Public The Crimson Concord [Sith Order, Friends, & Frenemies]

[Her]

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"Every girl has her fixation. You hack people, I hack time..."
-- Her in conversation with Darth Virelia .

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Dromund Kaas, Thandon Star Cluster, Sith Worlds;
THE CRIMSON CONCORD.
Tags: Darth Carnifex | Parvati | The Lord of Hunger | Darth Virelia

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SOVEREIGN PLAZA.

My mind is a Sunless space.

A survivor of the ONE SITH WARS traversed Sovereign Plaza under the veil of a hooded dark robe which concealed her facial features and obscured her presence among a sea of people as they went about their business in this most audacious of spectacles. Strands of dark hair intermixed with blonde were the only revealing features of this enigmatic woman as she walked aimlessly through the plaza like a warrior fortifying themselves upon the eve of battle.

As the Sepulchral made their presence known Her did well to stay out of their reach with her powers in the Force drawn inwards so as to avoid persecution from them and their indomitable, eternal father-- the Butcher King-- DARTH CARNIFEX.

Nearby her associates conducted their business accordingly as seeds of a brand new conspiracy-- borne out of the destruction wrought by the Fifth Wing-- had taken root across the galaxy. No doubt Kakus would have enjoyed these festivities-- not for the spectacle of this abdominal Sith Order-- but for the very power of the dark side of it was so strong here in the Force, Her thought. In time she would gather with the others that they had recruited to discuss avenues of commerce, trade, politics and brokering of information amid the organisations, factions and galactic spanning governments that they had occupied to suit her agenda, but it was not them that occupied Her's mind as she walked in a slow, brooding fashion through the plaza.

It was Him.

The dreaded BLACK PYRAMID had since been deconstructed and it's memory consigned to the history books as the decadent Jedi hoped for it's meritocratic legacy to be forgotten about in the near five decades since the end of the Sith occupation of galactic centre. Yet one of it's prisoners walked the streets of Kaas City with thoughts transfixed upon the man-- neigh, the entity-- who had brought about it's construction in the first place.

Thus it shall not be forgotten. Not while Her lived.

Eight hundred long days consigned to one of the worst places in the entire galaxy had transformed the Knight of the Old Republic into what she was today. THE NOMAD had once told her, as he taught the old Knight in the ways of the dark side, that it was through destruction that they would breed creation. Would Carnifex have agreed with him? Although his face was concealed beneath the onyx veil, and as time itself had been humiliated as he traversed through it all in what felt like eons, there was no doubt it was him-- her fixation, her goal, all that she had seeded and sowed to chase which had seen the fall of the Empire of the Lost and generations of Tionese annihilated in the wake of His symphony of destruction at Tion.

The Eggman had not been able to destroy Him at Felucia and the Empire he had usurped in order for the Kilran Dynasty claim at the turn-of-the-ninth century had been scattered into the solar winds back into the old Tion Hegemony at the Siege of Tion. Her enemy was too strong for them-- His reach far and his scope untethered to any mortal coil. Two years later a new Imperial Confederation stands among the ruined halls in lands scarred by the Ashlan Crusade and fall of His NINTH SITH EMPIRE-- set to begin again under the machinations of a woman he had ruined.

Across the plaza Her caught sight of their adversary as they traversed this CRIMSON CONCORD. She did not stop to stare, or follow the Black Iron Tyrant. It was enough to merely glimpse upon the visage to fortify her soul and eradicate any lingering doubts about her own crimes. Two years of conspiracy had wrought so much destruction, death and pain upon the Outer Rim Territories. Yet it all paled in comparison to what He had achieved.

A Jedi died in that cell, and what came after was awful, monstrous and calculating...

Plotting in the shadows...

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[Niysha]

Where: A slightly secluded part of Sovereign Plaza
Who: Darth Virelia and her inspiring personal growth
What: Loompilled, lurkmaxxing.

It took Serina more than a few minutes to settle down back into something resembling the woman Niysha had met and thrown in her lot with. She was already pretty theatrical at the best of times, and being on Kaas in the midst of the most maudlin performances in the galaxy was clearly not doing her any favors on the "talking like a human person" front. In private it was pretty easy to translate her obtuse babble, but her vibe had turned distinctly hostile since they'd met up downstairs.

Fortunately, when Serina touched her chin and moved closer, Niysha felt like she could relax a little. The actual physical contact had nothing to do with it; Serina was absolutely terrible at tiny affectionate gestures. It was something they'd both have to work on. On the day she managed to ambush Niysha was a hug from behind, they'd mark the calender and celebrate it like an anniversary. Instead, it was the general tonal shift.

Yes, general tonal shift *behind all of the melodramatic babble and absurd purple prose, but still. That was progress enough for Niysha to relax a little.

With a slightly more easy smile, Niysha fixed her hair a bit. "Then I'll be with you all evening. It's as simple as that."

There was no doubt in Niysha's mind that Serina would chalk it up to "loyalty" or some equally useless nonsense. She was a work in progress. Pajamas and holoflicks would have to wait until they weren't a half-hour's walk from multiple blood orgies.

For the moment, she fixed her unruly mess of hair - pulled back in the neatest ponytail she could manage just for this event - and offered a gentlemanly bow for the Sith Lord whose presence she was graced with/in awe of/whatever was appropriate for the thick, heavy script that Serina was working from.

"Though I'd like to know what's on the schedule if at all possible, my Lord. I doubt you'd waste your whole evening standing imperiously in a shadowy corner when there are so many matters that you have to attend to." And, potentially, that Niysha could help with. Serina was a crippling workaholic and taking some of the burden off her shoulders might help her chill the tiniest little bit, please.

 

[Adean Castor]

TAG: Aris Noble

For one who often drifted in the circles of alchemy and scholarship, Adean was only vaguely aware of the power that emanated from the artifacts around her. It was like living with a veil perpetually pulled over her eyes. She could tell that something was there just beyond the surface of each item, could practically hear some of them calling out to be used, but the specifics of each and therefore the very real danger some of them presented went unheard.

She was fortunate, she mused, to have not had this sight before, only for it to be taken away. While her senses were untrained and that itself was a complication that sparked annoyance more than anything, it was better in her mind to not know over being keenly aware of what she was missing.

Therefore, it was a combination of reading what descriptions were available along with the people nearby, that told her more as to what items were what. A look of cool curiosity was safe. A look of panic was a toss-up between something she should absolutely avoid and something worth investigating further. A sly smile, especially from the shop owner, saw her turning her back on an item

She wasn't alone among the items. Another dark haired youtth looked almost as if he would pass as related to her. No, not to her, to the name she pretended to hold.

Well, this could get bad.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Foreboding."

Tags - Niysha

Virelia's response came slowly.

Not out of hesitation—never that.
But because she enjoyed the moment.

Niysha's bow, her little smile, the stubborn effort she put into tugging her hair back into place despite the chaos of Kaas's atmosphere—it was all so absurdly endearing. Serina Calis, once upon a time, might have laughed gently, offered some wry compliment, pulled her in for a kiss and mumbled something sarcastic about dignity being overrated.

But Virelia?

She admired it. Like art. Like ritual. Like the still-beating heart of something rare and self-contained, vibrating beneath the surface of her dominion.

The storm in her spine quieted. The impulse to perform, to dominate the skyline, to sculpt fear into obedience—receded.

Because Niysha had chosen to stay.

And Virelia, unlike the fools who stalked this city in borrowed power, knew the value of a choice.

She watched the bow without interruption, then stepped forward once more, reaching out with slow, deliberate movement. Her gloved fingers smoothed a single, invisible line along the front of Niysha's collar—as if straightening it, or perhaps claiming it again, gently. Nothing more.

"You look like someone who belongs beside me," she said softly.

Not a compliment.

A statement of fact.

She let her hand fall, resting it briefly at the center of Niysha's chest, just over the uniform's hidden plating. Her touch was light, but the weight of her regard was anything but.

"I won't lie to you," she continued, voice lower now, more personal. "There's nothing important planned for tonight. Not in the way you're thinking. No assassination. No backroom bargain. No secret ritual to tear open time and retrieve the bones of some forgotten god."

A pause.

"Yet."

The faintest flicker of a grin passed her lips. It didn't stay. It never lingered. But it was there—alive and aware.

"I came to be seen," she admitted. "To remind the ambitious that I still breathe. To walk through the center of power and make everyone here ask themselves why they weren't invited to speak with me."

She glanced out toward the edge of the terrace, where Sovereign Plaza churned in crimson haze and ritual sound. Holoprojectors shimmered with sigils. The air tasted of ionized blood and overpriced incense. Somewhere in the distance, a duel erupted beneath a sculpted arch—neither combatant important, but their performance loud enough to demand temporary reverence.

"I find it all amusing," she murmured. "And beneath me."

She turned back, eyes burning softly. "But not you."

She reached up again, this time unfastening the outer edge of her cape. It came loose with a whisper of synthweave and weight, sliding across her shoulder to hang off one arm. Her armor beneath gleamed with that strange fusion of cruelty and beauty—obsidian curves over biostructural symmetry, runes pulsing like restrained lightning.

"You're right. I am a workaholic," she said, tone surprisingly dry. "And if I had any true obligations tonight, I'd already be halfway through them, dragging you behind me like a mobile database."

She stepped closer, hand sliding around Niysha's waist again—an intimate gesture now, slow and familiar, not meant to dominate, but to share.

"But tonight," she whispered, "I've decided to indulge. I've given myself permission to exist."

A soft exhale. A rare confession.

"And it turns out that being seen beside the one person in this city who isn't faking a damn thing might be the most efficient act of power I could display."

She shifted her stance slightly, angling Niysha toward the edge of the balcony with her, their bodies aligned but not locked. The position was casual—but the message was unmistakable.

This is mine. This walks with me. This is not a tool. This is a presence.

"I have no itinerary," Virelia said at last. "Which means the night is yours. Do we wander and let the city tremble when it realizes I'm enjoying myself? Do we slip behind curtains and eavesdrop on ministers plotting irrelevant coups? Do we stand here like statues and let them wonder if I've come to pass judgment?"

Her voice turned lower. Closer.

"Or... do we simply vanish again, you and I? Take a shuttle to the upper garden ring, drink something expensive under artificial stars, and pretend for one hour that I'm not writing a new gospel in the blood of the old world?"

A pause.

Then, with a touch more edge—teasing, but heavy with promise:

"I'll follow your lead for a little while, my officer. Consider it an extremely limited privilege."

She didn't look away from Niysha. Didn't blink.

"You get to decide what kind of evening I have."

A final touch—her knuckles brushing Niysha's jaw again. This time with a kind of…affectionate patience. A small reward. A reminder of restraint, of interest, of the quiet tension that had always lived between them like a shared weapon.

"But I warn you," she murmured, smiling just enough to make it dangerous.

"Don't abuse it."

 

[Veradun Sharr]

Tag: Darth Nefaron // Eurydice
Location: The Sovereign Plaza​

This wasn’t the first time Veradun had been to the Sith holy world of Dromund Kaas - but this was certainly a better visit than the last one. This time, he was walking with his Master with his chin lifted, pale eyes searching the various individuals and sights that were around them all, and practically soaking in the deep, raw power of the darkside that permeated everything here.

Today, he was dressed in far finer clothes than what he was used to; tailored black trousers and tunic and draped from his shoulders was a cloak of black fineweave and icy blue satin along the edges. His black hair was trimmed from its usual mop, shaved on the sides and left a touch long on top, and the faintest scent of cologne drifted from his shadow - enough to catch one’s attention but not overwhelm the senses. He had grown taller and was truly changing appearances as he shifted from boy to man - and though his body maintained its lean appearance, underneath the clothes was a body hardened from rigorous training. Hanging at his side, mostly hidden in shadow, was a lightsaber hilt, the one his Master had given him on their recent excursion into the galaxy. Though Veradun wasn’t a fan of lightsabers, he nonetheless practiced as much as he could with it - as much as with any weapon he wished to master.

On the other side of Darth Nefaron walked the newest addition to their retinue - the Seer girl that Veradun had kidnapped in their attack on Ukatis. The young Nagai had kept his eye on the frightened girl when she had first arrived, and any time they were together with their Master. She would catch him staring at her with his pale and piercing gaze, unnervingly so. Veradun had felt a touch of…suspicion…when he heard that she was to take her place as Nefaron’s other apprentice.

It made her a rival, but one that he did not do anything with yet. She had a purpose to play, at least for the time being.

But there was something else beyond the suspicions. A curiosity, an interest. Though his Master made it very clear his opinions on connections with others, it still did nothing to take away the fact that the boy was becoming a man, and he was still beholden to the hormonal changes that came with such transformations and adjustments. Veradun wanted to get to know her a little better…away from the prying eyes of the Dark Lord.

Veradun hardly paid any attention to Darth Nefaron as he commented about the spectacle around them; he already knew how his Master felt about the Sith enjoying one another’s company, pretending to be social while also planning to stab each other in the backs.That a great game was seemingly being played - one that they all would have to play as well.

The Nagai took the communicator his Master handed to him, before the shrouded corpse of a man sent them both on their way to explore and be away from his direct oversight.

Finally, a break. Came the thought in his mind as he turned his attention to the girl, Eurydice. Both Sith apprentices bowed to the Dark Lord, before Veradun stepped away and - with a smooth motion - slipped his arm around that of the girl’s and guided her away from the Sith Lord. He didn’t speak a single word to her, not until they were well out of earshot of their Master, before he released her and gave them both a bit more room to breathe. He could feel just how nervous she was of him, the fear practically bled from her with each breath she took.

“You know…revealing so much fear in a place like this is dangerous, Eurydice. The weak bleed their fear before their betters, and are devoured by them.” He cast a cold glance at her, briefly taking in the gown that she had chosen to wear to this event. It did suit her, if he did say so himself. But he did not comment on it, instead he continued on with his train of thought, his voice cold and blunt. “You are an apprentice to a Dark Lord now. Behave like one.”

He turned his gaze away from her to look around the Plaza that they found themselves in; banners adorned nearly every surface, announcing the undeniable and arrogant supremacy of the Sith. Music of various kinds flooded in from various directions, as did the scent of different food vendors. The whole scene played homage to the hedonistic pleasures that Sith could divulge in, if they so desired.

Perhaps…it would be a good place for the two to get to know one another a little better, and perhaps scheme and plot against their Master. Pale eyes returned to Eurydice, and a faint half smile crossed his pale and roguishly handsome face.

“Relax - you need not fear me.” Not yet, anyway. “We are in the same place, servants to that creature.” He paused for a moment, before a curious frown creased his brow. “Are you hungry? I don’t know if you are but I certainly am…and besides, it gets us away from that corpse of a man.” Veradun made a show of shuddering in distaste, hoping that such a gesture and his words would be enough to persuade her to join him, and perhaps even get the girl to open up and allow conversation to transpire between them.

 

[Lyssara Thrynn]

The Sovereign Plaza is overflowing with life. It's the kind of evening where the air feels charged not from the sky, which tonight is unusually calm but from the crowd itself. Too many people. Too much movement. Laughter bursts from different corners, glasses clink sharply, and a court ensemble plays dark, elegant chords from a discreet platform. Around me: well-dressed officials, ceremonial-robed apprentices, Sith Lords with rigid posture all blending into a dense current of voices, ambition, and veiled tension. It's a celebration, yes, but an Imperial one elegant, coded, and always simmering.

I hate it.

I stand apart, leaning against a pillar of raw obsidian, arms crossed, straight-backed, trying to be invisible. Conversations slide past me. The laughter grates. Each time someone walks too close, I have to stop myself from pulling away. I agreed to this meeting, yes but I never said it would be easy.

When I see you Lucy, and Viers moving through the crowd, it's like a breath of still air in the noise. You're just as I imagined: composed, ambitious, standing tall, but with a nervous edge you haven't quite hidden. Viers seems quieter, more measured. I push off the wall, my heart beating a little faster for no clear reason. I take two steps forward. No more. My gloves are damp. I speak quickly, before I have time to second-guess myself.

I say, voice steady but reserved:
"Lucy Raaf… Viers. Thank you for coming, so what can i do for you two? You want me here, i am here. "

I nod once. No smile. But I meet your gaze my way of saying: I'm here. I made the effort.
Lucette Viers Connory

 

[War Marshal Helix]

Tags: Darth Nefaron​

Helix nodded. "Weakness is a choice, Lord Nefaron. One that too many make every day. Rise above, or be put to use by one who will. Such is the immutable truth of the universe."

"I have deep kinship with the wretched and the unlikely, but only insofar as they have some chance of improvement. If they do not, then they are an asset. Failing to utilize an asset is waste, and waste is the closest thing the universe possesses to objective immorality. I cannot understand the willful throwing away of useful fodder, but then, I cannot understand many of the things the Order does." He shrugged. It had long been a sticking point between himself and the Tsis'kaar, but he seldom argued it openly. Ideological disagreements would happen anytime you got two or more people together.

Helix obliged, standing up to follow the hunched apparition on his course. Like many seemingly-infirm Sith, Helix knew well that Nefaron could be blindingly quick and lethal when he wished to be. His deformities had not slowed him down on Vassek, at least not so far as Helix had seen. Such was life in Sith space, however. One never showed one's whole hand. Always best to keep those around you guessing. He'd been tempted to ask, on more than one occasion, where such terrible injuries had come from, injuries that Nefaron's not-inconsiderable assets seemed unable to heal. He felt such temptation now, but checked it.

He considered Nefaron's words as they strode. He'd long suspected Malum's ambitions, long considered a grab for the throne as a statistical certainty. It was interesting to see that he wasn't alone in those suspicions. Sith were ambitious creatures by nature, and most had their eye on a station above theirs. It was a weakness he did not share. For him, simple survival was enough. Survival, and art.

He also knew Nefaron was correct, as usual. To play by rules in a sea of those who didn't was a quick route to the grave. He'd voiced those concerns before, but the same qualities which made Malum an excellent leader were those that would get him killed. Passion, charisma, ideology. Ideology.

Ever the double-edged sword. Malum's enemies would have no such moral hangups in their way. One had to be willing to do anything to win, if one actually wished to. That was, so far, what his role had been. The trigger-puller, the one who got their hands dirty with the myriad sins that leadership demanded.

That had been his lot for as long as he could remember, in fact, for a thousand other people before Malum. There would likely be a thousand after him, too. Not that he had a problem with it. Someone had to do the dirty work. It may as well be the one with the most experience. Few hands could claim to be as steeped in bloodshed as his own.

He doubted, however, that Nefaron told him all of this purely out of concern for his well-being. No, he had an angle. Everyone did. It was the way of things. It was worth finding out what that angle was, and how it would blow back on him if things went as Nefaron wanted.

"What comes after?" He pondered out loud, though keeping his voice muted. There was plenty of background babble here to block out their conversation, but better safe than sorry. "I suspect that the throne will not stay idle long. I also suspect that, if his trajectory leads to ruin as you posit, then his successor will be one with rather different values. I have seen many monarchs come and go, and if one fails, then it is all too often his opposite who steps over his mangled remains to take the throne. I also know what happens to those associated with the failed ruler."

"Your concerns are something I have spent some time pondering, but perhaps not enough time. So much to do and focus on, but there is wisdom in your words. It would be well to have... contingencies in place for such an eventuality. What did you have in mind?"

 

[Darth Prazutis]

Darth Prazutis didn't lower himself into the offered seat at once. Instead? He watched. The storm beyond the plaza's black arches cast erratic flickers of lightning across the assembled figures: Mandalorians, wolves, wanderers, and the pale matron of this quiet gathering. Each was a force in their own right, all were bound here not by coincidence but by the gravitational inevitability of power converging on itself. The Dark Lord's presence bent the very air around him. Conversation stalled, but didn't cease. It was in that silence; the giant let the moment linger. A cold recognition turned molten in the pit of his stare as he regarded Aether Verd first. "You wear the armor well." Prazutis observed, his voice was a black iron rasp edged with the faintest amusement. "Mandalore has known my house as conqueror and, once, ally. It is a rare thing in this age to see either memory survive." The giants gaze held steady, neither warm nor cruel, only absolute. "Honor your name and you will find no quarrel with me."

The molten gaze drifted to Gerwald Lechner, who had offered civility against a tide of unspoken history. The Dark Lord inclined his head a fraction, an acknowledgment more dangerous than any threat. "Lechner." The Shadow Hand rumbled, his voice came like coals grinding beneath a forge hammer. "We all build in time. Some raise monuments of conquest, others, pyres for their failures. What we choose to create is what endures." No apology. There wasn't any reference, or dagger driven about their past history. Just the quiet statement of a man who didn't regret the bones beneath his foundation. Finally, the giant's attention settled on Srina Talon. It was a gaze like the pressure at the bottom of the ocean, ancient, crushing, inexorable. But it didn't sharpen into hostility, like the weapon it had the potential to be.

Instead, it regarded her with a dark respect reserved for very few. "Lady Talon." Prazutis intoned, the single word carrying more gravity than any declaration of allegiance. "Productive is a kind description." The corner of his mouth moved a fraction, the closest approximation to a smile his scarred features allowed. "The storm endures because it remembers why it began." He didn't choose to elaborate. If she chose to hear the echo of apology in that thought, or threat, it was her prerogative. The Dark Lord's attention shifted at last to Kurayami, whose casual greeting and strange energy drew a measured study. "You carry echoes on your skin." Prazutis said, tone softer than expected, though no less absolute. "The Nether leaves its mark on those who wander too long. Whether it is blessing or curse will be for you to decide."

A final glance swept the table, a quiet taking of measure, of old debts, and the quiet possibility that here, among so many who had once circled each other as enemies that something enduring might be built. Finally the Dark Lord stepped forward and placed a massive hand on the back of an empty chair. When he spoke again, it was less an order and more a pronouncement of simple fact: "Then let it be so." It was then, and only then did he sit the black warplate settling like an eclipse made flesh the air around him dimming in acquiescence. The giant's attention then drifted to the vendor it was as if the momentary gravity of old wars and older debts had simply receded behind the necessities of the present. One iron clad hand lifted, motioning to the menu etched in neon script. "The Locke." Prazutis said, his voice resonant as grinding iron though carrying none of the menace that clung to every other syllable he spoke. "And a black tea. No sweetening." The vendor nearly dropped his datapad under the weight of that calm pronouncement, scrambling to input the order while avoiding meeting the Dark Lord's gaze.

Aether Verd | Srina Talon | Gerwald Lechner | Kurayami Bloodborn ​

 

[Taeli Raaf]

Dress
Sovereign Plaze, Welcome Hall
Fiolette Yvarro @Open to interactions at present
​

They should have been among the first guests to arrive to the Crimson Concord. She and her wife Fiolette had arrived early enough at the annex to the Sorzus Academy on Dromund Kaas to ensure that, she had even sent the Empress a reply that they would be along shortly... and yet that had all unraveled when she had descended the stairs to reveal the dress she selected for the evening. Her wife, in the dress uniform that she loved on her so much, had simply stopped existing the moment she appeared, black and just the faintest hint of violet woven into the zeyd-silk dress. Tasteful, elegant, and admittedly a tease for her wife wrapped up into something appropriate for a Dark Councilor having a night at the gala.

They were now very fashionably late to the event, not that she had complained for the reasons once her wife returned to this galaxy. She had elected to drape a cloak of Ghorman-made spidersilk across herself and long elegant gloves to complete the image, but even that had only served to tease the Admiral. It would be a fun night at least as she thumbed through a program of what was on offer as their speeder deposited them at the Sovereign Plaza and the welcome hall to the event.

"The Arcane Court, The Vault, and the Concourse would be nice to hit," she remarked, taking what would be an offered arm from her wife as they exited the speeder. "I'm very interested to see what might be on offer or display, maybe meet and greet a little. I know Srina and the Zambranos are here at least, and I do believe Merryn said she and Ivalyn were attending. Merryn likely wants to start increasing our market share in Sith space more, showcase some of our tech or tease what might be coming."

Even as she spoke, there would still be that slyness to the corner of her mouth and a faint glow about her.

"What would you like to do first, love?" she asked.

 

[Mauve]

Sovereign Plaza
Attire​

A shudder ran through her as she caught sight of tall, warlike Sith prowling around the tables, some in full armor. Every inch the terrifying spectacle she expected to see her.

Part of her yearned to dive in headlong, no matter how deep the water. She could already see the swirling cliques, feel the shifting emotions and machinations of court. Sith let their emotions run riot, some wielding them like a scalpel, only showing what they chose to others. Carefully crafted. Hand carved. Others were more like hammers, ruled by rage and grief. Not nearly as calculated, but far more dangerous due to their unpredictability.

That was why the other part of Mauve urged her to run. To flee.

Instead she just sought out a drink. She selected something red - not that she had many other options - and smelled the glass, half-expecting the coppery scent of blood. But no. Just a wine. She sipped. A very fine wine.

Violet eyes tracked back across the plaza from where she stood closer now to a stage of performers.

Nearby, at a table, she thought she recognized a figure in mandalorian armor. The helmet. The cape. Could it be the Mand'alor? An enormous Sith stood near him, a hulking brute of a man. Mauve sucked in a tight breath, recognizing him as none other than Prazutis Zambrano, one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy. Another man sat with them, who she didn't recognize, and a woman who Mauve didn't quite recognize in the hood.

Then the woman lowered her hood. And another spike of recognition made a cold shiver tingle along her bare spine.

Her mouth felt suddenly very dry.

Mauve took another, longer sip, and drifted closer to the table holding such an array of titanic figures on the galactic stage.

 

[Eira Dyn]

Location: Dromund Kaas (New Kaas City) - Sovereign Plaza
Attire: Red and Black Dress
Equipment: Hidden daggers under the dress
Tag: Wrathian Kell

Eira gave no surprise when a presence drew nearer to her. Her eyes were sharp and she was always someone who attempted to keep aware of her surroundings. Especially to avoid someone getting the jump on her. She was an assassin after all and it was her duty to be in constant awareness. Her hand hovered over the location of one of her hidden daggers, in case it was someone attempting to strike at her during the party. Sith were ruthless and she was never sure if someone came with intentions to harm or to socialise. Not until they were standing before her. The paranoia for Eira was deep and something that would never fade with time.

The red eyes of the Sith acolyte scanned over the being before her, a Sith-born being, interesting given how rare his kind is. He was not the biggest person she had met, which favoured Eira in that regard since she felt more confident in a fight should the need for one arose. However, he spoke curiously. Mentioning how heavy a crowd can be... She silently tilted her head at the metaphor, it was a strange one. One that she had not heard of before and the young Sith was not sure what to make of it in the moment.

"Hm..." Her mind in thought on the offer of a dance, a strange approach to the dance. Commenting on her seemingly in unfamiliar territory to jumping into an offer of a dance. Eira was not sure what to make of this Sith-born, whether he would be able to continue to maintain her attention or intrigue. But she was intrigued for now. "Fine." Was all Eira said on the matter.

Her movements were sharp, precise and without delay. Waiting for her dance partner and curious to see if he would be expecting to take the lead in their dance.

 

[Niysha]

Where: Sovereign Plaza
Who: Darth Virelia with about 15% taken off the top
What: She's not a shrew so... taming the evil chipmunk?

Oh, cool, so it was a night off.

By Polis Massa, Niysha had already become completely used to her partner's specific brand of "affection." At some level, Serina was still very scared of commitment, and objectively terrified about leaving herself vulnerable through anything greater than incidental contact. Even here, mostly alone, covered in armor, and with only Niysha within two meters of her body, the Most Ominous and Horrifying Darth Virelia still didn't want anyone touching her long enough to present the possibility of an attack.

Buuuut... Niysha had her go-ahead to lead the way for a bit. The Miraluka turned with a grin - without eyes, it was always a little hard to tell the context of any expression her mouth made - and her hands behind her back, leaning forward slightly. "In which case, I know exactly what we need to do." The casual way she stood, spun on one heel, and walked away in a military chic dress uniform made it just about as obvious as possible that Niysha had never been in any military. She stopped at least twice to make sure Serina was following her and even made a show of turning around to keep encouraging her partner to follow.

No matter how much innocent obliviousness Niysha portrayed, of course, she knew full well where she was. It was a unique challenge to keep her sight sharp among such a dense population where malice was so commonplace. When the two of them made their way down to the streets proper, surrounded on all sides by an unimaginably thick swamp of life, Niysha considered keeping the three or four people who were very obviously entitled Lords in focus at all times. Unfortunately, this was Kaas; there were dull-spark assassins everywhere. Instead, she concentrated on intent. That'd be a much more useful filter to prevent either of them from encountering anything too deadly.

Or at least give her enough warning to run before an eight-foot-tall cannibal covered in armor parasites took more than a passing notice of them.

In the less private streets below, Niysha eventually found what she was looking for: the proper festival markets, the area where common people coagulated. From there, it wasn't hard to find- "Ah!" Grinning brightly, the Miraluka turned and held up one "wait a second" finger to Serina, then trotted off to slip her way through the crowd. While she didn't queue - a quick wave of her hand was enough to leave the eight people who would've been in line before her standing around dazed for the few seconds it took her to acquire her target - Niysha did pay the man behind the counter. Solid credits. No electronic trail on this hellish planet.

Without ceremony, a blindfolded woman in uniform returned to her equally dark-and-mysterious Sith Lord partner with two little paper-wrapped discs. "Ideosyncratic" seemed to be a watchword for just about everything Niysha did.

"Here," she yapped quietly as she offered one of them to Serina. "Loop pastry filled with blood chowder. Be careful about the topping; someone told me that it's 'white,' and that doesn't work well with 'black.'" After a moment of contemplation, Niysha cocked her head to one side. "Which... I just realized I've assumed you're wearing, but to be honest, my Lord, I cannot tell."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Foreboding."

Tags - Niysha

Virelia took the pastry in silence.

The wrapping crackled faintly in her glove—paper, still warm, radiating that strange combination of spice, salt, and something vaguely metallic beneath the surface. Her six violet lenses regarded it with all the gravitas of a high inquisitor contemplating a war crime.

Blood chowder.

In a loop pastry.

Her fingers twitched.

Niysha's voice was all brightness, all levity, that grin hovering between mockery and affection as naturally as her presence blurred between irrelevant and indispensable. She offered the thing like a gift, like a joke, like an anchor tossed playfully into the abyss—and Virelia accepted it, not because she wanted it, but because it was her.

The taller woman stood there, war-born and armor-clad, storm-eyed and sanctified in silence, while the festival churned around them. Her posture did not shift. Her cape did not sway. Only her helmet tilted—just slightly—toward the little disc in her hand.

There was a pause. Not long. Just long enough to be pointed.

"You do realize," she said quietly, "that I am not a woman who eats things."

Another pause.

She didn't return the grin. Didn't roll her eyes. Didn't scoff. Her tone was as calm and even as it ever was when passing judgment on galactic policy or the failings of rival Sith. This wasn't sarcasm. This was... a confession.

A blink of violet light. Her gaze lifted, meeting Niysha's face without really seeing it. Not with her eyes. With something else.

"With you, I find myself doing all kinds of irrational things."

She examined the pastry again. Held it like one might hold a relic too dangerous to decipher.

Then—reluctantly, as though surrendering a skirmish she hadn't meant to fight—she bit into it.

Slowly. Carefully.

And—chewed.

In absolute silence.

A heartbeat passed. Two. The surrounding crowd moved like blurred water, distant and unreal. The ambient noise of Kaas faded to a low hum. Even the storm above seemed to hush itself out of respect for what was about to follow.

Virelia's eyes did not change.

But she exhaled.

A very slow, very disappointed breath.

Not the theatrical kind. Not the kind laced with fury or fire. Just... quiet, bone-deep, sovereign-grade disappointment. The kind that, if she'd been anyone else, would have ended civilizations.

She didn't speak for a long moment.

Then, slowly, she turned her head to Niysha again. Just enough to look down at her partner with something that was not quite a glare.

"...White."

Her tone was exhausted.

Like the word itself was a resignation.

"I am wearing black, Niysha."

A pause.

Her head tilted slightly, the edge of her voice curling into something almost affectionate.

"As I always do."

And then—softly, quietly, sincerely:

"I hate this."

 

[Niysha]

Where: Sovereign Plaza
Who: The extremely patient Darth Virelia
What: Learning important things.

Niysha watched Serina contend with a loop pastry with the same energy as an entomologist observing a totally normal beetle open its head like a lamprey to consume a live scorpion: mild horror, slight shock, and intense scientific interest. From Serina's aura, it was painfully clear that Niysha had accidentally ordered a bowl of broken glass that had been soaked for days in sewer water and lightly drizzled in rat poison. It was a foregone conclusion; Niysha absolutely could not eat while she was watching this... display? Warning?

Eventually the sheer, unprecedented shock of the spectacle wore off and the Miraluka found her muscles. Without another word, she stepped forward and swept the offending pastry away. She did try to make sure to at least cover it in its protective paper before she did, so as not to ruin her very fancy suit with sugary powder. When she'd properly contained what was clearly an abomination of some kind that she'd momentarily mistaken for a tasty, sweet, slightly savory festival treat, Niysha took several seconds to tidy up whatever white, powdery stains her mistake might've left on Serina's armor, cloak, whatever it was she was wearing that might've been marred by the fiendish pastry.

When she was confident she'd properly made amends, Niysha relaxed at least a little bit. "...Got it," she replied with possibly the most apologetic smile she'd ever given. "No sweets." Food in general might've been a no-go, from what Serina had just said. For the first time in her life, Niysha was on the giving end of her love language being incompatible with someone. Everyone who tried to stare longingly into her eyes or wear enticing clothes or bright, vibrant, sexy colors might not've made any more sense than before, but she could finally relate to them.

Fundamental disconnect. Momentary obstacle. This, too, could be overcome.

Standing up, Niysha offered a slight but sincere bow of apology, then took a moment to scan the crowd nearby for anyone who looked a little- Ah! There. A couple of slightly skinny servants. The Miraluka held up her finger for "wait" again, then scurried off to go deliver one completely untouched cake and one cake with a single bite taken out of it to the nearest urchins and scurried back just as quickly.

"I'm sorry. I was bound to miss eventually, but I didn't expect it to be... that?" As she apologized again, Niysha stood with one hand behind her neck and mentally kicked herself for the immediate train of thought that she'd need to 'warm Serina up to trying fun foods.' That was presumptive, and love was never presumptive. If she didn't like food, she didn't like food. There were stranger things that other Sith did. "In retrospect I feel like I should've asked? Or known? But I don't know... how I would even have known to ask."

Deep breath. Niysha calmed herself, fixed her hair, and resolved on a course of action without even a moment's hesitation. "You mentioned the shuttle to the garden ring and fancy drinks. At this point I'd fight a rancor to make it up to you, and that sounds a little less dangerous." A night talking and drinking with Serina to help make up for her... again, very difficult-to-understand misstep? There were worse fates.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Foreboding."

Tags - Niysha

Virelia stood still.

Utterly still.

As Niysha swept the pastry away like a battlefield nurse extracting shrapnel from a still-smoking wound, the Sith Lord neither assisted nor protested. Her hands remained at her sides. Her gaze remained forward. Only the faintest tension across her jaw suggested that she was choosing—deliberately choosing—not to descend into a full rhetorical dissection of the experience.

She did, however, watch.
Every movement. Every attempt at cleaning. Every careful little brush of powdered residue from her armor. It wasn't annoyance in her eyes. It wasn't offense. It was something stranger. Something quieter.

It was restraint.

Restraint that only she knew the scale of.

And when Niysha bowed, and bowed again, and stammered through the most sincere apology a person could make about almost assassinating her lover's sense of dignity with a culinary landmine, Virelia did not interrupt. She didn't cut in with a quip. Didn't coldly mock.

She just watched.

Letting the moment marinate.

When Niysha finally returned from her brief crusade of atonement—having offloaded the pastries to some half-starved teenagers who were probably about to see the future in the worst possible way—Virelia remained exactly where she was.

Unmoving. Undecorated. Untouched.

And then—

She sighed.

Not out of exasperation. Not out of frustration.

It was something softer. A slow, measured release. As if she had finally concluded that, no, she wasn't about to incinerate this entire section of the city over powdered shame.

A mercy.
A rare one.
But hers to give.

She stepped forward.

Not abruptly. Not like a predator. But with that slow, singular gravity that always accompanied her real moments of attention. The kind of walk that bent rooms. The kind of step that made small men stop breathing.

Her fingers reached out—again—and this time they found the edge of Niysha's uniform jacket. Just a tug. A minor adjustment. Not to correct anything. Just to touch.

Then:

"I forgive you," she said.

Quietly. Simply. Uncharacteristically.

Another pause. Then, a tilt of her head—just enough to imply amusement, or something like it.

"But I do intend to retaliate."

She stepped around Niysha now, hand sliding along the small of her back. The pressure was light, guiding her forward, toward the waiting lift platform that would take them toward the gardens.

Not quite pushing.
Not quite asking.
Just redirecting.

"Drinks," she murmured.

And then added, with a faint smirk audible in her tone:

"Without pastries."

The ride up was uneventful.
But the silence was companionable. And heavy.

When they emerged at the garden level—a tiered ring of midnight-blossomed hedges and floating lanterns, far above the noise of Sovereign Plaza—the atmosphere changed. The storm still cracked above, but only distantly. There was a kind of cultivated serenity here, touched with quiet perfume and the rustle of rare leaves.

A place not made for violence.
A place where tyrants pretended they were human again.

Virelia led them to a private bench tucked into a crescent of crimson flowers that glowed faintly in the dark. She sat—not imperiously. Not even elegantly. Just sat, one leg crossed over the other, cape curled around her like resting wings.

She didn't speak for a long while.

She simply looked at Niysha, head tilted slightly, like a woman reading an ancient inscription that only made sense in the dark.

When she finally spoke, it was without ceremony.

"I don't dislike food," she said.

Her voice was quieter now. Intimate. Honest.

"And I do appreciate the thought."

Her gaze softened. Just a little.

"You did not know. Now you do. That's the only apology I require."

A pause.

She leaned back, folding her arms behind her head, eyes glinting in the low garden light.

"Now," she said. "You promised me something about fighting a rancor in my honour?"

And, finally—finally—a smile that lasted.

 

[Eurydice]

Veradun Sharr | Darth Nefaron

Veradun's movements were smooth as he slipped his arm around her own. They lacked the aggression he'd shown on Ukatis when he'd concussed her to unconsciousness.

Eurydice still flinched. She made no move to pull away as he swept them from the Corpse Lord's presence.

The boy often regarded her coldly. If looks could kill, the way he stared - glared - at her would've bled her dry long ago.

Veradun's warning did not fall on deaf ears. Eurydice nodded once, the pale column of her throat bobbing as she tried to swallow down her nerves. She'd been around plenty of scheming nobles who read body language as their mother tongue, but none of them could feel her unease seep into the force as easily as they'd feel a summer breeze against their face.

Did the Nagai also feel small, surrounded by so many veritable Gods? Was it better to be seen or unseen?

Relax was not a word she expected him to know. Eurydice wore her confusion plain, kohl-lined eyes blinking their surprise. Her brow tensed slightly. Was he…trying to be nice? Was this the true Veradun, out from beneath the long shadow of their Master, or was this yet another mask?

"We are…not in the same place," she murmured. Even acolytes seemed to carve our ranks among them, and Veradun's training was lightyears ahead of her own.

He mentioned food. It was a normal thing to do at a celebration, and though Eurydice felt closer to vomiting than she was to hunger, declining likely wouldn't serve her well.

"I suppose. Have you ever attended an event like this?"

Eurydice had, but only on the periphery. Seers were to watch, not participate. They lingered in the shadows, hoods drawn and faces obscured as they observed the Ukatian populace from an untouchable plane.

They didn’t speak to anyone, and they certainly didn’t partake in the food.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Madrona A’Mia

​

All he could do was blink slowly as the colors of the market continued intensifying. There were traces of auras and lights, each stall having rapid ribbon-like effects dancing in the air. If the bazaar was a canvas, the brushstrokes were now living. Whatever his professor had given him had unlocked an entire new dimension!

Then, he felt something oddly familiar; it was a thread of A’Mia’s presence that wove through the very crowds that separated them; indeed, it was a familiar energy from another time when guidance meant annihilating the presence of the Galactic Alliance and Woostri’s core alike. It may have unsettled a stranger, but this grounded Lysander. Trust was a rare thing among the Sith, but the Neti had proved to be a valuable ally more than once now.

Merchant's voices would rise and fall: banter, cries, negotiations, everything blended together. Some calls came from nearby, others from distant corners of the marketplace. No matter the direction, they all enveloped the boy’s mind.

And within the Weave, he too, believed there to be a faint glimpse of his professor’s thoughts. Or was this all a trick of his altered mind? The question lingered as he stood there, eyes still locked on the radiant flowers. They lingered until the vendor, an Ithorian, finally caught his gaze, and then questioned his stance.

“I’m interested in those flowers. How much, man?” Lysander’s voice was surprisingly smooth.

When the response landed, the acolyte began fishing for a handful of credits from his pocket. The familiar clinking sound was distinct from everything else around him. Luckily, it was a simple exchange.

With the bouquet in hand, an ember stirred in his chest, steady and impossible to ignore. It carried him to a deep place untouched by anyone else. Sibylla Abrantes was impossible to forget. More than just flowers, they were a sacred memory being cradled. His fingers curled around the stems, a thumb grazing a single petal as if tracing the lines of the Junior Representative's palm in another life. He wondered what it might’ve been like, if duty hadn’t pried them apart.. what could have been.

“I’d do anything..” he whispered. “Anything.. just to see you again.”

Turning on his heel at last, the bard now sought the presence of the Neti, his body instinctively pulled forward by an enigmatic force. He navigated through the stalls, bumping a few shoulders here and there whenever they refused to part ways.

Drawing near, memories of the original mission resurfaced; apparently, he was supposed to be searching for a rare item. And if he were being honest, he accomplished just that. After all, lingering in the halls of Kor’Ethyr Academy, he’d been witness to another insight.

Calmly emerging from the side, he stood silent, listening to A’Mia’s haggling with the vendor. Was this economics wrapped in poetry? He doubted it. Even now, terms such as import taxes, galactic bureaucracy, were much easier to comprehend than all his recent attempts at Sith sorcery. He’d also recalled similar sparring from the Neti with the thicc Hutt lady in the admissions office, the topic always revolving around the topic of credits. Surely, it had nothing to do with his month long trip to the bacta tanks and the absurd price tag that came with it.

With a respectful tap on the shoulder, it was time to interrupt the transaction for something that felt more important at that moment. From the bundle, a single flower was extended toward A’Mia. His nose wrinkled just as an upper lip curled. It gave the teen a theatrical appearance, as though he just caught whiff of the foulest scent in the Holy Worlds. “Don’t worry, lady. It’s totally not for you,” he quipped.

His mouth then twitched into a roguish smile. “So, I found something super rare, something you didn’t know you were searching for,” Lysander added, voice low, and slurred. “I was thinking you should give this to that one Wonosa Lord who never takes his mask off, since you seem to be around him a lot these days.” The moment hung between them. "You know.. Lady Revna's Master."

Even with pupils that could've passed as dark moons, a cheeky sparkle threaded through them. It was born of the same scholarly confidence from the night of ribs and revelations with Naamino at a local steakhouse. “No offense, but you kind of suck at the whole expressing emotions thing. So yeah, you’re gonna have to trust me on this one. That's fair, right? I mean, I didn’t interrogate you about these mushrooms that I ate. KnowwwhatI’msaying?”

With an arm still offering the garden jewel, his attention shifted to the Quarren for a second before returning to her. “Want me to just kill him?”

​

 

[Wrathian Kell]

Sovereign Plaza.
Tags: Eira Dyn


Wrathian tilted his head, almost mirroring her.

He always did that, metaphors that had a deeper meaning. Weight for him, was the other titans in the plaza. A pressure to not let to much show. Distance he needed to learn. Methods he had to dismantle like puzzles. It was exhausting, to be quite frank.

He was arrogant. And angry enough that, in the right setting, he might draw a blade on one of them. However, he wasn't stupid.

Dromund Kaas was filled with Sith of all ranks. Using techniques likely twisted by the centuries between what Wrathian knew, and what he sees now. Even with his pride. Even with his Fury. Pulling a weapon here would be like drawing blood in water. The sharks would swarm for a taste. And that would be far more exhausting than dealing with the weight of the crowd.

Yet, he couldn't help wondering what that weight was- For her.

"Fine? Hmm- I was aiming for adequate, or at the very least acceptable. Though I suppose we all have ambitions."

He began to shift his weight. Wrathian started walking backwards with his hands pressed against the small of his back. Then he halted with a coil of his hip, bowed, and stuck his hand out for her. It was loose, but calloused. Those signature pureblood facial tendrils coiled up on one side of his jaw. Like a smirk without using his mouth. "I am called Wrathian. And you?"

Yes, he gave his hand with the intent to lead, though he wasn't pulling her. No- He was giving her slack on a rope. It was her to follow. Or tug back.

 

[The Lord of Hunger]

LOCATION: The Concourse
OBJECTIVE: Observe, feed
IMPORTANT LINKS: Sword | Armor | Jewel | Ring | Necklace | DIII Gluttoneria | The guards | The Enforcer
TAG: Her | Zara Saga | OPEN​

A smile, wicked and cruel started to appear upon the man's face, the eyes behind his shades lighting up vibrantly with hues of golden and crimson becoming visible through the black lenses. He couldn't help himself from being amused by this delightfully feisty woman. With every word she uttered, she seemed to try and provoke him, seemingly trying to dig her nails into nerves. No doubt, if she had displayed such behavior towards any self-aggrandizing sith, she'd either have had been dealing with a fight or a tirade of evenly dreadful remarks. However, the Lord of Hunger could see through these words, through these remarks as nothing but exactly a ploy. She had clearly stated she had wanted some kick, something which could hurt her and which could bite. It was all clearly a show of boredom, of discontentment. He could actually understand her reasoning, Zara Saga 's attempts weren't bad, he had to admit they'd have been extremely succesful on him if he had been younger and perhaps more...human.

"Enjoy watching you suffer?" The monstrous man smiled even wider, the aura of unease he had been spreading practically unconsciously earlier now became a fullblown miasma of cold, dread and distortively intense pressure, cracking the ground underneath their feet, shattering practically all of the tattoo artist's vials and display cases, with shards of transparisteel and glasteel hurting the miralan artist as well mid-work, making her shake even harder than before and bleeding profusely. However, with a firm grip of his left hand upon her shoulder, the Lord of Hunger forced the blind child to continue her work, his blood and her blood becoming mixed with the ink within the force sensitive client's skin. "Continue...you heard your client's request... finish it, or else I will."

"Tell me, coffin-boy," she breathed, not even trying to hide the thrill in her voice, "was that your blood, or something you scraped off the inside of your regrets?"

A chuckle, devious and yet somehow extremely controlled, escaped the abomination's throat, as he calmly moved closer, practically bending right over the woman as the Miralan was still continuing her work, shivering profusely as she attempted to the best of her ability to control herself, only to feel as if her very tools had a mind of their own, the needle moved by the monstrous man's control as he slightly moved his hand to force the Miralan to continue her artwork upon and within Zara's skin.

"It is whatever passes through for my blood...don't worry, it won't be enough to kill you... but than again, I reckon it might still do that," His smile became twisted, a momentary blink seemed to reveal that her mention of coffin-boy wasn't exactly that far off. As for a mere instance, a mere moment in time, a vision would assault Zara's mind and reveal the true nature of the Lord of Hunger; a monster closer to death than life, mutated and disfigured, filled with an insatiable hunger for the living force in all of its forms. "Perhaps if you are lucky, the sample's small enough to be destroyed by your body, perhaps you aren't lucky and the blackwing virus which courses through my vains will eat you away...and perhaps you may turn into a monster; a mobius tyrant, perhaps a perfaected...perhaps nothing but a mindless shambler and just maybe...you may become a Child of C... but let me reiterate to you what so many have had to hear. I never have any regrets... that which happens, happens."

 

[Eira Dyn]

Location: Dromund Kaas (New Kaas City) - Sovereign Plaza
Attire: Red and Black Dress
Equipment: Hidden daggers under the dress
Tag: Wrathian Kell

Her eyebrow lifted when the man had hoped to achieve more from her than fine, it was amusing that the word was deemed as unacceptable but Eira was curious to see what else he might deem as disappointing from her. The calloused hand was an interesting feature, someone who worked with his hands plenty. Eira didn't think many Sith would be skilled in manual labours or working too hard with her hands. The man had bowed and Eira figured it would be in bad form for her not to respond in kind, no matter her thoughts on the matter. So Eira did something that she had never doubt before in her life.

Eira curtseyed with her dress to Wrathian. It felt a little deeming to do such an act but it was the only appropriate action to take.

"I am Eira," she refused to give her surname, it was a dead tie to a family she neither cared for or loved. It was a lingering connection that she viewed as holding her back. The guiding hand from Wrathian demonstrated his desire to lead in the dance, the temptation to refuse and demand he followed her lead would be amusing but not appropriate. She did not know the man and doubted he would see the humour in her actions to refused to follow his lead.

Her steps were deliberate and precise, moving around the floor with measured training. She was not a professional or the best dancer but it was clear that she had trained plenty in the couple of dance moves she knew. Eira refused to stumble and fumble around a dancefloor in this sort of setting, so she took the measures to dance the best she could.

"So, frozen in time and recently woken up or a Sith Pureblood family that lasted many thousands of years hidden?" Eira inquired, figuring it would not one that gave her some insight on what to expect from him and his views on the Sith.