Dominion Peace Sells | GE Dominion of Cato Neimoidia

[The Contingency]

PEACE SELLS - A CRISIS IN THE CORE STORY

A shadow spreads across the CORE WORLDS.
The GALACTIC EMPIRE, reborn from the fires of
Operation Cinder, stretches its reach across
former worlds of the GALACTIC ALLIANCE
with ruthless precision.

The jewel of the Trade Spine,
CATO NEIMOIDIA, stands vulnerable.
Besieged by political and economic pressure
from both Alliance and Empire,
Neimoidian leadership capitulates to the
rising EMPIRE.

In the hours before SURRENDER,
a coup erupts, dethroning the Trade
Monarch of Cato Neimoidia.
In response IMPERIAL DIPLOMATS and
STORMTROOPERS descend upon the
world to restore order with offers of
security, prosperity, and fear.

As banners rise and whispers
of resistance are snuffed out,
the fate of Cato Neimoidia hangs
in the balance...



​

The Galactic Empire makes a bold move into the Colonies by arriving on Cato Neimoidia under the guise of restoring order after a pro-alliance coup against the Trade Monarch. With the Neimoidian purse-world within their sights, weakened by unrest and political pressure, Imperial emissaries offer protection, order, and autonomy.. at a cost. Imperial banners begin to drape over hanging cities and jeweled bridges as local politicians capitulate. Behind the scenes, the Empire quietly secures trade rights, resource contracts, and logistical support to fuel the ever growing Imperial war machine. Overhead, the stars shimmer with the presence of the Imperial fleet. TIE fighters scream through clouds and between glistening towers. In the hushed corners of high society, whispers of rebellion or defiance are all but quelled.

The Empire comes promising peace, but prepared for war. The thread focuses on a peaceful but sinister annexation, with tension mounting between collaborators and loyalists to the Alliance or the Empire. Will the planet fall with a pen or a blaster? Will the traitorous usurper be dealt with and his cries against the Empire be silenced?​

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Objective One - Sealed In Signature

Under pressure from the Galactic Empire, and the threat of prolonged economic stagnation in the absence of the Trade Monarch, local authorities welcome Imperial diplomats under the Grand Vizier, to sign a historic accord between the economic powerhouse of Cato Neimoidia and the rising might of the Galactic Empire, binding the two together.

Engage as Imperial envoys or Neimoidian officials to solidify trade pacts, showcase opulent Imperial control, or explore the tensions of business aligning with the iron grip of the Empire. Corporate mercs, Trade Federation agents, and ambitious Moffs all welcome.​

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Objective Two - The Pit

The Tarko-se Arena is a large gladiatorial arena located in the hanging city of Tarko-se, famous for it's sprawling crowd, and infamous blood sports. To pacify the agitated Neimoidian populace and distract from the recent capitulation, the Empire has revived the arena's bloodsport traditions. In the name of order and entertainment, captured Jedi, insurgents, and political dissidents are pitted against horrific beasts, combat droids, and one another, broadcast live. These brutal games are engineered to curry favor with the masses, projecting strength while veiling cruelty beneath the guise of public spectacle. Bread and games.

Explore prisoners forced to fight or resist indoctrination, Imperial agents manipulating the crowd with false narratives, and Neimoidian aristocrats wagering on lives to gain Imperial favor. The roar of the crowd masks the cries of the fallen... and the Pit feeds the peace.​

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Objective Three - Scrub It Clean

In the aftermath of the governmental overthrow of the Trade Monarch, the Galactic Empire swept in like a storm. After securing several major population centers, Imperial Intelligence and the Imperial Army launch a coordinated sweep of resistance cells and compromised data vaults hidden in the undercities and occupied trade halls. Their mission: recover the Trade Monarch, held hostage by pro-alliance usurpers, and purge all evidence of missing shipments or data caches remotely linking to the classified Project: Stardust initiative. Ledgers, manifests, encrypted shipments. any trace that materials were rerouted to construction sites on Asog or involved with the Dark Empire, must be scrubbed. Survivors are silenced, databanks wiped, and deniable assets deployed.

Explore themes like: Stealth ops and breach missions by stormtroopers and ISB agents, a daring possible rescue of the Trade Monarch, confronting rogue financiers who know too much and the moral cost of silence and Imperial "cleaning." There must be no record. No names. No files.​

The Trade Federation was never involved.







​

 

[Lodd Grimmin]

There was only silence within the Great Vaults of Cato Neimoidia, as Lodd peered down the corridor at a portrait of himself, hanging precariously on the wall, almost as if it were taunting him.

It served as a chilling reminder that the Trade Monarch had not only lost command over his people but also his own riches, which had been drained to fortify the Purse-Worlds against the looming threat of Imperial expansion.

He could visualize it clearly now, his accounts being depleted, leading him to stumble backward and crash into a chair, overwhelmed by a torrent of thoughts. He had never experienced a panic attack like this before, not even during his conversations with the Twice-Emperor Darth Carnifex on Coruscant when the Dark Empire first launched its invasion.

This was a feeling he had never known... sheer terror.

"My subjects do not deserve this, we may be greedy and cowardly but do not deserve to be abandoned by the Galactic Alliance..." Lodd muttered underneath his breath, a cold sweat dripping down his forehead at the thought of the Alliance retreating from the sector entirely despite the economic benefits the conglomerate provided them.

His erratic behavior lacked any logic as he struck forcefully against the barrier that confined him within the cell. Time and again, his bony fist
thudded rhythmically, creating a strangely calming effect while the force field simply glimmered.

There was nothing to be done; the Customs-Vizier had made certain of that when the coup was started. The only silver lining was that the Vicelord couldn't eliminate him just yet, as he still needed to persuade the other Purse-Worlds of his claim to the throne.

 

[Vireth]

---

---

"The Senate is gone."
-- Darth Solipsis.

---

Zarra, Cato Neimoidia, Colonies;
INVASION OF THE GALACTIC ALLANCE, THE RESURGENT GALACTIC EMPIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tags: [Open]

---

​

OBJECTIVE I.

Cato Neimoidia-- the greatest and wealthiest purse worlds of the formidable conglomerate known as the Trade Federation.

It was a place reserved only for the richest of the Neimoidian caste, and as Vireth laid there in the sun, it came to her mind that this was the first place in her life where everything around them was draped in luxury that was the antitheist to the urban centres found on her homeworld of Kuat which was distinctly impressive in their own way. More than that she was filled with admiration for the Galactic Emperor and his will manifest.

Indeed, an important world to the decadent Galactic Alliance was set to fall into the hands of the resurgent Galactic Empire once again one-thousand years after the rise of PALPATINE!

"Your Senate is gone."

Around Vireth were an assortment of newly trained Stormtroopers deployed by the Raithal Military Academy on mission to safeguard THE ARCHITECT as she assisted the Emperor and his cohorts in their vision as the continued invasion of the Core Worlds (and surrounding star sectors, such as the Colonies) was set to bring around a new age of Imperialism of which the traitors located in the Outer Rim systems-- the so-called "Imperial remnants"-- could only dream of.

"This is the... fourth time you have played that... uh... recording?" stammered the Neimoidian as Vireth played the repeated broadcast that had been sent on Coruscant to the masses during the Empire's attack on the Galactic Centre. Slowly she turned her gaze to look upon the man to her left-- a lower caste member of the Federation who she had just arrested with the assistance of her men upon entering the capital city of Zarra.

"Yes... But are you listening?"

Vireth played the recording again. Then a fifth time- no-- a sixth, seventh and final eighth time until she felt like the words were reverberating in the ears of her captive and the nearby citizens who were looking on fearfully into the indomitable, faceless, intimidating helmets of the legendary Stormtrooper.

"The... uh... Senate... Are on Formos?" the Neimoidian responded hesitantly in an attempt to appease the Dark-Imperial casually laying on their back before him. "We know that--"

"What is your name?" Vireth interrupted.

"Voolek Trenn?" Trenn replied with an air of uncertainty.

"And what do you know?"

"That the Senate are not here?" Trenn offered hopefully in an attempt to appease the woman grilling him.

Vireth smiled broadly as she sat up and swung her legs around to stand. "Precisely. Show me your home, Trenn... I would like to see what your people have built for the Emperor..."

---

 

[Detritus Ren]

Location: The Pit, Gladiatorial Arena
Objective: Just another day in the Arena
Allies: GE/Spectators/Sponsers
Enemies: Whoever is coming at me, being, beast, droid.
Equipment: Ren Lightsaber, Orbalisk Armor

The familiar light once more shined through the dark cell, the force field would shut off with a loud hum. One of the Neimodian guards stepped in with the usual tray. A bowl of slop that functioned as nourishment. Something that Detritus only assumed as protein paste, or some type of crude broth and meat pieces, along with a drink that Detritus couldn’t describe, but only knew that it staved away dehydration. “Here you are Ren, eat up… You got a big day today.” The big pupil eyed being said with a snicker, just as he was about to hand the tray to Ren, the tray would drop from his fingers. “Oh, sorry slipped from my hand… Hehe. See ya in the arena, mystic, got big creds on you.” The guard said stepping back watching as Detrotus scrambled from his bed. The binders on his wrists and ankles would clank, the tightness often dug into his flesh, the metal irritated him, but hunger was more important.

Detritus acted like a rabid animal. His fingers scooping up the slop as he tried to eat it from the ground, even slurping the liquid that was spilling from the cup. He growled, his mind delirious with exhaustion and hunger, all he could think was replenishing himself. His body was constantly fed on and off from the organism armor still clinging to his flesh. Often provoking him into fits of rage, violent hatred that would send him into a frenzy of destruction. Many details about his mind were lost in a fog, he had forgotten how long he had been captive, or why he was here. After the collapse of the Dark Empire, he felt it necessary to go into exile, only for him to be captured and sold to the Trade Federation. Ironic a former imperial advisor was left in the hands of greedy Neimoidian to provide profit and sport.

For a time, the Master of Ren would violently resist against the Neimoidians, this only caused further problems as he was cuffed in Force binders. Any attempt to use the dark side resulted in horrible electric shocks. It wasn’t before long where his only salvation lies in the arena. They called him “The Ren.” Agreeing hearing Detritus’s muttering about his lightsaber kept in possession of the ones in charge of the arena. Using it as his fighter name, after weeks he emerged into the arena, amidst the howls of bloodlust and fury. Detritus often walked into arena, clanking chains, dark grey hair of dirty and matted locks, his beard was dirty and unkempt. His dark and orange robes covering the Orbalisk Armor was torn and tattered. Detritus was a far cry from the berserker he used to be, but to his Neimoidian overlords he was truly a prize worth keeping.

First it started small, Kath Hounds, then to Nexus, Acklays, then it was deadly battle droids, degenerate pirates, then bounty hunters. Each opponent were met with the crackling orange blade of his lightsaber. The crowds often cheered loudly, and for the first time his broken mind felt worthy, he mattered once again. After each match, covered in blood would Detritus bow his head before the crowd with saber in hand. Giving a fighter salute to them, before he was shoved back into his dark cell until the next fight would come.

Today, was no different. Detritus was escorted by the Neimodian guards to the lift leading to the arena. If he stopped, he was often zapped painfully to his neck. Heavy foot steps and the clanking of chains were the only sounds he heard, until the lift got closer and closer to the arena.

The door opened, the brightness of the sun nearly overwhelmed him. His eyes squinting as he approached the wreckage and carcass filled grounds. As soon as he stepped out the door, the guard tossed him his lightsaber. The obsidian hilt felt like his closest friend, his fingers rubbing against the metal to ground himself. The crowd kept chanting his name as they had done before. “Ren! Ren! Ren!” He closed his eyes relishing the cheers of the crowd, for in this moment he felt truly at peace.

He then held out his lightsaber. With a single flick of his wrist, the blade activated with a snap-crackling sound. The crowd went wild, arms raised in the air, eyes wide and mouths almost foaming. As soon as his blade activated, they knew the fun would begin. A grin would spread from ear to ear, he amused the crowd by playfully twirling his blade, the saber arcing in a circular spin before being gripped tightly in a battle ready stance. His eyes narrowed towards the other side of the arena. He waited intently for his opponent to come out.

“By the shadow, come and face the wrath of my burning blade!”

 

[Minister Janus Vipsanius]

Shannic Wulf | Aerarii Tithe | Credit Wizard | @Anyone Else​

The chamber doors hissed open with mechanical grace, not the crude clang of a hangar bay, but the elegant sigh of wealth and long-standing bureaucracy. Every centimeter of the meeting hall gleamed with Neimoidian opulence. Sculpted duracrete arches were inlaid with glimmering transparisteel, hovering sculptures of ancestral Trade Monarchs lined each side of the chamber, and the faint scent of imported incense meant to impress visiting dignitaries filled the air.

Janus Vipsanius smiled, it worked, he was impressed.

The Imperial Minister entered draped in a high-collared sable tunic, rimmed in black and purple with a half-cape trailing from his left shoulder, a deliberate echo of Chancellor Palpatine's early days in office. A polished emblem of the Empire gleamed over his breast, and behind him marched a retinue of aides, flanked discreetly by two Death Troopers standing stone-still in the shadows. Janus paused at the center of the hall, boots clicking on the polished floor as he surveyed the gathered Neimoidian delegates seated behind curved desks and translator droids.

He bowed slightly at the neck with the illusion of respect, and began to speak, his voice calm, measured, and tinged with the silk of Coruscanti education.

"Honorable viceroys and trade executives… I bring cordial greetings from His Imperial Majesty's hand. Today is not simply a negotiation. It is an alignment of destinies, of mutual interests, of secure profits, and of stability after decades of Alliance rule."

He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.

"Cato Neimoidia is a jewel, but one imperiled by the Alliance dogma and mercantile squabbling. The Galactic Empire, in contrast, brings order, protection of trade routes, and enforcement of contractual law. We offer integration, not annexation. Compliance, not conquest."

He let the words hang, watching as a few Neimoidians shifted in their seats. A holoprojector beside him flickered to life, displaying encrypted ledgers and cargo manifests long denied to prior audits.

"The Trade Federation has always thrived by betting on the winning side. Gentlebeings… the war is over before it truly ever begun."

The Dark Disciple folded his hands together.

"Let's begin."

 

[Credit Wizard]

Moy Haako, Vicelord of the Neimoidian Purse-Worlds. ​

Far removed from the struggles of the Trade Monarch languishing in the cell blocks, the newly appointed Vicelord was relishing a sumptuous feast within the Great Vaults of Cato Neimoidia, celebrating reports of unprecedented profits generated by the Trade Barons and the Trade Federation Regional Commanders since his relatively bloodless coup, if he were to say so himself.

A bony hand grasped the end of a spoon, which was delicately dipped into the soup and then brought back up to his lips.

"Ah, now this is life," Moy exclaimed, a noticeable gasp of satisfaction escaping him as the soup slid down his throat, his face devoid of any worry.

The Neimoidians were basking in the benefits of a new regime, and everything appeared to be going smoothly until transmissions began pouring in from across the planet, originating from the bridge-cities and the Capital itself.

"Vicelord, we are under attack. Imperial Starships emerging from hyperspace in Sector 1111--333 and 2222--445. They've caught us completely by surprise." a worried voice said from the other end of the line, followed by others as an Imperial Occupation force arrived in force to secure the planet and its riches for the Galactic Emperor.

"That is not possible, there is no way that the Trade Federation Fleet could have been defeated." Moy waved his hand dismissively, doubting that the Galactic Empire could mount an incursion into a stronghold so swiftly without their agents being notified.

However, he was soon proven to be very mistaken, as explosions erupted at the lower base of the Palace, making the long table in front of him quiver and shake. "Activate the droids," His hand reached over to a nearby button, pressing the emergency alarm as the bridge-city became the Imperial's newest target.

A signal was sent to the droid foundries, as the Trade Federation Droid Army marched to war.

 

[Domaric Mordane]

Tags: Minister Janus Vipsanius | Aerarii Tithe | Credit Wizard | Shannic Wulf

The Neimoidians had taste, that much was certain. Not in war or governance, no—but in spectacle. The meeting hall soared above the cloudline like a blade of mirrored glass, the sunlight slicing off its surface in brilliant sheets. Around its base, the air traffic of Cato Neimoidia flowed in stately circles, layered with precision, like a great orchestral movement composed in speed and silence. Even the landing protocols were elegant. Everything was curated, controlled, for the benefit of perception.

Domaric Mordane remained quiet at the rear of the Imperial delegation, arms clasped behind his back, flanked by aides who knew not to speak unless addressed. He had forgone armor for the occasion. Instead, he wore a high-collared black coat, cut with the precision of an officer's blade, the epaulets bearing no sigil but his rank. It was the Grand Vizier who led them, but it was Chief Minister Janus Vipsanius who seemingly took the lead.

He moved like he owned the chamber—or rather, as if he were simply inheriting what was already his by right. It seemed as if he had a gift for this kind of performance: the layered compliments, the careful cadence, the subtle invocation of history without ever sounding like a threat. He extolled the Trade Monarchy's resilience, flattered their discretion, and praised their traditions, even as the contracts in the adjacent antechamber would quietly reduce their sovereignty to ceremonial trappings. He was not selling them submission—he was convincing them they had chosen it. To Mordane, it was artful in the way a predator's camouflage was artful. Efficient. Deceptive. Inevitable.

Across the hall, the titans of trade were draped in silks and layered in chains of precious alloy, their facial ridges accentuated with delicate dyes. They wore wealth like armor, and fear like cologne. A few were smiling. Some, the cleverer ones, were not. They understood that this wasn't just a signing of trade pacts or tariff alignments. This was the moment the old galaxy yielded to the new. The Empire was not asking for their allegiance. It was allowing them a chance to survive.

Mordane's eyes swept the room—not for threats, but for patterns. The glances between oligarchs. The way one viceroy leaned to whisper when the subject of export controls came up. The slight twitch in a junior executive's jaw when "security arrangements" were mentioned. These were not warriors, but they were creatures of power, and power, he had come to learn, was always afraid.

Many Emperors had understood that. Even Tarkin, in his own way, understood it. Fear moves faster than hope. Order was not won with slogans or treaties. It was won with inevitability. The Empire had momentum. Its grip tightened with each crisis, each accord. And where it did not yet rule directly, it would soon with shadow, suggestion, pressure or a combination of all three.

Mordane looked past the press of diplomats and executives, through the transparisteel walls, to the spires of Cato Neimoidia beyond. Beautiful. Functional. Hollow.

The Empire would remake this world in time. Not through invasion or bombardment—but through absorption. Through structure. Through making it easier to obey than to resist. That was the future. Not compliance under duress, but comfort in submission.

One of the Neimoidian Viceroys raised a toast, thin voice ringing with performative joy.

Yes, he thought. Toast to peace.

It made conquest so much easier.

 

[Corin Kaze]

Condemned to die in the pits of Cato Neimoidia. Of them, the politicians would be the first to die. Then the insurgents. The Jedi would survive the longest, but even the most skilled would be worn down and killed. If even all the beasts were slain, then the Empire's Dark Side Elite were sure to intervene and grab their pound of Jedi flesh. This was the darkness that had begun to spread around the core and if not for those that would rise to meet it, there would be no end to this all-consuming evil.

Yet, the Lightsworn had come.

The Jedi had infiltrated the planet under the guise of regular spacers, now in-town to see the pit fights and all their so-called glorious bloodshed. Seated in the stands, he seemed notably less enthusiastic than the rest of the audience with all their rumbling cheers. It was a strange feeling to have returned to his old leather jacket after so long, though it suited the act just fine.

He raised the commlink to his mouth, "Once the Jedi are all in the arena and the games begin, we make our move."

Getting in was the easiest part. Getting out, however... well, that was another matter entirely.

Talin Treicolt + other accompanying Jedi

 

[Aerarii Tithe]

TRADE FEDERATION // CATO NEIMOIDIA

Aiko Hayata | Gat Tambor | Domb Treetor XIX
Minister Janus Vipsanius | Shannic Wulf | Domaric Mordane

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Cato Neimoidia was free.

For almost half a century, the corrupt Galactic Alliance had ruled the Niemoidian purse world with an iron fist, clamping down on free trade and innovation under the guise of ‘regulation’. Innovation had been stifled in the name of ‘health and safety’, while productivity had slumped in the face of so-called ‘worker’s rights’. The Trade Federation had lobbied the ineffective Senate for decades to buy what few freedoms they could, ensuring that the powerhouse economy of the planet stayed afloat.

Now, a new gilded age was being heralded with the arrival of the Galactic Empire.

“Minister Vipsanius, ohh my, it has been some time hasn’t it?” Tithe replied, rising from his seat at the golden boardroom table from which the prosperous rebuilding of the Core Worlds was being schemed. The former Imperial Treasurer for the Dark Empire, Tithe had taken his leave following the first invasion of Coruscant to focus on the work of the Trade Federation as its Deputy Viceroy.

“Please, do join us,” the Aargauun added as TF service droids brought forth rare vintages of Chandrilan wine, whose bottle value was worth more than the GDP of most Outer Rim planets. The group took their seats as Vipsanius offered stability under the Empire. “In terms of stability, you’ll find no closer friends than the Trade Federation. For too long has the ahh, dead hand of Alliance regulation has hung over hard-working and industrious people. Yes, we’re very much looking forward to having the markets heading back in the right direction, I can tell you that.”

While open to working with the Empire, the Trade Federation was not about to switch one unweidly master for another. A degree of autonomy would be needed were their credit sheets to thrive.

“I trust the Empire understands - respects even - the value of a free market?” Tithe asked. “There is, as I’m sure you’re aware, much to be done to liberate our nearby trading partners from the tyranny of Alliance oppression. But too much oversight, too much undue interference in the markets, will only cause delays and cost overruns.”

“A free Cato Neimoidia, under the prudent stewardship of the Trade Federation of course, will provide a stable financial basis for your dreams of expansion.”

 

[Thomas Barran]

Detritus Ren Corin Kaze

1

'Well, well, well.... If it isn't a Ren - in the living flesh!'
​

Walking into the stands with beverage in hand, the Khan would enter with a large entourage of Darkhans and Keshig-Leaders, Ulusars of the Maw's Trilunar Clique; all armed with blaster-pistols and vibroknives in adherence to surreptitious bodyguard doctrine, all dressed in the same tailored specifics of their leader, decked from neck to toe in black tuxedos with orange nomadic trappings. The chosen safest spot in the arena would be close to the front, though the open-top bar was close enough to pass for convenient, thus no issues of transit would get in the way of the Darkhans' protection duties, or at least - not for as long as the Bloodhound remained to bear witness.

'THE UNKNOWN REGIONS HAD BETTER FETHIN' SHINE TODAY!!!!'

​

The Bloodhound would turn his attention away from Detritus, though only for added effect in noting his demand for the undivided sort from the nearest bookies, exclaiming,'Hey, baldy! You! YES, you! Twenty-Five Thousand Imperial Credits - to double my bets on every win - placing on the Ren there!', before returning his gaze once more to the warrior below. This would give the Darkhans something to laugh about, along with every other attendee who was in-the-know, though Barran's lips didn't even so much as smirk when he concluded,'We'll talk when you're done!', finally sinking into his audience seat with lasting finality.

The one-eyed Woad was here for entertainment, and perhaps as much as he was on state business.

 

[Shute Gunray]

Time had left its mark on the once-great Shute Gunray. A life lived at its fullest, bathed in opulence and excess, the neimoidian knew no inhibition. Decades spent imbibing the fullest wines and sodium-filled meals destroyed his physical health. A series of heart attacks all but crippled him, forcing him to rely on a hover-chair and feeding tubes for basic meals and water intake. A recent stroke left the right side of his body paralyzed. Repurposed MagnaGuard walked behind him. One droid pushed his chair, while the other cleared a path before them.

Shute mumbled something weakly and motioned for the vintages atop the table at the toast.

"Pour me a glass of wine," a mechanized voice demanded from the neimoidian's throat. No longer could the Tower of Power even speak without cybernetic interference.

"That directive contradicts my protocol, sir." The MagnaGuard intoned. "You are not to imbibe anything with a high alcoholic or sugar content. I have prepared special electrolyte-based packets for your dietary needs."

Gunray snarled. He mumbled again, this time more forcefully. "Run the wine directly into my IV, then," the vocoder sounded off.

The droid stood there for a moment, running computations through its droid brain at the demand. After a brief pause, it peeled back the thin strip used to seal the IV bag and filled half the clear plastic sack with a ruby-red, chilled in a gilded bucket overflowing with ice.

A soft groan escaped Shute and he nodded. "Good."

Elsewhere in the room, representatives of the Galactic Empire poured over the Trade Monarchs of Cato Neimoidia with unparalleled confidence. In answer, Aerarii Tithe, a longstanding business partner—and at times, rival—engaged with a surefooted defense. The Trade Federation knew no master greater than the almighty credit, and few within the galaxy could rival Tithe's expertise in handling the very lifeblood of governance.

For now, Shute Gunray remained silent. His bulbous eyes flittered across the room in search of hidden treacheries.

---

Tags: Aerarii Tithe | Minister Janus Vipsanius | Shannic Wulf | Domaric Mordane

 

[Minister Janus Vipsanius]

Shannic Wulf | Aerarii Tithe | Veodora Kadnessi | Credit Wizard | Gat Tambor | Shute Gunray | Domaric Mordane | Aiko Hayata | Domb Treetor XIX​

A half smile creased the Minister's lips as he accepted the crystal chalice of Chandrilan vintage, inspecting the swirling crimson against the artificial sunlight that poured through the vaulted transparisteel dome above them.

"Deputy Viceroy Tithe, indeed the galaxy turns, but it seems the wise remain ever in orbit of prosperity. A pleasure to see you, as always.”

He raised the glass in brief salute before taking a measured sip, allowing the bouquet to linger though his palate. Schooled in refined austerity, he was more interested in the wine's cost than its notes. Setting the glass down, he laced his gloved fingers and leaned forward ever so slightly, the tone of a colleague veiling the weight of an empire behind his words.

"I assure you, we too have seen the perils of overregulation. The Empire learned from the inefficiencies of the Republic, and the pretensions of the Alliance. They may have gave the galaxy bureaucracy, but we offer the structure it sorely lacks.”

He tapped a datacard gently against the table, its matte surface reflecting gold trim.

"The purse-worlds’ return to prominence is not simply welcomed, they are required. The Core Worlds need industrial muscle, fiscal agility, and dependable partners unbound by idealist stagnation."

But there, he paused.

"Yet even free markets need strong walls. The Black Sun. The Hutts. Seditious guilds and anarchists masquerading as capitalists and free traders. These are the termites that rot the foundation while we discuss futures in velvet rooms. Imperial oversight is not a leash, Viceroy. It is a firewall."

He allowed the pause to thicken.

"Of course, the stewardship of the Trade Federation has never been in question. Your consortium's acumen is legendary, and your discretion equally so. I have seen you personally act in your role as Imperial Treasurer..,”

Janus took another sip from his chalice.

“..and I must say, it’s like watching a master at work.”

The Imperial Minister grinned.

“And so I trust… when our agents begin auditing the Mid Rim, particularly those feeding Alliance resistance cells, your markets will be fully transparent.”

The faintest edge appeared behind his otherwise serene tone. Then it vanished like a whisper in spice smoke.

"Let us call this a mutually beneficial calibration! The Empire ensures security and legitimacy, while the Trade Federation reaps the harvest of a liberated sector."

He sat back, steepling his fingers. The Imperial diplomat reached in his satchel and within seconds a datapad slid across the table, ready for signature. Marked with an initial draft of the Imperial-Trade Cooperative Act, its clauses dense with fiscal promises and de-regulatory handshakes. A deal with the devil for wide open markets for the Trade Federation, but limited autonomy for its purse-worlds. A Imperial garrison would be stationed on Cato Neiomoidia, but the Trade Federation would be left to do as it pleased.

They didn’t need to stop them from selling to their enemy, they just wanted to know where that enemy slept.

"Shall we toast… to freedom?"

 

[Tilon Quill]

Getting out, however... well, that was another matter entirely.

EXPEDITIONARY VESSEL WAKE OF BALMORRA
CLOAKED
CATO NEIMOIDIA LOW ORBIT

The kicker of it was he didn't have a timer. He had a periscope up through the cloaking device, a little head-sized passive sensor module with limited comms capabilities, and when it got the signal he could go try for the pickup. Right now all he could do was stare at the featureless black interior of the hibridium cloaking device's double-blind field, and try to think and feel quietly.

He couldn't even go aft to tend the garden. Stay right here in this chair, in this beautiful quiet ship he did not want to risk, stare at the unremitting darkness, think about life and how the feth he'd wound up with the Lightsworn. Oil and water, his ideals to theirs, and each as far from the other as they were from the two great Jedi Orders. But the Alliance had lost the Core Worlds, and the Lightsworn had at least been effective and proactive out there at Balmorra, and in Tilon's heart of hearts he'd known he should pitch in at a moral level. No matter how he'd wanted to be halfway back to Cosm's Well or Calimancha by now.

So: wait and think quiet thoughts. Try not to stew. Hydrate.

 

[Vireth]

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Zarra, Cato Neimoidia, Colonies;
INVASION OF THE GALACTIC ALLANCE, THE RESURGENT GALACTIC EMPIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tags: Minister Janus Vipsanius | Domaric Mordane | Aerarii Tithe | Shute Gunray |

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OBJECTIVE I.

Coruscant has fallen. Galactic Centre is ours again.

The Alliance, and it's people, will continue to pay the Iron Price.

For the Galaxy shall assemble an Empire...

Beneath the veneer of negotiation (an excellent façade for both sides knew capitulation was the only means for their salvation) Vireth of Kuat entered the chamber quietly as Janus Vipsanius spoke eloquently about co-operation as a new era was ushered in throughout the Core Worlds.

She moved about the chamber in a quiet stride careful not to interrupt her superiors nor embarrass them in front of these Monarchs of Trade. Not that the Emperor or his closest of confidents required it but with each and every move taken by the Dark-Imperial bloc (first convened by the great Ignacious Korvan upon Carlac at the advent of the Core Wars) Vireth was more and more impressed. With it came a sense of catharsis-- a certain relief that came alongside the teachings, philosophies and word-of-law ingrained into her curriculum in the Raithal Military Academy (as it prepared to join the Galactic Emperor) was in the right.

It was just as the Church of the Dark Side had taught Vireth since her days of adolescence: We deal in absolutes. First with OPERATION CINDER and the eradication of the Imperial traitors who had scattered and abandoned their master after their defeat at the Core Wars now turned around through the ultimate victory that would see this burgeoning, resurgent Galactic Empire fulfil the promise of the late Dark Empire with the retaking of IMPERIAL CENTRE!

As Minister Vipsanius spoke eloquently and fell silent on the precipice of acquisition of the mighty Trade Federation of Planets with it's wealth, influence and commercial interests, Vireth knew that she had done well. But the young woman was ambitious and her mind required the scope of importance in order to bring about the Emperor's vision. Indeed, dystopia was at hand.

"General Mordane," Vireth said quietly as she stopped beside Domaric Mordane as he observed the proceedings careful not to speak loudly as to interrupt them. When he turned to look at her, Vireth averted his gaze from him to the negotiations at hand. "Those of us from Raithal are eager to join you. Fresh recruits and more would jump at the opportunity to serve under your command. I am an admirer of you and your expertise in military warfare. How may we serve the Empire?"

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[Inosuke Ashina]

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A walking stick clicked against the masonry. Feigning feebleness, a figure hobbled through the stands. His tattered hood camouflaged his true identity: That of a Jedi come for violent recompense. None of the arena-goers would look twice at the hunched-over shambler, but the eyes of an Imperial agent could have easily seen him for what he was. The disguise slipped under their watch, allowing Inosuke to embed himself within the crowd. He kept his head down, sensing the mistrustful gazes of agents who surveyed the mob.

Both hands bracing the handle of the cane, Inosuke lowered himself slowly into a seat. Chants began, bringing the hubbub of the crowd into rhythmic harmony. Their champion stood in the area, brandishing a crimson blade in anticipation of the spectacle. Inosuke's eyes locked on the gladiator, feeling his connection to the Force. No surprise, the Dark Side was strong with him. Inosuke sensed a vague significance about him. One of their Dark Side Elite, or perhaps something more?

< "Once the Jedi are all in the arena and the games begin, we make our move.">

Corin's voice buzzed in his earpiece, bringing him out of his search through his feelings and back into his immediate presence. Coordination of the strike team had been delegated to the Lord of the Fringe. The old man couldn't risk being found out before they sprang their attack. Furtively, the High Lord scanned the stands, counting every Lightsworn and other he recognized. It was almost time.

Balmorra had been a clandestine operation, likely kept under wraps and covered up by the Imperial propaganda machine. Cato Neimoida would be different. This time, their declaration of defiance wouldn't go unheard. All must know, all must choose.

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Corin Kaze | Talin Treicolt | Detritus Ren | Thomas Barran​

 

[Talin Treicolt]

Objective II
Location: The Pit
Inosuke Ashina | Corin Kaze

'Hey, baldy! You! YES, you! Twenty-Five Thousand Imperial Credits - to double my bets on every win - placing on the Ren there!'

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Talin offered a sarcastic salute to eyepatched man. Her sportsbook was open for bets that would never be paid, under supervision of the bald manager. It had been the most natural cover for her entry into the arena, wearing the identity she had for the last two years. The guards at the gate had taken a slight look at her records, approving her presence - but missed the name at the top of forms. Treicolt Sportsbook. The credits would be routed back to the Jedi freedom fighters when they were done here today. Glancing to observe the man who had just been betted on, Talin attempted to keep the disgust from her face. Some would the pit to the same standards as the boxing rings she had run through the core. Those folks ran their mouth just cause. A blood sport was a blood sport, but her boxers had the free will to walk away.

"Once the Jedi are all in the arena and the games begin, we make our move."

“Copy, Kaze.”

All the response she dared give. One of the spectators looked up at her, suspicious. She shook the data pad which logged transactions at him indicatively.

“Sorry. Math. Ain’t real good at it. Gotta talk it out loud.”

The backwater act worked. She was forgotten again. Foot thumped against the floor of the stands, anticipating. Let the games begin.

 

[Romi Jade]

TARKO-SE ARENA

The city of Tarko-se, a decaying marvel suspended in the clouds, propped up by greed -- bones of iron just creaking in the wind from way up high. Inside, the coliseum pulsed with life, it was the vibrant energy of celebration in some ways, but it was far more primal. Neimoidian citizens packed the stands, some faces were obscured, some not, it was the bets and jeers that stood out the most. Holographic banners shimmered above, projecting a variety of images; an unfeeling rotation. Every so often, the voice of a male announcer, cold, cracked through the static of the stadium's vox-system.

"Let the trials of the pit begin!", Part of it could've been performance. Control. A violent distraction for the general populace.

Down in the lower parts of the theater of domination, gates screeched open. From the darkness, her figure lurched forward; she was limp, shackled, wrapped in the worn remnants of clothing. As much as she wanted to resist, the poking and prodding of something sharp urged her body forward without a thought. Her boots scraped the floor as she staggered forward. She had been handed over to participate in these festivities for today, another means of torture, and entertainment for Darth Solipsis perhaps.

She was bruised and scarred from prior Imperial torment. Suddenly she was forcibly nudged forward, right into a spot that had to be her waiting zone for the moment. Ahead she could see the light, and hear the crowd.

Some junior attendant stood beside her, reading from a plasteel datapad,

"Romi Jade. Traitor. Fugitive. Enemy of peace. Today, you face judgment in the Emperor's name." and maybe that had been blasted over the vox-system too, she zoned out.

They had only a dossier on who she was as a Jedi. The only one who had figured out her other alias so far was Kaigann. She was captured right after, taken to him personally.

She heard to others discussing news of the Empire taking the core, and that of all things got her attention -- "Wai-What did you say?" her face gained life again. Then she was pushed along before she could say much of anything else. To herself "The Burning Truth...I-I had it wrong-" they threw her forward, she went stumbling into the pit itself -- the roars were louder than ever.

High above, in polished viewing boxes, Neimoidian aristocrats leaned forward with predatory interest. They sipped from etched glass goblets and cast betting chips onto glowing grids.

"I'll wager three thousand shekels she doesn't last five minutes," one aristocrat murmured, his voice muffled by the rebreather slits in his golden mask.

Near him, an Imperial psy-ops commander monitored a holopad feed, nodding toward a trembling technician.

"Cut to a close-up when the beast hits," he said calmly. "We need screams. The people love screams."

Down below, Romi dropped to her knees.

But it wasn't necessarily in surrender. Her wrists bled against the restraints. Her body trembled from exhaustion. But her gaze was steady.

She could only watch. Listen. Wait.

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[Detritus Ren]

Location: Tarko-Se, Arena
Enemies: Anyone and anything coming to fight.
Nearby: Thomas Barran Romi Jade Corin Kaze Talin Treicolt Inosuke Ashina

The crowd continued to chant over and over. “Ren! Ren! Ren!” The calls became louder, faces drawn to the spectacle in an almost hysterical fashion. It was clear many of them were fans of the Master of Ren turned captive gladiator. The crackling hum of his lightsaber was the only sound drowning out the noise. The teeth of the Orbalisks kept chewing through him, pouring rage and hatred through the dark sider while he kept his saber raised. Any moment the door on the other side would open bringing about the next challenger. To the roaring of the crowd it seemed to be another eager day of blood sport.

Detritus tightened his grip to his lightsaber, reaching out through the Force he seemed various presences, but thousands sat within the crowd it was difficult to distinguish. Then the dark metal gates would open, slowly he started to pace through the sand, his boots shuffling through the ground. His eyes narrowed, then he saw the signs of life. Three Jedi would wearily step out of the other side, they looked worse compared to the dark gladiator. Tan and beige Jedi robes were torn, stained with dirt and blood. He noticed a Zabrak Male Jedi accompanied by a Human Male Jedi, and what he could spot as a Torgruta Female Padawan. All three looked tired, exhausted. Neither of three looked hesitant when they saw Ren right before them. A brute covered in dark side insects with a Crossguard saber, a mad look in his eyes filled with nothing but the desire to take life.

“W-We wish you no harm, if we all work together we could escape.” The Torgruta girl spoke up, fear had warped her entire being, but she hoped to appeal to Ren. It seemed staying alive was more important than ideological differences. “L-Listen! The Padawan is right, we don’t have to fight for the entertainment of others. Please, lay down your blade… I beg you!” The Zabrak Jedi Man agreed with the Padawan trying to talk sense into the dark sider, but Ren remained silent.

The crowd started to give out disgruntled boos. Many of the spectators were impatient, and Detritus was in no mood to disappoint the crowd. “First beasts, then mercenaries, now they bring Jedi to fight me? The crowd yearns for blood, I will not disappoint!” Detritus said as he walked towards them, his boots stomping against the sand. All three Jedi stood back, the Zabrak activated his blue blade, the Human Jedi man, and the Torgruta Padawan followed with hesitantly activating their green blades.

The crowd suddenly became silent, all eyes watched on the four. “M-May the Force help us…” The Human Jedi would get out, but before the three could defend themselves Ren was on the attack. He rushed right for them, letting the rage take over completely. “RAAAAGH!!!” He roared out, taking a swing with both hands, the Zabrak Jedi man was his first target. The blue blade would try to parry the burning blade of Ren. There was a clash between Orange and blue blades, before one heavy strike and Detritus severed the Zabraks head from his body.

“Yes!!!!” He could hear the crowds erupt in a barbaric frenzy when the headless Zabrak would drop to the ground. The color drained from the Human Jedi Knight, while the Torgruta Padawan was visibly shaking. “I-I will destroy yo-“ Before the Human Jedi Knight could say anything, his green blade raised in a Form One stance before Detritus would begin his onslaught. No words was said from the dark gladiator, but the murderous look within his eyes said enough. The crowds watched on the edge of their seats, watching as orange and green would clash, the sounds of sabers clashing echoed throughout the arena. Detritus could smell the ionized air of lightsaber clauses mixed with blood. The human Jedi struggled to hold his blade, his wrists shaking after each brutal power attack made by the Ren.

Then in one furious side slash, the lightsaber of the Jedi Knight was sent flying from his hands. “M-Mercy…” The exhausted and frightened human tried to say, but before the thought occurred to Ren, his orange blade plunged right through the Human Jedi, another roar came from the crowd, some of them clapping at the ferocious display. All the color seemed to leave the Torgruta girl entirely. She took glances between the berserker of a Ren, and trying to run back towards the entrance.

“P-Please… I don’t wanna fight… I don’t wanna be here!” The Torgruta Padawan desperately tried to plead with Ren, but he wasn’t having it. She raised her saber in a haphazard stance. “Go on, I’ll give you one shot.” Ren said to his prey. The crowd hung on anticipation, before the Padawan rushed right for the Ren. He stood there, his saber lowered and watched the frightened girl try to attack him. She tried to strike him, her saber slashing against his chest, but Ren stood there unfazed. The Orbalisks produced sparks from the strokes of her blade, but Ren remained there. Her eyes went wide. “My turn.” Ren said with a cruel laugh that followed.

His free hand would fist right into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and sent her dropping to the floor. Her hands raised, pure terror on her face. “Please! Please! Do-“ Before she could finish, Ren let out a vicious roar, his saber hummed loudly, before in one falling avalanche strike Ren would split the Torgruta Padawan in two. The crowd erupted into a frenzy. The chants of Ren echoed all around.

He gave a gladiator salute to the masses, his saber raised higher towards the boxes. “Is this all you have? Feed me more!!!” Ren demanded as he started to pace around the wreckage and blood stained sands. No doubt his next round of opponents heard the display of carnage. The crowds were hungry for more while Ren kept pacing, twirling his saber eager to kill again.

 

[Otto Blank]

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Objective | Growth+Profit=Grofit
Location | Cato Neimodia
Company | Shute Gunray

"Shute my old friend!" A voice bellowed in the background, a cackling laugh heard followed promptly by a hacking cough as a thicc Belugan waddled forward, arms outstretched. The aged Belugan prince chortled as he held a plate of oorps in his hands, grubby little fingers reaching down as he plucked one and threw it into his mouth, his split maw making disgusting slobbering sounds as he played with the berry between them and against his tongue.​

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The Belugan waddled forward to meet his old associate as he mustered a hefty breath upon reaching them, "I see that you are in good health as always." His flapping jaws curled into what could be perceived as a smile, as horrendous as it looked. The prince of Quarzite threw the platter of oorps over his shoulder as he tapped his fingertips together. Upon closer inspection, it'd become apparent that something had happened to the Belugan's vision, something along the equivalent lines of having severe glaucoma impairing his sight.​

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"I'd recognize that voice a mile away. Tell me old friend, what brings you here?"​

 

[Domaric Mordane]

Tags: Minister Janus Vipsanius | Aerarii Tithe | Credit Wizard | Shannic Wulf | Vireth

Mordane did not answer her at first.

He stood like a statue carved from old stone—posture stiff, eyes unmoving—watching the chamber's elegant pageant unfold before him. The Trade Viceroys simpered behind their jeweled masks. Vipsanius danced his rhetorical steps, threading poison through silk. Holoprojections shimmered above the tables like specters. Across the transparisteel walls, the towers of Cato Neimoidia rose into light, hollowed monuments to a wealth that had knew not loyalty, but power.

Coruscant had fallen. Galactic Center was theirs again. Cato Neimodia was next.

While Minister Janus Vipsanius draped velvet words over pliable viceroys, Domaric Mordane stood near the edge of the chamber, letting the polished rhetoric wash past him like static. He had heard it all before. Promises of cooperation, assurances of prosperity. The Empire didn't need their trust. It only needed their surrender. Their cooperation. It did not matter how independent the Neimoidians were, only that their loyalty was total and unwavering. And once that was assured, he could afford the luxury of distraction.

Only then did he glance to the young officer beside him.

Vireth of Kuat. Clean lines in her uniform. Eyes full of hunger and belief. Raithal cadet, by the look of her—polished and eager, the sort the Church of the Dark Side molded with great care. They built true believers there. Children who had never seen the galaxy except through the filtered doctrines of loyalty and fire. It was a good forge. Dangerous, if not guided.

Her question was not unexpected. They never were.

"Admiration," he said quietly, his voice flat and low, "is not service."

"Today I am Governor Mordane," he said, voice low and iron-flat. "If you're going to admire someones, it's best to properly introduce yourself." His gaze returned to the hall, to Vipsanius threading honeyed words through Neimoidian hesitation. "Raithal teaches obedience. That's useful. But the battlefield—real command—demands clarity. That will come with time." There was no warmth in his voice, but neither was there scorn. It was simply instruction, shared without ceremony.

"If you're looking for glory," he added, "ask for reassignment. If you're looking to build something that outlasts you—stay close." A pause, quieter now: "And watch carefully. This is what victory looks like before the blood dries."

He let that hang, then gave the faintest tilt of his head, half-shrug, half-smirk.

"Or so I've heard."