Operation: Olive Branch

[Darth Metus]

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C O R U S C A N T
The Black Pyramid​

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***​

"Right this way, sir."

The Force was alive in this place. Alive, yet tainted darker than Isley had ever felt. He had tread upon some black grounds in his lifetime, but the beating heart of the One Sith...it was something else entirely. It was as if he were wading through a bog; one that clung harder to his flesh with every step. The Darkness wanted him. It whispered as much. But for now, Isley had to ignore the ebb and flow of the Dark Side. He had a date waiting at the apex of the Black Pyramid. As such, the Mandalorian shook his head ever so slightly before filing into the lift. He was flanked by armed warriors, Blackguard to be precise, who had escorted him from the moment of his arrival. They made no attempts to disarm him; something that spoke to the confidence of their midst.

He was but one man. A dangerous man, granted...but one.

Isley had come alone, bearing nothing but his standard equipment and the word of the Alor. Today, the One Sith would not carry the sins of an old Empire upon their shoulders. Today, despite their long memories, the vod had come forth with an offer. This alone had permitted Isley's passage through Sith space and was to blame for his presence at the Pyramid today. Shudder. The lift shot the Mandalorian and his escort skyward, swiftly completing the final leg of his journey in a matter of seconds. Upon coming to a halt, the doors slid open...and Isley's eyebrows shot to the heavens. He had expected something stereotypical...or at least matching the decor of the Pyramid's expanse.

Yet before him was a penthouse. A damn fine penthouse.

Stepping nearly in synch, the Blackguard escort halted in order to render proper respect to their liege. Descent gripped them, and on bended knee did they address the infamous [member="Darth Vornskr"]. "My Lord, I present to you Isley Verd: a member of the Mandalorians' ruling council." From thence they did not move. They did not speak. They were as machines awaiting the input of their master.

Such obedience. Does it not bring back memories, Isley?

Grateful, was Isley that his visage remained veiled behind his helm. If not for this, the Spheres before him would have seen the visible grimace. The Darkness...was simply too much for a mere Ring to keep at bay. As if prodded awake, Metus was there; watching and waiting per the usual. And here, where the Darkness was deepest, the anathema could thrive. Here, the advantage rested squarely in the Sith Lord's hands. Yet he did not strike, not yet. Even a devil as nefarious as he knew the gravity of business...and what it could mean moving forward.

"To business, then?" came Isley's words, accompanied by a polite, half-bow of the head.

[member="Isamu Baelor"] | [member="Darth Vornskr"]

 

[Darth Carnifex]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXh2ef0wD0A

Despite the elegant trappings of the penthouse the allure and mysticism of the Dark Side warped every surrounding, twisting shadows into obtuse angles that defied all reason while the subtle taste of death sauntered through the otherwise recycled air. The decorations added on to the macabre setting the Butcher King routinely surrounded himself with as silken tapestries depicting combat and eldritch symbols adorned nearly every wall as busts carved from marble and obsidian portrayed abstract figures and the faces of ancient Sith both well known and utterly obscure. But the thing that was perhaps the most dismal was the Sith Lord himself as a robe of maroon and gold linen draped from his muscular body while his face, angular and patrician, was not burdened by mask nor helmet. His thick black mane was pulled back and bound into a ponytail that trailed down his back.

Neither was he flanked by guards save for those that escorted the illustrious [member="Isley Verd"] into one of the larger penthouse chambers lined with plush chairs, couches, and tables made from wroshyr wood harvested from Kashyyyk during its brief time under Imperial rule. The Sith Lord smiled a toothless grin, his lips pursed and thin, and welcomed the Mandalorian with outstretched sweeping arms that caused the golden rings and bangles to jingle ever so slightly.

"Welcome to Coruscant, Isley Verd, we've been breathless with anticipation at your arrival."

The Sith Lord moved with calculated steps to a nearby table stacked with pitchers and bottles of a purple-colored wine, and with an effortless wave of his hand he summoned forth a servant garbed in runic vestments that seemed to materialize from the angular shadows itself. The being soundlessly lifted one of the pitchers by the handle and began to pour a drink, one for his Lord and the other for their esteemed guest, although whether he took up the offer was his decision alone. Vornskr, however; drank deeply from the glass until about half of its contents had quickly disappeared down his gullet to slosh happily in his gut. A satisfied gasp emerged once his lips parted ways with the stained rim;

"Now, why should business come before pleasure, Mister Verd? We are all friends here. We are all warriors. We are all sages. Our minds must be sharp, but so too should our bellies be full. We are one member short as it is, and until my associate arrives we cannot correctly conduct our business, now can we?"

[member="Isamu Baelor"]​

 

[Darth Metus]

Was this...planned?

The question burned in the rear of the Mandalorian's mind, for what he began to recognize was surprising. Perhaps it was simply his tendency to overthink a situation manifesting, but Isley found his eyebrow raising. It was not, at least according to his grandiose understanding of them, like the One Sith for such an occurrence. Since when had the most powerful nation in the Galaxy lacked dignitaries for neutrality talks, right? And that made Isley wonder...was the general truly late? Or was there something more going on? Hiss. With the introduction having been made, the Blackblades were no longer needed. The lift opened to receive them, leaving the Mandalorian alone with the Butcher.

'Twas then that Isley stepped forward, his ears alive with Vornskr's words. A beverage had been poured, one that the Sith made no hesitation in drinking. And another was prepared for Isley. Now, as cautious as he was, there were a few things that spurned him to take the chalice. Primarily, if the One Sith wanted him dead, they would have blasted him out of the sky well before Coruscant. Hell, they had nine thousand opportunities to end him along the way, so why stoop to poison? Second, politics. Enough said. So, with those realities in mind, the Mandalorian tipped back his helm and indulged in a sip. It was no black ale...but it was some of the finest quality drink he had tasted in quite some time.

The sip turned into a few hearty swigs before Isley lowered his helm once more. His gaze then moved from the Butcher to his belongings; intent upon playing along for now. If something more was planned...if they knew about his condition...then he would simply have to adapt. At first, Isley saw only the posh chairs and the jewels, but then the statuettes caught his attention. They were beings he knew...beings he had studied...beings whose exploits had translated into his own alchemical methods. That alone twisted his stomach, spurning a shift in attention to the tapestries.

High Sith Runes. Each hailing the conquests of the slaughter depicted therein.

Yet these did not disturb him in the way that they ought. For a man on the road to redemption, they should have produced feelings of disgust. For a Mandalorian, even, they should have been akin to picking a scab. However, Isley felt...oddly comfortable. For decades, he had been shaped by scenes such as these. For the better part of his life, the shedding of blood by ritual and by war had been commonplace. He, much to his dismay, had no problem with what he saw.

And yet you resist. You try and fail.

Isley drowned out Metus' words with yet another sip before he acknowledged his gracious host.

"I thank you for the warm reception, [member="Darth Vornskr"]. I see no reason not to indulge whilst we wait, either." he began, raising his glass.

"I admit, some of your collection has me quite intrigued. Especially the depictions of old alchemists. Would it be forward of me to assume that we share a common appreciation for their efforts?"

Small talk with a Sith Lord. Isley never thought he'd see the day.

[member="Isamu Baelor"] | [member="Darth Vornskr"]​

 

[Isamu Baelor]

The Black Pyramid. The lair of the butcher. Isamu gazed up at the monstrous building as he approached the entrance. Beside him, he was flanked by two Knights of Iron. One, a large hulking man. The other, much smaller. Both were donned in power armour, much like the model utilized by Isamu himself, during the Battle of Coruscant.

As they reached the entrance, Isamu turned to his Knights. “Wait here.” He ordered. With no objections, the two power-armor clad soldiers took position by the door, and waited. Isamu strode past the Blackblade Guards, who were expecting him, into the building.

Leaving the Knights behind, Isamu entered the elevator, and the doors closed shut behind him. Swiftly, but gently, the elevator climbed the pyramid’s wall. Gazing through the see-through panel, Isamu stared out into the metal jungle that covered Coruscant’s surface. The city was still in a state of repair, healing the wounds caused by the traitor forces.

The elevator came to a gentle stop, and opened into the gaudy penthouse of the Sith Lord. Isamu stepped out into the room, his senses immediately overwhelmed by the extravagance. It was garish. It screamed of a man with a wealth of riches, but a deficit of taste. Typical of the Sith, he thought, as he strode deeper into the room.

As the other two shared drink and chatter, Isamu arrived, and greeted them individually. “Darth Vornskr.” He said, with a respectful bow of his head. Though they clashed on how to punish the Chiss, there was a level of respect between the two. He turned to the Mandalorian, one whom he had never met, and offered him the same respectful bow of the head. “Isley Verd.”

As they spoke, the servant approached Isamu, carrying a glass of wine. Isamu raised his hand, giving the authoritarian signal to stop. “No wine. Water.” He said, with a stern tone. The servant nodded in acknowledgement, and took leave to fulfil the request. The Executor was a man of discipline, one who rarely indulged in alcohol. The mind-altering substance was a stranger to his lips, during all but the harshest of times.

The servant returned with the correct drink. Isamu grasped the glass, placed the rim to his lips, and drank the cold water. Having finished, he placed the empty glass on the table, and turned to the others. “Let’s talk.” He said, with the charmless tone of a career soldier.

[member="Darth Vornskr"] | [member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The faintest glimmer of teeth shone through the thin veil of his lips, his eyes lazily gazing over to where a menagerie of marble statuettes were arranged beneath the thick tapestries that hung from the wall, one underneath each swath of silk. Many of them were recent constructions, smooth and devoid of any imperfections, while others had been salvaged from the ruins of the decimated Sith civilizations that once dominated the Esstran Sector and displayed evidence of weathering. Whatever their genesis they each radiated with a darkness that fed into the shadowy miasma that permeated through the structure, tainting everything with a profound feeling of despair and hopelessness.

"I suspect that we do indeed share the same admiration and appreciation for the alchemists of old, for the legacy they passed down to us. The knowledge to warp flesh, strengthen steel, and bend the very laws of nature to our will. That is something worth preserving."

The arrival of [member="Isamu Baelor"] did not go unnoticed by the Sith Lord, who raised his glass in a welcoming gesture in response to the Military Executor's respectful bow. The passion that had driven him to ordering the decimation of the Chiss population had long subsided, but the frigid promise he made to Baelor that day still remained. But it would be pointless to bring that up in the current situation, as their reasons for being here greatly differed from their morals on treating traitors to the Empire.

"Military Executor. So glad you could join us."

[member="Isley Verd"]

 

[Darth Metus]

"Aye. Worth preserving...and expanding."

Much to his surprise, the Mandalorian found the corners of his mouth move. They curved, forming a satisfied half-smirk. In that moment, Isley entertained a thought: one that popped into being the moment [member="Darth Vornskr"] remarked. T'was a little something that came with being an Alchemist, reformed or otherwise. What if they put that appreciation into practice? No. This was just the Darkness again, rearing its ugly head. The Mandalorian had moved past that...hadn't he?

Regardless, before Isley could speak again, the lift brought another. Turning, his gaze was set upon a man who seemed a divine contrast to the Butcher. Where one was draped in extravagance, the other screamed discipline. He, even, declined the current beverage of choice; requesting water instead. This man must have been [member="Isamu Baelor"], the second party privy to the Mandalorian's mission. When the greeting was offered, Isley responded in turn: offering a bow of his head.

"A pleasure, Military Executor." he began. "Let us begin."

"As you are aware, history has placed our people on opposing sides of a hard line. There have been clashes. Blood. To a point where the Clans once expelled any they so much as thought touched by the Darkness. However, for too long have the One Sith been loathed for the sins of a fallen Empire. Likewise, my people have been preparing for a storm that has yet to come. We waited and built, thinking that your empire would eventually assault our borders."

"Yet that day never came. And in light of that, some of my people have seen fit to fight your battles alongside you. They stand, as mercenaries, for your causes."

"I, personally, believe that the future can hold many great things for the Mandalorians and the One Sith. And the Alor'e Council believes that peace is an option. I've come before you today with neutrality in mind: a pact of non-aggression between our nations. What say you?"

 

[Isamu Baelor]

With introductions concluded, they could discuss the business which had beckoned them to the One Sith capitol. Isamu lowered himself into a chair, a subtle grimace of pain flashed across his face. His old bones ached, and his wounds nagged. He was an old man, beat down by years of war. A stalwart soldier, far past his prime. But even in decline, duty called. It dug its claws in, and refused to let go.

He listened intently as the Mandalorian presented his case. His words were wise, they looked to the future, and were not mired in the past. Isamu paused before responding, thoughts mulling over in his mind. “You speak truth.” Isamu said. “For too long, both our people have thought imaginary knives at their throats."

For those who were lost, vengeance would mean little. The dead were dead, and no amount of misguided rage would change that. Focus had to be made on those who still drew breath. “Past transgressions should be buried, and eyes set to the future…” Isamu said as he crossed his arms. “…for the betterment of the One Sith, and the Mandalorians.” He turned his head towards the legendary butcher, Darth Vornskr. “What say you?” He asked.

[member="Isley Verd"] | [member="Darth Vornskr"]

 

[Darth Carnifex]

He took his seat alongside [member="Isamu Baelor"] and [member="Isley Verd"], his hands clasped in front of him while his chin gently rested atop those intertwining fingers. His eyes, dark and piercing, slowly moved side to side as he gave his attention to first the Mandalorian and then the Military Executor as they spoke their pieces. However; it would be a moment or two before he finally decided to speak in a measured purposeful tone;

"For too long has bad blood plagued the Empire and the Clans leading to the noblest of blood being needlessly shed over the decades. Junction, Concord Dawn, Yaga Minor, Dromund Kaas, Empress Teta. All of these places have seen their fair share of atrocity, pointless slaughter because our leaders could never see eye-to-eye on anything. I agree with both of you, this nonsense must come to an end and at long last the Sith and the Mandalorians can attempt to know camaraderie"

He took another sip of his drink, his mouth suddenly overcome with a dreadful parchedness. Perhaps it was the memories of such battlefields that increased his thirst, for he had trudged across nearly all of them in his long career of war. He remembered fighting in trenches, in crowded city streets, watching the brave men and women of the Empire kill and die against equally brave Mandalorians because of veiled threats and belligerent foreign policies.

It sickened him.

Oh, but he wouldn't deny that he immensely enjoyed, daresay loved, the sensation of war and the carnage it wrought across the galaxy. The feeling of Republic, Protectorate, and Alliance soldier's throats beneath his jackboot left him writhing in ecstasy, and the sight of temples, barracks, and other places of democratic fallacies being burnt down to their foundations instilled in him a joy he seldom felt for anything else. No, it was the thought of the Sith and the Mandalorians, two clear warrior societies with more in common with each other than either would care to admit, killing each other when they could've united and cast aside anything and everything that stood in their paths.

"We can right this ancient wrong, Isley."