Private The Room Where It Happens

[Domaric Mordane]

Tags: Marlon Sularen | Selrik Lorcas | Her
Location: Low Orbit, Anzat

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The cavernous central hangar of the INV Executrix thrummed with restrained purpose, its void-dark hull concealed from Anzat's sky below. Allegiant General Domaric Mordane stood alone beneath the towering blast doors, his greatcoat brushing the polished durasteel, watching the layers of Imperial labor unfold before him. Though the battle ship ran dark, activity within the vessel pulsed with methodical energy. The Executrix was no longer merely a ship of war; she had become a crucible in orbit, a forge of doctrine and discipline suspended above a neutral world. And Mordane, architect of its order, waited with hands clasped behind his back as the children of his machine prepared to greet history.

To his left, a platoon of raw Crucible cadets—boys and girls not long removed from the storm of Cademimu and other reclamation worlds—suffered in the front leaning rest, faces thankfully averted under the heat of a Drill Instructor's withering glare. "You're not soldiers," the sergeant barked, striding between them like a wolf among lambs. "You're oxygen thieves in plastoid costumes! But we'll chisel something Imperial from your meat." The older cadets, between fifteen and nineteen, responded with instinctive flinches and barely stifled shame. Remarkably, they all kept their form. Mordane observed without interruption; correction, after all, was the core of reform.

Farther down the hangar, synchronized thunder echoed as a company of Crucible stormtrooper cadets launched themselves through magnetic drop tunnels—orbital deployment drills timed to the millisecond. Their bodies, clad in black-plated vacuum gear, vanished through blast doors one after another like ordinance fired with intent. In the viewing gantries above, Crucible instructors analyzed vector telemetry, voice command latency, and zero-G stabilization metrics. Every soldier would be forged by fire—if not in atmosphere, then in vacuum, where breath and precision mattered more than instinct. For Mordane, it was the rhythm of renewal, not war: discipline before destruction.

Beyond them, near the rear of the hangar, engineers clustered around disassembled TIE chassis. Sparks arced from fusion cutters while diagnostic drones scanned repulsor arrays. Nearby, a squad of pilot cadets engaged a simulated sortie inside open-canopy cockpits, their heads twitching beneath neuro-visor helms as they flew through a virtual combat net projected from the hangar's ceiling. Rounds of virtual fire lit up the surrounding haze, dogfighting drills against legacy X-wings, atmospheric skimmers, and pirate cutters. The air buzzed with layered audio: instructors' sharp corrections, AI feedback loops, and the low churn of hangar servos cycling readiness protocols.

Amid it all, Mordane remained still. The Executrix was alive beneath his boots—steel, sweat, and software bending to imperial will. Here, Imperialism was not a political theory but a lived machine, regenerating itself in orbit, above a neutral world too old and too dangerous to be tamed by force. Yet today would not be about strength of arms. It would be about control—of memory, hierarchy, and purpose.

Anakae's voice ghosted into the space beside him, a flicker of blue light forming into the AI's wraithlike visage. "Allegiant General," she intoned with smooth solemnity, "The emissaries from the Imperial Confederation have entered the system." Mordane's jaw tightened slightly—just a fractional tick of the muscle—as he turned away from the roaring drills and walked toward the reception corridor. History was arriving through his gates, and this time, it would find a fortress, not a fleet.

 

[Her]

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Anzat, Bryx sector, The Slice, Mid Rim;
INV Executrix.
Tags: Domaric Mordane | Marlon Sularen | Selrik Lorcas

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The familiar hydraulic hissss and the whirring of pistons exposed the interior of the transport vessel. Stood upon the threshold was a woman garbed in cladded white with the designation of COMECI emblazoned somewhere near the heart. As Her waited for the landing ramp to lower she observed an officer on approach with a compliment of security forces, a protocol droid and a astromech unit to greet the emissaries sent from Confederation space. With a gesture of her hand she quietly delegated to the on board crew to meet with Mordane's men and run through the routine inspection protocols and verification processes while she walked down the ramp and into the hangar bay.

It felt like every month a new Imperial remnant revealed themselves. Scattered throughout the galaxy survived the notions and ideals of Imperalism that had been fractured by the consequences of campaigns and political disagreements which left only three united by the sensibilities of the Imperial Confederation. As Her admired the scenery around them she eyed her cohorts who had travelled from the reaches of newly annexed Imperial space into the luxurious rich realms of the Mid Rim. The negotiations and subsequent agreements had seen these three representatives of the confederate states-- the ISA, ER and RE-- come together through a new alliance cemented under the reign of LIRAETH DESCHART and here they were set to meet with an expat of the dreaded DARK EMPIRE but as they continued to fight the turmoil of the galaxy to restore ORDER likened minds ironically served to pierce and disrupt the initiatives that were meant to serve the ideas and tenants of THE EMPIRE.

They would have to be dealt with accordingly.

The feed of intelligence which was dripping in-- stemming from the attack on Cademimu V-- was troublesome to the undercover Dark Lord. Mere days ago, as she stood upon the ramparts of ICD HQ to overlook the plains of New Aldera, she had felt secure within the designs and works of her machinations. Mounting pressure among the Imperial elite on New Alderaan seemed to be pointing towards imminent conflict with the dark realms of THE THANDON STAR CLUSTER for her associates could not sit idly by with the knowledge that the SITH had engaged into acts of war against the confederation only for the revelation that an Imperial remnant were the likely culprits of an attack upon a world that had been occupied by the Dark-Imperials only a few months ago.

It felt like a step backwards. Instead of gearing up for a new campaign to destroy the greatest threat to the new Imperial occupation of the Outer Rim Territories they were out here several parsecs away to learn more about the catastrophe in the Cademimu sector so as to ascertain who were the culprits responsible for that ruin. Whoever they were they could not be ignored either. All of them-- the remnants which had yet to join the confederation-- would have to dealt with and in particular if they were responsible for something like this. Curiously it would appear that the expat they were set to meet with could shed light on the situation at hand.

The hem of her white cloak fluttered in the breeze as Her stood in the maelstrom of General Mudane's well oiled and drilled war machine. As her cohorts disembarked and readied themselves for the meeting the Warden Primus-- head of the newly formed Imperial Corrections Directorate-- waited patiently for this meeting to begin...

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[Selrik Lorcas]

OBJECTIVE: Discover
LOCATION: Anzat System
​

The Risen-class Star Destroyer Requiem cut an imposing figure as it exited hyperspace on the fringes of the Anzat system. The occupant of the vessel, Grand Moff Selrik Lorcas, had received an invitation to a meeting with a former member of the Dark Empire, someone he knew little about save for having heard the name before. He didn't know what they wanted, and he didn't know why he was one of the people that had been requested for a meeting, but he was aware that Admiral Sularen had been summoned as well. That made sense given the Admiral's history with the Dark Empire, though. Selrik had no such history.

They took a shuttle from the ship, escorted by Confederation fighter craft, and approached the Executrix from a far enough distance to be respectful, but a close enough distance that should they dare try and fire on the craft, they would be met by the full force of the newer, larger Requiem. There was a full contingent within the craft from the confederation, including the leader of the newly formed ICD. A specialized group for corrections did seem to have its uses, but he was still wary of its formation and leadership. It was too new not to be.

The shuttle landed without incident. Good. Selrik didn't move immediately, nor did his Sentinels. Instead, he allowed the others to disembark, a show of parade, typical Imperial pomp. In fact, he waited until everyone else had left the shuttle that was going to before he stood and walked towards the ramp, stepping down it to look around the hangar that greeted him. His eyes searched everything, studying the elements of the troopers in training all the way to the TIE's that were being worked on. This ship appeared more of a battle station, a platform above the world, than a moving fortress in space. Perhaps they had decided to call Anzat home.

His eyes settled on Mordane, and he turned, approaching him, Sentinels in tow. He ignored everyone else at this point, singular focused, intent. He was there for a reason and he intended to get to the point of it.

"General Mordane," he said as he neared. "An impressive ship, but she appears more a platform than a vessel of war these days."

OUTFIT: Moff Standard | GEAR: Blaster Pistol | COMPANIONS: Imperial Sentinels x4
TAGS: Domaric Mordane | Her | Marlon Sularen ​

 

[Marlon Sularen]

T H E_R O O M_W H E R E_I T_H A P P E N S

IMPERIAL CONFEDERATION
ANZAT, MID RIM

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The INV Sularen's Revenge emerged from hyperspace, soon joining the Executrix and the Requiem as the three imposing Imperial Battlecruiser lay in orbit of the Mid Rim world of Anzat. Onboard Supreme Commander Marlon Sularen watched from the bridge as his flagship came to a complete halt in proximity to the two other Battlecruiser as it remained parked in orbit of the Mid Rim world. He along with Grand Moff Lorcas and the Warden Primus of the ICD had been invited to meet with Allegiant-General Domaric Mordane, an old subordinate of Sularen whom had served with him back during the days of the Dark Empire.

It had been a while since Sularen had spoke to Mordane with both men having been separated from each other after the collapse of the Dark Empire. Sularen had received an ISS Report concerning Mordane's rescue by Imperius in the Deep Core although surprisingly the Allegiant-General had done little to link up with the Imperial Confederation not even trying to reach out to Sularen upon being rescued from his isolation. Regardless Sularen remained eager to catch up with the Allegiant-General and hear what he had in mind as Sularen expected something serious given the fact that he had summoned both him and the Grand Moff.

Before long, a single Gunship left the ventral hangars of the Sularen's Revenge and made it's way towards the Executrix, escorted by a pair of TIE Fighters. Once the Gunship came to rest in the hangar, the side doors opened up, allowing the Supreme Commander and his usual protection detail of SpecNav Commandos stepping out, where Sularen already finding the Allegiant-General, the Warden Primus and the Grand Moff already gathered together apparently waiting for Sularen to make his own entrance to join them.

Upon exiting the Gunship, Sularen proceeded to walk up towards Allegiant-General Mordane and offered him a salute in respect. "Allegiant-General Mordane. It's nice to see you once more, after all this time." Sularen began. "I must say this is quite the impressive vessel. I do look forward to seeing it's performance on the battlefield when we march into war against the enemies of the Empire." Sularen added with a soft smile.

Tags | Domaric Mordane | Her | Selrik Lorcas ​

 

[Domaric Mordane]

Tags: Marlon Sularen | Selrik Lorcas | Her
Location: Low Orbit, Anzat

Mordane's boots struck the polished deck in calm, deliberate steps as the blast doors retracted, revealing the trio stepping into the threshold of the Executrix's central corridor. The hangar noise fell away into a colder silence here, pressure-sealed and climate-controlled, designed for reception and retreat. Sularen, Lorcas, and...the other. The woman Intel had only ever called Her. Pretentious? Perhaps. Intriguing? Absolutely.

Mordane inclined his chin toward Lorcas but offered no bow or deference. "Grand Moff Lorcas," he said evenly, his tone laced with cool precision, "I should remind you that in the Empire, first greetings are made with full titles—not from allegiance to ceremony, but as a matter of courtesy. Especially aboard another officer's flagship." His words carried no malice, only a sharp edge of disciplined correction. "The Executrix is many things," he continued as he pivoted, gesturing for them to follow, "but above all, she remains a vessel of war—one designed not only to destroy but to instruct. You'll see that clearly enough before your visit is through."

He turned on his heel and began walking, hands behind his back in a posture neither submissive nor dismissive, but sovereign. Sularen's voice followed soon after, measured and familiar. Mordane did not slow his pace. "I appreciate your optimism," he replied over his shoulder, not bothering to look back. "But let us not be so eager for war that we forget how easily it consumes the unprepared. The Executrix will perform, I assure you—but performance is only valuable when paired with purpose." He offered no elaboration on that point. Let them wonder what he meant, and why he had kept the ship running dark above a world like Anzat.

They passed beneath vaulted black durasteel arches into a broad inner corridor, subtly lit by indigo strips running along the floor. Above, battle banners hung in respectful silence: stormtrooper cohorts, naval campaign honors, the sigil of the Crucible, and—conspicuously absent—no mark of the Imperial Confederation. They passed under them like relic-seekers in a shrine, the quiet interrupted only by the distant rhythm of marching boots.

Ahead, a platoon of freshly minted Crucible stormtroopers advanced in perfect formation through a wide junction corridor—black pauldrons, white plating, precision-drilled into silent cohesion. Their eyes tracked the senior officers with clinical awareness, yet their march did not falter. As they crossed paths, the unit commander—a newly promoted lieutenant, judging by his insignia—broke from regulation. He turned sharply, heels snapping together, and offered Mordane a full parade-ground salute, arm extended, fist to chest in the old manner.

Mordane returned it with a nod—not a flourish, but enough to acknowledge the gesture. "Discipline," he said to no one in particular, but loud enough for his guests to hear, "is the only empire that survives its architects." Then he resumed walking.

As they neared the entrance to the conference chamber—its doors guarded by two Executioner-clad sentinels and watched by the cold blue gaze of Anakae's wall-mounted sensor—he spoke once more, turning his head slightly toward the group. "This meeting is informal, of course. But you are aboard a vessel built for order, not negotiation. I trust you'll find the environment... clarifying."

The doors parted. Inside, the chamber was cold, sleek, and unmistakably Imperial. And it was his.

Let them step inside and wonder just what kind of Empire Mordane intended to build.