Populate Oath and Iron | SO Populate of Kiffu

[Aspect of Defiance]

On the Anniversary of the Woostri Conquest​

Some time had passed since the seas of Woostri burned beneath falling warships and the defenders of that world were driven into collapse beneath Sith conquest. Time had done little to soften the memory. Those who fought there knew victory was rarely as clean as history preferred to make it, and among the Sith memory was seldom allowed the comfort of becoming myth. With threats of new conflicts with the High Republic and the Iron Covenant looming overhead, past victories needed to be celebrated.

Perhaps that was why the summons had stirred so much attention.

Upon Jutrand, where the domains of Sith Lords rose across the world in monuments of ambition and old power, The Obsidian Spire opened its halls. Long held as the seat and home of Gerwald Lechner, the fortress had seen war councils, private rites, political bargains, and the mustering of the Second Legion itself. It was not the only great stronghold on Jutrand, though few would mistake its presence for anything less than power made visible.

For this night, its doors were opened in honor of Woostri, or so the invitation claimed.

Guests passed through the processional chambers of The Obsidian Spire beneath towering vaults of black stone and polished metal. Standards carried during the campaign hung above the approach, and some still bore the marks of battle. Along the walls stood relics brought back from the ocean world, fragments of ruined defenses, trophies reclaimed from drowned fortresses, and spoils whose histories drew quieter conversation from those who paused before them. The stronghold did not feel dressed for celebration as much as stirred by memory.

Within the grand hall, the fortress had been remade for an evening of courtly spectacle. Candlelight moved across polished floors while music carried through the chamber. Long banquet tables stretched beneath vaulted ceilings, and great holoprojectors cast scenes from the campaign overhead. Storm-driven seas rolled in spectral light above the feast, and warships descended again through smoke, until it seemed the battle itself had been invited into the hall.

Beyond the banquet floor, a great performance had been prepared to mark the anniversary. Through illusion, martial pageantry, and living reenactment, the conquest of Woostri would unfold again before the assembled Order. The fall of Alliance defenses would be shown as it had been remembered by those who fought there. Jedi resistance would be driven back once more beneath staged fire and crashing seas. It was not meant to entertain the court so much as remind it what had been won, and what it had cost.

Many would watch with pride, while others might feel the old unease that comes when memory draws too close to truth. More than a few would ask why this victory had been summoned so vividly, and why Gerwald Lechner had chosen this moment to gather the Order beneath his roof.

That question lingered as the evening wore on.

Rumors passed quietly between guests, carried in low voices over wine and candlelight. Some spoke of disturbances at the edge of Sith space. Others whispered of Force sects stirring in forgotten regions, of old Jedi teachings resurfacing where they had long been thought buried, and of scattered enclaves drawing together in secret. There were darker murmurs still, suggesting whatever rose beyond the horizon was not merely another remnant of resistance.

Some believed the anniversary concealed a broader convening, and that celebration served as cover for matters not yet spoken aloud.

That suspicion deepened as certain chambers within The Obsidian Spire remained closed to most guests, while whispers spread of invitations reserved for only a select few.

The feast was never only a feast. It gave rivals reason to meet, allies reason to bargain, and ambitious souls reason to test how far they might rise. Beneath the grace of ceremony, quiet designs could advance as easily as conversation.

The guests had not come for one purpose alone. Some had come for the spectacle, others for politics, and more than a few arrived sensing this gathering marked something more than remembrance. A year after Woostri, the victory was being called forward for a reason, though no one yet spoke of it plainly.

In halls where old campaigns were reenacted before an audience of conquerors, it was easy to wonder whether the night honored a finished war, or prepared the Order for something still gathering beyond sight.

Few among the Sith believed Gerwald Lechner had gathered so many beneath his roof without purpose.

Spoiler: OBJECTIVES

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The halls of The Obsidian Spire are open for feasting, music, and dance as the Sith Order gathers in celebration. Take to the ballroom floor, seek a partner for the evening, renew old bonds, kindle rivalries, pursue romance, or let whispered conversations between dances lead somewhere unexpected. In a gathering such as this, even social grace may carry consequence.

Beyond the revel, the court remains a place of power. Seek patronage, negotiate alliances, test rivals, advance private designs, or pursue opportunities that only arise when so many Lords and aspirants gather beneath one roof. Not every contest in Sith society is settled with a blade.

Rumors move quietly through the gathering of private summons, closed chambers, and signs of unrest beyond Sith space. Follow those whispers into the deeper halls of The Obsidian Spire, uncover secrets hidden beneath the celebration, and discover whether this anniversary marks remembrance alone, or the stirring of conflict yet to come.

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Vigfjall
TAG: Naedira Darcrath | Revna Marr | Varin Mortifer | Irina Jesart | OPEN

Music thundered through the Obsidian Spire beneath ceilings high enough to vanish into shadow. Blue flame rolled within massive recessed braziers while gold light spilled across polished black floors beneath towering obsidian columns. Above the feast hall, layers of balconies and elevated walkways overlooked the gathering like the interior of some vast imperial citadel carved into the heart of the Sith capital itself.

The Obsidian Spire carried the scale and authority expected of a monument gifted by Empyrean himself. Towering walls of black glass and obsidian stretched upward beyond sight while crimson and gold light rolled across polished floors beneath vaulted ceilings. Yet despite the grandeur of the Sith capital surrounding it, Gerwald Lechner had long since turned parts of the Spire into something more personal. The feast hall blended imperial elegance with the harder identity of the Dreadborne. Heavy banquet tables replaced sterile formal arrangements. Blue flame burned low within iron braziers. Warriors in armor and fur lined cloaks drank beside Sith nobility while old Legion songs rose beneath the music echoing through the chamber.

Beyond the narrow fortress windows, Jutrand stretched endlessly into the storm dark night.

The capital of the Sith Order glowed beneath rain and neon haze in layers that vanished into the horizon. Streams of traffic moved between immense towers like rivers of light while distant temples and government spires pierced the skyline far above the lower districts of the world city. Holo projections shimmered across buildings bearing the sigils of Sith houses, military commands, and the corporations feeding the Empire’s endless appetite for expansion.

Jutrand did not sleep.

It never slept.

At the center of it all stretched rows of banquet tables filled with officers of the Second Legion, Sith nobles, foreign dignitaries, fleet commanders, and warriors fresh from campaign routes that still burned across the galaxy. Some wore formal attire worthy of the capital. Others had arrived in partial armor with fresh scars still visible beneath dark cloaks and gold trimmed jackets.

No one in the Spire tonight needed to pretend they were untouched by war.

That was never what the Dreadborne had been.

Gerwald stood above the gathering from an overlook balcony carved directly into the stone wall of the hall. Firelight caught against the gold trim of his dark coat while one hand rested against the iron railing before him. Naedira stood beside him beneath the low blue glow of the braziers, one hand resting lightly against his arm while the celebration unfolded below them.

For the first time in years, their entire family stood beneath the same roof again. They were not scattered across various campaigns or divided by deployments, obligation, or constant pull and struggle of war.

They were home.

The realization settled differently than Gerwald expected. The Spire had always carried echoes of absence since the pups had left. Their rooms were empty. Arrivals were often delayed. Conversations were interrupted by fleet movements and summons from across Sith space. Tonight those absences had quieted, if only for a few hours beneath music and firelight.

From the balcony he could nearly see the entire chamber below.

The feast.

The dancers.

The drinking contests already beginning near the lower tables.

The old war songs being shouted over the music by veterans who had survived Woostri together.

For one night the Legion and the Order was allowed to breathe again.

The anniversary carried weight within the Spire. Woostri had forged legends and funerals in equal measure. Too many warriors had vanished beneath those oceans for the date to become just another celebration. Gerwald remembered every report that crossed his desk afterward. Every casualty list. Every transmission cut short beneath the waves.

Tonight was not about pretending those losses never happened.

It was about remembering what had been built from them.

A servant approached quietly through the torchlight carrying a tray lined with carved metal cups. Gerwald took one with a nod before finally stepping away from the overlook.

The movement drew attention immediately.

Conversations shifted as the Lord Commander descended toward the feast hall below. Some offered respectful nods while others raised cups in salute. Gerwald acknowledged both with the same measured calm before continuing through the crowd at an unhurried pace.

The Dread Wolf did not stalk through his hall like a tyrant.

He walked it like a warlord among his people.

He exchanged words with officers from old campaigns, paused beside wounded veterans who had earned their place at the tables below, and greeted foreign guests with the same controlled presence that made even allies careful around him. Younger legionnaires straightened when he approached. One nearly lost his composure entirely when Gerwald recognized the markings of a unit that had fought beside the Second Legion during Woostri and remembered exactly where they had held the line.

The music shifted again as dancers crossed the open floor between the banquet tables. Not refined court dances learned in polished academies, but heavier movements rooted in the warrior culture of the Legion itself. Boots struck stone in rhythm beneath drums while performers spun training blades through choreographed displays beside the firelight.

Further into the hall another spectacle unfolded across a raised platform where actors and holoprojectors recreated moments from the Woostri campaign. Sith warships emerged through storm projections overhead while warriors below reenacted the brutal push through flooded streets and shattered defenses.

The crowd cheered when the Legion banners appeared.

The room quieted when the dead followed.

Good.

They deserved remembrance more than glory.

Gerwald eventually passed beyond the center of the feast where the crush of voices softened into something lower and more deliberate. The celebration continued around him as the hall opened outward into the Iron Court, a massive open aired terrace built into the upper levels of the Spire itself.

Rain drifted through the space in a fine mist beyond the overhangs while bright flame burned within towering iron braziers positioned between black obsidian pillars. The city of Jutrand stretched endlessly below and beyond the Court in every direction, rivers of traffic and crimson tower lights cutting through the storm dark skyline of the Sith capital. Music from the feast hall still carried into the open air behind him alongside laughter, distant drums, and the low roar of conversation spilling outward from the celebration.

The Iron Court had become its own kind of gathering place over the years, still connected to the celebration yet removed enough for quieter conversations beneath the open air of the Spire.

Some stood near the edges of the terrace speaking in low voices while others shared drinks beside the braziers beneath the rain soaked glow of the city. Officers discussed campaigns away from the noise of the feast tables. Nobles negotiated alliances without the formality of council chambers. Others simply stepped into the open air to breathe for a moment beneath the skyline of the Empire they had helped build.

Gerwald stopped near the center of the terrace with the untouched cup still resting in his hand while the storm winds shifted lightly through the Court around him. Behind him the feast continued deep within the Spire. Ahead of him stretched the endless lights of Jutrand beneath rain and thunder.

For tonight the Spire belonged to the Sith.

And the Iron Court remained open.

 

[Darth Prazutis]

Darth Prazutis was genocide in motion.

A colossus wreathed in robes the color of spilt blood and trimmed in aurodium, nearly translucent runes etched into their service whispered of power contained within its folds. A pair of gloves were neatly pulled tightly over large hands pulled tense with the contained fury of accumulated hatred that fed the power of the Dark Lord of the Sith, hands that doomed the fates of worlds and slaughtered those beyond count, hands that shaped the destiny of the Sith Order longer than most had been alive and restructured galactic order. There was no grand entrance when the Shadow Hand of the Kainate arrived and yet ripples of His presence reverberated like sound as He moved. Crowds parted from His sight as each area He passed through seemed to reorient itself, conversations cut short in the wake of the giant.​

​

There was absolute certainty in His stride as the Mortarch moved, and in His wake came an entourage of the Sith Kabal, handpicked faithful who had earned His blessing to accompany the giant on this venture into the Obsidian Spire. This menagerie of Sith moved at the pace of their sovereign, understanding the universal truth that His path was the only path forward, and their presence afforded them the rare currency of proximity, to curry favor with their dark master. The Shadow Hand finally stopped at a balcony overlooking the terrace, and the assembled court below. Underneath His hood the twin blazing orbs of molten fury stared down at the guests below, scrutinizing every face, etching every interaction into memory. The complex dance of court intrigue playing out, who was talking to who, which faces seemed to speak that haven't previously. He placed His large hands on the stone railing, feeling the stone beneath His fingers.​

​

Behind him the entourage settled speaking, drinks were exchanged and hushed voices spoke as to not disturb. The Kainites formed an informal barrier, blocking others from reaching their sovereign unless he desired it so. A young Zabrak stood close to him, a man of black and crimson skin and a head crowned in horned spines. The young man wore a set of simple black robes; he knelt a step behind the Shadow Hand and remained there ever since they'd settled. The Dark Lord paid him no mind as His gaze scanned the crowds below, with the eyes of a predator who spent His life as the nightmare most monsters feared. This was one of the only games that mattered to those with the skill to play it correctly. A place where bonds were forged, alliances made, plans began, everything happened in rooms like this, and the dominoes that fell from them had ramifications that often-impacted others far and wide.​

​

"Stand." A simple order given without even breaking His gaze, barely the motion of a hand indicated a desire to approach. The Dathomirian immediately rose to his feet and stepped to the railing, looking downwards. "What do you see?" The Dark Lord said. There was the subtlest micro expression then, a slight tensing of His grip on the stone barely perceptible even to a Lorrdian. The youth took his time gathering what information he could, collecting his thoughts. He understood the question was as much test as it was lesson, a knifes edge between further enlightenment for the cunning, and punishment for the foolish. "Opportunity, Master." The slightest release in tension was reaction enough, there was no positive affirmation, and the youth knew not to expect it. "Empires are forged and shattered in rooms like this. When the influential gather in one place, it becomes a different sort of battlefield. Everything is scrutinized, every choice made will be remembered by those who play the game. Watch everyone your enemies and rivals certainly, but your allies most of all." The Dark Lord paused His gaze passing over the Dread Wolf as he entered the terrace.​

​

"Always keep those around you unsure of your motives. If your easy to read, your easy to manipulate to others ends. Learn to play this game, and there's no telling how far you could climb." The Dark Lord finished as He continued to observe the crowds below. ​

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[Helix]

Objective II: The Iron Court
Tags: Open​

Helix hadn't set his liquiescent foot on Jutrand in quite some time. Even the Dzara didn't spread its tentacles there, at least for the moment. Inevitably, though, bottomless greed would overcome caution. Maybe it would even do so today.

No, the last time the War Marshal had been here was after the Woostri campaign, an event that today was supposedly set to celebrate. Of course, the Emperor had been too busy to see him then, no doubt occupied in penning some self-congratulatory nonsense about the entire affair. Helix couldn't entirely begrudge him that right; after all, he'd left his permanent mark on the Woostri skyline as well.

Still, it had rankled his pride during a time when he'd believed he had no pride to rankle. Not the Legions, nor the Dark Council had extracted the data and won the day. He had. Helix. He alone had set foot within the Alliance's datavault and pried its secrets, raw and bleeding, from the struggling machine-flesh inside, had succeeded where armies and fleets had not.

Well, not just he entirely. Darth Strosius had been there too. It was the last time they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder before the disappearance of Malum and the sundering of the Tsis'kaar. Helix noticed Strosius had received no acclaim either, despite his crucial part in distracting those inside. Whatever the broken state of their past alliance now, Strosius had deserved more than that.

Of course, the vampiric rebel likely wanted no such part in it, and would sneer at any cheap accolades from the state he so despised. Helix had thought much about their rift in the time since it happened, and come to the conclusion that this was the ultimate cause thereof.

Unlike his former ally, Helix did want his cut of the pie, and had no principles standing in his way. He wanted it because he was possessed of a greed and egotism that outstripped mortal reckoning. The Marshal's pride and arrogance towered larger than the mightiest spires of this very planet, but were all-too-often suppressed out of operational necessity. He played the dutiful servant, but like anything else about the creature, that was illusory.

He'd stated as much, too, in the face of the machine-god that ran the empire. It had asked him what he desired. Helix had possessed wealth and power aplenty even then. What he'd wanted, as it turned out, was recognition. Acknowledgement of the credits and lives he had spent by their millions on a thousand battlefields in service of the Sith, of the fact that he alone had completed the conditions of victory on Woostri. None had ever been forthcoming since, save from Lirka Ka and Darth Nefaron . Helix's internal simmering cooled somewhat.

Both of them at least understood who and what they were dealing with. Loyalty had earned him nothing, nor had rebellion. Helix had come to realize that he had kinship only with other outcasts and freaks. Thus was born the Dzara. If he wasn't given what he was owed, he would simply take it, in one way or another.

What a terribly dysfunctional civilization he called home. Small wonder the corpse had cracked under the pressures of ruling such a nation, but this was the way of things. No king ruled forever. He had seen them come and go by the thousands throughout his long and eventful existence, lost to the ravages of the eons or the bite of the sword or gun. It was an unenviable position, but one he couldn't relate to. Helix would never be so foolish as to create a civilization that he hated ruling.

The creature clicked his bladed fingers together thoughtfully as he walked, uncowed by the sheer oppressive atmosphere of Jutrand.

Coming here was arguably a significant risk. The fallout over the Wonosa-Dzara split (and the damage it had caused) was an unknown quantity. Some of that might have been due to the genius of Nefaron; most of the focus of the event had been skillfully deflected onto others, with the Dzara escaping scot-free. In the end, though, Helix couldn't resist.

He'd stick around a bit, place a few unsubtle reminders of who'd made this celebrated victory possible, enjoy a meal at another's expense, and get out before his welcome was overstayed. Depending on who else was in attendance, that might not take too long.

 

[Aerik Lechner]

Wearing: This | Weapons: Lightsaber | Knife
TAG: Skadi Lightbane | Irina Jesart (mentioned)​

The feast hall of the Obsidian Spire had grown louder with every passing hour.

Music rolled through the immense black chamber beneath suspended braziers while Sith, officers, nobles, and warriors filled the hall in shifting clusters of conversation and movement. Some danced beneath the gold light spilling across polished stone while others remained gathered around long tables lined with bottles, roasted meats, and half finished wagers.

Aerik moved through the celebration beside Skadi without trying to draw attention to either of them.
That did not entirely stop people from noticing.
The Lechner name alone carried enough weight within the Spire for passing glances to linger a little longer than normal, especially when the son of Gerwald Lechner appeared at a formal gathering instead of a battlefield. A few recognized the scar crossing his jaw while others noticed the lightsaber resting at his hip beside the dark layers of black and red he wore for the evening. Most simply looked at Skadi with curiosity.
Aerik did not seem particularly concerned by any of it.

Eventually the heavier crowds and warmth of the central hall gave way to quieter corners of the Spire where the celebration spread outward into open terraces overlooking the endless lights of Jutrand below. Massive fire pits burned against the night while slower music drifted through the stone arches from musicians somewhere nearby.

This side of the gathering felt different from the rest of the celebration. Veterans lingered here with drinks in hand while old campaign stories moved between bursts of laughter and quieter conversations. Some still wore pieces of armor rather than formal attire while others carried themselves with the unmistakable posture of people who had spent more of their lives aboard warships than inside noble halls.

Aerik preferred it immediately. It was less performative.

His hand brushed lightly against Skadi's back as they stepped beyond the thicker crowd and into the open air rolling through the terrace. Heat from the fires mixed with the cooler night winds moving between the towering black spires overhead while the distant skyline of Jutrand stretched endlessly beyond the railings.

For the first time since returning to the Spire, Aerik felt the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
Home carried a presence in the Force unlike anywhere else in the galaxy. Even beneath the noise of the celebration, he could still feel his siblings somewhere deeper within the fortress.
Familiar presences moved through the same halls again after months spent scattered across wars, missions, and distant systems.

He had missed that more than he liked admitting out loud.

The pup had not missed the politics or the ceremonies. He had missed the simple awareness that his family was here together again.

The noise behind them softened further as they moved along the terrace, and the wind became easier to hear over the music spilling faintly from the feast hall.

Aerik glanced toward a nearby group of legionnaires arguing loudly over some old battle while another table broke into laughter after someone nearly dropped an entire bottle of liquor into one of the fire pits.

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"This is better," Aerik admitted.

His gaze shifted toward Skadi afterward.

Firelight reflected softly across her features and darker hair while the movement of the flames cast shifting gold along the edges of her silhouette. There was something about her presence that fit naturally beside the cold stone, open night, and burning firelight far more than the polished politics behind them.

"The formal side of these things usually gets worse the longer you stay in it," he said. "Eventually someone starts pretending diplomacy is more exhausting than war."

His attention drifted briefly back toward the crowded halls behind them before quieter amusement entered his expression.

"We should probably save Irina before she gets trapped in one of those conversations."

 

[Srina Talon]

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TAG: Darth Empyrean
LOCATION: Obsidian Spire [Dance Floor]
ATTIRE: X

In an ocean of people on Jutrand…She heard a heartbeat.

The pale woman could feel it echoing in her chest, as if it were her own, but she did her best not to focus on it more than necessary. There was a warmth in her soul with the knowledge of who it belonged to, but it still seemed too good to be true. Srina Talon, Exarch of the Confederacy, had accumulated enemies at a startling rate, but Srina Talon, the Sith Empress, seemed to be making it a hobby. Collecting people who were pissed at her from every corner of the verse for reasons she generally only half followed.

The reason didn't much matter after all—Only, that she had the strength to defend against it.

It wasn't her first time visiting the Obsidian Spire, and it probably wouldn't be the last, though she couldn't say she was entirely welcome. Even though she had essentially brought the mate of Gerwald Lechner back from a fate worse than death, the Nabooian woman did not seem to like her very much. She remembered her as a Knight from the Confederacy who gave her life on the Fortressa against Darth Prazutis , but Srina couldn't say where the dislike had come from. Why, it existed.

She did ask a lot from the Dark Councilor, her wolf to call, but…Perhaps the reason was self-evident.

No wife liked it when another woman had their beloved at their beck and call.

Especially, not wolves.

Pristine white and gold moved through throngs of endless black, slow and unhurried, beneath the vaulting ceiling of the main hall. The dance floor had already become a battlefield, and she supposed that her presence wouldn't help matters. For some reason…Many found her quite polarizing. Srina drifted between partners as the music seemed to bend around the aching elegance of her form, and ivory fabric whispered against pretty stone tiles with every turn. There was no crown on her head, no armor, at least not openly visible…Just endless lengths of white layered shimmersilk mixed with alchemical threading that caught gold in the light.

She did not like these functions. They were a lie, hidden, with perfume and sweet words. Dancing was the closest thing that brought her some sense of equilibrium because it was the closest thing she could get to combat. To the only thing she was good at: Violence.

Delicate Echani hands settled where they were expected. Moving from a shoulder, a wrist, to the curve of another's arm while bodies crossed and separated in a precise rhythm. Every movement made sense to her because it carried the familiar cadence of training that was somehow squashed into something socially acceptable. It was a test of balance that let her read intentions without ever saying a word. She could sense hesitation, hatred, or indifference the moment they realized who she was.

Not just some random Daughter of the Moon—But the Blackwall Empress.

A shock of red and black cut into her vision, completely, cutting off the next person that should have been in the rotation. The familiarity of a lazy chit-eating grin attached to a mountain of a woman made the smallest smile steal across the kiss of her mouth while her head inclined and her expression vanished. She took the hand of Mercy and let the much taller woman lead her in the next few steps while wondering, exactly, what had drawn the Empress of the Core so far from home.

Just a party?

"Enjoying yourself?"

The question wasn't answered with much more than a throaty chuckle as the song continued. The ham-fisted brute was rather careful not to crush her spine when she spun her around, as always, surprisingly gentle. Srina glanced up to say something else to her sister, but was silenced with a light kiss to her cheek. Feathery eyelashes dusted down, and her head tilted, curious, but the Titan stepped back and let her go, and someone else took her place. Strange. Usually, Mercy stayed nearby.

<<Later, sestra…>>

She might have followed the woman were it not for the fact that she had duties to attend. Being visible was half the battle with Sith Nobility, so they didn't think the cat was away, obviously, time to play. It just made her intensely curious that her battle-sister hadn't told her that she was coming, especially when they tended to let one another know when they'd be in the same orbit.

What trouble was she getting into now?

Hawkish golden-eyes were a little too fierce when looking at her newest dance partner, and they wilted before scurrying off. Srina started for a moment before looking away, immediately finding her hand was taken by another individual intent on keeping the dance going. She swallowed a snort. Weak. People always revealed themselves when they danced, and it seemed that the Obsidian Spire was hosting quite a few rats. She played the part that was intended. Entertained.

Soon enough, the music would end. The "victory" of Woostri was well-cemented in her mind, and she needed no memory to remind her of the taking of the world. She had dropped a landing castle on the restless shore and had taken Judah Lesan prisoner in all the chaos. His information on the Jedi and the High Republic was out of date, but she still had uses for him. He was so close to breaking in isolation…

So close to giving up the Light.

So close to embracing the truth, the dark, and all that falling from grace entailed. The quiet that had existed since Brosi would come to a close, likely, with a bang.

Or a bomb.

 

[Mercy]

Mercy was always up for a party.

Especially one that took her away from her duties in the Core.

Nobody ought to have been that surprised that the large figure had found herself among the Sith of the Rim again. Her friendship with Srina Talon , the Empress of the Sith, was one of the many bonds between the Sith Order and the Covenant. A relationship important to keep, what with the Galaxy being full of entities and nations that had a bone to pick with the Sith.

She danced, or rather, she carved her way through the dance floor. And couldn't help but steal one small dance with her sestra.

Just a short one.

A step, a twist, a twirl. A few words shared, a kiss for conclusion and then they parted again.

Mercy would monopolize her time later, because both of them had duties to attend to. A disgusting affair, but one that nevertheless was important for the functioning of their respective nations.

This is how Quinn Varanin would find Mercy in the end. Surrounded by Sith and Warlords, who were interested and fascinated by the nation being carved out of the Core. Lysander von Ascania had also found his way to his former Master's side. It was good to see the youngster, Knighted and grasping for more power for himself. It was almost enough to make Mercy pink a tear away, if she had functioning tear ducts. There were opportunities aplenty, one such as Darth Carnifex knew it better than most, having jumped on the opportunity to take a slice of Byss when it opened up.

The strong took what they wanted, the weak suffered what they must.

It was a logic that Mercy understood and thrived in, being the strongest in her own mind.

And that was the tale she spun for her small audience. Of riches to be seized, power to be gained.

That the Core and beyond were open.

 

[Darth Sycophantia]

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[]

Comfortable Liar - by Chevelle

Tag: Open

I arrived to Jutland aboard a dagger-shaped shuttle wreathed in steam and ash, and already I could hear the celebration echoing through the colossal halls of this Obsidian Spire; music heavy with drums, goblets striking together, voices rich with arrogance and indulgence. Crimson banners hung from darkened pillars etched with Sith scripture, while braziers cast blood-colored light across polished stone floors.

Causally I moved through them unseen despite the eyes that followed me, my cloak whispering against the ground as I studied the gathered Sith with growing fascination. They were not the Sith I remembered. The Sith of my era had been predators sharpened by endless war, creatures forged through betrayal, discipline, and suffering. These Sith wore theatrical confidence, and carried themselves more like senators pretending to be conquerors than true disciples of the Dark Side.

Their hatred was present, yes, but diluted beneath vanity and ambition wrapped in ceremony.

I walked among them slowly, letting the currents of conversation drift into my ears as I passed through clusters of Acolytes, Lords, and political envoys. They whispered not of campaigns or ancient teachings, but of influence, territory rights, alliances, trade routes, and succession within the Order itself. Every exchange carried the scent of intrigue thicker than the incense burning throughout the Spire.

Listening in silence, I committed names and the Order's pecking order to memory while offering only the faintest nods when addressed. One Sith boasted of securing mining worlds through bribery rather than conquest; another quietly threatened economic ruin against a rival faction with more venom than any ignited blade. It amused me.

The Dark Side still flowed through this Order, but it had changed shape, less a raging inferno and more a poisoned ocean hiding monsters beneath calm waters. And as I drifted through the celebration like a phantom from a forgotten age, I found myself less interested in their displays of power and far more intrigued by the fragile political web binding this Order together.

An unknown man suddenly waved me over, and gradually I swayed myself to his location. Before me stood one of the Order's politicians draped in elegant dark silks adorned with chains of silver rank sigils, a goblet resting casually in his hand while lesser Sith laughed around him. The sight alone nearly soured my mood. I studied him in silence for a long moment, my crimson gaze moving from his polished attire to the shallow grin curled upon his lips.

I tilted my head slightly before finally speaking, my voice low and edged with cold curiosity. "How odd," I mused, allowing my eyes to drift toward the gathered Sith mingling throughout the Spire. "To see Sith celebrating together like delighted children released onto a playground." My gaze returned to him, skepticism sharpening every syllable that followed.

"In my time, when Sith gathered in such numbers, blood soon followed. Alliances were temporary things measured in hours, not political seasons." I folded my hands behind my back as I slowly circled him, studying both his posture and the unease beginning to creep into his expression.

"Yet here you stand with goblets and pleasant conversation, smiling beside rivals who would gladly poison your drink if given proper incentive." A faint smirk touched my lips beneath the shadow of my hood. "Tell me, sir, is this truly a Sith Order, or merely a senate draped in black robes pretending to worship the Dark Side?"

 

[Naedira Darcrath]

TAG: Gerwald Lechner | Revna Marr | Varin Mortifer | Irina Jesart | [OPEN]

Naedira had long since learned the difference between silence born from fear and silence born from belonging. It was strange. To think that she, born Nabooian and near-human, would have found a place amongst the pack that the Legion created. Tonight…The Spire was filled with the latter. She stood beside Gerwald Lechner and the cerulean glow of braziers made her clothing seem almost luminous. Her hand curled in the fabric of his sleeve while an emotion passed through her that she had no words for…

He was home—For once.

"She is here, you realize."

The woman that placed Naedira on edge, regardless, the fact that she was assured her husband was faithful. Her feelings toward the Empress had nothing to do with martial concerns and everything to do with the fact that she remembered the Echani from the Confederacy. She had always been assertive and headstrong, violent when called for, but there had always been some sense of the greater good.

A sense of justice—A set of rules, self-imposed, that kept her from becoming a tyrant.

Those limitations were long gone.

Naedira didn't want that kind of absolute evil in her home, nor, did she want her husband so attached to it. But…She made due. This was her home. She wouldn't give it up. Even if the word felt strange some days. Not because the Spire lacked warmth but because their people were just not built for stillness. They were forged in campaigns and funerals…Before a whisper in the night before another war demanded that they give everything, again, and again. That whisper was Srina Talon .

Years in battle situations had taught he not to trust peace for too long.

But tonight…She tried, if only, because her family had all come back beneath one roof. When was the last time that happened? Next to never?

Naedira tilted her head for a moment to let her temple rest against Gerwald's arm before letting him go so he could descend among his Legionnaires below. The massive hall didn't part for him out of obligation but respect that had been earned the hard way. She could see the way the younger wolves, soldiers, straightened when he approached. Veterans relaxed when Gerwald stopped beside them…And she was struck with the notion, that perhaps, the Dread Wolf would always belong to war.

But he belonged to them too.

The laugh of a pup in the distance caught her attention and she smiled at the sight. It wasn't just Sith Nobility that crowded the Obsidian Spire but others who fought with them, high and low, because a life was a life and they all made a difference in every war. Her gaze lifted toward the storm-dark skyline of Jutrand and she leaned on the railing. The synth-city burned bright beneath the rain.

A creeping feeling swept across the back of her neck and the she-wolf found her eyes drawn toward none other than her once-upon-a-time executioner. Darth Prazutis stood in the Iron Court in all of his black-armored glory and chocolate orbs began to lighten while a certain anger rose. What had taken place between them was now, decades old, but she had never forgotten the feeling of being slammed through bulkhead after bulkhead. Of being impaled on a piece of rebar.

Burned alive—Then sentenced to a Nether prison with a demon.

Just once…

Once.

She would have liked to slap him square across the face.

The wolf that lay sleepily within her, curled around her spine, woke up long enough to survey what got under her skin so badly, before closing her eyes in a series of rather impolite growls. The eyes of the auburn-haired woman were fierce and reflective before she looked away. Hiding her beast that had some very, very strongly snarled opinions.

<<Dick.>>

Naedira agreed.

 

[Irina Jesart]

Tags: Gerwald Lechner Naedira Darcrath
(Mentions: Darth Prazutis Skadi Lightbane Aerik Lechner )
Wearing: XXX

Where Gerwald moved, Irina followed. Not a timid servant waiting at his beck and call, but as an apprentice that had earned her right to stand beside him through fire and blood. The gold dress shimmered in the dancing blue flames as they passed beneath sconces, Irina’s gaze sweeping beyond the soldiers that Gerwald paused to converse with, taking note of who had arrived.

Her dark eyes were drawn upwards to the shadow that followed Lord Prazutis, her impassive gaze lingering longer than it should have, not out of fear or anger, but simply in acknowledgement of the power he wielded. With all she had learned about the relationship between him and the Lechner family, fear and anger would have been appropriate, yet neither came.

The Lord of the Dreadborne moved on, his wife at his side and Rin pulled her attention away, stepping up beside them as they came to a stop in the terrace’s centre, her hands folding in the small of her back as she took in the sight of the city ahead of them, the noise from the feast behind washing over them.

They hadn’t had a chance to speak since Brosi, beyond her delivering reports and receiving orders, and now definitely wasn’t the time, certainly not with Naedira Darcrath present. Somehow, she did not think that she would have approved of Irina digging into their past.

And she dreaded to think what Gerwald might have told her about her feelings towards their son.

Rin’s feet shifted, itching to slip away, to follow the tug of the bond to Aerik and Skadi before the vultures descended and turned a celebration into a war of words. Discipline kept her where she was.

 

[Christoph Kudmol Voytger]

The Wolf's Revel


It was all so different. They were all so different.

Shame radiated internally for Christoph. He did not deserve to be here. He did not deserve to stand where they had stood. To breathe the same air as those who had conquered this world. Who was he to be here amongst the gods? Those who had brought to heel and defeated the treacherous and debauched Jedi filth. Not he. Not Christoph who had spent his life in some backwater planet training his entire life to serve the Sith of the Sepulchral Priesthood. Only to fail at that, to be cast aside. Christoph had sinned in his rejection from service. He questioned why, he was guilty of the sin of thought. Of questioning the sacred order of those superior to him.

For that he had to die. Casting his lot in with the Legionnaires, he had hoped that the battlefield would claim him and in death he would be redeemed. Christoph had become a proud Legionnaire and had even completed an operation with his unit. However now, he only felt a deep sense of shame that he did not deserve the honor to guard this sacred gathering of his lords. To stand in the presence of the rightful master's of the galaxy. His unit had been called to serve as protection and security for this holy congregation.

He stood a proud sentinel of defense and protection amongst his brothers and sisters against the walls of the Feasting Hall. A silent participant in a world that he wept under his helmet to gaze upon. He had noticed how different it all was. How they were all so different.

Christoph had only ever known the sounds of sermons and the hymns the Sith Priests of Purgia and the Red Gate. He had only ever seen the robed dark clerics and acolytes of the Priesthood. These, Sith. They were different. They looked different, smelled different, they even moved different. Gone were the careful steps of old priests carrying heavy tomes and grimoires. The tired angered stares of Priests pouring over holocrons endlessly in the night. These Sith were not them.

A beautiful baleful predator was what first came to mind. As if watching a Sher-Kar or Vornskr wear the skin of a man. As if there was some monstrosity waiting just beneath the surface to open its fanged maw and gleefully rip apart its prey. Christoph could only imagine what a beautiful sight it would be to watch his lieges, his lords and ladies that he wanted so badly to serve and die for kill those beneath them. To bring ruin to those who would dare cast but a wrong glare at them.

yet Christoph kept all of this to himself. He and his fireteam would need to make the patrol rounds soon. All he could do is sit there in his armor with his shame, his fantasies of violence, and his complete adoration and submission to these superior beings. He was but a man. A small man in a suit of armor with a blaster standing where he had no place being.
Tags: Mercy Srina Talon Aerik Lechner

 

[Sophia of House Marr]

​

Tag: Horus Rhyne | Darth Sycophantia [OPEN]
Location: Obsidian Spire [Iron Court]
___________

Quote of the Moment:
"Her soul was too deep to explore by those who always swam in the shallow end."
___________​

Sophia didn't announce herself when she entered the Obsidian Spire.

Not just because it felt unnecessary but because some of the Sith that had loathed her brother still had a bone or twelve to pick. She wasn't in the mood to deal with it. The Marr family had served Jutrand for as long as the Sith Order had called it home; that wouldn't change. Black and crimson clung close to winter-white skin beneath the weight of a furred cloak, and the ruby eyes of the littlest Marr were half-lidded while they passed beneath the towering banners and bleeding braziers of Jutrand. Music thundered, and voices followed…Full of pride, vanity, and hunger.

Sith.

A stranger's voice carried easily across the chamber and cut through the noise with open skepticism.

Or was it cynicism? Both?

Sophia slowed near one of the great obsidian pillars as she listened. Around her, a few of the nearby conversations faltered. Some looked offended. Others, amused. Such assumptions were expected of younglings and fools, not fully grown individuals. Crimson eyes moved over the Twi'lek with a certain level of curiosity, though she was half tempted to ask which carbonite storage cellar she'd crawled out of after escaping a deep freeze. She didn't look that old…But she sounded like it.

Looks could be deceiving, she supposed.

"Sophia Marr."

The introduction wasn't followed with an outstretched hand because, truly, what Sith would take it?

The dumb ones—Sure.

"You sound pretty nostalgic about your own era…Have you been around long?"

Her voice was smooth and sophisticated, quietly asking several questions at the same time. Had this creature been in Sith Space long? Jutrand long? Alive long? She smiled faintly while she stepped away from the shifting crowd and blocked the line of sight from the gawkers. They were shocked by the audacity to utter such nonsensical drivel with the Sith Empress potentially within earshot. It was brave, bold, but just a little stupid. Their Eternal Mother was more patient than the average tyrant…But no one wanted to see where that patience would end. "Sorry about them…"

Her shoulders shrugged a touch…

"It's just that every time we put down our sabers for a second, someone shows up and starts lamenting about "real" Sith and the good old days. They think that refinement means weak…But the Order isn't lesser just because they've learned how to build and burn. Keeping an Empire thriving requires more than mindless slaughter…", she tilted her head slightly while she thought it over, taking the concern seriously rather than dismissing it outright. "It requires infrastructure. Loyalty. Fear that is…"

"Properly cultivated."

Sophia flashed the red-skinned woman a smile when a man in the distance caught her eye. He was tall and handsome, his expression dark, but an instant sense of possession washed over her. Horus Rhyne was as deadly as they came…But with her? He was…

More.

Her hand extended to the man with finely manicured nails gleaming in the light, sharp, with red polish that matched her lipstick. They looked like little knives. "Anyone can claim faith to the Dark by making offerings of blood, death, and mayhem, blah blah, but that doesn't make it true. It makes them opportunists. Anyone can kill a rival…"

"But it takes something greater to make them bow willingly and thank you for it."

Her fingers threaded through the hand Horus offered, and she pulled herself toward him. He was the only person she trusted in this Spire. Period. "Make no mistake…Everyone has that one idiot cousin who runs his mouth, but if this room truly forgot what it means to be Sith…There would already be bodies on the floor. My advice would be to listen and learn. Adapt. You'll live a lot longer."

They were demons. Absolute, demons. Only someone without an ounce of sense would take a look at the Empire that had been built from nothing and assume it was feckless. Sophia may not have always understood the actions of those above her, but she knew above all that assumptions meant an early grave. "Horus…I was just talking to my new friend…"

Sophia blinked.

"What's your name again?"

 

[Skadi Lightbane]

Outfit
Tags:
Aerik Lechner || Irina Jesart ​

Skadi was not new to dressing up for more formal events, though she had to admit that this sort of ‘formal event’ was vastly different from those she had grown up with. Most of those formal events had been to parade her as a marriageable prospect from her Clan to others that would attend her Father’s Hall for feasts and oath swearings. She had despised such events, hated how she had been dressed up and made to look beautiful for men she didn’t know nor care to know. It had all been done out the sake of ‘tradition’.

It was part of the reason why she had fled Toola, fled her Father’s Hall.

And yet here she was, at another formal event, dressed in elegance that befitted her Valkyri roots, but did not make her appear like the shieldmaiden she was. And this time, she was not being paraded as an object to be ogled at - but as a companion.

Beside her, dressed in the dark elegance of his House colors, was Aerik Lechner - the son of the Lord of this House.

It was the first time that Skadi had set foot within the Obsidian Spire, the first time she beheld where Aerik and his siblings had grown up, and what he had been forced to leave behind to take up the mantle of the Sith apprentice. From the corner of her golden hued eyes, she watched the young wolf take in his surroundings.

Was he tense? Did he enjoy being back here? That would tell her everything she needed to know about his relationship to his siblings, to his home, to his parents.

Music and voices rolled through the great chamber, spilling out to greet those who were still arriving. Power collected here, under this singular roof, so much power that it made Skadi’s skin crawl beneath her dress. Her eyes drifted over everyone, everything, taking in the sights, the sounds, the scents.

Aerik’s hand at her lower back, meant to guide her, sharpened her awareness of him. Even with that faint touch, she could feel the heat of his skin seeping into her own. He was fire, and she was ice. But they found a way to merge and exist, even with their dual nature. They were more than just co-apprentices now, but lovers - packmates. But the other member of their pack was missing, and Skadi’s eyes returned to drifting through the crowd to try and spy the familiar chocolate hue of the other woman that burned just as brightly as Aerik did.

Irina.

Her and Skadi’s relationship was… a work in progress. Both of them felt strongly for the same young man, and neither of them were going anywhere. Both had agreed to accept that for what it was, and though Skadi was more than happy to share, Irina was more of the jealous sort. But for now, their differences and hostilities had been pushed aside in favor of working together, fighting together, and being what they needed to be for the young wolf.

Together, Skadi and Aerik made their way into a different part of the Spire, a quieter part of the celebration that spread out to terraces that overlooked the sprawling skyline of Jutrand’s spires. Here, she could feel the tension within Aerik bleed away and he relaxed a bit more, and the noise and curious stares of the other chambers faded away into something more grounding.

Here, the legionnaires were found; she recognized them instantly and felt a smile curl one corner of her lips. They were arguing boisterously, sharing battle stories, drinking by the roaring fires. It reminded her of the warriors of her home, reminded her that Aerik and his family too came from something more…wild.

"This is better," Aerik admitted, before turning his gaze upon her. She didn’t meet his burning eyes, not immediately, choosing instead to take in the surroundings before turning her focus upon him. Here, in the firelight, he looked every part the son of a Sith Lord; dark elegance that belied his lethal edge, the ferocity that she knew existed within him, the hunter that sought to free itself when it had the chance. Her eyes traced the outline of his scar, earned on the field of battle - their first battle together.

Glimpses of that fight and what had happened there returned her for a moment - the din of battle, the snarling maw of a black wolf, the clash of fire and ice. Irina…

"The formal side of these things usually gets worse the longer you stay in it, eventually someone starts pretending diplomacy is more exhausting than war."

Skadi huffed in knowing amusement and her smile suggested that she knew that all too well. “It was the same in my Father’s Hall as well. Eventually, someone had to try and prove that their sword was bigger than everyone else’s.” she said, the images of the battle and its blood fading from her mind for the moment.

"We should probably save Irina before she gets trapped in one of those conversations."

“I agree. Our pack is not complete without her here, ja?” Skadi replied, giving Aerik a small smile. “Where do you think she might be? Where might we find her?” ​

 

[Revna Marr]

Direct Tag: Varin Mortifer
Other Tags: Gerwald Lechner // Naedira Darcrath || Open​

The invitation had been delivered into Revna’s hand by a Korribani Court courtier, bearing the familiar sigil of House Lechner. An invite to a celebration for the victory over Woostri, the defeat of the Galactic Alliance and the Jedi a year ago.

Had it been a year already?

Revna exhaled a soft breath; so much had happened in such a short amount of time. Wars, alliances, knightings, Sith rituals, the rise of rivals, the challenges and painful tediousness of court.

The absence of her King, Darth Caedes .

She felt that keenly these days, though she hid it underneath the pale mask she bore everywhere these days. There were only two individuals, nay - three - in the entire galaxy who could see beyond that mask. One was gone, tending to duties of the Dark Council, another was the Dread Empress herself, and the last was - of course - her Father.

Removing that mask of hers had led to more than one argument between them. That, she could live without, if she was honest with herself. But Alisteri was just as stubborn and set in His ways and beliefs as she was. Arguments were bound to happen, she supposed. At least they were not trying to kill each other.

Yet.

Once the invitation was accepted and responded to, Revna turned her attention to preparing for the coming celebration. Celebrations amongst the Sith were only such at surface level; when one went deeper, the true purpose behind such gatherings was revealed.

It was a perfect place to forge alliances, strengthen bonds, set in motion plans or ambitions, and see who would be a rival or not. And Revna, ever watchful for more opportunities to climb the ladder of power and influence, knew that attending such an event would be to her advantage.

Besides, it had been quite some time since she had last brushed shoulders with Gerwald Lechner. It was time she paid him a visit, and perhaps begin building a stronger connection to the Dark Councilor. Alliances didn’t forge themselves when one was sitting on their ass all day.

The Queen-in-training moved appointments around to free up some of her time, delegating where necessary and sending a missive to the First Lord of Korriban, Elmindra Xitaar , indicating that her absence was to be expected for a summons to Jutrand.

Then, she sent a message to her Apprentice, Varin. It was short and carried the weight of a Master’s command; he was to meet her on Korriban at an appointed time, and she would explain more once he arrived. With important matters out of the way, now she could turn her attention to something more tedious:

Finding an outfit for the celebration.

Luckily for Revna Marr, being the King’s royal consort and his future Queen, she had her own wealth of servants, waiting ladies, and retainers. Some whose sole purpose was to ensure she had access to all available garments that she could possibly ever want, for any occasion.
​

​

The day of the Celebration arrived, and Revna Marr arrived at the Obsidian Spire alongside her Apprentice, Varin. The duo were quite the pair - Varin nearing eight feet, and Revna barely over five. He was built powerfully, a warrior through and through, and she…well, looks could be deceiving. And that was the whole point. She would rather her rivals and opponents underestimate her - even her allies, if possible.

Once inside the Spire, the noise of the celebrations flooded over the small Sith woman, assaulting her senses. She paused for a moment, once within, to take in her surroundings and assess those who had gathered. She spied many familiar faces, and some that were new. Power, dark and insidious, pooled under this roof; some of which Revna knew instantly.

Darth Prazutis was here.

As was the Dread Empress, Srina Talon .

Perhaps, if Revna found the opportunity, she would give her Dread Mother her affection. It had been some time since she had last seen the Empress - and that had been in the midst of the battle for Brosi, against the now sundered Imperial Confederation.

Revna stepped further into the grand chamber, further into the revelries. Her simple, but elegant, black dress whispered along the floor around her, its black and red trim catching the glittering lights and flickering blue flames as she passed by. The dress, sleeveless and dipping into a V at the throat, revealed faint etches of Sith sigils and brandings, along with other distinct, sharp edged tattoos that bled a faint touch of coldness. Normally, these tattoos and etchings were hidden beneath the Sith robes she typically chose to wear but they were now on display. Symbols of trials she had endured, that she had triumphed through - that marked her not as an Apprentice of Darth Strosius any longer, but someone who stood equal with Him now.

As Revna took a glass of some sort of beverage from a passing servant, she turned her gaze upon the towering presence of Varin beside her.

Those who did not know of their connection, might have assumed she was his apprentice. That thought always amused her, when it popped into her mind. As they made their way further in, she took the opportunity to engage with Varin. He had learned much over the time they had been together, even when he was apart from her tending to matters in the Core with the Sith Covenant.

“Tell me Varin, what do you see before you, around you, in this moment?” She asked him softly as she sipped the sparkling golden wine in her flute glass. “What do you sense?” ​

 

[Darth Strosius]

Tags: Open!
--------------------------------------------

Darth Strosius had never been one for events such as this, a musing that He repeated to Himself each time He arrived at any gathering of Sith for the rather subdued occasion of partying and brushing elbows. The malice and scheming happened just behind the glamorous facades and grinning visages, masks that concealed even more than the one donning His own face did. At least He had the decency to wear His openly and honestly unlike every other attendant, which perhaps summarized His distaste of parties like this rather succinctly.

He simply didn't care for the social aspect of it, especially not when it was all just one big masquerade for the power deals and discussions that made the Sith Order's engine of war turn this direction or that. That was why He was here, to make sure that He knew where the Legions would be pointed next or which Dark Councilor favored whom for some nepotistic appointment. If only He had some sort of informants or allies embedded within the upper ranks of the Order then He could spare Himself the trouble of attending these events, but alas such wasn't the case.

So it was that He found Himself holding a glass that was still completely full, standing against a pillar where He could watch the court's denizens and happenings without too much to obscure His vision. The display of the procession was perhaps the only part of the event thus far that Darth Strosius found Himself enjoying. Finally the people of the Sith Order were getting some remembrance and respect, well earned and more than deserved compared to their high and mighty self-appointed 'betters.'

Lechner continued to be the most sensible of the Dark Council, at least from what He could see. The thought was a fleeting comfort but a comfort nonetheless, something which was distinctly rare at a gathering like this. So long as He could ignore His skin crawling then He could ride out the rest of the event and get the gist of whatever the real occasion behind it was.

 

[Varin Mortifer]

VARIN MORTIFER

Equipment: Durum Mantle | Black Blade of Chandrila | Eye of The Dragon | Heavy Sith Mace | Cross Guard Broadsaber​

The summons came without warning as he sat in his ship’s bed chambers meditating over everything he had endured.

The Box A specialized prison built specifically to hold him on Kamino. He focused on the pain he endured, the chilling temperatures of his cell, the feeling of starvation, and the feeling of his very being cracking at its foundation.

But more specifically he focused on that man, Allan, he called himself. The very man who had slaughtered his family. His fists clenched as he remembered the look in the man’s eyes, the tone of his voice, the feeling of his shoulder sockets being pulled out of place for not kneeling to him.

The candles that surrounded him grew in flame, eating through the red wax at a rapid rate, his heart thudded and pounded within his chest before…

“Varin…you have a message from your master.”

Varin’s eyes opened, the glowing fiery eye in his left socket slowly dimmed as he sat up.

“Thank you CC.”

He set the holoprojector in his quarters listening to her message. A message beckoning him back to Korriban for something important. He would waste no time, very rarely did his master summon his presence and he always came when she asked or demanded.

The day had come for the celebration, Varin accompanied his master Lady Revna into the Iron Court. Some familiar faces around the room called his attention briefly as he stepped in with his master, his gaze looking into the glass that was offered to him. He always had thoughts of accepting such beverages in Sith gatherings, which one was poisoned, had it been tampered with. But he tipped the glass back slowly, tasting the golden liquid upon his lips. Sweet and smooth. A fancier wine that he had not had. He looked at the glass once more as his other arm folded behind his back. The motion in his right leg was still limited causing him to favor his left, but he no longer needed the scabbard of his Black Blade to hold him up. Instead it laid sheathed on his hip. Recovery was still coming slowly, but progress had been made, with help from Acier and Lysander he was soon back to his normal strength and then some.

His master’s words had taken his attention from the beverage and prior thoughts, causing him to glance around the room.

Powerful Lords and influential figures spoke here. Alliances to be made, kingdoms to shatter. One being would offer you a shield for your front as they held a blade to your back. It was all a strategic game. He knew it.

He paused as he looked over the room, his glowing eye taking in force signatures of each person, stopping at Darth Prazutis. The immense feeling of power from the figure was enough to cause him to pause, staring at him for a little longer than needed before he looked back at his master.

His voice was low and deep, carrying to her without regard of other ears hearing him.

“A congregation of powerful bodies, a play of alliances as well as back stabbings. I sense sacrificial trades, opportunities with cost. I see Sith, beings starving for more clawing their way for it as well.”

He took another slow sip of his beverage.

“I see smiles hiding the teeth of predators.”

Direct tag: Revna Marr

Other tags: Gerwald Lechner | Naedira Darcrath​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Tag | Srina Talon

The crowds undulated with a placid desire to impress, to bask in the glory of a victory they had not earned, an empire they had not built, and a power they had not ripped from the unwilling Galaxy at large. There, among the crowd, the Great Father, the Blackwall Emperor, the Dead God stood and watched all the sycophants leech off victories he himself had orchestrated. Even now, they celebrated him, but they would deny it to their dying breath. The thought drove a devilish grin to a living face.​

​

One none seemed to recognize, nor could they sense. The Dead God was not dead any longer, and his capacity to use the Force had been sealed to save them all from the consequences of his decisions. They bumped into him, gave him looks, but none knew him as the Emperor Empyrean they feared. They only saw a man with a coy smile, golden shimmering eyes, and carefully braided hair in a middling black formal attire. Just enough for these occasions.​

​

But Empyrean saw none of them - they were huddled masses undeserving of his attention. No, the Emperor's gaze watched carefully as his wife moved between dancing partner and prospective husband. He saw others pander and placate, pretend at prestige, but the gaze of his wife was always icy - it had a way to chill the ambitions of almost anyone who stared into it for too long. Not him, of course, but when had he ever been anything but an anomaly?​

​

Even without the Force, he could always sense his wife in a room, could feel her presence because it demanded him to. It called to him, even as their bond was thin and fleeting at times. A thing so simple as a force bond could not explain the depth of their connection, the very foundation of their love. He didn't have to explain how he knew her, her body and soul, her very presence from across a crowded room, it only mattered that he knew. Why would he care for anything more than knowing her?​

​

When the last patron parted from her, he slowly began to walk forward. The crowds didn't part in fear of the monster he had become, because the monster was buried behind a gilded face the Galaxy hadn't known for decades. The carnage Empyrean had brought to the Galaxy, to Woostri, to every room he'd entered for the last 20 years, failed to follow him here. They did not know this man, and they did not respect him - and he could not fault them for it. He did not lash out when others bumped into him, as they swore expletives under their breath, as they glared at him for daring to transgress on their place in the crowd.​

​

Yet he only saw her.​

​

Like a viper, he worked his way around the crowds until there was nothing left between them. With a hand on the small of his back, he bowed ever so carefully for his wife's entertainment, grinning up at her as their eyes met.​

​

"My Empress, I am Rhysion. Would you grace me with a dance? I ask only for a moment - and perhaps more, if you are gracious.", he mused, coyly offering her the chance to rebuff him, but he knew she wouldn't. She knew she wouldn't. That's what made it all the funnier to him, and why his grin was so wide - much to the concern of the nearest peasantry.​

 

[Taeli Raaf]

Dress and Robes
Nearby: Gerwald Lechner Darth Prazutis Helix Darth Sycophantia Naedira Darcrath Irina Jesart Sophia of House Marr Darth Strosius

Interacting briefly: Revna Marr Varin Mortifer
​

"The Great Game, as I like to call it," her voice would respond to the observation offered by Revna's apprentice. She would emerge from among the crowd of the gathered Sith, bureaucrats, and officers, garbed in somber robes of sable and crimson with a matching dress. A younger woman in the military dress uniform of the Kainate trailed behind her, the adjutant Veyra sent by Darth Carnifex in his stead to the meeting that had accompanied her. Whereas Prazutis was allowing his power to be felt in the room, from the Lady of Secrets there would be... nothing. To those with attuned senses, it would appear as though she weren't there, her presence so small and hidden to pass unnoticed in the gathering.

For a moment, she would turn her full attention to Revna, offering a nod of her head in greeting as she said, "I sense that congratulations are in order, Revna." It wasn't something physical about the younger woman that told her of her ascension, although she recognized the more traditional Sith tattoos she was now displaying. It was more she could sense and read the change within her in how the Force and the dark side flowed through and around her. She had taken another step up the ladder, as it were. Alisteri had certainly taken his time with his student. "And you've chosen your student well." Amethyst eyes would move back to the young man, studying him in both the mundane and the ethereal. "Others require my attention, but I do hope to have a longer conversation sometime later in the evening with you both. Until then, do make sure that these predators don't take a bite from you."

She would begin to step away, back into the crowd, but she would add over her shoulder, "He's pouting over by one of the pillars. Do make sure he doesn't blow up this party, hmm?" And then she and Veyra would go off to further mingle, and hopefully give the apprentice to the Queen of Korriban something to think about.

 

[Lirka Ka]

THE IRON COURT

TAGS: Darth Strosius , OPEN

Lirka had sharpened her teeth as a scuttling creature of the court. A wayward child of the Empire when it was still in its infancy, returning to a swollen beast where her name was little more than a footnote to the vast majority.

Always willing to swell in narcissistic pride, she considered she had done rather well for herself since her return. With the blood from the bout into New Cov she had orchestrated now on her hands, and titles aplenty to her name. She couldn’t help but look back to Woostri with a fondness, it was the moment before her clambering rise to power, a bloody christening with the Jedi and the ilk. For when she had first felt the swell of power from the ichor of Darth Carnifex swirling through her veins: where with the staggering death toll of both the Galactic Alliance’s defenders and the Sith’s warriors lost, she had been allowed to taste the Dark Side once again. A glimmer. A drop upon her tongue before it had been stolen away from her.

The moment that now heralded the dark apotheosis she now worked towards in the shadowy places of their Empire.

And with all her newfound success, court almost seemed like a distraction. A chance now to merely show face, make appearances. Lines had already been drawn for many, and variables quickly had become accounted for. Her “compatriots” Helix and Darth Nefaron and those that would not stand against the Dzara’s bloody aims, and those who would let the disease of peace infect their hearts rather than accept the Chain.

Someone like Darth Strosius

That wondrous nuisance that he was. Certainly by all metric of political decorum, and in the name of making sure no one make a mess of the pleasant Gerwald Lechner had invited them to, she shouldn’t have approached. But Lirka was feeling the sort of snickering confidence of a schoolyard bully - the Wonosans she regarded like gnats now, the spectral phantoms of murderous assassins that suffocated her in her paranoia had subsided, and in that brief moment of freedom she would use it to do what she did best.

Taunt. Prod. And poke.

With armor that glimmered with the slick of a fresh polishing, and the ever-so-slightly too strong scent of oils upon its metal. The power-suited form of Lirka thumped-thumped-thumped to meet Strosius brooding: why not give him an even better reason to hate these gatherings? Swirling a glass of something between her claws, painfully obnoxious as ever for how abundantly performative it was. Words purred from her helmet as she made her way to pick a fight.

“I didn’t know we let the disheveled yokels of Wild Space into these. Shouldn’t you be crawling through a muddy hole somewhere instead of playing court?”

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[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Vigfjall
TAG: Naedira Darcrath | Revna Marr | Varin Mortifer | Irina Jesart | OPEN

She was present.

Gerwald knew when the Empress came near the tower. He knew when the wintry sovereign crossed the threshold of the Obsidian Spire. Her presence settled against the Force before his eyes ever found her and long before Naedira said anything. No one save his mate would notice the subtle shift of his attention toward the entrance below.

Blue flame rolled through the recessed braziers surrounding the overlook while music and conversation thundered upward from the feast hall beneath them. Warriors of the Second Legion filled the immense chamber below in black and gold beside Sith nobility, fleet officers, foreign dignitaries, and the families which had slowly become part of the Legion itself over the years. The Obsidian Spire had been built with the scale and grandeur expected of a gift from Empyrean, but Gerwald had long since made it something else. Less palace. More fortress hall.

Yet as quickly as his attention shifted toward the entrance, his gaze returned to the woman at his side.

“And yet, I stand here.”

The statement would seem cold to anyone who did not understand the implication behind the Dread Wolf remaining where he was while Srina Talon occupied the hall below. He may have pledged himself to her. Gerwald was her wolf to call when she wished, but Naedira was his mate. Tonight, within their home and hearth high above the storm drenched skyline of Jutrand, the beast remained beside his beauty. Nothing would pull him from her side or keep him far from it.

There was an intrinsic truth the Lord Commander had known from the moment the auburn haired Obsidian Knight melded with him on their first mission together.

Naedira made him stronger.

She made him better.

He was at his most powerful when she stood beside him.

Gerwald drew in a slow breath through his nostrils as her head leaned against his arm. Her fragrance filled his senses instantly. It had been committed to memory long ago. War had stolen too much time from them already. Distance had become part of their lives whether either of them wished it or not.

As he moved to greet his legionnaires and the guests who had arrived within the Spire, his attention remained fixed upon her even while speaking with others. Naedira would not be left behind tonight, nor would he allow great distance between them. He glanced back toward her over his shoulder as he descended deeper into the hall.

Then her wolf stirred.

The Dread Wolf turned immediately toward the source of her discomfort.

Darth Prazutis had arrived.

The Mountain had brutally killed her. He had torn flesh from Gerwald only to force the dark side to heal him before doing it again. Hate was an insufficient word for what settled into the gut and heart of the Dark Councilor whenever memory dragged him back there. His golden gaze shifted toward Naedira. The ocean blue his eyes had once carried had long since been consumed by the path he chose in order to free her from the devourer which had imprisoned her.

“Gakk með mér, ylgr mín.”

His hand reached toward her and lingered there until hers filled it.

“I have not forgotten.”

Rain rolled against the immense black glass windows of the Spire while thunder echoed distantly across the skyline outside. Together they moved through the Legion as warriors straightened respectfully when Gerwald approached while attention quickly shifted toward Naedira beside him. Veterans greeted her with the warmth reserved for someone rarely seen long enough to enjoy moments like this among them. Younger wolves watched the pair with open fascination as the Dread Wolf and his mate crossed through the hall together beneath blue flame and gold light. Gerwald carried the respect earned through war. Naedira carried something rarer within the Legion.

She reminded them what coming home was supposed to feel like.

Irina Jesart eventually fell in behind them. Her presence was as familiar as any of his own children. The Dread Wolf had invested in her as though she were blood of his blood. His little firebird had come a long way from the furious child he once pulled from the academy. The temper still burned hot, but the fire inside her had finally begun to take shape instead of consuming everything around it. The Legion had become her home as much as anyone else's.

It was the beauty of what they had built.

“The rest of the Order only sees the Legion as an instrument of war,” Gerwald said as his gaze moved across the gathered Dreadborne. “But look at this.”

His eyes lingered briefly on the warriors, the veterans, the families gathered beneath the blue flame and music of the feast hall.

“It is something worth protecting.”

Part of the wolf still clung to ideals from the life he once lived. The Dreadborne had been built upon them whether the rest of the Sith understood it or not. Naedira had always believed he could become something better than what the galaxy expected of him. The Legion stood as proof she had not been wrong.

His attention shifted toward his apprentice.

“Bleed with them and they will bleed for you,” he told Irina. “Celebrate with them and they will follow you. Oath and Iron forge loyalty.”

Her Emberborne had been a gift, but they were hers to shape into something lasting. Gerwald had entrusted her with command because she had proven worthy of it. No one learned leadership by standing behind another forever.

“Let them see your scars.”

Golden eyes eventually moved from the revelry toward those gathered within the Iron Court itself. The open aired terrace overlooked the endless lights of Jutrand while rain drifted through the edges of the space beneath towering obsidian pillars and blue flame braziers. The celebration still echoed outward from the feast hall behind them, though conversations here had become quieter and more deliberate.

Those gathered within the Court could not be ignored.

Part of the Dread Wolf’s responsibility tonight was ensuring they behaved themselves beneath his roof. He would pity anyone foolish enough to disturb the peace Naedira had carved into the Spire over the years. Gerwald had made it a fortress. She had made it a home.

That did not mean politics ceased to exist.

As a member of the Dark Council, Gerwald could not afford to ignore the alliances forming around him any more than he could openly resent the necessity of them. Such things were woven into the nature of the Order he had chosen to serve.

Revna Marr had arrived alongside her pupil Varin Mortifer . They had met once before when she asked Gerwald to teach the boy how to contain the monster residing within him. It was not the same beast carried by the Lord Commander, but the lesson itself remained unchanged. Monsters were not mastered through denial. They had to be accepted as part of what one was.

The Dread Wolf inclined his head slightly as he approached. Taeli Raaf had only just stepped aside moments earlier. It seemed the Queen of Korriban had accepted his invitation after all. The corner of Gerwald’s mouth turned upward faintly.

“Korriban honors us with its presence,” he said as his gaze met hers. “It is good to see someone of like minded interests.”

They shared more than battle in common.

The Mountain had seen to that.

“I would like to introduce you to my mate, @Naedaira Darcrath. Naedira, this is Revna Marr and her apprentice Varin Mortifer . Irina, I believe you know them as well.”