Private They'll Clap When You're Gone

[Cassilde Vortayn]

The Alcyne, Serelane, Callamar

The heavens were blemished.

The beautiful symmetry between the sky and the still lake waters of Callamar was marred by the unsightly stain of the Tyranny, like a great, angular spider looming on the ceiling. The water's mirrored quality, usually a boon, was now an oppressive reminder of the hand that had been dealt; everywhere Cassilde's eyes drifted, she found herself confronted by implicit threat.

Mercy.

The day's business was done, marked by the greying of the light, and the mask had come off somewhere on the causeway, the warmth and readiness shed for the empty audience of the pavilion. It was a private space, a small pale folly on its island of stone and surrounded by the water with the palace at her back, away from the watchers and the waiters. The weight of the assembled face could be cast aside here, leaving only a bench, a single plain cup of tea and the pale lake-birds that drifted in off the water to the rail, expecting her.

Unlike the monstrosity in her skies, she, too, had been expecting them.

She had seed in the pocket of her gown, and she scattered it along the stone, which they took from a hand's breadth away without alarm. Cassilde let herself be gentle with them, because she could, and because they wanted nothing from her she could not just simply give. They carried no secrets; they did not need to be read or managed. They did not lie and could not be lied to. And they did not require her to wear any face but her own.

"There," she spoke gently to a small grey one, the boldest who came the closest, in a voice she used with no living person. "There. Take it, it's yours."

It was the kindest she permitted herself to be to anything all day.

Alongside the teacup, a small lamp glowed at her elbow. The light out here never truly failed; the moons and the nebulae saw to that, a dusk that never fully turned to the black. However, she did not like to watch it deepen, and so the lamp sat beside her, small and steady, and she was not ashamed of its companionship.

A question of why hung heavy in the late afternoon air. Mercy had largely been absent for the course of her rule, which was naturally, the preferred order of things beyond the brute perishing suddenly, crushed by the weight of her own gall. But why had been the question left on lips since her coronation. Why her? Why did Cassilde of House Vortayn survive where her mother and sister perished. Why was she 'perfect' where they were not?

If I see one wrong move... I'll be back.

Her hands were shaking, very slightly, and she detested it, waiting for it to pass. Mercy could not possibly know. She had been careful, she had been…

The Duch'a of Callamar pushed the paranoia from her mind, not dwelling on fearful speculation of why this woman was here now, and instead resumed her focus on the birds, whose only concern remained the seed scattered across the stone.

The tainted peace could only last for so long, and Cassilde became acutely aware of Dame Oravel on the approach at her back. The head of the household, a formidable woman who managed the running of the whole palace, and whose presence could only spell the ruination of her small measure of peace. Her eyes softened, rumination replaced by serenity, lips turning to a soft smile; the only face that the galaxy knew.

"My Lady, I apologise for disturbing your retreat, but there is a shuttle inbound. I've taken the liberty of readying the kitchens. I do hope that I've not overstepped."

Cassilde offered a smile, a more tailored businesslike warmth to be shared between two competent women, "Oh, Dame Oravel, I do not know how the Alcyne would stand without you." It was the truth, which made it easy. "See to it as you think best. Is Captain Oleth prepared to receive our esteemed guest?"

Esteemed guest. A generous, necessary description, even if it was inaccurate. Loathsome brute. Audacious murderer. Tyrant. The Duch'a of Callamar's smile never moved, and she carefully stood, the lake birds hopping in slight retreat at the movement.

"Of course, the house-watch is on standby at the landing pad."

The house-watch, the palace guard by any other name. A modest force of women officers and their subordinate men-at-arms. Enough for order and appearances, but nothing that could stand against Mercy. Even Captain Oleth herself knew this.

"Would you be so kind as to prepare the west solar? I would prefer to take our guest there, should they be so agreeable," Cassilde conceded, hoping to opt for a private audience rather than the exposure of the banquet hall. Perhaps fruitless, possibly even offensive that the full refined welcome was not the preferred option. Even Dame Oravel's usual, even expression found cause to twitch at the notion. Whether it was due to the possibility of offending a warlord or loss of potential public spectacle was unknown, but Cassilde held an inkling that it was the latter. "If she has come bearing an entourage, we can adjust course."

"Yes, My Lady. Is there anything else?"

"No, not at current, no. Thank you for fetching me so promptly, and for your initiative, as always, Dame Oravel," Cassilde replied, gathering her lamp and teacup, which her Chatelaine swiftly took custody of. "I shall join Captain Oleth at the landing pad accordingly; I would hate to appear impolite."

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

There were two points on the itinerary for Mercy's visit to the Hapes Cluster.

One had been to participate in the crowning of the new Queen Mother, Astraea Vega , as a guest of Aether Verd . She had to be on her best behavior even when some individuals, such as Mia Monroe tried to provoke her into brash actions. But that was why the second point on her itinerary was last, so she could work out some of her frustrations.

While Arris Windrun had the pleasure of crushing Jedi skull, she had to watch the ascend of the Queen Mother, a mixed affair for her.

But thankfully Cassilde did not disappoint.

Her agents had already made it clear that Cassilde had either been part of the conspiracy or acted independently, inviting Jedi interference. Either part of the gang or on her own, she had invited Mercy's wrath on her House. The Tyranny hanging over the capital, up in the sky, was the sign of that. The shadow long and blotting out the sun.

But only a single shuttle came down to meet Cassilde at the landing platform.

Only one figure stepped out of it.

As if to say: Even inside your home, surrounded by your people, I fear nothing. The Titan stepped out and looked around the place. Taking in the guards that had been stationed nearby and then the figure of Cassilde herself approaching her.

"Cassie, darling," Mercy called out with a big grin. "It's been so long... too long, how have you been, sweetheart?"

Darling and sweetheart in one breath.

That didn't bode well.

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

As the shuttle descended onto the pad, Cassilde stood by the side of Captain Oleth, features equipped with the correct amount of grace and deference in anticipation of the boots that would soon trample the palace. Her head didn't move, chin held high as her eyes tracked the small craft. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, Oleth. If the wind changed," she spoke softly, causing the commander of the house-watch's head to tilt slightly.

She did not elaborate, did not continue the hushed test of loyalty that had slipped out in the anticipation of this unexpected visitation, a slip of the nerves. Her composure was well-tested by the memory of Mercy; the hand around her throat, Elsivane and Séverine's bodies still atop the marble, and a decision to spare her that still lacked answers yet plagued thoughts too often for comfort. It had happened; it could not be changed, but that fact made it no less unpleasant or soothing to the nerves.

By the time the shuttle doors opened, Cassilde was luminous and delighted, because delight was Hapan armour and she had learned at a young age to wear it into any room. Even the rooms where it did not fit.

It did not fit here.

Mercy was larger than recollection gave her any right to be. Memory had made her imposing in that brutish manner but failed to account for the truth in flesh. Cassilde was already acutely aware that this woman was more than capable of slaughtering them all like errant livestock, but the sheer physical presence of the tyrant gave cause for the fine hairs on the nape of her neck to prickle.

Cassie. Darling. Sweetheart.

So dreadfully familiar it was almost callous, as if Mercy could trundle into her home and play Hapan social etiquette and Cassilde, in playing the game correctly, responded with a slow curtsey, as deep as it was reverent.

"My Lady." She crossed the landing pad to meet her, warm as the morning. "You should have sent word ahead. I'd have had the place worth looking at, and something worth eating." Cassilde's hands reached to take one of Mercy's, her hospitality found in touch, and warmth found in her easeful smile.

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

As Cassilde took her hand, she'd once again be struck by the sheer presence of the Sith Lord in front of her.

Like a mountain coming down on her.

The only saving grace was that Cassy had already experienced it once before. When that shovel-shaped hand had closed around her throat, it would have been like being struck by lightning.

Mercy was looking around the place as Cassilde took her hand. Taking in the view, witnessing the people that were around them, committing their faces to memory. Cass would notice that. That the Empress was not really paying much attention to her in the moment and instead was paying an unhealthy amount of attention on those around them.

"My Lady." She crossed the landing pad to meet her, warm as the morning. "You should have sent word ahead. I'd have had the place worth looking at, and something worth eating."

"Oh, fret not, sweetheart." Mercy purred sweetly as she finally looked down at her. There was a thick signet ring on her index finger now. It hadn't been there before.

Heavy plated and just its proximity inspired a heaviness when you looked at it.

"But you should kiss the ring," She murmured low, just for Cass' ears. "We wouldn't want the help to think you think you are above such matters, do we?"

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

In a breath, Cassilde had returned to the Mirror Hall with that hand around her throat, not in person, but in spirit. An immense pressure sat atop her chest, spreading like a miasma into every ill-prepared crevice, stirring something both inexplicable and animal inside of her that wanted to flee, fight and howl all at once. Her hands, for lack of reason, gripped Mercy's tighter under the crushing weight of sensation, unable to do anything but create tension.

The Duch'a of Callamar had felt this before, but had brought reason to madness and called it trauma. She had just witnessed her mother and sister's necks snapped like fickle promises and was being held in the same grip that spelt the same fate. It was a violent ordeal, the near-annihilation of her house, and in some small, dark measure, something that Cassilde had wanted. Of course it had felt that way back then. Near indescribable, sensation stripped of all sanity in a moment of terror.

For a second her warmth faltered, eyes widening for a flash as the smallest of gasps escaped parted lips.

Cassilde returned to herself and her mask of warmth as Mercy continued to assault her with the same platitudes wielded daily in her court, the word 'sweetheart' striking a dissonant chord when uttered from the mouth of a behemoth.

"You never have to ask me for this," she replied, low for the tyrant's ears only. It was, of course, a distasteful task. A humiliating trap with no escape. Refusal was not an option, and bristling confirmed her disloyalty in front of her own household. The manoeuvre would never be to fence, but to comply with the warmth and grace made to lessen the sting. So she bent, bringing her head down to Mercy's hand rather than bringing the ring up.

Cassilde's animal desire to let go of Mercy's hand was unseen, and instead the gesture was unhurried; the kiss lain upon the ring with the exact amount of decorum appropriate.

When, at last, she rose, the Duch'a finally allowed herself to release Mercy's hand and turned to the waiting staff with the most gracious of smiles, held as much in the mouth as it was in the eyes. "Note it, all of you," she announced, "there is no smallness in honouring what is greater than us, only smallness in pretending otherwise."

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

In truth Mercy was impressed by how gracefully the Hapan resolved the situation.

This was exactly what Mercy loved about the Hapan Cluster. The rulers here had sharpened feminine rule into a weapon that cut almost as sharp as a dagger would.

Mercy chuckled as Cassilde turned around to give her staff a lesson. It was brilliant, really, how she turned the situation around. Then she'd feel the large Titan step up beside her. Her trunk of a hand settling on the light of her shoulder, squeezing there lightly. It could have been seen as a supportive gesture, but both of them knew better.

It was a threat wrapped into familiarity.

The same hand that had snapped her family's neck without concern and had chokingly lifted her up into the air.

"Beautiful words, my darling." Mercy said in the wake of her words as her staff bowed themselves to her. "So it surprises me even more that you'd invite the interference of the Jedi into your household and my territory while I was away."

She dropped it into the conversation like a stone. Casually surging the tension and fear in the crowd as the guards were suddenly faced by a situation they didn't know how to handle.

Was this a threat to their sovereign? Should they step up now?

"Ready the banquette hall." Mercy threw out to Cassy's personal aide. "I will take my dinner there as our delight of a Duch'a regales me with her version of events..."

Then Mercy leaned in, her lips running along her ear.

"...and it better be a very good tale, Cassy."

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

The hand settled on her shoulder like the slab of marble her mother had died on, and Cassilde did not flinch.

It cost her not to; the accusation announced had levelled the board. Laid out in the open before the house-watch, where it could do real harm. She felt her people's uncertainty all around her. She felt Captain Oleth's stillness sharpen into a question, and Dame Oravel's interest pique behind that veneer of her professionalism. The men-at-arms were no longer sure if they stood before their sovereign or a woman about to be executed.

Impressive, really, and if it weren't aimed at herself, Cassilde would have respected it much more. The devastation was not merely in the words, but what the words did to a room. A Duch'a whose own guard hesitated was already half-defeated.

Cassilde let the accusation lie where it fell. Defending herself already granted that there was something to defend.

"Stand easy, all of you," she spoke fondly, in the voice crafted to soothe an entire hall, "Her Majesty and I have a great deal to say to one another, and she'll want feeding while we say it." Her gaze found Dame Oravel, her request for the west solar as much use as a chocolate teapot now, "The banquet hall, then. You'll forgive its being hurried; you've not given me the time to lay a table worthy of you."

Obnoxious beast. Come into my house to try me at my own board.

The smile never budged.

She did not dare shrug the hand off of her shoulder, refusing to confess that it weighed on her at all and instead stepped forward beneath it, attempting to draw Mercy towards the palace as though she led rather than followed. "You'll have your tale. A decent one, over a decent table, as such things are always best told," Cassilde returned softly, her kind voice lowered for their private audience of two.

There was to be no stopping this; she had known this since that monstrosity stained her sky, since the shuttle touched the landing pad, and since those boots touched her stone. The only thing Cassilde could do was to make her own public skewering appear to be a kindness that she had chosen to extend rather than a sentence inflicted upon her. She would not, could not let the woman whose hand lay heavy on her shoulder see her surrender a single morsel that she had not first offered up.

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

As they began to walk Mercy reached out and pulled her pipe out of her front pocket.

It was slipped between her teeth and lit in one smooth move.

"The banquet hall, then. You'll forgive its being hurried; you've not given me the time to lay a table worthy of you."

"Will I?" Mercy drawled lazily as they wandered, leaving the household guard behind, drawing from her pipe and blowing out the smoke. Neither Mercy nor Cassilde knew that the latter was force-sensitive, of course. But because she was... the moment that smoke began, she'd feel something dampen her spirits.

Whatever was the guiding light that allowed her to navigate conversations and pick the right option nine out of ten times... would be choked off.

Because Mercy was smoking a herb that temporarily killed the Force in anyone smoking it. Almost anyone.

"I suppose I might..."

Mercy murmured between draws of smoke.

They walked down the long hall with all the portraits of the previous Ducha's. Glow lamps bathed the corridor in a solemn light. Just as they were about to move past it, Mercy paused right at the gap between one generation and the current one.

"If you behave, at least. If you do better than your dear mother and sister did." Mercy drawled as they stood there. Tone more casual now that they were alone and no longer needed the public pretense.. "But the Jedi... really, sweetheart? Even your disgrace of a mother did not try and pull that sort of shit."

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

Cassilde reacted to the pipe the same way she reacted to everything else, with a smile.

It was egregious to stroll into another's residence and taint the air and fabrics with whatever putrid smoke that Mercy chose to fill her lungs with, but egregious might as well have been branded across the behemoth's forehead. Whatever next? Would she kick her boots off in the banquet hall and air out her cloven hooves?

It wouldn't have surprised her in the slightest.

She did not move away from the offending smoke that more often than not found its way into her face and eyes; no, Cassilde remained serene, as if they were two old friends strolling down the Long Gallery in peaceful consideration, enjoying the colonnade of portraits and statues down the centuries and not a compromised woman and her tyrant holding her leash.

Then Mercy stopped; of course, she stopped.

She stopped at the blank space on the wall between her own portrait and her mother's predecessor. Open honour for a murdered reformer was not permitted; however, instead of the spot being reserved for Cassilde's own portrait, it had been left empty. It was a decision she had made herself, and one that she had not closely examined. It was grief on an empty wall, and standing before it, the entire world seemed more dim than it had before.

They were alone now, and like a switch being flipped, the warm mask dropped and in its place sat something cold, almost severe.

"No. She didn't," Cassilde responded, a dark stare looking up to meet Mercy honestly. "My mother wanted to be loved. I only wanted to be free of you, and so I reached for the one thing in the galaxy big enough to attempt to manage it." The words were unvarnished, the naked truth found in a blunt admission, flattering Mercy's power in the same breath it confessed.

"You'll note I aimed higher than she did. My mother wanted the men up off their knees. I wanted rid of the woman who put me on mine."

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

And rather than be struck down or killed on the spot, Mercy grinned down at her with a maniacal smile.

Her arm slipped off of her shoulders and that golden hand, terrible in its influence, snatched her chin up. Tilting her head up even more, forcing tension through her neck. A reminder of what she had done to her family, even without curling her fingers around her throat again.

"You'll note I aimed higher than she did. My mother wanted the men up off their knees. I wanted rid of the woman who put me on mine."

"Mm, I do note it and unlike the Hapan traditionalists, I do respect the play actually." Mercy purred lightly as she looked down at her. "It was stupid, of course, but it showed guts... and if I am about anything... its people who throw caution to the wind."

Then she leaned in, slow, allowing her horrible face to fill Cassy's vision inch by inch.

"I only wanted to be free of you."

"You will never be free of me, my Cassilde." Mercy murmured once their noses brushed. "Come to terms with it, or don't, but no matter what you try... my presence will always loom over you."

Like a shadow... or like a Mountain.

Then all of a sudden Mercy let go of her chin and wrapped her arm around her shoulders again.

"Anyway, what's for dinner, I do hope you still remember my favorite dish. I had so much joy eating it last time I was here."

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

That smile.

Cassilde's heart was already in her mouth even before Mercy's golden apparatus gripped her jaw, and when it did, she went still. There was nothing that she could do otherwise, could not pull away, could not fight it, and a pointless struggle was undignified; more than that, it was useless and revealing. So she was still, pliable, and afraid.

She felt everything in the moment, the grip of the gold hand, the tension in her neck as her gaze was forced upwards, her own pulse counting in her throat. Cassilde's eyes did not, could not, look away, and she was not wholly sure whether it was because looking away was a concession or because she couldn't summon the will to do so. It was her breath that truly betrayed her, the outer composure cracked by a breath that turned thin and shallow, lungs content to show their fear where the rest of her remained in stasis.

The tyrant's words landed somewhere both terrible and not. Her boldness had earned some scant modicum of respect, but her desire for freedom was met with possession, and as Mercy's face eclipsed her entire world and the words 'my Cassilde' were uttered into her mouth, a part of the Duch'a went silent, her body settling a fraction that was enough to terrify her more than that golden hand.

It was probably true that she would never be free; this was the death of her gambit, and an unbidden part of her wondered if that was truly so awful.

Then the pivot, the whiplash of Mercy turning towards the desires of her stomach as if the entire exchange hadn't even happened. A gift, a chance to re-compose in hospitality, which was certainly the domain where Cassilde was the mistress. She straightened her own chin the instant the hand left it, putting it back exactly where she chose to hold it.

The warmth, the grace, her own smile returned.

"Of course, My Lady. Gundark haunch, blue at the bone," she replied as if the menu had been memorised, and it had been. Cassilde remembered every mouthful from the last time. Mercy had not been content to simply slaughter her family and leave; no, she had stayed, and in the aftermath, she had feasted. And wasn't it fitting? Gundark. A vicious four-armed brute. A predator eating a predator. Expensive, and difficult to source, and the palace's larder had not been without it since. Rare, red meat, shipped in from off-world from a woman who never visits because they couldn't dare to be caught without it. "We keep it in the larder now. It seemed prudent."

Leading them both into the banquet hall revealed a long and narrow room that ran along the lakeside of the Alcyne, a row of tall windows running down one wall to reveal the mirror-lake in its still splendour, the stain of the Tyranny still reflected in the dusk's dying light. Mirrors hung between the windows, casting the room back at itself, so Cassilde could, no doubt, witness herself being humbled from every angle.

It was a testament to Callamar, a cascade of white and silver that highlighted what the scant few cities of the planet had to offer. White marble from the quarry-town of Vardis' white cliffs was the foundation, a mother-of-pearl inlay from the shallows of Ilmere set into the far wall, and pale flowers from the Aviene fields and perfume-houses set throughout in uniform vases and flower sconces. And of course, the light. Lamps and glowpanels were inescapable on most planets within the Hapes Consortium for fear and loathing of the dark.

A single long table of pale marble sat as the room's centrepiece, low and formal, and already almost perfectly in place for their guest of honour. Dame Oravel ran a tight ship, and even with the short notice, the head of the household had done nothing short of a miracle. She was already present at the edge of the room, orchestrating, and quietly wanting the spectacle.

There were more bodies at the table than Cassilde desired, and all of them stood the moment they had stepped in the correct amount of decorum and reverence. Marisel, her chief lady-in-waiting, stood by her chair at the head of the table, a modicum of concern breaking through her delicate visage like the first light of dawn through a window. There were others, ladies-in-waiting of Callamar's lesser houses, some genuinely loyal and others not so much, then a scattering of ornamental courtiers, the beautiful, subordinate men kept around for looking at. They felt more difficult to read than usual, likely owing to the stress put upon her.

As Cassilde led Mercy to the head of the table, the serving staff weaved around them like shadows, ready to pour and serve with steady hands at a moment's notice. Then the cook herself appeared, carrying a pale porcelain dish that held a slab of meat on the bone, seared black on the outside and blue at the centre, the plate already running red, which was placed down on the table like an insult to the rest of the accoutrements, contrasting against thin crystal, delicate silver, and tiny exquisite dishes of Callamari food. Offensive to behold, like the woman it was there to satisfy.

"You'll sit here, of course," she said warmly, drawing the chair out in anticipation. The seat surrendered early was not the seat taken, and the distinction was important to save face. It was nothing more than a hostess seating an honoured guest. "I'd not have you at the foot of my table like a cousin."

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

"Oh, honey, you remember." Mercy murmured warmly and with a pleasant tone. Pretending like there was any way to forget it after Mercy had made them get it done right after the massacre that had put Cassy on the seat.

But that was all they were doing right now.

Pretending.

Mercy took in the room as they entered it. The people inside, the way the table had been set, it had been all done in such swift fashion... Mercy was rather impressed by it. It reminded her a little bit of home. The old home. Where the palaces were made of marble, obsidian and gold. Where tradition was the highest form of respect.

"My oh my. Compliments to your servants and chefs, Lady Vortayn." She smiled as the Duch'a led her towards the head of the table and inclined her head.

"Such wise words. I agree. And you will sit at my right hand, since our bond is so close and intimate."

Then the smirk grew sharper.

"Bring out my chair, will you? I wouldn't want to cause yours to break."

She had left a custom chair in her wake before leaving the world. Large, cut from expensive woods and lined with precious metals.

Once it was out Mercy would sit down and gesture to the crowd.

"Be seated. Your Duch'a and me have a lot to discuss."

Then her gaze went to Cassy's plate.

"Oh, hells, what are you eating?"

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

Close and intimate. It was not an incorrect turn of phrasing, given that her chin had been caught in the vice-grip of the tyrant's hand not moments before they emerged into the banquet hall. Cassilde smiled, of course, and nodded in agreement at the demand shaped like a request, as if there was nowhere else she would rather be seated.

Dame Oravel summoned the furniture with a swift gesture; Mercy's robust chair required two of the servants to carry it in with any sense of decorum, and it clashed terribly with every delicate piece of finery that had been painstakingly chosen, much like the ship in her sky, or the carcass on her table, and the woman tormenting her. An aberration, a stain, a reminder.

The serving staff remained immaculate as they were all seated on Mercy's instruction and, like their Duch'a before them, managed to hold their nerve better than most. They served, they offered, they poured as only the best subordinates could, in perfect silence.

To Mercy's left, a separate side table had been brought out, where the gundark haunch had been taken, the cook carving up the red meat as it bled on the bone. Another servant offered more suitable sides for their guest of honour, a coarse dark bread with salted butter and rootleaf roasted in fat.

A standard dry white wine from the terraces was the standard pour of choice; however, at the head of the table, Cassilde caught a glimpse of another bottle. An Alderaanian Toinray, red, brought up from the cellar in what could have only been Dame Oravel taking her permitted liberty to see to things as she thought best. Cassilde's placid gaze lingered on the label, the thought of one of their most expensive bottles being poured on this woman enough to make her feel nauseous.

This woman was never here, and yet she had her own specific table setting, served first. Even the damned dishware was different, a heavy plate and a broad goblet, a thick-handled knife made for meat. An affront.

"Lake-perch poached in white butter, My Lady," she responded, smiling peacefully, "with a spoon of pearl-roe from Ilmere's shallows." She didn't even bother mentioning the silverleaf and lake-greens, dressed in a floral vinegar from Aviene. Salad seemed entirely wasted on Mercy. "It is the very best of Callamar's local produce. You are more than welcome to partake if it would please you."

Because of course, everything that was hers was by extension Mercy's. A notion that was too unpleasant to bear.

Cassilde's eyes shifted to Mercy's right, where her regular cupbearer stood in a certain state of paralysis. Rilan, a young man whose role was to taste every meal first, a necessary protocol in Hapan society. Throughout that straight-backed, chin-high composure, his hands betrayed him, trembling slightly before he finally managed to address the tyrant.

"My Lady... Your Grace. Forgive me, the house tastes... that is, I'm to taste first," he fumbled, voice pitching higher than usual.

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

Mercy throughout it all was standing like a woman who owned the room. No hesitance, no rush, no embarrassment, not even when the chair was scraping along the floor and causing an infernal sound. The likes of which was causing most of the nobles to cringe, covering their ears or trying to suffer through it in silence.

She was also still smoking.

Truly this was a woman who had no respect for the dignity of the office or anything resembling it.

When the chair was put down at the head of the table she sat down without further ceremony. Watching as Cassy's Oravel ensured there was a very fancy bottle waiting for her.

The goblet was poured.

Mercy listened to Cassy's explanation of her own dish and the Titan couldn't help but cringe a little. She had never really liked fish, it was kind of ick. Which was saying something, because Mercy by and large, ate anything and everything. Courtesy of having an appetite that did not really know an end.

"It is the very best of Callamar's local produce. You are more than welcome to partake if it would please you."

Mercy smiled in return.

"Nonsense. I need you strong and at the top of your game, Cassy." She purred lovingly. "You will eat with me. Here." And she pulled a wicked knife out of her sheath. More a butcher's knife than a combat one. And swiped, cutting a piece of the meat off, sticking it on the point and depositing it on the Ducha's plate.

"Have a good taste."

Then her attention was drawn to the cupholder.

Eyebrows raised up.

"My oh my, you are a nervous thing, aren't you?" She smirked again, eyeing Cassy. "Does he have something to be nervous about? Do you have another little ploy in mind, sweetheart?"

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

At this point, Cassilde could not have been too surprised that Mercy had drawn her own knife at the dinner table, sitting there in her sturdy chair, with her robust dinnerware, spewing pipe smoke into the room. As long as it was reserved for the gundark and not for her own belly, the Duch'a would find a way to cope.

So she watched, composed, as the cut of red meat was unceremoniously deposited onto her plate, sprawling atop the delicate array of Callamari produce like an open wound, bleeding a thin pink rill across the white. Killed rather than cooked. "You're too good to me, My Lady," she said, looking up from her plate with the same warmth perfectly smoothed over every inch of disgust.

She could not refuse it; a hostess who wouldn't eat what her guest carved for her would be making a statement, not only as an outright rejection but one that might be read as afraid of poison. Which was apparently not far from Mercy's mind as the cupbearer's nervousness spilt over into an accusation. It wasn't a terrible notion; the only realistic manner in which Cassilde might have enjoyed the view of the tyrant's end was through that very avenue, but out here, in the open with a table full of witnesses, would have been an unwanted spectacle.

"He is nervous because he is in your presence and has never served anyone who could break him in half," she answered, merging truth and flattery into a matter-of-fact explanation, "I'd be more worried if he weren't nervous."

Cassilde's knife cut through the gundark, weeping on her plate, her delicate knife meeting the carbon-black crust on the outside and the near-living deep red carnage in the centre. It was a sizeable portion for a mouthful, as if to prove a point that it was not poisoned, nor was she above it. Immediately, her tongue was hit by a flood of iron, followed by the salt and scorch of the crust. The meat gave at first, then fought back, fibrous and dense as the grain of muscle came apart in strings, a carnivore's delight. The meat closest to the centre was particularly harrowing, soft in a way that shouldn't be, cool where the seared chat was hot, almost raw against her tongue.

She would not speak with her mouth full, so Cassilde chewed, and chewed, and chewed with as much dignity as perpetual mastication could be granted. When she had swallowed, she was left with the fat filming her teeth and the juices still lingering in her mouth.

"Rilan, sit," she directed at the cupbearer with a smile, who swiftly followed instruction in the knowledge that Dame Oravel would see to a punishment later. "It will not do that you've come into my house believing that my cup cannot be trusted," the Duch'a continued, before reaching to lift Mercy's goblet of red wine. Without pause, she drank, the full-bodied Toinray going down as Cassilde held Mercy's eye before setting it back down again. "There. Now you've watched me do it. Shall we?"

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

As Cassilde fought her way through the practically raw meat on her plate, Mercy's golden eyes were lightly taking in the crowd. They were perfectly immaculate in the control of their expressions. Not even the most disloyal member of Vortyan's court was showing pleasure on their face at their Master's struggle.

It didn't matter how pitch perfect their expression and rest of their body language was however.

Not to a creature that could hear the beat of their heart and practically taste the blood running through their veins.

She heard who was outraged. She felt who was secretly pleased and enjoying the show. She even felt those that didn't feel anything in particular. Besides fear for their own hide, of course.

"It will not do that you've come into my house believing that my cup cannot be trusted," the Duch'a continued, before reaching to lift Mercy's goblet of red wine. Without pause, she drank, the full-bodied Toinray going down as Cassilde held Mercy's eye before setting it back down again. "There. Now you've watched me do it. Shall we?"

Finally Mercy's attention was drawn back to Cassilde and her... very bold approach towards assuaging perceived concern.

She chuckled.

"That is a splendid idea, darling. From now on... you will be my cup bearer whenever we dine together." The Empress said with a smile before rising up. "No, we shan't. I have looked upon your table and I quite frankly pity the poor nobles here, who must eat what you call dinner." Her knife lashed out again and started to carve another hunk of flesh from the barely-cooked meat.

"Instead, we will all eat together, from my dinner."

Mercy smirked at Cassilde.

"Let no one say that the Empress of the Core is greedy with her food, yes? Servants, I will carve, you will bring it around and by the Force, take away that sad fish you call dinner. It makes me want to weep, just looking at it."

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

A demotion, right in front of her own court, of course.

She had meant it as a gesture, and Mercy had taken it and made it a post. That was the way that everything was with this tyrant: you gave her a finger, and she took the entire arm.

"Then I shall keep your cup, My Lady. You'll find I've a steady hand," she replied graciously with a small bow of the head. It was naturally harrowing, in the sense that this was the most public humiliation yet that not only reduced her to staff in front of those who wished for her to fall, but in that it implied that there would be a next time, and a pitiful little niche made for her in Mercy's orbit.

Yet there was a peace in it, a strange quiet part of her that didn't mind. Potentially because that meant there was to be a next time.

Thankfully, she was not the only victim of Mercy's games, as the warlord's attention was turned upon her court instead. It was the first genuine pleasure that Cassilde had felt since Mercy's shuttle had touched down on the landing pad. They were not immune, not fully spectators in the bloodsport before them but now combatants, and they would have to eat what she ate, and smile as she smiled.

Good.

She could handle the slap in the face of her planet's cuisine and sensibilities if it meant that her pettiest enemies were dragged down to sit in the blood beside her; she would have handled it regardless, but the point still stood.

"You'll have to forgive us, My Lady," she offered, as the servants dutifully removed the plates of Callamari fine dining, replacing them with empty places that would soon be swimming in weeping, red flesh. "We've delicate palates. It will do us good to eat something with blood in it." A concession gladly made on this occasion.

Surveying the table, Cassilde's eyes settled on one particular rival, Ceyla Marne. The woman was bothersome, preferring to undermine with pointed questions and hushed opinions spread throughout the court. The Duch'a had always found her easy to read, her minute passive-aggressions easily foiled with kind words and quiet threats. She had expected a flinch, at the very least, by the cut of flesh that now lolled on her plate, but instead found a flicker of fear before composure returned. A rare wrong read, no doubt her own stress at play.

Cassilde turned her head to the side, to address Mercy quietly while their new supper was being served, "Do with me what you came to do. Only do it well; I would hate to be a dull story."

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

Mercy surveyed the table as if it was a battlefield.

With the amount of blood that came with the meal, it wasn't very far from the truth.

In truth the Lord of the Sith Covenant hadn't come here with a distinct plan unlike last time. Back then she had been asked by Aurellia to break the spine of the Hapan House and all its vassals, to ensure their loyalty. From there only a few options remained how to handle that. This was entirely different, of course.

She could kill, she could torture, she could harass, there were so many options.

Like a banquet, really, so it was proper that it would happen over dinner.

Cassilde turned her head to the side, to address Mercy quietly while their new supper was being served, "Do with me what you came to do. Only do it well; I would hate to be a dull story."

"What would you do, dear Duch'a." Mercy's voice lowered, sotto almost, to the frequency of Cassy's ears. "If you found out a vassal of yours conspired against you with your enemies? After you have given them clemency and a chance to rule, when they would never have done it otherwise?"

A head tilt there but the tone seemed genuine enough.

True curiosity.

"How does a Hapan Duch'a repay such treachery?"

 

[Cassilde Vortayn]

There it was.

Cassilde listened to Mercy with all the grace and decorum as required, head held high and smile flourishing as if the tyrant might have been gifting her with a terribly witty anecdote. Of course, it was no such thing; she couldn't imagine that the brute had a clever repartee in her arsenal. Just tasteless threats and aesthetic violence. Well, and real violence.

No, she was being asked to deliver her own verdict, at her own table, in front of her own people, no less.

She let the question breathe, as if it hadn't bothered her at all, taking a moment to lift her own wine glass to her lips and enjoy a delicate sip. Naturally, the flavour of the grapes was completely soiled by the lingering taste of iron flesh that still coated her mouth. What a waste of a fine vintage. Setting the glass back down, she turned to Mercy and offered her calm, pleasant expression, so well-practised it was like wearing a second skin.

"You want me to say I'd have them killed," she offered in her own quiet tone, dark eyes striking up contact despite the fear lurking beneath. "I wouldn't. Anyone can kill. It is cheap, and it teaches the next traitor nothing. I'd let them live, knowing I could end them any hour I chose, and let them spend the rest of their life earning the breath I left them."

Honest. Unsparing. She refused to take the easy answer that suggested leniency, nor did she opt for suggesting her own execution. It was the proper answer, the Hapan answer. Not death, nor mercy. The treachery had to pay, and she did not baulk at speaking it aloud.

The eyes of the table watched; bodies leaning in closer to the head of the table with all the subtlety that their roles had trained them for. The problem was, they were all trained, Cassilde chiefly among them. Watch, listen, wait. A loose conversation was as good as a bared throat to a trained assassin to Hapan nobility. The woman expected no less, and would have been disappointed if none of her Court was angling for an advantage.

So she met them.

A bright smile for the table, the projected warm voice, the gracious host, the Duch'a in control of the room. "Forgive us," she announced, near radiant, to the table at large, "Our most esteemed guest and I are talking shop. Do eat."

Turning back to Mercy, Cassilde pivoted back into their private conversation as if the aside hadn't happened at all. "But you know all of this. You didn't cross the cluster to ask a dead woman's opinion. You've already decided I'm worth more breathing than not." For a brief, near imperceptible moment, the smile seemed to thin, sharpening the expression. "You only want to hear me say what I'm for."

 

[Mercy]

Cassilde Vortayn

"You want me to say I'd have them killed,"

"Don't assume to know my thoughts or desires, darling." Mercy murmured, her hand settling lazily on Cassy's, a gesture of support and perhaps just another example of how Mercy could dominate Cassilde without making a spectacle out of it. "If I decided for your death, I wouldn't be interested in anything as dull as you advocating for it yourself."

But Mercy did listen to the point being made by Cassy.

It made her smile.

Perfectly cruel, perfectly sharp, exactly the way the Hapans would handle these affairs, if they had the power and confidence to assure that the subdued vassal wouldn't be able to rise up again.

That was the tough part however.

How did you make sure of that?

The answer had been simple, from the get go, so easy that when it hit her... Mercy had laughed. And laughed. Because it would have been the perfect punishment for someone as socially conscious as Cassilde. Someone whose entire power lay in the people she cultivated and arranged like a spider in a web.

"But you know all of this. You didn't cross the cluster to ask a dead woman's opinion. You've already decided I'm worth more breathing than not." For a brief, near imperceptible moment, the smile seemed to thin, sharpening the expression. "You only want to hear me say what I'm for."

"Oh, I actually know exactly what I am going to be doing with you." Her own cruel smile stayed in place. "Shall we retire? Your court can keep eating... and we can find some privacy where I will tell you what I have in store for you."