Public Near the Blackwall || A Port Nowhere Story

[Asaz Asil-i]

B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
N E A R -T H E -B L A C K W A L L

Port Nowhere, a vast Modified Azalus-class Hutt dreadnaught, materialized from hyperspace close to the borders of the Sith Order, right at the edge of the Blackwall that shielded the vulnerable worlds within.

Its mere existence was a challenge to order, creating a chaotic scene of illegal trade and desperate individuals who had come to this one corner of the galaxy where death was a frequent visitor and the grip of Sith Lords tightened mercilessly around the necks of its inhabitants.

Inside the twisted maze of this floating monstrosity, life was worthless and chances were rare. Every passageway, every converted hangar, every dark corner promised either a swift fortune or a violent demise.

Beings from every known species, along with a few that were hard to categorize, pushed through the narrow, filthy streets. Hutts glided through lively market squares, their entourages shoving aside smaller creatures.

Black Sun enforcers, clad in intimidating armor, patrolled their territories with an air of menace. Pyke Syndicate operatives moved silently, their masks concealing their true motives. The atmosphere itself seemed to hum with a dangerous energy, a blend of ambition, desperation, and the constant threat of violence.

Somewhere deep within the chaotic jumble of salvaged vessels, a high-stakes sabacc game was in progress, its result capable of altering the control of an entire sector's spice trade.

In another area, the roar of a fighting pit announced a savage battle between enslaved creatures. And in the countless shadows, whispers passed along information, bounties, and the coordinates for the next big opportunity.

Objective 1: The Sovereign's Summons​

Secure an audience with Dame Asaz Asil-i the undisputed (though unofficial) ruler of Port Nowhere's central sector, located within the heavily fortified and opulent "Overlord's Bridge". You can navigate the treacherous politics and heavy security layers of the upper decks to reach her, presenting a case for alliance, resources or information about the happenings of the Black Sun Syndicate.

Objective 2: Descent into the Pit​

Seized by the forces of the Black Sun Syndicate during a covert operation or a failed transaction, you now find yourself locked away in the Viper Pit Arena. Your goal is to endure amidst a sea of vengeful thugs, battle-hardened mercenaries, and relentless bet collectors who will do anything to ensure your downfall, as their profits depend on it.

You have two clear choices: either battle your way through the brutal gladiatorial fights or create a chaotic distraction among the savage beasts and the bloodshed, all with the ultimate aim of escaping the dreadnought altogether.

Objective 3: BYOOO​

Whatever floats your fancy on Port Nowhere.

 

[Asaz Asil-i]

B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
N E A R - T H E - B L A C K W A L L

​

The foul odor of Port Nowhere, a toxic mix of stale spices, sweat, and cheap synth-ale, seldom reached the Overlord's Bridge. This was a small mercy she allowed herself as its self-proclaimed Ruler, with no one left to contest her...not aboard her own dreadnought.

Yet, even with the air purified, she could sense the station's relentless, chaotic pulse, a vibration that echoed her cold, unyielding ambition that had lifted her from the deepest lows. Her throne, salvaged from a long-forgotten Alliance cruiser and refurbished with shining, blood-red durasteel, was more than just a seat; it stood as a testament to her ruthless survival.

Today's indulgence: a hopeful gathering. Another group of ambitious fools, undoubtedly, eager to win her favor, to plead for resources, to share trivial gossip about the Black Sun Syndicate. As if she had any interest in the petty disputes of her subordinates. As if any information they held could be even remotely as valuable as the raw resources she commanded.

"They are waiting, Dame Asaz," her Rodian majordomo croaked, his voice barely audible, a stark contrast to the noise of the station below.

Asaz simply waved a clawed hand, the gesture curt and dismissive. "Let them come." Her gaze, cold and calculating, swept across the ornate yet heavily fortified chamber. Every piece of art, every item of salvaged luxury, was a trophy.

A reminder of her struggles, of what she had claimed. Softness was a weakness she had long since eradicated, in the desperate times when chains had been her only adornment.

She sank deeper into her throne, her posture regal and unyielding. Alliance? Resources? Information? All were commodities. All had their price. And she, Asaz Asil-i, the undisputed, unofficial Queen of this wretched yet glorious cesspool, set the terms.

These supplicants would soon realize that her audience was not a privilege, but a trial. And failure, on Port Nowhere, was seldom survivable. The door hissed open, letting in the faint scent of fear that finally infiltrated her purified air. She almost smiled.

 

[Jerec Asyr]

She sank deeper into her throne, her posture regal and unyielding. Alliance? Resources? Information? All were commodities. All had their price. And she, Asaz Asil-i, the undisputed, unofficial Queen of this wretched yet glorious cesspool, set the terms.

door hissed open, letting in the faint scent of fear that finally infiltrated her purified air.

Human fear and deep Ithorian satisfaction smelled about the same. Jerec had just been trysting with Captain Silane, his black-carapaced on-again off-again Rhak-Skuri paramour, truly a perfect organism, among the salvage blocks.

"All greetings and respects," said a tiny astromech who heralded his arrival. "Your humble supplicant is Captain Jerec Asyr, Vigo of Black Sun, proprietor of Quekko's Choice Ship Emporium, only the finest pre-owned vehicles and vessels."

Jerec bowed excessively.

 

[Csariden]

B L U E - G R A V E — Port Nowhere, Lower Levels

The air reeked of coolant, ozone, and unwashed bodies.

Port Nowhere conveniently forgot this run down sector months ago. A blast-shielded hangar warped by decompression scars now served as a temporary fallback shelter for the Chiss Revengeancy—its rusted bulkheads reinforced with salvaged durasteel and barricades spotted with graffito in Cheunh. Stacked crates of stolen munitions—Siezed by Black Sun pirates and sold to the Chiss insurgents—and durasheet bunks filled the walls. Scratched datapads cycled mission reports in flickering blue.

And at the center of it all, around a wobbly holotable sparking with static, stood the insurgency’s very own nightmare of flesh and circuits.

“Sith corvette near Osal’truun’s Belt went dark two days ago.”​

Csariden's voice was gravel ground through a vocoder. He tapped the coordinates into the table with a gloved finger, triggering a fuzzy projection of the wreck's last known telemetry.​

​

“We leak it was us. Add footage. Broadcast to six mid-rim channels and one HoloNet war archive. Give them teeth to grind.”​

Across the table, the chiss with the shotgun grunted.

“Sure. But what if we actually hit something real?”​

Triggen stood with one boot up on an ammo crate, cleaning the inside of his Charric scattergun with a rag that might’ve once been an officer’s tunic. His cybernetic eye buzzed softly as it zoomed on the map.​

​

“One of those Syndicate storage convoys? The ones they route through Chiss space to spit on our graves?”​

A moment of silence passed between them.

Csariden was a misanthrope, an opportunist, an anarchist, a murderous bastard. But at least he knew it.

Triggen was worse. He was a true believer – if he caught scent of Csariden diverting away from the path of revenge for Csilla, Triggen would probably be the first to turn on Csariden.
That was precisely why Csariden made him second in command.

The lights above buzzed with dying power cells. Somewhere in the deeper hallways, a sparking conduit hissed like an intermittent warning.

“Then we turn the next insult into a memorial. Name every crate we blow open after a city they erased.”​

A faint smile curled at the corner of Csariden’s jaw. Or what was left of it.

The Blue Grave had no welcome mat, but the Revengeancy's hot blooded horde was calm here. For any exiled Chiss, forgotten veteran, or dissident mercenary, the run-down sector was a haven within the broader criminal haven of Port Nowhere.​

​

At least until they wore out their welcome. Then, like the nomads they are, they'll make camp in the next hidden corner of the galaxy they find.​

Open for Chiss, mercenaries, or other scum & Villainy to meet the Revengeancy.
Come to speak, plan, argue, or enlist. All discussions are temporary.
Only revenge is permanent.

 

[Parvati]

ＰＡＲＶＡＴＩ
Communing with ✦ Csariden ✦
↳ Signal Confirmed // Your Eyes Only // Burn After Reading

Parvati's footfalls echoed like gunfire in the half-abandoned halls of Port Nowhere's lower decks. She wasn't here to sneak, and she made no effort to soften her stride. Let the sound carry. Let it bounce down rusted corridors and across flickering light panels. She wanted them to know she was coming. Information had always been her edge, the invisible hand she played before most even knew they were at the table. Her networks stretched wide and deep, slicing through data silos and darknets, mapping syndicates, warlords, and ghosts alike. That same instinct had led her here, past the syndicate meeting she had deliberately chosen not to attend, and down into the belly of Port Nowhere's most forsaken levels.

There had been a time when she would've been at that meeting, seated at the table as a Vigo, weighing territory and spice routes with all the subtlety of a sovereign queen. But now? Now she operated from the shadows, free from the performance of order, beholden only to herself and the empire she was quietly reweaving in the dark. Her time with Black Sun hadn't ended- it had simply evolved. And evolution required adaptation. That meant making calculated moves without asking permission. That meant walking into a den of blood-soaked Chiss insurgents without backup, or at least, none they could see.

The Rebels, if that word still meant anything, had drawn her attention with fire and precision. The Chiss who called themselves The Revengeancy weren't just another band of displaced warriors licking wounds and making noise. They were competent, coordinated, and furious. The kind of men who turned pain into fuel and made legends out of spite. She respected that. And more importantly, she saw the value in it. Power unused was a liability. But power wielded by those with nothing to lose? That was potential worth investing in.

She walked with poise carved from steel, clad in her signature jet-black jumpsuit that clung like a second skin, every movement deliberate and elegant. Her boots, high-heeled and sharp, clicked against the deck with the confidence of someone who didn't believe in warning shots. By the time she reached the edge of The Blue Grave, she knew every eye was already on her. Whether they recognized her or not was another matter, but recognition wasn't a prerequisite for respect. Beneath her tailored ensemble lay a litany of quiet threats: twin blades tucked into each boot, slender and quick to draw; a holdout blaster holstered openly at her hip, not concealed because she didn't need to hide it. And while her hands were empty, her signal was being tracked by a ship in low orbit- a House of Parvati vessel loaded with reinforcements, already primed should this meeting sour.

She stopped just before the threshold of the hangar. There was a charged stillness in the air, the kind that always preceded a decision. Lights buzzed overhead, power pulsing weakly in worn conduits. Parvati lifted a finger to the small commpiece tucked near her ear, her voice cutting across the nearby frequencies like silk dragged across a blade.

"Good afternoon." Her tone was rich, smooth, unwavering. "My name is Parvati. Mistress of the House of Parvati." She let that hang for a moment, letting the name settle, letting anyone who was listening draw their own conclusions. "I've come in search of the Revengeancy… and its leader." There was a subtle shift in her voice, a softness that almost masked the danger. "I've heard of your exploits." Another pause, just enough to suggest she had heard more than most. "And I am impressed."

Mistress of the House ⛧ The Velvet Guillotine ⛧ High Priestess of Vice​

 

[Asaz Asil-i]

B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
N E A R - T H E - B L A C K W A L L

Jerec Asyr , a legendary Ithorian in the Criminal Underworld, trailed behind the droid, executing a deep bow that almost seemed mocking. His movements were surprisingly graceful for someone who was merely a merchant and owner of second-hand starships, which were hardly worth the cost of scrap.

Yet, for some reason, he had risen to the rank of Vigo in the Black Sun, a mystery that left many wondering. While he possessed a certain charm and humor, he would find no compliments aboard her dreadnought.

Asaz sat completely still on her throne, her clawed hand resting on the sleek durasteel armrest. Her red eyes focused entirely on Jerec for any signs of weakness or doubt behind his gaze though found none which was quite disappointing to her. She did not reciprocate his greeting, nor did she acknowledge his ridiculous title.

"So, Vigo Jerec, is it?" she purred, her voice laced with a dry, almost scornful amusement.

"You have quite the reputation in the business realm, Ithorian. State your purpose, and I might grant you my favor. Fail my test, and you will be cast to the rancors in the lower levels, where the rules are hardly upheld."

She was well aware of the Black Sun's notorious reputation for cunning and treachery. She recognized Jerec's type: the polished facade, the pretended modesty, the hidden blade beneath the velvet glove. But she had encountered far worse than a glorified second-hand starship dealer.

 

[Csariden]

ＢＬＵＥ ＧＲＡＶＥ – Hangar Floor

Csariden noticed the newcomer before he heard her. Murmurs of the onlookers heralded the footfalls that grew in volume, until her declaration of intent hushed the crowd.

A dozen Chiss eyes turned first, then weapons followed. Triggen moved instantly—shotgun half-raised, one foot off the crate he’d been sitting on, moving to intercept the silhouette in black like a beast rushing the bars of their kennel.

He didn’t make it far.

A gloved hand rose without a word from the figure standing at the end of the holodeck in the center of the camp. Csariden did not turn his head to look at Triggen. His glowing eye was fixated on the figure of silk and shadow before him. The danger she carried as sharp as any blade present.

Any decent criminal would know of her, indirectly, if not by name. Csariden was not a decent criminal. He had not bothered to look deeper into the power brokers of the underworld. He cared about prey, not power.

At least, he did before he saw this one in person.

There was a precision in her walk that drew the eye. A tactical rhythm to her pauses. She was made of sharp edges and scented warnings, a woman who didn’t enter a room—she claimed it, moment by moment. A conqueror with perfect posture.

That kind of confidence didn’t usually survive long on the floor of the Grave. But it was surviving now.

He ignored the pointed, crimson-eyed look from Triggen as he stepped down from the platform, cloak trailing slightly over fractured plating, and came to a stop just out of reach. His voice rasped low through the vocoder, emotionless as always.

“You know our name.”​

A pause. Not to measure her. To let her measure him.

“And you seek us out to deliver compliment. That makes you braver than most.”​

His tone wasn't quite a challenge. There was danger in it, yes, but not anger. He held just enough restraint against the temptation to provoke the predator simply to see her fangs. Behind him, Triggen remained tense.

“You’ve come to speak?”​

A slight grin rose above the cybernetic jaw – a single row of teeth above synthetic gnashers below.

“Then speak.”​

She had his attention – dangerously so. The onlooking crowd of his zealots faded into obscurity as he eyed this shiny new threat.

Parvati​

 

[Jerec Asyr]

"So, Vigo Jerec, is it?" she purred, her voice laced with a dry, almost scornful amusement.

"You have quite the reputation in the business realm, Ithorian. State your purpose, and I might grant you my favor. Fail my test, and you will be cast to the rancors in the lower levels, where the rules are hardly upheld."

Jerec felt his perfect-organism-fuelled good mood bleed away.

"I came with an opportunity," he said. "Good one for both of us."

He picked up the miniature astromech and set it on his shoulder, and took a slow look around the room, the retinue, all of it, and sneered out one side of his neck.

"Or would've been, if you were someone I could do business with. Shame."

 

[Mammut]

There came a great shambling and flapping of voluminous gown from the corner of the room.

“Ahhhh forgive the mistress, Master Ithorian,” a being more mouth than man made its way onto the center stage. A chevin, swaddled in very fine silks.

“She jests! I’m sure, I’m sure. Pardon the interruption, most gracious and…” a snuffle-snort, was he licking his gums? “…beautiful Dame.”

Waving three fingered hands in the air, the jovial alien chortled, “I am Mammut, a fellow entrepreneur. Please forgive me, all glory to the Syndicate.”

He was, of course, the head executive of the most notorious bank in the galaxy. The First Bank of Nar Shaddaa. Oh, you could hide your money there from the authorities, for truth. But the bank tended to be known for its unscrupulous and unsavory dealings, defying intergalactic warrants, sanctions, and such.

Jerec Asyr Asaz Asil-i

 

[Asaz Asil-i]

B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
N E A R - T H E - B L A C K W A L L

The subtle disinterest from Jerec Asyr was expected due to her rather aggressive tone, prompting the Twi'lek to rethink her approach going forward. The loud interruption from Mammut also lingered in her thoughts as the Chevin attempted to ease the mood.

It was a regrettable use of her precious time, as Port Nowhere couldn't afford to linger next to the Blackwall for too long without inciting the wrath of the Sith Empire's forces. She sat still on her throne, her crimson eyes once again fixed on the Ithorian in front of her.

"So, Vigo Jerec," she purred.

"I am not so wrapped up in this throne that I cannot recognize your expertise in the Criminal Underworld. Therefore, I apologize for my apparent discourtesy. Now, what exactly is this opportunity you propose if you are willing to transform our relationship into one of mutual understanding?" Her expression remained impassive behind her poker face, though she was unaccustomed to admitting her faults; however, business was business, and in the Criminal Underworld, connections were all that mattered out here in the vastness of space.

She leaned forward, with a minimal shift that seemed to reassert her authority on the Overlord's bridge. "Glory to the Syndicate," she echoed, the phrase dripping with a dry, almost scornful amusement.

"The Bank of Nar Shaddaa is well received on my dreadnought, Mammut. Though it is not often that we see your kind on the Overlord's Bridge and now down below where you can charge 300% interest in a freighter loan." She said with slight amusement catching a glass of imported Imperial wine from the table beside her throne.

 

[Jerec Asyr]

“Ahhhh forgive the mistress, Master Ithorian,” a being more mouth than man made its way onto the center stage. A chevin, swaddled in very fine silks.

“She jests! I’m sure, I’m sure. Pardon the interruption, most gracious and…” a snuffle-snort, was he licking his gums? “…beautiful Dame.”

Waving three fingered hands in the air, the jovial alien chortled, “I am Mammut, a fellow entrepreneur. Please forgive me, all glory to the Syndicate.”

"So, Vigo Jerec," she purred.

"I am not so wrapped up in this throne that I cannot recognize your expertise in the Criminal Underworld. Therefore, I apologize for my apparent discourtesy. Now, what exactly is this opportunity you propose if you are willing to transform our relationship into one of mutual understanding?" Her expression remained impassive behind her poker face, though she was unaccustomed to admitting her faults; however, business was business, and in the Criminal Underworld, connections were all that mattered out here in the vastness of space.

She leaned forward, with a minimal shift that seemed to reassert her authority on the Overlord's bridge. "Glory to the Syndicate," she echoed, the phrase dripping with a dry, almost scornful amusement.

"The Bank of Nar Shaddaa is well received on my dreadnought, Mammut. Though it is not often that we see your kind on the Overlord's Bridge and now down below where you can charge 300% interest in a freighter loan."

Jerec weighed all of that. He let his irritation with the captain/queen have its own little yard to run around in, no free rein.

"Good to meet ya," he told Mammut. "Think I've used your bank. Got a nice disruptor as a signing bonus."

He scratched at one neckmouth thoughtfully and prodded at the mini astromech on his shoulder. A field took form, a noise-cancelling privacy field that put him, Asaz Asil-i , and unavoidably Mammut inside and everyone else out.

"For the apology, here's a gift back. Bit of insight that's in my interests as much as yours. Boss to boss. When your starting note to everything's trying to put everyone in their place, it reads as green. Reads as weak. You want to grow into that chair or hold onto it when your people get hungry for it, you think on that."

He held it there, waiting to see whether his next move was to leave, fight, kill, or deal.

 

[Mammut]

Jerec Asyr Asaz Asil-i

The Chevin chortled loudly at both the Dame’s joke and the comment about the free disruptor sign up bonus - one of his favorites.

Teeth like tombstones stared out from his overbroad grin as a sudden field of silence sprang up around them. One eyebrow raised in interest and he stared up at the air, as if studying it. Impossible. Chevins could not see such things.

…could they?

He nodded absently at Jerec’s words, but - shockingly perhaps - added nothing of his own.

Yet.

 

[Parvati]

ＰＡＲＶＡＴＩ
Communing with ✦ Csariden ✦
↳ Signal Confirmed // Your Eyes Only // Burn After Reading

Parvati's gaze slid from the shotgun to the man behind it, and for a heartbeat, she said nothing at all. Silence, after all, was a form of dominance- especially when held with poise. She let the tension bloom, allowed the weight of every eye to settle where it wanted, before answering with a voice that was velvet and fire.

"I know your name," she said at last, the corners of her mouth curving like she was keeping a secret. "It's hard to miss when the stars start whispering it in fear."

Another step forward. Slow and purposeful. Not challenging, no, that would've been crude. This was a woman who knew she didn't need to challenge anyone. She was the challenge.

"I didn't come all this way just to deliver compliments, Csariden," she said, glancing at him like they were the only two people in the hangar. "But I've learned to start with respect. It makes the rest... more interesting."

She let that hang in the air for a moment, her eyes flicking to the holotable, then to the patched-together camp beyond it. Her expression didn't shift, but her voice dipped just slightly, closer, and quieter, like the start of a confession not meant for the crowd.

"There's something about your people I find... fascinating." Her gaze found his again, unwavering. "You don't posture. You bleed real. You strike when it hurts." She smiled, soft and dangerous. "It's a rare thing. And rare things tend to draw me in."

She took one more step. Not into reach, but close enough to suggest she could, and would, if she felt like it.

"I came to talk," she said simply. "And if the talk goes well… maybe we both walk away with something valuable."

Another pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate.

"But if you'd rather I leave…" She arched a brow, her voice a purr now, "you'll still be wondering what it is I didn't say."

She didn't grin. Didn't smirk. Just met his gaze with that eternal calm, the kind of confidence that came from knowing everyone would remember you when you left the room.

Mistress of the House ⛧ The Velvet Guillotine ⛧ High Priestess of Vice​