Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private SOMMER'S END PT.2 -4

(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
That word.


Azis.


It changed the room's temperature every time it was said aloud.


Sommer stood up and walked to the center of the room, finally placing both hands on the war table console.


"We contain her. We learn everything we can. We get ahead of what's coming. Zori was the first wave. Arcubis is a storm behind her. And if Azis is real…"

She turned toward them, voice calm, but final.


"Then keeping her alive might be the only way we survive."


Decision Logged: ZORI TO BE TRANSPORTED TO "BLACK SPINE STATION"

Classified CIS-Era Orbital Detainment Hub. Coordinates known only to Sommer and Arq.
Transport begins at dusk.
 
Few knew the name Sarn Volath.
Even fewer returned from it.


It was a moon left off most charts, lost in gravitational drift around the cursed black-world of Zarth Prime — a planet said to have no breathable atmosphere, no life, and no business for the sane.


Arcubis exited his transport in silence.


He did not need guards.


No one would follow him here.


The air was thin, choked with volcanic ash and shimmering spores that fell like snow. Shadows clung unnaturally long to the basalt stone, as if reluctant to let go of him.


Before him stood the Temple Cradle of Azis — carved into the belly of the moon, its architecture jagged and alien, spiraling up in ways that defied gravity.


At its center burned a violet flame.


Not fire. Will.



Inside the Temple


The walls whispered. Literally.

Etched into obsidian stone were scripts of prophecy in a language only the cursed and the chosen could understand. The closer Arcubis walked, the more he felt their rhythm syncing with his breath.


And then…


He saw him.


The High Priest of Azis.


A tall, skeletal figure in robes of glistening thread — dark violet, gold, and ember-red — with a mask that bore no eyes. Only an upside-down triangle carved where a mouth might be.


He stood at the base of an obsidian altar that breathed faintly. Yes — the altar was alive.


"You are late," the Priest rasped.

Arcubis removed his hood.


"No. I am exactly on time."

The Priest tilted his head. "And Zori?"


"Failed."

The chamber fell deathly silent.


Even the whispers in the walls paused.


"She was humbled," Arcubis continued. "The Forcebreaker worked. Sommer and her allies have something we didn't predict."

"You mean…" the Priest's voice hissed with disquieted interest, "...faith?"

"No," Arcubis answered flatly. "Adaptation. Technology mixed with myth. And a will to survive."

The High Priest stepped forward, one long bony hand resting on the altar.


"Then Zori is no longer the Chosen Flame."

"No," Arcubis said, narrowing his eyes. "But she might be the spark that shows us who is."

The Priest turned to the altar, which now glowed with faint, pulsing breath.


"The Sleeper beneath begins to stir, Arcubis."


"Azis does not wake for the failed. He waits… for the one who understands balance within flame. Zori was born in fury. Sommer was born in ruin. Alyssa Kydd… born of sky and tide. Together…"

He trailed off.


Arcubis stared.


"Say it."

The Priest grinned behind the mask.


"Together, they bring the Cradle to life.
And when it opens…
The galaxy will choose its god
."
 
Location: Underground Hangar, The Gilded Veil – 3 Hours After Zori's Capture



The hangar wasn't used often.


Most patrons of the Gilded Veil arrived by skycar, private shuttles, or club transport. This bay — sealed behind biometric locks and buried beneath the club's foundation — had once been used for discreet exits and contraband deliveries in the club's earlier, seedier years.


Now, it held something far worse than spice or weapons.


It held Zori Galea, bound and wrapped in a containment chair — a smooth hover-rig with shock-locked restraints and triple-layer stabilization. The chair floated a few inches off the ground, humming softly as it adjusted to Zori's breath rate.


Kael checked the neural dampeners again.


"Still locked. No tremors. No fluctuations in her vitals."
 
Kael moved to the terminal and initiated the lift-seal. The floor beneath them groaned as the hatch to the launch corridor opened.

Their ship—a modified G9 Rigger-class freighter, code-named Dusk Nocturne—sat waiting with heat masking and a false IFF signature. Perfect for staying off anyone's radar.
 

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