Public Tales of the Core (GE)

[Shannic Wulf]

IMPERIAL CENTER​

Home to the Galactic Empire, seat of ultimate power within the Imperial dominion. The hundreds of billions who call the planet-city home are just the tip of the iceberg. Trillions more live throughout the Core, casting their hopes and fears toward Imperial Center, so named after Coruscant's latest conquering. With the collapse of the Galactic Alliance all but assured, the citizenry have little choice but to align themselves with the stabilizing grip of the Empire.

As the Core locks down, the Empire turns its gaze inward. The age of conquest has given way to an age of control. Grand Vizier Shannic Wulf and the Imperial Ruling Council tighten their hold, issuing sweeping reforms that ensure the continuity of power. The CRI, Citizen Registration Interface, now mandates identity tracking for every citizen, ensuring that no one slips through the cracks. From birth to death, an individual's every movement, transaction, and association is cataloged.

Imperial society is now a caste of categories: Citizens, Civilians, Residents, Foreign Nationals, and other classifications that determine one's rights, duties, and privileges within the state. With each layer of bureaucracy comes a thinning of individuality and a thickening of the collective. This is a society designed not for personal freedom, but for obedience and efficiency.

The Imperial Core has become a complex lattice of compliance and surveillance. There is no resistance, not openly. Even whispers are cataloged, if not by human ears, then by the omnipresent machine networks that govern daily life. The OIT, [I forget the full title tbh] maintains an ever-watchful presence, encouraging citizens to report each other for even the faintest signs of nonconformity. Suspicion and self-censorship have become the norm.

Civic monitors from the OIT and the ISB quietly assess public art and culture, issuing glowing red "scarlet" holopanels to mark subversive works. Once a symbol of censorship, these panels have perversely become a badge of underground fame in some youth circles. Holosculptures, local plays, even fashion trends are judged for ideological purity, while satire has all but disappeared.

The control extends far beyond art. Every citizen carries a personal identity module, scanned at lifts, transit checkpoints, ration centers, even restrooms in some sectors. A bureaucratic misalignment can mean hours lost to correctional queues or a summons by the OIT. The planet-city moves under the weight of endless protocols. You need permits for nearly everything, and interdepartmental memos can shut down entire apartment blocks.

Daily life is grinding and grey. A day may begin with a ninety-minute line for protein ration verification, followed by three inspections just to reach your work pod. The elevators work, mostly. Transit pods arrive late, often. Neighbors greet each other with carefully measured smiles, neither too warm nor too curious. Everyone knows: speak too freely and you might vanish.

Yet in the shadows of the gleaming towers and under the buzz of the ever-watchful droids, stories still unfold. Tales of desperation and defiance, of loyalty and betrayal, of love and loss in the cold corridors of Imperial power. These are the stories of Imperial Center.

OOC: All writers are invited to contribute to this living anthology. Whether you are a loyal citizen, a cynical bureaucrat, a curious outsider, or a ghost in the machine, tell your tale. Let your voice echo through the durasteel canyons of the capital. These are the Tales from the Core. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to reach out to GE staff on the site or Discord.

 

[Pious Tapp]

The Core, Coruscant

Kazimir Tragovic
​

The stimcaff tasted like copper and old regrets. I sipped it anyway. Sitting alone in an unmarked vehicle outside a place like this, you start looking for little acts of control. Mine came in the form of that waxy cup and the bitter slosh inside it. I didn’t wear my uniform tonight. Orders. Blend in. Be quiet. Wait.

I never liked being out of uniform. It felt dishonest. Not to the mark, but to the work. That black, pressed fabric was a signal, not just to the enemy, but to the public. It reminded them who ran the galaxy. Who enforced the peace. Who dragged traitors out of their holes and disappeared them. Why should I be ashamed of that? The mere sight of it should send fear through every rebel bone, every hopeful little dreamer with a manifesto. But no. Tonight I wore something civilian. Something drab. Something that made me look like I had reason to be here, loitering outside a bar that stank of fried protein and old gun oil.

Kaz was late. Or he wasn’t coming. Or he was already inside, carving someone’s face into the counter just to see if they flinched. I didn’t know. That was the trouble with men like him. You could read the file, study the patterns, set the trap just right, but once they showed up, everything turned sideways. I kept one eye on the entrance, one hand near the dash-comp. He was in the system. There was a price on his head. A quiet one. High enough to make most bounty hunters forget which side they were on. But he wasn’t mine for the bounty. He was mine because the Director said so. And because men like Kaz don’t get to walk away. Not anymore.

The Black Sun Syndicate had enjoyed near freedom since our agreements had stood. Agreements crafted in sealed rooms under the watch of silent guards, with just enough legal ambiguity to make it all seem above board. We looked the other way. They funneled intel. We got names, weapons caches, local agitators. They got territory. They kept the streets just unstable enough to stop a true rebellion from rooting.

But agreements were flimsy things. Paper and breath. One wrong shipment. One dead officer. One careless body dumped where an Ex- Senator’s nephew might find it. Suddenly the whole house of cards starts looking like an act of treason. And we don’t tolerate treason. Not anymore.

This particular group we were tracking wasn’t Black Sun anyway. This was Hutt work. Greasy, transactional, and centuries old in the worst way. The kind of criminal empire that wore its excess like a crown and its cruelty like cologne.

The bar we were watching was theirs. Not officially. The name on the deed was some front-runner spice broker out of Nar Kreeta, but the money came from the Kajidic lines, and the muscle inside didn’t bother hiding it. High collars, long knives, and that telltale arrogance that came with thinking the Empire wouldn’t look their way.

That was the flaw in their thinking. We were always looking.

Kaz had ties to them. Old ones. He used to run Hutt jobs before the war, before COMPNOR got their claws in and made him into something worse. Cleaner. More efficient. Less inclined to talk. When he slipped the leash, the Hutts started sniffing around again. They liked his work. They wanted him back.

So did we.

The difference was, we wouldn’t be offering him credits or territory. We’d offer him a cell, or a weapon. His choice.

I watched two Trandoshans come out of the bar, one laughing, the other dragging what looked like a bloodied duffel bag that twitched once before going still. Nobody on the street reacted. That was how things worked here. You kept your eyes forward, your mouth shut, and your conscience buried somewhere deep under the paving stones.

I sipped my stimcaff again, and this time it didn’t even taste bitter. It tasted like clarity.

​

​

 

[Kazimir Tragovic]

Pious Tapp

Procedure was the bane of freedom...

It was a constant truth. This new Empire... his new handler... none of them were willing to utilize Kaz to his fullest extent. His penchant for pandemonium was his greatest skill, and he had greatly missed dipping his toes back into the endless waters of incitement of that chaos. He had hoped he might have finally regained that freedom, yet here he was, answering to another officer for every action...

Even if that particular officer happened to make some level of sense.

He quietly made his way, mulling over whatever 'will of the Empire' may fall upon him this time. It all mattered little, for at the end of the day, he didn't do what he did out of loyalty or duty. No... this was for the love of the game. The sniveling boy of an officer that had procured his services had done his job, but Tapp could never truly control him. Perhaps there would come a time for him to learn that little fact... or perhaps Kaz would keep up appearances, and thank whoever needed thanking for his current privileges within the growing Empire.

He quietly approached, his masked gaze falling upon Tapp.

"You called?"

 

[Spacer NPCs]

Coming back to you again, at the changing of tide, Not-So-Tiny Tim, or Tiny Tim that was, made his way back down the main drag of the Manarai Hills district his family lived in on Coruscant. Before life took a bad turn. That was a long time ago, and today, well, it was the anniversary. The anniversary when the Rebel Alliance took his family, and whatever future path he could have had away from him.

The time when the debris destroyed the family airspeeder. And there is a part of him that felt responsible.

If his mother wasn’t caring for him in his sick and crying state, a very ill child, Tim suffered from strong respiratory issues brought on by the poor housing status of the lower wards in even this scenic district, she wouldn’t have been craving McYoda’s double stack nerf burger with extra pickles and Alderaanian Cheese on a warm sesame seed bun. And his father wouldn’t have been out past curfew. But now even she was gone.

Johnny was too, having caught a blaster bolt saving his platoon of stormtroopers.

Pell fell off the wagon once again, and was enslaved to the Pykes, Tim was certain.

Mio and Mia had gone their separate ways and he hadn’t heard from the twins in years.

But yet, here he was, brushing the debris and plant matter that grew on the memorial. One afforded to the world by the One Sith and their benefit concerts for his family. But with galactic stage being what it was, even those ended after not too many years.

At least he was living off this cursed world. A small farm on a moon in the Mid Rim.

“We miss you, Dad.” Tim said as he poured a drink out for his old man.

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Location: Imperial City
Tag: Open


Shrouded in the polluted twilight that forever clung to its titanic spires, Imperial City unfurled beneath Darth Keres like a steel leviathan dreaming of dominion. From her vantage high above its labyrinthine avenues, the world-city seemed less a place of habitation and more a festering wound upon the galaxy; its lights flickering like fevered pulses beneath a pall of industrial haze. The proud towers, continuously luminous with promise, jutted upward like the exposed ribs of some long-dead colossus, their windows reflecting only the cold indifference of the storm-slashed sky.

As she descended toward the skyline, a sense of grim recognition settled over her, a memory not of nostalgia but of unfinished malignancy. Imperial City had changed since her first arrival; its power had curdled into something far more grotesque and desperately beautiful. The undercity's shadows had grown deeper, as though the foundations themselves were retreating from the light, and the air vibrated with the ceaseless thrum of machines laboring to sustain a world too vast to be truly alive. Every boulevard yawned like a throat ready to swallow hope whole, while the upper platforms crawled with silhouettes that moved as if guided by unseen strings.

Yet Darth Keres felt no revulsion, only a dark, possessive amusement. Here, in this necropolis of metal and memory, she sensed a kindred spirit: a world hollowed out by ambition, driven by ghosts of empires long expired. The city whispered to her through its conduits and guttering lights, offering secrets it had withheld from lesser minds. On her second arrival, she understood at last that Imperial City was not merely the heart of an Empire; it was a mausoleum of power. "I still hate this place....it reeks of desperation and soiled thoughts," she chimed out loud stepping onto the cylinder landing platform, her ship, the Taciturnitas silently hissing itself to sleep.

Moving through the upper city with the silent certainty of a shadow given purpose, her presence carving a wake in the glittering avenues that citizens pretended not to notice. The air was thicker here, naturally so, as though the towering spires drew warmth from the populace and hoarded it in their steel-clad hearts. Faces passed her like pale, flickering lanterns, strained, sleepless, and carved with that peculiar mixture of hustle and bustle that only a city ruled by ghosts of Empires could breed. Their eyes scuttled away from hers, yet she felt their fleeting glances prick her senses like needles, each one a quiet confession of tension simmering beneath their carefully arranged composure.

The atmosphere itself bore the weight of unspoken history lessons, a heaviness coiling through the perfumed walkways and gilded platforms as though the city exhaled despair with every mechanical sigh. Laughter, when it appeared at all, rang brittle and hollow, as if borrowed from a memory rather than born of genuine mirth. Darth Keres studied them: the shopkeepers polishing spotless counters, the aristocrats drifting by in glimmering fashions, the guards standing stiff as ornamental statues; and found the same fracture running through all of them: a subtle tremor beneath the skin, a fear that had no name yet knew precisely where to hide. It pleased her.

In this fragile veneer of civility, she sensed fertile ground for dominion, and as she walked on, the shadows seemed to lean closer, eager to hear what she would make of such trembling souls. "Fear is the only sovereign these trembling masses still understand," Darth Keres murmured, her voice a velvet whisper threaded into a shapely noose. "Nurture it well enough, and they will march in perfect obedience even as the darkness closes its jaws around them. Such sweet little puppets."

​

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • XIII​
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
• Accessories​
  • k​
• Ship​
  • Taciturnitas​
• Personal Guards​
  • Silencers​

 

[Pal Veda]

The streets of Coruscant’s mid levels hummed with life, happy faces moving between shops, smiling kids running ahead of parents as they searched to find a toy shop or candy store. Not a care in the world. Veda navigated freely through the crowd, hoping to find a decent brew before meeting a contact a few levels below. It was about time the Galactic Alliance came through and gave him the expedited clearance codes he had requested in exchange for all of his hard work. No more waiting in line to come and go as needed.

Yeah, that sounds grand, doesn’t it? That was Coruscant. Now this is Imperial Country. Imperial City? Imperial Center! That was it. Veda wasn’t a huge fan of the old government, but the replacement was downright despicable. Besides the moral outrage, it made his job much harder. At least it also made his services much more expensive. And people still paid.

His false credentials weren’t cheap, either, but they had worked so far. He’d played his role in all of the annoying successive checkpoints. It took hours to travel a few kilometers and move across a few levels. He was traveling unarmed, too, which made him a little nervous. It just took one nosy guard to flag him, ask the wrong questions, and he would be in an Imperial prison on some distant planet for the rest of his life. Anxiety inducing, but made him all the more vigilant.

Veda finally made it to a spot called Rama Sha’s Corner, an old haunt he hadn’t been to since he was too young to drink — legally. Or maybe not. The sign was gone, and the interior was largely stripped out. He scanned the counterfeit ID card upon entrance and headed to the bar. “Coronet Brewer’s ale,” he requested, casually turning back to look around the room. It was a harmless enough gesture, but it gave him a couple of seconds to take a quick assessment of the other patrons. Nothing too suspicious.

“Yeah, you wish,” the bartender replied, barely containing his laughter. “Good one. I wish we still had those imports.” He pointed toward the taps and then at the wall behind him. “We got beer, we got dark spirits, and we got clear spirits. Same as everywhere else. None of ‘em that good, and the limit is two.”

“Right, good joke.” Veda tried to play it off, but frankly, he had no idea the Empire had decided to ruin the bars, too. Don’t stormtroopers drink? “Grab me a beer. And I’m only here for one tonight.” The barkeep poured the pint, Veda handed over a few Imperial credits. He took a sip and commented, “Ain’t terrible, but ain’t Corellian ale.”

“It’ll do,” the old man agreed before turning to help the next customer.

Veda picked up the glass and headed over to one of the empty tables. The chronograph on his wrist told him his contact was late. That wasn’t unexpected; there was no way to calculate travel time under this new regime. He took another pull of “beer” then popped in a nic pouch, figuring he’d nurse his drink. Keep a clear head and avoid the two drink limit imposed by the powers that be.

After fifteen minutes — and the beer ended up being drained in the first five, requiring a second order resulting in maxing his tab — the man he was waiting for finally arrived. Overdressed for the occasion, skin a little too pale, hair black and slicked back, he nervously walked through the door and made a beeline for Veda.

For Yoda’s sake, use a little discretion!

He shuffled to the table and sat across from Veda. “Are you . . . Are you Alpha?”

“Depends,” Veda replied cooly, recognizing the code name for this contract but needing confirmation. “What’s the Sarlacc’s biggest fear?”

“Fett — no, sorry.” The man squirmed, uncomfortable with this whole situation. “Mandalorian mischief!”

Confirmed. But too loud. “Calm down, Omnicron.”

“I’m —“

“No!” Veda stopped him short. “I’m Alpha, you’re Omnicron. Don’t tell me anything else, and I sure as hell ain’t tellin’ you anything else.” The target’s white cheeks glowed red, obviously embarrassed by his near misstep. “You obviously missed the class at boardin’ school on discretion.” Seeing that this guy wasn’t going to order a drink, Veda went ahead and took another pull of his. This two beer limit was probably going to work in his best interest, actually. “You sure you good for this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you sure you can handle what we’re about to do? ‘Cause this ain’t gonna be easy. And you don’t strike me as the adventurous type.”

Omnicron frowned, hovering between anger from being insulted and self reflection from potentially being in over his head. He quickly covered it up, feigning confidence. “I can handle it.” A few seconds passed before he refocused. “What is your plan?”

“Plan?” Veda chuckled and took a swig before continuing. “It’s simple as long as you don’t screw it up. Just follow me, do what I do, and keep your composure. Don’t be so obvious. And don’t be in a rush. This won’t be quick with all these checkpoints and surveillance. Slow and steady wins this race.”

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Location: Imperial City


Darth Keres drifted through the arteries of Imperial City like a silent contagion, her cloak trailing behind her in a wake of unsettled air; her movements more like a dark omen wandering in search of a name. She halted quickly before a slight figure half-swallowed by shadow. The Rodian girl, no more than a trembling adolescent, looked up with luminous, glassy eyes that caught the gloom like twin wells of verdant sorrow.

Her thin hands clutched a threadbare satchel, as though it were her only talisman against the suffocating hush of an unforgiving world. Yet it was not fear alone that animated the child's shiver, but a strange, morbid curiosity. Darth Keres regarded her with the stillness of a statue carved from blackened grief, the crimson gleam of her gaze casting fissures of dread along the walls.

Darth Keres felt the disturbance immediately, a tremulous ripple in the Force that brushed against her senses like a cold fingertip tracing the length of her spine. It rose from the Rodian child in faint, uneven pulses, fragile, unrefined, yet undeniably alive. The darkness around the Sith Lady stirred in answer, tightening its coils as if intrigued by this unexpected ember of potential.

With a slow, deliberate grace, Darth Keres extended a gesturing hand of friendship toward a nearby water fountain whose dim, wavering lights cast ghostly reflections upon the rippling surface. "Sit with me," she murmured, her voice a velvet-laden whisper that seemed to seep into the very stones beneath their feet, beckoning with both promise and peril.

The Rodian girl hesitated only a moment, her wide eyes shimmering with a mixture of dread and inexplicable yearning, before she gave a small, trembling nod. "Y–yes," she breathed, the word escaping her like a fragile offering to the dark.

And together they moved toward the fountain, its cold music echoing faintly in the stillness, as though the city itself leaned in to witness the quiet binding of two fates beneath the shroud of gathering night.

​

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • XIII​
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
• Accessories​
  • k​
• Ship​
  • Taciturnitas​
• Personal Guards​
  • Silencers​

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TALES OF THE CORE
I

​

SUB-DISTRICT 6, UNDERCITY,
CORUSCANT (903 ABY)

'Helluva - debrief.... Karking Nether, man.'
[COFF-COFF]
[SPLUTTER]
'With allies like that, who even - needs enemies?'
​

With legs giving out underneth him, and not for the first time since he departed from the latest meeting with the Dark Side Elite, the Khan was slipping in and out of consciousness as he wandered deep into unknown territory, following a two-year-old lead that seemed inane until it started to matter in these moments. The old temple's landing-paddocks were much too far away, and if Barran could not find help soon, he knew he would be circling dangerously close to his own demise, feeling every cracked bone and ruptured blood-vessel with every single footfall. Even in the minutes after the meeting's adjournment, the one-eyed Woad was already slipping in and out of consciousness on his feet, a predicament that would factor into a dichotomous series of downward tumbles, weighed in equalling precision between calm and calamity alike.

'Sucks that I - aaaAAAAAARGH!!!!', starting to make a point, only to find himself exlaiming from the pain of yanking out a broken back tooth, the Khan was past the point of caring about the attention he was drawing to himself by then, thus had no other option but to cast his upper-left molar to one side and continue wandering toward the lead he was told about. However, this would be his last, sharpest moment of absolute consciousness before returning to his previous seesaw-stupor, even forgetting the point he was trying to monologue, St. Thomas knew he had no other choice but to keep going, to chase the most-obscure of Mawsworn rumours.

Failure would mean death, or worse, but Barran refused, point-blank, to approach his Doomsayer starfighter without first assuring the safety of his approach, as there would be no hope of reaching a medpak (or even an onboard Bacta tank) in time if the looming threat of powerful rivals persisted. Adjournment need not have meant he would be permitted to leave, and it need not have implied he could escape,"Loose-end", decisions without difficulty, especially not with a collective so adherent to the whim's of it's supremely powerful Executor, one with sway enough that yielded the confidence to act in the Emperor's name.

The deep-reaching Undercity, dangerous though it was for the peoples of the surface, was the Khan's only option - dumb though he knew it was.

​

Nevertheless, with the one-eyed Woad considered, circumstances could always unfold as something even dumber than the choice itself, especially with that one remaining eye in a fickle dilemma between front-staring focus and an upward-rolling daze. The Khan, oddly enough, was eye-rolling into one of these dazes during the grandest of his idiocies, falling down multiple levels from the surface as his legs gave out at the worst possible moment, careening knees-first through a wide manhole-cover, unaware of the situation until he stuck the rib-crunching, groan-inducing impact near the old staging-points of their assault in 901 ABY.

'Was the meeting not.... Punishment enou-'

Worse still, not ten minutes later, this idiotic lightning struck a second time; and before Barran could understand what had happened, before he could fully-comprehend the extent of his idiocy, he had found himself 6 levels deep beneath the Upper City's southern slums. Surrounded on all sides by the forgotten, the downtrodden peoples of the planet, those forced to endure the ambitious tremors of the fortunate souls above, the Khan would have no clue of his circumstances until he snapped out of his latest, dullest slumber yet. Fortunately for St. Thomas, however, everyone in that particular corner of the Undercity were aware of the mask, it's origins, and all that it meant, and by extention, were aware of the face beneath it.

The one-eyed Woad was safe, though after a day like that, he would be out cold for days before he could ever learn,"How", or,"Why", for that matter.

 

[Ralk Vos'arr]

OOC: As this is an anthology series, I guess I can make a few posts for a decent amount of my characters here - single little excerpts for each of them to give little slice-of-life moments. The domestic side of SFF (sci-fi/fantasy) and especially of our beloved Star Wars EU - is criminally underexplored, even as I see it so often utilized beautifully. Let's have fun, all!

(Short and sappy flashback for Ralk - I don't think it's my best work. What do you think? With a cameo for my newest character in development, a warrior-noble based on Christopher Lee's direct ancestor Charlemagne; the character shares Lee's voice.)

Coruscant Sector, Inner Core
Public Memorial 42-B
1018 Local Time

Ralk Vos'arr always visited him in the rain, at least once a year, regardless of what time it was. All that mattered was that the rain was there to wash away her tears.

It was difficult and the added predicament of timing the weather right usually made getting the right gift a short-notice, sometimes impulsive event, but that was part of what made it all special, as their fondest memories had often involved the two doing something impulsive.

The Bothan was a strange and rare sight: an albino of snow-like fur and hair, sporting gemlike, bright purple eyes - a lesser-known calling card of albinism. Thin, demure and petite - delicate-looking - she stood in the memorial center, almost invisible against ghost-white tiles and bright overhead lights, were it not for the black, buttoned trench coat that hung over her slim form beneath a dark brown travel cloak that was oddly reminiscent of the Jedi Order. She had already been harassed about that once, but, one Class Three inspection later by an officer and his accompanying Troopers, they had cross-referenced her visitor's permit and had searched her possessions to find nothing of interest, even despite their use of an analysis droid. The crass officer, perturbed and disgusted, for some reason, had roughly shouted that she go about her business and leave.

A patient woman, Ralk hadn't even raised her voice, and the sadness in her eyes had actually caused one of the Stormtroopers to pause and ask her if she was well, even as his fellows had searched her belongings rather roughly in front of her stoic, calm and somewhat dispassionate eyes. Of course, she had nodded silently while looking directly into the Trooper's visor slits resolutely. He had merely shivered and turned away, though not out of disgust. Maybe he could see that she was sad and he didn't want to step on her toes any more then was necessary.

Now, amidst the memorials to the dead and a few other mourners, Ralk stood alone in a far corner, silence a testament to memory and love as she entered a code on a keypad next to Holv's locker. The door gave a soft, whisping hiss as it unlocked, and her snow-furred hand easily lowered the door and pulled out the memorial tray - they were cleaned once a year - to find it empty and sterile, ready for one of the years offerings.

The ghost-pale Sakiyan rubbed a hand over his enlarged cranium, even as he fixed his bright eyes on the freshly-picked savannah orchid of silver-flecked purple that the Bothan had offered to him, having traveled a whole four steps away to procure it.

At his side, the Holv's hand pressed into the top of the translator droid that spoke for him, in place of his own natural voice, "I hope that didn't exhaust you." the simple machine spoke for its owner.

The slim female laughed as she approached him, raising the flower up via the tip of it's hard stem; it was rigid enough to briefly standing upright on her fingertip, before it began to slip to one side. Her white palm shifted, to easily catch the silver-dusted plant before it fell to the earth once more, potentially losing some of the little ore flecks in the process.

The Sakiyan's translator unit spoke again, "I still don't see why you brought me out this way - there's nothing here was the grasslands and patches of the desert."

She laughed softly, "Why do the flowers have silver dust?"

He shrugged, his translator intoning that he could think of no reason why.

Her hand gestured to the stars amidst their shared purple sky, lighter and brighter than the Bothan's eyes. "A bit of local history. Local mining guilds mine the silver and use hoversleds to bring in the ore - that process dusts over the fields along these paths with silver 'detritus', and makes everything look very unique for a short while, before seasonal windstorms stop the mining entirely for the year and blow away the silver flakes."

She elbowed him with one thin arm in his stomach, "In short, it makes things both weird and memorable, kinda like us two."

He shifted and grunted in annoyance at her strike, even as he took a moment to elbow her back lightly. "I also assume we're doing the usual, rather than just me watching you pick up things like an excited Umgullion Blob?"

His Bothan companion shifted her lithe, ghost-like free hand up towards the clear, dark sky before them that night. "Bantha Ass... We're also comping, exploring the enjoying the night sky for a few days - we're astronomers and adventurers, you know." She had said, "Nothing holds us back, remember?"

He had tried to speak with his natural voice then, as his hand had reached out to take the offered plant, "T-Th-Th-a-aa-ank y-y-yu-you..." He flushed with shame even as he spoke, then pressed the button atop his translator. "Thank you. Even if it is a weed."

Even despite his speech impediment and crass mannerisms, Ralk just didn't care - Holv was one of the bestest friends that the Galaxy could have given anyone, and the young girl felt her heart warm even as she leaned to one side to lean her weight against him for support, shoulder-to-shoulder as they two looked at the stars together. And be sarcastic learners and loners with one another, of course.

"Thanks for being my friend, Holv. We can be lonely together that way..." She paused, turned her head to rub her nose against the flesh of his neck in a friendly and light kiss, a snow-furred arm wrapping around her only friend's shoulders.

"We'll catalogue all of these stars and share the grandest of stories with one another..." She paused, then sighed wistfully, "I'd let the rest of my life pass me by if I could stay here with you forever..."

The memory faded, and the Bothan sighed as she had so many years ago. At her side, a Duros youth, accompanied by, strangely, an aged human male with a resplendent navy-blue cloak and simple, if odd, leather clothing pressed his hands against the Duros' youth's shoulders, and the young man opened the memorial locker just to the right and below Holv's own. Focusing on her own task, Ralk reached into the cloak she wore, to produce vial of silver dust stopped by a rubber cap.

A tear fell from the corner of an eye as she sighed, her hand trembling as she spoke softly.

"I'll get the money to right every wrong where I can do so. I promise, Holv..."

"I miss you... So. Damn. Much..."

At her side, the aged, well-dressed man in the blue cloak cast the weeping Bothan a look of concern as she buried her face into a beautiful, snow-like hand...

 

[Daro Kilaeon]

I sat there, at my parent's kitchen table, shoveling down cardboard-like cereal that was still better than anything the Empire rationed us. I'd arrived back to the city yesterday, after more than half a year away. I'd forgotten how much I missed the noise, the constant thrum of the city that just vibrated through you at all hours. My first rotation was over... I'd survived. Coming home to family dinner was... awkward. Things were not the same now. My parent's bought all of the Imperial propaganda, like any good citizen. If their live's had improved under Imperial rule I couldn't tell, but the returning hero they saw me as was really just tired and broken. I didn't have the words in my head to tell them how Atrisia really was. Sitting there, alone with breakfast, was the first time I'd be truly alone since I left, really acting of my own accord for a few minutes. Velsi had gone out to the shops, my parents had gone to work. Me time, for the first time in a long time.

When I'd been conscripted (a fact my parents seemed to have conveniently forgotten despite their hands in it), it was straight to the rigid training regimen of Kuat, then immediately into the hell on Atrisia. My reward for Atrisia was an orange pauldron and getting tossed into the freezing trenches on Anobis. I tried to explain to my folks that the boys in white marching in lockstep was just for show, that it really wasn't like that out there. They didn't understand.

Taking the last bite of my cereal I stood and grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the kitchen counter and made for the balcony. It was a small cramped ledge with the shakiest railing, one of many on a vast arcology, but from here I had a view of the whole neighborhood. The Coruscant underworld... my home. Nothing seemed all that different with the Empire in charge, even when their propaganda exalted the honest folk down here. I lit a cigarette and took a long, needing drag. I watched the smoke float away into the cityscape.

I stood there gazing off, so unsure of it all. I knew full well this stint at home was a short break before they shipped me off to who knows where, to fight whoever. The list of enemies seemed to grow with every world we occupied. Though I never wanted this, I was coming around to seeing it in perhaps the only way I could, to keep myself sane. I was fighting for Coruscant, and Coruscant alone. I don't know if the Jedi truly are terrorists, or if the Imperial defectors have reason to be so... but what I do know is that the Empire stewards my home. That was reason enough for me to keep going, for now. Not to mention I enjoyed living, which was something I firmly believed the Empire would rectify if I tried to desert...

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Location: Imperial City


"Tell me your name," Darth Keres murmured, her voice low and resonant, as though spoken from the depths of a forgotten crypt. Each word unfurled with a chill weight, brushing against the girl's mind, seeking purchase, probing the fragile places where fear and curiosity intertwined. The Rodian shifted under the scrutiny, antennae trembling, yet her gaze held, uncertain but unbroken. "And tell me," she continued, leaning in just enough for the darkness to gather more tightly around her silhouette, "what you know of the Force."

The question slithered into the space between them like a living whisper, coiling with equal parts invitation and threat. A faint tremor coursed through the night air, as if the city itself dared not breathe while awaiting the girl's answer. The Rodian teenager swallowed hard, her throat fluttering like a trapped moth beneath her green skin as she straightened and tried to steady her trembling hands. "M-My name is Shira Vex," she whispered, the words clicking softly in her native tongue before she forced them into Basic, her voice thin but earnest.

The shadows pooled around her feet as though listening, leaning closer with every syllable. Her large, glistening eyes flicked up toward Darth Keres, reflecting the Sith's silhouette in wavering fragments, as though Shira were seeing some ancient specter rather than a woman of flesh and bone. Still, she held her ground, caught between fear and a strange, magnetic pull she could not name.

"I don't know much…only stories," Shira continued, her voice trembling like a candle fighting a closing draft. "My family spoke of the Force as a… a kind of breath in the galaxy, a power that listens, a presence that chooses." Her antennae curled tighter, anxiety rippling through them as the fountain behind her seemed to dim, water whispering more quietly, as though the world itself submitted to the moment. "Some say it protects. Others say it haunts." She hesitated, breath catching. "But I've always felt… something. Like a cold wind following me, even when the air is still."

Darth Keres inclined her head slightly, a gesture that might have been approval or merely the settling of a darker mantle about her shoulders. The air around them shivered deeper, the fountain's soft murmurs warping into something more hollow as her presence deepened. "The Force is far more than the stories whispered to frightened children," she said, her voice a low, velvety echo that seemed to crawl along the stones beneath their feet. "It is loud, Shira Vex. Loud and vast and forever shifting… a storm that shrieks through the marrow of all living things." Her eyes glimmered like twin embers in a cavern, reflecting not just light but the promise of unfathomable depths.

"To hear it is to drown in its clamor...unless one learns to master the silence within."

She lifted a hand, her fingers drifting through the air as though tracing invisible fractures only she could see. "But even a storm can be stilled," the Sith Lord murmured, her tone softening in a way that felt more dangerous than any threat. "Only those who can quiet their inner waters may shape the chaos instead of being consumed by it." Shadows curled around her wrist like affectionate serpents, then faded, leaving the faintest impression of cold in the space between them. "You feel that cold wind because it has noticed you," she whispered. "And such noticing is never accidental."

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • XIII​
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
• Accessories​
  • k​
• Ship​
  • Taciturnitas​
• Personal Guards​
  • Silencers​

 

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

TALES OF THE CORE
I

​

Batwing Forest,
Anobis, Mid Rim Territories (903 ABY)

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUURGH!!!!'
​

In his stupored absence, Yorunarr's wound had been left untreated long enough that blood had been seeping through the cracked, charred crater in his chest, leaving the old Novanian with no other option than to staunch the wound, cauterizing over tissue already burnt by close-range blaster fire. Even the cloth-folded bite plate had proven useless, as it was mostly intended to help stifle his screams, as opposed to it's conventional use as a means to avert spasmodic jaw-clenching, for there were many such cases occurring to the great detriment of their own tongues. Alas, as the bellowing howl suggests, this tool became quickly redundant for it's intended purpose, but when that operational paranoia finally kicked in, it seemed that this extreme of hypervigilance was enough to cut through that burning sting of first-aid barbarism.

'If not today, then so be it - let my tribulation begin.'

​

Sheathing his darling Raindancer, along with his ceremonial dagger, the Shaman understood what the Ancients demanded of him, as it seemed this test would be to discern whether-or-not the Priest-King was still worthy of his power. If they really had, in fact, needed Yorunarr for a higher calling, the man himself would not judge the Ancients harshly, but for all the time he needed to ponder the matter, the issue of immediate survival was already barging in for precedence. It was enough to catalyse an outburst of nervous, manic laughter, looking into the stormy skies above with arms outspread once more, though this particular gesture would only stretch muscles around the freshly-cauterised wound, causing an ache so acute that it brought the Priest-King to his knees again.

Practically kicking the frozen ground by then, feebly punting snow-covered dirt in the hopes it could lessen the extremity of infammation, though fortunately, this would not take long to subside. However, much to the Priest-King's chagrin, the next foe would enter the arena, and as much as Yorunarr wished to avoid the increased risk of hypothermia, the chill in his bones could not be ignored. If he had fallen anywhere else on Anobis that night, it was very likely that Yorunarr would not have survived, even with the tools and weapons he had on his speeder-bike, but his proximity to Batwing Forest was a greater lifeline than he ever could have believed in these moments.

Even his desperate sprint for the treeline (roughly the same segment of forest that hid his speeder from prying eyes) the old Novanian was just finding cover from the wind, his desperation was still much too great and all-encompassing to see the sanctuary that these trees would provide. Not only in the following hours, or days, for that matter, but the following weeks leading up to his eventual escape, further-blessed by the wood-splitter axe and entrenching-tool; and in the moment Yorunarr finally saw the wonders that were IMPAF-issue toolboxes, it was the first time he had smiled since the Highland Brotherhood started raiding Coruscantine outposts on Archais, even sighing with a relief he assumed he had not yet earned.

In some ways, the old Novanian was right, especially with the issue of body-warmth still yet unsolved by then, but the Shaman was already feeling a little jolt of energy. With his hands already grasped around the reinforced trench-shovel, and with the back-heel of his boot already brushing up against a tensile stretching tree-root, the revelation would dawn on his mind that activity would surely increase body-heat before the campfire was even ignited. First on the agenda, though the idea of a campfire was appealing, would need to be the early makings of a deeping dugout, as there was more than mere wind-shelter to factor into his conscious lack of open flames.

Threats still holding space in the mind, persisting until eyes could better-ascertain his proximity to Coruscantine positions, or the lack thereof.

​

 

[Oavik Vihtlon]

OOC: Have another anthology entry with the FIRST appearance of the former General turned Negotiator, Oavik Vihtlon! SO PROUD to debut my first human OC in a very, very long time!

(I STILL think I'm sucking at the domestic side of Star Wars, but here's another that continues from where the last one left off.)

Coruscant Sector, Inner Core
Public Memorial 42-B
1022 Local Time

Oavik Vihtlon steadied his hands on the Duros Boy's shoulders as the youth directed his gaze intently at the holographic image of his deceased uncle, turning his strange, fiery-colored tears upwards to meet the human's gaze, his mouth quavering as he tried to find the words to speak.

"D-did h-h-his death have meaning, Mr. Vihtlon?"

Oavik Vihtlon loved this aspect of the free time that his partial retirement had granted him: to tour the Galaxy's most renowned historical sites teaching others (sometimes younglings, sometimes fresh recruits) both history and the nature of warfare, weaponry and its varied philosophies. During his time with children who volunteered for the program, he preferred to encourage philosophy, first and foremost, that way they might prefer wisdom to bloodshed, even as he recognized the need for a standing military. Surely, the presence of the Galactic Empire on Coruscant now was proof, more than ever, that that particular truth would never be erased, not for many lifetimes!

The aged human tightened a hand over the Duros' shoulders, hoping to be as reassuring as possible. Beside Oavik and the boy, a slim Bothan female with albinism began to openly weep and she shielded her odd purple eyes in shame with a delicate arm. Raising a hood with her other hand, she began to walk steadily towards the exit, doubtlessly to allow the rain to drown out her own pain.

The Duros boy had stepped forward, to rest his hand over the holoimage of his deceased uncle's face, even as he cast his scarlet eyes, shining with those strange orange teardrops, to gaze questioningly at the human's own.

"Let me answer you by asking you a question of my own, young Jath." Oavik settled himself down on a black duracrete bench behind the two of them, more to rest his aching legs than anything else He steepled his wrinkled, long fingers towards his chin as he looked into the youth's bright eyes.

"Did your dear uncle strive, in those final moments, to live according to any ideals as he set about his service to the Station that your family called home?"

The teary-eyed boy met his gaze evenly, his voice calm even as the orange tears began to flow down his cheek, "The ideals of... Of the Security Force... And... He said he wanted the chance to protect us on the S-s-station..."

His voice cracked as he spoke the last word.

This was the part Oavik sought to impress upon the youth the most. "My lad, therein lies the answer you seek - if one acts to fulfill an ideal, whether it is good or bad, while believing in it, then that alone gives meaning to whatever is done, whether for good or for bad. Thereafter, comes the judgement of others based upon the choices you've made."

He paused, even as the Duros boy turned to look - sadly, yet proudly and with resolve - upon the face of his deceased uncle, his shoulder shuddering beneath his chaperone's aged hand.

Oavik continued, "I would encourage you to learn all you can of goodness, compassion and decency, and to act upon those ideals accordingly, that you may become more like your uncle."

The boy stood still, regarding his uncle's holoimage for a few moments, while Oavik remained silent to allow him to mull over the matter.

After a moment or two more of silence, the Duros' pressed in the door to the memorial, nodding slowly to the aged human.

"Believe... Believe... Uncle emphasized the same thing, and action..." Jath snuffled. "Thank you, Mr. Vihtlon."

Another moment of silence followed, and even despite the schedule, the two remained until the youth was ready to depart.

"Come," the human concluded, "Let us rejoin your classmates." he strode ahead as Jath began to earnestly walk towards the exit, gesturing fondly at the youth as they made their way towards the exit, where a specially guarded enclosed airspeeder awaited the two, along with the rest of the youth's classmates; all of them recently-minted Imperial citizens, all save for Mr. Vihtlon.

 

[Osira Perris]

ROGUE THREE

​

The shuttle touched down with the graceless wobble common to cheap civilian craft, it was the kind that were built to be ignored, a mining messenger, a cargo haul or even a feed mover. It was the same kind of shuttle that landed on the minute, every minute at these types of landing sites. It was under this design that Osira stepped into the docking concourse with the carefully cultivated tiredness of a courier on her eighth jump of the week. Her hair hung looser that it had a few days ago, streaked with just enough static and city dust to blend with the crowds drifting through the checkpoints.

Everything about her had been engineered to disappear, to be one of the masses and no more.

She wore a grey jacket that was too synthetic to draw attention. Around her she had a matte black satchel, one of the ones commonly used that could hold datapads, invoices, or a blaster if one so desired. Her boots were cheap, much to her annoyance and she made sure she wore no makeup except a bit of smudged kohl to age her expression. Even her posture had been softened; shoulders slightly rounded, hips angled forward in the way of someone who’d spent too many hours in transit.

The Imperial sigil glowpanels cast a sterile white light over the docking corridor. Patrol troopers paced in slow, mechanical arcs, not even pretending subtlety anymore. They didn’t have to. This was a locked system, Imperial rule, hard borders, martial routes, surveillance that watched like a living thing.

Osira didn’t let her heartbeat change. Fear was loud and loud didn’t survive Imperial watch for long.

She merged with a group disembarking behind her, letting their chatter and body heat wrap around her like a shield. A dock officer scanned their IDs one by one. When it came to her turn, she dipped her chin, let her voice go small.

“Courier Run-571. Balmorra route. My clearance request should’ve come through this morning.” The officer barely glanced at her forged ident. It was probably in the thousands he had already scanned through today. If there was one thing the Empire taught its servants, it was to underestimate anyone who looked insignificant.

Once past the checkpoint, Osira made for the service lift, keeping her pace unhurried, unmemorable. Her real mission sat three sectors deeper, in a derelict mid-station maintenance block repurposed as a living quarters. It was a rough place to be sure but the person she was here to meet had information that was worth the dip into the shadows.

The lift doors shut and she let out a long, controlled breath as the hum of descent masked her obvious relief at having so far made it without any issue.

When the doors of the lift opened into a half-lit corridor smelling faintly of coolant and old lubricants, she stepped out and took in the overly quiet scene. Pipes lined the ceiling like steel arteries, this part of the station having been gutted years ago; the Empire only revived infrastructure when it benefited them.

Osira noted three maintenance cams, one of them dead, one cycling with a deliberate lag. Clear sign that someone had tampered with it recently. Which was either good, bad or both. Either way she carried on down the corridor.

Reaching the rendezvous door, the large Aurabesh declaring it Unit 4B-Delta, she gave two long glances down the corridor in both ways to ensure she was clear. The door’s pad flickered with a glitch that wasn’t a glitch: a coded signal only visible on the correct frequency. This made he pause, her fingers mere moments away from the code box.

Her intuition prickled.

Someone was already inside.

Osira didn’t draw her weapon. Not yet. Not where a blaster discharge would echo through structural beams and carry to the wrong ears.

Instead she palmed a tiny cylinder from her pocket, a crafty little device known as a noise dampener which she clicked on, and let the world fall a few decibels quieter. Then she entered.

Inside, a figure waited near the far wall, half-shadowed, hood low. Human or close to it. Their breathing was shallow, agitated.

“You took your time,” he whispered.

Osira shut the door gently behind her. “I took exactly the time I needed to not end up like you look.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

Then he produced a sliver of a datapad shard, no bigger than her thumb. “These are the transfer records. Not all of them, I couldn’t pull everything. But it’s enough to show the Empire is moving detainees off-world without registering them.”

Osira stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully.

“Which detainees?” she asked.

His throat bobbed. “High-value ones. Ex-Alliance, probably Political. Maybe Jedi. Names the Empire doesn’t want anyone to…”

A clatter in the corridor. Both of them froze. Osira’s body shifted in silence, her sleeve sliding to reveal the glint of a narrow vibro-stiletto, matte-coated, humming faintly at a pitch only she could feel.

The contact swallowed hard. “If they followed me…”

“They didn’t.” She whispered back soft and controlled, her eyes on the door. “Someone followed me.”

Now there were clear Bootsteps. Heavy falling, obvious military. It was followed by the hiss of a manual override spike beginning, a sound that sent shivers up her back, a sound that made her move before it finished.

She killed the lights and dove low. One hand silencing the contact with fingers around his mouth, the other securing the datapad.

​

DIALOGUE GUIDE
"Speech." // <<Comms>> // <MESSAGES> // Thoughts

ROGUE SQUADRON

​

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Location: Imperial City

Beneath the pallid glow of the plaza's guttering lights, Darth Keres walked with Shira Vex at her side, their elongated shadows stretching like old spirits dragged unwillingly across the stone. The twilight air clung to them; thick, metallic, trembling with the low hush of distant machinery: yet it was the Force that draped the heavier veil.

Darth Keres spoke softly, her voice a cold thread weaving through the girl's thoughts, describing the unseen tide that curled around the living and the dying alike. Each word carried the weight of long-buried catacombs, of chambers where forgotten powers whispered through cracked bones. The Rodian listened with wide, uncertain eyes, as though fearing the very darkness might lean closer to overhear.

Together they passed under towering spires whose windows glimmered like watchful, sleepless eyes. The Force rumbled beneath their feet; old, restless, hungry. Darth Keres gestured toward the shadows where it pooled like stagnant water. She told the girl it was neither kind nor cruel, but vast, indifferent, and capable of being shaped by a will strong enough to carve its mark upon the abyss.

Shira's breath quivered as she murmured questions, her voice trembling like a candle struggling against a draft. And Darth Keres, with a faint, knowing curl of her lips, told her that the greatest secret of the Force was not in its power, but in its silence; how it could wait eternally, patient as the grave, for one foolish or brave enough to listen.

Shira Vex's voice trembled like a thin thread drawn too tight as she asked, "Could I…could I truly wield the Force?" Her eyes glimmered with a fragile hope, as though the very darkness around them might crumble if she dared to believe the answer.

Darth Keres's gaze fell upon Shira like a shadow stretching long and inevitable across a tombed courtyard. "So, you wish to learn to command the Force," she murmured, her voice a low, sonorous whisper that seemed to coil around the girl's very spine.

"Admirable, yes, that you dare to take the first steps in seeking to better yourself. But heed this well, for what you seek is no gentle current to be toyed with; it is a river of darkness, cold and merciless, and every step along its banks will demand a toll you may not yet comprehend."

She leaned closer, the shadows in her eyes deepened like uncharted chasms. "The journey you contemplate is not one of comfort or warmth," she continued, her words slow and deliberate, each syllable striking like a tolling bell in a deserted hall.

"It is a path of pain, of solitude, of truths too bitter for the untested heart. Yet, for those who endure, for those who dare to claim it, the Force may bend, yielding its power; but always at a price, and never without leaving its mark upon your soul."

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • XIII​
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
• Accessories​
  • k​
• Ship​
  • Taciturnitas​
• Personal Guards​
  • Silencers​

 

[Johzqin Coj]

OOC: I hope I'm getting a bit better at this domestic sci-fi stuff.

Johz's whistled/hummed/belted tune:
Coruscant, Inner Core
The Starheart Restaurant and Tavern
1721 Local Time

Virtually everyone in the lunchtime crowd had asked questions, and Johz had been to-the-point and polite in his response to each of them:

"Empire's bad for business - I'm shutting down the Coruscant locale until further notice - I have plenty of other locales throughout the nearby sectors, so feel free to continue your patronage there. When the Empire leaves this planet, I'll be back to open up a new location."

Despite the customers' vast disappointment, Johzqin Coj wasn't going to refuse them one last entertaining meal - until further notice, that is!

The Coruscant-based location had settled on Roasted Nerf's Head with vegetables for its lunch special, and he had prepared and served dozens upon dozens of the remaining nerf calf heads to a myriad of species with generous portions of roosted vegetables alongside the skin-free, frightening-looking heads, with the tongues removed and set to the side, sprinkled in a healthy few ladles worth of dark gravy each. The nerf meat that hadn't been used up - from several well-fed adult animals, had been saved for that final special occasion!

Freshly removed from the refrigerators, the immense, muscular and pudgy Boltrunian, garbed in a fine navy blue apron and a specially made hat that resembled a cross between a toque with the base shaped like a crown (for the children's theme element, of course); a press of a button had retracted the main stoves, counters and tables to raise a single massive table with dozens upon dozens of chairs in the center of the restaurant several feet away from the preparation tables where the nerf sides, placed front and center before the assembled dinner-goers on massive wooden trays - before men, women and children of all manner of species - as they watched the chef - a former mercenary, explorer and children's holovid historian and entertainer - spend a few moments twirling an immense meat cleaver with one hand as fast as his strong arm and fingers could - right next to his massive, toothed and earless head, ridiculously - while casually explaining the history of how citizens across the Galaxy "ate these damn things" as he so eloquently put it. The Younglings either laughed with more heartiness than the adults or else hid themselves behind their hands to hide either their shock, embarrassment or laughter from both their peers and their parents, who may or may not have been watching them.

After regaling his audience of the history of "Nerf Eating", he began to give the crowd a show of part of what they came for: his immense, thick muscles, honed from years of fighting and exploring, pulsed with raw energy as he held the meat cleaver like a warrior of old might have held a broadsword.

SHUNK!

"Y'know, despite them being complete fatasses - kinda like me..." He shook the seat of his larger-then-average pants and equally rotund backside towards the audience, much to the immature mockery and laughter of the younger children and not without a few eye-rolls from the teens and a few of the assembled parents.

SHUNK!

"...These bastards taste alright when..."

SHUNK!

He continued around the large table, slashing, thunking, adjusting and delivering precise, immense chops that usually separated a single nerf rib from its fellows in a single strike, (but no more than two at most); the ease as which he worked speaking to years of practice and dedication at refining his craft - but he would tell you that he had only barely begun, and that luck was often a factor in his most recent trade, as well.

"...You douse them with as much spice as you might have handy!"

Upon finishing his sentence, Johz snapped his fingers towards an audio receptor in the room's far wall; as if by the casting of an ancient wizard's spell, a wispy cloud of multicolored layers of spices; blue, red, orange, purple, white, gray and black, too many for any non-chefs or non-cooks to name, flowed forth like a halo of light around a summoned deity, or a waterfall over a cliffside from small lines of vents spread across the ceiling! It was certainly an impressive sight that wowed the children, and many of the adults clapped and cheered as well.

The Boltrunian turned to regard the now spice-encrusted and lightly-oiled nerf flesh with an appraising eye, once more scratching the seat of his pants to earn a few laughs from the children. An aged human and a Duros boy were looking particular enthused; they had taken a step or two away from their tour group, and for some reason, the aged human looked familiar...

"Does anyone know what might be missing?..."

Brushing the odd feeling of deja-vu off, Johzqin returned to the task at hand: entertaining and cooking for his guests! His bright golden eyes surveying the room. He settled upon a strange sight: a short, slim albino Bothan with alluring purple eyes; though for some reason, she struck him as immensely sad.

He decided to take her mind off of whatever was troubling her.

His immense, red-fleshed and meaty hand pointed to her position, at the end of the line, "YOU! Shrimpy and pale..." He gestured with both hands towards the freshly-chopped and spice-encrusted nerf flesh behind him. "What am I missing?"

The pale girl's sadness evaporated a bit, and she looked comically confused, working her fingers up to adjust a pair of reading glasses.

Her voice was laced with shyness, and yet strong, and it sported a thick non-Bothan accent, "Uhh... Roasted vegetables?..."

"I can agree with that!"

The pudgy, muscular host gave the little Bothan a friendly chuck under her bearded chin and a pat on the shoulder, leaning over to whisper, "Hope the food helps, and thanks for being a good sport..." His hand pressed two more buttons. Two massive, spits spear-like and with deadly force, WHUNK-BLAMMED! as fast as the eye could see, piecing the nerf ribs and whirring up to raise the drizzling, spiced nerf away from the wooden platters entirely. The host sauntered along, humming cheerfully to his assembled guests, whose reactions ranged from stunned and confused, to weirded-out, to annoyed, to barely-contained laughter. The latter he was happy to see on the faces of the albino Bothan girl with those lovely purple eyes, the Duros boy and a few of his classmates, as well as their chaperone, the aged human...

Who Johzqin now recognized as a former military veteran of holovid fame, much like Coj himself had formerly been... What a small Galaxy it really was at the end of the day!

He continued to whistle along to this strange tune as he removed the wooden trays, taking them back to be washed, out of sight in another small room. Returning to his audience, he smiled playfully at them, a large basket of assorted vegetables under each arm, which he set beside each other on the floor to await later roasting; this he did three more times, until eight baskets waited in total, and he would bring of the necessary pans to work with as well, encouraging the audience to suggest new songs for him to sing as he worked and entertained alike!

To the Duros boy next to the Veteran, whatever-his-name-was, Coj asked. "Am I forgetting anything else?"

The Duros spread his arms as wide as he could, "FWWWOOOOSSSHH!"

Johzqin pretended that a light bulb his alighted right above his head as he smiled toothily at the boy. "You're right!"

Swinging his paunch of a gut, it struck a final button...

The kid was good - he may have been Force Sensitive, because he predicted the future: FWWOOOOOSH! Flames emerged from jets beneath the durasteel floor, occasionally being shifted in chemical composition, to render the fire a myriad of different colors as the audience laughed and clapped before their host, even as the spitted ribs behind him began to lower over the flame's harsh kiss; he would begin to gather up the needed sauces shortly.

He bowed thrice before heading to his supply cabinet once more - once to the audience, and once to the shy albino Bothan and, next to her, once more to the Duros boy and his laughing, cheerful War Hero.

He would have to roast the vegetables shortly, but for now, he gathered around the cheerful children, and asked them which of their favorite stories would they like for him to recite and teach them all from - while occasionally cooking, of course!

They would eat in their Commons together, even as the shadow lowered a deep and dark curtain over most of them.

Johzqin wouldn't regret leaving Coruscant for a number of years - however long it might take, but he would regret leaving so many fine people behind who couldn't leave, as well as lamenting the fact that they no longer had their freedom...

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TALES OF THE CORE
II

​

SUB-DISTRICT 6, UNDERCITY,
CORUSCANT (903 ABY)

'Who's the dude?'
'Dude?!'
'What?! He fell from the surface, ain't nothin' but a dude to me.'
'You're an idiot! Look at the logo on his eyepatch, on his cloak too.'​

Thomas was unconscious at the time, deep in the throes of his usual traumatic nightmares, completely unaware of the lower-levellers stood hunched over him at the time, though the folk of the Undercity would not be waiting long for the Khan to stir, concussed from his face-planted, prone-lying predicament. However, despite the proximity to waking Realspace, time would pass with more speculations from the ones who found him, the wiser of whom even going on to reveal,'A skull, burned gold, Iron-Cog wings. Thats Scar Hound signage, a Mawite logo.... Their leader removed his own right eye, proudly showin' off his disadvantage in plain sight. Ring any bells?', casting a sidelong glance that bore a fearful resemblance to silent caution.

'Ain't that the-?'
'Shut the feth up, Carl! We ain't affiliated like that, we don't get to name that gang down here.'

​

Whatever this gang-collective was, and whoever were it's ringleaders, the grumbling, curious duo were in no mood to invoke their presence, and of no mind to explore their possible connection to the eyepatch-wearing mess, still sprawling in a stupor at the time. This unnamed gang seemingly represented the essence of a new menace, and apparently, had been running roughshod over that particular sector's gangs, and to such extreme that even the regular, rogueish caste had been scared into fleet-footed avoidance of these new arrivals, even after spending their entire lives enduring untold horrors beneath the surface.

The grumbling duo were finally showing signs of advoidant wisdom, even making to leave the body where it lay, but when the body began to utter,'Who - are y-', the lower-levellers gasped with a jump-scaring, nerve-rattling fear. If anything, they were expecting to hear a death-rattle, but the sudden, groggy outburst was reason enough to believe they had overstepped, woefully misjudging the gravity of the situation upon which they had stumbled. Yet somehow, despite the fact they had come too far to remain uninvolved, these rogues were still silent, transfixed on the spot like herbivores to speeder headlamps.

But the injured, half-conscious Khan was in no mood for it. This was weakness, and not a single living Barran could tolerate such a thing.

'Speak, then!'
'Nobodies, w-we're nobodies.'
'Feth you, man! I'm not that bad, am I?'
'We know who you are, Khan.... Kinda comes with the territory, dontcha think?'

​

'Oh, so now you decide to be a wind-up artist? Took your fethin' time, man.', the one-eyed Woad shot back, and though his reaction was knee-jerk in reply, it had proved humanising enough that the grumbling duo allowed their lungs to laugh a little. A great help to otherwise-apprehensive bystanders, as it meant the chasm-like difference between flinching and pulling the Khan to his feet, even kneeling to lift him properlly as he continued,'Much obliged.... Still a bit - ah - dinged up, here.', further-endearing himself to the ones who found him. Not at all the man they were expecting to encounter, and though it presented a greater, more-dangerous enigma in the minds of the lower-levellers, they were gladdened that it seemed to pale in comparison to the social, folkish serenity of his demeanour.

'Alright, now, before we continue, cut the,"Khan", chit.... Down here, I'm just Tam, understood?'
'Fair.... I'm Carl.'
'He's a good kid, Tam.... As for me, I'm Benny.'

 

[Meliant]

Coruscant - Imperial Palace
Hidden Archives

"B is for 'battlelord,' so..." Meliant tapped the terminal's keyboard irritably, cycling through search queries. "Why doesn't it..."​

​

The whole vault was dark, just the faint glow of the index terminal's screen to offer any light. Really, most of the palace was like this after its glorious desacralization, but the hidden part of the archives - the part that held all the good stuff - that was where it got darker. Yet darker: it felt nearly oppressive and constrictive.​

​

Meliant suspected there was a trace of the arcane in it. It was something sufficient to ward off the palace staff, but not a sufficiently determined member of the Dark Side Elite. ​

​

No, the only obstacle to Meliant was the fucking catalogue terminal.​

​

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the doors, some distance away, come clanking open again. Someone stepped carefully into the vault. "Who's in here?" They called. "Show yourself."​

​

"Fuck off," Meliant called back.​

​

Whoever it was, their footsteps proceeded purposefully to where Meliant was hunched over his defiant terminal. It was as cozy a corner as could be found in this glorified specimen gallery, with walls of shelves, vaults, and dull red databanks towering over them. ​

​

It was another member of the Dark Side Elite. A human man Meliant recognized from the Sepulchure but had not spoken to. And why would he? There was hardly anything to say. He noted then as he noted now that his eyes looked too big for his head, and were too far apart besides.​

​

"Meliant? What are you doing there?"​

​

"I'm up twenty thousand credits on holonet sabacc," Meliant turned away from the terminal and gestured at its screen. "What does it look like, Pambo?"​

​

Pambo thinned his lips. "You should be on guard. There's an intruder." He reminded Meliant of a fish, actually. In this gloom he resembled some manner of deep trench angler.​

​

"Really. And how do you figure that?"​

​

"Two dead Sovereign Protectors in the hallway."​

​

"I wouldn't worry about that," Meliant chuckled, a rasping and off-putting sound. "That was me. They said we weren't allowed in the archives."​

​

Pambo opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "We…?"​

​

Meliant indicated with a thumb somewhere far off to his left. "I have Quasten looking over there."​

​

"Quasten?"​

​

"Hi, Pambo," Quasten shouted from across the archives. ​

​

Pambo clenched and unclenched his fists. It must have been unconscious, since he himself noticed the gesture and folded his arms to try and look more secure, more authoritative. Not for nothing, he did seem less rattled, but he wasn't fooling anyone.​

​

"Pambo, my friend, don't fret," Meliant crooned at him. "We're the Dark Side Elite. Anywhere we go, we carry the Emperor's authority. Which means I'm allowed in the Archives and can kill anyone who tries to stop me."​

​

"The Emperor's archives in the Emperor's palace, staffed by the Emperor's guard..."​

​

Meliant shrugged his shoulders, confident he had nothing to worry about. "Don't be such a loyalist. No Emperor means no rules. You want me to pick something out for you? Perhaps the royal manual on how not to be such a quivering loser?"​

​

They were interrupted by Quasten suddenly appearing. He brought a heavy tome, which he presented to Meliant as a waiter might present a meal, announcing: "It was under 'R' for 'Rivan'."​

​

Meliant cracked open the tome and traced raced his finger along the jagged Sith script contained within. "Yes… Yes, this is it." He glanced up again and noticed Pambo was still sitting there, looking sullen and aggrieved. ​

​

Not enough to do anything, of course. For most of the Dark Side Elite, the absence of the Emperor meant the absence of spine. No direction, no desire, no progress. Quasten brushed his long, greasy hair out of his eyes and awaited further orders. It was Pambo who spoke first.​

​

He managed to sound out, through teeth that were nearly gritted: "What... Are you two... Planning?"​

​

"Why, Pambo," Meliant snapped the tome shut, scattering some dust about the area. "Whatever we want."​

 

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

TALES OF THE CORE
II

​

Batwing Forest,
Anobis, Mid Rim Territories (903 ABY)

TWO DAYS LATER...

'Pfffff.... Headstart made the difference.'
​

It was still snowing, and for all that Yorunarr was trying to endeavour in avoidance of the fact he catalysed it, the tiny, microbial remnants of Midichlorian activity were all falling around him with irrefutable proof the snow was instigated by his hand, and his hand alone. The Priest-King had known about the planet's expectation of a,"Natural Snowstorm for Late-Winter", even seeing many of the meteorological predictions for himself before they left their hidden headquarters on Neshtab, but any time his mind drifted to those reports, these particular recollections would irritate him enough that he would immediately try to think of something else instead.

However, the main irritant to the Shaman's serenity was the understanding that this constant regional blizzard would have died out to the rain, under bleaker circumstances, as dying would surely have severed his active connection to nature; and for some, still-unknown reason, beyond any and all concepts of hidden wisdom, the Ancients of Archais wanted more from their chosen Godseer. These revelations (unspoken though they remained) were rightly assumed to be a distraction at the time, and despite the merit of considering these matters after his escape from Anobis, these aggravations of the soul would serve no utility to a man with a shovel, wrestling with the fruits of his own labour for survival.

Along with the persistant, searing pain of a poorly-healing wound.

'Gyah-'

If this is late-stage political Tarkinism, then so be it.
Disavowing that ideology was the best choice for Archais.

Better still, for the Novanian people.​

'Fething Birdwatchers! They never change!'

In time, the latest aches would subside, aided by the opening of Yoruarr's coat, exposing the treated bandages to the biting cold of winter, but the Shaman's work was not yet done. Not by any metric of survivalist preparation, not while there was still so much yet to consider after assuring adequate concealment, and for every hour the Priest-King spent on Anobis, the threat of Coruscantine patrols would never cease to persist. The dugout behind the treeline, however, difficult though it had been, was still a great start; especially with fresh, burning wounds considered, but for all the odds that stacked on his shoulders, the old Novanian was still thriving.

Taking every possible opportunity to baulk at adversity.

After the dugout, sleep could become possible, made all the easier by the camping equipment stored in his speeder-bike's cargo boxes, as it was then that the Shaman found his sleeping-bag, along with a matress-platform that allowed for moisture-avoidant elevation from the ground. With this assured, Yorunarr could sleep the rest of the afternoon away, waking up in the dark as a result of his fatigue, only to continue his quiet preparation from there. Even using his nightvision goggles to aid his effort to collect deadwood, dry and sodden alike, it would not be long before the Priest-King was forced to think about concerns of visibility, another vital moment for the old Novanian to use cunning in the effort to avoid detection.

Wisely attaching two winter-camouflage ponchos together, their surface area would cover, at a low-set, downward-facing angle, breaking the upward pattern of wood-smoke without compromising the shelter's airflow; and with wide-reaching branches from all the surrounding trees above, (evergreen and deciduous alike-) more yet could be done by nature to hide visible signs of corporeal fire. No easy giveaways would be gifted, not on that day, and not for the rest of his time on the planet's surface, too much was at stake to let hubris rule the old Novanian by then. Yorunarr understood that this process would require him to bide his time, watching and delegating the region, moving silently around his foes in search of answers, all the more time-consuming for the fact he would need to endeavour it all on his own.

I need to observe my enemies out here, don't I?
I can't, though. Not yet, at least.... I'm in no fit shape for that.​

Glaring at his shovel for a moment, sensing that rising rage whilst seemingly transfixed to the handle, the old Novanian allowed time enough to add fresh salve, and then fresh dressings before he looked to the falling snows once more, but this time, not half so ruefully. As it just so happened, Yorunarr wasn't spiralling into darker thoughts after all, and despite his realisation, being on Anobis a little longer than planned was already being considered as an opportunity. Picturing every possible phase in these thoughts on,"Getting back to basics.", hoping to find the baseline strength and competence he knew had been lost since his kingly ascension, the Shaman couldn't help but smile, though he had not noticed the fact it would have been his first smile since the Protectorate's latest mobilisation.

With warmth, shelter, a place to rest, and a full, in-date field ration pack, Yorunarr had everything he needed to subside in pained, fatigued silence, for a while, at least, but even the old Novanian knew he would need to hunt wild game eventually. Although it would be difficult to catch and kill in the snow, the Priest-King was still confident enough in bushcraft that he merely shrugged it off for later, resigned to his to-do list as,"Arrows to be fashioned when I'm bored.", for a short while, as there was snow to be cleared and compacted as his chiefmost priority. Walls, pathways, even tunnels would be dug to reach beyond the boot-flattened boundaries of the Shaman's camp, giving himself a means of maintaining bodyheat without wasting firewood.

It made no sense to venture into the wild too often, lest his enemies spotted his silhouette from a far, scoped distance.

Hunker down for now, old man.​

'Heh!'

​

 

[Darth Keres]

​

[]

​

Location: Imperial City

Shadows pooled along the fractured stone of the marketplace as twilight began to fade into complete darkness. Stretching like hungry fingers, Darth Keres moved through them with the quiet certainty of a predator long accustomed to intentions. Merchants watched behind threadbare awnings, their whispers sharpening into brittle fragments as her silhouette glided between stalls stacked with fresh fruit, elaborate trinkets, and relics that seemed to fetch a high supply of credits.

Beside her, the young Rodian female kept pace, as the Sith Lord's earlier words, soft as moth-eaten velvet yet edged with the promise of discovery, gnawed at her thoughts like unseen teeth. She could feel them reshaping her thoughts, tempting her with terrible clarity and the forbidden lure of self-transformation. The marketplace around her blurred into a murk of indistinct shapes and wary eyes, for all she truly perceived was the widening chasm within herself: the place where doubt and desire warred beneath the watchful shadow of Darth Keres.

The Rodian's voice wavered like a tree struggling to hold its children against a violent wind storm as she dared to look up at the Sith Lord's quiet gaze and whisper, "Do you think the Jedi would accept someone like me?" Her fingers tightened nervously at her sides, the question trembling between them like a fragile creature afraid to draw its next breath.

Darth Keres let a thin, glacial smile curl at the corner of her mouth as she murmured, "Yes, child, the Jedi would accept you...but only as a tame creature kept behind their sacred walls."

Her voice slithered through the shadows, rich with contempt, as she added, "They would bind your potential in chains of doctrine, praising your obedience while starving your true strength." Then, with a low, almost pitying whisper, she concluded, "To live by their failing code is to smother your own becoming, all for the comfort of those who fear what you might one day become."

Shira Vex faltered in her steps, her wide, glossy eyes reflecting the neon lights overhead as she turned a confused gaze toward the towering figure beside her. "But, aren't you a Jedi?" she asked, her voice quivering with a blend of innocence and dawning unease. The question slipped from her like a frightened whisper, carried on the chill that clung to the marketplace's stagnant air.

She studied Darth Keres's shrouded form, searching for some contradiction, some hint that the woman's venomous words against the Order were a jest or a test. Yet the deeper she looked, the more the shadows gathering around Darth seemed to pulse with a truth she was not prepared to confront.

Darth Keres answered only with a low, velvety laugh, lifting one hand to dismiss the girl's question as though swatting aside an insignificant moth fluttering too near her flame. "Child, I surpassed the Jedi long before you took your first breath," she murmured, her tone threaded with mocking indulgence.

Shadows curled eagerly around her as she walked, as if drawn to the cold gravity of her presence. "No, young one, I am no Jedi." Her eyes gleamed like twin embers in the gloom, her voice growing more in absolute tones as she added, "I'm the one you should cling to...if you wish to rise above this meaningless existence. No Jedi can promise you that."

Spoiler: Gear Loadout

• Melee Weapons​
  • XIII​
• Armor​
  • Black Caskan Wolf-Snake Armor​
• Accessories​
  • k​
• Ship​
  • Taciturnitas​
• Personal Guards​
  • Silencers​