled around his armored legs. The city stank of filth, but Mohc stood unmoved. He found the place repugnant, a rusting carcass of civilization, where the Black Sun wore crowns of rotted gold. He stood tall, unmoved as Minister Janus Vipsanius , robed and crowned in his ridiculous ecclesiastical regalia, descended the ramp behind him. The Minister was smiling, always smiling, that unsettling twitch of zealotry behind his aged eyes. A creature of darkness if he had ever seen one up close.

And then the storm's eye emerged.

Grand Vizier Shannic Wulf , cold, regal, and absolute in her bearing. She had come to meet with Prince Velzari Tharn of the Black Sun and strike a new accord. Blood for credits, fear for power, infinite opportunity. And Sora Mohc, once a protector of the Iron Sun, would ensure no harm befell the Grand Vizier.

 

[Shannic Wulf]

​

Velzari Tharn | Minister Janus Vipsanius | Sora Mohc

She stepped into the light.

The wind stirred the hem of her cloak as she emerged onto the landing platform, descending with the silence of finality. Steam curled about her feet, dispersing at her advance. Her presence required no announcement; even the guttering lights above flickered once, as if in reflex.

Her attire was sovereign and unyielding. Black robes flowed from her shoulders in structured layers, matte and voluminous, designed not for elegance but for dominion. Beneath the cloak gleamed a carapace of glossy armour, lacquer-dark and mirror-smooth, shaped to a precise feminine form without softness. Chains of ceremonial metal crossed her chest in a draped sigil of rank, interwoven with medallions bearing the insignia of the Dark Empire. A broad belt, heavy with a gold clasp, cinched the robes with imperial finality. The entire ensemble was without compromise. Every detail pronounced command.
Her hood was drawn, framing hair of iron grey swept back in severe precision. Her face, pale and sharp beneath the cowl, was carved in calm judgement. There was no warmth, but neither cruelty. Simply inevitability.

Shannic Wulf did not look at Mohc as she passed him, but she felt the weight of his stance, the calm in his bearing. He had been reforged in fire. Once a knight of faltering empires, now a shield to something enduring. She trusted him. That was rare.

The tower ahead loomed tall and silent, blank-faced behind the shimmer of rain. No greeting party. No gestures of diplomacy. Velzari Tharn remained unseen. Predictable. The Black Sun dealt in spectacle, but never offered the first move.

She did not need to see him. She knew the type. Cloaked in rot and wealth, surrounded by thieves and sycophants. But influence was not the same as power. That belonged elsewhere.

Janus Vipsanius followed, his robes brushing the ferrocrete, eyes glinting with ritual delight. He murmured some fragment of verse behind her. She ignored it. Faith was useful. Obsession was tolerated. For now.

Above them, the clouds churned. Operation: Cinder had already begun. Cities folded, atmospheres burned, databanks turned to cinders. There was no artifice to it, no illusion. Only clarity. The Empire did not demand loyalty. It enforced consequence.

She paused at the threshold. The entry doors remained closed, sealed beneath a thin shimmer of shielding. Velzari would make them wait. A ploy for control, or a test of resolve. She met it with stillness.


"Let them watch," she thought. "Let them wonder whether I wait, or weigh."

Her voice dropped to the commline, quiet, exact.

"Lord Mohc. Maintain the perimeter. Stand fast until I give word."

Then, to herself, barely spoken:

"Order does not knock."

And she waited.