Secured Workshop
Location Undisclosed
Executor Varanin variably stood and sat over a creature on a table; it had been there for some time as she carefully peeled away the layers of its hide with a small blade. She did this when she could, and for myriad purposes or reasons the subject was sometimes humanoid, sometimes still living in the midst of it, but the patience and focus required in every instance was
meditative.
The myriad voices of the council had begun to whisper in Varanin’s ear a couple of hours into this work through an extensively encoded stream, while the visual feed was shown on a datapad propped up nearby, which she glanced at, occasionally. Warlord
Marlon Sularen
managed military affairs with a masterful hand, without her active presence, and she had felt little need to intervene. As such, when the summit
started with the matter of the galactic entities that encroached on or approached imperial territory, apart from noting any forming plans and therefore the potential need for deployment of her Elites - they were well and truly
hers now - it didn’t interfere with her ability to pay attention to the skinning.
When
Domaric Mordane
shifted the discourse to the matter of the Emperor’s disappearance, however, this gave her pause. Ibaris turned and peered at the visual of the summit curiously, for she had known with no shred of doubt about Solipsis' withdrawal when she felt the investiture of his power drop off some time before this; none of her Elites had seemed to notice, as the feeling of it still lingered, but faded faintly, day by day.
For her, though, it had been a tether rather than a boon, power she hadn’t particularly
needed, but it was all part of the agreement: Solipsis had no reason to trust her, despite her interest in and intent to see his vision to fruition; she had the power to match him, if not surpass. It had been insurance. So, when Solpsis had vanished, all she could do was
laugh. Ibaris had been quite curious what would come of his return to this plane of existence,
particularly when she was wholly convinced that the only person responsible, the only one who would be so self-assured, so
bereft of fucks to make that happen was
none other than her gods-damned mother. And now?
What did that woman think of this investment
now?
Had this all been a waste of her time?
No, but rather than brazenly doing something about the vacuum of power left in the wake of his disappearance, Ibaris had instead left the situation to fester, and watched curiously for what
that would do. She was taking the time to assess what she was working with, and watching for how long it would take for the council to bring the matter to the table… or if any of
them had the balls to dare to reach for the throne. But while what was beginning to unfold in that meeting was hardly unexpected at first, as more voices added their opinions to the discussion, she was soon driven to abandon her manual work, and set the scalpel aside.
While
Antipater
and
Moff Evner Braxiatel
endorsed Sularen and
Valek Zuraxin
, respectively, which she found
amusing -
Onrai
speaking to the pittance of Zuraxin’s merits
certainly contributed to that feeling - and Sularen’s talk of votes made her think of
Naboo given the context, it wasn’t until Mordane opened his mouth again and suggested
her replacement by none other than that unproven whelp of Solipsis, in the same breath as supporting Sularen’s nomination, that her expression began to sour.
Ibaris glanced at the scalpel, momentarily entertaining an impulse. “
What an unfortunate turn of events--” But he wasn’t done. “--
a dyad?” She blinked, tapping a finger on the table; an ember of her worsening mood flared in tandem as she looked back to the coverage. “
You can’t be serious.”
Brutalis' railing against the process, his anger at the very idea of replacing the Emperor, was uninformed, but it served to stoke her own just a little further, such that when the discourse continued to
support the absurd idea of this
dyad, it only made her anger all the hotter.
“
This is a council of idiots,” she ground out, hazel-eyes boring into the image of that supposed goddess as she yapped, and threatened one of her own, “
uh-uh--” her jaw worked back and forth, “--
you keep your hands off what’s mine, you little--” her hands flexed, and released, flexed, and released, as she breathed steady breaths, working to get a hold of herself as Onrai continued to speak and put herself forward as a mediator of this
farce of a concept.
Saner voices returned to the conversation, as Braxiatel brought up the faults with this idea of power-sharing, and she began to pull herself back in. It was about fucking time. The droid Moff of Jaemus reiterated those faults in his own way, and a frigid calm settled over her, restraining but not abolishing her anger.
She’d heard enough.
Varanin divested her hands of their black nitrile gloves, reattached her utility belt, and called for her overcoat, which flew into her hand and was put on. All the while, that anger stoked the nigh-bottomless pit of her power, and sharpened her focus to a hairline edge. All the while, discourse returned to the matter of territory and the protection of it, the things those speaking actually
did have the experience and acumen for… it would be a waste to dispose of them.
Quietly, she exited the workshop and stepped out into the desolate landscape and inky, moonless night, her boots disturbing the dust while
Saa Montemar began to speak again and prove himself shrewder than most. She paused to listen until close to the end of it, his voice dropping out, stretching, and becoming robotic as the signal thinned and evaporated the further she got from the building, and she removed the earbud, pocketing it. Varanin withdrew a dagger from her belt that seemed to pulse with its own inherent darkness, and carved a
rift out of the empty air before her.
Then she sheathed the blade and stepped through the rift, which sealed behind her some seconds later.
• • •
Imperial Summit at Ord Canfre
In the next instant...
The atmosphere in the room shifted in a way that could put mundanes and sensitives alike on edge before the air split behind the last speaker as he wound up what he had to say; Executor Varanin emerged, and the rift dissipated. She was clothed in the black vetements of the Elites, but for some minute differences, such as the pips on the neck of her tunic that denoted her more specific role pertaining to oversight of the military, and tasteful silver stitching. What was less easily seen was the red stitching of the runic script of the Sith on the inside of her overcoat, and on her left hand was the only piece of jewelry she wore constantly: an
artifact ring.
None of which spoke of her other titles... only her name did the work, in that respect.
“
Thank you, High Treasurer Montemar,” came the crisp, faintly Echani accent that was her voice - she had lived too long in too many other places to sound any more like a native, “
for your astute words.”
Hazel eyes, freshly polluted with the yellow and orange of very recent darkside use looked over those who had attended this summit, in the flesh and otherwise, viewing them critically. She paused briefly on
Derix Tirall
, the only other remaining member of the Emperor’s Inner Circle, so far as she was aware, but soon moved on to addressing them all, hands folded in front of her, her bearing tall and born not so much out of pure confidence, but out of lived experience and
status.
“
I see a problem, ladies and gentlemen, a not too distant future wherein you have discussed and very nearly signed the writ of your own destruction,” she started, coming across mildly incensed, “
and it’s not the insult,
though I should want to whittle some members of this council to within an inch of their lives,” she hissed, then pausing for a scant moment, “
no, the problem is yes, the temporary outlook of this dyad,” she very nearly spat the word, “
but also the perception of it.”
She turned to Sularen, “
Not to discount your military record, military expertise, or acumen, Lord Sularen, but,” and she turned back to the council, while gesturing to the Warlord with one arm, “
what the public and our adversaries will see if this is done, dyad or no, is a puppet,” then she made the same gesture to Zuraxin with the other arm, dropping the first, “
and possibly a puppetmaster that is weak, if not a coward.” She dropped her arm. “
The perception of weakness in leadership would infect the image of the Empire itself. A puppet cannot be taken seriously.” Her eyes narrowed, and Varanin crossed her arms, “
Try again."