Faction Ravelin (Revelry and Pain) [NIO/Enclave]

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

RAVELIN (REVELRY AND PAIN)

THE PAST

​

A city of dreams, but if you walk down the wrong side-street, or into the wrong bar - the stuff of ultraviolent nightmares.

From Nirauan to the frontier-planet of Bastion, both famed and forsakenly-remembered alike as the new Imperial capital, the new beating heart, the latest and greatest jewel of the Empire in the full fervour of Galactic supremacy. So much has happened to this place over the centuries, but nowhere near as much as in recent decades, crawling from destruction to recovery twice in the NIO's attempt to wrest it from the clawing grips of the Sith, and to hold it against all their avarice and impotent rage against all odds. However, glorious city of Ravelin, despite the harsh, war-torn recent history, has since grown and flourished despite all the challenges the people here have had to contend with since the battles and the assassinations, despite the ever-looming threat of the former-Accords factions proverbially creeping over the planet's picturesque horizon.

Beautiful though she is, Ravelin didn't become that way overnight, the people, the money flowing into the infrastructure, welfare and industry propelled the city's many districts from the despair of poverty. Breathing life into a people who were falling by the wayside before Irveric Tavlar and Rurik Fel instilled a survivor's mentality into all of them, injecting a painkiller deep into the burned husk of a city marred by the Third Imperial Civil War's darkest hour, transplanting an aesthetic soon later that would transform the city of Ravelin, evolving the new heart of the Imperium into the lush metropolis everyone expected the city to become someday. The way things were looking for Fel and his glorious capital, no Zambrano-loyalist, no Mawite, no renegade Sith and no Confederate could change Ravelin's slowly-reached but definitive sense of becoming.

THE PRESENT

​

Happenings appear to have been centred in and around the densely-populated inner city districts again, but not by means of war by any norm known to the Galaxy at that time, but in true Bastion fashion, these happenings would have a noticeable contrast like all that occurred before in Ravelin in recent years. Yet this time would be different, the celebratory and the quiet-working events would all be miles away from the events in the run-down ghettos in the city's larger population-centres, where the violence for the streets would be erupting before long. All the planet's many paradigms, wrapped into multiple interweaving microcosms of Revelry and Pain. It seems Fate never lacks her infamous sense of irony, and certainly not when dealing in matters of Imperial nature, but what happens - happens without our control sometimes. Nothing changes what Fate has in store for the Imperium, nothing can.

And yet, perhaps some can challenge that cruel mistress for a time, perhaps even the Imperium at large can achieve this if their mettle holds, but all in the Galaxy know for a fact that Fel has the power to do so at least.

However, in the matters in which the Galaxy's peoples still retain enough power to control, much is afoot in the storied city of Ravelin, and much ado in the tandem ways of Revelry and Pain underlying all of it. The glorious symbol of Fort Imperator itself presents a perfect embodiment of both at the same time, much like the citizen who live at the base of it's walls, living long enough to know the feeling of both before their time to die arrives to become of them, this once-unstable home to death and destruction is already appearing far more livelier than it ever had under Zambrano rule. The world's former rulers made her look ugly and modernistic, but Tavlar and Fel both have turned a Brutalist, abstract Hell into a haven for breath-taking, aesthetic craftsmanship of almost every perfected artisan variety, achievements that will surely have made their exiled enemies flush with envious rage in droves since.

OBJECTIVE 1
(ENGAGEMENT STATUS: CLOSED - IMPAF & IMPERIAL-COMMAND MATTERS ONLY)

The Great Imperial Library, Outer Fort District,
Ravelin, Bastion (Summer of 874 ABY)

Despite his blessed time alone in the Great Imperial Library, reading alone as his pet tigress sleeps at his feet, Lord Erskine does still keep a somewhat busy schedule of late; and in his ever-nagging need to get things done, has chosen to make a point of sending summons to all the individuals pertaining to matters of IMPAF-relevance. After already finishing all his Sabretooth appointments for the early-morning segment of the day, Erskine has since freed up time for reading in peace from the hours of 08:00 to 10:30, though interruptions are to be expected in the latter stages of his ideal, beloved silence. It appears a certain matters demands his immediate attention, pertaining to matters of military law and the potential chance to avoid a nasty Trial by Court Martial, matters Lord-General Barran himself has already admitted he has been is nowhere near awake enough to abide by.

Aside from this first of expected appearances in the next cluster of appointments, there are to be renewal of Imperial military contracts that the Woad, in complete contrast to his disdain towards his unofficial role as IMPAF's justiciar, has in fact been looking forward to greatly. Expecting the arrival of good friends and a potential successor to the title of Lord-General, it seems the rest of the morning is set to be an interesting series of encounters at the very least, and if Lord Erskine is lucky, he'll be kept chatting in the library well beyond the lunch hours. A man of high-stature he may have always been, but humble are Barran's requirements for happiness, and to such a prominent degree that not even the pride that a promotion to Lord-General brings is capable of cutting through the simple joys that define him; so at least in this regard, the encounters at the library will certainly stroll along at Lord Erskine's leisurely, talkative pace - a welcome change in pace for many who know him already.

Spoiler

10:30 - Ewan Paircrit
11:00 - Konrad Bolter
12:00 - Aemilio Valaar
13:00 - Julian Qar

OBJECTIVE 2
(ENGAGEMENT STATUS: OPEN - COMPNOR, CRIMINALS, SIA, SPEC-OPS + MORE)

Western Slums, Outer Resident-Districts 5-12,
Ravelin, Bastion (Summer of 870 ABY)

Weapons, drugs, smuggling lanes, gambling rackets; all of it and more is on the line in the mean slums of Ravelin's slowest-recovering districts, and COMPNOR has chosen to stake their claim to it all, reaching far and wide into a grand array of underworld and black-market revenue streams in the attempt to stretch their organisation's (with the lion's share expected to pass to the central-government) coffers for future operations. The SIA has been very active of late, making their presence felt as any self-respecting clandestine organisation would in their shoes, but presenting a very real threat to the NIO and it's infamous clandestine network of spies and assassins all the same, a reality of which most of the Imperial assets, handlers and technicians are well aware by now. To think there would be no enemy operatives working with the local criminals on this one, as agreed by all being sent in on behalf of the Imperium, would be nothing short of costly, and an unforgivably naive assumption to make after all that COMPNOR had to deal with on Kuat before.

Brute warfighting strength and CQC prowess alone will do you no good here, the cunning, the wily often prevail in such cloak-and-dagger endeavours, disappearing almost as quickly as their efforts to spring forth from the shadows to catch and kill their targets. The best, most-surreptitious shooters, whether it be close-or-long range, will be needed at their best this time also, planned locations to take their shots, with the choice of going loud or quiet. Expect heightened civilian presence, but again, it is entirely up to you on how much damage limitation you wish to indulge in when the disruptor trails start flying; collateral deaths and property damage are to be expected, but whether your character is a clean, precise hitman or an outright psychopath will surely dictate how you would proceed in such circumstances. After all, the empire is in a state of war, and thus the local slums have chosen to stand with their beloved malcontents, your judgement dictates your trajectory either way.

OBJECTIVE 3
(ENGAGEMENT STATUS: OPEN - NIO/Mandalorian Enclave)

The Antares Hotel, South Imperial Quarter,
Ravelin, Bastion (Summer of 874 ABY)

The greatest power in the Galaxy has been rather warlike of late, though fortunately not escaping the Imperium's notice in the process, as it would seem that many have talked of a need to unwind for once, and many are agreeing.

Built specifically for the officers and heroes of the Third Imperial Civil War, the Imperium and the Enclave are to expect a lavish, newly-renovated venue for their next social gathering; the last time they enjoyed good times together, plans were already being made against them by their hosts in silence, during their time drinking and socialising at Lord Halketh's party on Carlac - and everyone knows how matters turned out with Carlac in the end. For once, Lord Erskine has made a point of arranging something of a genuine joy for others to attend, wishing very much not to become one who would give rise to such a dark turn of events, and wishing very much to offer something altogether more relaxing and picturesque for the brightest-burning stars in the Imperium, a night to remember. With fashionable indoor and outdoor bars and lounges in all four zones that make up the Antares Hotel's rooftop bar and music venue, there is a little something for every potential reveller-archetype to be found, a venue built to help the patrons unwind and enjoy themselves.

And to top it all off, the well-known, eye-catching sunsets will have another of their bright, almost psychedelic displays tonight, with the moon casting something of a display of it's own soon after in the east. Music of almost every acceptable variety will be playing in multiple little rooms within the four-section bar-lounge, playing to the indoor-outdoor contrasts as they cater to each swathe of soldiers, officers and officials that wander through from section to section as the evening progresses into the later night hours. All is there to take everyone's minds away from the struggles that plague the Imperium's warrior-elite and their high-achieving ilk daily at this stage, as the Lord-General and his friend who owns the hotel are well aware of this - banking on the fact they can provide a means to forget for a while.

OBJECTIVE 4
(ENGAGEMENT STATUS: OPEN - NIO, Enclave, Selected Writers)

"Whatever gets you posting, chief." - the usual policy here.​

I only add that if there is any story matters that need attended to before the next big war season, the Second Great Hyperspace War thrives on story, build as much as you can - whenever you can.

Good stories are good stories I'll end up enjoying the process of reading, and that won't be changing any time soon.

Have fun.

 

[DECEASED Erskine Barran]

1st post
OBJECTIVE 1: REVELRY IN THE QUIET
THE_WOAD​

Tags: Konrad Bolter Annor E-059 Ewan Paircrit Aemilio Valaar Julian Qar

APPOINTMENTS WITH THE WOAD: TO IMPROVE ON GREATNESS - PROLOGUE

Historical District, Kaas City,
Dromund Kaas (Spring of 870 ABY)

Blade Ice
Poor kid didn't stand a chance, now you have to write his family a devastating letter. Will you tell them the truth, or will you lie to keep your legacy and clout? I don't need to fight your armies or family I can make them kill and fight each other.​

Slipping back to something resembling his own lucidity, Lord Erskine would snap out of his haze to see his opponent's handiwork, somehow immediately aware of what happened as he looked at his dying subordinate with confusion further intensifying his dismay. But soon, the dismay would give way to disgust and soul-deep disdain for what had transpired, inwardly blaming Darth Lucid for all of it; from the blood on his coat-sleeve and on his sword in particular, to the fact his unwitting puncture of the trooper's carotid and his windpipe, all of the Lord-General's blame would be laid at the Sith's feet henceforth. Lord Erskine would toss his weapon to the ground soon after, as the disgust in his heart couldn't hold onto it for as long as his own unwitting powerlessness continued to turn his stomach, a rare but revealing moment for the Stormchaser, but one that many saw on the horizon regardless.

'This isn't my doing at all, is it? But why does the shame claw at my soul so aggressively still? An' why am I suddenly getting the feeling I've been puppeteered like a bloody marionette- wait! This is the work o' scummy Sith, I KNOW IT IS!!!!'

Lucid.... Of course it is, I mean - who else could it have been? He was the only Darth for miles, man.​

Clenching his teeth shut with an audible snap, Erskine's jaw would be working in overdrive as his face contorted in it's first truly-murderous sneer, deadening his gaze even further as the Stormchaser's heart hardened a bit more than most would be comfortable with; for a war without a morale-boosting Erskine was surely fated to lead every last one of his subordinates down a bad path, one such that none serving with IMPAF would survive for long, one such that would surely see his family's name dragged through the mud for centuries to come. The young sergeant from 2nd Battalion had finally stopped twitching, finally dead after five minutes of choking, convulsing and recoiling in fear at the mere sight of a man he thought was his killer in his final moments; but instead of being tipped over the edge by it, Lord Erskine would make sure to keep this moment well-remembered, kept at the forefront of his mind as fuel what whatever his part would be in whatever Lucid had in mind for him.

While you seek glory, I seek to end your bloodline - I'm not blinded in my path. The next time we meet their will be no distractions, me and you one on one only one will walk away.​

'Ice, you rotten bastard.... Mark my words - your body will drop headless to the ground for what you've made me do here. MY SINN'SEARANN WILL REJOICE AS I PAINT MY FACE WITH YOUR BLOOD!!!!'

None had pushed Erskine's rage to this point yet, none could ever know that his wrath could reach such a dangerous boiling-point, but in making his peace with the fact his complicity was far more diminished than he first thought, all the heart and soul in his wrath would be removed for and kept back for people who deserved it. Ice would be the subject of Erskine's unquenchable focus, a channelled fury of the likes none had ever seen in the Stormchaser before, vowed henceforth to be exacted on a clan and family he previously assumed were of no consequence to the war. In the old Lord-General's mind, there was no doubt the Maw had a personal stake in the success of Ice, Starfall and Devoid alike, and as far as Lord Erskine was beginning to view the newly-announced enemy, these were darlings of Exegol who needed to be wiped out before the Galaxy could allow them to become too powerful - but Erskine's sense of duty was a very potent thing indeed.

'I'm so, so sorry.... You deserved to die a more-dignified death than this, Sergeant. I can already tell without pulling off your helmet, with ease already - you're the young Mantellian who slipped under the radar. You deserved better than this, an' my hubris robbed you of that.'

APPOINTMENTS WITH THE WOAD: TO IMPROVE ON GREATNESS - PART 1

​

The Great Imperial Library, Outer Fort District,
Ravelin, Bastion (Summer of 874 ABY)

Daydreaming again, but one that led to a flashback the Lord-General couldn't bear thinking about, and in snapping out of this memory that was close to trapping him a haze, the shock and gasp of realisation had disturbed his pet tiger's sleep until Lord Erskine was smart enough to reassure Misha that he was perfectly fine with calming words and therapeutic scratches behind her ears. 'Just another jolt is all, sorry about that.', Barran would reaffirm softly, still slightly unsure of how tame Misha really was by that point, though every time such thoughts arose, the tigress would always know in her own way, making a point of snuggling on his lap with nothing but affectionate calm that seemed to calm the Stormchaser in turn. The gift from Ord Mantel, great and fearsome though she was objectively, seemed to keep on giving, especially in moments when she was happy dreaming away with her head in his lap, waking up occasionally to toy and chew at his cybernetic arm until the sun's warmth lulled her to sleep again.

'At least you still care enough to feel trauma, sir. Most in your position would've abandoned that by now, but that's what makes you the best at what you so.... Don't forget that.'

'Heh! Like I did on Kaas, is that what you're saying?', Lord Erskine shot back with left eyebrow raised accusatorially, to which a wordless, sniggering screw-face was slung back in the Lord-General's direction. Shaking his head with a slight upward rolling of the eyeballs, it was clear to the Woad that his young prospect was having none of it, though this was slowly but surely becoming a trait of Wyll's that Barran could rely on. This often well-placed attitude of perfectionism, sarcasm and goading rolled in to one, as aggravating as it had been for the Lord-General in particular, had proven vital to keeping Lord Erskine on the right track so far. Realizing his blunder, the Woad would hold up the hand that remained to him and continued,'You didn't deserve that, my apologies.... Just try an' keep that kind o' talk to a minimum in the moments after these jolts, aw'right?', with a heightened awareness of the diminished alcoholism, increased discipline and the eradicated despair of the likes Barran couldn't ignore - not even if he tried.

'This is fine. I can punish you in the sparring-yard later for it anyway. We've always had our means of working it out no matter which route one might take towards reconciliation.... In any case, duly noted on the matter of the trauma-jolts. I know the feeling, but I'll leave it at that for now.'

Kindly, appreciative nods were exchanged when Sir Martin concluded his response, holding each other's gaze as if to tell each other that their traumas would be handled in due course; it had been nearly seven years since Wyll's face has been slashed open by a Scar Hound in his days as an IMPAF-trooper, (even though Barran wouldn't have known him at the time) and the Woad could see this for himself that the young knight's trauma, and the events that gave rise to it, still haunted Sir Martin's dreams regularly.

Don't give up now, Wyll. Not when we're on the verge of making history.​

Breaking off first with a mild forward head-tilting bowing gesture, the Stormchaser calmly drawled,'Thank you, and we'll talk of your knowing someday. Hopefully soon, eh?', which was proving to instil a sense of contentment in his subordinate, though Lord Erskine still couldn't help but wonder if it would last for the long run, if Lieutenant Wyll would last for the long run. Chuckles and a fist-over-heart salute was given with sincerity in response, giving way to the Lord-General in contented silence, with Annor E-059, Captain McGechin and Lieutenant Rosk'Aiar at their own reading tables, seen joining almost immediately after hearing Lieutenant Wyll applying a heavy hammer-fist punch to his own abdomen for loud effect. Heartfelt enough from all reading quietly around him that it was taken as an expression supreme loyalty, both to himself and to the reigning Imperator alike - something Lord Erskine would always take to heart.

'Thank you, much appreciated.... But we really ought to get to this morning schedule seen to if we have any hope of making it to this party tonight. So who's first on my wee list then?'

 

[Gwyneira Vizsla]

Partay Outfit:

Spoiler

• Shirt.
• Danger Jacket.
• Gloves.
• Jolt Ring.
• Pants.
• Boots.

S O M E - G I R L S - J U S T - W A N N A - H A V E - F U N​

After some argument with her father over both their outfits, they finally headed off to the party. Gwyn fiddled with the jolt ring on her finger, practicing deep breathing as they entered the establishment.

I came here to relax. I'm going to relax. No war, no worrying about loved ones, no fear of being captured. Just. Relax.

Gwyn looked up to her buir, Kranak Vizsla , and smiled as she jested, "Like the suit?"

It really took a lot to convince him to come in something besides his beskar'gam. Gwyn smiled more earnestly as she complimented him, ""You do look great, buir."

She was still grasping his arm with her own. Her desperate desire to be near him stemmed from the agony she endured at her biological sire's hand. She simply felt uneasy being away from her real father now. She wanted his closeness, his comfort. Especially after she lost El- … No. She was not thinking about that today. Gwyn was paranoid of being captured as well, which kept her glued to her father in that wretched fear.

Needless to say, tonight was needed.

She had her jolt ring, after all, if anything went south. Her jacket provided some protection as well, and she always had the Force to use as a weapon if need be.

But no. Tonight, she did not want to fight. She wanted to party. She wanted to have fun. For once…

As she and Kranak went about their evening, Gwyn leaned her head against the giant's upper arm. She gave him a small side hug, her left leg awkwardly thumping on the ground as she sighed, "Tonight should be fun. Let's hope…"

The nervousness in her voice gave away the paranoia in her mind. Yet, a moment later she pulled herself away from him. The lights were a bit intense for her liking, but they were supposed to be floor up anyways. Gwyneira Krayt bolted towards the stairs, shouting behind her, "Race you to the rooftop!"

She was just going to have fun.

She had to.

She needed to get away from her recent misfortunes. Desperately…

 

[Vulcan Krayt]

Objective: There is a party on the roof!
Equipment: Sword, M.I. Model 6 hybrid pistol
Wearing: This
Tag: Open

Vulcan was at the door, unloading his entire cache of Thermal Detonators and various other devices as he had been packing quite a lot of them and they noticed, they tsked as he added another inch to the pile. After another round of questions later and the youngster was allowed in, the bouncers were left scratching their heads at the large mountain of ordinances and weaponry left behind. It was alarming as it is amusing.

Vulcan stomped up the stairs, he could not understand why he had to surrender nearly everything, he likes to come prepared, isn't that what Mandalorians do? Arm yourself just in case of fighting? His metal foot adds to his stompy footfalls. Since Dromand Kass, he had been less fiery than normal. Subdued was what he felt like, and to be fair, he was not himself. He had for a split moment wondered if they would even find him or just retreat and leave him there to succumb to cold or frostbite.

He felt a wave of guilt, he hated thinking pessimistically or ill of his fellow Vode, it was not healthy or pleasant. He's afraid to voice his concerns, he's fine. He was here, he was going to have fun, even if it wasn't the type of fun he enjoyed. He should keep to himself; he doesn't want to dampen the mood or ruin the party for anyone else.

As the Ubese walked up the stairs he was tempted to slide down the bannister, do something childish, to feel himself again. But then stopped and backed off again, utterly wanting to be well behaved. This lasted 5 minutes before Vulcan went ahead and slid down.

Sliding down was fun and he never will have the chance to do that again. So, he was glad he took the moment to do something normal for him. He finally reached the designated rooftop, it looked like it was in full swing, he kept his sword and pistol concealed just in case though, can't be too unarmed.

<"Impressive."> He says, impressed.

 

[Lawq Vasrell]

Lawq Vasrell was certain she stuck out like a sore thumb at this party.

While neither she nor her live-in companion held even the slightest hint of animosity towards humanity as a rule, and despite their living in the NIO's territory for nearly two years now, the Qom Jha (the species had evolved immensely over the centuries since Palpatine's Empire had encountered them) always felt all-the-more alienated whenever she ventured into the dominant-majority realms of one species or another. However, due to the not-so-subtle influences of the Force on her, the batlike creature could "see" the presence of (via a colored "aura" brought on by the Force's influence) several other Force Sensitives here on the top floor, in addition to the guests themselves, which were distracting the strange little creature from the stronger feelings of alienation that seemed to weigh on her while she made her way along the outskirts of this gathering. The bastard had to be around here somewhere... As she paused to reach out with the aid of her few "neutral" Force-gifted capacities, a middle-aged Devaronian grinned at her knowingly, giving the Qom Jha a flourishing bow as he radiated a moderate amount of Light-derived energy, despite not looking much like a Jedi... Shaking her head with a wry laugh at her distracted thoughts, the female turned her mind back to her destination. Though she didn't see it and for some odd reason, the Devaronian gave her a salute...

Casting her single sapphire blue eye over the assembled partygoers in their silken, exotic and wealth-inspired clothing, Lawq felt self-conscious: for someone who was independently targeting an abusive husband and the killer of his own brother (she had holorecorded the event while attempting to run and save the man's brother), this was probably the worst way to set about doing so... The demure alien cast her good eye down at herself and, after a moment's hesitation, lifted the black leather eyepatch from her head, her left eye dull, lifeless and white compared to the lovely orb next to it. A second look towards the laughing assembly of Imperials, citizen and military alike, nearly made the Qom Jha flush in shame, her large, triangular ears lowering as she once again examined her clothing, before setting off towards the refresher, where she had seen her target heading...

The assembled Imperials would most likely have found her an odd sight, indeed, at such a gathering: the Qom Jha was a lithe and small thing compared to most aliens and as unusual as a Vor, with brown-furred and with bizarre arms that also functioned as wings, small bony growths growing out along the length of either limb and ceased before the wrists, with the membranes extending down to the base of her ribcage, with smaller (and useless) tiny membranes between her long and thin fingers. Her large, triangular ears constantly swiveled atop her head of short-cut, fiery red hair, alert even to a few sound ranges beyond human sensory capacities. The creature was doubtlessly a female, albeit a very thin, flat-chested and scrawny (she preferred the term "athletic") example of one, her form did nonetheless accentuate the standard curvaceous capacities of female beauty. Her mouth (or, more properly, "muzzle") jutted a few inches from her furred face, vulpine-like and certainly as distinct as the rest of her demure form was as she tiptoed her bare, four-clawed feet (three toes forward, one backward) along the richest carpet most of the attendees had ever seen, and a long, pointed and brown-furred tail dangled just above the creature's ankles, velvet-looking and occasionally twitching nervously.

All this to right a wrong and rob a monster... Lawq's mood was glum even as she turned her head towards a few partygoers who were beginning to point and wave, raising their wine-filled glasses at her, forcing a silly, pointed-toothy, left-sided, crooked smile at the humans, who laughed cheerily and heartily greeted her, even despite her odd attire and... Unorthodox appearance.

What set the Qom Jha apart the most was her odd attire for such a high class event. A worn gray leather vest, well-used and covered in pockets (the guards had painstakingly searched all of them and removed a few ammo cartridges, as well as her blaster) and completely sleeveless, adorned her lithe torso and effectively kept her modesty intact, (though, perhaps embarrassingly in these circumstances, her black-furred naval was visible) and a loose-fitting pair of urban camouflage breeches shifted and shushed with her every step as she finally made her way beyond the crowd's sight, their laughter fading as Lawq finally reached the somewhat obscure promise of the refresher, to say nothing of her target - the bald-headed fat bastard had headed this way, for sure. That, and she really needed to pee - the Qom Jha wasn't quite sure why, but she felt nervous among these law-abiding Imperial citizens, even if she meant them no ill-will; the New Imperial Order had been very good to Fajyk and her, and Lawq was certainly grateful.

A protocol droid bearing a platter of drinks sauntered past Lawq as she cast her gaze to and fro, a hand on the men's refresher door as she made sure no one was looking, then ducked inside, the droid heedless to the alien's swift, careful action. Shutting the door behind her, the Qom Jha could see him just beside the sink. A rotund man that gave her Drovian accomplice a run for his credits, the human was pasty, balding on top and, as he turned to face the Qom Jha, the distinct sight of his oiled blond mustache met her gaze, his one gray eye, ironically, proving to be a dark reflection of her own, on the right side. Ironically, this sick bastard had, only sixteen standard hours ago, nearly strangled his wife to death and murdered his brother while high on glitterstim in one of Bastion's many, many dark and forgotten alleys, each crime committed within minutes of each other, and with his wife oblivious to her brother-in-law's untimely death...

His voice guttural and running a finger under his nostrils, the human's flabby, fat-laced cheeks raised in an amused, falsely-friendly smile. "Sorry, Ma'am, this is the men's refresher..." One pudgy finger gestured to the door behind the chiropteran, even as the smaller creature faced him, her eyes lidded and her face expressionless. With a grunt and a leap as the man turned back around, thinking their business concluded, Lawq leaped onto her target's back, his yell being muffled by a noseful of fur and a gray membrane falling over his face, blinding him even as the Qom Jha's clawed feet scraped along his back, her thin, delicately-muscled arm wrapping around his throat as her free hand balled, raining blow after blow upon the man's head, his officer's cap falling to the floor as the man's muffled yelling and the Qom Jha's cursing continued, the Imperial losing his balance a moment later and sending the two of them crashing into the refresher stall...

(I'm impressed that I've been able to write as much as I have, but I'll try to shorten these a bit - sorry for the info dumping!)

 

[Annor E-059]

Undisclosed Military Intelligence Installation, Operating Theatre,
Ravelin, Bastion (Autumn 866 ABY).

The frame of a very short adolescent girl slides onto the cool Durasteel patient table. She reclines back and lays the musculature around her spine against the cold metal. "It's cold." She remarks dryly, cerulean eyes tracking the various men and women wearing their coloured smocks; science staff feeling uneasy around them, unsettled by some of the terminology and sentences being thrown around concerning herself and the others who had been gathered in this underground laboratory.

A physician wearing his cream coloured overcoat and a team of Nurses wearing midnight blue begin swabbing disinfectant along the incision vectors stencilled by black markers into the girl's limbs. Anxious beneath the glare of their glasses, the girl's hand snaps out and clasps tightly around Doctor Marlin's wrist. He pauses and meets his patient's eyes; she is visibly uncomfortable. Doctor Marlin thinks for a moment and allows empathy for the child to worm into his breast. Marlin thought even a child raised as a soldier, trained in paramedicine themselves, must have been confronted by this. "This is going to hurt, isn't it?" she asked him.

Marlin's lips turn upward in the shape of a hill for a moment and softly places a left hand on the stencilling of her left shoulder and peer into her sapphire-coloured orbs with his creased weary eyes from behind a pair of spectacles hanging from his ears. "Yes, it will, I'm afraid..." Marlin realised he didn't recall his patient's name, although he recognised her and glanced over to the Nurse clasping a clipboard on his right. "Annor." The team of scrub wearing Nurses pull plasticine snakes from the ceiling and slide their needled noses into Annor's body. "What does Colonel Ulrand say about the hardest battles, though?" His voice softened with the query.

Annor's steely gaze doesn't flinch from Marlin's attention and answers his question flatly. "The hardest battles are given to the strongest warriors."

"That's correct." Marlin nods his head in a gesture of affirmation. "And you will be our strongest warriors." His patient prepared Doctor Marlin retreats to an observation room on the ground floor of the carnivorous multi-storied underground laboratory. Colonel Berach Ulrand pulls a fat cigar between his lips, Doctor Marlin hovering behind the "Guv'na". The burly man spat smoke from his mouth in a gross cough, reviling what they were about to do, though accepting it as a ruthless necessity for the wars to come. The Colonel gave the signal to begin.

Annor, sedated yet clinging to consciousness, stares up at the diamond panel above her patient bed and its' light shining down into her eyes. She could see those transparent IV coils turn blue with chemical mutagens in the periphery. Everything went black. Doctor Marlin holds a handkerchief to his cheek and dabs away the pervasive guilt, as one by one, the adolescent children either pass through the sequence of painful augmentations or succumb. A fire ignites in Annor's connective tissues. Doctor Marlin's eyes are drawn to Annor E-059's biometric data displayed on a hololithic terminal; he watches her heart rate ascend with no sign of abatement.

Annor's heart expands and presses against her thoracic wall as the chemical fire washes through her muscles. Annor, still unconscious, convulsed wildly, circulatory structures dilated and burst. Marlin monitors her cardiac activity flatline like many others with a loud, monotone whine. He thrusts a pointed finger in the direction of stunned Nurses in the observation room. "Get those patients into stasis, move!" Annor's eyelids thrust open, and her eyes stare straight at the ceiling, even as its' details roll like an old cinema reel on the short journey to a nearby foggy recovery room lined with transparisteel cylinders.

Annor's limp, pulped physique is hefted by six men without ceremony into an open cylinder. Its' door folds shut and seals with a hiss. Blue bands of quantum energy swirl around the adolescent's body, cocooning Annor from the passage of time. Later, Doctor Marlin stood before the thirty or so Elite trainees occupied the stasis tubes. Marlin acknowledged that it may take years to develop and implement a rehabilitation program for each of them, but he would not be deterred.

---

Annor E-059
Objective 1: Revelry In The Quiet
Writing With: DECEASED Erskine Barran
Historical District Sinkhole, Kaas City/The Great Imperial Library, Outer Fort District,
Ravelin, Bastion (Spring/Summer of 874 ABY)

Annor observes the Lord-General discard his blade, she begins to crawl forward with rifle brandished firmly against shoulder. Eyes and sights fixed on Erskine for a moment, observing his movements and listening to the lamentations of a grieving man. Annor's approach is quiet, like a ghoul on the celestial plane she retrieves Erskine's bloodied sword in left hand, regarding the transparent and crimson teardrops sprint along its' sharpened edge for a second, Annor then plunged its' length through the hard clay in an audible crunching beneath her feet in a single motion buying it to the hilt.

Stepping forward, Annor looms over Erskine's shoulder and regards the corpse and broken man. She stays frigidly cool to the sight. "He's dead. You can't stay here." The encroaching mewl and hungry howl of Mawsworn warriors alert Annor, and she brings up the rifle from waist to shoulder in the time a viper strikes its' prey. Whether or not the Lord-General protests, he would find himself behind the Elite Trooper. "Enough, shut up and stay behind me," Annor instructs the emotional man with stern authority. "Sir." The addition to the statement is made on a drawl one might perceive as bordering on disrespectful.

Pulled from the reminiscings of her own mind, Annor blinks to find herself at an oak desk; she cranes her eyes and attention upward and observes a grand basilica its' crystalline panes etched with grandiose, beautiful murals. Annor wasn't confident what she was looking at, but it appeared to be some manner of homage to Khyber Dark; White knights clutching blades cornered beast-men who wielded flaming swords. Annor's opaque helmet lenses glean back down into the datapad she had been reading; political and religious philosophy, a text authored by a great socialist thinker; although she knew it to be incomplete, most of the content was lost or corrupted by the Gulag plague.

The thumping salute between Erskine and Wyll doesn't pass beneath Annor's notice, and she stands, sliding the chair she'd been perched upon back under the table and ambles toward the Lord-General. She was fully armoured. Though it was uncomfortable, she had learned it was better to be painful than vulnerable or, worse yet, dead. Annor looks to Captain McGechin with a level of disdain for what she condemned as a politician, although conversely respected his ability to be a shrewd diplomat. Lieutenant Rosk'Aiar earns the visible dip of the helmeted head from Annor. It was a sort of respectful acknowledgement from the usually staunch Elite.

 

[Konrad Bolter]

T Y R A N T
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
IMPERIAL ARMY
112th ARMORED ASSAULT REGIMENT
'HELLS HAMMERS'
DECEASED Erskine Barran | Annor E-059

THE FEVER TREE​

The armor was wearing thin. In more ways than one, that was. This had been a long war. Twelve years since he received his commission as an Imperial officer. Twelve years since he'd been put through the ringer of this horrible machine, the only respite being backwater deployments more excruciating in its boredom than its danger only to be thrust back into the meatgrinder once more. The Hell's Hammers had long stood themselves out as one of the more effective armored units in the Imperial Army, Bolter being a loader on Fulcrum-Four in the battle of Harnaidan when Waylon Treicolt led them down the money green streets of the Muun capital.

Bolter was one of the few, one of the old-heads who'd seen every willful face and pair of eyes flutter through each deployment, each mission. The infantry always belittled the tankers, that they were waging war from a position of comfort. In all truth, Bolter, while certainly a professional of his craft of dealing death from his metal cavalry- he wished he that freedom. To run.

In the tanks, there was no hope in hiding from an overwhelming enemy, no hope in scattering when artillery landed near. The armor had to take all the punishment it was due and as a consequence, he'd seen many bodies charred to a crisp, the horrid faces of those who couldn't vacate the burning hulks as they were cooked alive.

The signs of combat fatigue began to snow after Generis and Serenno but only escalated there after. His conduct was submitted to several judiciary boards, particularly in handling Sith-Imperial Remnants with a conduct non befitting of an Imperial. Deep cruelty. But the Hell's Hammers were too effective for the command structure immediately above it to bother with a shake up as they were utilized more for their presence than their hard worth in worlds still in the clutches of Imperial remnants or areas that had been known to be sympathetic to rebel causes before eventually, they were called to the front against the Maw.

His column was ambushed on Sharb and the ever gruesome Bolter...broke. After fending them off he was found slumped, dejected in the command seat of his Cataphract, the armor's hull compromised in several spots with ablative plating of duracrete and alusteel rebar inlaid over the metal beneath to save them from Mawite improvised explosive attacks. He was unresponsive and a medical review board deemed him unfit to serve in his current condition. It wasn't anything in particular that acted as a catalyst...it was all of it at once. The faces of the fallen, those who he'd mentored and led into battle, disfigured in charred fear, frozen in their final moments. The faces of those he'd executed in village squares. His only words to the medics sent into the tank were as follows.

"Kill em all...kill em all, already."

He needed time, away from it all.

​

It'd been months since he'd been sent to Bastion, able to settle into an apartment in the Maximillian District and be given time for leave, though it came at the cost of taking a bump back down to Colonel with a lump sum bonus to compensate, the position of direct Regimental commander suiting Bolter better than command as he sparingly left the field as it was, it was agreed upon terms by both parties. It wasn't as long as he thought it would take before he was settled into his old self once more- with orders to report to a Lord General Erskine Barran. The last they'd shared the field, he was a Major General, Carannia, Serenno. Another old guard of the Imperial armored force...but since, he'd ascended from the heavy metal to the top brass. A welcome change, change is exactly what Bolter had in mind.

He approached Barran and the officers in his closest command at their reading table not a moment after Annor did the same. Still within the field grey of the Imperial Army with the proper crimson trimming to match, he sparked up a cigara between his scarred lips to mark his greeting before speaking up.

"G'evening, lads." He said before facing the Woad himself.

"Been a long while since I'd seen your name on the tac screen, Lord General. The top brass suits you, well earned I'd say. Seems the Hell's Hammers will be at your disposal in the coming days, however, unless something changes which- you know as well as I, something always changes- I'll be at your behest, Lord General." He said before offering up a half-hearted salute. It'd been a long while since he'd been around proper drill and ceremony and it showed, having taken to the backwater battlefields of two wide-reaching conflicts- he was more in touch with his enlisted side than he was befitting of an officer.

​

 

[Lucien Dooku]

CRYSTAL GARDENS NIGHT CLUB // RAVELIN
vibes | Jan Beroya | Drip ​

---

Ravelin was a beautiful city, made even more appealing to the eyes following the New Imperial occupation. It was a jewel of the Empire, one of several throughout the expansive borders of the Outer Rim's predominant hegemon to the north. Countless bars and clubs, some more illicit than others, now filled the skyline of Bastion's crown jewel, and within one of these lowkey establishments is where Lucien found himself for the evening. It was a night of revelry for the denizens of the New Imperial Order's elite, and though many that night would attend the festivities at the Antares Hotel, Lucien had chosen to abstain.

Instead he would make his appearance far across the cityscape of Ravelin, perched on the balcony of an open-aired nightclub whose primary clientele were the city's younger aristocracy. The Crystal Gardens, it was called, dubbed so by the shimmering assortment of neon fixtures that made the club dazzle the eyes of those who passed by in the skyline. It was also an establishment that knew Lucien by name, and understood the importance of its guests discretion. And discretion was the name of the evening, as he leaned against the metal railing that separated its occupants from a steep fall into the skyline's oblivion.

With a glass in hand, Vasarian brandy being his choice, he waited patiently for his plus one to arrive at his side. He'd sent an invitation her way, hoping to speak with her in private. Though they were tied by a shared connection to the planet he ruled, he could understand any hesitancy on her behalf. She was an Inquisitor of all occupations; a shrewd warrior and investigator, charged with carrying out the will of the Emperor, both within and outside the Knights. The two had briefly crossed paths during the reclamation of Nirauan, and perhaps on a few other times as well. His exile did occur into his teens, which left a possibility that she and him had crossed paths during their youths.

He shrugged it off, time was fleeting these days, and since awakening from his coma, many faces had come and gone in these most trying times of his life. Regardless of whose will she served, or the lack thereof of any proper introduction, she was still a daughter of Serenno's great noble houses. The same houses, who one and a same pledged their allegiance to his Crown, upon the removal of his grandfather's regime. Grievances aside, he'd done what he could to rebuild the bridge that had been torn down and reduced to cinders by the Dookus of the past.

Those same houses which were relegated to obedience or death, now found themselves once more involved in guiding the Serennoan people forwards. It was among his first steps as King, put into writing and ratified before his coronation had even begun, but decades of hostility were a tough scar to remove. While he hoped to clarify the stance of his guests' very own house's allegiance, he wouldn't dwell on the outcome of their meeting, favorable to him or not. It was not honor that bound him to speak with her that evening, but a matter of loyalty to the world that housed both their great families.

Hard decisions would come sooner than anyone would think, and for that reason alone, the two would need to meet.
​

 

[Rebel Yell]

REBELS IN THE SHEETS
BASTION | RAVELIN | WESTERN SLUMS | OUTER RESIDENT DISTRICTS 5-12

​

Deep in the midst of Ravelin’s sense of becoming, were watchful eyes and tight lips. Not Mawites, not Confederates, not former Sith allies — no, those had long since been expunged in the wake of Fel and Tavlar’s restoration of the city. All that were left behind were opportunists of a different, more subtle nature.

It had been years since the conception of DEAF, a product of COMPNOR’s boredom and desire for controversy, and its spread through the Core and parts of iron space. Its distribution was stimulated by COMPNOR, much to the irritation of local Alliance Marshals. And now, years later in the warmth of summer, was making its rounds through the slums of its origin. An outcome as unsurprising as it was inevitable. All that had been required as a little extra maintenance and management to get the right channels pointing back to the markets within Ravelin. Years ago, it had spread within the corporatists, started at the top, and through whispers and loose lips worked its way down to the less sophisticated narcotic dealers. The mixes that were being exchanged in back alleys weren’t quite as pure as the ones that found themselves amidst CEO interns, but they still did the trick. The medley of spices overstimulated long enough for a ruckus to be made, for regular persons to feel the taste of invincibility and crave more. And Wonderland provided the opportunity to defy normal. To defy orderliness and uniformity.

The drugs themselves were of little care to those who had initiated the flow of recirculation through Ravelin’s streets. It was the strength of the secrecy that was closely monitored. How intensely the sanctity of discretion was treated. If spices could prove resilient enough to elude the tracking networks, then those who proved worthy of shadowy information could escalate the severity of what it was they were distributing.

Dissent in the capital of Imperialism had to be a slow, steady, subtle burn. The exploitation of imperfection and disorder in a world that had been fashioned for perfection.

-

Authenticating credentials... Confirmed
Reading Package list... Done

-----BEGIN QUANTUM ENCRYPTION---
wjYr4Rx-Af50D
-----END QUANTUM ENCRYPTION-----

​

OBJECTIVES

1. SEEK OPPORTUNITIES TO IDENTIFY ADDITIONAL CONTACTS FOR ALLIED EYES/SURVEILLANCE WITHIN BASTION
2. IDENTIFY COMPNOR AGENTS AND CONTACTS - EXPLOIT THEIR IDENTITIES ON THE MARKET IF POSSIBLE TO LIMIT FUTURE TRADE

AUTOMATED MESSAGE COMPLETED
ALL MATERIALS ARE OPEN MARKET
D E N I A B I L I T Y
NO REPLY

​

 

[Jan Beroya]

I N Q U I S I T O R

NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
CRYSTAL GARDENS | RAVELIN
TAG: Lucien Dooku
ROCKIN' SOME DRESS

BAD REPUTATION​

A breather.

It had been a high strung couple of months - it was about damn time that they took some down time. Raina didn't have enough time to swing by on Serenno before her next deployment, so a stop over in Ravelin was the next best thing.

Not that there was much rest for the wicked.

An invitation to the well established Crystal Gardens by none other than the man that currently held the throne on Serenno made its way towards her. . But the man did wrest back the planet from Sith occupation, so the least she could do was hear what he was on about. Her uncle did yammer something about diplomacy at some point before he took off to be some pious guy.

So Crystal Gardens it was.

Not that Raina was particularly impressed at the entire situation. Her very paranoid gut told her that it wasn't just for shits and giggles. But unfortunately, curiosity was a thing.

It was a lovely evening, no two ticks about it. After stepping into the lobby, a steward led Raina outside to one of the dazzling balconies to where her host was hanging over the balcony railing.
"The Lady Demici, milord." the steward announced, bowing slightly as he flourished toward Raina.
"Yes, yes, he's got eyes and ears and I have a voice. Now run along and get me a Bespin Fizz. Don't forget the umbrella." she said, waving away the steward.

Formalities were not her strong suit after years on the borders.

He stood there gobsmacked for a second, but eventually sprang into movement. As he scrambled away, Raina rested a hand on her hip as a brow lofted.
"Such a formal invitation, Your Highness. The Fizz better be worth it." she quipped as half a smile curled the corner of her mouth.

 

[Lucien Dooku]

CRYSTAL GARDENS NIGHT CLUB // RAVELIN
vibes | Jan Beroya | Drip ​

---

​

"Such a formal invitation, Your Highness. The Fizz better be worth it."​

Lucien shifted his weight onto one forearm as the steward arrived and introduced his guest, a coy smirk resting on his face as she waved off the man and turned to address Serenno's far-flung King. He pushed off the balcony railing, offering in return a half-bow of his own before returning to rest his arms back where they were. "Lady Demici, the pleasure is all mine. It's a beautiful night, safe to say that having an equally gorgeous partner for the evening makes me the luckiest man in the room." He said in return, amber eyes settling on the beautiful visage, before they rose to meet her in the eyes.

"Lucien is fine, Raina. We're far enough away from the Royal Courts of Serenno to set aside the etiquette." He chuckled, a shrug of the shoulders bringing a close to the formalities. "Besides, it's never been my style. The old guard deems it necessary, but here? Nah."

He sipped at his brandy quietly as he awaited a response, all the while keeping an eye out for the steward to return with her drink. The owner of the establishment was an acquaintance of his from his days prior to the Order's creation, and as a result he'd already noted a desire to keep his guest satisfied during their time at their bar.

"I've been meaning to meet you for a while, Raina Demici. My exile from Serenno left me a dark horse, in a manner of speaking, so my dealings with the nobles of our great Serenno have been a mixed-bag for the most part. Some see me as nothing more than a continuation of the tyranny brought into play by my grandfather, while others remain open to the reforms I've passed, or simply exclaim their impartiality."

Lucien locked eyes with her, the smirk simmering down just enough to break the façade of the suave & nonchalant man that he tended to put on.

"What say you, miss Raina? I'd appreciate your honesty-- not on behalf of House Demici per se, but yourself."
​

 

[Shai Maji]

GEAR: DRIP | WHIP
TAGS: Vulcan Krayt | Kranak Vizsla | Gwyneira Vizsla | Xyoz Maji | Open

REGULATE​

Finally a party Shai didn't have to feel nervous about. From what she understood, it was a time to unwind and mingle with the Imperials which sat perfectly fine with her. She was tired of balls, galas, all kinds of formal events that had her groaning all the way. She also decided to bring a 'plus one' along for this event. Xyoz needed to get out more... and she wanted to see what was going to happen after the mess on Tatooine.

"Remember, no Force business. These guys can get a bit... cranky... around Force Users that ain't their own. Don't worry, they're cool. Served with them a couple times, solid people. A bit on the extreme side at times, but you'll be lookin' hard for someone better to watch your back in a fight." She explained to the Shistavanen next to her in the souped up speeder. The engine had a slight, deep rumble to the typical whine as they raced through the traffic of Ravelin at very unsafe speeds. Looking at him, she flashed a grin and adjusted her aviators and sped up. "I'm lookin' forward to this. No worries about lookin' picture perfect or whatever."

A comment that had more weight to it than most would likely think. In the back of her mind, her biggest concern with social stuff like this was always what people would think of her. The scars, the cyberware that was clearly evident even through the tidy pelt of synthetic fur. It was hell for her already when she had to get into a dress to help Xyoz and the Krakens steal the Canto Bight casino.

But this day was going to be different. She wasn't going to hide who she was anymore. If people wanted to gossip, they were welcome to get a beskar fist to the face.

When they finally arrived, the speeder slowed sharply until it stopped right in front of the party building. Shai couldn't resist flipping open the gull-wing doors and stepping out with a bit of a flair to her movements before adjusting her black tank top and jacket. After being checked by the door, Shai proceeded to call the elevator as she waited for Xyoz to catch up. She made a point of not bringing any weapons... after all, neither of them actually needed any. "Hopefully they remembered to bring the drinks." She quipped beside Xyoz.

When they arrived at the top, Shai stepped out of the elevator with a proud "WHAT'S UP KRIFFERS!" as she tossed her arms in the air with a toothy grin.

 

[Xyoz Maji]

GEAR: DRIP
TAGS: Vulcan Krayt | Kranak Vizsla | Gwyneira Vizsla | Open

​

Another party. This time not to steal a building. Which he had to be reminded about. A couple times. What could he say? Steal a building once and it pretty quickly became an addiction. Or maybe it was just stealing things. Or criminal activity in general. Man, maybe he had a problem. After the rancor pit and the crime fiasco on Tatooine, shouldn't he take a break?

Well, at least for this evening he would. Hell, he even put on a suit. Though when Shai picked him up he pretty immediately felt overdressed. How was he supposed to know this was going to be less formal? Ignoring the fact she probably told him and he just forgot, he hopped into the speeder and laughed. "So long as they don't care about the history as a Sith thing, should be fiiine. They don't care, right?" He blinked.

"Right?"

Maybe he should keep his mouth shut on that. Yeah. He clicked his tongue, staring out the window. It'd been a bit since he last saw her. And the whole Crime Lord on Tatooine scheme didn't exactly work out for him. Yet. He had a couple plans, especially now that his ol' buddy was gone. No, focus. Questions. The question.

"You think about my off- and you're already gone." In the time it took for him to bring up the subject she'd already hopped out and headed in towards the party. A dry chuckle escaped the Shistavanen before he followed her to the lift. "Y'know, I don't think I can get drunk." He grinned wide. Yeah, he was thinking about ways to make money off of that. Being a criminal definitely suited him.

He stepped in behind her as the lift opened. And nearly burst out into laughter. Nearly. This was just what he expected from Shai in all honesty. Right now he just needed to not look like he was someone to shoot up. Again. Ah crap he could already see a couple faces of folks that had shot him before.

Well, at least it'd be an eventful night.

 

[Lawq Vasrell]

Lawq's athletic, though thin arms were just beginning to grow tired as the lard-assed Imperial whose form she was attempting to straddle began to weaken, though, by some cruel twist of fate, this fact merely compelled the sadistic glitterstim addict to fight back harder. An elbow flew back and struck her stomach by chance, forcing the air from the Qom Jha's lungs and eliciting a harsh spray of cough-propelled saliva from her fox-like muzzle along one side of the fat, blond human's pudgy face and thick, rolling neck, prompting a cry of equal parts disgust and rage as the man's thick arm struck backwards again, even as Lawq's lanky legs shifted and she swung her body to one side, the membrane of her arm dragging against his open mouth and multiple chins. The Imperial's second elbow jab struck her ribcage, and while the Qom Jha grunted in pain, she was less hampered by the second blow, even as a ragged inhalation signified her attempt to catch her breath.

With her thin arms shaking, Lawq grunted and clenched her fists, her free hand digging into the gray-green cloth of the man's uniform along his stomach as she wriggled her torso against his awkwardly. The two of them lay on their sides, her clawed front toes digging and tearing into the fabric covering the fat human's lower back, having torn fresh holes in the uniform. Lawq could hear the ragged, slowing breathing of her victim, and, despite the pain in her arm and the occasional ragged gasp from her own lungs from where she had been struck, the Qom Jha finally began to loosen her grip, more due to exhaustion then anything else. Bracing herself on one kneecap, the little alien raised herself shakily to one foot, delivering a swift, if unsteady kick to the small of the man's fleshy back, her clawed toes cutting into the skin harshly and eliciting a gurgling, ragged yelp from the one-eyed assailant...

Damn... He was stronger then he looked!

Lawq's steps were shaky as she hopped over to one side of the injured human, his single eye alight with as much rage as her own, though for opposing reasons then her own righteous anger, of course. The human's long, balding blond hair, matted and sweaty as her hair, fur and trembling, tired wings had become, was plastered to his face as the odd rivals stared at each other for a moment. The man started to raise himself to a sitting position, his ragged voice beginning to hoarsely speak... A firm swing of the Qom Jha's little kneecap extended as he raised his head defiantly, the brunt of the blow catching the man on his good eye, by a happy accident. Lawq managed to snicker between her own ragged breaths, Probably couldn't do that again if I tried...

The lithe chiropteran alien huffed as she took one last glance at the unconscious man, her sweat-laced, unkempt red hair and matted fur adding to her... Uncivilized appearance. There was no way she wouldn't attract any attention now...

But how to proceed?

Weighing her options, even as she cast a quick glance at the door, Lawq's motions were swift and practiced, those long-fingered hands of hers shifting and trailing over the disgraced Imperial's rotund body, shifting in and out of his pockets, turning them out only to push them back in after revealing, in all but one case (on his right buttock pocket, disgustingly) nothing beyond a thousand credit coin and the Officer's code cylinder - more then enough to convict him alongside the holovid she had created. While it wasn't the worst haul she had recovered, it was far from the greatest, either... While not disappointed, the Qom Jha had certainly expected more, for as lavish an event as this odd gathering was rumored to have been over the past few days.

Pocketing the coin, Lawq turned to look at the mirror, revealing a thin trail of blood running down from one nostril and a small bruise beginning to form near her temple, to say nothing of the raging pain in her torso every time she breathed. Even despite a few minor injuries, Lawq smiled at her reflection, as she had accomplished her goal, partially. Rolling the human onto his side again and using a hand to hold him up, Lawq retrieved the man's rank sigil (I forget what those things are called, in-universe) and tossed it into the air, catching it again with an air of satisfaction. Retrieving a small amount of hygiene flimsi, Lawq made her way out towards the party again...

And now to finish the matter properly.

An aged, monocle-wearing Sullustan in an exotic, pressed, flare-collared and sea-green suit, only a few inches taller then her, gave the Qom Jha a wide-eyed look that caused his monocle to fall down and dangle against his suit uselessly as she stepped out of the men's refresher, his hands raising to his lips when he beheld the bloodstained back and unconscious form of the rotund human behind her.

Lawq shot the Sullustan a wry smile and gestured back towards the fallen man, her sweat-laced tail shifting to and fro behind her as the chiropteran alien sighed through her bleeding nose, "The Ladies' was out of hygiene flimsi, and he refused to share the last roll on this floor... Say, watch him, and I'll be back real quick..."

Wincing even as she left the confused Sullustan to peer nervously and shyly into the refresher, the Qom Jha began to whistle shrilly as she jogged down the hall, pressing the bunched up hygiene flimsi into her bleeding nostril, certainly an attention-grabbing sight, which is just what she needed at this point. From here, honesty and integrity would do the rest.

Raising her hands to her pained muzzle, Lawq decided to be as direct and honest as possible.

"EVIDENCE OF CRIMINAL BEHAVIOR! SOMEONE GET OVER HERE, NOW! YOU NEED TO SEE THIS! DO YOUR JOBS!!"

(I didn't care for how this one turned out, but I hope its enjoyable enough.)

 

[Lachlan Sinclair]

NOSTALGIA
L A C H L A N
THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD

NO HERO'S RETURN - PROLOGUE
ft. Morgana Sinclair
Mentions | Michael Barran
​

As anxious as he was to get back to business, to get back to the quiet, back to the calm- his daily routine- there was far too much to be done. It would have been easy to run back to his isolation with his tail between his legs, to return to that cabin high up in the weald where no one would bother him. Where all this politicking business was better left to the woman who had inherited the Clan with his brother's death. Morgana was headstrong, emotionally intelligent, and apt for the mantle in all sense of the word. She held the position with confidence, so he had heard from his brothers in arms, and he held no doubt that she would manage just fine without his interference. But there was a magnetic pull, a draw he had not felt since he was a boy, to return to the estate grounds. To walk those halls he ran through when time had not etched itself into the lines on his face. He wouldn't have gone, perhaps, had it not been for the rather unceremonious invitation that flickered across the datapad that had been forced into his hands and he'd been groomed to keep on his person in recent times. He was unreachable no longer, armored by solitude no more.

Her invitation had come as a surprise, an extension of an olive branch for the love they both had shared for his brother. He had kept himself from their wedding, kept himself away from their affairs, and furthermore away from the family as a whole. Lachlan had convinced himself it was better this way, he was better off that way, detached from the goings-on and kept at a distance where he could sequester his Blood and keep not only himself but the few he cared about safe. The downfall of Clan Sinclair, these days, he had realized, would not come by civil war, but across a conference table. Behind a podium. In quiet rooms where rumors were murmured over whiskey and information was exchanged through the haze of cigar smoke. Oh, how the world had changed and left him behind.

His arrival had come with the Winter, the cold season sweeping across the land, his return wrought the very fury of nature, so it seemed. Snow settled on his hair, across his shoulders, and tickled his stubble as he stood with hesitation upon the doorstep, his hand hovering on the grandiose lion's head knocker ominously mounted there. Before he could make the commitment, the door swung open, spilling the home's warmth across him, and there she stood, smiling as brightly as he remembered her for. Time hadn't changed her much. "Lachlan!" she cried, all but throwing herself at him to wrap a hug around his neck. Moments had passed them by before he drew himself to return the gesture, drawing his reluctant arms around her with equal weight. "Morgana," he murmured into the frosty air, "'s good te see ye."

​

"Ye didny come te th'funeral." she leveled the observation at him across the coffee table, puncturing his veneer with a sharp eye. "Nae, I didny," he agreed quietly, "I cuidn't bring myself te." The cursed man turned his gaze from her to the steaming cup clutched between his hands, watching the hearth light dance across its contents. Anything was better than seeing her scrutiny, though he felt it all the same. "How not?" she pressed, the tension in her jaw made obvious by the grate of her tone, "How th'fuck not?" The harshness of her swears rolling off such a proper tongue drew his attention right back, jarred, and surprised. The operative could only sigh in response, unsure how to arrange his words in such a way that would not invoke her wrath further. It was the last thing he wanted to do, to sully this evening, her invitation, and inevitably the offer that would come with it. He shifted his weight, planting his feet on the floor evenly beneath him, and rested his elbows on the bends of his knees. "I ken 'at if'n I did show, it wuid've challenged yer claim." Honesty was the best policy.

Morgana's dark eyes narrowed, searching for the reasoning behind his words. For the truth, if what he muttered was deception. "He wis yer brother, yer blood, Lachlan. Te not shoo, 'at's right disrespectful. Not te just him, but te me, as well." He could say nothing, not really, to soothe the wounds expressed by the words she shot at him. Rather than speak before he could weigh his words, he drew his cup for a sip, grateful for the warmth blooming in his chest. It was not the weather that wrought such a frightful chill to his frame. "I ken," steady now, "thir's few things I wish I wuid've done differently. 'at's wan o'em." His confession seemed to quell the worst of her bitterness, the woman straightening up some in her chair opposite of him. "I shuid hev been thir. Am sorry I wasn't. I shuid hev been thir te support ye, te help ye heal."

"Aye, ye shuid hev. I healed just right on me own, though. Noo I heard ye been running aroond wi' Barran's youngest boy. Ye'd best be careful, brother." Her shifts were hard for him to follow, one moment she was a widow scolding him for his transgressions, and the next she was the ironclad matriarch of the Clan, casting down a threat with such practiced eloquence he was left winded by it. It must have shown on his face, that distasteful expression, as she was swift to follow up: "Oor Clan survived by th'grace o' th'Barrans. His wee boy, gods rest his soul, seems right content te set th'whole order o' things up in a blaze. Dun let him wrap ye up in 'at web; yer better than 'at." Lachlan's nostrils flared, his agitation manifesting. First, she made no attempt to bargain in his favor, earning him what he was due from command, and now she was keeping tabs on him as well. She had adopted the mantle as their matriarch well. He couldn't fault her for it, but he could certainly take issue with it. "Righ'." Is all he responded with before placing the cup down on the saucer in front of him and rising to his feet, "Duly noted." The words tasted as bitter as they felt.

"Wait, Lach, where're ye runnin' off te noo?" Morgana followed him, all but chasing him as he strode down the corridor and cut the corner into the foyer, dead set on reaching the door before she could lay hands on him. "Oi! Lachlan! Wuid ye listen te me!" She could accost him all she wished, he needed his peace, and this was nothing close to it. Through the front door he crossed, dropping down the icy stairs to descend back into the snow. "Yer nobody's tool, Lachlan! Dun let 'em convince ye oor anybody else otherwise! But ye canny keep runnin' from everythin' ferever!"

---

---

CITYSCAPE
ft. Delilah Chamberlin
Open to interaction

COMING OUT OF THE WOODWORK - PART 1
​

Ravelin was a far cry from Galidraan, and even further still from the tranquility of his retreat, where only the scuffle of dog paws against the worn floors or the harmony of Delilah's voice disturbed his solace. His modest home in the weald had served them both well, and with the influx of credits from his rather unceremonious enlistment, it had grown considerably. Never had he expected to find himself standing in a lift stuffed with excitable party-goers, dressed to the shining nines in an effort to be seen and heard by the important people at the top of their shared food chain. Despite her best efforts, Lachlan had refused to wear even a tie, choosing instead to don his cloak of comfort- that old wool trenchcoat- with a plain shirt beneath it rising up his throat. The woman whose hand was curled tightly around his, however, she looked drop-dead gorgeous. She always did. The cursed man rocked idly on his heels, pinching his eyes closed as he fought against the headache pounding away at his temples. Someone in the lift was wearing silver, and it seemed like everyone had been awfully generous with the applications of perfumes. Noticeable enough by a layman, it was absolutely dreadful to one with a nose as keen as his.

His only comfort was the fact the whole affair was open to the sky, held on a rooftop proper where the attendees had the opportunity to bask in the glow of the skyline from among its higher reaches. Del seemed to share in his discomfort, the blonde woman shuffling closer to him, all but imprinting her side against his, urging him to release her hand just to curl his arm around the small of her back instead. He tilted his face down, pressing his lips to her styled tresses. "Ye look lovely, doll. Thir's naw need te fret." His words were murmured softly, shared for her alone, and before he could add much else, the doors slid apart to reveal their venue for the evening, and the crowd poured out to start their revel. Eager to cleanse his palate on the fresh air, the cursed man stepped out and extended a hand back for his lady to take, though his gaze remained forward as he scrutinized the party.

He suspected many of the few familiar faces he had come to know would be elsewhere, doubting any of them were the party-going type. Truthfully, he was the farthest thing from it himself, but Delilah had been far too excited for him to turn down the invitation. He had never been the sort to accept invitations, but lately, it was becoming something of a concerning trend. Perturbing as it was, there was little time to reflect on it now, as he was here. "Dun see anybody I recognize," he admitted candidly, "how boot ye go find us a table by th'rail reit oor thir? Ah'll go find drinks." Lachlan would lift her hand delicately to his lips, imparting her with a final smooch before releasing his grasp and slipping away, cutting a path through the throng of people until he seemed to all but melt away, vanishing in plain sight. A cigarette all but manifested in between his lips, and a lighter in his hands lifted to spark.

The bar had to be here somewhere, and he'd be damned if he was going to get through this thing sober.

 

[Keiran Varn]

REBEL ALLIANCE
LOCATION: DEAK'S CANTINA, WESTERN SLUMS, OUTER RESIDENT DISTRICTS 5-12, RAVELIN, BASTION
MISSION: SEEK OPPORTUNITIES TO IDENTIFY CONTACTS FOR ALLIED EYES
EQUIPMENT: HG-54 "THE VORA" CLASS VERPINE HAND CANNON [CONCEALED]| COMLINK
TAGS:
Traden Avarice

​

The bar stank of alcohol, spice and a peculiar substance that he couldn't quite place his finger on. It was almost unreal, the Imperials put out a message of prosperity, of order of total compliance, while places like these took up housing space in the slums, and the Galaxy's dregs and underclass came here to get drunk and to get up to the things the Imperials wouldn't show on the HoloNet. It was perfect. At least, for their needs. A number of different odours wafted towards him, he wrinkled his nose under his hood, attempting to compose himself.

Every species in the known galaxy seemed to congregate here. Rodians, Duros, Codru-Ji, Devaronians, he could list off an encyclopedia and they'd all be here. He speculated that he likely couldn't name many of them. Rays of the Ravelin summer attempted to break through the blinds as the population of the cantina didn't seem to be enjoying the summmer heat very much. There were a few decrepit tables and seats dotted around the cantina, a large oval barspace taking up a large amount of room in the centre, Mirialan and Quarren bartenders milling about behind the bar, cloths and large kegs in hands.

A flickering light attempted vainly to give the place some sort of atmosphere. Keiran wasn't sure what they were going for, but it gave off a sense of closed-offness, a sense of secrecy, the sort that would of secrecy that was enjoyed by people who'd accrued a number of enemies. The owners didn't seem to have gone with a particular theme, but he supposed it might've been a mix between frigid, hard, metal utilitarianism and the homely feeling of a civilian freighter. Perhaps they hadn't been able to decide and went for both.

Traden and Keiran had decided to take their seat at a table and large chair nestled into the corner where the light would be unable to properly reach. Concealment was key and was to be adhered to at all times. Identification was death in a place like this. On the enemy's homeworld. He knew the stories, the battle to pry this place from the cold dead hands of the Sith. And they'd done it, but he would ask, what really changed?

A salmon-skinned Quarren sauntered over to them, they moved four prehensile tentacles, and sharp teeth to form what he could interpret as a smile before removing a holopad and watching them expectantly. "What can I get you two..?"

"Make it a blue milk, friend." He said silkily, turning his head inquiringly to his master.

 

[Traden Avarice]

II: PAIN IN THE STREETS
​

Location: Deak's Cantina, Western slums, Baston
Rebel Objective: SEEK OPPORTUNITIES TO IDENTIFY ADDITIONAL CONTACTS FOR ALLIED EYES/SURVEILLANCE WITHIN BASTION
Attire: Spacer
Loadout: The Force, His Fists
Tags: Keiran Varn IVI Open


"Water… and…" Traden motioned at some fried balls of cheese that were being enjoyed at a table across the room form them, "Some of those." The Quarren jotted down their order, then gave the two men a nod as he sauntered back towards the kitchen. The Force Master gave a nonchalant wink to Keiran Varn , then shifted his chair as he leaned back and kicked his legs up onto the table. From the condition of the cantina, he didn't think anyone would mind.

He let out a deep sigh as he surveyed the dingy patrons. A voice inside of his head questioned Traden as to what in the world they were even doing here…. He was not a spook by any stretch of the imagination, and this whole asset-gathering gig was not in his wheelhouse to say the least, but they had taken the assignment anyways... mostly to get a taste and feel for the NIO Core… go under the radar and just observe… walk the streets… meet the people…

Traden liked to know his enemy. And as he looked around… he didn't see an enemy… Just the similar grouping of spacers, merc's, smugglers, and druggies that you could find down in the depths of Coruscant. Everyone just trying to make a living. Trying to get by. It wasn't these types that were the enemy… it was the higher ups with their distorted greed for power and control that kept people like these in the slums and stuck in the mire.

If they happened to make some contacts today, great. But Traden wasn't in a hurry.

He wanted a fried cheese ball.

"So…" He said casually, "This is different than what we're use to, isn't it?" He was referring to being all stealth and secret agent-like.

Traden was completely unarmed, wearing a simple white shirt and vintage grey jacket with black jeans. Best to blend in when you are on the homeward of an enemy faction. And if they did get into a scuffle, he didn't need a weapon to kick some ass.

"What do you make of our new… occupation… so far?" He asked Keiran Varn as he settled in and tried to get comfortable in the oddly-shaped chair.

 

[Ewan Paircrit]

Place : Ord Radama, ISB regional headquarters.
Inventory : outfit

It had been four days since Ewan was incarcerated by the ISB.

On the way to Telos on the Hydian Way, the thirtysomething human was intercepted while he tried to avoid Ord Radama through an asteroid field.
Finally, it’s at the exit of the latter that two imperial patrol ships intercepted his cargo and boarded it. The discovery of all kinds of grenades and a E-10 Blaster rifle arsenal didn’t help, without counting his reprogrammed K9-AP Droïd who had tried for to sow them for ten minutes, turning back in the asteroid field before being stopped by damage due to an impact on the lateral engine.
The patrol didn’t take many time to find his identification code in their datapad, and most of all, to find his old uniform and his light armor from the 12th Battalion of Commandos in his cabin.
Once brought aboard one of the patrol ships, Ewan bitterly saw two stormtrooper, through the pilot bay, sabotaging his ship and dismantling his droïd.

The fourth questionning day wasn’t different from others. The droïds and interrogators of ISB were striving to ask him about his desertion and his presence at the Imperial Concordat event few weeks ago, like if the two events were related.
During this time, Ewan for his part continued to justify his desertion by the shame he felt while discovering that his parents, old and loyal supporter of the Empire, were leading a local resistance gorup during a mission. As for his presence on Kal'Shebol on the anniversary of yet another faction born of an imperial schism, all of it began in a Cantina, for a too drunken party with a Kubaz, after having consumed too many spices, that finished by picking a lock and going to an official reception for free drinking.
And like the third first days, his jailers didn’t want to hear anything of his justifications.

The fifth questionning day was different. Ewempt from beating and drug of truth, Ewan was invited to take a shower before change into a new uniform, on wich the squares of his sergeant rank were crossed out by a large black band.
A full ration of condensed nutritious food was served to him, before two stormtrooper returned to handcuff him and an ISB officer accompanied him to a shuttle.
The shuttle darted gently across the sky to reach outer space and pass between two star destroyers blockading above Ord Radama. Ewan did his best to try to listen to the cockpit, but could only make out one word: Ravelin City.

---

Place : Objective 1 : Revelry In The Quiet ,Bastion, City of Ravelin
Tags : Open
Near : DECEASED Erskine Barran ,

Despite some trawling in the stratosphere, the shuttle flanked by the imperial emblem arrived safely at Ravelin.
The ISB officer accompanied him through several official buildings, before finally handing him over to a higher-ranking Imperial officer.
As Ewan followed him through the maze of corridors and halls, more and more groups followed them. Officers, dignitaries, other prisoners like him. Finally, the officer stopped in front of a door and was about to open it when he asked him, although the question did not call for an answer and was more of an affirmation:

"Now you'll have to decide whether you want to die, or serve the Empire. "

Ewan looked down, realizing that it was off again for a round of questioning about that damn evening. He opened the door and pulled Ewan by one of his handcuffed arms to bring him in front of someone who seemed to be a very higher-ranking officier.

«Here is the deserter who sympathized with the Imperial Concordat My Lord »

Damn, it’ll finally be another usual questionning day there…

 

[Kranak Vizsla]

Revelry On The Rooftops​

Location: Bastion, Ravelin, South Imperial Quarter, Antares Hotel
Date: -DATA CORRUPTED-
Primary Objective: Wind down.
Secondary Objective: N/A
Equipment: Clothing. Holdout Pistol (Concealed), Vibro-knife and a small IFAK.
Tags: Gwyneira Vizsla | Vulcan Krayt | Shai Maji | Xyoz Maji

Winding Down​

“You know,” As his daughter held onto his arm, the Alor’ad[1] grumbled as they walked inside, passing the reception as they made their way towards the staircase to reach the rooftop. “I could have bought myself that scope and modernization package for my NT-242 instead of this suit.” He still had some gripes about spending several thousand credits on this high quality clothing, rather than spending it on something that would be far more useful in his eyes. He wasn’t a party-goer, not by a longshot. On what other occasion he would wear this suit again over his beskar’gam[2] would be a mystery he was intrigued to find out. Though he was forced to wear this over his armor as a form of compromise between him and his daughter. She was going to wear a far more revealing dress than what she was wearing right now, and he certainly wasn’t going to take his daughter to a party while she looked like an escort. Not as long as he still drew breath.

Feeling his daughter’s gaze on him, he looked down to his side to meet the pair of red-yellow eyes. After all those months, it still stung him to look at her. He was grateful to Manda[3] with all his heart and soul, having found and rescued her eight months ago from her one spiteful demagolka[4] of a biological father, but the damage was done. She was tormented, experimented upon for months under his captivity. Still restless on some nights, the giant would spend the time he was supposed to be asleep watching the holo recordings of the experiment sessions. He felt every cut, every recorded scream of hers tearing into his soul. As much as it hurt to watch it all, he couldn’t stop it. He had to be aware of the extent of his failure, fully. He had to draw a lesson from everything that happened. It pricked his conscience. He blamed himself for her capture, thinking he hadn’t trained her well enough, even though her combat prowess proved otherwise.

Lost in thought for a second as he looked at her, the giant would snap out of it at the voice of his daughter speaking to him.

Gwyn looked up to her buir, and smiled as she jested, “Like the suit?”

“I do, I do.” He admitted with a hearty smile of his own. Although he would have much preferred to be wearing his armor right now, he welcomed some change in his life. He barely wore anything other than his armor and the gray, form-fitting flightsuit at any given time, and at any given occasion, with this party being the sole exception so far. As much as he considered his armor to be his second skin, he certainly did not feel naked in the absence of his armor over his flesh like some others did, but he certainly missed its weight. His armor made him feel… whole.

Her sincere, heartwarming smile grew wider at his admittance as they reached the staircase, complimenting him in response.

”You do look great, buir.”

“You look beautiful yourself, adi’ka.” The giant responded to his daughter in kind. “I’m going to be severely disappointed in you if I don’t see you surrounded by young lads asking for your comlink number by the end of the night,” He quipped with a hearty chuckle at his daughter as she leaned her head against his upper arm, hugging him gently. The giant responded with a gentle embrace of his own. “Kick their shebs[4] for me when that comes to passing, would ya?” He said, putting on a serious tone as he quipped further, but he encouraged her letting off some steam after everything that happened to her. She needed this as much as he did.

”Tonight should be fun. Let’s hope. . .”

He gave a silent nod of his head as he stroked her hair to try and soothe her, for what it’s worth. He felt the nervous trill in her tone as she spoke. He understood, and knew full well how she was feeling. The both of them, as well as several others that were close to the two of them had endured a lot of hardships in the past year.

Feeling her pull back a moment later, his gentle embrace of his daughter faded away, letting go of her. To her father’s surprise, she unexpectedly bolted towards the broad staircase before them as she looked over her shoulder, shouting behind her.

”Race you to the rooftop!”

The surprise in his scarred face shortly left its place to amusement as he joined her with a hearty chuckle. Purposefully lagging slightly behind her as he faked an exaggerated exhaustion while they ran up the stairs to the rooftop, he would let her win the race. Reaching the rooftop right behind her, the giant patted her on the shoulder with a smile spreading ear to ear. “Go have some fun, Gwyn’ika. I’ll see you throughout the night.” He said, before walking past her and making his way towards the outdoor bar he spotted not too far away from him.

Making his way towards the more solitary-looking outdoor bar after parting with his daughter, the Alor’ad sat down at an unoccupied stool and reached for the palm sized, metal cigarra case along with several rolling papers and began rolling himself some cigarras. He would be passing the time by smoking a few cigarras while he waited for his fellow vode to arrive. It wouldn’t take long, he assumed. There were already a few fellow vode around, as well as a bunch of off-duty soldiers from the Empire; all eating, drinking, laughing and just having a good time.

“Hm, maybe I should go to parties more often…” He said, thinking aloud as he put the first, freshly rolled filterless cigarra to his lips. You could only let your hair down hunting game, training and exercising in between missions for so long, after all. Striking a match on the side of the matchbox, the giant lit the cigarra between his lips. Shaking his hand a few times with the match in his grasp, he put out the burning match as he puffed at his smoke, and continued rolling a few more cigarras.

“Can I get you something, sir?”

The Alor’ad raised his head from the metal cigarra case roller and looked at the bartender behind the wroshyr wood counter. “Not for now, thank youı.” He answered the man, with a slight frown on his face. Giving the giant a curt nod with a grin, the man walked away towards the other end of the bar counter, tending to another guest. “Sir.” The Alor’ad muttered with a mocking tone after the man left. “I work for a living for Manda’s sake, I’m not royalty.” he murmured, slightly annoyed by the bartender’s addressing. “Karkin’ aruetiise[5].” He closed the metal cigarra case after rolling a satisfying amount of cigarras, putting it into his coat’s pocket.

He swung around on his stool and leaned his back against the wooden counter, and lost himself in thought as he gazed at the city scape stretching as far as the eye could see as he smoked, until the familiar voice of his ori’vod[6] reached to his ears.

”WHAT’S UP KRIFFERS!”

Shifting his gaze from the urban setting and towards the source of the cheerful voice, the giant waved at the Wardog with a smile on his face. He stood up and walked towards her, passing by several vode on his way. The giant would raise an eyebrow at the sight of another familiar face walking out the elevator, behind the Wardog.

Xyoz? What was he doing here? He was the person he expected to show up for the party. He had a run-in with him on Tatooine during an operation not too long ago. The karker had managed to sneak away from his grasp that day, but he wouldn’t let that happen a second time.

But not here, not now.

“Well, well, well,” He said with a grin, when he was within earshot distance of the couple. “If it isn’t the Scoundrel of Tatooine himself.” The Alor’ad extended his left hand at the Shistavanen. If he’d accept his greeting, the giant would greet him with a stern kov’nyn[7], the Mandalorian way. He would greet the Wardog the same way afterwards.

“Nice of you to show up!”

​

Spoiler: Translations and Abbreviations

[1] Alor’ad = Captain.
[2] Beskar’gam = Armor.
[3] Manda = Mandalorian Oversoul. Heaven.
[4] Shebs = Backside, rear, ass.
[5] Aruetiise = Foreigners, outsiders.
[6] Ori’vod = Special friend.
[7] Kov’nyn = Head-butt.

​

 

[Vulcan Krayt]

Objective: There is a party on the roof!
Equipment: Sword, M.I. Model 6 hybrid pistol
Wearing: This
Tag: Gwyneira Vizsla | Kranak Vizsla | Shai Maji | Xyoz Maji

​

Vulcan for his part picked the brightest coloured beverage off the menu, a bright pink one that leaves ripples on the table. He's drunk before, he knows he needs to wait until he is on the edge of adulthood to do so.

That's what they said when they patted his head and shooed him from a Tavern in a cooing voice, it was very condescending and irritated him to no end. But now he couldn't bring himself to care, he needed it. So, he drank it, it tasted sharp, and it burned his mouth, which made him gasp silently. He ordered another, no better time to start than at a party.

His ear twitched slightly as a very recognisable voice announced itself rather loudly, Shai, she knows how to make an entrance. It would be good to see a familiar face around. Taking his drink with him, he re-entered the hall with the elevators, which is mood-brightening considerably. He then frowned; he did not recognise the guy she was with. Putting that aside he made his presence known. Even Kranak showed up, which he was beginning to get worried about the Giant, he worries a lot now and he wanted to just not think about it. He's gotten very good at keeping what he felt to himself.

Vulcan took a swig from his drink, now used to its effects, he will be sampling everything on the menu tonight, drown the thoughts in drink sounds a good plan, but first, he needs to say hi and join in the revelry even if it wasn't normal for Mandalorians to have these kinds of parties. Solstice was and still is an exception.

<"Shai, hey glad you are here. This place has just gotten more interesting."> He says directly to Shai, not focused on anything else. <"You too Kranak.">