Private What Grows From Whispers

[Warmaster Fhaige]

Location: Tikana Atoll, Corsin's Southern Ocean
Objective: Make Contact
Tags: Ana Rix

Night had fallen on the largest beach in the atoll, a small resort of bungalows that were enjoyed by only the richest and most powerful clientele. As they slept, a hooded figure rode onto the beach astride a massive skate-like living vehicle. It churred as it's skin felt the sand, irritation evident as the feminine alien stepped off. <Return to the waters, I shall signal my return.>

The extra-galactic tongue of the Yuuzhan Vong was unmistakable, like a squelching slurred mess cutting through the night. She knew no one spoke their forgotten tongue here, it would be more alien gibberish to these human pigs. Her eyesacs shrank in disgust at the thought of these heretics growing fat off of their wasteful technology. They would learn, in time, the folly of resistance.

She strode across the sands of the beach, only her chitin-covered feet visible from under the moonlight. The rest of her form was covered in a long dark green cloak. The galaxy whispered of someone taking refuge in this place. Someone who could answer questions that her people could not, give them information that was walled off to them. This human would be rewarded for their loyalty.

As she reached a small outbuilding, one looking perfect for filling with tools, she waved a hand. A door opened, and she was let in by a droid. The floor to the toolshed opened, and she was led down a ramp. The info broker was here, one of her many hiding holes in the galaxy. Near enough to the core, but far enough to be away from sight.

"I used the route you specified through hyperspace, many superfluous jumps and false stops to keep this planet hidden. All in the name of obfuscation, your information had better be worth the additional effort."

The room was dark, too dark to know where Ana was, if she was at all! This could have been a holomeeting as far as The Battlemaster knew. Coming all this way to see the fancy lights of a heretic's device would be infuriating. However, so long as the juice was sweet enough, she would squeeze as tightly as was necessary...

She sought information on the reaches of space, enemies that she could quell, and allies she could utilize. Whenever and wherever this broker would show, Phaige was ready to meet them with all she could muster!

 

[Ana Rix]

The room closed behind the Warmaster with a hydraulic sigh, sealing them both into darkness thick enough to swallow breath. Good. Darkness kept people honest. Or at least hesitant.

Ana remained where she had been waiting long before the droid brought the Yuuzhan Vong down the ramp—angled just outside the holo's reach, her body hidden in the seams where shadow pooled deepest. The Warmaster's footfalls were easy to track: living armor rasping softly, weight carried forward like someone prepared to strike first and question later.

Efficient, Ana noted.
And accustomed to command.

The Warmaster stopped, letting the silence stretch.

Ana spoke first.

"Warmaster Phaige Nuuk."

Her voice carried evenly through the tool-shed bunker, unamplified yet perfectly placed so that its source remained deliberately unclear. The holo-emitter pulsed once under her palm, bathing a sliver of the room in anemic silver light—just enough to outline the Vong's figure without touching her own.

"You followed the route I provided," Ana continued. "Every misaligned jump. Every false trail. Every redundant drift intended to shake pursuit." Not praise. Confirmation.

"And you came alone." That fact mattered. Yuuzhan Vong did not do anything alone unless they meant to force a point or conceal a purpose.

Ana shifted—the softest movement, merely a redistribution of weight—but enough that the Warmaster's gaze sharpened, instinctively tracking the suggestion of motion without gaining a silhouette.

"You do not take measures like that for idle conversation," she said. "Anyone who crosses half the sector under that much obfuscation is seeking something…significant." A breath passed. Quiet. Controlled. She let the words sit, not as an accusation but as an invitation.

"What you seek," Ana said, "you have not yet told me." Another pulse of the holo. A soft flicker of encrypted pathways, maps, and gates—none of which she opened fully. "But you came to an information broker. That tells me your question is not something you could answer in your own galaxy's ways."

Her tone tightened to a clean point—analytical, neutral, unafraid. "You have need. I have answers. Tell me what shape your need takes, Warmaster, and I will tell you whether it can be purchased."

She stayed where she was, a quiet ghost in the dark, present but unrevealed.

This meeting belonged to Nuuk. Ana would let her set the terms—and then decide what they were worth.

Warmaster Fhaige

 

[Warmaster Fhaige]

Location: Tikana Atoll, Corsin's Southern Ocean
Objective: Make Contact
Tags: Ana Rix

The scanning lights and mechanical processors were making Phaige's skin crawl. She detested this galaxy and it's foul heretics. Once the transformation was complete, constructs such as droids would be no more!

Phaige stood in shock as The Shadowed Voice spoke her name, a name very few human tongues had ever spoken. Her eyes narrowed, analyzing the other side of the room with great scrutiny. The audacity of a human to speak her name! She would overlook such an affront to etiquette as this human would he to useful to slaughter. Ana's tendrils reached far and deep, a network that The Vong could not squander.

"The route was long, and difficult to traverse give our limited resources. However it was a necessity for both of our sakes. My people cannot risk discovery, and your operation is to precious to expose."

It was far too early in the plan to go on the offensive. Without a network of coordinators and living ships, there would be no point in alerting the rest of the galaxy. Even with the worlds of the core reeling from the downfall of The Alliance, the forces of the galaxy's many defenders were too strong. Soon though, the gods assured her this wouldn't be the case.

"The whispers of Yun-Harla speak of a great trickster. One who may assist in our journey to redemption."

Yun-Harla was a god of The Vong, a goddess of lies and deception. She is said to be sister to the god of war, the patron diety of The Warmaster. A warrior such as Phaige rarely called upon her, unless prescribed to do so.

"I sought council from one of our priests, he council me though a vision that said I would find The Great Trickster veiled beneath the rocks, and veiled in a cloak of night. I can see now I should have been more faithful in his words."

Phaige pondered for a moment, it was strange how the divine played with mortals. Putting the fate of their chosen in the hands of an outsider...

"I seek council and resources, a way to crumble the planet of Timora, and break through the wall of shadows that protect my opposition. The ones you call "Sith", who call upon false gods, and see themselves as invincible. Should you help me, your reward shall be great..."

Phaige then paused, looking to the droid that guided her. She then looked back to The Info Broker.

"I shall even forgive you use of the most blasphemous of mechanisms."

 

[Ana Rix]

The Warmaster's voice rolled through the room like something carved from old stone and older faith. Even without touching her, it carried weight—the kind that came from belief, not bravado. Ana had dealt with zealots before, but the Yuuzhan Vong were something else entirely. Their conviction was a structure unto itself, a spine of iron running through every syllable. Yet Phaige's disdain for the machines around her only made the shadows feel colder.

Ana did not move. She rarely needed to. The darkness did the work for her, swallowing her shape and turning her presence into a disembodied whisper threading through the stale air of the tool-shed basement. The Warmaster's scrutiny pressed outward like a blade edge, but Ana absorbed it with the same unbothered stillness she used on senators, warlords, and killers who liked to hear themselves talk. She let Phaige search the room. Let her feel the isolation, the dooming quiet. Let her come to whatever conclusions pleased her. Ana never corrected someone's assumptions unless it profited her.

"You took the route I offered," she said finally, her tone a soft, patient murmur that cut through the humming consoles without bending to them. "And you survived it. Not many would, with or without living vessels."

There was no mockery in it—only acknowledgment—respect, trimmed down to a surgical minimum.

Phaige's mention of Yun-Harla earned the faintest shift of Ana's posture, a slight tilt of her head in the dark. A goddess of deception. Of masks. Of misdirection. Ana didn't worship gods, but she knew the language of faith better than most clerics. Faith was a resource. A motivator. A weapon. And Phaige spoke of it without hesitation.

"You are not wrong," Ana murmured. "Veils are where Tricksters thrive."

The holo-emitter on the crate flickered just once, a half-glimmer across Phaige's armor—enough to show that Ana was still there, still listening, still in control of the unseen angles of the room.

When the Warmaster finally spoke her request, the air seemed to gather itself—thickening, compressing. Timora. The planet was a fortress, wrapped in layers of defense, shadow technologies, and unquestionably dangerous occupants—the Sith. Ana's mind pivoted through a sequence of possibilities, maps, and contingencies moving like quiet constellations behind her eyes.

Destroying a world was not a small request. Breaking through a "wall of shadows" is even less so.

"You seek the fall of Timora," she repeated—not doubtful, not shocked, simply clarifying. "And access through defenses shaped by sorcery, tradition, and arrogance."

A pause.
Measured.
Intentional.

"I can advise on both. But each will cost you. The Sith guard their secrets jealously… and Timora does not collapse without waking half the Core."

She let that settle before continuing, her tone shifting into something sharper—still calm, but honed.

"You will get what you need: routes, vulnerabilities, internal fractures to exploit. I can provide misdirection, falsified trajectories, empty corridors to slip through, pressure points to collapse their networks from within… and ways to make the Sith blind to your passage."

She stepped forward a fraction. Just enough for her outline to become a suggestion—a soft silhouette carved from shadow, nothing more than the impression of a woman hidden behind her own patience.

"But I do not sell destruction blindly," Ana continued. "If I help you bring down a world, I expect an equal exchange. Not in worship. Not in blood. In certainty."

Her voice lowered, threading into the room like silk wrapped around a blade.

"You offer forgiveness for my machines."
A faint hum from the droid punctuated the irony.
"I accept the gesture."

Another breath.

"But the cost for what you ask will be more than absolution of blasphemy. You want Timora, and you want shadows parted. I will require something in return—something only the Yuuzhan Vong can give."

She didn't specify yet.
That was part of the negotiation.
Part of the Trickster's dance.

"Tell me, Warmaster Phaige Nuuk," Ana said, the darkness shifting subtly around her. "How far does your devotion reach? And what price do your gods permit you to pay?"

Warmaster Fhaige

 

[Warmaster Fhaige]

Location: Tikana Atoll, Corsin's Southern Ocean
Objective: Make Contact
Tags: Ana Rix

Every single breath the woman made was a measured move, as if this were a game of wills. If such was the case, then this human would prove to be Phaige's equal. That was something that Phaige was loathe to admit, that a human posed even a minor threat to her. Her gaze narrowed as she pondered what the woman asked, the fin-like protrusions on her head lowered, signaling the depth of her thoughts.

What was this human? Did she not know the history of the Yuuzhan Vong? Was she so willing to sell out her own species?

Questions upon questions, mysteries wrapped in shadows, such was the intent of this Info Broker. It was a rather effective veil, one that Phaige's mind could not pierce no matter how hard she tried. Truly it was impossible to glean anything without playing Ana's game. She spoke of power, or promises that could crush nations, or even crumble planets. Were these not the ramblings of an insane woman, then they were the designs of a truly dangerous mind.

"Tread lightly when you speak of my gods human, for they are a wrathful sort..."

Simple bluster from someone who had long-since let religion dominate their life, it meant little in a place like this. If anything, it most likely just made her easier to cajole. Such ties were a weakness in games like these, but Phaige had long since tipped her hand...

"My devotion to the gods is absolute! All I have done is for their vision, their purpose!"

With a flex of her hand, one of her Vong Fighting Claws popped out from the sheathe of skin that it was hidden in. Contrary to what one might believe, this was not a bloodless or painless affair. Jet black blood dripped from the tips of her claws, her own ichor that carried life through her veins, a show of what Vong were willing to do to their bodies.

"This is a testament to the gods, what we Yuuzhan Vong are willing to do for them. Pain, blood, flesh... These are the currencies the gods bargain in. Only these will satisfy their hunger, and I shall grant it to them in great abundance..."

The pain of ejecting her central claw was nothing, not for a Yuuzhan Vong. Pain was a constant for them, as natural as most sentience experienced warmth. She lifted her right hand, dragging it along her claw. More of the ichor oozed from her palm, which she flung towards the feet of her host. This was a sort of pact in the Vong cult.

Without so much as a wince she stood there, eyes smoldering in the dark, letting the scent of her lifeblood hang heavy in the air. It was a symbol, not only of the blood she would let, but of what she was willing to do.

"Let this blood seal the fate of a galaxy, an example of what is to come. Blood for blood, flesh for flesh. And perhaps, life for service..."

 

[Ana Rix]

The splatter of dark Vong ichor hit the floor with a wet, silken sound that cut through the stale air and settled like a living stain between them. The scent was sharp—mineral and metallic, almost acidic—and the room's temperature shifted subtly as the blood steamed against the cold plating. Ana did not step back. She did not flinch. Pain rituals were part of a cultural lexicon she had no intention of imitating. Still, she recognized them for what they were: an offering, a vow, a declaration of intent carved directly into the body.

Her gaze lowered, just enough to acknowledge the gesture without mistaking it for a threat. Then she lifted her eyes again, steady, unblinking, reflecting none of the revulsion or alarm most humans would have shown. She let Phaige's devotion fill the room, let the Warmaster's conviction stand unchallenged—not out of reverence, but because challenging it would be strategically absurd. The Yuuzhan Vong had built entire civilizations on pain. Ana dealt in information, not in theological debate.

"You honor your gods with certainty," she said, voice a quiet line drawn through the dark. "And certainty has power—if not in the heavens, then on the field where it shapes decisions. I do not share your faith, Warmaster. But I recognize what devotion looks like when someone is willing to bleed for it."

Her tone never wavered. She did not match the ritual. She did not pretend to understand the pantheon behind it. But neither did she retreat behind the fragile walls of human discomfort. That was not who she was.

She stepped forward just enough that the dim holographic glow traced the outline of her boots, stopping before the blood could touch her soles. The gesture was deliberate—not avoidance, not disgust—a line of respect for boundaries she understood only in structure, not belief.

"I do not apologize for questioning," she continued. "In my work, doubt is not insult—it is protocol. Your devotion is absolute. Mine is not. I place my faith in results, in precision, in the calculus of choices. That is where my gods live, if I had any."

She folded her hands loosely behind her back, voice neither warm nor cold—simply factual, the practiced neutrality of a woman who had survived by refusing to lie to powerful beings.

"You asked what price I would demand. You have shown yours: blood, flesh, and pain in service to your divine cause. That is your currency. Mine is different."

The holo-emitter pulsed once, an ambient flicker that cast a faint silver ripple across the space between them.

"For the work you seek—Timora, the shadows, the Sith—you will offer what only your people can provide. Not worship. Not ritual. Access. Biological intelligence. Patterns no human could gather. And the guarantee that when I give you a path, you do not deviate from it."

Her gaze narrowed by a degree—a subtle sharpening, not aggression but clarity.

"You see your gods in the suffering you endure," Ana said. "I see only the skill in how you wield it."

A breath. Soft. Controlled.

"So no, Warmaster—I will not apologize. Faith is your language. Precision is mine. But if our goals align, they do not need to contradict."

She inclined her head—not bowing, but acknowledging the exchange.

"You have my attention. Now, let us see if we can make the cost worthwhile."

Warmaster Fhaige