Faction Imperial Reclamation Authority | The Long Retreat Ends

[Cerein Aron]

"We are the survivors of a dead Empire. History would be wise not to bury us twice."

Spoiler

Please remember that the Imperial Reclamation Authority is only just beginning. At this stage, the faction consists of a handful of survivors, scattered personnel, and whatever equipment they managed to drag out of the Empire's collapse. This is not the time to arrive with entire fleets, private armies, superweapons, or every asset your character has ever accumulated.

Characters are encouraged to arrive with what they could reasonably bring to a remote rendezvous between isolated Imperial remnants: a personal vessel, a small escort, a squad, a trusted retinue, or similar assets. The focus of this thread is on introducing characters, establishing relationships, and laying the foundations of the faction.

The victory at Quintus had been short, brutal, and ultimately temporary.

For two weeks, the battered remnants of the 9th Mechanized Corps had descended upon the spice world and reminded the galaxy that the Empire was not yet entirely dead. Resistance had been crushed, fugitives hunted, and the first foundations of a new order established amidst the ruins. Yet the occupation had never been intended to last. The Ninth lacked the manpower, logistics, and strategic position necessary to hold territory so deep within hostile space. Quintus had not been conquered for expansion. It had been conquered for survival.

With supplies replenished and the last transports loaded, the remnants of the Imperial force vanished once more into the darkness between the stars.

For a time, the future remained uncertain. The Galactic Empire had collapsed. Entire fleets had disappeared. Commands were isolated from one another, communications fragmented, and thousands of Imperial personnel were left stranded across the galaxy. Many surrendered. Others became warlords, pirates, or mercenaries. The Ninth chose another path. Under the leadership of Cerein Aron and his senior staff, the Corps continued its long withdrawal toward the Unknown Regions, preserving what remained of its soldiers, equipment, and institutional knowledge in the hope that one day the Empire might rise again. Then came the signal.

Weak, fragmented, and buried beneath layers of encryption, the transmission originated from an Imperial formation thought lost during the collapse: the 3rd Naval Task Force. Against all odds, another remnant had survived the fall. Though diminished, bloodied, and operating far beyond the borders of civilized space, the Task Force remained intact and seeking allies. Contact was established. Verification protocols were exchanged. Old Imperial recognition codes, once thought obsolete, were answered correctly.

For the first time since the Empire's destruction, neither force stood alone.

The rendezvous point selected was Lothal. A world once synonymous with rebellion, resistance, and the eventual downfall of an older Imperial authority. It was a bitter irony not lost upon those making the journey. Yet its location, infrastructure, and relative isolation made it an ideal meeting place. There, beneath familiar stars and amidst the ghosts of old failures, the survivors of the 9th Mechanized Corps and the 3rd Naval Task Force would gather in the hangers of the Imperial Star Destroyer, christened the Resolute…

​

Your character has arrived on Lothal as part of either the 9th Mechanized Corps, the 3rd Naval Task Force, or alone on special clearance. Introduce your character. Where have they come from? How did they survive the collapse of the Empire? What do they think of the current situation? Are they hopeful, bitter, ambitious, exhausted, or simply relieved to find other survivors?

This task is primarily intended to allow writers to establish their characters, meet one another, and begin forming relationships within the faction.

As personnel gather and temporary headquarters are established, discussions begin regarding the future. An open roundtable led by the head of the 9th Mechanized has begun on the Resolute.

What should become of these survivors? Should they attempt to rebuild the Empire? Carve out a new state in the Unknown Regions? Seek allies? Focus on survival? Pursue revenge against those who destroyed the old regime? Preserve Imperial culture for future generations?

Your character does not need to possess political authority to participate. Soldiers have opinions. Pilots have dreams. Administrators have plans. Inquisitors have visions. Every survivor carries their own idea of what the future should look like.

 

[Cerein Aron]

"To rebuild what was lost." | Tags -

The Empire had died remarkably quickly.

That was the thought occupying Cerein Aron's mind as the shuttle cut through the darkness of space, its engines humming softly beneath him. Through the viewport, the immense silhouette of the Resolute slowly grew larger against the sea of stars. Even now, years after the collapse, the sight of an Imperial Star Destroyer stirred something within him. Pride, perhaps. Nostalgia. Or maybe simply relief that at least one still remained.

The Resolute was scarred. Even from this distance he could see the wounds. Hull plates of mismatched coloration. Scars from impacts that had never been fully repaired. Entire sections that had clearly been rebuilt from whatever material the crew had managed to acquire. It looked less like the proud symbol of Imperial power he remembered and more like a survivor dragging itself forward through sheer stubbornness.

He found himself respecting it all the more because of that.

For years he had watched the Empire tear itself apart. Not simply from enemy action, though there had been plenty of that. No, what truly killed it had been arrogance. Ambition. The belief that victory was inevitable.

The old Galactic Alliance had been many things, but it had survived for a rather long time.

The Empire had possessed every advantage imaginable. Fleets. Soldiers. Momentum. Yet somehow it had managed to unite an entire galaxy against itself in record time. Cerein could still remember receiving the reports. Sector after sector falling silent. Fleet groups disappearing from communications. High Command issuing increasingly desperate orders from increasingly uncertain locations.

His fingers tightened slightly behind his back.

The Ninth had survived because they had eventually stopped believing the propaganda. There had come a point where survival became more important than victory. A point where preserving experienced soldiers mattered more than dying gloriously for a world that would be lost regardless. Some called it cowardice.

The shuttle banked slightly as it approached the vast ventral hangar of the Star Destroyer.

Traffic moved throughout the bay. Shuttles. Cargo transports. Maintenance craft. Tiny specks compared to the colossal vessel that housed them. It was activity. Organization. Purpose. For the first time in a long time, Cerein felt something unfamiliar.

Hope, not optimism. He was far too old and far too tired for optimism. Hope was different, hope was looking at the ruins of something and deciding it might still be worth rebuilding.

As the shuttle crossed the magnetic shielding and entered the hangar, he rose from his seat. His uniform had been pressed perfectly despite the journey. The dark grey fabric sat neatly upon his frame, every button secured, every insignia precisely positioned. Old habits died hard.

Around him, officers and aides began gathering their belongings. Nervous conversations filled the cabin. What would happen next? Would these naval survivors even accept them? Could two remnants truly become something greater?

He did not know, but what he did know was simple.

The retreat was over.

For years the survivors of the Empire had been running, today they would decide whether they intended to keep running. The shuttle's landing struts struck durasteel with a heavy thud, Cerein Aron straightened his cap, stepping forward to meet the future.

 

[Alexandra Delaine]

"To restore what was forgotten." | Tags -

The Force had been strangely quiet lately.

Alexandra Delaine stood alone within the dimly lit troop compartment of the shuttle, her hands folded neatly behind her back as stars drifted beyond the viewport. Around her sat the surviving members of the Inquisitorius, each occupying their own small corner of the vessel. Some meditated. Some slept. Others simply watched the darkness.

The silence suited Alexandra.

There had once been a time when she had sought meaning in that silence. Hidden truths. Grand revelations. The secrets whispered by ancient mystics who believed themselves chosen by destiny. She knew better now.

The history of the galaxy had proven that repeatedly.

Jedi. Sith. Prophets. Chosen Ones. Every generation seemed determined to produce another collection of self-important fanatics convinced that possessing supernatural abilities somehow granted them the right to determine the fate of billions. The result was always the same.

The Inquisitorius existed because somebody needed to clean up after them.

Her eyes drifted across the compartment. Many of those gathered here had similar stories. Some had once belonged to forgotten Jedi enclaves. Others had emerged from the chaos following the Empire's collapse. A few had never belonged anywhere at all until the Ninth found them.

All of them had been broken. All of them had been remade.

Alexandra preferred that arrangement.

The shuttle trembled slightly as it entered the gravity well of the waiting Star Destroyer, the Resolute. She had spent several hours reviewing intelligence reports regarding the vessel and its crew, they were commendable.

For years the Inquisitorius had existed in relative isolation alongside the 9th Mechanized. Hidden from the wider galaxy. There had never been enough of them to truly become an organization. That might finally be changing.

Her gaze shifted toward the others aboard the shuttle.

Perhaps there were other Force-sensitives among the survivors gathered on Lothal. Others who had endured the collapse. Others who understood that survival required more than power. Perhaps not.

Either way, she intended to find out.

The Force-sensitive population of the galaxy had spent centuries dividing itself into tribes, cults, orders, and philosophical movements. Jedi against Sith. Sith against Jedi. Endless cycles of destruction fueled by individuals who believed themselves exceptional. Alexandra had grown tired of exceptional people. The Empire needed servants.

The shuttle touched down with a sharp metallic impact.

Alexandra reached down and adjusted the black gloves covering her hands.

Then, without a word, the First Sister stepped toward the boarding ramp. Those who wished to follow were free to do so. Those who did not would quickly discover that history had little patience for hesitation.

 

[Arturion of Kalidan]

---

++ En Route to the Resolute ​

++ Personal Shuttle S-11/d​

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++ Shadowkeeper Command​

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Cerein Aron | Alexandra Delaine | Open​

He was sitting in the co-pilot seat, his hands tentatively on the controls even though he had full confidence in the woman next him to fly this craft to their destination. They had done the run towards a Star Destroyer many times before and this one was no different - just the circumstances were. The warship ahead looked like it had been through a lot, all Imperials had been. From running from the Sith to desperate last stands, the Galactic Empire had fallen with neither glamour nor glory. Abandoned by its rulers. Again.

Arturion watched the busy traffic as the dark hulled shuttle made its way into the ventral hangar bay, one among many others. Despite the initial warm welcome and offer to join this event, he was cautious. All of them were. In the hot atmosphere of the shuttles crew bay the Purge Troopers of his unit checked their weapons one more time, the buzzing of energy cells and clicking of magazines was easily audible. They did not trust it. It was their duty not to trust it.

Yet the call by Alexandra Delaine was one they would not ignore. A chance for pursuing a meaningful duty once more. Shadowkeeper Command has been busy protecting several Imperial holdouts in the Galactic North when they received the intel of the 9th and 3rd converging. Through many lines and backchannels they established contact and were now here to see where it would lead them.

After the shuttle had set down, the red-clad figure of the Ninth Brother and two of his Purge Troopers walked down the ramp among a bustling hangar of Imperial activity and into the prospects of a new future.

 

[Evander Thule]

​

If Evander Thule still possessed the capacity, he would have sighed. As it was, that little taken-for-granted human expression hadn't been in his capacity for some time now.

Initially, he'd been pleased to learn that the Empire's ideals had survived the long centuries he'd spent in stasis. That relief had been short-lived. The state he'd loved so dearly had been reduced to bandits and warlords in all but name.

He loathed them. Children one and all, mocking the legacy of something once-great by aping its trappings and traditions. How the mighty did fall.

Perhaps that was just the way of things. He'd gradually adapted to his new surroundings, and gradually been reduced to a bandit himself. This new, decadent galaxy reduced everything to the basest, vilest possible version of itself.

None now lived who remembered the glory of what once was. The peace, security, and stability the galaxy had enjoyed. He'd been proud, delighted even, to serve that greater purpose.

It was the faint hope of finding that purpose again that had drawn him. While Thule had refused to join any of the clown-states he so despised, this one felt... different. He still had a human intuition under the metal and wires, and with that came a tendency to trust his gut.

Something big was stirring in the right circles. He'd cautiously decided to go, feel things out, get an idea of how real this latest failed state in the making might be. As ever, he hoped to be proven wrong, but time had dulled the edge of his optimism.

He'd been but an officer back in the day, but he had some things the rest lacked: History. Legitimacy. Perspective. Thule had been around to see how the original worked, and could bring that perspective here. He still remembered many of the old classified projects, ones that even the IDMR had been hesitant to unleash.

Hesitancy was not a luxury that could be tolerated anymore. Hopefully, the leaders of this new state were aware of just how bleak the situation was. Their battle would be an uphill one, in a galaxy where the flame of Imperial sentiment had all but guttered out. He would listen and learn. If he liked what he heard, then maybe, just maybe, his long bereavement from the Empire was finally over.

For now, the ghoulish-looking cyborg hunched in his chair, helmet lenses fully polarized. He might well be mistaken for a droid, were it not for all-too-organic malice that seemed to radiate from him in waves. One needle-bladed finger-claw scratched idly at the cold metal of the meeting hall's table. Small slivers of reinforced durasteel peeled away easily under his touch, betraying barely-masked impatience.

This pitch had better be a good one, for the sake of everyone involved.

 

[Azen Thanas]

Location: The Resolute
Tags: All
​

The Core collapsed before his career could even begin. A stellar Academy record and a choice placement in the Core Worlds amounted to nothing the moment the Sith staked their claim on Coruscant, leaving Azen with exactly zero days of official service time. Returning home to Bakura to live an ordinary, wasted prime was never an option.

The core belief in the Imperial cause remained intact within him, driven by a stubborn certainty that the galaxy still needed saving. While other fractured remnants and splinter confederations begged for fresh blood, the Iron Ninth became his adopted home in the fleeing of the Core.

Training to lead infantrymen on the battlefield had not entirely prepared him for mechanized warfare, but the seasoned units of the Ninth taught him fast. Respect followed close behind, earned through dirt and survival, anchoring his loyalty firmly to General Aron's leadership.

The heavy thud of the shuttle landing inside the Resolute echoed through the deckplates. Azen tightened his grip on his rifle, his knuckles whitening slightly against the weapon. Looking out at the cavernous hangar of the Star Destroyer, his calculating gaze swept over the scarred durasteel and the bustling naval personnel.

Skepticism warred with a sudden, sharp spark of ambition. Today felt less like another retreat and more like a foundation. It remained to be seen if this naval outfit and the Iron Ninth could forge a genuine future from the ashes of Solipsis' broken Empire, but he was ready to find out.

 

[Zara Saga]

Location: The Resolute
Tags: Alexandra Delaine | Arturion of Kalidan
​

The Sixth Sister lounged in the shadows of the shuttle, casually twirling her lightsaber in her hand. Spending months embedded with the 9th Mechanized Corps had provided plenty of time to observe the remnants of a dying regime. She had joined this specific Imperial contingent shortly before the Core collapsed, choosing to follow the First Sister rather than watch the incompetent leaders of the Diarchy cannibalize each other from within.

The core mission of the Inquisitorius remained the only goal worth pursuing. Order needed to be restored, which meant eliminating Jedi, Sith, Mandalorians, and every other chaotic force religion plaguing the stars. Perhaps she had backed the wrong empire initially, but she was entirely determined to see this one through to the end.

The metallic thud of the landing gear echoed through the hull, signalling their arrival aboard the Resolute. Zara stood up seamlessly as Alexandra moved toward the boarding ramp, slipping her blade into its sheath with a practiced click. She fell into step a few paces behind the First Sister, her sharp gaze sweeping over the busy hangar.

"Let hope they have more than just nostalgia to offer us," Zara murmured, her tone carrying a sharp edge of confidence. "Rebuilding a galaxy requires brainpower, not just a surplus of stormtroopers."

Stepping out onto the ramp, the bustling energy of the 3rd Naval Task Force and the Ninth Corps filled the vast hangar bay. This roundtable would quickly reveal who possessed actual vision and who was merely clinging to the past. Zara smoothed down her uniform, fully aware of her capabilities and ready to ensure the future of the Empire was shaped by intelligence rather than blind fanaticism.

 

[Cerria Desyk]

Tags: Open
Location: Resolute

Col. Cerria Desyk brushed a piece of lint from her old uniform, the one from the EoTL, not as any statement of allegiance, but simply because it was what attire she had that was appropriate for the situation. She and her Dragoons had lived as gorified mercenaries for the last while since failing to find a home after the collapse of the government she owed her loyalty to; credits from independent worlds kept their heads above water, just barely. Now, she and a few of the regimental officers had travelled here looking to seek integration back into the imperial fold.

Col. Desyk, flanked by a Captain and three Lieutenants, stepped down the boarding ramp of one of the many production-licensed Lambda-class shuttles that kicked around the galaxy, before taking off from Jabiim where the Dragoons were currently holed up, their situation far too unstable to be called deployed or stationed, it had the unit's markings sensiled on, avoiding using the insignia of any previous Imperial factions.

Cerria looked around the bay where others had gathered, Troops of the 9th Corps and Crewmen of the 3rd Naval weaved between officers. She also noticed a few dark-robed and armoured figures whose presence felt like a knife held to her throat. Taking a moment to focus herself, she was here to build a future for those who had chosen to follow her, and perhaps have a word in how the future of the galaxy would be shaped.

 

[Isabelle Zythor]

Tags: Open
Location: Resolute

Captain Zythor fingered the blaster pistol worn on her hip as her shuttle landed; it was a nervous tic that the Stromtrooper Sergeant leading her five-man security detail noted but did not comment on. The pistol was mostly ceremonial, just like her guards; they were there simply to show that she had enough power to have them. Isabelle wasn't the most politically astute, but she knew the trappings of power were just as important as the power itself when it came to appearances.

The Outer Rim farmgirl had risen farther than she had expected and now felt the need to look over her shoulder for blasters in the dark, expecting someone to knock her down to a more "appropriate" level. She hoped that by showing up at the table early and offering her services before it was a matter of join or die she would be more secure in her position.

Isabelle wasn't a member of the previous Galactic Empire, preferring instead to stay around the area her government formerly controlled and hunt pitates and other threats that she perceived it was her duty to deal with. That would be her biggest hurdle to overcome. Looking around the bay as she disembarked her shuttle, she could see it was primarily dominated by members of the short-lived core based Galacitic Empire, where she'd earned her rank in the Empire of the Lost.

 

[Shan Pellian]

Shan Pellian - Aboard the Resolute

There was a particular sound a shuttle made when its landing gear struck the deck of a Star Destroyer. A deep thud that traveled up through the plating, through the soles of a man's boots, into his bones. Shan Pellian had heard it a thousand times across a dozen vessels and half as many flags.

He sat alone in the troop compartment. No aides. No staff. The seats around him were empty, and he had grown comfortable with that.

Through the viewport he had watched the Resolute take shape against the stars. She was battered. Rebuilt in places with plating that didn't match, scarred in others where no one had tried. He recognized the look. His own frigate wore a version of it, the Echo of Anaxes, a vessel that had once cut a fine silhouette, now held together by field repairs and a skeleton crew of forty-seven who had simply refused to stop maintaining her.

One frigate. That was what remained of Admiral Shan Pellian's command.

He closed his eyes.

He had served the Empire in most of its incarnations with the consistency of a man who believed the institution mattered more than whoever sat atop it. The Diarchy had cured him of that. His time with the Diarchy, and with the Diarch's themselves in particular, had shown him that the men and women who gave orders and led a nation were just as important as the nation itself. The Diarchy hadn't been truly Imperial, but it had been close, and his time with them had been the closest he had felt to fulfillment in decades. When it had begun to collapse, though, he knew it was time to move on.

He hadn't left in dramatic fashion. No confrontation. No principled stand. He had simply stopped answering communications, taken the Echo and her crew, and slipped beyond the Outer Rim trade lanes into the kind of silence the galaxy offered freely to those it had forgotten. He had expected to settle into quiet obscurity for the rest of his day.

So when word reached him through channels he'd thought long dead that there was a gathering of Imperial forces near Lothal, he had at first ignored it. He didn't know if he had it in him for another campaign, another flag to call his own. He was old, and he had done enough he told himself.

But he had come anyway. Not because he believed. He came because the alternative was sitting alone on the bridge of a dying frigate, waiting for the galaxy to finish forgetting him.

The boarding ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss.

He was not a tall man, nor particularly imposing. The years had worn lines into a face that had once been sharp and was now simply weathered. His black naval uniform hung slightly looser than it had the last time he'd worn it for anything that mattered. The golden bars along his shoulders caught the hangar light, Admiral's insignia, honestly earned, which perhaps explained why they felt heavier than they should.

He descended the ramp alone.

The hangar was busy. Shuttles bearing different markings filled adjacent berths. Officers in grey, troopers in white, and darker figures whose presence carried a weight that had nothing to do with rank. The Inquisitorius. That was either a good sign or a dangerous one. His gaze moved across the gathering without hurry. He recognized no faces, but he recognized types. The loyalists. The opportunists. The desperate. He had been all of them at one point or another.

Admiral Pellian reached the bottom of the ramp and stopped. He adjusted his left cuff out of habit, then lifted his gaze to those assembled; officers, soldiers, figures cloaked in authority both military and otherwise, and inclined his head. Not deference. Not dismissal. One survivor acknowledging others.

Then he folded his hands behind his back and waited. He had spent enough years filling silences with words that changed nothing.

 

[Cassius Dorne]

Cassius Dorne - Onboard the Resolute

The shuttle's interior smelled of recirculated air and weapon oil. Cassius Dorne stood near the aft bulkhead, one shoulder set against the frame; not leaning, exactly. Occupying the space with the economy of a man who had learned to rest standing up.

He had watched the Sixth Sister twirl her lightsaber through the descent. Noted the rhythm of it. Consistent. Practiced. The kind of idle motion that looked careless but wasn't. A performer's habit, not a fighter's. He filed it and said nothing.

The Third Brother. The designation still sat on him like borrowed armor. A recent assignment, handed down through channels he understood well enough not to question and accepted with a single nod. No ceremony. No oath. Just a title and the expectation that he would make it mean something. He did not intend to disappoint.

He straightened, an adjustment measured in centimeters, and waited as the First Sister moved first, then Zara fell into step behind her. Hierarchy expressed through spacing. He noted the distance between them: close enough for deference, far enough for autonomy.

Dorne followed.

The hangar of the Resolute opened below him like the interior of a cathedral built for war; vast, functional, indifferent. The overhead banks cast everything in flat institutional white that erased shadow and turned the deck crews into charcoal sketches against grey durasteel. TIE fighters sat in ordered rows along the far wall, and the air carried the sharp, metallic bite of coolant beneath an underlayer of tibanna residue. The kind of smell that settled into fabric and stayed.

He catalogued the space the way he catalogued every space. Two primary access corridors at the far end. Maintenance alcoves at ten-meter intervals along the port bulkhead, each deep enough to conceal a man. Deck crews moving in patterns that suggested routine rather than heightened alert. Comfortable. Settled.

Zara's voice reached him just ahead; the remark about nostalgia and stormtroopers delivered with the precise calibration of someone who wanted it overheard. Sharp. Not incorrect. But shaped for effect more than utility, the way a vibroblade is polished for display when a field-worn edge cuts just as clean.

He came alongside her. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, a half-step behind and to the right.

"Brainpower is a commodity." His voice was low, unhurried, carrying the flat calm of a statement already weighed and found sufficient. "Loyalty is rarer. Neither is worth anything without the structure to apply them."

He did not look at her when he said it. His eyes were on the corridor ahead, on the flow of personnel moving between the hangar and whatever compartment they had designated for the roundtable. Counting uniforms. Reading the architecture of rank in the way men stepped aside for one another or didn't.

"The question isn't what they offer us." A beat. His gaze passed over a technician who glanced at the Inquisitorial contingent and looked away a half-second too fast. "It's whether any of them remember what an Empire actually requires."

 

[Alexandra Delaine]

"To restore what was forgotten." | Tags - Arturion of Kalidan | Zara Saga | Cerria Desyk | Cassius Dorne

She felt indifferent toward the new additions to the Inquisitorius. Certainly, she had not been charged with breaking them, for they seemed more than willing to subject themselves to the conditions that turned the sane into Inquisitors—a profession that was, by its very nature, insane. For it was madness that such powerful souls should willingly shackle themselves to institution and reason. Sentient minds, cursed with the power of demigods, choosing to forsake their own chances of survival so that such power might remain contained. It was noble, certainly, but it was also insane.

Such was the fate of the galaxy: insanity was often required to preserve sanity. The irony was not lost on the First Sister as their shuttle descended toward the Resolute.

The Sixth Sister and Third Brother followed in her shadow as they stepped aboard the larger vessel, as they often had in recent months. More Brothers and Sisters had joined their ranks during their journey, swelling the ranks of a new generation of Force-users willing to dedicate themselves to the cause of order—whether willingly or otherwise.

It never particularly concerned the First Sister. In truth, she preferred the latter sort, it was a teaching experience, after all. A chance to demonstrate that nothing stood above the Empire.

The Sixth Sister's words came first. She spoke confidently of the prospects of an Imperial vision finally coming to pass. Loyalty to the cause and devotion to order were useful tools to cultivate within her fellow Inquisitors. They needed to understand precisely what their purpose was. Indeed, the Sixth Sister's words earned a measure of approval from Alexandra.

Then came the Third Brother. Analytical and mindful, though perhaps a little presumptuous in tacitly claiming to know what the Empire requires. They were tools, all of them. Instruments to be used and discarded when their usefulness broke, or they rusted their edge.

Some tools, however, never rusted, never broke. The First Sister considered herself one such instrument. Besides, there was a part of her that genuinely enjoyed every moment of the Inquisition. The breaking of individual will in service to the Empire—and occasionally, in service to herself.

When she finally spoke, her voice was calm and utterly devoid of emotion.

"They will serve the vision of order, just as we do."

She paused briefly.

"We have our methods for dealing with non-compliance."

A faint smirk tugged at her lips beneath the helmet. That was the part she enjoyed.

For a brief moment, everything seemed still, then another shuttle arrived. A Force presence, unfamiliar to her senses, emerged from within. She had called upon loyal servants of order to gather beneath the banner of the Inquisitorius, new arrivals should not have been surprising.

Yet something felt wrong. A small darkness lingered at the edge of her awareness. Someone was hiding amongst the crowd, though too distant, too faint to isolate. Not yet. Now was not the time to disrupt the proceedings. The mystic would come first. Afterwards, she would begin her investigations—or assign one of her own to do so.

No one escaped the knife of the Inquisition.

Her tone shifted immediately. Strong and commanding, yet there remained the faintest hint of something almost sultry beneath it, as though she thoroughly enjoyed being the one issuing orders.

"Keep your wits about you. We have matters to discuss after the meeting."

Her gaze settled forward.

"For now, I wish to interrogate this mystic and understand his intentions."

She looked toward the Sixth Sister.

"Sixth Sister, ensure that our voice is heard during the meeting."

Then to the Third Brother.

"Third Brother, remain with me. Keep your eyes upon the crowd as much as upon the mystic's retinue. I sense another mystic among us."

Without waiting for a response, she increased her pace and moved toward the armored mystic. Outsiders were always suspect, civilian or not, the eye of the Inquisition did not blind itself merely because someone professed loyalty to Empire and Order.

Establishing contact and securing clearance was one thing. Surviving Alexandra Delaine's scrutiny was another entirely, so when the shuttle's occupants finally disembarked, the First Sister stood waiting with perfect composure.

"You identified yourself as the Ninth Brother."

Her posture remained relaxed, though there was an unmistakable edge hidden beneath the calm.

"Does this Ninth Brother seek to serve within the ranks of the Inquisitorius and pledge himself to the cause of Empire and Order?"

She tilted her head slightly.

"Or is there another purpose behind the arrival of a mystic?"

 

[Abaddon Thol]

"The rebels aren't the only ones who can lay claim to the Phoenix..." - Exerpt from the Captain's Log of the IRA Argus

Abbadon stood alone at the far end of the hangar with arms crossed behind his back. He had arrived hours earlier at the behest of Admiral Raddock, as the acting captain of the Argus he was expected to attend with all the other captains and leading officers of the 3rd Naval Task Force. This was, if nothing else, a good sign for him. The previous captain and much of the command crew of the Argus had been killed during a boarding action by Sith raiders who had tracked the lone vessel from the core. It was only when the Argus managed to re-group with the 3rd Naval Task Force mid boarding action that the ship and its crew had been saved. It had been Abbadon's quick thinking which had allowed the Argus to escape, and as the most senior surviving officer Imperial protocol dictated that he would be the temporary captain until a better suited individual could be found.

Yet his recent experiences with Admiral Raddock, and this most recent acknowledgement of Abaddon's authority, pointed towards Abbadon's position turning from a temporary command to a permanent promotion. Afterall they couldn't ignore Abaddon's aptitude with so few personnel available to them, even if the horns on his head marked him as a 'non-standard' option for such a promotion. Certainly he was aware how some of his fellow officers spoke of him behind closed doors, certainly he was aware of the Empire's typical bias towards the alien, but Abaddon had seen the failure that the Alliance had become. If nothing else these extra hardships would temper him, forge him into a stronger man than any of his comrades who sneered when he wasn't looking.

As the forces of the 9th Mechanized Corps slowly entered into the hangar shuttle by shuttle, Abaddon was surprised by what he saw. Even though it was clear these men and women had been through hell and back they still carried themselves like proper Imperials. In the short months since the collapse of the Empire he had already seen ex-Imperials. Without the structure and order of the Empire they had collapsed into little more than bands of thugs and pirates, acting more like a gang of under-city gangers than soldiers. Yet the 9th's personnel stood with honor, even if their equipment was badly in need of proper repairs.

Of course, who was he to judge? Some rooms of the Argus were still off-limits due to what repairs they had done not being able to restore proper atmosphere. His men were cramped in a few small rooms which had been turned into make-shift barracks, and there were scars on his vessels' armor plating clearly made of durasteel rather than proper Quadanium. It was a shameful display.

But they had been shamed hadn't they? That's why they were here.

Abaddon would straighten a little more, raise his chin, and wait patiently. All the while his eyes would track the Inquisitors, taking a keen interest as they appeared to have already begun to fight amongst themselves.

 

[Arturion of Kalidan]

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++ Resolute Hangar​

++ Personal Shuttle S-11/d​

​

++ Shadowkeeper Command​

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Direct: Alexandra Delaine | Zara Saga | Cerria Desyk | Cassius Dorne​

He and his two troopers started moving directly towards the emerging Inquisition figures, the echo of the heavy boots fading into the background noise. With a flowing cape he came to a standstill in front of the First Sister and offered a dip of his head while his fist moved to the chest, a brief clank of his cortosis gauntlets on the durasteel chestplate.

"First Sister. My service to the Empire and New Order is as permanent as it is eternal." His voice was rasp and brief, without grandstanding or arrogance it seemed genuinely matter-of-fact. "I am serving the Imperial cause for many years."

The helmet offered no insight to his emotions, the cleanly polished, glossy surface of the armor and lenses simply looked at the First Sister. Though behind Arturion was looking at those he would work alongside with, the other Inquisitors were as diverse as they were not. It was a rare breed of Force user, one that he had worked alongside for many years. Pragmatic, individual and yet loyal without question.

Without choice as well?

He knew what held him in line, what kept him obedient and dutiful beyond reason. What did so for them? Further, what kept the First Sister from turning on her non-Force sensitive masters? Questions that would be answered in due time. Had to be answered. Loyalty to a cause, discipline and sense of duty could do much, but only so much. The Empire has worked as much on opportunism and loyalty as it does on fear and pragmatism. Time would tell what this remnant could achieve.

"And I offer my loyalty and service as well as that of Shadowkeeper Command, to the Ninth Corps."

 

[James Raddock]

"To retake what was ours." | Tags - Shan Pellian , Isabelle Zythor , Abaddon Thol , Cerein Aron

This was usually a time for jubilant celebration.

Another Imperial remnant had emerged from the ashes of the old Empire—one that had not succumbed to barbarism, one that had maintained its chain of command and its discipline. Such occasions were meant to inspire hope. They were meant to remind those who remained that order could yet be restored, chambered like a round in a blaster and fired into the heart of the galaxy, striking down the beast of chaos.

Admiral Raddock carried no such hope.

Though the discovery of other survivors was indeed pleasing, he knew the cost of this endless war of attrition. Ship by ship. Crewman by crewman. Officer by officer. The ranks of those who upheld the truth of the Empire dwindled with every passing year. It was a hostile galaxy in which they found themselves. One that offered no respite. One that challenged the very ideals they carried every day.

Then again, how could one call themselves Imperial if they did not endure such trials? All Raddock knew was that he would not allow the galaxy to gently smother him, his men, or the very idea of Imperialism.

Staring into the darkness of space, he felt only one thing.

Pain. Pain for all that had been lost. Pain for all that would yet be lost. Pain for the sacrifices made and the suffering still to come. Billions would die, no—trillions, it would be the only way to ensure that a new galactic order could one day rise from the ruins.

Footsteps approached from behind. His aide, most likely.

The time had come.

"Admiral, the hangar bay reports that all accounted-for groups are present or currently arriving. Traffic has been carefully managed and security has been swept. You are clear to make contact with General Aron."

Aron.

A name he had not heard in a very long time. He responded immediately.

"Then I won't keep him waiting. Have my XO take the helm in my absence and summon my personal guard. Ensure security remains on standby in case anything goes beyond repair."

The aide offered a small nod.

"At once, sir."

Without another word, Raddock turned and made his way toward the elevator. The hangar bay was alive with activity. Members of the Third and Ninth exchanged reserved greetings. Trusted newcomers were screened and welcomed. Officers observed from the sidelines as an organization known as the Inquisitorius made its presence known.

A gathering of those willing to carry a renewed Imperial cause into the galaxy. Something Raddock intended to protect and nurture. Stepping onto the deck, he began identifying those he wished to bring with him. Members of his retinue were dispatched with a simple message.

"Admiral Raddock wishes for you to accompany him."

The first was Shan Pellian .

A man who had served the Diarchy—a lawless pretender state masquerading as legitimate authority. Nevertheless, Pellian had upheld the sacred principles of guest-right and possessed valuable experience as one of the foundational admirals of a galactic power. However traitorous that power might have been, experience remained experience.

Still, Citizen Pellian would do well to remember his standing in such formal matters until he officially enlisted within the Navy.

The second was Abaddon Thol .

One of the galaxy's many wretched aliens, yet one who had served the Third Task Force with distinction and unwavering commitment. An exception among his kind, no doubt, and perhaps proof that some could indeed be civilized. Raddock would never openly demean the alien. Their relationship had always remained strictly professional, but it would have been foolish not to include him.

Finally came the traitorous Isabelle Zythor .

She had only been granted entry through special recommendation. Even after the fall of the Empire of the Lost, she had continued serving that failed warlord state. Under most circumstances, such loyalty would have made her deeply suspect. Yet during their first meeting, Raddock had noted something else.

Devotion, commitment, and a genuine belief in Imperial ideals. So, out of mercy—and perhaps hope—she had been offered a second chance.

A motley crew, certainly, yet one that might someday form the backbone of the greatest navy to sail the stars, if one's ambitions were lofty enough. Trusting they would join him shortly, Raddock pressed on toward the meeting with the General.

Aron would likely handle the diplomacy better than he could. The man had always possessed a talent for speeches and persuasion that Raddock himself lacked. More importantly, Aron was one of the few faces left in the galaxy that Raddock trusted.

As he approached his old friend, a faint sense of nostalgia stirred within him. Maybe, just maybe, this could be it.

Suppressing the thought, Raddock stepped forward and extended his hand.

"General. It's been too long."

A rare smile touched his features.

"I am glad to see you're still alive."

He gave a respectful nod.

"Feel free to proceed with the meeting. You have always been the better speaker."

 

[Cerein Aron]

"To rebuild what was lost." | Tags - ALL

Things were progressing as planned.

The Inquisitorius was carrying out its duties with characteristic efficiency. Men were reuniting with long-lost brothers-in-arms, and so far, not a single blaster had been discharged. As far as meetings between Imperial factions went in this age of fragmentation, it was about as peaceful as one could reasonably hope for.

The Third Task Force held a special place in the General's mind.

His old friend—ancient by the standards of their profession—had maintained command of the formation through some of the darkest years the Empire had ever endured. Raddock had always championed the same vision of the Empire that Aron himself believed in, and the fact that the Admiral had remained steadfast in those beliefs without descending into warlordism pleased him greatly.

Too many old comrades had abandoned their oaths.

Too many had cast aside their duty in favor of the petty tyrannies and warlord states that now littered the galaxy, each proclaiming its own unique interpretation of Imperial rule. The entire spectacle reminded Aron more of rebel movements than true Imperial governance. Disorganized. Self-serving. Individualistic.

All of them were suspect in his eyes, none were worthy of claiming succession to the Empire. One day, they would be reminded of the fate that awaited traitors.

Surveying those present, two faces stood out immediately.

The first was Azen Thanas.

A prodigy in the making. Loyal, capable, disciplined, and strong-willed, he possessed all the qualities Aron valued in an officer. The coming campaigns would provide ample opportunity for him to prove himself worthy of promotion.

The second was the formidable Evander Thule .

Granted permission to accompany the Ninth aboard the Resolute, it brought a unique perspective to the gathering. Aron knew little of the thing beyond the fact that it hailed from another age—an era of greater unity and stronger order than the fractured galaxy they now inhabited.

Both, Aron believed, would represent the interests of the Empire well this day.

There was also the matter of Cerria Desyk .

He would need to coordinate with Raddock to ensure the ISB thoroughly vetted the woman. If she intended to offer her services to the cause, then she would do so as a loyal servant of the new regime. The Empire of the Lost was precisely why Imperialism had become a laughingstock throughout the galaxy.

The fools of the Imperial Confederation and the so-called Empire of the Lost had set the Imperial cause back centuries. Their failures were monuments to incompetent leadership, inadequate administration, and decisions driven by ego rather than duty.

Pathetic excuses for Imperials. In Aron's mind, they had inflicted more damage upon the Imperial ideal than many of its enemies ever could.

The Inquisition understood it, so did he. There could be no compromise.

If individuals from such organizations wished to join the true cause, they would first need to be broken and reforged. Whether through the discipline of the military, the relentless scrutiny of the ISB, or the whispered methods of the First Sister herself, they would be made to understand their place.

The Empire possessed many tools. The First Sister was among its most effective.

Finally, after ensuring all preparations had been completed, Raddock arrived.

The Admiral approached with purpose, greeting his old friend warmly. It was reassuring to hear his voice again after so many years. Reassuring to know that such a capable servant of Imperial order had survived and remained committed to the struggle.

A struggle they would win. No matter the cost.

Aron inclined his head.

"Admiral, the pleasure is mine. You have done a great service in organizing this gathering."

Hearing Raddock defer the floor to him, Aron wasted no time.

"Everyone, settle down. It's time to get to business."

He allowed several moments for conversations to fade and attention to focus upon him.

"I wish to extend a warm welcome to the personnel of the Third Naval Task Force on behalf of the Ninth Mechanized. Truly, this is an auspicious day."

He cleared his throat.

"Today, we gather with a purpose born from a galaxy in chaos."

His gaze swept across the assembly, carrying the weight of command as it settled upon each individual in turn.

"The Core, once the beacon of civilization and order, now languishes beneath the dark shadow of the Sith. Wherever they tread, they bring destruction, anarchy, and horrors beyond comprehension."

His right hand clenched into a fist.

"Our Empire, once grand and glorious in its vision, has been shattered."

One finger extended.

"First, by the greed of the Sith and the ambitions of false warlords."

A second finger followed.

"Then by the heirs of the ancient enemy—the corrupt and decadent High Republic—with the feeble Jedi at its heels."

A third finger extended.

"And then by the barbarism and foolishness of those Mandalorian ingrates."

His expression hardened.

"But I tell you this now, sons and daughters of the Empire: there remains a dream."

"A dream that a better galaxy can be forged from the chaos of the present. A dream that through blood, discipline, vision, and sacrifice, we may avenge those who gave their lives in the struggle to restore peace, freedom, and justice to the stars."

He began to slowly pace, a circle of followers surrounding him as he stood at the center.

"From the shattered remnants of the Third. From the hardened soldiers of the Ninth. From the loyal brothers and sisters of the Inquisitorius. From every man and woman who has gathered here today."

"We can make that vision a reality."

He turned and closed his fist once more.

"So let us come together today and discuss what must be done. Let us swear by our blood that we are willing to sacrifice everything for that shared dream. Let us stand side by side once more as sons and daughters of the Empire!"

His voice then bellowed.

"Long live the Empire!"

He allowed the murmurs and applause to subside before continuing.

"Now that we are assembled in common purpose, we shall begin the proceedings."

"I wish to open the floor before we address matters of state. Any questions, concerns, proposals, or requests may now be raised."

His eyes narrowed.

"All doubt must be silenced before we proceed."

"This is your final opportunity to openly voice dissenting or even treasonous thoughts, so that they may be examined, challenged, and ultimately crushed beneath the weight of Imperial Truth."

 

[Evander Thule]

Tags: Cerein Aron /OPEN​

Thule's eyes narrowed slightly as tonight's host arrived, though the gesture of suspicion and doubt was purely reaction rather than expression. His face, or the nightmare-fuel ruin where one could once be found, hadn't been seen by another in a very long time.

The elongated skull-visage that was fused to his head instead served its purpose. Blank, uncaring, unfeeling, monstrous. It was also what the Empire had elected to put him in. Life, albeit life as something abominable. There had been much of that around in those days, and he'd not been by a longshot the worst.

The cyborg didn't bother to hide his skepticism. A pretty speech it had been, but speechmaking was the bare minimum to start your own warlord state. There were plenty to choose from, all lead by the first man who could turn a phrase or hold a crowd's attention.

One could easily pick and choose their favorite, for in this benighted age, even principles and creeds were commodities. Plenty of flavors available to please every possible palate. It was a dark day indeed when the truth could be bought and sold like the favors of a joygirl.

Therein lay the issue. The Empire wasn't populism, though it certainly appealed to the populace. It was an ideal. Ideals were self-evident quantities, and let their merits speak for them. Thule had noticed that said merits were a little thin on the ground.

He decided to break the silence first, issuing polite applause. His hands met with a series of gunmetal clatters, then ceased.

"Beautifully stated." Came a voice like a tomb's grinding doors being opened after long eons. Humanity remained in that voice only as a fossil remained in stone.

"But I believe I speak for many here when I say that it will take more than a good command of Galactic Basic to sway us."

"I don't doubt your sincerity. I've seen enough liars and charlatans to know one right away. Men who wear their uniforms like a costume, instead of a symbol. You at least bothered to have yours tailored."

"What I doubt is your ability. One ragged patchwork of a vessel does not an Empire make. The Empire rules..." he quickly corrected himself "...ruled the galaxy from end to end. That requires credits, troops, ships, infrastructure. Influence. All things held by far worse individuals than you."

"If this is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg, then fine. I'm willing to hear you out. But I'd like to hear some concrete plans. In case you haven't noticed, the ideals we champion have one foot in the grave. They're the laughingstock of the galaxy, trundled on again and again by barbarians of every stripe imaginable, or turned into a mockery by clowns and pretenders."

"You'd better have one hell of a miraculous strategy to save them, 'General'. I've been disappointed far too often to simply take your word at face value."

The cyborg trooper fell silent again, tapping the floor idly with one clawed foot.

 

[Augustus Tassar]

Moff of Nirauan
Director-General of the Fist of the Empire
Diplomatic Mission

ISD Resolute | Lothal
Outer Rim Territories

Cerein Aron | Evander Thule​

The shuttle emerged from hyperspace alone. No escort. No fighter screen. No accompanying flotilla announcing rank or authority.

Against the vast backdrop of Lothal and the scattered remains of Imperial power, the small Lambda-class shuttle appeared almost insignificant as it approached the battered silhouette of the Resolute. Age and hardship were etched into the Star Destroyer's hull, scars of wars survived and decades endured. Where once entire task forces might have gathered beneath her command, now she stood as a solitary monument to perseverance.

The shuttle transmitted its identification without embellishment. After receiving clearance, the shuttle settled into the hangar with practiced precision. The boarding ramp descended with a hiss of compressed air, revealing a single figure.

Augustus Tassar stepped onto the deck alone. Even out of armor, he was impossible to miss. Tall even by any standards, he towered over most present, broad-shouldered and imposing without making any effort to appear so. He wore a tailored black-and-crimson Imperial uniform, severe in its simplicity, adorned only by a rank plaque identifying him as a Moff. No ceremonial decorations. No medals. No weapons openly displayed.

His expression remained composed and unreadable as his hazel-blue eyes swept across the hangar, cataloguing details almost instinctively, the condition of equipment, maintenance crews, security arrangements, discipline, organization.

Not judging.
Assessing.
A habit impossible to abandon.

Without waiting for an honor guard or formal reception, Augustus began walking. Bootsteps echoed across the hangar deck as he passed through the the Resolute, guided toward the gathering already underway. Crewmen and officers alike found themselves stepping aside almost unconsciously as the giant moved through the aging vessel with calm, deliberate purpose.

When he finally entered the meeting chamber, he just witnessed the introduction by Cerein Aron and inclined his head respectfully toward those assembled. His gaze swept across the room, taking measure of those assembled. With that, he took an unoccupied position among the attendees, neither seeking prominence nor hiding from it, and settled into silence.

Tassar's attention was on the one speaking, the directness of the words received a subtle nod of reinforcement from him. The Imperial cause was on its knees, divided and steered by ego and ambition rather than the qualities of the New Order. Every remnant claimed legitimacy. Every leader possessed a vision for the future. History had shown that certainty alone was not enough to preserve an Empire. A fatal flaw of ideological absolutism, one which brought down the recent Galactic Empire.

But his eyes locked on the host, the General Aron, curious as to what he would offer in return and what others might add to it.

 

[Tenth Sister]

Location: Hangar - Resolute
Thread Objective: Future of the Empire
Tag: Cerein Aron Alexandra Delaine Arturion of Kalidan Evander Thule Zara Saga Cerria Desyk Isabelle Zythor Shan Pellian Cassius Dorne Abaddon Thol James Raddock Augustus Tassar
Attire: Light Inquisitorial Weave
Equipment: Double-Bladed Spinning Lightsaber

Given her petite stature, Tenth Sister could readily disappear behind the towering figures of First Sister, Third Brother, and Sixth Sister. It was especially easy when she had her helmet on and if she remained silent as she had for the past few minutes. In that, the small-statured Aetharian had been content with simply observing the ongoing reunification. Her eyes widened with slight satisfaction as she took in the pristine shine of the polished boots belonging to Imperials who at least maintained a facade of discipline during the long retreat, compared to the slightly stained and dusted boots worn by those who had either abandoned the facade entirely or been unable to afford boot polish owing the inherent deprivation of surviving as an Imperial in a galaxy which had turned against the ideal of Empire.

All the while, as Tenth Sister studied the assembled Imperials of the Ninth Mechanized and the Third Naval Task Force, in addition to a few bearing insignia that she did not immediately recognize, her ears twitched as she listened to the brief conversation transpiring among the three senior Inquisitors. She decided to remain silent, but found herself in agreement with First Sister. They were all servants to the vision of Empire. And one of the many duties of the Inquisitorius was to enforce compliance to ensure that vision remained untainted.

Beyond that, the Tenth Sister was acutely aware of the fact that she knew virtually nothing of what it would truly take for the Empire to flourish.

It was then that First Sister gave out her orders, directing Sixth Sister to represent the Iniquisitoris at the meeting, while Third Brother was to remain with her to examine the towering, red-clad mystic. All the while, her whisker-like eyebrows lowered anxiously beneath the expressionless mask of her helmet. Was she being ignored? The Aetharian shook the thought from her head, swallowed, and stepped forward.

Where would you have me, First Sister? she pulsed telepathically so as to avoid interrupting the ongoing meeting, her silent words carrying a faint note of desperation as a slight frown tugged down at her lips.

 

[Azen Thanas]

Location: The Resolute
Tags: All y'all
​

Filing into the mingling uniformed bodies of the combined Ninth Mechanized and Third Naval Task Force, Azen adjusted his uniform cap. He pushed through the crowd, seeking a clear vantage point near the center of the hangar deck where the leadership had gathered. A sudden bump against a shoulder brought him face-to-face with a familiar visage from his Academy days. Jarus Ponder stood there, now sporting the rank insignia of an Ensign of the Third Naval.

A grim sense of symmetry settled over Azen. Ponder had clearly suffered a similar fate after the Core collapsed, ending up stationed aboard this patched-up hunk of junk. The assignment suited Ponder, who had always been a second-rate cadet back at the Academy.

"What have you gathered about this Admiral Raddock?" Azen asked, keeping his voice low beneath the hangar's ambient noise.

"He's a pragmatic man," Ponder admitted, nodding toward the command staff.

Azen shook his head, unimpressed by the basic assessment. When Ponder returned the question, asking what General Aron was like, Azen offered no insight. He had no intention of giving a leg up to a naval unit he barely knew. The success of this joint venture remained entirely unproven.

General Aron's speech soon cut through the chatter, the rhetoric rising to a crescendo that stirred the gathered crowd. When the General's voice bellowed across the deck, the latent idealism in Azen sparked to life. He barked out, "Long live the Empire!" alongside his fellow soldiers, the oath grounding his sense of duty.

The abrupt interruption from a monstrous cyborg, shattered the moment. Azen's jaw tightened as the mechanical voice grated against the hangar walls, openly challenging the General's strategy and capability. Frustration flared hot in Azen's chest. Starting the assembly with immediate pessimism was entirely fitting for a jaded veteran, but targeting Aron, the one leader who had kept the Ninth alive, was a step too far. Azen shifted his weight, his calculating gaze locking onto the cynical machine, waiting to see how the command staff would crush the dissent.