Ice and Fire

[Kainan Wolfe]

Attn: Vyra Silara

"Struggle is the father of all things"
- Nelvaanian proverb

​

• Royal Palace
  Largan City, Relovian

Looking out through the window of the small apartment, the Sith Lord could not help but notice the vaguely similar layout between this city and the fortress which used to be the seat of government on his home planet, before the Hand of Light staged their coup. Like Solitude, Largan was laid out in the vague shape of a wheel, points of interest extending out like spokes from a hub, the palace at its heart acting as the nerve center from which both the city and the planet beyond were governed. But that was where the similarities came to an end.

Despite their superficial similarities in city layout and focus on a hierarchy of social classes, Relovian and Nelvaan were nothing alike. Here, the sun cast a warm glow over the calm, verdant landscape below, bestowing upon the planet's inhabitants a blessing of long summers and mild winters. On Nelvaan, they had only the deadly blizzards and the bitter cold.

Relovian was what the Nelvaanians called a summerworld, a pleasant paradise where people lived happy, easy and comfortable lives, content with what they had and rarely having to worry, truly worry about survival, whether their own, or that of their families and friends. There was no bitter frost to kill the crops, no storm to sweep people off their feet or turn chunks of ice into deadly projectiles, no deadly predator to ward off. Despite the cramped living arrangements, life here was what the people of Nelvaan would consider soft and dull. It was no wonder that the people of such worlds lived such carefree lives, concerned with nothing more than personal ambition and the desire for comfort and pleasure. These people would consider life on Nelvaan a living hell and would probably wonder how the Nelvaanians managed to build an industrialized civilization, when all they had was struggle.

He smiled, knowing how the Nelvaanians' would answer.

The door of the apartment slid open, allowing two men in nondescript, civilian clothing to enter, pulling the Sith Lord out of the silence of his thoughts. They stood to attention, snapping their heels together and saluted, fist-over-heart in the manner of those serving in the most disciplined organic military force the galaxy had ever seen: the Eternal Army.

If only the Relovai knew who's spies were in their midst, they wouldn't be quite so relaxed.

"<<Report,>>" the Sith Lord commanded in High Nelvaanian, the language of his people, after returning their salute. "<<Sir, we have the schedules of the palace servants and the patrol routes of the guards,>>" one of the Blackwatch agents responded as he handed a datapad to the leader of his nation.

Darth Tacitus, the Emperor of Nelvaan, Reaper of Lorrd and ruler of the Eternal Empire, cast his golden, cat-like eyes upon the information displayed on the device's screen. His nod to the spies was all the gratitude he gave, a subtle gesture that, to an outsider, would seem like insufficient thanks to give for the loyal services of one's followers. Few outsiders understood Nelvaan and the subtle intricacies of its culture. And the Nelvaanians themselves were not fond of idle, pointless banter, as such they saw little point in attempting to educate those ignorant to their ways. "<<Return to the main safehouse and prepare for exfil. You will be contacted when the time comes, until then you are to maintain radio silence,>>" Tacitus said.

Once more, the agents saluted, then turned around and left. Leaving them to their assignments, he turned his attention back to the notes stored in the datapad, analyzing them and committing the information to memory before using his considerable skill at the telekinetic applications of the Force to crush the small device into a ball half as small as his fist. Any components that weren't pulverized, would have certainly fused together under the heat generated by the pressure of the Sith Lord's immensely powerful will. Any data which might tip off the local authorities, on the remote chance that the device was found, would be irrecoverably lost.

He couldn't reach out to his usual political allies. His Empire's enemies, those damnable Jedi who had staged its fall from grace by framing it of such horrid crimes as slavery, would certainly have agents watching them. So, he was forced to turn to one whom the Jedi would never expect him to, a politician who's views and beliefs were so diametrically opposed to his, that no one would have seen his next move coming.

He crossed the room, moving to the small suitcase beside the bed, removing its contents and arranging them upon the covers. With some difficulty, he managed to acquire a suit of servant's garb, like the one worn by the palace staff, complete with toolkit and fake ID badge that would identify him as a maintenance worker. It would pass most scrutiny, unless the guards decided to check it against their database, which meant that it would be best to avoid them altogether. Violence would have disastrous consequences for his plan.

With the schedule his agents had provided, he chose a time which coincided with a pattern of patrols and servant activity that would make it easiest for him to sneak into the private quarters of his quarry without getting caught. A few minutes before 11:32 PM, awarded him a brief window of opportunity which made his plan to infiltrate the palace, possible.

---

​

---

Getting past the checkpoint at the entrance was the easy part. He snuck aboard one of the supply shuttles making regular trips to the palace and used a small device provided by his slicers to get past the loading dock droids, using a recently discovered exploit in their programming to make them confuse him with the background scenery, effectively rendering him invisible to their gaze.

Eyes cast down and his free hand in his pocket, to conceal the black talons at the ends of his fingers, which were quite deadly and also noticeable, he made his way through the servant corridors, dodging busibodies carrying cleaning supplies and trays of food, relying upon his distance to them and their busy schedule to avoid their notice. Twice he had to duck into adjacent broom cabinets to avoid guard patrols and there was a close call with a group of guards who had just changed shifts and chose this route to return to their quarters or otherwise go to wherever they were headed, but they were tired after long shifts of work and did not pay him more than a cursory glance.

Years before he was the Emperor, he was a mercenary. Years before that, he was a thief, living off of whatever scraps he managed to pilfer. That experience proved valuable now, although his skills at infiltration were certainly pushed to their limits. He was a soldier, not a spy. This was not his element.

Setting as brisk a pace as he dared to, he navigated the winding maze of corridors using no indicators other than the map he memorized hours earlier, always mindful of the time, aware that the schedule of guard patrols was closing down his window, fast. He made it to his destination in the nick of time, with mere seconds to spare, but at last, he beheld a large, empty hallway and a set of doors beyond. Doors which led into the private quarters of the planet's sovereign monarch and representative amongst the Confederacy's Viceroyalty.

He gently pushed open the doors and silently stepped in, only hoping that she wasn't taking a bath or something. Convincing her to listen to what he had to say, would prove particularly difficult if he snuck into her private quarters while she wasn't wearing any clothes. Setting down the toolbox in his hand, he leaned against the door, arms crossed, waiting for her to come into view and notice his presence.

 

[Vyra Silara]

The Largan Royal Citadel.

Built long ago by the first colony, its ivory towers and crystal archways had stood the test of time, carefully maintained by the Relovi people and protected from the harshest elements by a shield.

While extravagant decoration and lavish dressings were encouraged for the individual to display his or her higher social standing, the homes and offices of Relovian nobles and privileged middle class relied more on intricate architecture and exquisite color choices than added ornamentation.

The Palace was no different.

Crafted almost entirely from Relovian’s native aetheres, a diamond-hard, pearly-white stone shot with silver veins, its very bones were a work of the finest art, every curve tenderly shaped, every mural carved in lifelike detail, every frieze a testament to the wonders of an artists vision. Flecks of color here and there added dimension, but aside from the yards of silk chiffon draped in archways and the sand-hued runners on the floors, there were no other noticeable flashes of embellishment. The only exception were the archways and the ceilings above the throne itself. Found by the settlers during construction and first thought to be priceless gems, small, iridescent lethinia crystals had been set in the smooth stone above like so many stars in a white sky. Many a thief looking to prove their worth attempted to extricate them over the years, but their monetary value fell drastically when the Relovi discovered they were as common on their planet as aetheres. Their beauty, however, was indisputable and so they were left where they’d been set.



By any standard, the private quarters before him were surprisingly stark for a Queen.


Her chambers were set up in a horizontal pyramid of circular rooms, with her bedroom and bathroom at the ‘top’ farthest from the door and the larger rooms for dressing, entertaining, meetings and reflection near the entrance.
Furniture was modest but comfortable. The bed, while large, was humble from frame to sheet and draped in a sheer cream netting, deceptively thin, meant more for the function of guarding the Queen than adding to appearance. Not only did the mysterious fabric offer some protection from projectiles and fire, but it also repelled Relovian’s most vicious insects. A simple but generously sized glass desk sat framed by a balcony in her private office, upon which rested a brilliantly glowing sein jewel from her home planet. Shelves had been built into the walls and were lined with holo-books, glowing subtle blues and greens in the dark, and couches were positioned throughout her quarters in ways that encouraged a more intimate setting. A large soaking tub sat in the middle of the bathroom, flanked on all sides by privacy screens and illuminated by the moon’s own light from a skylight above.

Despite the austere alabaster setting, there was no lack of warmth in his surroundings. The silver veins in the polished aetheres caught the low lighting, glimmering like trapped treasure. A fire burned in the white hearth, well-fed and crackling, silk taupe and teal curtains in every archway shifting gently in the night’s late fall breeze. The same fabric was swathed across the ceilings above, softening the harshness of the stone and giving the room an almost tent-like feel. Autumn spice from the open windows mingled with the scent of warm honey and jasmine drifting through the rooms from Vyra’s bedchamber…

…followed by the sound of disturbed water.

“Eirene?” Vyra shifted under the opaque bathwater, disturbing the herbs and bits of flowers floating on the surface. A thin tendril of blood twisted from her back through the milky water as she moved, earning a wince as it joined the blood from her right leg. Whatever her Handmaiden had put in the bath to clean her wounds stung. Badly. “Did you find those bandages?” She lifted her leg, frowning as she poked at the three inch gash on her calf. Her emergency stitching was holding, for now. “Your herbs sting quite magnificently, I’m not sure I can sit another thirty minutes in this..soup,” she finished, splashing away a particularly large piece of gillmens bark. She really shouldn’t complain. The Stewjon native’s herbal ‘magic’ had saved her from many an infection in the past, and Eirene clearly felt some guilt over her Queen’s accident, though it was no one’s fault but Vyra’s own stubborn determination to conquer her demons.

The viceroy suspected roping her friend into another late-night free-scale climb of Mount Sapientia sans an on-hand medic and some rocket boots wouldn’t work again.


Vyra waited for the woman’s bright, expressive voice but it never came. In fact, save for the fire, there was no other sound at all.

She stiffened slightly, ears peeled. Had she imagined it? Surely the doors had opened.

Unease crouched in her gut, poised to spring with alarm.


The stinging in her wounds forgotten, Vyra turned in her tub to face the bathroom entrance, resting her forearms on the edge of the tub and peering around as she listened intently, trying to see through the privacy screens, sixth sense tingling. “Eirene? Hello?... I know someone’s there.” As if confirming her own suspicion, Vyra’s heart jumped a little. She couldn’t see anything in the darkness beyond her partitions, she couldn’t hear anything beyond the distant fire, but something was telling her she wasn’t alone. And were it one of her ladies, they’d have presented themselves already.

The moon beamed through the skylight, painting her pale skin in ghostly silver-blue shades. Slowly, heart hammering, the Queen reached out with a glistening arm and felt along the side of the tub for the dagger Vishaka had insisted on hiding there (“A bath is a good place to kill a queen, Your Grace… No? Well. Just think of it like an extra secret really bad shaver you’ll hopefully never have to use, then.”), silently thanking her Handmaiden’s paranoid nature. A blaster would have been more useful; Vyra’s skill with hand-to-hand was pitiful, at best. But something was better than nothing, and if she held it like Na’an had taught her and pretended confidence, perhaps it would give someone pause.

She drew it to her, careful not to further carve her body up as she stretched her legs out and sat back, settled under the waters with her back against the tub. She mixed away the blood as best she could, flushing the herbs from side to side across the milky water. The dagger stayed in her right hand in clear view as she draped both arms over the edges in a relaxed manner and set her expression with a haughty boredom usually reserved for the Red Strikers lengthy extremist rantings, House Zygan’s big hitters in the political arena.
“You have mere moments before my guards arrive,” she bluffed, calling out in such imperious, severe tones. “Approach and declare yourself, or I’ll make sure this is the last time you ever walk into any room, invited or otherwise.”

|| Kainan Wolfe ||​

 

[Kainan Wolfe]

Soundtrack: Witcher 3 OST - After The Storm
Attn: Vyra Silara

​

• Royal Palace
  Largan City, Relovian

The differences between Relovi and Imperial architecture were as stark as night and day. The warlord couldn't help but think that, now that he had a few brief seconds to examine his surroundings. The base principles were similar. Both Nelvaanian and Relovi architecture favored wide, open spaces, towering archways and tall ceilings. That is about all they had in common. The delicate-looking archways, the intricately-detailed friezes, the very structure of the edifice he found himself in, were a work of art, a masterpiece, designed by a mind who wanted the palace to inspire joy, to make those who gazed upon it feel welcome, to feel at peace and free.

Nelvaanian architecture, by contrast, was a symbol of defiance. Defiance against a hostile galaxy who sought the demise of the Imperial people, defiance against a hostile world which no one thought could ever host a civilization as advanced and sophisticated as the Eternal Empire. Cold, dark grays and rough-hewn stone, coming together to form towering edifices of state, monuments to nationalistic pride, the testament of a people who, against all odds, survived and thrived. There was no sentiment of peace to be found within Nelvaanian architecture, only order and a sense of belonging to something greater. A monument to hubris, some would say. Then again, what did they know. They were not Imperials, afterall.

He was surprised to notice how austere his surroundings were. He did not expect this from a Summerworlder Queen, to forego the opulence and trappings of luxury that Summerworlder monarchs and politicians were typically so fond of. Other than some silk drapes and the jewel-encrusted ceilings and archways, the furnishings were remarkably plain, if still a bit too delicate for his tastes. He preferred the practicality of sturdy cloth to fine silks.

The bed was draped in some sort of netting, probably to repel insects, something which solicited a soft chuckle from the hardened warlord, the sound lost in the crackle of the fire which burned calmly in the fireplace. On his homeworld, they guarded against vicious predators with rifle and with sword. Here... they guarded against bugs. It was complemented by a large desk, which he appreciated, made of glass, which he did not. But what caught his eyes the most, were the shelves on the wall, which held row upon row of books. They were electronic devices, not like the real, hard paper he preferred in his own collection, but this Queen's library was vast, perhaps as vast as his. He wondered, for a moment, what these shelves were filled with? Compiled works of history and philosophy, treatises of economy and statecraft, or tomes of the kind of silly, romantic poetry that Summerworlder nobles so often preferred? Nevertheless, he was impressed by the effort this Queen had put into gathering this collection. Most Summerworlder nobles were too busy with their endless debauched parties and self-serving schemes for wealth and power, to concern themselves with reading and collecting books.

The Queen's chambers felt warm and intimate and they made him feel uneasy, as if he were defiling someone's private sanctuary with his intrusion. Which, in truth, he was. He shifted uncomfortably, the toe of his boot digging an imaginary hole in the immaculate floor.

The sound of splashing water disrupted his silent, private musings, followed by a soft and lovely voice, calling for someone named Eirene, probably one of the servants. He froze like a statue, his heart skipping a beat at the realization of what that sound of splashing water, meant. This... couldn't get more awkward. Or, so he thought.

In his panic, he missed some of what she said next. Bandages? Sting? Was she hurt? But then, her voice seemed to indicate that she was in good spirits, far too good for a wounded Queen. The voice called out again, asking for this mysterious Eirene woman and the warlord's eyes darted around the room, his calm, collected nature and perfect self-control forgotten as his mind instinctively sought escape from a more primordial fear than the fear of violence or death. Darth Tacitus, Reaper of Kuat and Conqueror of Nibelungen, the man who stared down a burning, crashing Star Destroyer and gazed into the eyes of death itself without flinching, the man who earned himself the title of Ghost of Eshan and all the infamy that came with it, stood terrorized and breathless at the mere thought of the presence of a disrobed woman's form in the same room in which he stood. This is ridiculous, some small part of his mind chided him. You're behaving like a teenager before his first date.

His reaction was irrational and yet, his capacity to reason seemed to have failed him, perhaps having the good sense to flee before it found itself in this most embarrassing of predicaments.

A soft, hissing sound brought his senses into focus. Even in his current state of mind, even in his panic and confusion, he was still a soldier. A battle-hardened veteran of a thousand battles who could distinguish that one, recognizable sound amidst the roaring rage of a whirlwind. The sound of a blade being drawn.

His pupils dilated as his muscles subtly tensed, the warlord instinctively readying himself to deal with this threat and everything came crashing back into focus again. The tone, more than the words of her warning, made it clear to him that if he wanted this crazy plan to conduct some diplomacy of his, to work, he ought to make his presence known as soon as possible. Convincing this Queen of the merits of his cause, would prove rather difficult if he tried to talk to her after being forced to massacre her guards. He stepped toward the source of her voice, calling out as he approached. "We've met before," he spoke in a deep voice that was as rough as gravel. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just wanted to talk to you in..."

He stopped as he rounded the corner and stepped past the privacy screens. "...private."

His eyes caught a glimpse of her moonlit form before immediately shifting across the room, finding some invisible point on the wall to stare into, the slitted, cat-like orbs glowing with a golden light seemingly drilling an immaginary hole into the alabaster wall. "I'm sorry, I, uhh.... thought you... I didn't think that..."

He let out a sigh, his shoulders deflating as a defeated expression settled onto his rough and battle-weathered features. He resigned himself to the realization that there was no way he could get through this night without making a complete fool of himself.

Rough, calloused hands lifted themselves to his chest, fingers that ended in sharp and deadly talons fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, in their current, trembling state. As soon as he could, he took off the thing and held it out to her, trying to the best of his ability, to avoid looking in her general direction. "You... should, uhh... maybe put this on," he said, awkwardly, as he hung it over the edge of the privacy screens as fast as he could and turned his back on her to give the Queen what privacy he could so she could cover herself.

Reflected off the water in the tub, the pale moonlight cast itself onto his frame, revealing a set of broad shoulders, powerful arms covered in hard, corded muscle that were the result of years of intensive labor and difficult battles... and a skin that was covered in scars. From distinctive blaster burns, to the small cuts of shrapnel, deep gashes carved by blades large and small and what looked to be the impression left by a lightsaber running him through, an injury which should have killed a normal person, his entire back alone, was covered in hundreds of scars.

And beneath them all, much older and faded with age, were the long, jagged lines that were the unmistakable mark of a slaver's whip.

As he waited, his mind furiously worked to distract him by trying to tell apart the the the various perfumes lingering in the air. Some kind of spices seemed to dominate, although he could also tell apart jasmine and honey and... blood? To his sharp, inhuman senses, that scent was unmistakable. He remembered her asking something about bandages, earlier. "Are you injured?" he asked her, hesitantly, like a creature who's wounded pride was still raw and fragile. "I could take a look at it. If you want me to, that is. After you get dressed."

 

[Vyra Silara]

She knew that voice, unmistakable, unforgettable.
Confirmation followed shortly, a shock of silver hair, a striking figure and a pair of molten eyes that had lingered in her mind since Fondor.

Tacitus.

The sound of sharply disturbed water cut through the quiet as Vyra all but launched herself from her bath, sending much of its contents overboard. The scene was rather ungraceful, thank the Whills his back was turned, but this was no time for poise.

There was a wanted man in her bathroom, the capitol was full of eyes and ears, and steps must be taken to protect all parties.

“That’s kind of you,” she agreed in a hurry, swiping his offered shirt from the divider and fastening it haphazardly around her soaked form. Entirely too large, but it covered what it needed to, though the fabric stuck to her skin every chance it got. Was that…? It was. This was a palace runners garb! She’d certainly be asking him how he’d managed to acquire a staff uniform. “Perhaps later?” Her tone low, hushed, an urgency in her step. No doubt the Eternal Emperor had made efforts to ensure his secrecy here, but caution was crucial. Her enemies were well-equipped, well-funded and everywhere. The white halls of the Citadel might look pure and honest, but under the rug there were serpents waiting for their chance to strike at the faction that brought stability and prosperity back to Relovian.
Their ‘foreign’ Queen meeting with an alleged criminal, whether that branding was true or false, would be all the ammunition they needed to rip her off her throne.

Vyra checked the time. Fresh guards would arrive outside her chambers in just under a minute. Hastily, she pulled the clip from her dry hair and dunked her chestnut curls in the water to complete her look, wringing out the extra. To say his shirtless form wasn’t a distraction would be a lie. Twice, she caught herself staring, but it wasn’t just the warrior’s obvious strength of body that intrigued her. It was the map of scars across his flesh, so extensive, so deeply etched, the cruelest strokes from life’s most unforgiving paintbrush. Savage. Beautiful.

Time may fade the marks, but it never weakened the memories behind them.

She found herself wondering at the stories behind each one. Darth Tacitus was still an enigma to her. It seemed even his mysteries had mysteries.

A subtle shift in the blue clock numbers above her doorway pulled her gaze away. 11:32. Not a moment to waste.
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” she muttered to him as she approached and gripped what she could of his bare forearm, keenly aware of his discomfort and the complete lack of decorum in, well, everything about this situation. “But I need to be sure.” Vyra charged out of her bathroom, 1.65 meters of dripping herbal bathwater and brunette power, unceremoniously towing the shirtless but imposing, battle-hardened Sith Lord behind her as she hurried through her bedroom. Cameras were never a problem, as the aetheres stonework helped to block those signals, but private conversations in her quarters had ended up in the hands of House Zygen before, and a thorough combing had revealed hidden listening devices multiple times. All she had to do was get to that jammer…

She was halfway across the floor with him when there was a sharp knock on her door.

Vyra halted, alarm shooting through her muscles. With a sharp pivot and a shooing gesture, she pushed at his bare chest, herding Tacitus into a shadowed alcove safely hidden from the doorway. She paused close to him as his back hit the cold wall and met his gaze just briefly, gold corruption flaring in the dark. A tingle shot up her spine. “Stay here, do not speak,” she whispered, removing her hands and fussing with her borrowed shirt as she turned away and collected herself. Blood trailed from her calf and seeped into the fabric clinging to her back. Vyra peeled the hem from her hips and tried to relax the wet fabric as she made for her entryway, switching the holo on and raising the volume as she passed her living area. The Queen grabbed a muja fruit from her dining table, biting into the sweet sunset-hued orb.

Hiding her bloodied leg from view, Vyra opened the door a few inches, allowing the inquiring guard to witness the blaring holo, steady fire and ‘just showered’ appearance. She finished chewing, her snack in plain view in her hand. “Yes?”

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace.” He bowed deeply before gesturing to the three beside him. “There are reports of unrest in parts of the upper capitol, a handful of protestors made it through security and onto palace grounds. Arrests have been made. We’re doubling your security tonight.”

This was…surprising, but she took it in stride with a sigh, rubbing at her forehead as if in pain. Which, she was, just not from a headache. “I suppose it was only a matter of time. Thank you for your vigilance, please see that no one else disturbs me tonight? I have the worst headache and two more episodes of ‘Odd Things’ to view before I turn in.”

The smallest hint of a smile quirked at the corner of the guard’s mouth. “Of course, Your Grace. We’ll be here should you require anything.”

“Mm, carry on,” Vyra dismissed as she shut the door. Better for them to think her simple than anything else right now. Not trusting your guards made for a stressful life. A swipe of her thumb sent all locks clicking into place. Immediately the monarch headed for her desk, touching the side of the bright sein jewel hovering on display. The hidden jamming technology confirmed with a slight vibration that it was working to specifications. Anyone listening would hear nothing but the holo. Drawing her curtains, she set the fruit on the table and hastened to her dressing room, retrieving a proper robe and a towel, pain zinging through her wounds.
She’d endured worse.
With a breath to steady herself, Vyra reentered her bedroom with far less panic and a slight limp in her step and moved to face the Sith Lord she’d put in a corner. She should be mortified, considering their current state and her previous actions, and she was on some small level. But curiosity was stronger.

“I’d ask your forgiveness for manhandling you in such a manner,” she began, tossing her gathered items on the chaise lounge, “but you did invade my chambers unannounced, so perhaps we’re even.” Was that..amusement? Hard to tell. But whatever it was had disappeared by the time her next words left her lips. “You may speak freely now, we’re safe and I expect you have a lot to explain.” She felt blood trail down her foot. Annoyance with herself passed through her thoughts. “..but, perhaps..if you truly have medical training, I’ll have your advice on how to tend to my wounds until medi-gel arrives.”

|| [member="Darth Tacitus"] ||​

 

[Kainan Wolfe]

Attn: Vyra Silara

​

• Royal Palace
  Largan City, Relovian

He didn't have to wait for long. There was a clumsy splash of water as the Queen launched herself out of the tub, perhaps as shocked by the awkward situation as Tacitus had been. Or, was she? Truth be told, he couldn't tell. He heard her yank the shirt off the divider and the Sith Lord involuntarily braced himself, a biological reaction programmed deep within the instincts of every man who ever lived, when expecting a stinging slap across his face from a wrathful woman. But the expected admonishment never came as the Queen chose instead to... call him kind? Ah, because he offered to help her with her injuries. With the commotion, he'd almost forgotten about it. Almost.

She declined and there was an urgency in her tone. The hushed voice in which she spoke, the sounds of her movements, these were tell-tale signs who's reading Tacitus had mastered long ago. The worry and urgency in her speech and movements raised silent alarms in the warlord's mind. Something was wrong. Could it have something to do with those protests he had spotted earlier? Perhaps her reign was less secure than it should have been. A worrying thought.

His mind snapped back into focus, taloned fingers twitching as the seconds stretched, as his sharp senses cast a net for any sign of danger.

Behind him, the Queen seemed to fumble with her bath, splashing water on herself, perhaps in an effort to fix her appearance for... something? Someone?. For now, her intent remained a mystery to him. And despite his curiosity, he kept his back to her, mindless of what impression his tapestry of scars might leave and what she may be able to deduce about a past he worked very hard to bury. Perhaps, in her rush, she would pay his scars as little heed as Tacitus had, when he forgot about keeping them from her sight.

She broke the silence with an apology, a formal one which sounded so out of place, given the predicament the two found themselves in. He felt her warm fingers closing around his wrist and then the world seemed to jump to light speed.

And they were off. Dashing across the bedroom, the lithe young woman half-dragging him behind her, as if the gates of the Nether had sprung open and all the demon hosts where charging after them. For a brief moment, it reminded him of a mad dash across the hallways of a Sith palace, so many years ago. But the moment was fleeting and he pushed that memory back into the cavernous recesses of his mind.

If the world had jumped to hyperspace, now it came to an abrupt stop with a knock. With remarkable agility, the Queen pivoted and shoved him against the wall. Again he felt the warm touch of delicate fingers and for a moment, eyes the color of cinnamon met his own. He didn't notice the masonry's cold seeping into his back. He was used to it.

With a worried, urgent whisper, she urged him to keep quiet and a suspicion began to take form in his mind. "Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace..." the guard announced himself, belching out a report about unrest in the streets and arrest. Hidden in the shadows, the Sith Lord shook his head. Short was the reign of kings and queens who didn't even have the loyalty of their guards. And usually ended in tragedy.

Her reply was short and full of the usual bland pleasantries. She quickly invented an excuse and disposed of the troublesome guards. Tacitus found himself admiring her quick thinking, a rare trait amongst summerworlder monarchs. A series of clicks informed him that she locked the doors and once again flew across the room, fiddling with some device concealed in her desk. Tacitus' expression darkened, constricting into one of disgust and disapproval, wondering how the poor woman managed to get anything done around here without having to execute or assassinate some upstart noble every other week. This was yet another case of the short-sighted, self-serving court intrigue the kind which he so thoroughly despised. No doubt, the planet's damned summerworlder nobles were plotting and scheming to seize power for themselves.

The Queen stepped back into the room, now dressed more properly in a robe, a towel wrapped around her mane of hair. She was walking with a slight limp, one which Tacitus' trained and experienced eyes immediately noticed.

"No need to apologize," he replied to her, eyes darting towards the door. "I understand."

Pushing himself off of the wall he leaned against, he took a few steps across the room, closing the distance. "Just... call me Kainan," he said. Not Aldus, his birth name and the one by which he was typically introduced, but a different one. Its meaning was another mystery the enigmatic warlord never revealed to anyone. As far as the rest of the galaxy was concerned, he was Aldus Malvern, lost son of a noble family, emerging from the shadows to build an Empire and return into his dynasty's fold. To most who addressed him, he was either 'lord', 'your highness', or 'Tacitus'. There were very, very few whom he allowed to use the first name he knew as his own.

Kneeling in front of her, he reached out with calloused hands that were forever cold, another price he paid along the difficult, lonely road he walked. Deadly, taloned fingers which could rend flesh from bone closed around her wound in a grip that was remarkably gentle. "I can patch up a few things, though I'm no surgeon," he said, sharp talons picking the stitches out one by one.. "However, that won't be necessary, this time," the Sith Lord explained as he cast his will into the cold, lifeless currents of the Darkside, grasping them and teasing them forward in a technique known as Dark Transfer. In battle, it could be used to turn a minor scratch into an gruesome amputation, but it could be also used for healing as well. "This might sting a little," he warned her as he let the Force slowly trickle into her. Ever so slowly, the bleeding stopped, then her skin began to pull together, until there was only a faint line of raw, pink skin, where the cut had been. "Too long and shallow to have been a predator, certainly too low for a fight. You fell, no, you slid across a surface and cut yourself on something sharp, didn't you?" he asked, absentmindedly.

He stood up with a sigh. "I'm sorry for showing up here unannounced, but I had to talk to you in private," he said. "The few allies I have left, are all being watched by my enemies and the rest of the Viceroyalty have either been bought, coerced or otherwise persuaded to turn against my Empire. A gaggle of self-serving hypocrites, the lot of them," the warlord lamented. "Couldn't risk approaching you publicly, or reach out in any official manner."

First casting another fleeting glance at the door, his eyes then locked onto hers with an intensity that was born of conviction. His voice gave answer to the question before she could ask it. "I am a lot of things, your highness. A warlord with armies at my beck and call. A murderer with the blood of millions on my hands. A dictator with absolute power and responsibility over the lives of many. But I am not a slaver," he said, perhaps the slightest hint of weariness and regret as he listed his many sins. The last sentence was spoken with the kind of fire which only one with a burning, hated familiarity with slavery, could muster.

"And I am not here for my own sake," he spoke with a sigh, shoulders drooping slightly. With everything that happened recently, it was becoming harder and harder for him to keep up that mask of perfect calm and boundless confidence that he very rarely allowed himself to take off.

"By now, you've heard the news that Nelvaan, my planet, is under Jedi occupation," the warlord said, a mixture of sadness and anger in his eyes. News of the disastrous governance of the new Jedi regime on the icy world, was regularly making the rounds on the Holonet. The once powerful economy of the planet, had been driven to the edge of a cliff, then given a cruel shove into the abyss. "Not sure how much you know about the situation, but one thing you should be aware of, is that these particular Jedi are part of a sect known as the Hand of Light. The very same organization which committed genocide against my people, over fifteen years ago. And now my people are suffering under their boots again, many driven to starvation, some abducted and taken who knows where," he said, a hand clenching into a fist. Blood seeped between his fingers as his unnatural talons pierced the skin again, as they had so many times before. "I need the political support to stop the Viceroyalty from crushing the revolution which we must now fight."

With a ragged sigh, he reached out a bloodied arm to lean against the Queen's lounge, stopping himself just shy of staining the piece of furniture. "I'm sorry. Where is your other wound?" he asked her, remembering the red stains on the shirt he gave her.

 

[Vyra Silara]

​

​

|| [member="Darth Tacitus"] ||​

​

Warlord. Murderer. Dictator. The images his words conjured felt distant, contradictory from the surprisingly gentle touch of his taloned fingers, the barest hint in his voice of a spirit straining under the weight of worlds. Vyra knew what the depths of a man could hide, though. But there was one phrase, one clear declaration that, for the moment, stood out above the rest.

“I am not a slaver.”

His words hung in her mind, the sudden blaze in his tone altogether too familiar as it burned fiercely against the preconceived notions that’d spread through the Confederacy like wildfire. Vyra was (to her knowledge) one of only a few Viceroyalty who had rejected the concept of the Sith Lord’s betrayal due to, in her opinion, a lack of solid evidence and proper investigation. It was the first time in her history with the faction who’d given her a greater purpose that the politician found herself at odds with the majority, and she didn’t care for the feeling. But she had a duty to truth, integrity and due process, and wavering from those ideals would compromise more than just her own conscience. It would make a mockery of the faith placed in her by the people of Relovian and the governing body of the Confederacy.
She had to uphold the fair standard, even if it cast her in an unpopular light.

It’s why, despite feeling in her gut the intense sincerity of Tacitus-..no, Kainan’s words as he made his case for his struggling people, Vyra knew what he needed of her would be incredibly difficult, if not next to impossible to achieve.

It took her a long moment to gather a response as she stared at the raw line on her calf, healed, very little sign of where the mountain’s edge had torn her. Reaching down, she brushed at it curiously, expecting heat or tenderness from the stinging. She found neither. Instead, a…coldness. Familiar, but…different. The Force, but not how she was used to it. Like a hot dinner gone cold or ice on a fragrant flower. Not altogether uncomfortable, but the Naboo native withdrew her hand from it quickly, blinking away the jarring flashes of anxious cobalt eyes in her mind. Caution flooded her thoughts, seized her spirit, habit kicking in.

Warning. Danger.
Darkside.

She could almost here the Jedi Master’s voice now, recall Caoimhin’s sharp tones resonating through her own mouth, his will gripping her limbs, guiding her motions, but it wasn’t HIS will, it was THEIRS…

Vyra swallowed, struggling against the vortex of the past. It’d been a very, very long time since she’d felt anything of the lightside’s shadowed, icy counterpart. But it’d never touched her in this capacity before. Always an instrument of pain, to hurt, to twist, to manipulate. And here it was, wielded by a man who certainly looked the part…healing her body. The darkside didn’t heal, couldn’t heal… could it? A million questions arrested her thoughts. Not one made it past her lips. It wasn’t the time. Business first.

And the more she focused on his plight, the quicker the echo of Jedi Master Caoimhin Shan faded from the forefront.


Jedi occupation. Genocide. Abductions.

None of it made sense to her. Not one of these atrocities belonged tethered to ‘Jedi’ because they couldn’t, they wouldn’t engage in something like this. Not REAL Jedi. This Hand of Light organization needed closer examination, she was unfamiliar with the name, but… whatever horrors Kainan had witnessed at their hands, whatever they called themselves, Jedi they were not. Rogues, perhaps. Dark Jedi, warped by the darkside. She wasn’t naïve enough to claim all Jedi were equally pure. They fell, and often. But the way Kainan had spoken of them and the blood welling from his clenched fist left the impression that they were all one in the same to him. There was hate there, and she did not know his heart nor his past well enough to comment.
Vyra left it alone.
For now.

“I’m afraid the time for political support is almost over,” she began, tone warm but firm. Vyra removed the damp towel from her shoulders and shifted slightly towards him, reaching for his bloodied hand so as to clean it for him. “My other wound can wait, come, sit,” she insisted, gesturing to the space next to her. Her expression left little room for debate, though there was a hint of a smile behind it. “I’d rather not explain to the servants why there’s blood all over my lounge. People would talk.”

She plucked a bit of clary sage from the towel and tossed it into the fireside next to them, the flower’s sweet, delicate petals smoking instantly. “I know you speak the truth,” Vyra began once more, meeting his eyes. “You wouldn’t risk so much to lie to my face. But unfortunately, I can’t bring my ‘sensitive intuition’ to the assembly, nor can I simply explain your presence here. I’d be suspected an accomplice or a traitor, and I cannot risk Relovian’s security in the Confederacy.” She resisted the urge to reach back and pull the fabric of her robe out of the wound across her back. Vyra flinched ever so slightly as the fire popped like gunfire over a settling log. “Neither can I help anyone from prison. I spoke out against branding you a criminal without further evidence, extensive investigation and a fair hearing. I cannot turn around and ask the Viceroyalty to accept my word on the matter.”

 

[Kainan Wolfe]

Attn: Vyra Silara

​

• Royal Palace
  Largan City, Relovian

The time for political support was over, she said. Deep down, he knew she was right, though he had hoped there was still a chance. Unfortunately, the Confederacy had become far too enamored with the Jedi, too deeply corrupted and most Viceroys would likely see this as a chance to rid themselves of a rival. He let out a ragged sigh, shoulders slumping under the weight of things to come, knowing what the future held.

He sat down when she beckoned him, a mournful look answering her smile, looking down at his hand, surprised to see the blood there. She was right, people would talk, the servants would gossip. "I am sorry," he said, head hung in shame at the loss of control. "This doesn't usually happen, anymore."

Truth be told, it had taken him a long time to grow accustomed to the unnatural claws on his hands. After the ritual, everything was difficult at first. His senses had become sharper, his reflexes faster and it took him months of clumsy accidents to get used to the changes, the scars in his palms bearing testimony to that. He had cheated death, had gained the ability to fight better than he ever had before, but he had lost so much in return. Pain and the cold touch of death were his constant companions, now, as were the horrible nightmares he lived through each night, nightmares born from the memories of the demon he bound himself to and became. He had to struggle against things which he never felt before, those demonic instincts to rend flesh, to tear apart and kill everything that moved. It was a constant battle and he was both the soldier and the battlefield. One more sacrifice he made for his people, for the Empire.

The subtle scent of the burning flower immediately reached his unnatural senses, reminding him of the things he lost, of the fact that he was no longer human. Once, he had hopes and dreams. He knew love and kindness, knew what it meant to find joy in the small things shared with one he loved. Then, all of that was taken from him, leaving him with nothing, making him the perfect man for the path he now walked. When a man had nothing left to lose, he could sacrifice everything and sacrifice he had. Now, he was only what his people needed him to be. Emperor, dictator, warlord.

His eyes met hers as she spoke, unable to hide the empty, lonely sorrow in his soul. He was too tired to keep up the appearance of invincibility he usually put up when meeting others. Too tired to care. He understood the points she made. Her own rule over her planet wasn't secure. She lacked the political support, herself, lacked the pull amongst the same corrupt Viceroys who were the bane of his people, to be able to do much. She had to put her own duty to her own people first and he understood that need, completely.

With a sigh, he reached out, taloned fingers giving her had a small, gentle squeeze. "I am sorry for this, for barging in on you and taking up your time. You were one of the few who cried out against the injustice wrought upon us by the Hand of Light. Whatever happens in the future, the Empire will not forget this kindness," he said, his eyes darting once more to the great doors that led into the pit of scheming snakes that was the rest of the palace. "You should not have to live in fear of your own guards, I will send you ten of my people to replace them with. My Wolfguards are loyal and disciplined, they can be trusted and they will protect you with their lives."

"The Empire won't be given a fair trial," he responded to her. "The truth is, we were always just a disliked tool, to them. Something they despised, but needed, to deal with their enemies. They needed us on Copero, on Eshan, on Tanaab. Needed us to bleed for them and their Jedi friends, to fight and grind their enemies into dust. Now all their enemies are dead and they no longer need us. Now, they can finally turn on us and do what they always do to those who do not share their corrupt, wasteful, self-indulgent ways."

"Suffer not an Empire to live, remember? That is what they do," the Sith Lord said to her, not expecting an answer. "No, the Confederacy never really cared about its constituencies, only about the wants and needs of its leaders, the same as every other democracy to ever exist. And justice? That concept is completely alien to it, just as it was when Tellu Talon got my soldiers killed on Hoylin and they let her get away with it because of who her sister is. Just like when they let the Silver Jedi give sanctuary to our worst traitors and enemies, without raising a word in protest. Just like when Kay Arenais and her Jedi-backed co-conspirators tried to usurp the Empire and the Confederacy pledged not one ship in our defense."

"When they need something, its always the Empire who does the bleeding and the dying. But its never the other way around. We were always just a tool to serve the interests of Darth Metus and his cronies and now, our usefulness to them has run out," he said, a mixture of disgust and wrath in his voice. He shook his head, seething rage bleeding out of him, drawing a deep breath to calm his nerves, to steel himself for what was coming. For what had to be done.

His eyes met hers again, but this time, they held only steel, only unwavering resolve. "Amongst my people, we have a saying. Struggle is the father of all things," he said to her. "We do not shy away from hardship, we do not shirk the sacrifices that are required of us. The truth is, I have been expecting the Confederacy to betray us for a long time and I have made the necessary preparations."

For years, the Empire had been working on establishing for itself a colony outside of Confederate control. In secret, a world had been found and fortified, made ready for another great Exodus, like the one his people made before. "With or without the support of the Confederacy, we will crush the Jedi who seek to destroy the very soul of our nation. We will rebuild, rising again from the ashes, stronger than ever."

"And if the Confederacy or their Jedi friends choose to challenge our right to exist? Then they will learn that we are not the Jen'ari. That we are not Mandalorians. We do not cower. We do not bend or break, we will not scatter before them or acquiesce to their ambitions. No, we will stand and fight. We will live and die by the sword, just like we always have and we shall answer their injustice with fire and steel, with the discipline, might and unshakable resolve of our indomitable armies," he said, his words chilling an powerful, the voice of a man defined by an unwavering iron will. "That is our way. It is an old, old way. And we will not change."

 

[Vyra Silara]

|| Kainan Wolfe ||​

And there he was.

Darth Tacitus. Fanatic. Eternal Dictator. Demon Lord.

The power of his will was almost palpable. Years of butting heads with some of the galaxy’s most intense personalities had all but smothered her ‘flight’ instincts, but the very air around him seemed to throw itself outwards, an invisible, unyielding force that left you with only two options. Submit, or run. And at such an intimate distance, it was overwhelming. It took effort not to shift away from him with head bowed, even for someone with her experience, but fight the urge she did, the only sign of impact on her features being the slightest raise of an eyebrow.

“I see now what they mean about you, Kainan,” she mused out loud, flicking her gaze up at him once, twice, before settling it once more on his bloodied hand in hers, “why the name ‘Tacitus’ is either whispered in fear or spat with hatred and never anything in between. I was sure the tales were just that, stories, exaggeration, but…perhaps not.” Her tone fell neither sharply nor softly, flirting with both fascination and disapproval on the edge of neutral ground, but there was a small degree of admiration there, not for what was said but how it was voiced. The content of his words aside, Kainan’s passion and dedication to his people and their way of life earned him respect in her book. “You’re somehow exactly how I imagined you to be, and yet..you’re not. Not at all.”

It was subtle, but Vyra had caught glimpses of it. The man behind the Emperor, the weight on his shoulders, the hollow chill behind his eyes carved by unfathomable loss, and the acute feeling she’d been witness to a side of the Sith Lord very few had seen. Already, the scant bit of information she had on him was in open conflict with what she’d seen, here, now. Gentle manners and thoughtful kindness was not an expected look on someone with his.. monstrous reputation. The idea that he might be putting on an act to garner favor HAD occurred to her, given his reasons for being here, but…she could ‘feel’ the sincerity in his words, though she didn’t understand how she knew this. Surely, if Kainan were so honest in word, he would be in action as well.

…Had she glimpsed? Or had he ALLOWED her to glimpse? Both were intriguing.

His offer of ten Wolfguards for her peace of mind and protection was…unexpected. Right away, despite the ember of trust just barely beginning to glow in her soul, Vyra thought a hundred wary thoughts in rapid succession all born from the paranoia that grips all those who practice politics. She let most of them pass by un-examined. Had Darth Tacitus, Emperor and Warlord of the Eternal Empire, wanted to strike back at the Confederacy and take Relovian for his own, supplanting ten of her chamber guards wasn’t the most efficient way to accomplish that goal.

And this man seemed the kind to favor efficiency.

Eventually, Vyra settled on ‘grateful but cautious’, an even mixture of her genuine feelings. “I’d say your Wolfguards weren’t necessary, dangerous even, if the Confederacy ever discovered them… but I see you are already aware of my troubles. Your offer is most welcome, though... I’m not sure why you extend it to begin with.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes the slightest, not in a hostile or suspicious manner, but in a curious one. “I’m not ungrateful, but you barely know me, and I can’t give you the political support you seek. There’s no reason for you to care about my position here anymore.”

Her soft, nimble hands dabbed at his palm with the towel, the old scar-darkened tissue around each puncture wound not going unnoticed as she cleaned the blood away. Images of the heavy scarring across his back flashed in her mind, an equally familiar pattern, one she shared herself though her own lashings had been fewer in number. With her other hand, she gently unfurled his fearsome taloned fingers, no fear, no hesitation in her touch, careful not to catch her own flesh on the edges. Wonder filled her mind. Why were they there? HOW were they there? What was it like? …How many beings had been torn apart under their grip?
Vyra tried not to look at them too intently, pushing her curiosity back down. Not because she was uncomfortable, no.

It was simply rude to stare at others, no matter how curious you were.

 

[Kainan Wolfe]

Attn: Vyra Silara

​

• Royal Palace
  Largan City, Relovian

"I see now what they mean about you, Kainan."

The words stung, a little. Not because of her, but because they reminded him of all the horrors he had seen and inflicted in turn, upon others. Warlord, murderer, tyrant. That was how the galaxy saw him, how he needed the galaxy to see him. The path he walked had cost him his dreams, his humanity, his very soul. Yet walk it he must, because it was necessary. Because no one else would.

Did he wish things were different? That he didn't have to do these things? Yes, he did. But the galaxy was a harsh place, teetering on the edge of disaster. It needed correction and for that, hard choices had to be made.

"I have done many horrible things, Vyra," he said to her, his voice betraying the conflict in his soul. The exhaustion he felt, the toll his burdens had taken on his soul, all crushed under the weight of his indomitable will. "I will do many more, before the end," Kainan said, an involuntary sigh escaping him. Why did he feel the need to open up to her, he wondered. What was it about her that made him feel the need to tell her these things? "It is the path I have to walk," he said, cryptically. He drew no pleasure from the atrocities he committed. He stained his hands red with the blood of millions because it was the burden he was required to carry, his role to play in the grander scheme of things and he had accepted that a long time ago. It was his duty.

His offer of bodyguards was refused. It wasn't hard to see why, he could see the hesitation and worries in her eyes, could read it in the subtleties of her voice. Most people wouldn't have, but he had learned how a long time ago. And he was very good at it. She was right, of course, he had no reasons to care about the security of her position and they would likely disagree on most things regarding politics. And yet...

He felt her fingers closing around his, softly unfurling his deadly talons. Her gentle touch and kindness felt... alien, to him. He was used to harshness, to war and bloodshed, to callouses building up on his hands from hours of toiling and fighting. But not this. Not since many years ago. In the corner of his vision, he could see how her eyes darted to his hand, could almost feel her curiosity and read the unspoken questions in her eyes. He answered them cryptically, though even that was more than he usually gave, which was nothing at all. "Sacrifices were necessary," he said with a sigh, bitter resignation in his voice. He hated them, those talons. They were a daily reminder of his loss, of what he had given. Of the humanity he traded for the means to continue carrying out his duty.

"You are a good person, Vyra," Kainan spoke, lifting his eyes to meet hers. "Honest, fair, but reasonable. There aren't enough people like you in politics and even though we fundamentally disagree on many things, I think the galaxy is a better place with you in it," he said, a hint of something in his eyes that very, very few people had ever seen and not for many years: compassion and understanding. "But this?" he continued, his eyes souring as he gestured at the palace around them. "This is a pit of snakes, just like the Viceroyalty is. I've seen it all, before. The lies, the scheming and plots, the petty rivalries and squabbles for wealth and power. I know how it ends, with a knife in your back in a dark hallway at night. I know you have no reason to trust me, I know what my reputation is. Even so, I will ask you to reconsider my offer," the Sith Lord pleaded.

"My Wolfguards are loyal and dependable, unlike those Hutt spawns you have standing outside your doors. And worry not about the Confederacy, they will never know who your guards are. Their covers would be impeccable and impenetrable," he said with certainty in his voice, merely stating a fact. "I will also give you a covert means to contact me. It will be secure and untraceable, no one will ever know," explained Kainan. The Imperials knew all too well how easy it was to intercept messages, so they had long since developed new methods of communication that guarded against espionage. The telepaths of Psi Corps, numerous numbers stations and dead drops, secret gestures and codes... But the one he had in mind for her, was something a little different and used only by his Wardens, that secret society so many whispered of, yet knew next to nothing about.

"There are several bank accounts throughout the galaxy. Charities, businesses, private ones, too. Not ours, but we tapped into them," he explained. "We monitor them for specific amounts transferred into them. Codes. I will give you some of these codes and accounts, but I am going to need a piece of paper, which you will have to burn after memorizing what I write on it."

"But first, let me look at your other wound," he said to her, taloned fingers involuntarily closing around her hand and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

 

[Vyra Silara]

“I have done many horrible things, Vyra…”

“I’ll do many more, before the end…”​

“Sacrifices were necessary…”​

“It’s the path I have to walk…”​

“You are a good person, Vyra.”




And how do YOU know what a good person is?
The nasty thought charged unprovoked across her mind, a dark, wild beast from the shadows of her past, dragging behind it the deep-rooted, practiced prejudice of every Jedi since the dawn of time.
How do you know what a good ANYTHING is? The darkside is never clear, never true, and you’re DRENCHED in it. You’re dangerous. You’re misguided.
You stay away from us.

Shock tied her tongue. Where had THAT come from? But she knew.

She knew exactly where.

Caoimhin’s condescending voice rang behind every word, indistinct but an octave below, like a badly recorded background track. The Jedi Master’s cobalt eyes flashed bright across her vision, indignant, threatening to match.


Stay. Away. From us.


Vyra let go of Kainan’s hand, perhaps a bit too quickly, clenching the bloodied towel a bit too tightly. Anxiety squeezed her ribs. Why was this happening? Why was he there at ALL? It’d been years… Immediately, possibilities emerged, answering her own questions with an ease that alarmed her almost more than the appearance of her dead other half.

Power. Proximity to the darkside. Her wound, the Force in her flesh, the subtle wicked twist of it…

And now, annoyance. Kainan had shown her a moment of something under his cold exterior and Cao had gone and ruined it for her.

A kind of compassion. Small, distant, but there. It was THERE.

Cao was wrong.


She loved him, always, but he was wrong.


“All political arenas are full of snakes no matter the faction or the ideals they preach,” Vyra sighed, tone unintentionally corrective as she shifted around, turning her back to him. “All of them.” The brunette offered him a smile before she looked away, hoping to smooth over any visible disquiet he may have observed, though she was fairly sure it was unconvincing. “That includes your Empire. Lies, scheming, petty rivalries and power-grabbing, it’s the rotten, inescapable lifeblood of government because people are fallible.”

The gash across her lower back throbbed angrily, Eirene’s emergency stitching pulling at itself.

Vyra sat rigidly. She’d been stalling, hesitating despite the pain every time she moved. She could say her reluctance was a matter of modesty; the silk robe clinging to her damp form would have to drop far too low for both their comforts just to see her wound clearly. But that ship had sailed at least twice already. She could even say she was wary of the power he used, of the effect it seemed to have on her mind. But… No, she knew why.

The real reason was tattooed in bright red down the middle of her spine. Identification numbers. A small flat brand used by most Zygerrian ‘trade-circles’ above…and a single twisted symbol near the base, its dark meaning understood by most.

Slaves of the flesh were rarely branded. No one liked to pay for damaged goods.

The lashing marks were lighter. Barely noticeable. Or so she liked to tell herself.

All of it was covered day and night by special makeup, but the bath had washed it away.


And now he would see.
Because she couldn’t dodge his offer anymore. She could feel it bleeding through her robe. Eirene had not returned yet, which was decidedly odd.

In one smooth movement, she let the material fall from her shoulders, though it stuck to her damp skin halfway down. Vyra reached back, peeling it downwards until the warm bedroom air caressed her open wound. Her wet hair hung down her back, dripping water on the seat. She pulled it over one shoulder, eyes closed against the vulnerability of…well, everything, and prompted him to respond.

“Or are you telling me your system is perfect? No corruption? No aristocrats more concerned with scandal than their people?”

|| Kainan Wolfe ||​

 

[Kainan Wolfe]

Attn: Vyra Silara​

• Royal Palace
  Largan City, Relovian

It took but a moment. Just one moment of... something. He could almost feel her turmoil, he could read it in how her posture shifted ever so slightly, how her muscles tensed, he could see that tension in her shoulders, all in the fraction of a second before she tore her hand away from his grip. He flinched at that, ever so slightly, unable to fully hide the hurt look in his eyes. Not because of her gesture, not because she drew away from his touch like he was made of ice, but because it reminded him of his reality, that he would never again feel a gentle, human touch. Because he was no longer human. And he may as well indeed been made of ice.

No, he was a weapon. An instrument of violent and necessary change. He wasn't meant for this, for kind and gentle gestures, he was meant for leading armies, spilling blood and burning worlds. Why wouldn't she draw away from him? Why had he, in his subconscious mind, expected any different? And why did it affect him so much when she did?

She turned his back on him and sighed. It was only natural. She was meant for gentler, better things, better company than his. She offered him a conciliatory smile as she chided him, once again reminding him of the reality of his nature. He stood there and listened, patiently, meeting her gaze with tired, yet intelligent eyes. Silence was his answer. Silence, as she turned away, for he knew she would not like what he would say.

What was it about her, he wondered, that made him care whether or not she'd like his words? The political alliance he'd hoped for, was dust and ashes in the wind. She offered his people nothing of what he hoped she would. So, why then, did he find himself caring about what this summerworlder girl liked and thought?

If it were another, he would have struck back with the typical acidic retort with which he dismissed other summerworlder politicians when they made statements about his people without knowing the first thing about his Empire beyond what they briefly gleamed from skimming through whatever news article a holonet search brought up. But he didn't. He couldn't. Ah. And there it was.

She lacked that haughty condescension that was typical of summerworld political elites. She lacked that... disgustingly smug arrogance that was so typical of those who's lot in life she shared. Yes, that was a good enough explanation, he thought.

With a mixture of worry and apprehension, he watched as she stiffened, her posture and the sharp, metallic scent of her blood and the spreading stain on her robe making him aware of her distress. Thankful that her back was turned, that she couldn't see that worry in his eyes, so he could go on pretending that he wasn't, he sat there in silence, sensing her hesitation, expecting her inevitable refusal of his offer to help. Of course she would refuse, what he offered was inappropriate and disrespectful, uncharacteristically spoken without prior, careful thought. What she did next, surprised him.

With one graceful movement, she let the garment fall, pulling her long, dark hair aside to reveal her bared back.

He didn't flinch. Or draw in a sharp breath, like most who knew what those symbols and those scars meant, would do. It shocked him, though. Not what he saw, but what she did. That trust she placed in him, exposing her raw and tender wounds, like that. No, not the open cut. The other wounds, those etched down the length of her spine and seared into her soul. He did not expect that. He was a killer, a dictator and a warlord, a dangerous man who led armies across the galaxy and left only carnage behind. Anyone else would have withdrawn and put up whatever defenses and distance were possible. But she didn't. No, she exposed herself to him and willingly allowed herself to be vulnerable in his presence, trusting him not to take advantage of what he saw to twist a jagged knife into her soul and hurt her.

Without realizing it, he slowly reached out for her, gently placing a rough, calloused hand over those marks, as some unnamed instinct drove him to try and offer warmth and comfort without him even knowing it. He knew what those marks meant. He knew that pain, he had lived it in his childhood, in the gladiator pits, all those years ago. He understood how difficult it was for her to let him see those scars. Gently, he withdrew her hand, mentally berating himself for the impropriety of his touch. He tore his eyes away from her scars, careful to avert his gaze and leave what little, fragile modesty she could still cling to in the situation, focusing instead on that vicious cut on her back.

Once again, sharp and deadly claws picked apart the stitching, careful not to hurt her tender skin even further, then placed that unnaturally cold hand over the wound. Once again, he cast his mind out into the cold and shivering currents of the Darkside that were so familiar to him. With practiced ease, he threw his will against them, subduing them, subjugating them to his will, like he had done so many times before and so rarely for this purpose. Chained to his indomitable will, the violent, invisible currents subsided and submitted, pulling together the jagged edges of the cut, forcing flesh to mend, like they had mended her other wound, not with the warm and gentle touch of the Light, but with the violent, domineering power of the Dark, leaving behind a small, pink scar.

He withdrew his hand, his eyes and that cold, dark, invisible river along with them, turning his head away so she may cover herself in what little privacy and comfort there was. Eyes turned away, staring into some invisible distance, he gave voice to his thoughts. "True," he said, somberly. "Even the Empire has its snakes from time to time. Even in our nation, a spineless, scheming snake occasionally rears its ugly head. But not often. And not for long," the Sith Lord explained. He would not answer her with a honeyed lie. He would give her the truth. "Of all the sordid gossip going around about the Empire, at least this much holds true. In our nation, we do not tolerate backstabbing, scheming, treasonous snakes."

"We crucify them."

 

[Vyra Silara]

​

“Crucify them?” The sudden images of mangled bodies on crosses was enough to drag her back to business, though the memory of the tender weight of his hand and the chill of his skin over her slave brands lingered still. It was…distracting, and unexpected. She hoped he hadn’t noticed the tensing of her muscles, or how they’d melted into his touch a moment later, or the way she’d stopped breathing altogether. She’d scold herself for it later, for letting him, a relative stranger, a master of the darkside, see it much less touch it. Touch her, with his taloned hands and twisted Force powers, but so gently, so respectfully, so honestly with such care, unlike anyone ever had before…

No, thought Caoimhin.

Again, thought Vyra.


She drew her robe back up around her, brushing her hand back across her healed flesh in the same mystified manner. The bloodied satin sat cold against her skin, but she pulled her robe together and wound the sash twice around her waist, tying it closed anyway. Vyra turned back around, facing him with almost none of the timid awkwardness she thought she’d find in herself afterwards. He’d seen more of her than any man since Zygerria, in the most vulnerable way, surely that should inspire some degree of meekness. Should, but didn’t.

“That seems an…effective deterrent. Harsh, but effective.” Vyra studied his face boldly, perhaps too much so, looking for nothing in particular, open to anything she found there. But there was a softness in her voice and no lack of respect in her eyes. “Though, I’d never endorse such measures myself. I’ve never found brutality a healthy tool in any form, no matter its effectiveness. If I want to create a better world for the next generation, I can’t, I won't do it with the same ugly violence that ruined this one.” The Queen paused, head cocked, eyeing him shrewdly. “You seem to have found a way to…harness it, though, to serve your people. I don’t judge you for your choices. We’ve all walked different roads.” She put the bloody towel she’d used to tend to his hand to one side, placing one hand lightly atop his and smiling. “Perhaps we aren’t s—”

A loud bang like doors being blown open echoed loudly through the hallways outside.

“What in karking hell was that..” Vyra shot up, adrenaline thudding through her veins as she hurried towards her security feed near her desk. A quick scan of the display showed her guards still outside her doors, though they looked agitated and ready, and the door to the hallway beyond was just closing. She stared at the screen, flipping through the last hour, looking for anything odd. She found nothing.

Strange. The disturbance did, however, remind her that she had a fugitive from an enemy faction in her bedroom, not wearing a shirt though she was definitely not noticing that at all. Not one bit. At all.

Vyra closed the files and shuffled around in a drawer. “I think we’ve lingered here too long. We should continue this..another time..ah, here it is,” she finished, producing a stack of old world, hand-pressed parchment and a fine silver pen. Spreading the material out on her desk, she pulled the chair out and motioned for Kainan to come. “Please, sit, write these codes of yours. I’ll fetch your shirt. Hopefully it’s a bit drier now,” she mumbled, skirting around him on her way to her closet.

|| Kainan Wolfe ||​

 

[Kainan Wolfe]

Attn: Vyra Silara​

• Royal Palace
  Largan City, Relovian

There it was. A fleeting moment of humanity which stirred some long forgotten feeling in the back of his mind, something so old that he had forgotten the name of. He struggled to find the words to describe it in his mind, struggled to put a name to the meaning of that moment, when he felt the tension in her muscles melt away under his touch. To his cold, mathematical mind, that feeling was alien and yet, familiar at the same time. He shouldn't dwell on such things, such inconsequential things as a touch. But... for some reason he couldn't understand, his thoughts kept lingering on that moment, of the feeling of her warm skin under his rough, calloused hand.

The way she tensed, at first, how her breathing stopped as if afraid the sound of it would scare away that fleeting moment, how it made time seemingly freeze, as if the universe itself held its breath alongside her, he felt it all, even if he could not understand it. But time stops for nothing and reality always has a way of creeping back in and rearing its ugly head.

He withdrew his hand and she withdrew away from him, both falling back into roles more fitting of the demands reality had placed on them and then, it was back to politics, with its ugly, labyrinthine, filth-infested complexities, though the passion with which she spoke, the way she stubbornly held on to her ideals of a better world, impressed him, even though he didn't believe in them. And yet, despite her beliefs, she didn't condemn his Empire, the way so many others like her, would.

Brutality, violence, death... Those things happened regardless of what the galaxy's denizens preferred. In an ideal world, where things like laws, violence and sacrifices weren't necessary, where life could simply exist in harmony and everyone could enjoy a life of plenty, such things shouldn't exist, but the galaxy was not such an ideal world, despite what the Jedi liked to preach it could be. Reality was much harsher, cruder, colder and uncaring. Thus, sacrifices must be made. Hard truths must be accepted. Some evils are necessary.

This would have been his answer to her, if they had not been interrupted by that strange noise outside, to which he, like Vyra, reacted with instinctive apprehension. He followed her to her desk, eyes sifting through the security feeds she brought up, all his senses sharpened to their unnatural limit, straining to pick up anything that might indicate some kind of threat.

She offered him parchment and a pen and invited him to sit down, which he did, wasting no time to think about the scars on his back, the marks of a childhood spent in brutal slavery. The codes came easily to him, committed to memory a long time ago, his fingers nimbly wielding the silver pen and putting them on paper into three neat, organized columns, the left column containing accounts, the middle one specific sums to be deposited into them and the one on the right explaining what each one meant. She would have to memorize them all and then burn the paper, though he knew he wouldn't have to remind her of that. "We'll need a predetermined location to meet, if necessary. Somewhere out of the way, remote and suitably private, yet not so out of place for you to visit, to avoid raising suspicions," he said to her, realizing he didn't have the faintest idea what location to suggest.