Faction Reclamation | NIO & Allies

[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 | Arianna Sarreti

As much as Dorian seemed to tread carefully toward Rurik on the topic of Mavia , the line of behavior all but drew a grin beneath his false metallic visage. He could tell he had but the slightest sliver of fear twirling in his stomach but wanted to make a stand for himself. For the two of them. It was then he could see the truthfulness in his feelings toward her.

"Do you really think you'd only just find out now if I had any problems with the two of you? I am not so petty, Dorian. She is a bright woman, one capable of her own self determination. I may have taken her in after Mirial but she is not that frightened girl anymore. She is a Knight of the Empire. So long as you do what is best by her, I shall not dare lay a hand in intervention of what brings you both peace and happiness." Rurik states candidly, though he once more rolls his shoulders before speaking once more.

"However...you hurt her at all...I will find you." He all but threatens to Dorian in a manner only intending to draw a reaction from the man.

"But...I do not anticipate that happening else I would've skewered far before we'd ever gotten close to Bastion."

 

[Djorn Bline]

A hand went to grab one of the glasses of mixed drinks a server carried with a tray. Much needed. No one had approached him, yet. Part of him wanted to be away from here, slithering back into his hole before resurfacing with lies and deceit. Where he worked best, covertly and discreetly. He could’ve had the chance to make sure his face wasn’t something recognized out in public, a soul missing in action at the Battle of Bastion and only known to few individuals. An opportunity he threw away now coming to this party. Djorn figured it would’ve been a nice change of pace, especially now he had a date to go with; a date he needed to catch up with and thought this would help closing the distance.

Ah shit

He’d thought he wouldn’t see that blonde bombshell in a good while. Their eyes locked, challenging each other. Faces determined and not changing expressions. The man by her side...a date or just a colleague passing by? Funny to see her at this place, especially with her position as a Jedi. Irveric probably invited them along with the other Alliance officers mingling around.

He noticed how she detested the flavor of the beverage she ingested, same face on Bespin.

Thought she’d learned her lesson

Guess she lost that battle, yeah? How about the war?

The Imperial looked around him, quick glances to see if he could find Rowan. Nowhere, maybe she was around and got caught up with some small talk with someone. Having this, what, “quarrel” wouldn’t hurt?

He made the first move, finishing his drink and walking through the crowd to where Loske and Maynard were. His face didn’t change, his emotions were repressed and bottled up as best as he could. He replaced any weakness with other thoughts to distract himself. Even a man of his own talents wasn’t immune to the chemicals of emotions. Finally he neared them, a few feet in distance out of courtesy. His eyes glanced to Maynard, then to Loske. Eyes cold and challenging, trying to keep his posture and control his breathing.

“You need better operatives, the ones you have are sloppy and second rated.”

Weird choice of words, for a greeting. In this game he couldn’t unveil his emotions, he needed to be cold. Be nothing like the man she knew months ago before her little stunt. It made him sometimes wonder if he was himself.

Rowan Corde | Loske Treicolt | Maynard Treicolt ​

 

[Loske Treicolt]

BASTION // REVELIN // FORTRESS IMPERATOR
OPE
INTERACTING: Maynard Treicolt // Halketh // Djorn Bline ​

"There even any other Alliance people we'd know? I'm sure Ryv is...somewhere, I know he got along with a few of the New Imperials. Apparently, met Tavlar himself when he was just a Major General, on Mandalore. I'd doubt to hell Republic Engineering or Din Marren would show their faces here. Even if it means they're due some award they typically skip town to do...anything else. Commando types... Dracken Pryce ain't like that though, I wouldn't doubt he'd poke his head in, see in person what his ships fought over."

Blue eyes wandered as if she could identify each name Maynard suggested magically from the crowd, manifesting them just by speaking their names. She could appreciate each of their cautious distance if no such discovery happened. Perhaps a replicated sort of celebration on Coruscant would be more likely to gather their attention –– but venturing across the Braxant run, a tiring journey by now, again? To wearily look over the stone in triumph, tilt their chins with earned smirks? It ended up just being her humming in agreement.

“We should really figure out a shared travel situation. Make this less of a hunt.” Then again, she was just fine keeping it paired down. Meant they weren’t dependent on agreeing when it was time to leave.

“Nevermind.” She quickly rectified.

"But yeah...if there's anyone who'd care to waltz on over and speak to...be my guest."

"Otherwise, I'll be trying my best to be only coherently sober when it comes time for me to...do whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing here."

She was about to make a challenging comment, finally making eye-contact with someone who was perusing about collecting empties (or in Loske’s case, something she wished was empty) and was temporarily pulled in that direction to give her barely-touched beverage away. A lean from the side-by-side placement that was far too grand an opportunity for an Imperial to ignore.

"Not one for parties, huh?"
"Don't you just want to rub elbows and make connections? Everyone is wearing suits, so they must be important, right?"

The playful, honeyed salutations spurred a distinct flare in her mind that blotted out rationality and replaced it with conjecture. The generous greeting became something she could only critique: Too toothsome, too much shoulder and.. why...was she noticing this? Loske’s brow lowered and her mouth rose, squeezing her face into something smaller and thoughtful. As usual, her expressions were raw replications of her internalizations. She was horrified at the idea that she might be a jealous person, and how unfair that was to everything up to this micro-interaction. Was that the right word for it? No, that seemed too grandiose for a trigger reaction: innocent until proven guilty.

Still, she couldn’t leave the interaction as something ignored –– even if it wasn’t meant for her. She was too close in proximity and that would be ruder than any confused internalizations she’d had at this point.

“Right.” She leaned forward, gesturing to the incoming beret-wearing individual with a rank boldly pinned just above the forehead. She made eye contact with that first, then his face. “Here comes one of those important suit-wearing types now.”

“You need better operatives, the ones you have are sloppy and second rated.”

A mixed blessing, it seemed she couldn’t get away from the clandestine realm as much as she tried and by some serendipitous nature, Djorn managed to intervene at a time that gave her grace. She was still processing how to react when he also waltzed over. Maybe the Treicolts should have changed their names to The Magnets. Or the —- actually, Treicolt was fine.

It would truly have to be a cold day on Tatooine for Loske to have been considered the best covert agent on a mission. Her expressiveness was only one part of the faults she bore, the guilt that came with incumbent falsities far more preventative of espionage success.

Since the revelations of Allyson, double agents were an option now. Even if it hurt her head to think about. Djorn had been one of the top-ranking spies under the Empire’s regime, and now he was here, alongside the opponents on the civil war.

Amusement twitched at the corners of her mouth, a better response than the grouchy sound ready to scratch at the back of her throat.

“Oh yeah, you applying?” Was swapping sides something that was paid for? She didn’t know enough about Djorn to understand his pricing structure –– if it was credits or morals. Truth was, she didn’t know a lot about him at all, other than what was in the file Allyson had purged from her time behind enemy lines. Anything he might have said to her before that, she categorized as a lie; even if it had been the truest version of himself. A friendship of falsehoods was a souring

“Seems it worked out for you and your career’s transition to...’’ she gestured loosely to their surroundings “The other side. Is that new uniform comfortable?”

There was a crossroad here when it came to introductions and the level of detail that was divulged to someone she knew she couldn’t trust now. And overall, it was strange to think an introduction had to be made, she hadn’t the need to do so since Kiffu. Apparently the world of battle was a myopic thing when you were shaking hands and taking orders. The shadow world was as informed as it was uninformed; depending on how high profile you were.

“If you’re playing the field, let me to introduce my husband, General Treicolt. Potential resume reviewer.” Not true, that would probably fall under the SIA’s affairs but whatever. Her free hand found his, giving it a gentle brush and knot of the fingers to bring his attention, even if only temporarily, to the conversation. It was the first time she’d had the opportunity to proclaim the newly signed title for them both to hear, and it shot a trill of exhilaration through her; pushing out that conjecture from earlier from the front of her head. It wasn't even diluted by the realization she was sharing this update with someone she found remarkably untrustworthy now, save for the faintest sliver of hope that he wouldn’t use that information against her. A fear that would always be in the corners of her mind. A fear she couldn’t give control to. She had to be present, here and now. Not let the apprehensions of what ifs and coulds cloud her judgment and censor her speech.

“Maynard, and..uhm, sorry –– didn’t catch your name,” again, a chin-nod in the direction of the pale newcomer, imposing as she was “This is Djorn Bline. Ex-Grand Moff of Inquisition for The Sith Empire and...oh.” A wash of faux perplexion crossed her features, twisting them as if she were searching for something on the tip of her tongue to no avail. “What’s your new title?”

 

[Dorian Sicarrio]

Rurik Fel
​

Dorian was on a rollercoaster from relief to terror. First, relief -- metalhead knew, and wasn't about to skewer him. Unless, of course, he did something stupid. But as Rurik pointed out, Dorian probably would've done something stupid way before.

"I..." Frown. "...thanks? I'll do my best to... not get skewered."

The knight raised his glass to his lips and drained it in one drink. Maybe the ceremony wasn't for him, maybe he was still nervous about the future. But a moment of validation soothed his nerves and reminded him why he was on the path he was on. Dorian stood and turned to face the knight commander. There was a pause as he searched for the words, only to find that there weren't any.

There weren't any to describe how much Dorian had changed, and how vital a role Rurik had played in his journey. The commander was far from openly supportive or emotionally transparent, but there was a wisdom, an understanding to be found there. Dorian took a deep breath.

"Thank you."

Pause.

He shifted awkwardly.

"I'm, uh, gonna go grab a drink."

 

[Seydou of Thyrsus]

F I E L D S _ O F _ A R D _ S K E L L I G​

Slightly after the current events in Burdens...

Both Mandalorians casually sauntered through the cold halls of the now reclaimed Fortress Carnifex. Their pace slowed down by Amon's limping with the support of two crutches, the result of the engagement in the datacenter not far from here. For just a brief moment Amon wondered if the Sith he had faced had died. He hoped so.

Every Sith was accountable.

His helmet clipped to his waist belt allowed him to suddenly stop, notice his foreign reflection at a perfectly polished column and freeze. Thicker beard grew along with hair, his buzz cut - overgrown and sharpened wrinkles were slowly trying to crawl from beneath. It had been only a few years since he had fled his clan in a quest to fight evil and avenge his sister but it felt like a lifetime; yet, it was not that which shocked and rattled him to his very core. The man he saw in the reflection was none other than his father Ronan Vizsla . The Mandalorian shook his head rashly but the face in the mirror never disappeared.

He looked back at Meshla, nearly said something but instead retracted back to his natural seclusion. What he felt mattered little, he faced his issues alone. Always had.

They carried on to catch a breath of fresh air out into the courtyard slash terrace which overlooked the endless cityscape of the ecumenopolis. Amon needed the break and gladly led Meshla to the terrace's railing where he leaned on it alleviating the pain of moving. He glared ahead into the distance, let the jubilant muffled echoes of stormtroopers in the fortress fill the air before he spoke. His eyes still tending the horizon.

"Why did you spare Vilaz?" he knew little for his vengeance but enough to know the Alor of Munin, her stepfather through his actions had delivered her greatest tragedy.

Meshla Detta

 

[Irveric Tavlar]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
THE BREAKER OF BASTION
S E A _ O F _ R E D

Decades. Decades he'd spent in service to the Sith. The Dark Lord. A blinded and muzzled chattel fit only to be led to the industrial slaughter of war. Just as the Sith decreed in their sacred Code, 'Through victory my chains are broken, The Force shall free me.'

Irveric was not given such respite in baring such wonderous gifts of the force. There was only his very will, his unbroken determination to break his chains and free him once more. That he did. What had begun a suicidal exile in the wake of his public slandering of the Dark Lord, his Council and the rest of the Order of the Sith was not long after, a True Empire made manifest.

An Empire for the Imperial, not an Empire for the Emperor. But there was never a moment that could ever be taken in failing to remember the valiant souls which laid each bloodied stone affront of them on this path of destiny. Those who'd had their fire fade away and those who'd made it through the whole machine both. If this gathering had any purpose, it would be to pay ode to the fallen and those worthy of recognition among the defiant. Among those who'd looked to a monolithic, all consuming and vantablack evil menace in the Sith Empire, nodded...and marched forward.

For the first time, he'd walked the streets of Ravelin. For the first time, he'd walked the corridors of the Imperial Palace. Not as any slave soldier, not as any scared soul conscripted to get ground through the machine. But as the Imperator, as its ruler. A characteristically stoic face acting a shroud. A shroud for his vindication, his great wave of respite after climbing the mountain with no summit in sight.

Entering the chamber which the gathering had been summoned to meet in revelry, attention was called to his entrance to the stage by a COMPNOR official before a rain of applause desended over the crowd, at least in those who were loyal in their hearts to this New Order, those who'd fought on the field alongside the Imperator and rest of those to be honored tonight.

Making way to the podium, his fierce gaze peered over those assembled, recognizing a scant few faces among them before eventually speaking up to address the New Imperial Order and those who'd come from elsewhere to join them in their victory.

"Sons and daughters of the Empire. It is today we acknowledge...the fall of darkness. The reclamation of our home. The very beating heart of the Empire...Bastion. For generations, the Imperial has stood tall with pride and honor on Bastion, in Ravelin. For too long we have seen its legacy tainted and defiled by the Sith...but the Crimson Saber and their horrific runes no longer rear their ugly face here. Ravelin and Bastion have bared witness to the beginning of another era of peace, order and prosperity beneath the Iron Sun."

"But that is not to say the fight is over...not has it been an easy task along the way. The will of defiance, the New Imperial Order...is the most enduring force in the Galaxy...but there is no forgetting the price we've paid in the lives of valiant souls such as Sam Deckard, Adrial Magnus, Waylon Treicolt, Kan Belisarius, Agrippa and my truest confidant...Vaulkhar Zambrano. It is men and women like them that paved the way here for us. And we will never forget the price we've paid of our comrades, our friends, our loved ones. Their memory will find permanence here in Ravelin and each of them acknowledged in full honors and valor as heroes of our New Order. To those we've lost....to those who fought at our side...thank you. You will never be forgotten so long as the fire in our spirit is lit, so long as it burns brighter than the fires of chaos and disorder around us." Irveric says, his voice degrading into shades of solemn as he speaks of those who died in service to his banner, died to the beat of his command. There'd be no forgetting that. No un-haunting of his memories, no forgetting the fires he'd let be snuffed out in the crucible.

"All the same...there are heroes among us tonight. Those who deserve our praise, our recognition for baring their heroic spirits. Men and women such as Captain Ravraa Vyshraal who'd staked our banner over the Imperial Palace, Legion Commander FN-999 who resurrected the soul of a Legion once broken in bitter defeat in the 908th, the Lord of Nirauan Lucien Dooku and his Myrmidons or Major General Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt and the 307th who'd been at my side...since the very beginning. Although our Stormtrooper Corps is the vessel of our will...there is no forgetting those who commanded the instruments of destruction from above in Rear Admiral Hiram Voss , Commodor Del Lovruc or our very Grand Vizier Tyrell Paxxus . All too has the Force Corps, our Imperial Knights been the keepers of order and ever loyal to the Empire. Errant , Dorian Sicarrio , Mavia and Lord Executor Rurik Fel . Thank you...all for what you have done...and what you will continue to do in service to the Empire and its people." Tavlar states, allowing a moment of silence from himself to let praise fall in to the names mentioned.

"So too...can we not forget our allies who stood and marched with us through the fires. Such as the Sons of Mandalore, our brothers in blood and vengeance who had been with us since the nigh beginning of our New Order. Men and women such as Seydou of Thyrsus , Ra Vizsla , Careena Fett and Meshla Detta . So long as the Sons of Mandalore stand with us, we stand with them. And so long as you'll have us, the New Imperial Order will march with you in crusade of your homeland. Vode an." Tavlar states in solidarity to the Mandalorians, the very people he sought to defend in person at the second battle of Mandalore where he was charged with the defense of Sundari proper. Only for the Sith Empire to betray them and bring the near extinction of their creed.

"Nor can we forget how our Empire and the Galactic Alliance set aside our differences to bring about the fall of the Sith. The fall of darkness. Be it those in the Galactic Alliance Defense Force such as High Admiral Dracken Pryce , Captain Constantine Oliva and Lieutenant Republic Engineering . Just the same, the New Jedi Order has stood valiant in defiance of the Sith with those such as the Sword of the Jedi Ryv , Loske Treicolt and Maynard Treicolt leading their ranks into battle alongside us." He says, though ever wary of the Alliance, he would not ever speak in disrespect of the blood they spilled alongside the Order.

"Then there are those wayward souls, Imperial or not who had joined us in the fray. Such as Tulan Kor and Djorn Bline .

To all of you...once more, Thank you." Tavlar says, nodding to the crowd assembled before him as he finishes addressing them once more.

 

[Bayaz]

When victory came me and my team were still neck-deep in a Sith Ambush. The ash from the days of battle clung to the sky like a mynock clings to an exposed engine conduit. The IMPS for their part fought hard, they fought like Hell - Their Imperial Knights and Dark Siders too. I'd never seen anything like it. But when the call of victory came in and the boys in white started turning their blasters on their own...I knew what was happening. It was obvious, a solid move on the IMP's part. But all I could think of on the long ride back to HQ was the look of total surprise and betrayal on that Dark Jedi's face. The white blade of the Imperial Knight reflected in their eyes. They didn't even bury the bodies. ​

The combat sled rolled through the heavily guarded NIO blockade and into the compound they had designated. The rumble of the sled was the only sound in the troop cabin. They were silent, dead as space. They were still trying to figure out just what the hell had happened. One minute the Whites and Reds were going at it against the Blacks and suddenly...Everyone was a target. It had been utter chaos. As the sled came to a stop one of his boys slammed his fist against the hull in a fit of what Rail could only assume was confusion and anger. Sure they were Sith and Darks but they were still their comrades. How did someone just turn on them like that? Flip of the switch-like? Betrayal was hard to swallow even over the littlest things sometimes. There was no doubt about it. As Rail exited the sled, the last one out as was expected of his command role, he spat on the ground and shrugged his rifle back over his shoulder.

The battle had left a sour taste in his mouth.

He heard the crowd clapping and cheering, hooping and hollering. This was the new Empire. One built on betrayal and cold-blooded murder.

"Wonder how long our peace will last," he muttered solemnly. He'd come to like a lot of the Imp boys. It'd be a shame to put them down.

"Lieutenant!" A man wearing a GA Navy uniform called out to him. His shoulder pads indicated he was Marines and his bars indicated some half-way rank between Captain and Major.

"New orders from Alliance Command. Twilight's headed back to Coruscant. Get your men ready to leave. Taking off at 0600 Bastion Local time tomorrow. Rest up. You've earned it Lieutenant." Rail saluted and gave the man a weak smile before headed to the GA designated barracks. He would at least enjoy tonight.

 

[Reva Giedfield]

Post: 2 | Wearing: X | Focus: Omar Melnau Noel Strasza | Weapons: Fists | Equipment: Pristine Cigarettes | Date: Present Day

Whatever the conversation the mechanical figure had been having with the man - more of a boy really - before the Brick House had taken his place at the bar was lost upon him. He had heard a few choice phrases as he ordered his drinks, but none of it mattered to him. Not really. None of those he had worked alongside from the day he was recruited to the war on Bastion mattered in the long run. Just the fight and the drive to one day curb stomp his father's head in. That's all that mattered.

To take the fight to the Devil himself in his hellscape and rip him limb from limb. For what he did. Bastion was his best chance at accomplishing that and he failed because of the Winged Reaper that crushed his tank and assaulted his company. Now he is being ordered to talk to people he did not know, did not want to know, and would likely rather shoot in the kneecaps than work alongside them if that was the case of this day.

Rendering his father into a lifeless husk would have to way another day. Another long, damnable day filled with night terrors of the Force - the Dark Side - clawing at his soul, to reach in and empower him with hateful wrath. But it never did. Always at the edge, but never swan diving over. Never taking the plunge. Reduced to alcoholism and nicotine dependence. Eight smokes a day for twenty-three years. No side-effects. The benefits - curses - of being a fucking Giedfield.

Another day. Eighty-three thousand and ninety-six days. Another day, father. And then you die.

"Yeah, I think so too. Major Noel Strasza - thank you for the cigarette, I was about to rob the good doctor."

The Brick House smirked - or at least attempted to - as the woman properly introduced herself and accepted his gift. She was an odd one, to say the least as his eye looked her over one last time. Her head was almost entirely mechanical from what he could gather. Jaw, neck, eyes, and other bits and pieces. He frowned when he caught her reading him like a mechanist manual. Lifeless and analyzing eyes that probably saw the world as a fraction, a percentage, or a formula to be solved and erased. Was the rest of her the same way? Robotic and lacking in the meat that made a human a human? The thought of her upper face being the only part of what connected him and her to the same species made him frustrated.

"Nice to meet you, Major. Any idea what the hell I'm supposed to talk to you about?" he asked in as uncaring a tone as he could muster. Before allowing the robo-woman to respond, the Brick House turned his attention to the other man and offered him a cigarette as well. "Tarhars Premium Tabacco from the Core Worlds," he said with a grin. "Expensive. Rare. Try it. Love it."

While waiting for the doctor to either take or deny the precious item, Reva turned to the sudden arrival of his drinks and then to the man himself. Whether or not the good doctor had accepted the gift, Reva pocketed the pack of remaining smokes, took a drag of his - smooth vanilla flavor - and sipped from his spice liquor - harsh and biting.

Irveric Tavlar. A shadowed man with a shadowed past and shadowed methods - a former military genius of the Empire with freedom and honor as his paragons turned now to its ruler through betrayal and heathenry. Irony at its finest, really. The speech was all well and good to Reva, who smoked quietly and drank even quieter. Awards and callouts were made, declarations of grandeur and victory, the whole works. All in all, it was a fine speech. He gulped down the rest of his spice liquor and stamped out the stub of his smoke. Another speech on the path of a hundred more. Each world taken, conquered, redesigned always had a sermon. It had gotten to the point that the Brick House loathed hearing one.

"I hate speeches," Reva grumbled as gripped the glass of his second drink with his massive hand. "Most are ramblin' and proclaimin' a bunch of nonsense. Takes a man out of the mood for drinking. That one was pretty decent. Gotta give it to the fellow. Made me believe for a bit."

 

[Djorn Bline]

She always had that unique style of dialogue with her. Casual, cool, a bit of sass, something way beyond being proper. Barely any poison in her words. Wondered if she had ever gotten upset or pissed off before. She most likely did when she found out about him on whatever file she was provided with, knowing everything about him was a lie...partially. But then she also lied to him, too. A simple reunion disguised as a trap for him. He considered them even, but for how long? How long until he’d make a new series of lies?

Maybe tonight he’d start anew, although it would be far from his record of starting with a new slate to immediately taint it with deceit.

“More than that, it gives me insight and a new vision. Credit goes to Irveric,” he said, replying back to her sassy remark of his uniform. To him it was a symbol, a symbol of shedding his skin like a snake. A metamorphosis from his days as being a pawn for the Sith and their machinations, to a man that would find camaraderie along mere mortal men just like him. An Imperial Order not based on Religious ideologies, but on the ambitions of men and women seeking for a Galaxy under the rule of order and security.

His eyebrows raised slightly at the mention of the fellow right next to her. Her husband? That was way too much information for her to announce, especially to a man like him. What would stop him if he decided to use this information to his advantage? Nothing except himself. His career in intelligence made him understand the value of secrecy and information. Something that made him envy regular folk and soldiers that weren’t in his position.

“Congratulations? Didn’t know Jedi were allowed to have attachments, but I do wish you joy...and luck to those resumes,” a small quip to Maynard. Did he genuinely meant wishing them joy? Or was it for the sake of following a norm to give to newly wed couples? A bit a both, he did care somewhat. If he didn’t, he would’ve had Loske fall into his traps. “Rank is classified, Loske, but maybe you’ll have a friend slither around and retrieve more information about me,” an acknowledgement of Allyson, the double agent for the Alliance. Although while he wasn’t a Moff or someone with governing powers, he was rather delicate in letting foreigners know about his rank and works that were in the making; but she’d get an idea of what he could be doing in this newly christened Empire. “But a pleasure, nonetheless.”

Seconds later the Imperator made his appearance, standing before all on a podium raised in height a few feet to gaze about the crowd. As always, a celebration like this deserved some form of a speech which Tavlar delivered perfectly. Djorn was surprised to get some sort of recognition from the man right before he closed his speech. “Terrific man, the Galaxy needs more soldiers like him.” More iron, more determination.

Something more solid.

Rowan Corde | Loske Treicolt | Maynard Treicolt​

 

[Meshla Detta]

REACH

Terrace Area
Imperial Palace

​

"Why did you spare Vilaz?"

Of all the questions to ask her, right here right now...

Seydou of Thyrsus had been very contemplative ever since the battle that had taken place on Bastion and nearly killed him. It was evident just now as she had caught a glimpse of him looking at a reflection of himself in the gleam of a polished column inside the Imperial Palace as the old fortress was called now. The Detta did not know what the grizzled young Vizsla was seeing, but she had an inkling it had to do with his father, Ronan Vizsla from the topic of his inquiry to her.

Where to begin regarding Vilaz Munin ? The Concordian was her mother's husband and the father to her two half-siblings so they were blood family that way. He had been a mentor to her while growing up. He helped Briika Munin find joy again after the heartbreak of her own father's death and the divorce of the one to follow in his footsteps. But the warlord had also made a deal with the devil, which cost Meshla her own joy... So why did she spare him her blade?

Meshla sighed and took up a spot next to Amon at the railing, looking out over Ravelin as he did now contemplating just like him. Boy, were they a pair.

"That is a difficult question for me to answer, Amon. I won't lie and say I haven't thought about not sparing him. It took all I could muster not to run him through with my beskad more than once... But in the end, I knew if I did it wouldn't bring my Val back to me."

She paused for a moment to let the emotions of losing her child settle before continuing. It still hurt like it happened yesterday though not as intense. Time is supposed to heal these kinds of deep wounds... but it doesn't all the way as there will always be a scar left where the hole in the heart is.

"It would only cause more pain and suffering to those I called family. I didn't want that for Kaiyra and Adenn, my younger siblings. I know what it is like to not have a father in one's life anymore. I didn't want that on my hands."

"As for my mother and stepfather... I will not let them forget as I won't. But if I'm honest with myself, I hope someday before I march on I may be able to forgive them."

Meshla turned her head to gaze over at Amon; her blue orbs searching his hazel, then she favored him with a small smile while reaching for his hand.

"Though I'm not ready to do that just yet... so you are stuck with me for a while more. Well, that is if you'll have me around?"

 

[Omar Melnau]

A_SOCIAL_OCCASION
Dr. Vero Eckes, PhD
Independent Tasking
-Bastion-
Present Day
TAGS_OPEN / Noel Strasza / Rea Giedfield
= WEAPONRY :: BH "Specter" Vibroknife =
= EQUIPMENT :: A datapad and a confident smile =
= ARMOR :: A well-made suit =

The way she stressed 'doctor' made the... doctor... crack something of a wry smile. Did she know the game then? No. His credentials were nothing short of impeccable, at least as far as whatever computer was put inside her skull might be able to discern. At the best he would read on official papers as little less than exactly what he claimed. At the worst, he'd be a non-ity. Either way, he was raking in what he wanted. Was she doing the same?

Then a cigarette was thrust into his face - the one with a cigarette already in it - by the Mountain that had approached them.

"Tarhars Premium Tabacco from the Core Worlds," ... "Expensive. Rare. Try it. Love it."

That smirk only grew as he snubbed his own comparatively modest cigarette out to take one from the proffered pack, "Thank you so kindly." And with a nod, "Dr. Vero Eckes, at your service." But it seemed that attention would be "robbed" from him yet again with the coming attraction they'd all assembled for.

Irveric Tavlar was almost impossible to miss even without a COMPNOR officer declaring his arrival for the room at large to see. And with lights turned to him and the whole room drawing eyes on him, it must have felt like something else to be up on that stage. It was telling what sort of man he was to be so composed amidst it all.

"I hate speeches," ... "Most are ramblin' and proclaimin' a bunch of nonsense. Takes a man out of the mood for drinking. That one was pretty decent. Gotta give it to the fellow. Made me believe for a bit."

That last point drew a surprised laugh from the doctor. One that clearly caught him off guard, if nobody else. At least with how he nearly spilled his whiskey from jolting forward. But he was quick to recover with a drag of that vanilla tobacco and a short sip of the mercifully still-present whiskey.

"Not much of a patriot, eh?" He shook his head, "Fair enough. Healthy skepticism of one's home nation is common in the military. Especially considering everything we ask of you?" He shook his head as he took another sip, "You'd be crazy not to be a little skeptical."

With all of that settled, he fetched his sunglasses from his collar and put them on, "Anyways, I'd best be on my way. It was a pleasure meeting you, sir." The towering man earned a nod as the doctor snuffed his cigarette, before he nodded to Strasza, "And to you, Major."

He threw a few credits onto the bartop, "For the drinks," a few more. "And the company. Jate ca, Major." Maybe the coy wink would be lost under the dark shades of the glasses as he turned to leave, or maybe not, but it was only fair to give her something after she'd done so well to keep her guard up through it all.

With a flourish to draw fresh cigarette, he turned to leave.

 

[Rowan Corde]

//: The Truth Shall Set You Free //:
//: Loske Treicolt //: Djorn Bline //:

​

The war with the Sith had kept everyone busy, and one face that Rowan had not expected to see as the man she found in her interrogation room. They had a history, one that was plagued with misunderstandings and work. Yet, standing beside him as he wore the Imperial uniform. As she watched him, Rowan felt a sense of deja vu. They had known each other for a long time. With that length of time, they had seen the best and the worst of each other. ​

​

Rowan decided against the military garb; she had been away on missions for the ISB and gathering intel for the government's future endeavors. She dodged the front lines of the war with the Sith, which she didn't mind at all. Seeing some of her former comrades would have struck a nerve that she wasn't ready to deal with. Already seeing Djorn was enough of an annoyance. Though, as she stood and watched him as he moved and interacted with the people of the Imperial Order, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. When she had realized what was happening, the Atrisian woman covered her face and hid the happiness. ​

​

Letting Djorn know that she was happy to see him would be the last thing she'd ever do. The only time that man would know her to be pleased to see him would when he died. Thinking of him dead upset her, but he was the one that left her to die. Rolling her shoulders back, she busied herself with a conversation. Nearly everyone that could have come came, and pleasantries were exchanged. She moved about the crowd with a glass of champagne, keeping a close eye on the former Sith Moff. ​

​

While the NIO trusted him, Rowan didn't. The man was like her; they had the same training and the same field experience. Her trust in him was that he could do his job either for the NIO or for the Empire. Either way, he was on her chit list. After finishing her glass, she placed it on the empty tray of the passing waiter, figuring she had left Djorn to wonder about her long enough, she looked over and watched him talking to a blonde. Rowan knew well enough who the woman was, and there was a hint of jealousy that burned in the back of her mind. ​

​

"Dog." She grumbled under her breath as she retained the calm composure making her way towards them. She was able to catch a bit of the conversation, hearing that the woman was interested in the former S-IMP position. Rowan stepped forward and looped her arm under Djorn's and smiled softly towards the woman. She nodded, agreeing with the man's previous statement of congratulations. In that brief moment, the woman felt guilty for assuming that there was something between the two. ​

​

But, still, there was something. "He's a suspicious one, isn't he." Rowan looked at the man and gave him a pleasant smile that the former Moff would recognize that he was in some sort of trouble later on. "Will give it to Tavlar, he's good at his speeches. Good job, you." Rowan patted Djorn's arm as he was given recognition. Looking back towards Loske, she introduced herself. "Rowan Bline, Djorn's wife." She patted his arm once more and continued to smile. She hadn't gone by his last name in ages but now seemed like a good time to do so. "Congratulations on your marriage as well - we'll have to properly celebrate."​

 

[Maynard Treicolt]

O U T R I D E R
THE GALACTIC ALLIANCE
FOCUS | Loske Treicolt | Halketh | Djorn Bline | Rowan Corde

All Maynard could really think as he buried seamlessly into his surroundings, pulling the liquor to his lips before downing his sorrows in the bitter intoxication. In spite of all the new faces, there all really wasn't too much variation, just as he and Loske did, he took the reprieve given to him in not having to pick something to dress up in when 'formal military wear' fit the dress code. Instead, he was content to let Loske run the show, lead them along.

She operated better in these sorts of situations anyway. Where one, before they'd ever met was a constant cornerstone to a revolving group of close friends and confidants, Maynard was all in his lonesome traversing deep space, tapping odd jobs and narrowly escaping certain death in the scum's corners of the Galaxy. But that was before his wild spacer self was gentrified in the gold and blue of the Galactic Alliance and he swore himself to the Jedi once more. Even if he all but wobbled the tight rope line of adhering to the archaic code. He always had his own way of going on just about anything.

If he didn't, he probably wouldn't be here at all right now. His self reflecting malaise was interrupted when the Rattataki woman approached him, his gaze widening as he peered over to the woman, nearly coughing down his last sip of liquor as she spoke up to him.

"Not one for parties, huh?"

"C'moooon..."

"Don't you just want to rub elbows and make connections? Everyone is wearing suits, so they must be important, right?"

The cadence, tone, infection of it all in the context of his senses hazy from the liquor he sought about drowning his belly in drew the Concordian's gaze to snap to Loske in a nervous reaction. He himself genuinely couldn't tell the aims of this woman and cared not to tread anywhere his newly found bride might find herself ill at ease so he opted for-

"Uh- well...not really. Always been more for- well...I don't know, smaller sorta gatherings. Not sure how many more 'connections' I really need." He spoke up, voice dipped in that agrarian spacer drawl more than usual since he'd immigrated to The Core. He shifted his gaze, eyeing Loske once more as if for some sort of vindication in his...deflection? Or was it all but an honest recounting of his own thoughts. Even if being a military commander and a sort've pseudo propaganda figure in the Alliance meant he'd be destined for these sort of gatherings every once and a while. Luckily, he could stomach champagnes and wines a bit better than the woman at his arm who all but keeled over at the first sip unless it was Meranzane Gold and all the thoughts of memories past and more to come that came with it from the pair.

Then the two managed managed to place themselves squarely in the attention of Djorn Bline. He'd heard sparce tales of this Sith from Loske and figured he might only encounter him with a cobalt saber at his neck or a blaster pistol at his temple. Yet here he roamed, a free man. Not that it wasn't uncharacteristic of the New Imperials, just about every other Sith Imp they captured they placed in a fresh coat of auric plates harkening to vintage Imperialism before twirling them back to march in the direction they'd just come from.

It was genius really and likely a causation of their victory here even if it resulted in awkward confrontations such as these.

If they got nothing else out of this conversation, they at least could proclaim that sacred union aloud for another other than the two of them to hear. The gesture threatened to paint a grin across his lips, stifled if only by the need to steel his expression in the face of the once Imperial inquisitor, offering a nod to the man in the wake of Loske's introduction, finding her words fit securely enough that he didn't have to add all too much to it.

"A pleasure." He said, stepping forward before reaching a hand out toward the agent, offering a faint smile as he kept his even gaze set sharply on Djorn's own. Posturing, perhaps. But there was no reason...no reason for now they should treat the other as enemy. Past sins were past sins, just about any man or woman draped in grey in this hall had committed them and the Alliance marched to war with them regardless.

He kept his eyes matched with Djorn for a wary moment before the tension was snapped right in two as the Imperator began to speak. His name, Loske's name and Waylon's were all muttered by the very lips of the Imperator beneath the Iron Sun. He'd be a lying man if he pretended the gesture didn't raise the hairs on the back of his neck. The ode to service. For all that he respected Emmen Tagge and for all that the sentiment of his vow of loyalty to the Alliance meant when he said it to the Chancellor, some how, this hit much harder. He gave a brief applause with everyone else as Tavlar made his way from the podium, nodding along with the sentiment, using Djorn's words as his proxy to voice any grateful sentiment of his own. Whatever else might come of Tavlar's reign, he'd exalt that moment prior. He'd hope he'd not forget the names he'd muttered, that the Treicolt name all bled for his war, his ambitions of Empire.

Then Rowan approached. Even if Maynard joined Loske's side once more with a grasp of his hand with hers, it was difficult to deny that if the ISB could do anything, they knew how to pick their operatives. Luckily there wouldn't be any attempts to draw a schism between the two Treicolts as Rowan announced her name in line with Djorn's. Even if it was a feint, it made her intent known.

"Think we decided...against any sort of real ceremony but- I guess celebrating is different." Maynard iterates as he plucks another drink from a passing tray, his gaze sifting to meet with Loske's once more at the sentiment. Not that they hadn't celebrated plenty in their clandestine retreat to Ord Cantrell shortly before returning back to The Core and now back to the Braxant Run.

"Not sure this is the place or time but- I suppose liquor'll have to do if nothing else will. Even if someone can't hold theirs." He remarks as he takes in another draw of the alcohol, moving to wrap an arm around Loske's waist as if to make it way too obvious who he was referring to.

 

[Lucien Dooku]

THE NEXT SCREEN

Halketh

---

---

An gruff voice echoed off the speakers from inside the palace, no doubt Irveric Tavlar beginning the ceremony after the gathering of Imperials and allies reached its peak. An ear would perk up as the man spoke, yet Lucien kept his attention upon his companion out on the balcony of Bastion. Lucien would agree with Halketh with a nod. It was indeed refreshing to hear words coming from another of the Empire's ruling caste who didn't spew the same authoritarian dribble that was common among their peers.

"I suspect Bastion will see its fair share of reconstruction. Both in the infrastructure itself, and the minds of the people." Luc would add to the conversation. The Sith-Imperials, as they referred to themselves as, were known for the heavy amounts of indoctrination that they foolishly believed would keep order within their Empire. "As for Nirauan, I've had big dreams since long before I became a Warlord. Dreams of leading the reconquest of Serenno, for finding my friends out on the Rim after this war was brought to a close."

He'd come a long way from being some adolescent prince, fresh to the Unknown Regions with a chip sitting on his shoulder. Those dreams were now seen as too far-reaching when compared to the current ambitions that could be attained with his own two hands. " Many of our peers are too blind to understand that we are not the Empire of old. They seek to pacify their planets through fear and authoritarianism, when those same worlds could easily be made placid through means that are far more accustomed to the Core Worlds of the Galactic Alliance."

Pressing against the rails with his back towards the view, Luc peered at his blind acquaintance directly. "I will make Nirauan a bastion of its own-- I have to. Even if the rest of the Empire follows this shift to extreme spectrum of ideology. This war was not fought for the tyrants of the Zambrano Empire to be replaced by those who merely dropped the Sith from their title and kept the Imperial label. We can do better than our predecessors."

He shrugged, forgetting that the man was blind for a moment.

"That's what I believe, anyway."
​

 

[Noel Strasza]

B O D Y / P R I S O N
Major Noel "Deader" Strasza
Fortress Imperator
Revelry
Prestige
Focus | Omar Melnau Reva Giedfield

"Nice to meet you, Major. Any idea what the hell I'm supposed to talk to you about?" he asked in as uncaring a tone as he could muster. Before allowing the robo-woman to respond, the Brick House turned his attention to the other man and offered him a cigarette as well. "Tarhars Premium Tabacco from the Core Worlds," he said with a grin. "Expensive. Rare. Try it. Love it."

​

Strasza sat by, nursing her smoke as the titan of a man asked her the question she expected to come and took his addressing the doctor as a sign to remain quiet and just keep puffing away. She was far more content now than she had been to begin with. Harmless vapor slipped from her nostrils, coiling over itself in a climbing quest to assimilate with the rest of the air. It was filtered, as expected, with nothing but harmless moisture remaining after her rebreather apparatus filtered the particles and chemicals from the collective. Yet, it was enough for one who had come to appreciate so little.​

"Yes," the Major answered the question firstly, "And it is a pleasure to meet you, as well-" She silenced herself as the crackling of microphone derailed her train of thought, and the stage lights turning on to illuminate their leader caught her eye. The cyborg twisted herself around on her stool, keeping an elbow propped against the surface of the bar in support of the action, and looked on as The Imperator spoke. His words processed in the whirring depths of her augmented mind, coaxing at the patriotism she had always clung to. The pride. The dignity, however scattered it felt at this point, and the reverence she held for those who had not been so fortunate during the siege.​

She bowed her head at the notion of this, reflecting in a moment of remembrance. But it was fleeting. It always would be. The galaxy kept turning regardless of how many peoples and worlds perished in the process of its security. That was the nature of things. With the barkeep distracted, the woman reached a cybernetic arm over the bar, hooking around to swiftly grasp the neck of a whiskey bottle, and she hoisted it forth. Wasting no time from that point, she topped her glass off and downed it just as quickly. Now, she was starting to feel the effects. A weight settled in her mock limbs, dragged at her shoulders, and hazed her augmented sight. Yet, her mind felt just as sharp and keen as it had been.​

Alerts cropped up across her retinal HUD. ​

Perhaps it would have been better to heed the warning of the doctors who had come to care for her.​

Regardless of this, the major folded her arms loosely and leaned forward against the bar, chewing on the end of her cigarette with growing clumsiness as her upper lip numbed. ​

With all of that settled, he fetched his sunglasses from his collar and put them on, "Anyways, I'd best be on my way. It was a pleasure meeting you, sir." The towering man earned a nod as the doctor snuffed his cigarette, before he nodded to Strasza, "And too you, Major." He threw a few credits onto the bartop, "For the drinks," a few more. "And the company. Jate ca, Major."

​

The voice and clatter of credit both caught her attention and the Mando'a cut through the humming air left in The Imperator's wake like a hot knife. He knew. The dilation of her pupils and quick draw of her breath betrayed the control of her emotions she had displayed, and her nostrils flared, expelling the breath she had only supped seconds prior. She stared at him for a moment, gobsmacked. "Ret'urcye mhi, doctor." Strasza answered robotically, staring at his back as he made his departure. He had done very little to assure her his intentions, and that jab had only served to fill in the blanks his mystique had left her with. Once he was out of earshot, she drew a much deeper breath- heaving her shoulders fro- and held it for seven counts.​

"I don't like that shit. Not one bit." She muttered, shaking her head with the diversion of her attention back to Reva, "Yeah, I know why. I'm your new C.O. New team's formin', and that's all I can really say here. It's me, you, and some Imperial Knight for now, though I've yet to run into him." A jerk of her head towards the ironclad knight speaking with his subordinate a good distance away served as an indication, "We could probably ask him if this Knight is in attendance, but frankly, I'm just gonna sit my happy ass right here and kill this bottle. You gonna help me?" ​

 

[Halketh]

B L U E _ M O N D A Y
The Vulture

Celebration
Tags | Lucien Dooku

Spoiler: regality

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

The crackling buzz of speaker passing the words of their leader into their air earned a mild twitch of his scarred lips in irritation. The feedback whine was certainly a nuisance. All the same, he listened, facing forward as he had been previously to gaze into the humming Force drifting about. The air itself was alive. When it had concluded, he sighed in some wistful content, offering his full attention back to the man by his side.​

​

The words offered there were of much greater interest than those uttered for the soldiers who propped their faction upon the pedestal it currently resided. Words offered in relative private were always far more important, else they would not be kept private. And from one sharing parts of his mentality, as well. It was refreshing and encouraging both.​

​

"You're a dreamer," The Vulture started in juxtaposition to his own alignment, "we are in awfully short supply of those who dare envision a world beyond tomorrow. So lost are the others to the now, they fail to consider the future. The potential. Provided, I suppose my remarking such a thing is on-the-nose, given my position, yet, I find your perspective reassuring. Many may disagree with you, but I have yet to glean reason to. Your words are infallible in theory, and as mere words, that is all they are. For now. I've no doubt you will achieve what it is you seek to, however impossible the others may try to make it with their insistence on strangulation as a method to control." The miraluka snickered devilishly, reaching a hand up to adjust the rest of the ironic crown he had chosen to don for this venture to the former palace of their enemy.​

​

"But surely, Lord Dooku, you've been able to see through the smoke, no? One of your insight to our tumultuous reality will no doubt be able to see beyond the veil." He allowed his cryptic question to hang in the air between them, granting it the space for ponderance that it deserved. "What will you do when our alliances are no longer alliances?" His head turned to angle in Lucien's direction then, "The Sith Empire is our collective foe now, but what happens if we succeed in eradicating those we've been sworn to? When those who aided the shape of your perspective into what it is are on the business end of your saber instead? It isn't often I have the opportunity to pick the brain of a like-minded warlord, and pray pardon my reaching curiosity- I'm an absolute criminal in that regard."​

 

[Ravraa Vyshraal]

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



POSTING FOR Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt WITH PERMISSION​

“Hey..yeah hey Sergeant!” Lyra snapped, pulled from the muted reverly. The woman stared at the togruta officer. There had been a hush across the personale and officers that circulated around that small slice of the hall. Her servo hefted up plainly above the grey scorned heads of the genty to flip the soldier off with her chrome sheen middle finger. Another pale and slim offending gesture joined her and Captain Nima thrusted her hand up beside her. “Yeah fuck you! It was the three fucking collosuss sithspawn, thanks.”

---

The Togruta simply stood there, shaking his head with a smile that seemed like it was about to split his head in half. Next to Dorn-2, Lyra was the only soul that had made it all the way from the start with him. Agrippa never had such a chance. Whatever dice had rolled to earn the end of Gladius company was tossed by the divines long before they had ever set foot on Bastion.

There were few souls here that remembered the start of that war, two whole years ago. Those that did, however, were bonded. Through blood, through comradery, through friendship. He still remembered that lazy afternoon he spent with the Commander and Agrippa, talking shit and taking none, slinging bolts down range. Felt like it was only yesterday. Now they stood apart, two different walks, torn through two different sides of the same charge.

“Now, hey! That ain’t much of an excuse, tin-man! You gone went in there, a-blastin’ everything in sight, should’ve been able to make your way out of it!”

He was laughing now, taking steps in Lyra’s direction. Shaking his head as he went. He couldn’t have been happier to be told to fuck off.

She knew that wasn’t what he had in mind.

Midwalk, he brought himself to a stop and turned, a voice was booming through the room. Having started up with no fanfare, no announcement. The Imperator himself stood behind a podium, mere feet away from the lowly dredges of Imperial society. He began talking into a mic.

Talking. As if he was no one different from you or anyone else in the room. As if Ravraa was a buddy that he shared too many drinks with, as if this entire room was filled with brothers and sisters of his extended family.

It was a farcry from the battlefield scarred man that the 501st told stories of.

He listened to the man talk about peace and freedom, and a time after the Sith Empire, and the eventual rollover the tide of darkness. Then came the death toll, and Ravraa bowed his head. Offering up a softly muttered prayer to whatever was listening. The speech, as much as it held him and demanded his attention, was speeding by. Like a train rolling through a town. All encompassing but passing none the less.

He would remember every word.

“All the same...there are heroes among us tonight. Those who deserve our praise, our recognition for baring their heroic spirits. Men and women such as Captain Ravraa Vyshraal…”

There was a beat, maybe two, where Ravraa simply stood.

“Think I’m goin’ right smart crazy…”

With his new promotion in mind, the Imperator’s speech slowly slurring due to the realization of responsibility, he turned on a heel and began to make his way to the bar.

 

[Seydou of Thyrsus]

The Politics & The Life
​

He dived into an ocean of thoughts as he listened to her. The more she spoke, the more he drowned, the more her voice was muffled from the tendrils suffocating him. She never forgave and never forgot Munin's actions but she never did to him what he did to her. It shocked the Vizsla to the very core of his existence.

Could he ever be able to?

If anguish could be measured, surely the loss of an offspring ranked higher than that of a sibling, yet... Yet, he could not believe himself capable of sparing anyone at fault for the death of his sister. It was a curse he did not admit, this eternal quest of vengeance had dictated his life, justified his existence, his mistakes, and ruled over his heart with an iron fist. How much longer could he cope with this strife? How much more could he run on this fuel before the fuel lit to fire and burned him from within to a crisp, to a shell of his former self. Amon Vizsla, once the proud son of the Alor, now the shadow of a wretched and wicked man thirsty for blood and for vengeance no matter the cost.

No matter the cost.

He swam back to the surface of reality without an idea of how long had he remained silent since she had asked her question.

"Yes." uncertain at first, still shaking off the succumbing to the darker side of his self. Then with a more confident, louder even, voice, "Yes."

The Mandalorian recognized his feelings towards Meshla, perhaps his last lifeline to who he was from who he had become. Or so he believed.

He put his hand over hers, a rare show of affection for a man reserved from such semantics. No more words came to him for a long minute.

And then, "Times are a-changing, Meshla." a distant look at the sprawling cityscape.

"I do not know what the future holds..." he held her hand tighter, looked at her and added, "...but I know what the present does."

Meshla Detta​

 

[Loske Treicolt]

BASTION // REVELIN // FORTRESS IMPERATOR
INTERACTING: Maynard Treicolt // Djorn Bline // Rowan Corde ​

Maynard’s reaction to the Rattataki’s introduction at least, if nothing else, gave her some solace that she hadn’t overreacted with the spark of confused spite. Even if it had been a flash in the pan, she felt better about not barking anything out and treating everything as placidly normal as anyone else. Well. Any other Imp.

“Congratulations? Didn’t know Jedi were allowed to have attachments, but I do wish you joy...and luck to those resumes,”
“Rank is classified, Loske, but maybe you’ll have a friend slither around and retrieve more information about me,”
“But a pleasure, nonetheless.”

Between wearing robes and honourary codes of yore, Djorn’s interpretation of Jedi was a far cry from the reality Loske operated in. There was inarguable merit to remaining unattached. It meant putting all focus on servitude to the cause. She’d been that person the first time she’d met Djorn, just starting her tutelage with the Jedi. Everything had changed after Honoghr, as if humanity had been unlocked. Maybe it made her too emotional now, but she wouldn’t change it.

“Thanks. ” She beamed, though the smile faded when he refused to humour her with his new rank within The Imperial hierarchy. And even further about the slithering. While she and Allyson might have been taking steps to mend their friendship, the exposé of The Empire’s leadership was a cruel reminder of the lie that had plagued their friend group for too long. That upward curve was replaced with a humourless expression and a taut shake of her head; which was mostly overpowered by Maynard leaning in with a handshake to conclude the introduction.

Tavlar’s speech rekindled a reaction similar to the one she’d had to his personal message to Maynard on Scipio. Apprehension, mostly. He was an intentional, stalwart man who took his cause and the people that supported him seriously. So much so in fact, that his resolve was almost tangible. And for everything about him that put her at unease, the honour and inclusion on the personal touch were admirable. And that’s where she put her focus, especially tonight. It was almost a story, starting with the names lost and ending with the allegiances forged. Names. Names bathed in appreciation and honoured with memory and gold. At the mention of his cousin’s, she eased against Maynard, daring a glance to gauge any reaction. He kept himself measured. As he had when the news had been delivered. There was nothing false about it, the gated grief –– but it continued to defy her expectations.

“Terrific man, the Galaxy needs more soldiers like him.”

“Mm. You've met him in person, I take it." Was all she offered in a low hum. Her unsolicited opinion of The Imperator had been aired enough, and she needn’t make herself so vulnerable again. Especially not in a crowd that preyed on such exploits. That’s how they’d made it this far.
As an ode to personalities and the importance of cultivating uniqueness in a room painted in grey, uniformed monoculture, Loske offered an appreciative olive branch as an attempt to smooth over her otherwise salted remarks. The Imperator seemed mono focused, myopic to nuances against his vision with respect only to those who wholeheartedly shared his vision. Au contraire, her gaze leveled with Djorn’s knowingly: “He probably would have taken the shot on Vicondor.”

Anything further on the sentiment of her anxieties with the Imperials was cut short by a remarkably unexpected introduction. There was an affectionate interaction between the short-haired arrival and Djorn, and it was soon announced why.

"He's a suspicious one, isn't he."
"Will give it to Tavlar, he's good at his speeches. Good job, you."
"Rowan Bline, Djorn's wife."
"Congratulations on your marriage as well - we'll have to properly celebrate."

Her surprise was clearly evidenced. Her countenance betray any sort of subtleties she might have had in reaction to the announcement, and she glanced left-right in thinly veiled disbelief.

“Nice to meet you Rowan. This is suddenly a serendipitous double date.”

"Think we decided...against any sort of real ceremony but- I guess celebrating is different."

"Not sure this is the place or time but- I suppose liquor'll have to do if nothing else will. Even if someone can't hold theirs."

Hosting a real ceremony would have given them more reign over their guest list. A snide comment that felt unnecessary and harsh, so she kept it to herself while observing the tray that Maynard had discovered. It looked almost as potent as the one she’d managed to offboard earlier, but she’d try again.

Mid-sniff, her husband delivered a jab and grab and she scrunched her nose in protest to both the accusation and unsavoury scent of the drink she’d plucked. A wry grin melted her reproachful expression and she shrugged in playful admittance.

“Practice makes perfect, right?” With a knowing glance at the pair of Imperial Intelligence agents, she raised her glass in a mock toast, as if inviting them to join in on the hilarity that was her intolerance.

“And Bastion. What a goal, and it’s done. That’s probably where the celebration focus should be tonight, and uh since celebrating is different... it can be to finding pockets of happiness along the way.” The drink angled back to her and the smell was..just way too much. It was in her nostrils before the drink could touch her tongue and the sensation was shocking, which made the sip just itty bitty.

“I wonder how many people in this room are thinking about what comes next, and how many are just grateful to be here.”

 

[Djorn Bline]

Location: Fortress Imperator
Tags: Rowan Corde | Loske Treicolt | Maynard Treicolt

He returned the handshake back to Maynard, a firm one that is. There was no respect in a pitiful shake, even amongst rivals of political ideologies. No doubt, more than that as he was sure Loske told everything to Maynard about him. He wouldn’t blame them if they were hostile towards him, but for the sake of publicity in front of soldiers and officers of different uniforms they didn’t.

Just enjoy the night before pointing blasters at each other.

“I have, yes,” he replied, honestly, to Loske’s question about Irveric. The Imperator and him did cross paths each other more than once before Bastion. “You know you serve a great leader when they’re willing to put themselves on the line of battle, I can’t seem to digest serving one that likes to be behind a desk,” a subtle remark (or jab, depending on the POV) on the Alliance’s Chancellor and their senators. He once, as a child, agreed with the ideas of democracy and republics during his upbringing in the Imperial Academy. That all changed when he witnessed the corruption it could breed, and what happened to worlds that didn’t align with Imperial doctrine. He’d rather trust one man with absolute power than thousands of individuals all with their own agendas. The Alliance preached they were united, but their senators proved otherwise.

He was about to comment on Vicondor, where Loske set up her trap for Djorn and when he had the chance to shoot her, when his wife came by his side, wrapping her arm with his. Affections that dumbfounded Djorn for a second, but made sure to conceal his confusion with a beaming smile towards Rowan. It was...weird, he admitted. She was still furious with him, evidence to her interrogating him and how they were “taking” things between them. Was it genuine, or something else? He’d like to believe it was genuine, but she couldn’t get over her anger at him so quickly. For now, he’d believe it was genuine.

“Aisare,” the word regarded for Rowan, a word in her native tongue on Atrisia translated to “beloved” with his free hand reaching for hers looper around his arm. It was a word he picked up during the least angsty days of their relationship. But what bothered him was the fact others knew about them, especially non-Imperials. Ever since entering the world of espionage, everything was a secret. He couldn’t allow anyone, save Rowan, know about personal details about him. It was something they could use against him. Something that could be used against Rowan, too. She was pissed and angry at him, but that didn’t change the fact how he felt about her.

He still kept that smile, a happy one that wasn’t forced.

The Commissioner grabbed two drinks from the waiter’s round platter that served drinks. One for him, and another for Rowan with Loske already plucking one to herself in order for a toast.

“Just don’t give her anything that’s pink, polar opposite to what she can tolerate,” an inside joke as Djorn knew Loske preferred the color blue, and recalled to her consuming a pink mixed drink on Bespin. Might need to be fact checked on that one. A quick sip of the drink, the glass still containing some of the alcohol he ingested which was whirled around in his hand as he thought about Loske’s question. He knew one possible answer, yet wouldn’t spill it.

“Reconstruction, though there are pockets of Sith insurgencies to be expected. No war is ever finished,” a true statement as the Galaxy was always hosting some war even when it just finished one. Wars that they had inherited from their ancestors. But they’d all ceased...with the Iron Sun reigning above. Something every Imperial dreamed about.