Faction Reclamation | NIO & Allies

[IMPCOM]

"I call upon you, my loyal stormtroopers, to join with me and take back our Empire which you have so long and faithfully served."

- Roan Fel addressing the 501st Legion at the Fall of Bastion

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After the hammer was dropped unto Ravelin and the periless battle of Imperial fates raged on, eventually there emerged a victor. At the coming of the dusk, the last blaster was fire in hatred and the Iron Sun fluttered over the once seat of power to the Sith Empire. It was the grand vindication of the will of defiance, the New Imperial Order.

Though peace had yet to be established, the New Order's reign over the Braxant Run had begin in full, the first grand strategic aim set out by Irveric Tavlar, Vaulkhar Zambrano and the now slain Kor Vexen at the Schism's Dawn.

The mount had been climbed and the Iron Sun once more flew over Ravelin and the Imperials had returned to their once coveted throne world of Bastion. After a short but brutal stretch of fighting, the New Imperial Order had established control over Ravelin and Bastion in its entirety. Being so close to the seat of power of the Sith Empire, with the impression of an unbreakable bulwark over the world, the New Imperials were barely welcomed as liberators as 'Cataphract' tanks with battle worn stormtroopers sat atop them rolled through the shattered streets of Ravelin.

But with the new occupying force came the rebuilding effort and with the help of Trade Federation resources, Ravelin was well on its way to being restored to its unfettered glory.

While the fate of this New Order, this Empire resurgent still hung in the balance - revelry had its due in the wake of the Order's monumental victory over the Braxant Run.

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RAVELIN​

BASTION​

BRAXANT SECTOR​

NEW IMPERIAL ORDER​

Though still deeply immersed in a heavy military occupation, the New Imperial Order had set out to invite the most valiant warfighters of both the New Order proper and its allies of the Galactic Alliance and Sons of Mandalore to celebrate the tremendous efforts that serve as the contributions to all of them. Though the celebration of the New Imperial Order's victory was rather spartan across Ravelin, the concentration of revelry in the now deemed 'Fortress Imperator' was far more noticeable, even if it was all enveloped by a retinue of Nova Commandos, Death Troopers, droids and armored vehicles to protect the venue should any Sith use this as an opportunity to enact their dark vengeance on the New Order, to despoil their moment of respite.

Within one of the open chambers of the Imperial Palace, gathered before the stage and podium where the Sovereign Imperator was expected to speak and address those of the New imperial Order and allied states deserving of praise and recognition. But until then, the floor was open to drinks, food, music and reprieve. Reprieve from the fires they'd all just emerged from.

Cherish this moment of peace and victory, Imperials and those who'd joined us along the way.

You've earned it.

 

[Noel Strasza]

R E B I R T H
Major "Bridgebreaker" "Deader" Strasza
Fortress Imperator
Revelry
Prestige
Focus OPEN

​

In the months that had dragged between what the major remembered happened at Bastion and the day which had ultimately led her right back here on the once broken steps leading into the newly reconstructed 'Fortress Imperator' much had changed. Noel paused, turning her gaze to the roof, searching for the blood-stained banner that had been left right where they had planted it- a symbol, no, a testament to their resilience- to the lengths, they would go for their mission. When she caught sight of it, something kicked over in her gut, sending a pang of rattling, inexplicable static through her frame. She shook it off, shuddering and nodding in acknowledgment of the vague words the engineer and officers with her murmured in her direction. Hands rested on her cloaked shoulders, steering her forward. Don't dwell on it.​

That was the nature of loss, always. Just don't dwell on it.​

Discipline alone, perhaps, was all that spared her casting sight to the very edge she had been thrown from, and to the newly reconstructed battlement that rested in the place her life had been forfeit. Don't dwell on it. Not everyone had been as lucky as she had been. Not everyone got a second chance... if she dared believe what it was they insisted upon her. All the same, the major released a long breath from her nose and soon stretched cybernetic hands to either side of her brows, adjusting the fold and lay of the beret upon her head. A quick, obsessive adjustment of her bars and pins followed shortly, interrupted only by the greeting she was afforded by those guarding the doors and ushering the event. Those escorting her did the majority of the talking, as to be expected, given her adjustment period was still in full effect.​

Hearing a voice that wasn't her own slipping past her lips still startled her.​

The few members of The 16th Doom Division Corps who had survived the push with her turned their focus from their meager circle to gawk in her direction as she crossed down the weighty corridor, wading her way through the memories that felt comparatively all-too-fresh to her. She had been in a coma for months after she was scraped up off the duracrete- sparing her the "innovation" of her reconstruction and salvation. To the others, perhaps the wounds these halls held had scarred or scabbed over. But to her, blood was still oozing from the worst. ​

She had been reassigned already and was on her way to meet with her new team, though that didn't stop her from making mental note to visit with her old company later on in the night. A metal finger curled into her collar, tugging at it with some obvious discomfort as she walked on through the chattering people, augmented eyes shifting and scanning through the swaths of faces- some familiar, some not- for breathing room. Despite the uniform covering her frame, enough of her was exposed to reveal the rather strange dichotomy of her reality, unveiling it for the first time to the greater collective of her faction.​

And even if she knew better, in the back of her mind, she felt as though every pair of eyes was on her.​

The gentle whirs of mechanization that accompanied the motions of her stride became her focus, as did the alert flashing across the retinal display of her rising anxiety. "Yes, I know-" she muttered softly, reminding herself how to dismiss such alerts as she had been instructed to do. By now, the group of Carlaci soldiers, officers, and even the Warlord himself had emerged into the main chambers, breaking off into smaller groups and branching out to join their comrades. A sudden shove to her back caused her to whip around, glowering- only to reveal the tail of an all-too-familiar cloak vanishing into the crowd.​

"Right-" Strasza turned herself around with a sigh, searching for where the drinks had been set up, "-social." She started off, carrying herself with a bit more surety, on her mission to fetch herself something to drink.​

Along the way, she wondered if those she had planted the banner with were amongst the crowd here. It was unlikely any of them would recognize one another, given the nature of how they were acquainted, but still... a woman could hope.

 

[Jin Kyrel]

At long last the dream many had fought and died for had been achieved. Bastion was now in the rightful place of the true Imperials. Jin held a smug look about him while he stood on the floor of the festivities. Outside he could hear the heroic Imperial March play, TIE fighters sounding in the distance, and even a couple of fireworks. Yet even he knew that the New Imperials were not largely met with praise. It would have to take time for the people to become adjusted to the New Order's rule of the world. In the meantime, there were some that had eagerly accepted a change in rule after so long of being under the yoke of the Sith.

Jin could recall when he first arrived down to the surface of the world. The Imperial troopers were dragging what looked like black cloaked bodies. Dragging them by the arms, while the bodies behaved as if mere ragdolls. With one powerful lunge after each one. The bodies burned on a fire where the smoke was reaching high into the sky. What he could only come to the conclusion of it being the aftermath and clean up of Operation Kyber Dark. He could still recall in blurs of the immense disturbance in the Force. Hundreds if not thousands of Sith all killed in that instance if not on the side of the enemy, then the ones that had fought for the New Order. Thinking back on it all he would think that this would be as infamous as Order 66. All things considered, the New Imperials would not suffer the error of those before them. Jedi or Sith it didn't matter. Even for someone like him, his duty was to the New Order and what it offers him. Nothing more or less.

He stood there on the floor watching the others. A glass of Corellian Ale in his hands, one of his arms in a cast after being sucked out the hanger of the droid superweapon. The last thing he could remember was placing his helmet on, and digging his arm into a blast hole outside of the Malevolence, nothing after that. It was all a blank until he woke up on an Imperial Shuttle with Hans sitting next to him. Images off the Space Battle still coming into his mind. The way he channeled the dark side against the droid enemies. How the lust of battle and the excitement of it all overwhelmed him. It all came in flashes and pieces. Yet he couldn't deny that he was proud to have aided in the defining moment the New Order has achieved.

He stood, waiting to see who else would arrive, perhaps swap war stories. Lament on those that have died, and drink in a toast honoring the victorious dead. Gain inspiration for what the future would bring, the battles that had yet to come. The new day that had dawned for the New Order.

 

[Djorn Bline]

This world held many events and memories for the Imperial. It was his birthplace, it was where he started his service in the military before and during the occupation of the Sith Empire, and it was where he started a deceitful life as a snake in intelligence agencies. Bastion also became the place where he was enlightened and shown a new vision during its battle between the Sith Empire and the New Imperial Order. A vision of men not being the expendable pawns and slaves to the Sith or any Force Sect. He tired being a cog in the machinations of beings who thought of them superior over him just because they held a power supernatural that could bend the Galaxy at its will.

But even with their awe powers they were humbled by the very men they sought to enslave. Bastion, Muunilist, Mygeeto, Dubrillion, and other systems were evidence of the wits and bravery of mortal men conquering those who sought to be gods that could master death.

Even sweet victory in planting the Imperial flag on Bastion wasn’t enough to make it all pleasant.

The streets of Bastion were not reversed, the earth disturbed and its magnificent cities in a solemn state. Still a celebration and festivities were in order to acknowledge this victory and to the heroes, dead and alive, that made it all possible for this moment to come. The fireworks could do its job in making everything not so gray. Even with this celebration, the road ahead of this newly christened Empire still needed to be conquer. There could not be peace in this Galaxy until order was established with the New Imperial Order ushering it in.

Had Djorn not been invited, he would’ve been at work and coordinating in the newly formed COMPNOR. He was dressed in an Imperial military uniform which displayed his rank in the Order with a beret on his head, much like the other soldiers inside Fortress Imperator.

Luckily he wasn’t alone as a familiar face accompanied him.

A face that made Bastion more special to him.

Rowan Corde​

 

[Jaeger Harrsk]

The Hall
Fortress Carnifex Imperator
O P E N​

Commissioner Lt. Col Jaeger Harrsk had arrived for two things: attend the awarding ceremony for the heroes of the New Order and tear. down. icons.

Idolatry is to be quashed.

No more worshipping of false gods.

Holding his chin, Jaeger observed with satisfaction as CompForce units tore down statues of Sith lining the walls of the hall. With every statue brought down a loud victorious roar echoed through the fortress. The reclamation of Bastion, the death of Lily Kuhn - there were much reasons to celebrate.

Very soon now the bold men and women of the New Imperial Order would be proudly awarded medals for their triumph.

 

[Lucien Dooku]

THE NEXT SCREEN

OPEN​

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Progress was achievable for those willing to commit to its realization.

He'd seen Nirauan evolve in front of his eyes since his appointment to Warlord of the planet. With Bastion now within the hands of the Order, the wayward son of Serenno could afford to be more hands-on with making his ambitions come to life. Prosperity would be achieved, even when elements within the Empire sought to control the populace with a heavy hand. Men such as that Jaeger Harrsk represented the tue threat to stability, in his mind, in the Post-Bastion era of the Order.

No matter how many Sith-Imperial worlds were liberated, it would mean nothing if the ideology of the people slid towards the extreme, and the Order became nothing more than a bastardization of the tyrants they broke off from. He sat in the minority when it came to these altruistic views, but the exiled Prince had never been the one to hold his tongue to the injustices of the galaxy.

Never would he back down from what he believed what was right.

-

The celebration within the Imperial Palace was in full swing by the time Lucien made his way through the doors. Dressed down in his usual spacer attire, he declined to wear formal wear for the evening against the wishes of his advisors and the hosts of the event themselves. Luc sauntered his way through the crowd, flanked only by a single individual who dispersed into the crowd after a quick gesture from Luc upon reaching the bar. His companions followed him into hell and back, but he preferred to not be shadowed when away from the theater of war.

Luc pushed off the bar with his drink in hand once it arrived, then wandered off elsewhere with the goal of killing time in mind until the ceremony began. Granted, he didn't care much to see how it would proceed.

He'd only shown up to pay his respects for the Imperator. Nothing more, nothing less.

​

​

 

[Aerarii Tithe]

LOCATION: Sith-Imperial Banking Clan Annex
OBJECTIVE: Profiteer
BOARD OF DIRECTORS: Gat Tambor | The Executive | TF

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A leather boot nudged a pile of unknown material on the floor. It withdrew for a moment; it’s wearer unsure what to make of the burned object lying before them. The boot was brought back, tapping the charred item twice. With increasing force, the boot was brought into contact with the pile, until enough kinetic energy was applied to flip it over.

The underside of the scorched item, protected by the flames that had engulfed the room, revealed itself to be the barely recognisable remains of a Sith-Imperial Legionnaire who had been burned alive during the fighting to capture Bastion.

“Charming.”

Aerarii Tithe surveyed the carnage around him. New Imperial Order Stormtroopers had tried unsuccessfully to dislodge the Sith-Imperial defenders from the fortified vault complex during the Battle of Bastion, and when all else had failed, resorted to burning them out. The former Moff shuttered at the thought. So much waste and ruin in the name of false rulers and megalomaniac warlords. Similar destruction littered the rest of the once glorious jewel of the Sith Empire.

But not for long. The Trade Federation, it’s influence and financial reach so deeply embedded in the New Imperial Order, had swiftly secured contracts to rebuild the city-world. Gat Tambor had kept his word from Bescane and had made Tithe a full board member of the TF. The Aargauun banker now stood to made a fortune off the reconstruction efforts, likely more than he had back when he worked on Bastion.

“While I appreciate the irony, could we not have waited for a cleanup crew to, ah, tidy the place up a little?” This was the last stop on a brief tour of Ravelin to find a suitable nerve centre for the Trade Federation to operate from. While Bastion was far too close to the border with the Sith Empire - who amongst other things had issued a bounty for Tithe - the profit opportunities were too big to pass up. Even if it meant starting up operations out of a war-torn and burned out financial hub.

To get filthy rich, sometimes you had to get a little dirty.

 

[Halketh]

T H E _ L A N D I N G
The Vulture

Celebration
Tags | Lucien Dooku

Spoiler: B^)

[ outfit ][ crown ][ accessories ][ neck ][ blindfold ][ hands ]

Arriving with those of his forces who had participated in Bastionfall in tow, the Warlord of Carlac graced the rebuilt stairs leading into the once blood-soaked mouth of the newly claimed fortress. 'Fortress Imperator' he had been told, it was to be renamed. Not the most creative, and he had certainly voiced his thoughts about that at the time, but it would suffice. At least it wasn't some mock of carnival now, however, fitting The Vulture considered it to be after his first impression months ago. With each of his strides up the stairs, the excessive layer of golden jewelry strung around and hanging from his neck clinked and rattled against itself, giving him something to focus on beyond the annoyance he felt towards the name situation. In the grand scheme of things, was it really such a big deal? Absolutely not. Did that mean he would be able to process it and let it go as a normal person would? Absolutely not. It was likely he would be hung up on the fact until he actually died of old age.​

Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, he considered.​

No. ​

No, it was not.​

"Anyway, yes, you all are free to be social and make merry and what have you. We will rendezvous with our transport after this whole thing is over with. I have no idea when that is, though I will disperse the information as soon as I acquire it. Do keep your communication devices handy." He briefed The Carlaci and Doom Division Corps flanking him quickly, giving them the rundown of the situation before they entered the fortress and would likely be washed away by the tides of bodies, and drowned in the clamor of voices. The formation wasn't much of a formation at all, really. Everyone, save for the handful of volunteers he had extended to help secure this event, donned their military uniforms; the special variant for The Carlaci Corps, of course, being solid white with a fur-trimmed half-cape draped over the right side. "You are all free to leave at any time you wish after The Imperator speaks."​

Nods of acknowledgment and murmured affirmations cued his swift and informal dismissal of his few dozen troops, who all dispersed into different directions in search of merriment and familiarity. All save for the one he expected to be struggling, of course, and she seemed to be frozen in place. She just needed a little push is all. And that's precisely what Halketh did, shoving at the cyborg from behind and vanishing back into the crowd in a heartbeat to fetch himself a flute of champagne.​

"Sir, are you sure you don't wish for us to accompany you?" The all-too-familiar voice by his side made him start, jolting to the left with the sudden remembrance of the woman's presence.​

"LIEUTENANT!" He gasped, clutching his gaudy necklaces like pearls, "I forgot you were there."​

"Yes, well, it is our job to be here, my lord." The woman snorted as she reached out to grasp the arm he still positioned against his chest, only to tug it away and give the cuff a hefty jerk, smoothing it out. Her hands soothed the edges before returning to herself.​

"Oh yes quite, esp- oh thank you- sure as a matter of fact. You and the Corporal should go have some fun. Make some friends. Be social." He twisted his head in the woman's direction, causing the dark gems bedded into his eye covering to flash and glint in the light of the open chambers, "I intend to do the same, hopefully, though I have my suspicions." Some manner of grey, undefined motion coursing by his left caught his mind's eye, and swiftly his hand zipped out to grasp the delicate stem of a champagne glass as the server drifted past. Success!​

The Lieutenant before him narrowed her eyes, folding arms beneath her plated bust soon after, "You're always suspicious though. But, I'll indulge you. What is it this ti-"​

"This is going to be used for shady dealings." He cut her off and took a curt, obnoxious sip from his glass, "You know. Back rooms. Besides the-" a hand reached to wave in idle gesture back and forth as the words evaded his grasp, "-statue ripping or whatever it is going on there. I did also witness a vision of the entire fortress being collapsed on top of us, killing everyone save for those in the lower levels." Of course, this was punctuated by another, equally loud and irritating sip. ​

"Right. Well." She cleared her throat, shaking her head softly. She wasn't sure if she agreed or disagreed, to be honest. Mostly though, she found herself unable to entertain him by feigning care for much longer and thus: "Keep your commlink online, alright? If you need us, scream." His tone in delivering the second half of the message wasn't particularly damning nor urgent, and she was not alarmed by this would-be revelation simply for that fact. If Halketh thought that vision was likely, he would have warned the others and not attended himself- it was as simple as that.​

"Very loud, yes, I shall." The Vulture snorted into his glass, waggling fingers towards her in a mocking, teasing wave he paired with a devilish smirk, "Go away."​

After he had been left alone, he set about his lie, sneaking off as best as he could manage given his status. Those he couldn't avoid were sated by half-hearted conversation and languished courtesy the Warlord was certain to purge from his consciousness the very second he turned away. Far, far too many questions were being asked of him, and the more honestly he answered, the more he was targeted further. Apparently, "because I felt like it" and "because I wanted to" were not answers many of these people could readily accept. Halketh wondered what they had expected from the man who was as notoriously anti-social as he was. ​

It had only been a half-hour and he could feel his heart drilling away at his temples. "Excuse me, but I'm going to go literally anywhere else, okay? Bye bye, now." ​

Finally, after more dragging minutes dodging bipedal landmines roaming the main floor of the party, The Vulture broke himself free and found the stairs. A moment's pause lent his focus to listen, and when he heard only faint voices drifting down the spiral, he decided to venture forth. Soon, Halketh stepped out onto a balcony, the height of which he was vastly unsure of, though he sensed a familiar presence closeby. One which he had always found more tolerable than the others, especially where Imperial Assemblies were concerned. A man who had values not unlike his own. "Ah, Lord Dooku." The Vulture announced himself politely, choosing to keep his tone mostly friendly and warm- a far cry from the stern detachment he was oft known for around the debate table- "Searching for solitude or may I linger in your orbit?"​

 

[Lucien Dooku]

THE NEXT SCREEN

Halketh

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Solitude and the wind awaited Lucien on his retreat from the assembly of guests within the inner palace. Hands pressed against the same balcony which his drink casually sat as greyish eyes scanned across the cityscape for nothing in particular. He found peace in the visage of Bastion's post-war atmosphere, which presented a far cry from the war torn landscape that was his first impression. The hustle of the city never seemed to cease, much like the worlds he'd visited within the Inner Core region of the galaxy.

It was once called a pipe dream- his belief that Nirauan, and by extension the Order, could both be seen and present itself as a bastion of its own within the Unknown Regions of space. Lucien even believed it himself after a while of hearing it from his peers, and perhaps their words rang more true than he'd liked to admit. Yet to him, as much as he would never admit it openly, the Sith-Imperial's expansion of the world of Bastion was all the proof that he needed to reinforce his belief in what Nirauan could become.

Or in time, would become.

A sip of his drink followed the thought, just as a familiar presence was felt approaching him from behind. They spoke up a moment later, prompting his eyes to glaze over the city once more before settling upon the man now present at his side. "Well if it isn't the Warlord of Carlac~" Luc spoke up with a feint smile lingering upon his lips. "Feel free to linger, Lord Halketh." He continued, waving off the Warlord's hesitation before settling his eyes back towards the entrancing view before them. "I'm often sent by the Imperator to represent the Order whenever our presence is requested by our allies in the Core. After a while you just lose your taste for the expensive food and uptight atmosphere-- Or it's just me. Never been my style."

Halketh was one of few individuals within the Imperial Assembly who he did not find himself at odds with on certain matters of policy. The two did not agree on everything of course, but Luc never ingrained himself in the ideological camp which excluded those who you didn't see eye-to-eye with fully. It also helped that the Warlord of Carlac had never struck him as one of the staunch Imperialists that formed the core of their peers, which made him all the more willing to hold up a conversation with the man.
​

 

[Halketh]

T H E _ L A N D I N G
The Vulture

Celebration
Tags | Lucien Dooku

Spoiler: B^)

[ outfit ][ crown ][ accessories ][ neck ][ blindfold ][ hands ]

"Well if it isn't the Warlord of Carlac~" Luc spoke up with a feint smile lingering upon his lips. "Feel free to linger, Lord Halketh." He continued, waving off the Warlord's hesitation before settling his eyes back towards the entrancing view before them. "I'm often sent by the Imperator to represent the Order whenever our presence is requested by our allies in the Core. After a while you just lose your taste for the expensive food and uptight atmosphere-- Or it's just me. Never been my style." ​

​

​

A soft chuckle resonated in the sorcerer's throat upon hummed note as he nodded to Luc's words. "Agreed," he vocalized, turning his head from the man's direction to angle at the supposed view. Even with the passive efforts of The Force meandering the land and humming around them, he was finding it rather difficult to discern things at a distance, though part of him was rather grateful for that- he was terrified of heights. All the same, the breeze he was able to catch from where he poised was welcome enough, and beneath his coat, his shoulders rose with a deep inhale. "For a different reason, I suppose." He tipped his chin, sipping from his flute with the extension of his free hand to firmly curl around the rail before them.​

​

"Mm. I was never a social man before. Not amongst my people and even less so in my more recent years, perhaps." Halketh found himself snickering once more in reflection, sure- that was one way to put it- "I suppose I can blame being terribly sensitive to sound for my dislike of crowded rooms, though the lack of appreciation I hold for small-talk will forever be a grand mystery." The sorcerer remarked sarcastically, uncurling a ringed finger from his glass to tap the golden band against its edge in idle. A moment of quiet passed. "My escorts told me during our descent that the reconstruction efforts moved with impressive speed, of course, I don't really- y'know..." He shrugged, "We could be meeting in a literal dumpster for all I am aware, and truthfully, I would probably value the event the same." ​

 

[Lucien Dooku]

THE NEXT SCREEN

Halketh

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For not appreciating small talk, Luc couldn't help but note that the Carlaci noble seemed rather eager to engage Luc with a volley of his own. His lips curled momentarily into the beginning of a smirk at the thought, but otherwise his demeanor changed little to none. Luc on the other hand appreciated the little moments of peace which filled the void left between each passing phase in their war against the Sith. Whether it consisted of opportunities to engage in small talk or simply enjoying the sights, as he commonly find himself when alone, it helped to balance out the more jaded parts of his personality that naturally came with experience and age.

"My escorts told me during our descent that the reconstruction efforts moved with impressive speed, of course, I don't really- y'know..." He shrugged, "We could be meeting in a literal dumpster for all I am aware, and truthfully, I would probably value the event the same."

Eyes settled upon Halketh once more, yet this time he lingered his gaze upon the man with more intent than usual. "...Oh." A pause, followed by a chuckle escaping his lips. "Not gonna lie-- never noticed that you were blind." Luc continued, only to return his gaze forward. It was fair to assume that he'd not paid full attention to the Warlord's features during the times they had interacted before in the past. Their current meeting was their first up-close interaction outside the Imperial Assembly, and admittedly he found himself more preoccupied on the holonet for the vast majority of those proceedings he was mandated to attend.

"Either way, reconstruction efforts have indeed been moving ahead of schedule, it seems. Despite all that's happened, life for these people seem to be shiftin' back to some semblance of normality." Luc sipped at his glass momentarily, a sigh escaping his lips before he spoke up once more. "I hope to see more of our worlds get the same treatment once this war starts to reach its conclusion. Of course many of ours peers have their own agendas, ourselves included i'd imagine, but I think it's safe to assume that we all generally wish to see our worlds prosper. If not for our own ambitions, for the sake of our Empire at the least."

It could've been wishful thinking that guided his words. He'd love it if he were right in his assumptions, but Luc knew that not every Moff and Warlord wished to see the people beneath them live free to search out their own happiness where it came. Tyrants had become all too prevalent in a galaxy already wrought with war and strife, and within the Order itself there were far too many who were willing to utilize fear to keep their populace in check. Lord Halketh was one of the few who Luc could look at without disdain, in that regard. Though his knowledge of the Warlord himself was limited, he made sure to keep aware of the few worlds where liberty and freedom were values still held in high regard. Much like his home world of Serenno before the Sith occupation, and much like his vision for the future of Nirauan.
​

 

[Halketh]

T H E _ L A N D I N G
The Vulture

Celebration
Tags | Lucien Dooku

Spoiler: B^)

[ outfit ][ crown ][ accessories ][ neck ][ blindfold ][ hands ]

Eyes settled upon Halketh once more, yet this time he lingered his gaze upon the man with more intent than usual. "...Oh." A pause, followed by a chuckle escaping his lips. "Not gonna lie-- never noticed that you were blind."​

The admission made the Warlord laugh softly, nodding his head as he did as much, "To be fair, I do have a penchant for hiding the entirety of my face, so I don't admonish you for not realizing..." Halketh trailed as Lucien prepared to speak up once more. He resolved to nurture was little champagne was left in his flute as the exiled prince spoke.​

"Either way, reconstruction efforts have indeed been moving ahead of schedule, it seems. Despite all that's happened, life for these people seem to be shiftin' back to some semblance of normality." Luc sipped at his glass momentarily, a sigh escaping his lips before he spoke up once more. "I hope to see more of our worlds get the same treatment once this war starts to reach its conclusion. Of course many of ours peers have their own agendas, ourselves included i'd imagine, but I think it's safe to assume that we all generally wish to see our worlds prosper. If not for our own ambitions, for the sake of our Empire at the least."​

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​

A sense of understanding and admiration blossomed in the sorcerer's gut as he processed and understood what it was Lucien was saying. They were a lot alike in those aspects, weren't they? "Our peers are often blinded by the greater picture and neglect to see the importance of the details. Of the people they were tasked with serving, that's the difference, which you grasp. It's refreshing." He turned his head in the direction of the man, flashing the rarest of his smiles- one of genuine sincerity. "The difference in ruling a people and serving them. The difference in liberation and a change of hands. These worlds-" A hand flicked at the wrist in gesture to the city sprawling before them, "-are not goods to be traded nor simple responsibilities to be ignored. I am curious to find what becomes of this one in time, or yours for that matter." A slow sigh trickled from his nose, "I once held similar ambitions for Carlac. Thankfully, we were able to see it through and accomplish what I wished and as a result, we've prospered. That being said, if there is any way I can help you see your people to the same prosperous end, you need only ask." ​

 

[Dorian Sicarrio]

It was over, yet the farthest thing from it.

Was he supposed to feel satisfied? Content? Triumphant? There had rarely been times where he thought beyond himself before he'd joined the New Imperial Order, but now he felt the pressure of something greater weighing down on him. He wasn't the only one, of course; he knew how hard the Imperial Knights and all the others had worked to get here. Even now he struggled to understand the greater picture, but he didn't stop trying.

Still, having more than two thoughts in quick succession hurt his head.

The Sith had never been people he'd liked, but Dorian had never truly hated anyone. Not like the Imperator seemed to hate the Sith. While the knight hadn't participated, he'd felt the effects of Kyber Dark, like a scream in the Force. So many people had died. Yet, that was the way of things, wasn't it? Dorian had never felt remorse for killing; only now he had discovered a conscience.

Maybe it wasn't wrong, but it felt odd to be holding a party. It felt odd to be at the party. Of course, he'd fought hard during the battle and was never opposed to a moment of respite, but there was part of him that wanted to be anywhere else. Away from these smiling diplomats and drinking soldiers. His own glass sat in his hand; he watched the gold liquid swirl around within, yet untouched by him. Reveling in victory used to be such a satisfying thing, yet now he only felt like there was more to do.

But tonight his only assignment was to put on a good face for the Imperial Knights. Like many others he'd come dressed in the spartan 'ceremonial' attire they'd been given, the glaring Imperial white overshadowing the touches of black in his suit, a touch of gold detailing glimmering upon closer inspection. While the other knights mingled and conversed, he sat at one of the round dining tables alone with only his thoughts.

He didn't like thinking, but there was little else to do.

 

[Ravraa Vyshraal]

Dust Bowl Dance

“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”

OPEN | PLANS TO RP WITH Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt Noel Strasza @LiterallyAnyone​

His eyes scanned the mirror like he was searching for a crack in it.

Blue eyes seeped back, catching every last detail they were able to. Following inches of burgundy skin before it broke into the bone white pattern that splotched on the center of his face. A once gentle visage, one that you could have seen in a cantina in some offshot world, stumbling around, hooking up with this and that in the night, had given way. Now there was a firm jaw, thinned cheeks, and a vacant stare. Eyes dazzled from two years straight of staring down a blaster barrel. His shoulder ached constantly from the rattle pop-pop crack fire pattern of the slugthrower. His knees? He could write an entire symphony over the complaints they billed to him every last day. Hands that kept seeming to lose track of their task traveled up his chest, snapping buttons together along the length of his shirt. It was worn, not through service, but through work. Caked with stains that he had long forgotten the origin of, streaks of green, brown, and red randomly misplaced across the beige colored top. He got to the top button, hesitated for a moment, before deciding to leave the collar undone. He had spent the past two years clacking around in betaplast and a bodyskin that rubbed his body raw and his soul, he wasn’t going to spend tonight uncomfortable for the sake of formalities. He picked at his sleeve, removing some of the more wayward strings attempting to unravel the fabric.

Left foot in, pull, right foot in, pull. Loop the straps over your shoulders opposite cross, snap the buckles into place. The overalls followed just as easily as the shirt did, a reborn familiarity with the outfit. The same ragged state of the shirt. Patches of various colored Jute-strand patterened across the piece.

For the first time, he noticed a scar, faded by time and placement, rolling down the right side of his face. Starting at eyebrow level before lazily making it’s way down to his chin. He smiled. He looked just like his old man's normal attire.

A hand settled on his shoulder. The gesture of a blunted emotion. Anything grander? It might send him skittering back into his old ways, now wouldn’t it?

“You’re really wearing that old thing to the party, Rav?”

The voice didn’t sound the same not muffled through coms or a helmet, he turned on his heel to see his sniper, hair not yet formed to style. Jeresan’s black locks formed a mop atop of his head before he got a chance to run a comb and whatever jellie of the day he was using through it. Sometimes a spray. Sometimes not. He was clad, head to toe, in the to be expected off duty slacks of an Imperial solider. Perhaps he was a career, different from Ravraa. He fought for something else, he’d like to think. Maybe at this rate it was standing in front of him.

“Be damned if I don’t.” Smirked corner of his mouth, hand reaching out and tussling the taller man’s hair before stepping past him, arm dropping to give his hand a brief squeeze before approaching the rooms door.

“‘Eres the others?”

“Already there, waiting for you.”

“They don’t need my permission to have fun.”

“That’s what I said.”

There was another moment shared between the two, eyes locked. Did they have to go? They could spend this day, this one day, together. Away from the calls of the Imperator, of the New Imperial Order, just themselves. For once, not as commander and squad member, but as something else. Something new.

Something Ravraa wasn’t ready for yet.

He pressed a button on the side of the door, it occilated open, and the pair stepped out.

Hopefully the walk from the barracks to the Fort wouldn’t be nearly as long as the charge was...

 

[Gat Tambor]

G A T _ T A M B O R
DIRECTOR OF THE TRADE FEDERATION
​

---

---

---

Gat Tambor had come a long way since that meeting with Tithe in the annuls of the Sith-Imperial Banking clan vaults on Mygeeto. Or rather, Gat Tambor hadn't done much at all since then aside from a few cross-Galactic trips between Coruscant, Scipio, Muunilinst and Entralla with a detour to Orinackra and Bescane thrown in the mix to procure one of his more valuable assets in Aerarii Tithe. A tenacious mind with a fixation on ambition and growing wealth, he was cut from the very same cloth as Gat Tambor, certainly more evident in both of their apparent 'exiles' from their Coreward homeworlds of Skako and Aargau.

But that didn't matter, they'd score greater wealth in their profiteering of the rest of the Galaxy instead.

It was a grisly sight, the depths of the SIBC nexus in Ravelin. Many scorch marks compounded with the inauseating smell of charred flesh and Rhypalm decored the halls. While many celebrated in revelry above, there were still troopers sent to scrape the remains of death from this quiet place. They must've been green, too fresh from training to be any useful at the time of the assault on Bastion and relegated to the clean up job as their officers elected to tip their heads back with harsh liquor and sweet cigara.

It was vindicating, if nothing else. From the beginning Gat Tambor had seized the opportunity that came with funneling funds into the once fledgling and ever ambitious rebel group in the New Imperial Order. His return on investment? An Empire. All the while Aerarii kept pushing his chips in with the trusted blue chip, too fixated at the top to see the rickety foundations hoisting it up.

"AERRRRERRRRR- Indeed...but work must be done. Ravelin, as far as I can tell is still intended to be the crown of the Outer Rim. At least, that is what these New Imperials tell me. It is their world, the Imperials. They've had it long...long before anyone else...in fact, it is peculiar over anything that the Sith elected to plant their throne here, what with Dromund Kaas serving well...the same purpose if only with a Sith tinge. Regardless, this will do us well." Gat explained, his gaze placid as he looked over the devestation, not as if he hadn't seen anything like this before.

"Regardless...it is at the very end point of the Braxant Run. The possibilities for revenue here are...immense. And with the near entirety of the run now in the hands of the New Imperials, it will be trade interupted. A golden path from the agricultural hub on Garqi, through the reclaimed heart of the 'IMP500', the stock exchange on Harnaidan. Through Dubrillion where, soon enough, the production of our artificial bacta will begin, ever severing any need to interact with the isolationist Confederacy. And then of course through the Mandalorian stronghold on Echoy'la into the Heart of the Empire, Bastion." Tambor elaborates.

"The first step of the war is over...but as far as I am aware, the New Imperials have no overt intention at suing for peace. This will mean we can establish a domestic infrastructure to siphon more revenue from the war effort with less costs to the infrastructure and transportation. An ideal arrangement." Gat Tambor states.

Aerarii Tithe

 

[Inactive Account]

Haleth "Hailie" Garro
Bastion, Ravelin
Watch the Ravvies try and rebuild
Tags: Solo[/COLOR]

Sitting on the second floor of a three-story brick hotel in the chair with her knees wrapped around its' spine with arms draped over its' supporting arch with a lit cigar between her right hand's index and middle finger. Haleth hears a few footsteps approach crunching against the glass and debris covered floorboards and that's when she felt a hard and cylindrical thump softly against pauldron and her eyes were cast right and upwards to find Captain Rorik's smiling face holding their helmet in right-hand in the other a bottle presented. "Little early on in the day to be drinking, isn't it Sir?"

Leaving Haleth to hold the half-empty bottle of rustic brown liquor Captain Rorik turns in his storm commando ensemble and searches for a chair amid what was once some hotel owner's personal salon. Rorik raked a hand through his dirty blonde hair before sliding a wood purchase with an unpleasant screech against the floor. Flopping down into it beside Commander Garro, his company's Sergeant Major. "Under normal circumstances" He sighed out placing his feet on a short pile of bricks that used to be a complete wall, hanging above the street below.

"That's all I managed to pilfer from that Sithies mansion we raided once the whole battalion had their run of the place. You get anything good, Gar?" Hailie Garro took a mouthful from the glass bottle and its' burnt liquid stinging unpleasantly on its' way down her throat but at no point did that angel of warfare choke on its' taste. Captain Rorik watched this in his reclined repose with a smirk stretching into the corners of his mouth. Wordlessly Hailie placed the stogie between her pursed lips and reached into a satchel on her armour's cuirass and produced a shiny baton-shaped object. "Gods' be damned! You're the one who killed him? I didn't think he'd go down easy."

Pulling the coffin nail from its' wedged position Haleth turned her eyes towards Captain Rorik and her eyebrows jumped up suggestively before continuing. "He didn't, hit two of the platoon's lads before he went down. He has tried to grab my throat and pick me up off the ground." Taking another drag off her stogies and exhaling a lofty cloud of smoke into the salon. "That's when I extended the fingers on my left hand and rammed them straight through his left eye socket." Hailie motion's up to her left cheek with the very same fingers she murdered the Sith Warrior.

Captain Rorik's eyelids widened. "Bloody hell, did that kill him!?"

Haleth took another drag off the cigar, wordlessly recalling the warrior's pained screams and what followed afterwards. "If the Gods were good, I wish." Their gaze went to the bottle gripped in right-hand and she sighed laden with disappointment to see it was empty.

 

[Tyrell Paxxus]

Bastion. It had always seemed insurmountable. Every projection, every simulation, every sitrep, naysayers. Yet, here he was, here they all were; the very heart of the Empire. These once blackened and corrupted atriums and ventricles now receiving the revitalizing ichor of the New Order. With COMPNOR replacing the old dark council aorta, it felt as if there was nothing they couldn't accomplish. It almost brought a tear to Tyrell's eye. Almost. He knew this was far from over, but the steepest incline was now behind them.

Simply relaxing was a challenge. They were safe. They had won. He and everyone else had earned it. But, there was still so much to do. So much still creeping over the horizon. Anxiety, eagerness, or perhaps both? It was hard to tell. The air was intense with the echoes of all that had happened here. Tyrell's extra sense was mercilessly niggled by all the carnage, the warranted betrayal. It was this feeling that made him glad he didn't choose the army. No point in suffering it more than he had to.

"Oh- Grand Vizier!" Admiral Paarl lurched in surprise, quickly catching himself and snapping to rigid attention. At least Tyrell wasn't the only one having trouble.

"Relax," Tyrell chuckled, laying a hand on the young Admiral's shoulder. "No need for that. Not tonight, at least. Have a drink, don't be so serious." Thankfully, no one was aware of how hypocritical that was.

"Right. Yes sir!"

Tyrell patted him on the shoulder harshly and shook his head with a faint smile. He hobbled away from the admiral. Tap, click, pain. Tap, click, pain. Tap, click, pain. His signature stride carried him across the crowd, coming to a stop near the stage access. He lingered just shy of the crowd. Not too isolated that he seemed unapproachable, but not so close that he'd need to commit to more than a few conversations. Better to be near the stage when the time came than have to exit conversations so rudely.

Tyrell reached into his inner coat pocket and retrieved and aurodium case. Tyrell normally had a distaste for unnecessary opulence, but every man needed a few nice things. With a click the radiant case flung open. Neatly packed were several thin white cigarra. He hadn't smoked in several standard years, but if ever there was an occasion, this was it. Delicately he plucked one from the case and seized it between his lips.

As he stared up into the flame of the igniter between his fingers, he began to wonder. Would it be rude light this here? To subject everyone else to the smoke? He sucked on the end of the cigarra as the ingiter came to the opposite. The strange, harsh warmth filled his lungs as a morbidly pleasurable sensation began to take over. "Fuck it," he uttered quietly as the smoke vacated from between his teeth, stinging the vocal folds.

He'd earned this.

​

 

[Rurik Fel]

H E I R _ T O _ T H E _ E M P I R E
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
WAYWARD SON OF FEL
FOCUS | Dorian Sicarrio

It was home. A home he'd never lived within, a home he'd never remembered. But it was the very ancestral halls which once so valiantly swore fealty to his blood. Generations ago. Times had changed since. An Empire of the Sith had come and ruled over it, scarred the once proud home of the Imperial into the wretched monument to Sith decadence it now was.

Until the Imperials returned. He was left ailing, near death after his fight with The Demon Darth Prazutis . It was a fight deemed inconclusive, while the scion of the Eye of Soloman seemed near death, Rurik knew him to be immortal as he felt a clasping of final breaths, a draw at a last drive to stay alive before Vaulkhar in his waning moments helped him manage an escape from nigh certain death. He was no longer among the living to hear his thanks, or to be certain of his acceptance of the vow he swore to him and his son, Errant . But that didn't matter.

It was his duty to obey. Such was the penance of the Imperial Knight. Nothing else mattered. Only what he could give to the Empire. To the Order.

Out of a personal wish more than anything, a respite which he felt he didn't truly deserve, the Gardens of Pellaeon was one of the first sites to be reclaimed and rebuilt in the image of the New Order...in the very same image to which Roan Fel and those who came after him left it.

The jagged crimson saber of the Sith Empire that presided within the marble of the Garden's meditation chamber was hammered and removed from its place only to have the Iron Sun, the Imperial Crest take its rightful place once more. The beauty in its cultivated life here would take far longer to replace once more as fledgling plants had begun to sprout where ancient life once grew before the fall of the darkness and the collateral damage of Rurik's engagement with Braxus Zambrano wrought ruin upon the Gardens.

Within the Garden was also the arbitoreum of the New Imperial Order, ordained with plants ranging from the abrasive yet ferociously beautiful plants of Ajara and arid canyon flowers from Iridonia to wintery spruce from Carlac all culminated here.

He was content to stay within these Gardens, tend to the fledgling plant life as he went on about meticulously seeing to each of their particular and needy demands, ranging from such varied climates it was a fascinating challenge in it self and one deeply rewarding even if it only translated to thirsty, wilting leaves flowing out in flourishing gratitude, it was a gratifying respite. From being around so much hatefully wrought death, to be able to cultivate such tranquil and indifferent life.

But he was invited, personally to the gathering of revelry within the Fortress Imperator. As to why, he could not discern. He was largely detached from the politics of the Order, in spite of his Dynastic claim to an Imperial throne, it was a name long withered by history, long distorted and destroyed by the bludgeoning of the Sith Imperial's control of what legacy was left behind and thus he sought to make nothing from it, rather concealing it until the time came here.

At Bastion.

His iron visage was clasped over his own marred and distorted face after he'd left the Gardens. He'd exiled himself to an errant corner of the gathering, not that his presence was difficult to ignore.

"You seem nervous, Knight." He spoke to Dorian Sicarrio . As Dorian was supposed to be the dashing 'propaganda' face of the Force Corps, Rurik was a far more foreboding visage of the Imperial Knights, far more abrasive as he stood aside from the table Dorian sat with himself, alone.

 

[Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt]

​

// Commander & Captain //
// Bastion, Ravelin
// Tags Ravraa Vyshraal @OPEN
// Go To The Light

​

The lighter clicked several times before a war glow enveloped the woman’s face, Lyra watched as Nima turned, shielding the flame from the wind until the end began to burn. Her eye drifted away toward the city, away from the woman-a curtsey. Lyra owed her it. The evening was setting in over the city just before them and they had the vantage from atop of the tower. It was the best she could find, some blown out office building. Nima didn’t seem to mind construction in the way. They had the sight to end all, you could see the hubs of life across the city. What was left of Ravelin at least. The hubs glowed a brilliant yellow, beacons that were connected faintly by trickling lights like a circuit board.

Nima took a long drag from the cheap smoke, making a show as she blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The wind whistled gently at these heights woven in between the eerie quietness between the two, the building’s beams creaking gently. Ravelin-Bastion, they had made it all the way to the very end. A decade of fighting and two years of a hard campaign.

“Look at us, the likes of us standing here,” Nima Appw'rii mused softly. She almost sounded sardonic and Lyra considered teasing the woman, she just didn’t have the words to. Nima offered the smoke over to her with one careless hand, she was keen to soak up the view.

The corner of her mouth tugged and Lyra grinned briefly, a small hum rose from her in agreement. She reached out and accepted the smoke, bringing it to her lips she paused.. The sharp smell of bad tobacco overwhelmed her, she hadn’t smoked since before the boys had been born. Lyra inhaled deeply, something ugly but satisfying about it. Honoring the promise for Nima, honoring Agrippa and Gladius in the same drag.

Someone had to pay the price, Lyra just despised it had to be Gladius a second time around. Good men, for all the evils swept up under the rug. Belisarius came to mind, faces-so many faces and names she had collected over the years in Command. A shaky breath escaped her and Lyra had to force the thoughts away, the bitter tang of anger-it tasted like blood, regret, tibanna.

“How are we going to pull this off? Remember that?” Lyra asked quietly to fill the silence, her servo gently tapping the smoke; ash falling to the concrete. They had been scared then, she still woke up some days and wondered how they had did it.

“I thought you were fucking mad, I still don’t know what you were thinking-”

“Wasn’t my idea, don’t you insinuate anything less,” Lyra warned, but her words were hollow of any threat. It was a joke almost between them and a scoff tailed her word. It was just a good thing turned into tragedy. “My stupid loyal ass right?...Some point I stopped caring about the rest so it made it easy to follow him. Who knows maybe the Galaxy will be a better place, at least here?”

She didn’t put any stock in the words. It was always to daring to hope, but Lyra tried for the hell of it.

“Better..yeah. We’ll see.

Lyra shook her head, the cold was creeping up her spine. One hand swept down the front of the wool officer's coat, the dress greys and red piping. The suit had collected enough dust and had been a necessary evil and she shook her shoulders trying to shake off the ominous chill. The blonde hardly seemed affected but Lyra wasn’t looking at her, her sole eye roved around the abandoned space. A fog had settled in over her mind, a growing pit taking root in her throat and she could feel through the Force the overwhelming-

“Nima I am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nima said, her voice watery. Lyra glanced away from the dark halls toward the woman’s form, her back outlined by the horizon. They had a decade of covering each others asses under fire, and they knew the truth of it. It never changed that she'd strive for better, next time-next time Lyra promised silently. The vicious cycle weighed on her. Maybe if she had made another choice, a better plan. Genesis should have been with Gladius, there were others who could have-“We got foolhardy, started making plans. A house, some fucking dog or what ever he wanted...I was gonna take him home to Bescane to meet mom.”

“I’m glad you had plans. That you two were that happy. You two deserved-”

“I’m not,” Nima spat as she choked down a sob. She sounded like she couldn’t believe what had happened.. “I’m not happy now. What an idiot, but he was mine.”

“You can scream if you want, you know just let it-”

“No. You wanna know why? I can already hear his fucking joke now about makinng me scream even though he’s fucking dead,” Nima interupted her, mad enough to laugh. There was something genuine, love-but it was drowned in sorrow.

Lyra listened, frozen still before she pushed herself away from the wall, each step soft-hesitant as she approached the Captain’s side. She offered up the remains of the smoke to the woman, she would have gone mental a long time ago with out Nima and she counted herself lucky for once. That she wasn’t standing up here alone. It should have been someone else if only to spare Nima, but Lyra knew who had been on the other end. Who had carried the flag the final stretch, Ravraa Vyshraal was too good a soldier. There was no lesser evil or sacrifice for them, it was shit either way.

“You can see about the area..that he was from up here. Where they hung the flag,” Nima whispered, halting her dark thoughts. The blonde gestured with one hand the last quarter of the smoke wedged between her fingers. It was as if on cue, Lyra watched her take the final drag off it and she spotted the building faintly. Lyra didn’t care so much where the Captain had met his end, she didn’t want to walk the halls where it took place if she didn’t need to. Out of the corner of her eye, Lyra witnessed as tears slipped down her friend's face. She raised her servo, and settled a firm hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“Don’t you ever comm me saying to watch out for those kids again, don’t you fucking dare,” Nima snarled, the blonde turned toward her and Lyra reeled back a step unsure; her grip tightening on the woman’s shoulder. The Captain tossed the stub of the smoke at her boot to stomp it out before she stepped in. Lyra understood then, it didn’t take much to read between the lines and she wrapped her arms around Nima, hugging her tightly. Lyra’s eye screwed shut as she sighed.

Nima cried harder and the woman’s fist dug into her coat and twisted. Lyra held on to her until she was well ready to let go, words rested on the tip of her tongue but she was too tired now. There was no measure of comfort she could really offer the woman. It would have to wait, until the wounds weren’t fresh. They had afforded some time, and Lyra would be damned if any of them didn’t utilize it but her servo itched to ball in to fist. Swaying with Nima, her anger stewed. At some point Lyra was just fucking furious, so tired of watching them hurt, maybe it was her greatest weakness. How much more fighting, if not for herself for her soldiers, her people. She couldn’t let any of them go, any of it go.

“Let’s go get drunk, I’ll call Archer and the others. They’ll just have to cart our asses out of the party,” Lyra forced out between clenched teeth, pulling back-her words were forced and a desperate grab at normalcy.

It was enough for the woman and the wait until their boots hit the steps of the Fortress was a better part of a blur. The looming behemoth had changed from the bloody centerpoint that had loomed in the distance of the tank companies. Inhaling deeply, hand guarding a confiscated flask in the pocket of her coat. Bastion was almost safe, a phantom pain ran it’s claws down the empty socket of her eye as she thought of the boys. Almost torn in limbo without them near, but she knew it was for the best.

This place wasn’t..Lyra didn’t care for this so called palace. Kicking the stone work lightly she scoffed to herself. Her hand slipped in the breast pocket, she produced a small tin. The package made a distinct click as she popped it open, fishing out the contact. It was just another necessary evil as she blinked rapidly, slipping the lense in. She had never expected to be shooting the shavit on the ashes of the Emperor’s own home.

It would have looked better leveled to the ground as far as she was concerned, to take with it the playground of her Master’s demise. One less reminder would have been nice. Lyra had found herself wrapped back in her thoughts waiting for the rest of the three hundred seventh’s command to converge on the lower steps. Yazec was too dignified, the Kel’Dor lingering strictly aside from their rabble and equally too respectful to request to enter separately.

“Arroyo everyone here yet? Or am I going to freeze my ass off out here?” Lyra wondered out loud, fish out the contraband. She brought the metallic flask to her lips, eager but a grimace crossed her lips The taste.. She regarded the vodka regretfully. She craned her head to look at the zabrak, it was a rare occurrence to see him outside his armor-weighed down by a sling from injuries on the field. Poor man. She raised a thin brow as he muttered something, taking stock of what ‘Riders’ had cared to join in. Nima was pacing and she thrusted out the flask to calm the woman. The irritation was infectious and Lyra snapped her fingers at the woman to get her attention.

“Rhoemes and a few officers were delayed at the barracks, but otherwise yes,” Arroyo offered lamely and Lyra mulled on it. She never discriminated who joined them, but a sense of punctuality-now that was a deal breaker.

“Right so he’s a lost cause..let the others know,” Lyra surmised, the Mirialan was with the grunts or worse. She didn’t want to know. Her hand snapped up and she gestured with her servo, dragging it across her throat in one swift cutting motion looking the Lieutenant in the eyes. “-no fighting, no fighting, and no fucking fighting. Otherwise feel free to circulate or shadow me. Anyone mutters a word of Ryl this time and they’re done-and drink responsibly. Cheers.”

Climbing the stairs with that said, Lyra swept into the hall in the company of her Officers. She was numb in part, applying herself to the expected festivities. She still couldn't believe it. Nima flanked her, slipping the flask back and Lyra laughed, shaking her head plainly. The sour taste still hadn't left her and any more of the swill would be a lengthy mistake. She was going to find something actually drinkable.

​

 

[Noel Strasza]

G R I M
Major Noel "Deader" Strasza
Fortress Imperator
Revelry
Prestige
Focus OPEN

She had been encouraged and reminded about a dozen and a half times over on the brief flight here that she should avoid drinking until further tests could be conducted and conclusions could be drawn about how the hair-fine sensors bedded into the soft tissue of her liver, kidneys, and stomach would react and process the alcohol. Would her body see it as an outright toxin registered in the familiarity of its database, or would it pass under the same insidious guise everyone else viewed it with? Would it set off her Guardian RX augmentation and deploy her counter-measures? The cyborg had no idea of what to expect as she drew the crystal tumbler glass closer to her mismatched lips, pulling a deep breath through her nose after resting the curved edge against the steel of her lower lip. Within her sight, the familiar chasing loop spiraled after itself to the far right with the thought of her processors. A small list spelled itself out in the same area, listing the identifiers for the whiskey she clutched, and much to her surprise, it was only assigned a yellow-level alert for toxicity.​

Well, that was good to know.​

The cyborg drew a hesitant breath through her nose and tipped her chin back, daring part her lips enough for a sip of the sharp, bitter liquor. Much to her chagrin, it was tasteless. Augmented eyes narrowed harshly towards the glass and she tipped it away from her frame, glaring at it as though she had simply been given the wrong thing.​

"Is it alright, ma'am? Would you like anything else?" The tender behind the bar asked, looking up from their work in a momentary pause.​

"It's fine, thank you." Noel quickly assured him, waving her free hand in dismissal, "It's been a while is all." She tried to cover her embarrassment with some level of jest, even going so far as to punctuate it with the strange manner of chuckle she could utter, though it wasn't especially persuasive. Realizing the smile the keep flashed her was extended out of pity, the cyborg cleared her throat and rather quickly merged back into the crowd, clutching and swirling her glass idly in her stride. ​

She just had to make it to the edge of those assembled, where she had more room to breathe. ​

That's all she had to do.​

"Bridge!" The familiar voice catching her ear turned her head stiffly, and with quiet desperation, she searched. ​

"Ross?"​

Through the crowd off to her left flank, a man clad in the very same stark white uniform as her split into the open, grinning wide beneath his beret. The major nearly gasped for a moment, taken back by his striking image against the otherwise alien backdrop. "Look at you! Back from the dead!" He offered his former commander no time to absorb his words or react, as he closed the distance between them quickly, and threw his arms around her in a hug. "It's good to see you!" He kept it curt and polite, as much to be expected given their environment and status, "We've all been asking about you a great deal, but our new C.O. doesn't know shit."​

Strasza stared up at the blond man in silence for the longest time it felt like, looking at him as though it was the first time after they had split from their quick embrace. Either he had always been this handsome and she was just noticing or it really had been that long since she had seen other soldiers without their helmets on. The HUD in her retinas flagged his name over him, punctuated by the slim green highlight tracing around his silhouette. "Y-yeah-" the major started, cutting herself off almost immediately to rinse the lump in her throat down with a heavy wash of her tasteless whiskey over her fibrous, dead tongue, "-I was reassigned. That's all I can say." She nodded, lifting her shoulders in a partial, apologetic shrug. "Who's the new C.O.?"​

"Some twi'lek captain pulled from the 12th, but that doesn't matter, c'mon, you gotta tell me how you're doing. Catch me up, what have we missed? They've kept you all locked up and shit, haven't let you see visitors." He was staring openly at the cybernetic portions of her face fixed to what little flesh she had remaining, "A lot changed?"​

The cyborg's brows lifted with his battery of questions and for a moment, her expression hardened a great deal. "Yeah, a lot's changed." A jerk of her head backward indicated her intention and she pivoted, crossing the rest of the way through the crowd to reach the small span of open floor between the edge of the crowd and the massive windows overlooking the city. Once there, she settled in to admire the view with one hand on her hip and the other resting her glass against the flats of her fingers by her waist, with her thumb curled over the lip. "Can't say much. But I'm alive. I'm adapting. That's all that's really important."​

Her former comrade nodded, reaching out to rest a hand on her cloaked shoulder. His expression was intrigued, though he refrained from pressing into things, understanding very well how it was likely out of her hands to answer all of his questions. "That's good. It's not so bad, yeah? And, y'know, we all still have your back right? You might be moving elsewhere, but you'll always be our friend. Come by the fort sometime, we'll go do karaoke or something; Brix is overdue to humiliate himself again." The scout flashed a toothy grin, jostling the major softly. He was really putting in the effort to make it seem like he wasn't perturbed by her appearance, and somewhere, Strasza appreciated him for that.​

"Maybe I will, yeah. I'm just... looking forward to going home more than anything, really." Strasza found it in herself to chuckle, shaking her head softly with the sound as she nursed her glass. What a thought that was, and a memory it stirred even more so. A smile stretched her upper lip from its edges, contrasting the harsh straight line of her lower jaw. "That was somethin', wasn't it?"​

At least she had found some sense of familiarity.​