Citadel of the Inquisition, on the surface of Atrisia
The room was silent but for the soft breathing of those within, the occasional rustle of fabric as someone tried to shift into a more comfortable position, or a soft cough given as a means to break the blanket of tension which wrapped around them all like a rope supporting them: comfortable at first, but capable of strangling them all. The bright light of the sunshine beyond the walls was not seen within: but for the sharp, intense glare of the holoscreens active, humming almost inaudibly at the apex of the room, the room was dark, a mote of shadow that encompassed the entire chamber, forcing the viewer's eyes to that which was displayed there on the screens, allowing no escape from that chilling vision.
The massive ship rendered upon the holoscreen was one he had seen before, then a subject of speculation and curiousity, rather than as a close and immediate threat. Floating in the skies above Atrisia, it represented death and desolation to those on the planet below, a threat of little subtlety and very direct nature. Within a matter of hours, our skies may blossom with fire and that ancient notion of scorched earth may be seen as a reality. It was fast working it's way from an abstract potential threat to a force of considerable quantity.
The momentary flutter of fear that any sentient might be expected to feel when presented with such a sight had rapidly evapourated, however. Tirdarius had stared death in the face too many times over the past few decades and always walked away from it, whether he was the one bringing it to others or, as now, was being the one threatened by it. It's all merely bravado until the guns start firing, he mused reflectively. And that irrevocable moment when diplomacy passes is a time for true opportunity. The mere threat of death wasn't sufficient to change things here: the threat needed to be realised in truth, or pass by in irrelevancy.
"It's interesting to see the Protectorate as it stands now. I remember it in the days when it was a backwater rabble," the former Sith Lord remarked calmly, a faint smile curving his lips as he reflected on that interesting past. Amazing how rapidly things changed: the rise and fall of the Sith, the mellow rhetoric of the Republic now giving way to conquest and malicious force, and the Protectorate, risen in strength and now prepared to challenge all who step their way. "Perhaps the Emperor should agree to their terms. We are outmatched in the Protectorate's favourite sphere, but on the ground, they are vulnerable to playing in our sandpit," Tirdarius observed, glancing at the other members of the Inquisition there.
In truth, he had no interest in provoking or doing battle with the members of the Protectorate: theirs had been a government he had always felt respect for, sticking to their guns in the face of raging Sith aggression, perverse Republic hypocrisy and threats from all sides. The Dark Council had once declared that their little faction would dwindle away into nothingness, and yet the Protectorate stood long after the Sith Empire had fallen. Sadly, circumstances do not allow us to choose our enemies.
"Our role, however, is to protect the citizens of our planet," he noted with a significant glance towards the others. "The Inquisition stands to protect the Empire against our Force Using brethren, but in their absence, we have a duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Merely engaging the Protectorate will ensure that more will die." Factions like OP had only one true means of ensuring their survival: ruthlessness. Tirdarius knew well enough that they wouldn't hesitate to take out every population centre on Atrisia if it meant ensuring that the Empire would never bother them again. "Safeguard the Emperor, and the lives of as many as you can. But we should not prosecute war unless we are given no other option."
@[member="Mirien Valdier"] @[member="Somarae"] @[member="Bellalika"] @Johta Heidjr'Oshan @[member="Xander Carrick"] @Je'gan Olra'en @[member="Ahani Najwa"]
