Dominion Portents of Change - THR Dominion of Cularin + Hoylin

[Nivan Darros]

Obj. III
​

The threads that pulled Nivan from the safety of his command post stretched taut. He never feared for his own safety - he'd always had a strange knack for sensing danger before it arrived. A sense that both served and frustrated him beyond measure - he could not control it. It was there some days and then others it felt like it had never been there to begin with. He'd been tagged by a Jedi Watchman in Kaadara but upon testing his ability, he'd been found ineligible for Jedi training, his skills extending only so far as an extraordinary sense of presence.

For now.

The Force often was unpredictable in how it would influence those with sensitivity to it.

Sharp, glacial blue, eyes scanned his surroundings on an ever rotating swivel as he made his way towards the pull of the Force. The anxiety and pain that he had felt so brightly before was slowly fading. This immediately had him concerned for whatever was out among the grove, hurting - perhaps dying.

"Just hang on.", he whispered in a soft prayer to whatever deity may be listening among the ancient groves, a silent plead to keep his target alive long enough for him to get to it. He was a Medic, probably not the best one, but he knew that if he could make it to the being that needed help, he just might be able to stabilise it enough to call in the real healers - the Jedi.

The chatter of the other High Republic members reached his ears from the comms device attached to his collar. He scoffed as Ala Quin responded to BR-8 's request for clearance to land. Waiting for the Assembly to pass the Compact before they were able to do anything?

What a load of poodoo.

While it was true that he was a soldier of the High Republic, he was a child of Mother Naboo first. It was not in his genetic makeup to wait for the bureaucrats to debate and squabble before making a decision to help or deliver aid. Naboo had ever been the champion of relief and diplomacy for many systems throughout the Galaxy. He found himself recalling the stories of Padmé Amidala, a former regent of an older Naboo and eventually turned vocal Senator in the Galactic Republic. She did not wait for politics to decide the fate of her people or of those that required aid - she acted.

"This is Lt. Nivan Darros, Junior Field Medic. I am requesting aid at my location immediately.", he had found the source of the pain that he had felt.

The sacred grove that had once existed in this section had been decimated, all that had been left was the singed and burned trunks of the once beautiful flora. The loss of the grove was a great blasphemy, that much was certain, but even greater still was the clear disregard for the Tarasin people and their cultural importance on Cularin.

Tarasin bodies lay strewn about the earth, their attempted defence of this grove evident in how their bodies surrounded the fallen and shattered trees. The evil and greed that must have fueled such acts of darkness could only be measured in the devastation that the young Naboolian soldier witnessed before him, sorrow and anger rising in equal measure.

Just as he was to be consumed by the anger, his mind prickled as another presence touched his - his eyes being directed to where the body of a Tarasin child lay, buried beneath a fallen trunk.

Nivan darted over to the child, anger and sorrow forgotten and replaced with concern and determination - this child had been the source of that pain.

"Just hold still, try to keep steady breaths. I will find a way to get this off of you." his eyes darted among the destruction around him, looking for anything that may have been able to help him - frustration rising as nothing stood out as exceedingly helpful to the current predicament. The fallen trunk itself was far too large to move on his own, perhaps if he'd had the Force to aid him. "Of course, that's not an option for me." he muttered bitterly as he turned back to the child and gripped the fallen trunk with his own hands.

Where the Kark was the reinforcements that he had requested?

He heaved desperately, mustering all the strength he had in his legs and arms to try to raise the trunk - it shifted, but only a miniscule amount before collapsing once more.

A sharp whine came from the child and Nivan looked to her with concern. He had shifted the trunk in the wrong direction and it was constricting the child's airways even further, her labored breathing becoming exceedingly shallow, barely audible above the hammering panic in his own chest.

His mind raced, and his ears rang as a surge built within him - anger, desperation, anxiety, need, want. Each emotion stoked the fire in his chest until it erupted in a Force-fueled roar, sending a shockwave rippling outward, shattering branch and limb.

It did nothing to save the child.

He would not give up.

Not ever.

Help was coming. He had faith in the Jedi. He had faith in the compassion of the other members of the High Republic - someone would come.

They had to - bureaucrats be damned.

 

[Elenna Sylari]

E L E E N A⠀S Y L A R I

OBJECTIVE III​

... Sip.

Eleena cradled her steaming cup as she sat just outside the communications tent, observing the hustle & bustle of Jedi & scouts alike as they made their way into and around the tree grove. The air filled with the various sounds of ships landing and taking off, sending leaves and anything not locked down flying. Many scouts' boots kicking dirt around as they hustled to their posts and tasks. All accompanied by the quiet, discomforting hum of energy that emanated from the grove, and understandably so.

She had caught on to Ala Quin sending off a poor delivery pilot, chuckling to herself as she listened to the muffled talk on the slowness of politicians; "Spacers Guild?" she called out from her seat to the Jedi within the tent, peering in, "perhaps we could put them to use? Access in exchange for their aid?" suggested the elderly Jedi Master. Moving back to her seat as there were, for now, quicker, younger Jedi prowling the forests, capable of covering more ground than herself, so she was comfortable lying in wait with her deychn tea until she was needed- which she had hoped wouldn't be necessary.

A hope that was squashed almost immediately.

"This is Lt. Nivan Darros, Junior Field Medic. I am requesting aid at my location immediately.", he had found the source of the pain that he had felt.

Rising from her seat and placing her cup down, she peered into the comms tent upon hearing the call for aid, offering a quiet, suggestive look to the Jedi Master within. "Perhaps one of us should take a look?" quipped Elenna, proposing that she take over the more mundane job of handling the radio, allowing Ala Quin to head into the forest to help the Lieutenant if she wished...

Tags: Ala Quin , Nivan Darros , BR-8 , Open!

​

 

[Elias Edo]

(Soundtrack: Through Glass - Kelbren cover)
"It's the stars, the stars, that shine for you"

At the root of everything was change. The form it takes, the way one reacts to it, whether its accepted or resisted... it shapes every life in the galaxy. Today, he bore witness to a conversation about this very topic, though it was the Jedi Council who was guiding the forces of change rather than reacting to its imposition. Elias was a spectator invited by Briana Sal-Soren to observe the Council and offer his thoughts, but he had remained silent beyond simple introductions upon his arrival.

He hoped they did not see him as an ungrateful ward of the Order. Elias was simply at a loss for words. No matter how well-intentioned, his thoughts felt too unhelpful to articulate aloud. The doctors told him it was called "survivor's guilt." They said it would come and go, feel big and then small again, but Elias knew how these things went. Knowing that Kahne Porte died in the process of saving him and the children would haunt Elias until the day he drew his last breath. It was just how he was.

But that day was not today, he realized. Perhaps it was the will of the Force that made things play out the way they did. Maybe Elias was spitting in its face by wriggling under the weight of his self-loathing.

"I'm no stranger to change," Elias said. "Nothing in my life is the same anymore. I went to sleep one night as the Quartermaster of the NJO, a bulwark against the encroaching Dark Empire... I woke up as a broken man, a shell with no titles and no memories. Everything has changed." He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, forcing down the welling emotions that were bubbling from deep in his chest.

"Forgive me for my forwardness, but Grandmaster Sal-Soren invited me here to weigh in my thoughts. I'm of the mind that when the galaxy - when the Force - gives you an opportunity to guide the tides of change... you accept the mantle of responsibility, and you do your best to command it at Ashla's behest."

He glanced around the room, a sad but genuine smile on his face. "I was a stranger to this Republic when I came to Naboo, but I know that you will make the right decision for not only yourselves and the Order, but for the people you are sworn to defend. If that decision entails levelling Shiraya with the enclaves you seek to invite into your network, I believe it is a worthwhile sacrifice. After all," he said, trailing a bit, "... be it Shiraya, Ashla, the Light Side, or simply the Force, we all serve the same idea: peace, for everyone."

Elias exhaled as if a heavy weight was being lifted from his chest. Being stuck in the Netherworld was a bleak existence devoid of his innate sensitivity to the Force and other living beings. The Archon was sure to remind Elias regularly that the Nether was a dead plane devoid of the things that made him feel the most alive. Being here in this room, surrounded by veritable paragons of the Light Side, was almost more healing than the surgeries and physical therapies.

Tags: Brandyn Sal-Soren | Briana Sal-Soren | Lorn Reingard | Lossa Aureus | Vizion Trozky​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn wasn't one for quick words. Silence was his habit, not a play for attention, but a space to gather his thoughts, to bridge the gap between what he'd seen and what was happening now. He sat still, hands resting calmly on the chair's arms, eyes lowered in a long, slow breath before he finally looked up.

His gaze landed on Elias first, and a flicker of something warm softened his expression. "Good to have you with us, Elias," he said, his quiet voice heavy with the weight of years lived in the thick of things. "You belong here. And what you shared... it carries weight."

His eyes drifted then, almost against his will, to the empty chair at the edge of the room. Kahne's absence wasn't just a sadness; it felt like a piece torn out of the whole. Lorn blinked slowly once, then pulled his attention back to the discussion at hand.

"I hear you, Brandyn," he said, his voice steady, "but we don't grow by holding onto what's gone. The Order of Shiraya doesn't lose its meaning just because we change. That meaning lives in us, it's not just a name."

He leaned forward a little, not aggressive, but resolute. "Kahne believed in something bigger than just tradition. He gave his life for people who'd never even heard of Shiraya. That's the kind of Order I want to be a part of. One that stretches to meet the needs of today. One that remembers where it came from... but doesn't get so stuck in the past that it forgets how to reach out."

His gaze traveled around the room, pausing on Lossa, then Briana, before finally resting on Brandyn once more.

"We're not leaving home behind or our traditions. We're carrying it with us. And we're making room for others to find a place within it."

Brandyn Sal-Soren | Lossa Aureus | Elias Edo | Vizion Trozky | Briana Sal-Soren​

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Dominique could feel a headache coming on.

Pad in hand, the fashionable Senator of Denon stood to her feet and approached her microphone. "Senators. Delegates. Throughout all of the debate regarding the Cularin Emergency Aid and Protection Act, and now this amendment, many arguments have been put forth either from a dispassionate and logical certitude, or the impassioned championing of what is 'right.' Above all of these one thing has become abundantly clear, and will not be settled this day: this Republic must find in itself to establish consistent and predictable measures with which aid, protection, and membership are provided."

Dominique scanned the interior of the chamber. "We speak of correctness and swiftness, but I put to you what is more correct or swift than established and repeatable processes? How are we to govern our military or our economy based on whatever-feels-good? There are no constraints built in to either the Act or the proposed Clause. Paralysis?" she refered to Sarn's observation, "I speak of unreserved waste."

"As for the matter at hand, with all due respect, this body has not made any promise to the Cularin people. The Cularin Compact was made over nine hundred years ago with a government that has long since been buried and resurrected so many times I could sick up. They have petitioned for assistance, and it is on us to decide whether by action or inaction we serve the whole." Build trust with Cularin? They hadn't been falling over themselves to build that trust until suddenly they had need for the Republic. How convenient.

"However," Dominique slapped the datapad down the desk before her with a loud crack. "As the Jedi have so thoughtfully interceded on this body's behalf, it would behoove us to send observers and coordinators to Cularin before they make promises the Republic is not prepared to keep. And I, once again, object to membership being conflated with aid, and to certain forces thinking this body is to be led by the nose. Something to be reviewed once this matter is finally behind us."

"I propose Senator's Sarn's time frame be shortened to thirty days. It should hardly take too much time to weigh the impacts of our continued presence given just how close our relationship already is with Cularin." Dominique cut a mirthless smile. She wasn't nearly as upset about the affair as she let on. Half of politics was showmanship. Much as she didn't want to confront the Jedi Order's actions openly, it would be necessary to balance the desires of her constituents that would not find "hand outs" palatable.

Sibylla Abrantes | Xazzex Xivar | Dominic Praxon | Rowan Ee'everwest​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Naboo
Porte Homestead
Training Pad
Tags: Open

"It's almost like an instinct." The Jedi spoke with a small smile to the group of assembled Jedi, not as an instructor but as a guide. "You can reach out, feel it all around you. It resides inside you, focus long enough and you can almost hear it speak to you."

It was a small eager group of Padawan, and some younglings. Some several years younger than him and others had just began their Jedi Training. He could advise and help as necessary, give those a helping hand and assist them in finding their own way.

There was an item before each of them, just something easy. This wasn't the time to try and outshine one another, they were all in this together. Once the instructions were given, they all at one time took a seat before their item, which for right now was just a simple book on the Lightsaber form Ataru. They would used the force and raise it from the ground. It would circulate around them for as long as they could. "Remember, this isn't a contest. We have all started somewhere and while this isn't your first step or journey. The more you train, the more you are prepared to help the next person you meet."

Aiden took a seat Indian style in front of them. "Now, close your eyes, feel the force flowing through you. The light that shines, the rays of hope being cast upon you." The Jedi Padawan showed a smile as he closed his eyes.

"You have strength, light, I can see it in each of you."

"Begin."

 

[Rowan Ee'everwest]

Rowan found himself in a forgotten communications room, tucked away beneath the main rotunda. Dust coated the control panel, and old security seals were broken and clumsily repaired. This was the kind of place used for transmissions people didn't want traced. A place forgotten until someone needed it remembered.

He activated a silent sweep, listening not for the words themselves, but for the patterns hidden within them. The audio signature from Senator Vonn's speech had started transmitting before she even opened her mouth. The payload wasn't the speech itself; it was a set of instructions. A soft pulse, precisely twelve seconds apart, riding on her breath and the subtle inflections of her voice.

He matched the signal against a fragment decrypted from a Black Sun cargo net on Hoylin five years earlier. The architecture was identical. The same Black Sun mark. This wasn't just collaboration. This was command and control. The signal was being directed to a repeater node hidden within Naboo's utility grid, cleverly bouncing the signal off the planetary maintenance backbone. Ingenious, cowardly, and utterly predictable.

With a flick of his wrist, he jammed the signal and dropped a virus into the signal path. Once the repeater pinged its handlers for verification, he'd know exactly where the Black Sun cells were listening. And who they were paying.

Above, the muffled sounds of debate drifted down the shaft like distant thunder. He brought up the chamber feed again. Rowan's eyes narrowed. She wasn't just covering for Black Sun. She was building them a legal fortress. A bureaucratic nest from which they could keep Cularin under perpetual 'review,' delaying enforcement while Syndicate operations devoured the remaining resources. And if she succeeded, they wouldn't just get away with it. They'd be endorsed.

He checked the time. Eight minutes until the final vote. Rowan didn't hesitate. He tapped a secure channel and reached his handler.
"Confirm Uplink disruption. Tracer's live. Location in thirty. Begin asset interdiction at Mon Cordax warehouses across Naboo and Brentaal. Hold civilian disclosures until I've secured the floor."

"Rowan..." The handler's voice was laced with static. "What are you planning?"

"Exactly what she's trying to stop," he said. "Disclosure." He was already moving.

Up the shaft. Through the lower maintenance passageway. Past two sealed blast doors that only opened for those who knew the Republic's heartbeat code. Rowan didn't have to push people aside when he entered the upper rotunda. They simply moved.

He appeared in the upper gallery like a sudden, jarring punctuation mark. One aide gasped. A diplomat from Stobar fumbled with her datapad. Someone recognized the uniform; the cloak, the sigil of the Domestic Security Division, and whispered.

Assembly security agents began to move, but he raised a gloved hand. Wait. He wanted to see it all play out before he acted.

 

[Vittorina Mandroga]

|| THE RICHES OF HOYLIN - BYOO ||
Blades of Fortune - Chapter 1
———
OUTFIT: x
TAG: Orestyn Carda

HOYLIN

Vittorina was studying her notes for the last time, in a remote warehouse in Hoylin. Her crew, two bodyguards and a personal assistant, Yoro, dressed in leather that he would pass for her boy-toy, are doing a final inspection of the area and the artifacts that she will present to the coming buyer.

Being a deep-cover agent means her cover identity’s life is her life, nothing original is hers to keep. That she has to wear her mask 24/7. Sometimes she wonders to herself, did she retain any piece of her true self, or is she lost in this deep abyss. Before spiralling, she always reassured herself, this is for the greater good, washing all the guilt she felt for enjoying the wanton exploits that come with her job a little bit too much.

DING! She shredded her notes before making her way to the warehouse that has been transformed into a pop-up antique shop. Most of the artifacts she brought here are smaller in scale and of the lower grade; Novanian druid mask, Thyrsian stone tablet, House Draco songsteel heirloom among them, but that’s only because they are not the main event for this meeting, which are covered in cloth for the moment.

“Duke Carda, it’s an honour to finally meet you,” she welcomes the Duke and his entourage, flaunting her fur and Ghorman silk dress. Her words are not fully true, they have shared a room before, both being part of Naboo high society, but Vittorina is not a true nobility at the end of the day, she must have been brought to the events that the Duke attend, instead of being there in her own accords. So they have never interacted before, and the sentiment stands.

But today is different. She was assigned a long game: Duke Orestyn Carda of Naboo, an ex-Imperial. Whisper of a returning Emperor hadn’t escaped RIS attention, but this is more than just a test of loyalty. A regular RIS agent would be assigned to him if that’s the case.

“Do you want coffee or tea My Lord,” Yoro asked the Duke as Vittorina took a quick scan of the Duke’s stature. Exactly how she imagined he would look like; towering, commanding, intimidating.

This is it. There’s many roads to approach this mountain, but each has it’s own dangers, with no way out.​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The inside of the hab unit reeked of coolant, sweat, and old rations. Above her a flickering overhead bulb struggled against the thick green twilight that filtered in through slats and vents. Bastila sat with her wrists bound in front of her, the cold metal biting slightly at the skin just above her gloves. Every surface around her had a layer of grime. The wall directly opposite her bore a smudged schematic of the grove’s terrain, pinned above a console whose power core whined with unstable energy.

Outside, the sound of chainsaws gnawed into the forest in short, sputtering bursts, followed by utter disturbing silence. From time to time, she could hear the groan of treefall, deep and distant, like the bones of the world shifting in discomfort.

Inside, it was just her.

Until the door grated open with a hydraulic hiss, scraping louder than it should have in the damp air.

In stepped the Trandoshan his entire presence broad and imposing, yet quiet except for the wet scrape of his feet on the metal floor. Behind him came the captain, human, who now she had the time to take him in properly was taller then she remembered, the type who wore smugness like armor and dirt like cologne. His long coat was gone now, replaced by a sleeveless utility vest that revealed forearms covered in faint burn scars and grease smudges. He had the air of a man who didn’t fear consequences, not yet anyway.

He carried a flask and a smirk.

“So,” he said, dropping the flask on the table with a metallic clank, “let’s try this again. Who are you really?”

“I told you,” Bastila replied, her tone smooth as silk. “Forestry Audit Corps. Field division. The trees requested an independent inspection.”

The Trandoshan gave a guttural snort of amusement. The captain didn’t smile.

“You talk like someone used to hearing themselves quoted,” he said, circling around Bastila and the chair she was sat on slowly. “But the accent’s Core, the walk’s military, and you’ve got more data on that pad than a wandering eco-nerd should know exists. You want to rethink your answer?”

Bastila tilted her head, the cuffed hands resting loosely in her lap. “I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in ecosystem compliance.”

The Trandoshan stepped forward and struck her—backhanded, fast. Her head snapped to the side, a bright splash of pain lighting up her jaw. She took a moment, exhaled through her nose, and dabbed her lip with her gloved knuckle.

“That’s assault,” she muttered. “You’re definitely losing your license.”

The captain leaned down, hands on the edge of the table. “We can do this all day. You’re not a soldier, or you’d have comms. Not a Jedi, or you’d be dead by now. So what’s left? Republic spy? Private auditor with a death wish?”

She met his gaze, calm and cool. “Ever consider I’m just incredibly curious?”

He didn’t laugh, but she could tell it was getting under his skin.

The wind outside howled against the container, causing the flimsy walls to creek faintly. Overhead, a branch dragged across the roof with a dry scrape. The shadows shifted subtly with the trembling of the forest.

“She’s a plant,” the Trandoshan growled. “Let me take a finger. Maybe a few teeth.”

Bastila gave him a sideways glance. “You threaten like someone who’s never been punched in the snout.”

The captain raised a hand before the Trandoshan could act. “Easy. She’s worth more whole.”

He stepped around again, pulling up a chair opposite her with a lazy motion.

“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me who you’re working for, and maybe you don’t end up in a crate on the next offworld shipment.”

She didn’t blink. “I told you. Rural Development. You’ll find their offices in the fifth district. They love complaints.”

The captain studied her for a long time, eyes narrow.

Then he stood. “Put her in holding. We’ve got a vessel inbound. I’ll let them decide what to do with her.”

Bastila didn’t resist as the Trandoshan hauled her up and shoved her toward the door.

Outside, the camp was lit in pale golden halogen, throwing long shadows across piles of felled trunks. The air was thick with the smell of scorched bark and ozone. Sparks from a welder’s torch hissed nearby, showering one of the landing pads as a freighter began its slow descent through the canopy. Its underside was charred, mismatched from rapid repairs; definitely not a local vessel.

She paused briefly as they passed an open container, spotting more crates, some labelled as construction gear, others still reeking faintly of blaster residue. Was it Tech smuggling? Poaching? Trafficking? It all smelt darker than just illegal logging.

They pushed her into a holding cell made of sealed crates, bolted together in a U-shape. They didn’t bother locking it because they clearly felt they didn’t have to. Two guards took up positions nearby, rifles slung over their shoulders, clearly distracted and annoyed that she was their task.

As she sat again, hands still cuffed, she stared through the slats of the metal wall at the slowly descending ship.

Something in her told her she could end this now. She could break the cuffs, disable the guards, vanish into the trees, or leave the camp in ruin.

But another part of her held back.

Because maybe the better move… was to go with them.

Let them take her. Deeper into whatever network this was. Further into the chain of operations that had crept into the sacred groves. It was risky. But so was staying.

And if she was right; if that symbol and those crates led to the people she really wanted to find then maybe being a prisoner might be the only way forward.

So she leaned back in her crate, closed her eyes, and let the roar of the descending ship wash over her like wind through the leaves.

​