Populate The Caldera Musters! | SO Populate of Askaj & Valyrant Prime

[Aspect of Victory]

The Caldera Musters! | SO Populate of Askaj & Orax

​

It began as it always did, in the depths of quotidian night, in the embrace of quietude. The Stygian Caldera was no stranger to war, throughout its history since the very first Sith had been exiled from their homes, to this modern era, where the sons and daughters of those very same Sith had come to reclaim these ancient worlds that meant everything to them, the Stygian Caldera had known nothing but war.

It had been a particularly eventful last few decades, from the fall of the Tenth Sith Empire and the takeover of the worlds by the particularly vicious Ashlan Crusade, to the fall of the militant brand of the Jedi Order, the liberation of the worlds demanded by the newly established Eleventh Sith Empire. Yet, even restored to Sith rule, the worlds had not been freed from conflict, from the skirmishes had with the Galactic Alliance right outside the Caldera on worlds such as Odacer-Faustin, Elom, and Mirial, to those particularly bold, such as the Mandalorian Protectors and the Lightsworn, making for attempts to strike the heart of the Caldera through action on Dromund Kaas. While, of course, the Sith had never been particularly shy about taking offensive actions in a bid to defend the Caldera, the burnings of worlds like Tion, Ferie Junction, and Makem Te became permanent fixtures of the Sith's willingness to do whatever was required to defend their ancestral homeland.

And for a moment, it had seemed the warring in and outside the Caldera had succeeded, the Ashlan Crusade existed as nothing more than a name mentioned in the history books, the Galactic Alliance’s focus turned towards the Core and the Sith state at their border, the Mandalorian Protectors had fallen into the infighting that was endemic of their kind, and none had heard peep nor whisper of the Lightsworn in many years, while Tion’s fall and destruction had signalled the steep decline and fall of the so-called Empire of the Lost. The Caldera had entered into a time of… peace, most unlike the code that they so preached. The Caldera even temporarily opened the Blackwall, hosting a galactic event, the Crimson Concord, open to the entire galaxy, on Dromund Kaas.

It could never last forever.

Agents of the Tsis'Kaar had arrived at Korriban, Krayiss II, Dromund Kaas, Ziost, and Jutrand, all with similar messages.

"The Imperial Confederation imminently seeks to invade and conquer the Stygian Caldera, to strike all worlds simultaneously in an effort designed to cut them off from each other, and through the taking of Hypergate Florrum, isolating the Caldera from the rest of the Empire."

It was a message impossible to ignore, as the news spread across the Empire, as aided by the Tsis'Kaar intelligence network, Sith Lords rallied to the defence of the homeland. As quickly, preparations for the defence of the Caldera were organised.

Objective 1: The War Council

​

After swift discussions, a consensus was reached quickly: Ziost would be the world that had been chosen to host the War Council. Ziost, held by Taeli Raaf, the only Dark Councillor who was governor in the Caldera, held the highest position outside of the Emperor himself, making for the most agreeable host. While Ziost itself was the furthest of the worlds from the Imperial frontline, it proved the safest location for where the defence of the Caldera would be organised.

In a large circular hall, with great floating statues around them, and holograms of the Calderan worlds surrounding them, the Sith Lords have gathered, loud voices resounding and echoing along the walls, as the Dark Councillors who have arrived chair the meeting, two empty raised thrones, for their Imperial Majesties should they be in attendance.

For how this new war will be won shall be determined here.

Objective 2: The War Preparations

​

While Lords gather to debate, discuss, and scream, on the worlds in question, intense preparations are undertaken for the defence of each and every one of the worlds. Ziost, held by Darth Arcanix, Dromund Kas, held by Darth Prazutis , Korriban, held by Darth Caedes , and Krayiss II, held by Darth Morta , have already made great strides in bids to defend their worlds, yet, on worlds such as Florrum, Makem Te, and Brosi, not held by such great lords, many preparations are needed to bring their defences to scratch.

Makem Te has never fully recovered from the assault of the Mors Mon of years past, while Florrum, a desert world with its main claim to fame is proximity to the Hypergate Florrum has never been looked upon with much interest. It has surprisingly been Brosi, who has gathered most attention from those who fear the worst.

Brosi, infected by a great disease of unknown cause, with leading reports contending its spread from an Imperial research facility, has been put under quarantine, while further research has confirmed it has properties very similar to the Blue Shadow Virus and the Blight. Dubbed at the present moment as the Candorian Blight, leading theories believe the sabotage of the facility to be the first move of the Imperials in their invasion of the Caldera.

Despite the scourge of the disease and its current quarantine, the Sith must maintain hold of the planet, or else the defence of the Caldera will be immediately breached. Already, supplies have been rushed down for the construction of defences, as investigations are conducted into the source of the outbreak, and the feasibility of defending the world with the disease aflame.

Objective BYOO: Do your part too!

​

There are many aspects in the preparations that are all together necessary, doing your part in whichever way appeals to you is entirely encouraged as the Sith across the Empire, citizens and lords alike, do their part for Emperor, for Empire, for their homes, and for their people.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Funeral Dirge."

Tags - OPEN!
Objective 1



Seated amid the chaos of arriving Sith—each cloaked in grandeur, swathed in anger, or radiant with silent ambition—Darth Virelia sat motionless upon the seat she had chosen as her own, half-throned, half-ignored by the lesser minds around her. Her presence was a wound in the air, a stillness that hunted silence, and devoured it. The circular hall, decked in floating statues and ringed by ghostly projections of the Calderan worlds, buzzed with the noise of movement, of argument, of identity. But around her seat—around the black monolith encasing her body—there was a pocket of hush. A sphere of dread equilibrium.

Tyrant's Embrace, her second skin, shimmered like the edge of a blade buried in shadow. The violet eyes in her helm—six of them, symmetrical and shifting—gazed outward like sentries in the dark. Unblinking. Judging. Memorizing. A dozen Sith Lords had already made the mistake of glancing her way too long, only to flinch and shift their gazes elsewhere, as though staring too long into that insectile gaze would reveal something they weren't ready to know. Something that might know them back.

She sat beneath her hood as though it were her crown. Cloaked in black so deep it seemed to devour the light from the nearby holograms. The flamelike hem of her cape licked at the stone floor behind her, motionless for now. Waiting. Like her.

It was not her way to bark for attention, nor to assert presence with volume. That was a long time ago, now, she had no need. When she moved, when she spoke, it would cut through the room like gravity, and all the orbits of ambition would bend inward toward her.

Now was not the time for declarations.

Now was the time to listen.

The gathering was volatile—deliberately so. The war council called in desperation, under threat of the Confederation's encroaching blade, reeked of urgency and fractured loyalty. Some Sith had come as conquerors in their own minds, eager to seize relevance through the performance of patriotism. Others had arrived wary, sharp with calculation, prepared to defend only what they personally possessed. And a few—too few—had come to win.

She studied them all. One by one. Breathing in their tempers, their posturing, their tells. She memorized gait, tone, which of them paced, which of them clung to datapads like addicts to spice.

Peace was a lie.

The opening of the Blackwall, the hosting of the Crimson Concord—it had been a dance with hope. And hope was an infection. The Sith had tasted it like bloodied wine, believing, foolishly, in diplomacy, in endurance, in pause. But the galaxy did not pause. The galaxy learned. The galaxy encroached. The galaxy waited for the Sith to forget what they were.

Virelia had not forgotten.

The lights above her flickered briefly as the great statues overhead adjusted, one gliding slowly into place to hover behind her. Another statue began to rotate, the face half-carved, unfinished—a seat of power waiting to be filled.

Her gaze tilted slightly to regard it.

Not yet.

The doors had not closed. The Council had not begun. But the moment was already upon them.

Because war did not begin when the first shot was fired. It began here, in the space between breaths, between glances, between lies.

It began within.

Virelia's hand, claws coiled and resting on her knee, twitched once—like a command. The armor's runes pulsed in reply, a slow violet ripple across her chest and back, as though answering a thought unspoken. Her breath was silent, mechanical. Measured. She did not blink. The violet node at her sternum pulsed once, once, as if in time with the heartbeat of something far below—of Ziost itself, or of the Caldera's own destiny.

She was not afraid of the Confederation. Nor of this gathering.

She was afraid of nothing.

Because everything she had planned—the betrayals, the redemptions, the fractures to come—was already in motion. This council was a stage, and her lines had already been written, waiting only for the cue.

Soon.

 

[Elane II of Kuat]

​

Sith-Imperial Tag Channel: Darth Virelia

There was never a dull moment in the Sith Order or the Eleventh Sith Empire as some called it, as Elane tirelessly worked on integrating new worlds into the ever-growing reach of the Blackwall.

This was a thankless endeavor, as planetary governors were not inclined to demote themselves in favor of a more Sith-aligned leader. Not to mention the weeks of engaging in rigorous negotiations with trade guilds, banking families, and merchant groups to safeguard the Sith economy from the repercussions of the Alliance-Galactic Empire conflict.

However, there was little she could do to avert some economic downturn in the more remote systems that depended largely on smuggled goods passing through the barrier, which the Sith-Imperial Banking Clan ignored as long as a tithe was remitted.

Normally she would not be away from her office on Jutrand, but the War Council on Ziost called her attention because of the tithe requirement listed in the proposed Fortress Worlds Directive which seemed to overall indicate that the Imperial Confederation was attempting to invade the Holy Worlds, not a bad strategic move but that was the domain of the Kainate and they would defend it rather rigorously.

She took her seat at the War Council, aided by her cane, without making any grand entrance or uttering a word to the others present. They possessed the might of the force, yet there was something far more significant that she alone commanded in the larger context of the Empire.

The Power of the Purse​

 

[Darth Strosius]

​

The Holy Worlds were, at least in principle, bastions of Sith power and presence. Ancient planets and systems which time and again had served the Sith and their empires in years long since passed and in even in current times as well. They had been tested and prodded by Imperial and Alliance incursions before, even by rogue Jedi groups, but thus far they had held fast against the external threats. Now however, it seemed as though their newest adversary had thought to aim for the soft underbelly rather than going for the head as it were.

Brosi, Florrum, and Makem Te could very well prove to be the nails in the coffin of the Sith Holy Worlds if they weren't properly reinforced and readied. Florrum especially could mean the loss of the Hypergate if it couldn't repel assault, effectively severing the main connection between Sith space and their exclave. All three worlds would need to be fortified yet one in particular seemed the most vulnerable due not to enemy interference but rather a recent outbreak.

A disease wracked Brosi, a virus which had cut a swathe not only through the population but even into the planet's fauna as well. It spared few and took most but with it being a potential target questions abounded on how best to fortify a world that was almost too dangerous to set foot on. Darth Strosius the answer was rather simple, the enemy just couldn't be allowed to ever make planetfall at all, but He knew that planning for planetside battles wasn't something that could simply be overlooked.

As such while Ziost was hosting a war council for the defense of the Holy Worlds as a whole, the Harbinger of Absolution hung over Brosi while Darth Strosius attempted to find a solution to the dilemma at hand. Quarantine zones around strategic positions, dedicated orbital-to-ground stations, even just evacuating or displacing the infected populace away from the world itself, all options had to be considered and weighed if there was any chance of securing the world from the coming war.

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

​

In a rare move, the Vizier had left the safety of Commonwealth space and had arrived on Zoist.

The doors to the War Council chamber parted with hydraulic grace, letting in a hush that preceded the storm. She entered like a blade drawn slowly from its scabbard. Grand Vizier Ivalyn Yvarro, Sovereign Executor of the Commonwealth, did not rush. Her stride was even, precise, and unapologetically regal. She wore black—not the black of mourning, but of mandate, tailored to a militant silhouette that mirrored the austerity of Krennic with the severity of Moff Gideon. The long coat swept behind her like a banner, its inner lining glinting faintly with blood-gold embroidery, veins of authority stitched into the fabric of her rule.

No medals adorned her chest. She needed none. Her presence alone carried weight, as she moved through the chamber with the whisper of policies, secrets, and the scalpel-like precision of diplomacy sharpened into warcraft.

Her hair was coiled in a severe chignon. Her gloves were fitted. Her gaze was glass and fire.

Flanking her in perfect symmetry were her Belisarius Guards, these figures in storm-gray armor with voidblack visors and ceremonial staves etched with the sigils of the Hyacinth Palace. They moved like shadows, unspoken but unmistakable. They did not make room. Space was made for them.

As Ivalyn stepped into the light of the central holo-map, worlds of the Caldera spinning in ethereal blues and reds—she took in the chamber with surgical calm. Around her, Sith Lords barked and debated, some barely noting her arrival, others watching with veiled curiosity or quiet disdain. She caught sight of a Dark Lord in particular. She averted her gaze for the time being looking toward the central of the chamber back toward the holo-map of the holy worlds.

If this War Council was to draft the survival of the Caldera, then it would understand that the Imperial Commonwealth of Dosuun would not be there to simply observe but to participate as one of its architects.

Darth Virelia | Elane II of Kuat | Open to Interaction​

 

[Lirka Ka]

OBJECTIVE I - War is Coming
TAGS: Elane II of Kuat Darth Virelia Ivalyn Yvarro


The siren’s call of war was a thing impossible for Lirka to resist. By nature of duty, she would have attended anyway: an Imperator neglecting such an important meeting would be bad optics, after all. While the Storm Riders remained busy with their work in the south, she could at least ascertain what the Empire, and the Kainate, would require in the north.

She was giddy, in her own silent way. Peace was a lie, the Sith prattled about such a notion endlessly. Since her return to Sith-Imperial space, the Sith had been an offensive machine. Ravaging against the Jedi, now the cycle would repeat: Lirka Ka would be allowed to feel like a younger monster again, brawling against encroaching Imperials that sought to ravage what they had built. It was nostalgic, in its own little way. It was holy, in many more.

The crucible had come for her fellows now, the cosmic test of worth formulated by the prosecution of conflict. The Sith had been tested before upon the Caldera, and failed. They had been tested, and succeeded. It left the Once-Sephi bristling in anticipation for what was to come. This was merely battle to her, the worlds of the Sith were not holy to her. There was but one holy world in this Galaxy, and it was far far away - hidden within the depths of the Perann.

Yet, duality remained. The Sith would brawl to defend their worlds with great violence in their heart - and with it, so too would this new Confederation of Imperials be tested. Such was the way of the darkness beyond darkness.

Familar faces filled the halls, the form of her Arch-Commandant, the Banker from Dromund Kaas, the appearance of the Commonwealth she had "tussled" with - which brought great amusement to the Imperator's metal form. Truly, a monumentous event was rumbling from the depths. Lirka wouldn't miss it for the world. Yet, despite that, for now the Imperator remained a silent guest. The spark was yet to be lit, and she was plenty certain today would be a day of fiery passions. While she could radiate the presence of a Legion's power, and the gleaming bulk of a powersuit more built for war than meetings. Today was a day to let the Councilors and their similar ilk take point, at the end of it all - Lirka Ka would fight who they asked, kill who they asked, and defend what they demanded. Such was the nature of duty.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

OBJECTIVE II: WAR PREPARATIONS
TAG: Darth Strosius

Such panic over so few worlds.

This was not for the good of the Empire. This was a chance to see rivals weakened.

The Imperials must bleed. But so must the Sith.

This would be a victory for no one.

Except one.

​

Amongst the various ships that had arrayed in orbit around Borsi, a lone cruiser sat idle, seemingly a relic from an ancient past. Aboard were a crew of near-mindless slaves and one particularly stumped Sith Lord, sequestered in his laboratory.

Darth Nefaron, truthfully, did not care about the Holy Worlds of the Sith. Oh yes, they contained generations of Sith history and stood as a beacon of power so far from Jutrand, but they were worlds like any other. Yet the call had been made to defend these worlds from the oncoming storm, and he would need to make an appearance to at least claim he furthered the goal of a united Sith front. In truth, he had come only for the rumors of an outbreak on Borsi, an outbreak confirmed by the stream of ships attempting ot flee the planet only to be prevented from doing so by the fleet in orbit. A few lucky individuals had been fortunate to be brought aboard the Corpse Lord's vessel for safekeeping. In truth, he was simply after an individual who might carry the infection. Stranded in a quarantined hangar, droids carried out the tedious work of scanning and identifying potential individuals for study, but in the end, Nefaron had been unable to do much with the fools he'd stumbled upon. Countless tissue samples, vivisections, and applications of Sith sorcery had failed to properly create a sort of cure or vaccine.

Of course, Nefaron did not desire this terrible virus to be eliminated.

He wanted his own version. He wanted a weapon of his own.

But it was becoming abundantly clear that if he wanted proper samples, he would have to set foot on Borsi. While powerful, the chaos on the planet's surface would make any proper study difficult, especially while other Sith made preparations to try and defend the planet. The other unfortunate issue was that the virus was mutating far too quickly for even Nefaron to contain, and so he would need the aid of another Dark Lord of significant strength to at least slow the mutation so the Corpse Lord could study its genetic makeup. At present, there was only one who was capable of accompanying Nefaron to the surface and ensuring he had access to those truly infected.

He was not thrilled.

Droids removed what remained of Nefaron's final test subject while he maneuvered to a small communication station within his laboratory. After a quick scan, it appeared that the Sith he needed was indeed in the system.

He needed Darth Strosius

This would be the only time.

"Put me through to Lord Strosius. Inform him that if he wants to stop the spread of the virus in time to prepare proper defenses, we must cooperate."

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

TAG: Naedira Darcrath | Lirka Ka | Darth Virelia | Ivalyn Yvarro | Elane II of Kuat | Darth Malum of House Marr | Taeli Raaf​

War was coming to the Holy Worlds. The cries heard from some resurgent version of the Empire of the Lost cried out for vengeance against the siege of Tion. Were it not for the listening ears of the Tsis’Kaar those cries would have taken longer to reach Jutrand, but they had. From Jutrand the call to gather was clear. There would be another war council, and for the first time since moving against the Galactic Alliance, the military power of the Sith Order would be unleashed once again.

They had defended what was theirs before, and they would do so again.

For a brief moment, his mind wandered to Tion. The underwater facility had been theirs to breach. Gerwald and his team had been the distraction to give Empyrean the time needed to take control. They destroyed it instead. It was the last battle which Naedira Darcrath had joined him in. They had always moved together well, a result of the battle meld they shared at their first meeting. On Tion, the beast which yearned to get out, the part of his nature which had been forced upon her when she was brought back to the land of the living. Srina had warned him of the consequences, but it had still been unexpected.

It had changed the way they moved together. They had always found a natural rhythm in the midst of a chaotic battlefield, but it was beyond that now. There was no longer a need for the battle meld to move and act as one. It simply was. Whatever otherworldly influences that had bound them so she could live now worked in and through them at once. The necklace Gerwald had given Naedira was as much a thoughtful gift as it was a necessity. It made him close at all times.

“This will not be like the war rooms of the Confederacy,” he warned. “Though there will be some things which are similar.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. The room would be full of lords and governors who loved the sound of their own voice and would use the time to preen and posture themselves rather than prepare for the war ahead of them. It was more pronounced among the Sith. His nature was always bent toward action. Debating and politicking were the parts of his role that Gerwald hated the most. The Dread Queen had taught the Wolf to tolerate it and even seem as though he was good at playing the game.

Gerwald was certain Naedira would hate it as much as he did. The weapons in this room would be words and careful oration.

He preferred his lightsaber.

“We are designing a war and deciding on strategy. Your words will hold the same weight as mine, so do not hold back.”

The Wolf did not know what Naedira remembered of these kind of meetings. Much of the Naedira which would have been privy to that experience died with her at Prazutis’ hand. They had been young then, not even fully fledged Knights Obsidian. She had always been more advanced than he had been then. Gerwald had not been raised aware of how to use the force. He had put in the work to catch up. Now he led. Now he was powerful. Still, Gerwald wanted all in attendance to understand that Naedira did not stand behind him, or simply at his side.

She was his equal.

She was powerful.

They entered the hall with little fanfare. This was not the kind of gathering which necessitated the pomp and circumstance of a more social gathering. This was war. The place Gerwald and Naedira would occupy was spacious enough. It gave them a direct line of sight to the map. His mind reached out, searching for the Dread Queen. Would she be in attendance? Was she close? How many times had they been here before, in a room planning war? As much as things changed, they also did not.

His eyes moved to the other places which his fellow councilors occupied. Taeli Raaf was their host. Having the council on Ziost would prove advantageous if they decided to begin staging soon. They would need to. It was simply a matter of when. Darth Malum of House Marr was there as well, to Gerwald’s left. His gaze drifted to him next. He was growing on Gerwald. How proud he must have been that it was his agents which uncovered the imminent attack. The Wolf simply hoped he would be mature enough to not let it show too much.

Pride was warranted, but this was not a time to preen.

He did not need to speak of his own role. Gerwald was a warrior first and foremost. The brutality of the second legion was a well known reputation among the Order by now. Any words he would lend at this juncture would be weighed in the light of the destructive and chaotic nature of his particular brand of warfare. Defending their world was not a raid, but the same tenacity would be exhibited in keeping what already belonged to the Order.

With a wave of his hand the map came to life and zoomed in on the Stygian Caldera. His hand reached for the metallic orb which rested on a plate of the same material. He stole one more look from Naedira before banging the gavel and assuming his role.

One.

Two.

Three.​

“We are here because war is upon us. All of you are here because duty demands it. You are here to ensure this returning enemy knows we will not relinquish what is ours. Every one of you will be asked to commit to the defense of the Holy Worlds. We all have our part to play. I am pledging the Second Legion to this endeavor. What will you pledge?”

 

[Kaila Irons]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Darth Virelia Gerwald Lechner | Open
Nearby: Ivalyn Yvarro Lirka Ka Elane II of Kuat

Darth Anathemous entered without fanfare.

The thud of armored boots strained beneath the weight of metal bones tightly bound in muscle both organic and artificial, the rustling of Darksteel plates and gentle sway of a war-skirt. That was all the Lord of Blades needed.

She'd left the silken gowns and pretty cloaks at home, and perhaps none could see the influence of her merchant lord status save for the expensive furs wrapped over her broad shoulders.

Ziost was cold after all.

Much like the expression she wore.

Like Gerwald, she detested the politics. It was like business, but slower, inefficient, a waste. They oft pretended that profit wasn't the motive but she knew better, and she knew that in this moment profit was no longer the primary objective.

It was survival.

She marched passed Darth Virelia , having entered deliberately close to her for reasons even she did not quite understand. Her helm was cradled beneath her arm, opposite hand wrapped around a sheathed saber upon her hip, projecting this image of the knight and soldier she wished to be.

It gave her one last opportunity to glance at her, a sidelong exchange that felt slow, drawn out, but lasted only seconds.

Anathemous passed just out of arm's reach, continuing that game they played.

If their exchange had taught her one thing, it was that she who controlled pace controlled everything.

"A pledge?" she questioned, turning her eyes upon the council as she took her place standing among them.

"Another tithe?"

There had been so many, and always with a Kainite at it's head of late.

"What is there left to pledge?"

She let those words hang a moment, swallowing her disdain for them.

Not because she had nothing to give, but because there was only one pledge to make;

"Everything." her voice boomed, commanding, daring.

Because this wasn't posturing and it wasn't just her stake in the game Anathemous was protecting.

It was her belief in the order.

"To lose the Caldera is to lose the image of Sith supremacy with which we have strangled our foes to inaction since the Blackwall's completion. We cannot allow ourselves to show any weakness, any hole in the wall, and that is exactly what the Confederation has found."

"The Wall has become our greatest advantage over the outside and to give any less than our all to thwarting this plot is to abandon that duty," she gave a nod to Gerwald Lechner .

"Echnos will stand with the Second Legion as it always has, every ship and every soldier. The Black Fleet will hold the gate in my absence."

"Let us instead speak of strategy."

Unless there remained cowards who would short change the Emperor.

Anathemous refused to be seen as one of them.

​

 

[Taeli Raaf]

Objective: Host the War Council
Darth Malum of House Marr Gerwald Lechner Darth Virelia Ivalyn Yvarro Lirka Ka Elane II of Kuat Quinn Varanin Kaila Irons​

She always found it so interesting how history tended to repeat itself in this era of conflict in the galaxy. Here they were, once again strategizing how best to defend the holy worlds of the Sith from an encroachment from Imperials. At least this time they were not defectors and traitors, but instead those that clung to the trappings of Imperialism to gain power. Between her network, the network of the Shadow Hand, and the Tsis'Karr, the movements had been detected in time to plan a proper defense.

She offered the government building on Ziost, within the new capital of Acinan, for the meeting as it had been Ziost that resisted the enemies of the Sith far longer than most. It had taken the full collapse of the Tenth Sith Empire before it had been taken by the Ashlans, but not before withstanding both the Alliance and the Imperials under Tavlar and Fel. Even now, she could still feel her ritual within the air of the planet, maintained by a sorcerous construct within the glass fields around the ruins of New Adasta.

She fully expected more to filter into the council chamber beyond the current members of their Order and allies and vassals, as she did not see Kaine or Braxus yet. Their legislation within the Assembly was already likely to pass through their majority, and it would bring the necessary resources and authorizations for the Holy Worlds to be properly defended. Now all that it would come down to, is what strategy to employ against these Imperials. She suspected the Candorian Blight that struck Brosi was not random, not anymore, and had likely been a targeted attack to soften that world for the attacking Imperials. Research and quarantine efforts would continue on that front, something that she would likely be attending to herself if she hadn't been needed here.

Seeing Ivalyn among the attendees was heartening as it meant, at least at face value, the Commonwealth would deploy their auxiliary fleet and troops into the defense.

"It has been too long since I've deployed my creations into a field test, but I can't think of any better than to deal with aggressors threatening the Caldera," she would say, quietly, but her voice would carry to all attendees. Specific enchantments had been woven into the very marble of the chamber, allowing even a whisper to be picked up and carried to all to hear. She would let that comment hang for a moment, those knowing what her creations might be or bring to the table would understand. "The Imperial Confederation is likely to strike at either Makem Te, Florrum, or Brosi. Florrum would create a logistical challenge as an attack there would sever the connection to our primary territory through the hypergates."

If she were the Imperials planning this campaign, that would be where she would strike at least.

 

[Gida Luroon]

Objective 3: Fortress Florrum (BYOO)
Tags: Open

General Luroon looked over the growing base. Darth Morta had ordered her to begin assembling defences on the world of Florrum, a nothing dirtball with little significance other than its mineral resources and orbiting hypergate. To act as a strategic chokepoint, several military bases of the Krayiss II militia, planetary Ion and Turbolaser cannons, and localized shield generators to protect them all were being deployed to the planet.

Darth Morta financed the buildup from her personal treasury. Gida wasn't sure why her sovereign was investing so heavily in the defences of the planet. But none of them looked very temporary, so she could only assume that there was a secondary purpose after the invading imperials had been fought off.

It was because of that feeling that there was more to this buildup that Gida didn't think she was being punished for some fault or failure she didn't even know she had. Looking over a datapad, she could see there was plenty more still coming; several of the Howler turbolasers produced back on Krayiss II were earmarked for each base, along with lower power point defence laser cannons. Doing some quick math Gida predicted that each base was nearly equal to a Golan 2 defence platform, and that was just the ones dedicated to ground forces; several of the bases were dedicated starfighter facilities, ranging from a single squadron to entire divisions, ready to make anyone trying to slip into the Order's core worlds life a living nightmare.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Objective 1 The War Room //:
//: Direct: //: Darth Virelia //: Gerwald Lechner //:
//: Taeli Raaf //: Kaila Irons //: Elane II of Kuat //: Lirka Ka //: Ivalyn Yvarro //:

War was coming.

It wouldn't be the first time the Imperials struck at the Sith. Their blades were sharp, their tongues silver, and their war drums thundered for blood.

Quinn knew this enemy, yet not better than her elders; they, at least, had a familiarity earned in fire. She had been young during the invasion of Bastion, caught in the crossfire. That memory still screamed inside her. And with it, the image of her rescuer, one who no longer walked among them.

Unlike the others clad in Sith-blessed armor, Quinn wore what made her distinct. A fitted black coat, emblazoned with the DeathDrop insignia—a winged skull lined in crimson—hugged her frame. Her footsteps echoed as she walked through the hall on Ziost. It had been years since she last stood on the planet. Today, they prepared for war.

Inside, her eyes scanned the room. She recognized many: some by name, some by past entanglement. All of them were here with motives, willing to offer their lives and more for the Empire. It brought a faint smile to her lips.

This time, the Princess had something to offer beyond herself.

Her gaze settled on Serina. Despite their complexities, the woman had always been a constant presence. Quinn approached and took a place beside her, offering a quiet, knowing smile. One rarely seen outside her private circle. Turning her head slightly, Quinn spoke in a low voice meant only for the two of them.

"Interesting turnout," she whispered, scanning the crowd again. "We'll see what's offered and if it's enough to withstand the Imperials."

Her hands remained in the pockets of the coat, one leg crossed over the other. As Gerwald spoke, the Governor of Echnos, Quinn, listened silently. Slender fingers traced along her chin until her ring and pinky fingers rested lightly on her red-stained lips.

She smiled faintly when her Master spoke. Then she stood, clearing her throat softly before addressing the room.

"I've sat with these Imperials. They welcomed me to their worlds—but they didn't enjoy my presence. I could feel it in the room. Even in peace, they were already planning how to rid themselves of me." She didn't raise her voice. It didn't need to be raised.

"Their government is young and foolish. And now they're marching on a palace where the Sith are at their strongest."

She paused, letting the silence absorb her words.

"I offer my recently acquired mercenary force. The DeathDrop has proven itself in warzones across the galaxy. I've joined them—seen firsthand their discipline and lethality."

Pride touched her voice now, faint but unmistakable.

"They are pledged to Darth Virelia in her Velgrath campaign. Their numbers will support not only the Second Legion, but the Third and First as well."

Her eyes turned to Gerwald.

"I will join the Second, as I promised."

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Quinn Varanin | Elane II of Kuat | Darth Virelia | Kaila Irons | Taeli Raaf | Gerwald Lechner | Lirka Ka ​

The Grand Vizier listened.

Stoic and composed beneath the towering shadows of Sith ambition, Ivalyn remained still as the Dark Councillors spoke. Gerwald Lechner, iron-voiced and uncompromising, pledged the 2nd Legion. He did not offer it, he declared it, demanded reciprocation, as though the full might of the Sith Order had not already been marshaled toward defending the Caldera. The war drums were loud, but she heard the undertones. The weight of words spoken beneath the clang of resolve.

The Vizier did not glance in the direction of those present at Ryoone, no, not today.

From among the Sith, the Governor of Echnos spoke next, one whose mind Ivalyn respected. There was steel in their words, but clarity as well. They spoke truth to the gathering: the loss of the Caldera would not simply be a blow to territorial dominance. It would be an unmaking of Sith supremacy, a rupture in the very marrow of its legacy. Korriban. Ziost. Dromund Kaas. These were not just holy worlds. They were myth, history, iconography given planetary form.

If they fell, what else would?

Lady Taeli Raaf, ever poised, offered her own pledge, beasts and monstrosities, and those who commanded them. Ivalyn knew her well. Knew of her apprentice, too, and the mercenaries that rode with Darth Virela like carrion birds circling fresh blood. Allies of convenience, but allies nonetheless.

It was time.

Ivalyn stepped forward, the heels of her polished boots echoing crisply against the obsidian floor of the War Council chamber. The cape of her uniform the black of midnight, trimmed in blood-gold moved like liquid shadow behind her. Her voice, when it came, was calm and deliberate, forged in the crucible of diplomacy and warfare alike.

"The Imperial Commonwealth of Dosuun shall stand beside our allies on Korriban and Dromund Kaas." A breath's pause. No wavering. "We pledge the 14th Legion, along with our auxiliary forces, to this campaign. Furthermore, an expeditionary fleet, commanded by Captain Rowyna Galeway, a legacy of both the Commonwealth and our First Order forebears, shall deploy immediately."

She looked across the chamber, across ancient stone and cutting-edge holo-displays, across Sith and soldier alike.

"In this very chamber, on this very floor, let it be known: the Commonwealth stands united with the Sith Order, against all who devalue the term Imperial." The silence that followed was thick with weight. Not hesitation. Recognition. The Grand Vizier had spoken not with fire, but with iron. There would be no mistaking her intent.

The Imperial Commonwealth stood not behind the Sith but beside them.

And never beneath false crowns.

 

[Velda Nar-Donna]

​

WEARING: Black Cherry colored sith robes | WEAPONS: 2x Lightsabers and The Dark Side


TAG: Darth Virelia | Elane II of Kuat | Ivalyn Yvarro | Gerwald Lechner | Naedira Darcrath | Kaila Irons | Taeli Raaf | Quinn Varanin | Darth Malum of House Marr

OBJECTIVE 1 - WAR IS COMING!!!
​

War’s pall once again stretched its sable fingers across the Stygian Caldera a shadow both ancient and freshly cast, familiar as a whispered curse yet bearing the cold poetry of inevitability. The tale was oft told, but each telling birthed a new shade of darkness, a relentless rhythm beating in time with the stars themselves.

She had once been part of the NSO otherwise known as the New Sith Order, a faction born within the fractured womb of the former Maw. That legacy lingered still, entwined within the sprawling web of the Imperial Confederacy: a convergence of broken empires and forged alliances, stitched together by destiny’s crooked hand. This faction now hungered for the Stygian Caldera.

There was a quiet amusement in her chest as she contemplated the paradox. How a former NSO member would stand to defend these holy worlds from those who had once been Maw warlords.

Her gaze fell upon Gerwald, and beside him, Naedira Darcath, it was the first time she saw both together. Velda allowed herself a moment of silent satisfaction that both were present here, amid the gathering discourse.

Gerwald spoke first, pledging his legion to the defense of the worlds. But the question remained, simple and direct: what would they pledge? She sat in quiet contemplation, her hood veiling her features as ever.

Then the rest spoke, many had offered legions and mercenary forces to the cause. Valiant trained hardened fighters ready to answer the call.

Velda finally came to stand and addressed those in attendance.

“My fleet will join in the defense of our worlds,” she declared with smooth delivery. “But I shall be planetside, wherever my presence is needed most.”

With that, she resumed her seat, her words, brief yet unyielding, a statement of purpose that left no room for doubt.

​

​

 

[Darth Caedes]

(Left to right; Srina Talon, Darth Caedes, Revna Marr)​

​

"Tempered by the fires from youth, his iron will remains steadfast through the passage that preys upon the weak. He set forth without pity, he hunted the slaves of imposters with barbarous cruelty. Unbreakable, incorruptible, unyielding, none could stand before the horde but the King, for he alone was their Master." ​

—Oracle of Korriban, sermons on the King


O B J E C T I V E 2
F L O R R U M

Revna Marr Srina Talon Zal Aditi Elmindra Xitaar Madrona A’Mia Kivah

​

Muddled grey and purple light pushed in from the viewport of the Locum Pacis' command bridge. It washed over the bridge's occupants like the reflections from water, creating inky and shadowy eel-like ribbons which swam across the open space and slid across the faces of the onlookers.

The Locum Pacis did not travel through hyperspace as did most capital ships. Instead, it came through the Netherworld, powered by arcane artifice, sorcery, and ritual; dark and perverse rites enacted in the vaulted temples and towering chambers which lined the massive dreadnaught's horizontal spine. There, beneath tall stone arches and cathedral architecture, the Jen'koshū Dreadlords and the King's long limbed daughters, the Jen'rusalka, danced to the rites of the old Athysian Death Priests. They shrieked and howled and stretched their stinking corpse bodies at unnatural angles, as if overcome and possessed, writhing and itching at their skin, hooting with simian, throaty voices. They called out, seeking guidance through the hellish Nether planes, warning of the King's passage and cautioning any would-be ghostly predators. They ensorcelled the ship's passengers with protections against the inherent insanity of this place, this abhorrent underworld teeming with the spirits of the dead.

Darth Caedes, King of Korriban, Necromancia of the Sepulchral's Black Gate, and Changeling Lord, stood at the rear of the Command Bridge, awash in the oily Netherlights. Standing before a grandiose throne hewn as if from the stone of some great and ancient Korribani ruin, clad in ornate black and gold embroidered robes, he craned his neck forward, head cocked to one side as if listening to something far off.

Behind him and to either side rested two of the Order's most dangerous Sith. Darth Omnia, the Empress of the Sith Order herself, Dread Queen, Srina Talon, sat to his right in the throne provided her, sleek and polished in an insectile motif. Many centipede pincers and chitinous legs wrapped 'round the chair's inhabitant, nearly encasing her, providing arm and leg rests a plenty, and a series of winding, uneven stairs one must ascend should they wish to sit within the throne's perch. Mandibles arched back down and hung low, invoking imagery of a predator curling to strike at anyone who might dare approach. To his left, and in a similar throne, rested the Lady Revna Marr, distinguished in her career as an Apprentice to all three Darth Strosius, Darth Carnifex, and Darth Prazutis. She was a courtier in his highest courts, cunning, observant, and a warrior with the Force who knew few equals.

.:: They gather here, the spirits. ::. he sent, thoughts drifting outward to thread through the psychic lattice of both women at his flank.​

.:: They grow... eager. Restless. Can you hear them? Clawing at the Hypergate. ::.​

He straightened and came to his ease.

.:: We draw near. ::.​

Space split open, like a dagger cutting through black silk, spewing oddly colored fog. The Locum Pacis emerged from those mists of the Netherworld, trailing a curl of grey and purple vapors in its wake. It tore itself free above Florrum, encircled by a mass of reflective, mirror-like crystals which drifted in an orbit like the broken crown of some long-dead god. One by one, the Corpse Fleet of Korriban spilled forth, Athysian warships emerging into loose cluster formations, trailing Netherfog—reclaimed horrors from the massacred Hegenika witches. Their durasteel bellies churned with the sloshing weight of the undead. Crazed reavers and babbling revenants packed into cramped hordes, folded in on themselves and breathing raspy, wet breaths. These were the Jen'ari's most depraved, the most fresh—sectarian remnants of those who recently proclaimed themselves enemies of the Sith, reborn into unlife and granted unending appetites. The Ashlan were here, mothers and fathers and children turned into infectious weapons. Warriors from the Galactic Alliance, slain and returned to service during their failed endeavors into Sith territory. The opportunistic fringes, the unfortunate accidents, who found themselves claimed by Korriban's undead hordes, they were all here. They hungered. They gnashed their teeth from inside drop pods and landing crafts within the pregnant bellies of Athysian fleet carriers.

"Connect me to Zal Aditi ," Caedes commanded.​

"Right away, sir," came an answer from the communications trench.​

"Ready all deployment vectors, I want those Warclaws ready to go. Firing solutions should aim to saturate the world's equatorial ridge."​

"Yes sir," "Yes sir," from the telemetry and comm's trenches.​

"And Captain," Caedes intoned.​

"Yes, my Lord?"​

"Advise Commander Kivah of the Severance that she is cleared to proceed with regards to any and all preparatory operations, at her discretion."​

"It will be done," affirmed the Captain.​

"Firing solutions calculated, sir," came an older voice from telemetry.​

"Hold for my mark," Caedes purred.​

"Holding."​

Turning to face his present company, Caedes gestured with each arm outstretched.

"The Hypergate of Florrum," he announced.​

"Welcome back to the frontlines."​

​

 

[Drystan Creed]

OBJECTIVE II: DEATHDROP AERIAL TRANSPORT

"I offer my recently acquired mercenary force. The DeathDrop has proven itself in warzones across the galaxy. I've joined them—seen firsthand their discipline and lethality."

"Wait—how long 'til we embark!?"

Drystan burst out of the latrine, clad in nothing but his black tactical pants. His bare torso a map of old wars—scarred flesh crisscrossed with stories long since buried. A fresh set of dog tags hung loosely around his neck, catching the light as he stepped forward with a half-lathered face and a razor still gripped in his hand.

This was the price of hesitation—of assuming there was just enough time to shave before deployment. A rookie mistake. One born not of inexperience in battle, but in schedules.

He wasn't a frontliner. Never had been. Drystan had always been a solo asset—left to his own devices, operating in the dark without the burden of timetables or synchronized movements. Autonomy had been his world.

But this was different. This was a sortie. And he was part of a squad.

The transition was jarring. Even now, after being formally inducted into DeathDrop, he hadn't quite found rhythm in their regimented flow. But it was worth it—worth the adjustment, worth the discomfort. The company represented something rare in his life: the chance to start over. To reset.

He dropped into position beneath his drop pod, blade still skimming across his jaw with swift, practiced strokes. His jacket and helmet rested beside him—ready, at least. But something nagged at him. A vague sense that he'd forgotten something.

He shook the thought off. It was probably nothing.

His eyes drifted toward the others—Jacen Breska and CT-312. Familiar faces, if only just. They had shared space during the Kaggath, and through the introductions that came with joining their mercenary company. But nothing more than passing rapport.

Perhaps this mission would change that.

After all, nothing forged bonds quite like the drop.

CT-312 Jacen Breska

 

[Eira Dyn]

Location: Ziost
Equipment: Vibro-daggers, vibro-sword, blaster pistol
Outfit: Simple Red Attire
Tag: Quinn Varanin
Mentioned: Darth Virelia | Kaila Irons | Gerwald Lechner | Taeli Raaf | Ivalyn Yvarro | Elane II of Kuat | Lirka Ka | Velda Nar-Donna

It was the first time that Eira would attend a meeting where she would see many members of those who govern the many worlds under the Sith Order's imperial rule. It was something she was desperately eager to observe, while she knew that becoming a Sith Lord was in part a matter of power and skill, there was always a political necessity that one had to take part in. A Sith Lord without allies or alliances was nothing and no one in the grand scheme of things. Eira always feared she would be a no one. So the young acolyte was keen to join her Master to observe and learn how such meetings went. To cling to the shadows, to be silent but to understand how these games worked.

That included the fact that Eira needed to dress in what her Master deemed appropriate. Not the usual leathers, punk goth attire that Eira found enjoyable. Not outfits that clung to her figure and could be seen as revealing. Those were dismissed in their stead was something looser, that covered her body and ensured that Eira showed a level of respectability necessary to honour the name of Quinn Varanin. The young, feral assassin was not used to such an outfit but Eira adopted it because she knew the importance to Quinn and she would never dare cross the line with her.

Following Quinn into the main chamber of the meeting, Eira sensed long before she needed to see, a few familiar faces. Ones that she should have predicted would be in attendance.

Seeing Quinn move in close to Serina, Eira breathed in deeply, the last interaction with the other Sith Lord had not been civil in any manner and Eira had hoped that the woman had been lying about her connection to Quinn. But that did not appear to be the case. For now, Eira remained silent as she promised, her red eyes scanned and noted those who were attending the meeting. Listening to the words that were being spoken Eira was intrigued in the process that was been taken in how to approach an incoming war.

She had thought there would be more fire, more desire to exterminate those who merely looked the wrong way at their empire, but there was calmer heads. Planning the steps necessary, talking strategy. It was something that Eira was observing in surprise but realising how unprepared she would be for this world of the Sith. There was still a hot-headedness to Eira, one who lashed out at those she deemed unworthy, or insulted her, or attempted to speak down to her. It was a strange realisation that she was still very far from where she needed to be as a Sith. Especially if she wished to become someone who could stand side by side with those speaking in this room.

Eira took a step forward, not stepping out of the shadows but moved forward to observe the discussion with heightened intrigue as she begun to realise the steps she was needing to actually take.

 

[Lucette]

​

​

Location: Aboard the Lominsa-class Recon Corvette, the Ternion Bloom, Deep Space, Caldera Sector
Subject: Lucette Fortan-Raaf, on route to Brosi, Blight Crisis Response
Tags: Srina Talon | Darth Nefaron | CT-312 | Jacen Breska | Drystan Creed | Darth Caedes | Elmindra Xitaar | Kivah | Madrona A’Mia | Zal Aditi

The Ternion Bloom cut through hyperspace like a needle through cloth, slender, swift, and draped in stealth. Aboard her, Lucette Fortan-Raaf stood in the ship's meditative observatory, a narrow, domed space rimmed with crystalline data pylons and the soft hum of filtered environmental controls. She wasn't meditating. She was reading.

Across a central projection table, thousands of data fragments hovered, folding and cross-referencing: case files from Brosi, autopsies, failed treatments, transmission patterns, even live feeds from field observers in hazmat armor. A corrupted biosphere flickered in blue and red tones, the blight spreading like mold across a fruit, fractal and hungry.

In the center of the chaos, a crystalline holocron pulsed softly. Her grandmother's voice, recorded sometime ago, layered over the chaos.

"Blue Shadow Virus is not merely a biological agent. It is Force-reactive. The Blight, meanwhile, warps the very ecological foundations of a world. To see them together..."

Lucy's brow furrowed. "It shouldn't be possible," she murmured.

But here it was. A recombinant horror. A strain that merged ancient biological weapons and twisted ecosystems. And someone had made it.

She turned toward her gear: vials of silver-threaded serum, her biomantic staff, not unlike a lightsaber in function, but built around a living kyber shard suspended in biosilk, and her traveling case, which chirped as her blightmare stirred within, contained in its hibernation pod. The creature had a sensitivity to decaying Force signatures. She'd need that.

Lucy breathed deeply and swept her hand across the console. The data folded, and the central hologram focused on Brosi itself, its pale atmosphere marked by black scars and infected storms. There were Sith garrisons fortifying its poles, containment zones being overwhelmed in the west, and a massive excavation site near the quarantined research facility.

Control came at a price, and Lucy wasn't going to throw soldiers into the fire blind. She needed to see the infection, speak to it, listen to what it remembered. The living Force still echoed in dying cells. If the disease had been born from Imperial sabotage, it would carry that intent in its genetic code.

Outside the viewport, stars stretched and then collapsed. The Ternion Bloom dropped from hyperspace, and Brosi loomed ahead — a bruised and flickering wound beneath the stars.

Lucette Fortan-Raaf fastened her cloak, adjusted the pin shaped like a rose in bloom, and strode toward the launch bay.

Time to put theory to flame.

Activating her personal holo, Lucette sent a message to her grandmother, "Granny, I have arrived in the Brosi system. Recommendations on the gear I should bring? We'll be departing from the ship soon, I've brought farrus spheres along with me, and the flamethrower." A beat, "perhaps now would be a good time to focus on cryokinesis."

"Should I bring the droids, granny?"

A moment as she waited, Lucy typed out a message to Viers: Hope you're doing well darling, and have found the best snacks and steaks. See you soon, xoxo.

​

 

[Elane II of Kuat]

​

Sith-Imperial Tag Channel: Darth Virelia Lirka Ka Ivalyn Yvarro Taeli Raaf Kaila Irons Gerwald Lechner and others+

Elane was starting to miss the silence of her office on Jutrand as the War Council's members appeared like moth to a flame. An awkward silence soon settled amongst them until the Dark Councilor Gerwald Lechner spoke up from the podium wanting to know what exactly everyone would contribute to the defense of the Holy Worlds from the expansion of proper Imperialism.

Reflecting on the matter, the Tenth Sith Empire collapsed due to Tavlar's Imperial Rebellion. In that instance, the rebel officers possessed significant experience, and she was unsure about the level of experience among these Imperials. However, they must have a substantial army, given that numerous Sith Lords were contributing their resources for the defense of a prominently Kainate Stronghold.

Still there was a certain appearance that the Sith-Imperial Banking Clan needed to uphold, even though the idea of openly declaring their support was beneath her. After all, only a fool would think that they would refrain from offering their backing to guarantee that this minor defense directive was financially viable.

"The SIBC support for this campaign does not need to be stated..for it is automatically given." She said from her own little side of the council. Though her thoughts were more focused on Taeli Raaf 's suggestion that the Hypergate of Florrum would be targeted. A sound strategy on paper but she suspected that since they were dealing with a relatively new government they would strike at a much more beneficial planet.

"I respectfully disagree with the reflections of Dark Councilor Raaf, as it may seem strategically sound for them to target the Ancient Hypergate located above Florrum. However, it would not be financially feasible for a new government in the galaxy to concentrate solely on a planet that lacks identifiable resources. They would require a world that offers exports and serves as a logistical stronghold if our Legions are to sever their supply lines from Imperial Confederation Space." She explained, gently leaning her cane against the chair, emphasizing that the Imperials would require a robust export foundation and logistical capabilities for any future operations into the Sith-controlled Caldera region.

"Makem Te is a more viable alternative considering its Spice Production and Ore Deposits. Both of which are immensely valuable resources and can be refined then sold through a pan-galactic Black Market which we know exist given the establishment of the Lawless Space held by the Black Sun. It would be a fortress world from home if they were to capture it" Elane concluded with a sound mind, knowing that if she was running this campaign from the Confederation's side that is where she would go considering the logistical nightmare of penetrating through the Blackwall in the first place.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Funeral Dirge."

Tags - Kaila Irons , Quinn Varanin , Eira Dyn , Gerwald Lechner , Taeli Raaf , Ivalyn Yvarro , Lirka Ka , Elane II of Kuat
Objective 1



The room stank of conviction.

Not the kind that Virelia respected—cold, calculated, sharpened to a spearpoint and embedded into reality like a truth that could not be argued. No. This was the other kind. The kind men declaimed from pulpits and generals bellowed over maps. The kind of conviction that required audience. That expected reward.

That could be broken.

Darth Virelia did not move. She sat in silence, a statue of black glass and surgical violence, encased in her sovereign shell. Her eyes—six of them, violet and insectile—flickered in subtle rhythm behind the mirrored obsidian of her helm. She was unreadable. Unblinking. Unmoved.

The council chamber was alive now. Pledges. Declarations. Posturing.

She drank them all in like rare wines—tasting every after-note, every impurity.

Gerwald Lechner had begun the rite of war with a soldier's precision. A blunt instrument, dressed in authority, who had learned to keep his own blade sheathed just long enough to seem reasonable. He was not without intelligence—no, far from it—but it was an intelligence shaped by instinct and repetition.

His words—"What will you pledge?"—were a provocation dressed as a call to arms. A challenge, thrown like a bone into a kennel. She expected no less. A wolf could not change its scent.

And then came her.

The clatter of metal. The heavy gait. The too-close pass.

Kaila.

Darth Anathemous.

Virelia did not look at her.

Not when the boots rang out.
Not when she passed just within reach.
Not when the air between them thickened, electric with unsaid things.

Seduction was not about pursuit. It was about timing. Rhythm. To always give enough to suggest there was more. And then withhold. And when Anathemous reached for her—truly reached—then the wound would reopen.

For now, she played the ghost.

But her lack of response was a scalpel, not absence. A message buried in silence.

She was listening.

And Anathemous, to her credit, did not disappoint. Her speech was precise. Weighted. Proud. Everything Virelia needed it to be.

A little psychic message would ring into Anathemous' mind.

"Good girl."

And oh, how delicious that poison would taste.

Taeli Raaf followed with calculated menace. The scientist, the spymistress, the magus. Virelia respected her more than most, as much as she hated to admit that—because Taeli did not pretend to be anything other than what she was. Her pledges came veiled, cloaked in the promise of "creations" unleashed and strategic foresight. She understood the nature of a war council: to stake one's position, to offer what must be offered, but to reveal as little as necessary.

As usual.

Quinn's arrival beside her was a balm Virelia did not show.

She felt her presence before she saw her. A familiar scent. A shifting of gravity. Something soft and knowing brushing against the war-sharpened shell she wore.

Quinn didn't need to speak to be welcome.

But when she did—"Interesting turnout"—Virelia's mouth almost, almost twitched beneath her mask. Almost.

But then—

The girl.

The thing in Quinn's shadow.

Virelia didn't look directly at her, but she felt her. That twitching hunger. That festering inadequacy. That vulgarity. She could taste it—uncultured, unworthy, the tang of ambition unrefined by discipline. A dog dressed for court.

She disgusted her.

Not for her youth. Virelia had annihilated apprentices in her time, molded minds still warm with inexperience into instruments of terror. No, it was her shallowness. That brittle, poorly masked desire to belong. That rage turned inward, barely leashed.

Eira was a tantrum with a blade. And Quinn had dressed her in manners.

It was like gilding a corpse.

No. Virelia would not entertain her. Not here. Not now.

She made an obvious glare towards Eira.

A small message peaked into Quinn's mind, more of a knock on the door than someone bargaining in uninvited.

"Through the mind please."

Like Ivalyn.

Ah, yes. The Grand Vizier.

A sharp woman. Her pledge was not given—it was cast, like a die on a perfectly measured board. The language of diplomacy was weaponized in her hands, and Virelia respected that, as much as she wanted to burn the Commonwealth to the ground. Commonwealth troops. A legacy fleet. All cloaked in phrases that offered neither flattery nor deference. The Vizier would never kneel.

She had pledged as an equal. Which meant she thought herself one.

How interesting.

A small, imperceptible tilt of the helm was the only sign that Virelia acknowledged the voice from the side alcove. Elane. Cool, clinical, economical in her speech—Virelia liked her that way. The Sith-Imperial Banking Clan had long preferred to operate behind veils of neutrality, but Elane had mastered the art of veiled declaration. Her words were quiet thunder—delivered without bluster, but laced with sharpened implication.

"The SIBC support… is automatically given."

Of course it was.

And yet, how effortlessly she made it sound like magnanimity rather than inevitability. It was a skill Virelia herself employed often: presenting the foregone as a gift.

But what truly caught her attention—what stirred something like admiration—was the precision of Elane's dissent.

Not political.
Practical.

And when the Fourth Legion was finally under her hand—as it would be—Virelia would return to Elane's past favor with something far more potent than gratitude: interest. The kind measured not in credits, but in conquest. The loan on Virelia's private fleet would be repaid in the only currency that truly mattered.

Spoils.

In time, Elane would find herself thanked not with words, but with crates.

Crates filled with everything.

The weight of it all began to settle. The chessboard was forming. The pieces were visible. Knights. Queens. Pawns dressed as kings.

Virelia's helm inclined slightly, her first movement in nearly the entire exchange. Her hand moved slowly—like a thought forming into action—and rested upon the table beside her, taloned fingers splayed in a casual gesture of claiming.

She did not speak.

But her silence was a voice of its own.

This is mine.

Her mere presence had exerted pressure on the room since before the gavel fell. Now it deepened. Gravity itself seemed to shift. Those who had forgotten her during the past hour's parade of pledges now felt the weight of her quiet anew. Felt the eyes that did not blink. The mind that did not waver. The storm behind the silence.

Virelia had said nothing.

But every movement in the room, every declaration, every vow and every glance had been measured by her. And stored.

For later.

They would expect her to speak eventually. Lirka said she had a habit of "making messes."

But no. Not yet.