Dominion One Small Step || SO Dominion of Chalcedon

[Aspect of Defiance]

The Maw Cluster occupies much of what was once the border between Sith space and the Galactic Alliance. Long before the Blackwall was raised, it served as a natural barrier, a region of unstable gravity wells and distorted hyperspace lanes that punished the careless and erased the unprepared. The Blackwall only reinforced what the Maw already was, a graveyard of ships and ambitions navigable only by those with the fortune or the forbidden knowledge to do so. Sith charts and inherited routes turned catastrophe into passage, but even then the Maw demanded respect.

That balance has shifted. What once functioned as a barrier against Coreward advance has become an obstacle of a different kind. The collapse of authority beyond the Blackwall has opened paths that invite movement, yet the Maw itself remains ill suited for sustained, large scale deployment. Fleets cannot linger there. Supply lines cannot be anchored in its storms. If the Sith are to move beyond probing raids and isolated strikes, a stable rally point is required, a world that can absorb pressure and project force outward without relying on the Maw itself.

That world has already been identified.

Chalcedon has long served as a way station rather than a prize, lightly populated but precisely placed. Galactic powers passed through its ports without lingering. Criminal syndicates used it as neutral ground, a place to refit, bargain, and vanish back into the lanes. Its value was never in what it produced, but in what it connected. For the Sith Order, that quiet relevance makes it indispensable.

Chalcedon is not intended to stand as a symbol of conquest. It is meant to function. Its docks will gather forces. Its corridors will stabilize movement. Its position will allow the Order to deploy deliberately rather than opportunistically, ensuring that the advance into the Mid Rim and toward the Core is sustained rather than sporadic. Control of Chalcedon transforms ambition into infrastructure.

But usefulness invites resistance. The same syndicates and local authorities that once thrived on Chalcedon’s neutrality will not surrender it willingly. They understand its value as clearly as the Sith do. Before it can serve as a doorstep into the Core, it must be stripped of competing claims and brought under singular control.

Only then can the advance move forward with certainty.

Spoiler: OBJECTIVES

Objective 1: Controlling the Board​

Chalcedon must be made to recognize Sith authority as a physical and unavoidable presence. Before criminal networks can be addressed or rival powers dismantled, the Order requires a secured foothold from which to operate openly. Spaceports, orbital control, and key infrastructure must be seized and placed under Sith command.

This phase is not about subtlety. It is about making control visible and permanent. Garrisons must be established, supply routes stabilized, and resistance broken quickly enough that no competing authority can claim legitimacy. Those who act decisively during this phase will determine how Sith rule is expressed on Chalcedon, and whose influence shapes the world once control is formalized.

Objective 2: Cornering the Market​

Cyklo Market, once one of the key shadowports of the galactic slave trade, still exerts significant influence over Chalcedon through its black markets and criminal networks. Securing control of the world, and more importantly ensuring uninterrupted military access, will be impossible without bringing the market under control.

Local crime lords must be brought to heel, replaced with more agreeable figures, or the market itself placed under direct Sith authority. The method is irrelevant so long as Cyklo presents no threat to future passage, logistics, or operations. Those who move first will decide who profits from Chalcedon’s underworld, and who disappears into it.

Objective 3: Flipping the Tables (BYOO)​

Not every action on Chalcedon will fall cleanly under authority or commerce. The arrival of the Sith will unsettle alliances, expose rivalries, and create opportunities that cannot be fully anticipated. This agenda exists to address what emerges in the wake of that disruption.

Intelligence gathering, political maneuvering, countering outside interference, internal rivalries, and unexpected threats all fall within this scope. Actions taken here may strengthen or undermine the primary objectives, often without immediate visibility. Those who operate under this agenda shape the environment in which control is asserted and markets are dominated.

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

WEARING: This
WEAPONS: Ferrum Solus | Blodmåne | Strømafbryder
SHIP: Vigfjall
TAG: Irina Jesart | Open

The Maw had always been a border.

Not one that could be held, and never one that invited lingering. Ships crossed it with care or vanished into it without ceremony. Routes were inherited rather than trusted, and even those demanded respect. The Blackwall had not changed that reality. It had simply made it permanent.

What lay beyond it, however, no longer was.

Gerwald stood near the forward viewport as the shuttle descended, its hull cutting cleanly through Chalcedon’s upper traffic bands. Second Legion escorts held position around it, their presence already forcing civilian craft to reroute and compress. There was no panic in the lanes below, no alarms. The ports remained active. Chalcedon continued as it always had, moving on the assumption that neutrality was still protection enough.

It would not remain so.

His two apprentices stood behind him in silence, their presence steady and unobtrusive as the planet filled the viewport. Chalcedon was unremarkable at a distance, its surface broken by ports and corridors that showed constant movement without cohesion. It had never needed to impress. It had endured by being useful and forgettable in equal measure.

Syndicates had used it to refit and disappear. Authorities had governed it by avoiding commitment. Powers passed through its lanes without lingering long enough to claim it. Chalcedon had survived by never forcing a decision.

That indulgence had ended.

For a brief moment, Gerwald’s attention shifted beyond the planet itself, to the space it occupied. Chalcedon did not matter because of what it produced or what banner it flew. It mattered because of where it sat. It gathered movement without drawing attention to itself. It connected lanes that were not meant to converge. It allowed forces to assemble without relying on the Maw to hold them together.

The Maw could be crossed. It could not be built upon.

Second Legion signals bled into local traffic control as the shuttle entered controlled descent corridors. The change was subtle. Lanes adjusted. Holds were imposed. Civilian traffic compressed without understanding why. Control did not announce itself. It asserted itself.

Resistance would come. It always did.

The syndicates operating here understood Chalcedon’s value as clearly as he did. They had exploited its neutrality for decades. Local authorities had mistaken survival for legitimacy. Neither would relinquish control willingly. That reluctance was expected. It had already been accounted for.

Chalcedon was not being claimed as a symbol. Gerwald had no interest in spectacle. It was being taken because what followed could not be sustained without it. Raids and isolated strikes had their place. What came next required ground that could be held.

Across the planet, command channels opened and stabilized. Assets began to move. Orders were issued without fanfare, received without debate. This was not a single operation unfolding in isolation. It was the opening movement of something larger, and those who recognized it early would decide how the world changed around them.

The shuttle’s descent slowed as the capital complex rose to meet it. Landing beacons activated in sequence, ceding priority without protest. The pad atop the capital building cleared as if it had always been reserved for this purpose.

The shuttle touched down, its engines winding down as the Second Legion arrived not as guests, but as fact.

"Move out... and I want the governor brought to me. The rest of you... set up the command post."

 

[Elmindra Xitaar]

Mid Rim, Tashtor Sector, Chalcedon System
Naamino Zuukamano | Kasir Dorran | OPEN

​

The Omen tore from hyperspace before the rest of Korriban's fleet emerged around it with disciplined precision. Battlecruisers and escort frigates snapped into formation, their hulls catching the light of Chalcedon's distant sun. Chalcedon bloomed into view beyond the forward viewport—a dark, volcanic sphere veined with ember-lit fault lines and crowned by thin, tattered clouds.

The command deck was bathed in crimson light from the Korribani crystals embedded within the durasteel walls and vaulted ceiling. The crystals hummed softly, not sound so much as presence, resonating through Elmindra in a way that reminded her of the Sith holy world she and Darth Caedes had made their home for many years now. The red light shadowed the sage green of her Falleen skin and gave her reptilian eyes and otherworldly glow. The Rajakzânkut crew moved in disciplined quiet beneath that glow, silhouettes against holodisplays and tactical projections.

Elmindra stood at the fore, hands clasped behind her back, posture unyielding. Her long jet-black braid fell straight down her spine, accentuating the length of her neck and the subtle ridges along her forehead. Her Benediction armor embraced her frame like a second skin—articulated plates of obsidian alloy traced with ornate golden filigree and Sith sigils. Sorcery and circuitry braided together within it, reinforcing her presence in the Force, sharpening her perceptions as she studied the world below.

From orbit, Chalcedon was all harsh geometry and scar tissue—infrastructure clinging to basalt shelves in concentrated colonies, habitation domes nestled into volcanic glass like insects trapped in amber. The planet's true value was not in its resources but it's location and, for that reason, Elmindra could see the strategy in its occupation. Due to its neutral standing and lack of organized authority, she knew Chalcedon would be easy to take but difficult to keep without a proper and absolute assertion of control.

Beyond the viewport, Chalcedon's orbit began to change as per Elmindra's orders. Her warships moved into siege position, weapons and interdictor fields aimed and ready. The Omen's axial supercharged laser cannon powered up, its reactor-fed core feeding energy forward along the ship's spine until it settled in an ominous glow around the mouth of the massive weapon. The cannon did not need to fire. Its mere readiness was declaration enough.

Elmindra felt satisfaction coil in her chest. This was not a raid. This was not intimidation by proxy or whispered threat carried through intermediaries. This was occupation—clean, undeniable, and backed by the full weight of the Sith Order's will. Chalcedon would not be negotiated with. It would be instructed. And it would obey.

Naamino Zuukamano flanked her. Her zabrak apprentice cut a stark silhouette against the red light, horns casting jagged shadows across the deck. Elmindra did not look at him directly, but she was keenly aware of his presence in the Force. He was tension and potential, contained violence waiting for permission to be unleashed. This would be his proving ground as much as hers. Nearby, Kasir Dorran similiary waited in practiced stillness. The Champion of Wanosa carried himself with the rigid assurance of someone who believed utterly in the purpose he served. Elmindra was glad he had agreed to join her this time—another small step in building upon their alliance and her alliance with Darth Strosius.

A tactical display flared to life at the edge of her vision, mapping Chalcedon's orbital traffic in rapidly diminishing vectors. What local vessels were unlucky enough to be in orbit for the arrival of the Sith's fleets were either frozen with indecision and fear or they attempted to flee only to be snatched up into interdiction fields. Local control frequencies devolved into panicked chatter before being overridden and instructed to stand down and prepare to be grounded.

"Chalcedon has suffered their independence long enough to be unruly," Elmindra said, addressing the crew at large, her tone frigid and implacable. "They will need to be brought to heel before they will accept our occupation."

She angled her head slightly, enough that Naamino and Kasir would know she spoke to them.

"The fleet will control orbit," Elmindra continued, reptilian eyes fixed on the planet—the prize she intended to claim for the Order. "While it does, we will take the ground that matters. Spaceports first. Control towers. Any symbol that suggests authority."

With that, she turned away from the viewport to face them, her tone hardened and edged with promise.

"Those who refuse to obey will be destroyed. Understood?"​

 

[Humraath Risnok]

OBJECTIVE 2: CORNERING THE MARKET
TAGS:

The hum of Cyklo Market usually provided the perfect cover for a man like "Slim." Beneath the collar of his heavy, layered trenchcoat, Humraath moved with restless energy at the sight of the burgeoning slave market. The Devaronian's skin appeared pale beneath the flickering streetlights as he shut the crate filled with pilfered data-spikes, leftovers from the once-powerful underworld market that thrived within the former Galactic Alliance.

There were ample supplies remaining from that era for the Criminal Underworld to distribute, and the Whisper Network would take their cut. His eyes flickered back and forth between shadowy alleyways and the criminal enforcers passing by, always on the lookout for anyone tailing him, as he had acquired numerous less than friendly acquaintances in this profession.

"Quickly now, credits upfront, no talk, just pay," Slim snapped, his voice adopting a low hurried rasp given the circumstances. He hated lingering; the longer a conversation lasted, the more chance there was for something to go wrong. "The Whisper Network doesn't sell junk, but we don't stay around for small talk either. Take the spikes and move."

He froze. The air in the market didn't just turn cold; it turned heavy. From the docking bays, the steady thud of boots echoed through the plaza. Red blades hissed to life, cutting through the smog of the shadowport. The Sith Order had arrived, and they weren't here to shop.

Slim's hand instinctively brushed the grip of a blaster hidden deep within his coat. The local cartels started screaming, their blasters firing in a desperate rhythm against the red glow. This was the moment everything changed. The Sith didn't care about the local bosses; they wanted the market and the trade routes for themselves.

"Market's closed," Slim muttered to his startled buyer, already stepping back into the shadows of a nearby stall. He wasn't going to die for a crime lord's pride. If the Sith wanted to control the underworld, Slim would make sure he was the one holding the keys for a price.

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

​

Elsewhere…

The silence of the antechamber was broken only by the muted hum of atmospheric systems and the soft chime of an incoming transmission. An aide approached, posture formal.

"Pasha," they began, tone even. "The Sith have moved on Chalcedon. A fleet has entered orbit. Early reports confirm their presence above the capital."

Ivalyn said nothing at first. She extended a gloved hand, and the aide placed a data tablet into it without hesitation. Her gaze swept the display, tactical overlays, fleet signatures, intercepted comms. Quietly, she asked, "Was the Administrator's evacuation completed?"

"Yes. The White Wolves departed on schedule. All administrative personnel are secure. Those who remain… chose to stay. They believe they can reason with the Sith."

Her expression did not change. Only the slightest tilt of her head acknowledged the absurdity of the notion.

"Do we have assets on the ground?"

"Yes," the aide replied. "Embedded and transmitting."

A pause. Calculations turned behind her pale eyes like a machine with no need for warmth or haste.

"Get me the Intelligence Directorate," she said at last, voice smooth as glass.

Let the Sith come. Let them scream about justice and vengeance while burning what they do not understand. Chalcedon had already chosen its future. The Sith were simply late to the negotiation. And now, with every ruin they wrought, every corpse they created, the Commonwealth would be watching.

The connection opened with no fanfare, just a shift in the low-frequency hum of the encrypted relay. A sigil blinked once on the tablet screen: Directorate Online.

Ivalyn did not look up from her position by the viewport, Dosuun's distant light casting stark shadows across the room.

"Report."

The voice that answered was filtered, modulated. Genderless. Identity scrubbed.

"Assets are in place across three key quadrants. Uplink steady. Visuals coming through. No interference."

A soft blink of incoming feeds filtered onto a side display—drone footage, still images, intercepted Sith orders.

"Local resistance?"

"Minimal. Civilian clusters remain sheltered. Non-combatants were advised. Those who stayed made their choice." A beat. "Sith elements are escalating."

Ivalyn's jaw tensed a fraction. "Let them."

Silence stretched, respectful, then:

"Would you like us to initiate Operation Echo Black?"

A pause.

She turned, eyes reflecting the cold glow of the screen. "Only when the fire is brightest. Not before."

"Understood. All footage is time-stamped and corroborated. We are tracking broadcast nodes now. Footage will be disseminated through proxy channels. Attribution clean."

Ivalyn gave a single nod, though the feed had already cut. They didn't need to see it.

All was in motion now. The Sith believed this would be a lesson to the stars. Let it be.

Let the stars see.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

OBJECTIVE: NEW LABOR
TAGS: Helix , Lirka Ka , OPEN

While other Lords sought the subjugation of Chalcedon, to make it a model world within the ever-greedy Empire, Darth Nefaron sought the restoration of a practice that had been so thoroughly stomped out in this sector of the Mid-Rim.

Slavery.​

But for Dzara and Darth Nefaron, this could not stand. Though the Empire officially banned slavery with select exceptions, the rule of law was cracking with the disappearance of the Emperor and the end of the Tsis'Kaar. The great forges of Anoat were ever hungry for their need for fresh meat, the Legions gathering in need of raw recruits, and the cruel trio at the head of the burgeoning Dzara required new servants to torment and twist to their will. The Galactic Alliance was gone, and the High Republic scrambled. Now was the time for the Nefaron and his colleagues to strike out from Sith space and lay the groundwork for an Empire of Terror.

Tucked away in a little corner of Cyklo Market, shetlered witin the walls of a deteriorating warehouse, a gathering was taking place around an impromptu table. Gangsters, raiders, slavemongers, even representatives of Black Sun and the Hutt Clans appeared to hear the offer made by the cloaked Sith. Nefaron had arrived with little fanfare, escorted by Tsis'Kaar traitors who had been enlightened by the Terror Lord. They stood guard, weapons and armor hidden under their own black robes.

"I understand your concerns, friends. The current regime has made it clear that this world is to be a gateway to a grand assault on the Mid Rim. Chalcedon will be folded into the Empire's embrace, and with it comes the law of our Empress, her court on Jutrand."

The gathered criminals looked at each other, the Dark Lord having pointed out the obvious and striking at the primary issue with his little scheme.

"But what is that law worth when unenforced? When the Sith are so busy killing each other that they waste little time concerning themselves with which laws they are breaking? All of you know of the fate of the Tsis'Kaar, of the breakdown of the so-called justice system within Sith space. Even as we speak, thousands of slaves flow through the Blackwall, and all I ask is that you provide the proper facilities to increase that number."

A projector at the center of the table ignited, revealing a map of Sith space and current routes to pass into the great Empire. What Nefaron proposed would ensure lucrative trade for all, and more importantly, provide the Dzara with the vast labor force it required to carry out its plans.

"Sith Empires are built on the backs of slaves. When I tell you millions are required, I am being entirely honest. But that also means millions of credits in return. From the lowliest syndicate to even the great Hutt clans, all will benefit!"

Until it was time for them to feel the lash, the heavy chains around their necks.

As the gathering discussed its options, one local, a Devorian, spoke up. He leaned back in his chair, feet kicked up on the table as he addressed the Dark Lord.

"What if your pals do start poking around? You Sith don't tend to be too merciful."

"Very true. But allow me to make it rather simple. The Dzara has already infiltrated the government on Jutrand, and if some are not swayed by idle threats or generous bribes, well..."

The Corpse Lord beckoned to one of his servants to bring forth a rotting sack, dumping it unceremoniously on the table. The head of one of their number, that belonging to an unfortunate human, rolled out into the center.

"They will never speak again. This fellow here thought to betray me to that fool Darth Strosius, but he was rather regretful once we started removing fingers."

The Corpse Lord laughed, his sadism shared by his loyal followers and a few of the gathered criminals, but the message was clear. Dealing with the Dzara was either profitable to the extreme or a death sentence.

But the death would not come quickly. Or cleanly.​

 

[Zlova Rue]

A deep red, Lethan Twi'lek leaned back atop a stool with both feet kicked up atop the bar. Pitch black, traditional Sith tattoos ran the full length of her body and down every limb. A snug top did little to conceal the contours of her upper body, but it did cover her chest; and loose wrapped leggings covered her legs down to the well-traveled boots on her feet. Two curved-hilt sabers rested along the small of her back.

The bartender had left the holo on with reports coming in about the invading fleet in orbit, lack of details from the government, chaos and pandemonium as everyone sought to secure their wealth before the kark truly hit the injector port.

Zlova leaned forward and stretched out a hand to retrieve the bottle left on the counter. She didn't bother with a glass as she took a swig from the source. "Yeah, yeah. Big Sith Fleet in orbit. You people still haven't learned. It's the ground troops you need to worry about." Which Sith were these again? Given where she was at the moment... Sith Order, right? Probably. Crapshoot if they'd be the sane faction or the karking nutters.

No point trying to run the blockade. Zlova had a far better chance talking her way out what with her being a Sith Lord and all. Maybe not one of their Sith Lords, but cowing underlings was cowing underlings and who knew all the raving egomaniacs in the Order, right? The alternative was cutting everyone into little pieces and casually walking away from an explosion. So, win-win either way.

After another drink, a loud clack of glass atop the bar filled the vacated waterholing at the spaceport. Sith show up and everyone panics. Typical.

A small device was drawn out for Zlova to check on what her ship was reporting. Might as well see where the ground forces were landing in her area. Look presentable and all that. It'd only take a second to switch into arrogant domineering monster mode to start bossing people around like this was her planet. She never tried to forget how to be a Sith, because she still was one. The whole "don't tell" game aside with the Mandalorians when they asked which culture she beloned to. Wasn't like she could hide it. Literally. Covered in tattoos.

Elmindra Xitaar | Naamino Zuukamano | Kasir Dorran | Open

 

[Helix]

Tags: Darth Nefaron / Lirka Ka
Equipment: Himself ​

It went without saying that the Dzara had a considerable interest in Cyklo Market. The consortium's influence had spread from Anoat like a cancer, gripping and subsequently strangling a number of smaller operations wherever it went.

As such, Helix found his way there personally. A number of minor players had been dealt with already: some swayed by greed, some dispatched at gunpoint, still others mentally reprogrammed by Helix's corruptive nanites. That was the Dzara's way. Willingly or otherwise, service was not optional.

The irony was not lost on Helix. Under the banner of the late Tsis'kaar, and particularly Darth Strosius , he'd filled many a mass grave with the smoking remains of various criminal elements. Now, here he was, turning them towards more useful ends.

So far, resistance had been minimal, likely because the Dzara had so far practiced discretion, using the carrot instead of the stick. It wouldn't do to stir the hive this early. Not when the rest of the Order was actively subjugating the planet.

While best known for displays of violence that were as memorable as they were creatively disturbing, Helix could, on occasion, exercise a degree of subtlety. So it was today.

The tall, inhumanly-lanky apparition loomed ominously over the table, watching silently as Nefaron lured the scum onward. His quartet of luminous eyes shone like hell's own coals in the dim lighting, occasionally flitting back and forth to transfix one speaker or another.

Helix knew criminals well. By any definition one chose to utilize, he was one himself, and had been a part of innumerable organizations in the past. He knew they were utterly, hopelessly unprepared for someone like Nefaron, or for that matter, anyone else in the Dzara.

The Dzara was something new. Something that saw slaves and profit as grease for a greater engine, not an end unto themselves. The likes of those assembled could not hope to understand, let alone counter, what they were facing.

But they understood greed. They understood money. Money, of course, was a sure route to damnation where the Dzara were concerned. To make deals with the Sith was to put one's mind and soul at peril, but that wouldn't dissuade men such as these.

Not until it was far too late, of course.

Helix watched as the disembodied head landed with an unpleasantly-liquid thud before the assembled scum. Fitting enough. Death was a common method of dealing with an insubordinate lesser in the Sith Order, to say nothing of the Dzara's own particularly-artistic punishments for treason.

Of course, gentlemen like these saw worse than this on any given Taungsday. Maybe some had even done worse themselves. Nonetheless, the message was a clear, easily-understood one. Betrayal wouldn't be tolerated.

He wondered if they understood the second, subtler, but no-less-important message, unspoken as it was: this proposal probably wasn't a request. If they didn't agree, their domains would eventually be taken, by force or guile. This way, they could at least still keep their cut of the pie and live comfortable existences, albeit under the yoke of a newer, darker master.

When one fell under the Dzara's shadow, the road forward branched into only two paths: Lose your life, or lose your soul.

Helix wondered which one they'd choose.

 

[Lirka Ka]

CORNERING THE MARKET
TAGS - Helix Darth Nefaron

Crime and cartels stood as the backbone of this Empire, in some form or fashion. Most were a carefully managed thing with shadowy puppeteers of the Sith at their back making sure the decripet plebeians of the masses stayed in their lane. Lirka posited that, ultimately, the terrible trio they had assembled was doing more or less the same. They just were playing by different rules.

Lirka did not feel compelled to speak to the assembly yet, Darth Nefaron was ever so eloquent. A trait she certainly appreciated, Cyklo Market represented an important interest to the Empire. Gears needed to turn in such a way that this explosive expansion into the Mid Rim and beyond would not be halted by petty things like Shadowports. Of course…now the gears would be turning towards the new way. The shadowy worms that nestled their way into the Sith-Imperial form. Lirka would see that they do.

When Lirka had declared the name Dzara to the stars upon Anoat, she knew well that dabbling in the egotistical politics of leadership would quickly be the undoing of these evildoers who all saw themselves as the most important creature in the Galaxy…but, unlike her fellows, Lirka held unfortunately lofty rank at her back. And with that came scrutiny - she wondered what Gerwald Lechner might say about this little shadowy meeting now that he had taken on the role of the ultimate commanding officer of the campaign, or what the rest of her fellow Dark Councillors might bemoan about that dirty “slavery” word being used.

She held back her laughter to keep decorum with the scum.

Finally, a clawed hand raised from the metallic creature. Lirka kept an ominous figure, black metal plate freshly glossed and the furs of some horrid monster draped around her shoulders for today. She would not denigrate her companions into minions, nor leer over them too hard with her endless narcissism. But - she was the ultimate representative of the Empire now. And the rumbling words from her helm would have to prove that much.

“Well spoken, Lord of Anoat.”

Glowing slit lenses now looked across this gathered assembly of scum - rats and slugs, useful tools but ultimately worthless lives. She doubted many of them were worthy. Perhaps a handful could be turned into something greater with enough care.

“I will speak plainly to you all, as you people of the muck-and-mire of this Galaxy deserve that respect. Cyklo Market is ours. What we posit here today is where you all will sit within its profitable future.”

There was a certain bluntness Lirka employed when dealing with criminals - most were not of a class high enough to warrant anything else.

“You wish freedom from the laws of tyranny that now breathe upon your neck? The Dzara shall grant it, if you move within our shadow. They are laws forced upon the weak by the strong - we shall make you strong. My companion has placed before you the start of this oath, but more will be required. The transfer of meat is but a singular piece in the great cosmic machine - for what I offer is that which is less tangible…but exciting all the same. A chance in the wake of oppression, to indulge. Let loose your impulse and desire beneath our Black Banners, and you shall have the freedom within the Chain to grow your coffers fat on our foes.”

Well. Underworld recruitment did have to start somewhere.

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Mid Rim > Tashtor Sector > Chalcedon System

Outfit:
Belt of Strength, Field Com-Scan Link,
Weal & Woe
Kor'ethyr Issued Kainate Trooper Armor
Armor Permissions
Tags: Elmindra Xitaar | Kasir Dorran | Zlova Rue | Open

THEME

​

Their purpose had been clear to him before they ever arrived, upon first viewing the dossier on Chalcedon that was provided to him by Elmindra. Its location for trade and supply lines was invaluable alone. Due to the volcanic activity, Naamino could also guess that natural resources on the planet would be rich as well. Such a pivotal location could not be left to self governance, Naami knew. It required a firm hand, to be utilized and its people shepherded along the correct course.

Aboard the Omen, dressed for war but calm with the self assurance that less dire tactics might win out first, Naamino's red-brown face tattoos looked bloody bathed in the light of the bridge. His helmet was tucked under one arm and the big man was perfectly at ease amongst the diligent crew of Rajakzânkut. Every steady breath he took seemed to gradually fill him with potent energy, surrounded as they were by Korribani crystals.

Resolute in the task before them, Elmindra's instruction came as no surprise.

"I am ready and relish the work ahead, Master."

Zealotry filled the words, his low voice rumbled through the durasteel beneath his feet. There had been a time when the boy might hesitate at the thought of using deadly force against civilians, some of them didn't know any better than to fight for their old way of life. Now though? The man he'd become wouldn't dream of hesitation, his cause was righteous.

 

[Kasir Dorran]

Elmindra Xitaar Naamino Zuukamano Zlova Rue

​

Not a single muscle disturbed the stasis of the Sangnir's pale visage, as he stood upon the crimson lit deck, emanating the funeral stillness of one that knew how to bide its time. That wasn’t to say the assignment did not sit heavy; this was a tether to fate he neither sought nor fully embraced. Truth be told, he hadn't been particularly inclined to board The Omen, not even if orders suggested it. And standing here now only solidified his disdain for an infernal vessel.

To no surprise, the air was rife with the stench of another doctrine, a vile afterthought that he would gladly purge in another setting, and surely under different circumstances. Though it did little to provoke true disgust, the impurities still irked him, only to be dismissed with a flick of the hand.

He preferred a forge, not a shrine for excess, as he preferred to measure rooms in distances of violence. Today, his presence served a single purpose. The budding alliance between Wonosa and Korriban required appearances, and this was one of them. But perhaps bleeding at the same moment for the same outcome might change that thought in due time.

Elmindra's words were met with a curt nod; it was a gesture to convey acknowledgement, but little else. Hollow vows, affirmations, these trivialities were far beneath him. To those who understood Kasir, they would know this was more consideration than most within the Order ever received.

Eventually, both hands locked behind his back, pale digits interlaced.

He noted the Zabrak, a familiar and capable Sith from prior service, where Jedi had fallen like wheat before a scythe. Another weapon, mayhaps, but like any other, it was an edge that would require further sharpening. For now, this was but the prelude, for even the assassin knew the real work never started with commands barked from afar. It would be in the aftermath.

A fetid bloom in the darkness; he waited.