If the extended travel from the Southern Systems to Coruscant had left her weary, diminished, none would ever know. The presence of at least one high-ranking member of the Confederate governing body had been required all over the verse as of late. Srina, was an obvious choice. The Vicelord was often inundated with matters of state whilst her fellow Exarch had a presence to maintain within the scope of national defense.
John Locke
monitored the pulse of the Ministries alongside
Darth Metus
who provided vision and empowered
Gerwald Lechner
to guide and cultivate the Knights Obsidian.
All held their duty. All had purpose; function.
Srina filled the gaps when required and often found herself sitting with foreign powers or visiting sovereign systems in need of support. Occasionally, they required her words. Occasionally, her sword. The no-nonsense approach she took to every endeavor was either loved or abhorred nigh universally and there was no denying that her approach could result in friction. She wasn’t caustic—But she was pitilessly honest.
She did not lie.
It was a quality that most politicians could not fathom. The truth was hard to accept, even, for seasoned leaders and the brightest, boldest, members of the galactic community.
Every time she set foot on Coruscant she was reminded of the fall of the Galatic Alliance. Not this version, certainly. The one that came before. She was reminded of her lungs filling with smoke while the Sith Empire made orphans of thousands. Hundreds, of thousands. The Confederacy had arrived to fight, as promised, but the battle had been almost over before it began. She could remember the sight of a dreadnaught splitting in two.
She could remember watching half of it crash devastatingly into the Jedi Archives.
Did they?
Did anyone present recall the sheer
oblivion that was left behind, the lives destroyed, and the pains that were taken to resettle the survivors? The terror that had been left in the wake of what equated to terrorist attacks had been all-encompassing, and yet, the utter annihilation of Csilla was far worse.
Ivory hair twisted like fine ribbon in her wake while she walked just a step behind her Master in a tepid silence. Her clothing matched the professional flair he favored, though, she seemed to be boasting the
wrong shade. If the assembled dignitaries didn't know better it would be a simple thing at first blush to confuse her with a Jedi. Srina was never far from
Darth Metus
given the opportunity. Especially, not on potentially hostile ground. She did not feel
Adhira Chandra
present ahead in the board room. It was not a requirement of their agreement to meet, however, the lack of the Chancellor was unexpected in her own halls. She couldn’t imagine the same thing happening on Naboo were the situations reversed.
“Eyes up, wolf.”, she murmured to the Lord Commander, though, she offered no explanation. He required none.
Gerwald Lechner had been introduced headfirst into her reserved nature and the cold orders she so often delivered. Her tone was terse, respectful, and succinct given their present location. There were too many unknown factors, especially, since they had once again risen from the South at the behest of the Alliance. The New Imperial Order had been waging war with the Sith Empire for so long that she wondered, truly, if any of them knew the reason it began. A schism—
Certainly. Everyone knew that. Seemingly delicate footsteps carried her forward and her mind lingered, momentarily, on the past. On the moment when it was decided that the grip of the Empire could be tolerated, no longer. That carnage, bloodshed, was the way.
The only way.
Mercurial eyes moved over
Irveric Tavlar
first while the Vicelord made ephemeral introductions.
Plainly. There was very little that Echani eyes did not see and each individual present would be subject to the same visual inspection. Each galactic power within these chambers compromised something in order to hold affable discourse. Large or small; a piece of themselves, of what they stood for, or against, would require evaluation and potential sacrifice. The greater good was costly.
Was it a price they could pay?
Did they have a choice?
Slender hands came to clasp before her and the achingly elegant woman inclined her head toward the delegates of the New Imperial Order. Then—The Senator of Jakku. If anyone deserved a small piece of distant reverence it was the dark-haired woman that sought to mediate negotiations. This was a first true impression. The first point of contact. They knew virtually nothing outside of hearsay, war stories, tactical data about one another. Yet, distrust would permeate the air.
Fear in the loosest sense of the word, distrust, of what they did not know. Did not understand—Or thought they knew. A Sith would likely always be a Sith in the eyes of an Imperial. But, if a democratic Alliance could find common ground? If the Silver Jedi Concord could find value? Faith?
Perhaps, their efforts weren’t all for naught.