Naboo

[Queen Namari]

What a strange proposal, it was something that she should have foreseen, an easy way for the Sith to eventually escape bounds and service, if not use his sword to carve her in half without a second thought. She leaned against the bar’s crossbrace, letting her gaze take in fully the restrained Sith. His wounds were already healing, and she had no doubt in her mind that he could easily overpower everyone in the room and kill them without a blink. 

 

“A bound duty? Would you seek out and destroy those religious zealots of your own kind? Say to seek out and destroy those responsible for the destruction of my people where they now hide behind a curtain of cowardly smoke?” 

 

It was intriguing, but how could trust ever be won? Or could she do what the Jedi did not, and turn this evil corrupted thing into a vessel of light?

 

[Vorin Blackmorne]

...of my own kind? 

 

Did she not know what the Sith were? Of course not, she was a monarch used to modern sensibilities of hierarchy. The Sith were little more organized than a tribal confederation. Blackmorne despised Religious zealots, he had been sick of hearing about them for a decade now, servants of Chaos, or of Nurgle, or that damned Fanged god. To kill them would lose him nothing, it would undermine other Sith on their conquest to power, and that was nothing to him. Only his own power mattered. 

 

The Sith Lord passed a hand across his brow, feigning concern, leaning back from the bars and sagging his broad shoulders. His eyes did not change, those of an apex predator considering his next meal. 

 

"Take me to them, and consider them destroyed, my queen."

 

 

[Queen Namari]

She looked again to her friend Esmernia, seeing if there was any indication on suggested course of action. But this was something that only the Queen of Naboo could decree. Their society had no death penalty, they had no decrees for war, no punishments outlaid for dealing with an assassin. An oversight by previous queens more obsessed with galas and the like instead of a proper rule of law. If she could have her own way, a simple blaster bolt to the temple would end the threat of the man in white. But that would be murder through and through. A step that she was not likely to take. He was a combatant in a war that was not yet finished. And he had much to teach their young society about the ways of Sith Warfare. 

 

The first step to this man’s redemption was an act of trust. Perhaps a foolish act, and if it ended in her untimely death then her people would learn of some violent prison escape that had claimed the life of their dear queen. If it went the way she hoped, then the Naboo had gained a powerful weapon, and an opportunity to redeem a man long fallen. 

 

“I hear there are some great numbers of them still living on Onderon. And whispers from the Alliance of other small kingdoms among the ruins of their mighty empire.”

 

She put her hand forward and pressed her thumb against the lock on his cell. The silence was deafening as the lock unlatched, and the man in white was now completely free. But she was not afraid.

[Esmernia Langarmie]

Esmernia’s court demeanor was stretched dangerously thin. 

 

The Sith before them carved his way through an unsettling multitude of the Queen’s forces–reminiscent of what his kind had done to the planet. As such, his freedom was a delicate issue. Esmer could take the jabs at her character and the scathing wit of those that sought to pull her down. It was hardly original or new. But if that filth put the Queen’s life in danger, Esmer would bring whatever wrath she could to bear against that hideous stain until he was dust beneath her glittering midnight heels.

 

The Queen’s beautiful sapphire eyes looked to Esmer’s meditated stillness with a quiet plea that threatened to break her silence. But it wasn’t Esmer’s place to say. It was the Queen’s decision. Esmer would support it. She gave the Queen a quiet smile and a gentle nod, indicating that she would remain at her friend’s side whatever happened. She’d been determinedly supportive of many before her–many dangerously unhinged–but none were like Namari. Even in the face of a monster, the young Queen sought to mend, repair, and redeem. Foolish though it may have been, Esmer was happy that there was still something of the Queen’s youth that remained amidst the months of smoke and fire that they’d endured. She was happy that there was still hope there. It meant that Esmer’s fight to help rebuild their home was not in vain.

 

Bo and Ro aimed their sights down the hall keeping their eyes peeled and weapons ready as the cell unlocked and opened. Esmer’s expression was stony as she continued typing at her datapad, allotting funds, prioritizing different issues that would need the Queen’s attention, and attending to a multitude of silly administrative duties that came with trying to mend their broken world.

[Vorin Blackmorne]

Even a Sith who had been put through the rigors of the Court of Madness could be surprised, and the mask of marble that he wore almost fractured from the Queen’s decision. Blackmorne’s eyebrows rose a few centimeters unbidden, knitting his forehead momentarily with a mix of concern and astonishment. And yet, he was free of the cell. He looked into the eyes of the Queen for a count of four heartbeats, returning her stare with respect. There was no use in killing her, here.

 

With a footstep, the rush of the living Force poured into him as he passed out from the Ysalimari’s influence. He could smell the floral undertones of the Namari’s scent, enhanced by the pheromones of battle. Crystals of ice rushed to stem the bleeding of his wounds and the dark rhythm returned to him. That fatal song. Bloodletter.

 

…She does smell delightful…

 

A prickling warning ran up his spine and The Sith Warrior stared cooly at the Zabrak brothers, taking in the stance of their bodies, the forms of their muscles, and the instincts they imprinted upon the Force. Their impression was of strength, but with no substance. There was no history or trauma of consequence that built them into the types of warriors he had seen upon the battlefields of a hundred worlds. The frigidity of his stare was that of a butcher assessing inferior cuts of meat. They had never heard the rhythms of war.

 

He turned instead to their master, the Twi’lek with the skin of deep blue and the eyes of a self-important diplomat. Her best years were far behind her. He breathed in, searching for any scent of her, but found nothing. Had it been on a Sith-world he might have at least seen how a diplomat’s lips felt upon his blade, but he doubted the young Queen would appreciate the unfair usage of her servants. Yet.

 

Instead he blew her a kiss before turning to the fair Queen and bowing his head.

 

“Onderon, the spider's seat. Lead the way.”

[Esmernia Langarmie]

Esmernia could audibly feel the tension congeal. The Sith crept from his hole and lingered among them like a cloud of abhorrent smog. He made a crass gesture–typical of overcompensating male fragility–and blew her a kiss.

 

The Twi’lek’s deep silver eyes, highlighted by the starlight of her contacts, pierced into the Sith with a cold glare. She hadn’t tilted, remaining in her spot against the wall. She wouldn’t move until the Queen chose to depart. But her eyes rose to meet the revolting stray that had been released from his cage. Her will was steel and her expression a silent promise. Esmer carried the burden of war. She wouldn’t lose anyone else if she could help it.

 

Without looking back down at her datapad, Esmer swiped a missive to Vihk, alerting him that the Queen had allowed the ‘dangerous asset’ free roam, asking him to check the ship’s security to guarantee they had ample reinforcements should the need arise. And yet, as she did, her head filled with thoughts of lavender fields frosting over on a cold bitter morning.

 

[Queen Namari]

With all political action there was risk. One huge misstep and her visions of a united Naboo would falter and fall. She could not afford this to go wrong. But there was no other option. She could not keep the man starved and imprisoned forever. She could not order his execution. There was no such function on Naboo yet. She had no doubt that there would be a stir in some sectors of society, but others would likely see this as a great redemption. An arc that spanned hundreds of generations, and the first strike against the Sith. The great Sith assassin had bowed his head before the throne of Naboo. And what better story could be told in the mythos of a kingdoms creation. 

 

And she would not ever turn this rabid dog against those who opposed the Sith. He would be used as an instrument of divine punishment for the Sith. Or he would disappear during the first mission and never be seen again. Which was more likely. Plus with the influx of armed mercenaries and soldiers into the Naboo Sector, she would be protected. 

 

“Prepare your mission, and let me know what resources you may need.” 

 

She turned to Esmernia and gave her an apologetic smile. 

 

“Now where were we my friend? Some dignataries needed a visit?” 

[Esmernia Langarmie]

__________  Esmer  __________ 

 

Musing over fields of lavender, Esmer’s icy glare thawed by Namari’s smile. Those beautiful blonde curls framing deep-blue intelligent eyes were impossibly sweet. It seemed an offer of concession, but it was erroneous. The Queen had nothing to apologize for. Esmer acted rashly to assume her place when the Queen did not request her. And, regarding the potentially jaundiced cretin that now plagued their steps, the Queen was the Queen. Esmer could advise, but it was not her place to mandate anything. 

 

“Yes. I have three issues that require your attention.” Esmer began after gently clearing her throat. “First, as previously stated, a gungan delegation was off-planet during the attack. They wish to aid us in whatever way they are able. They hoped to address you directly regarding an exchange. I have them waiting just outside the Ohma Rune’s loading dock. 

 

Second, I have a few contracts and petitions for you to finalize, consider, or sign regarding reconstruction projects throughout Theed and the outlying habitable territories.

 

Third, we have a large budget to approve multiple projects, and I wanted your thoughts on where to begin. My friend Leialla is combing several markets to see if she can procure supplies to help us with our planet’s missing core. She has experience with black-market deals, which will help if it comes to that. Considering our needs, we may have to consider reaching out to less savory individuals. But we have other issues that will need tending to soon—food, water, shelter, medicine, building materials, and laborers. 

 

I checked in on a former associate named Velos Menethil with MEA Enterprises. His company helped to re-make my club, and though he lost his central headquarters on Coruscant, he has since moved to one of his satellite locations in Nubia. They dealt with weapons a year or two ago but have since moved to more general supplies to recoup their losses. He would be a vital contact for our more pressing resource needs.

 

For the moment, these are the only issues that need immediate attention. I have a fundraiser event arranged for tomorrow. And I have asked Vihk to request more mercenaries from the Anika mercenary group to help our position. He also wished to convey that he was available should you need him.” 

 

With a soft nod, Bo and Ro quickly came to step behind the group. Their eyes stuck to the Sith, but they managed to mirror Esmer’s gentle posture. The twins were poised to follow when the group decided to leave.

 

__________  Vihk  __________ 

 

Vihk donned his weather-beaten beskar, sans his buy’ce, eyes swiveling. He bent slightly to replace a capacitor, adjust a lens, and tune the targeting software of a large gun, six of which were at varied locations throughout the cobbled-together market square surrounding the open mouth of the Ohma Rune’s loading dock. He stationed several mercenaries throughout the crowd with their eyes poised for conflict. Vihk himself had his T-21 blaster rifle slung in a low-neutral position. He wasn’t sure this was enough to defeat the Sith, should it come to that, but it would give them time.

 

He positioned a few AniKa mercenaries at varying anchor points to help steer the stampede if things got chaotic. The Sith were greedy. He wasn’t sure if that would help in the long run. But they would help people get out if things got rough. The Mandalorian could not do nothing. Doing nothing felt worse than doing something poorly. 

 

When he finished, he climbed down from a scaffold approximately fifty feet from the open mouth of the Mon Cal ship and took a moment to breathe. He stretched his arms out and grunted when he felt something unpleasant pull at his shoulder blade—he’d need to look at that later. 

 

He gazed at the remains of the palace. He glanced at the massive expanse of Theed spread out before him and sighed. Vihk knew war. Vihk, like Esmer, was from a time when war was commonplace. If the Sith weren’t fighting the Jedi, the Empire was fighting the Rebels. Sure, the names changed, but it was all the same back and forth. Vihk had earned his retirement several times over. But he owed Esmer, and fighting to restore a devastated planet seemed a good cause.  

 

The old soul in a young body gently rested a cigar between his lips, lit the tip, and took a heavy drag. 

 

“The words, ‘I’m too old for this shit,’ just don’t seem enough anymore.”

[Vorin Blackmorne]

The Sith Warrior nodded his agreement to the child queen’s request, turning it into a stiff bow. He stepped wordlessly from the room, focusing not on the machinations of former prostitutes, but on the preparations of war. The coming war would be a tool to wield, a card to play to get close to her. His emotions boiled darkly, emotions rising to the surface, melting the layers of ice that kept them in control. 

 

She protects this planet, these people. These Naboo. I will hunt them wherever they travel, wherever they seek refuge. 

 

Vorin’s hands started to shake as he stumbled into the armory where they had stored his armor, causing him to clench them into fists. He nudged the door closed with his booted heel and collapsed against it, sliding to the mud-tracked floor. He took a slow breath, forcing his body to not take it in gasps. 

 

I will bring their corpses to her and caste them at her feet. It will be as if killing her children. I will kill all she protects, all she shields until her dreams are drenched in blood. 

 

Another ragged breath, and his quivering hand found Bloodletter’s leather-bound pommel and the blood-stained bindings of linen. Familiarity. With the other he dragged his lamellar-plate armor from where the guards had tossed it. He forced his mind to tend to his weapons. 

 

The plating needed new strapping, some torn by blaster-fire, others by a Jedi’s blade. He traced one of the jagged gashes with a finger, forcing away murderous intentions as they rose. He concentrated instead upon memory; each mistake made in the last battle, and those before. If he did not learn, there would be no strength. 

 

Taking one of the sets of leather armor that had been recovered from one of the queen’s dead bodyguards, he began to restitch the bindings between the leather plating. Into each of them, he pressed a portion of his emotions, those dark and evil intentions that twisted the mind, until they were all but spent. Each knot seemed to singe and curl with the touch of dark magic, sealing the armor together with desired revenge. 

 

The call of Onderon would be strong, but it was only the cries of the dead, and those yet to die. Any Sith that remained on that cursed world would be easily excised. 

 

With armor repaired, the Sith Lord stripped the remains of his tunic from him, and began to dress his wounds with bacta-bandages. The burns were easily handled with a layer of kolto-salve, but the fresher blaster-wound to his thigh required several sutures to bind the tattered flesh together. That wound had been a revelation in itself, the stoic queen was quick to anger, and easily manipulated. Perhaps the temptations of power would cause her to stumble. He dressed then, placing the armor on his body piece by piece, and with it sealing away the ravings of his mind beneath a layer of churning sea-ice. Stepping then with refreshed intention, the Sith approached the child-queen, inclining his head as he approached, slamming a fist across the darkmetal breastplate. 

 

"Fires will rage once more upon the Dxun moon at your command. How shall I prepare your guard for actual war?"

 

[Queen Namari]

Gungans. The ever silly, non serious, non interventionists. Who, much like the previous governments of Naboo, had let themselves and their military power erode to such a level that they had been little other than a fodder to feed the flames of a sith killing rampage. She had never much liked them, their few interactions with delegates before the destruction had left a sour taste in her mouth. But still, they were a people that needed help. And unknown millions had died in their underwater cities. She nodded to her advisor and smiled wanly. 

 

“Yes I will see them as soon as they are ready, if they would wish to join me as I observe training of the royal guards, that would be most expedient. Contracts that pass your purview I will sign off on, and as for resources to replace the core, there is likely little to be done. We can set up normal fusion reactors alongside the reconstruction, I have no doubt the asteroid fields in this system can provide enough ore for the meantime. Military buildup must take a priority alongside the reconstruction. We can delay the rebuilding of any royal household palaces until after the general populace has homes, and we have weapons enough to defend our homeland.” 

 

She gestured to the man in white. 

 

“Though we are unlikely to encounter any full fledged Sithlings on this first outing, I would like instruction of my men in the art of killing force users. There are several hundred soldiers awaiting orders on the training field if you would so wish to begin. I will observe and partake if I have the time beside the dreary affairs of state.” 

[Esmernia Langarmie]

“Right away, Your Majesty,” Esmer said with a small smile. She swiped a few documents and started making arrangements as fast as her fingers could type.

 

 She followed a respectable distance beside the Queen and quietly nodded as she continued. “Affirmative, I will have the delegates meet you at the training grounds. Additionally, my Queen, as to the delegation, you may be surprised when you meet them. I met them earlier today. They lacked the traditional foibles of their kin. It seems the delegates' time spent as intergalactic diplomats whittled away their isolationist tendencies and vocal affectations. I was baffled myself, considering my previous experience with their kind.” Esmer said with a level tone, tapping a message away and sending it as they continued down the corridors of the Ohma Rune.

 

“Oh, and before I forget, should I have Vihk meet us at the training fields as well? Or resume his patrol?” 

Edited October 3, 2023 by Esmernia Langarmie

[Vorin Blackmorne]

The Sith Warrior slipped from the fetid bog, the lichen and moss clinging to his pale flesh like strands of rotting hair. A swarm of midgeflies and corethrows began to lance at him in their numbers, their buzzing wingbeats a buzz that matched the discordant tones of the tinnitus he had gained from his war with the Jedi. It was unpleasant, but the Naboo marshlands allowed him to focus on the training of war, with all of its baser discomforts. 

 

A loose braid of hair rose from the reeking bog, its color that of the setting sun reflecting with hints of bronzium. He looked at it, bereft of any emotion but that of dissatisfaction, as an architect to a collapsing bridge. Blackmorne ran his fingers through the hair, tangling it into his scarred fingers, as stands of moss to weave into it, carried by the bracken water. With one hand he pulled upon the locks of hair, as though reeling in a rope, until its full form broke through the matting of dark sphagnum and mycelium.

 

Unseeing eyes of pale blue, the pupils dilated in desperation, sclera flooded crimson from its former white. Stripings of creamy brown stained her ivory flesh, the markings of unspent youth.. She had been half a Cathar, and half something else, but now was nothing but slack flesh and a belly already swollen with the putridity of the bogland. The girl’s jaw hung open from one joint, exposing the fractured ivory of her misplaced teeth and the darkness degloved tongue.  

 

The Sith let her drop back into her festering grave. The bacteria would strip her flesh, and she would feed his sanctuary much the same as all the others. With his footing secured by the churnings of bones beneath, he made his way from the heart of the swamp, pursued all the way by the noisome crowd of bloodletting insects and rotflies. 

 

The Warrior grasped Bloodletter from its sheath, stepping into a furious set of blows as his naked flesh found its release from the water. This was the last day before departure, and his joints were stiff from the night's proclivities. Each step caused the ground to fountain with freezing water, The Force channeling through each of the forms he had grown to use. There was little time left.  

[Kitchner Harkness]

Kit roughly grabbed the kid by the collar, and slammed him against the alley wall. “Don’t you dare, scum. Think you can steal my credits and get away with it?” 

 

He loosened his grip and frowned in disgust as he got a better look at who tried to pickpocket him. Crisp linen cloak. Pressed pants. Barely a wrinkle in his outfit. Not a single stain. If he had to guess, he’d peg him as a Nubian local. “Looking for a cheap thrill?” He continued mockingly, his tone scathing.

 

He was tired of living in this shithole at the fringes of Naboo. Migrant. Lowlife. Parasite. He knew what those rich bastards thought of them in the camp. Or should he say slums. He had seen the newsholos and how they portrayed the refugees of Coruscant. As if they were a downtrodden and miserable lot. Weak. Ants beneath their boots. 

 

No respect? He’d make them respect him. Fear him. Starting with the kid. He moved his hand to the kid’s neck and tightened his grip.

 

"I- I’ll give them back, I swear. I- I didn’t know it was you. Honest-” The kid stuttered over his words. He cowered against the wall, sinking as far back as he could. “M-my friend told me to do it, H- H- Harkness.”

 

Kit flipped out his knife and pressed it to the kid’s jaw, drawing a thin line of blood. “You know me?” And the kid still did it? He had guts. Or rather ill-placed hope. If that was the case, he would need to crush it lest rumour got around that he was an easy target. He’d be damned if a spoiled brat one upped him. No one could beat him at his own game. It was almost amusing that they thought they could get away with it. Almost.

 

His voice darkened as he continued. “Who is this friend of yours?” Perhaps he could toy with him for a bit. Get enough info to wipe out the rot.

 

The kid whimpered. “If- If I tell you, will you let me go…?” He was shaking. He was nothing but a frightened and snivelling little tooke.
 

"Tell me and I’ll make this quick.” If he didn’t…well…he didn’t think the kid wanted to find out what he’d do. He had been itching for a fight, and he wouldn’t let the audacity of this kid slide. 

"What do you mean quick?” The kid swallowed and looked up at him nervously. 

Kit ignored the question, tempted to mar his face. “You know…I think I have seen you before. What was it- Knoll?” He was the one whose name came up on the holos. “Yes…Vr’lak Knoll. You were one of the applicants to the flight training program. Like a poster boy for it.”

Knoll nodded gingerly, his gaze darting to the side looking for an out. “I- I am in it. Y-youngest one yet.”

"Don’t even think about it.” If something happened to Knoll, Kit would bet credits someone would come looking for him. “Quit stalling. Who put you up to this?”

He knew a few of the refugees who applied to the flight training program - a government funded initiative. Damn their pity and charity. It was simply another reason for those in charge to pat themselves on the back, even as their own government fell into unrest and disarray.

"I- I- I can’t!” Knoll squeaked, his voice trembling.

"You can’t or you won’t?” Kit dug the knife in slightly, earning another whimper from Knoll. “Do you value your life?”

"J-just let me go!” He shoved against Kit’s chest as hard as he could, and kneed him in the stomach, barely managing to knock him off balance.

Kit grunted at the blow, “Blasted brat.” He didn’t expect the kid to actually fight back. He grasped a handful of his hair and yanked hard. All he saw was red. He sucked in a breath as the air pulsed around him, practically egging him on. A static that made his pulse race with anticipation. The rush, he craved it… And he’d willingly succumb to it.  

Knoll’s scream for help was abruptly caught off as Kit slit his throat. Blood sprayed across Kit’s face and Knoll crumpled to the ground, choking on his own blood as he desperately tried to take a breath.

Kit swore under his breath. He didn’t get the name he wanted.
 

Edited May 31 by Roasted Marshmallow

[Vorin Blackmorne]

The Sith Warrior cringed against the overwhelming sensations that assaulted his ears and nose as he stepped through the marketplace. Harte Secur had become one of Naboo’s modern cities;   An overwhelming clatter of street-venders hawking stolen or counterfeit wares, beggars screaming in their drug-addled dementia, women haggling for the half-rotten meat of unknown creatures, all parts of a distraught tapestry, woven together by the rot of the refugee; pungent body odor and unrestrained vice. It crept over the land, polluting the natural beauty with ever-expanding camps, changing a green landscape into a dark hellscape of filth. The Destruction of Coruscant had not been a Sith plan, but for all the damage to good it had done to structured society, he was left to wonder if one of the Ancient’s had foreseen it. 

 

A dark-haired, unkempt child stood before him, not even in his seventh year, motioning to his mouth with a dirty hand. His eyes were brown and brimmed with tears, yet empty, bereft the spark of life. Blackmorne’s own eyes traced the boy to a group of older men who lounged upon mats, surrounded by clouds of watered tobacco. They were watching a number of children within the market, all beggars. 

 

He stood a moment, towering over the marketplace’s denizens by several handspans, a solitary rock about which the river of refugees parted, jostling against each other and him. Above it all The Sith pressed into a deeper, fouler water, that of the emotions that surrounded him. Malcontent, Desperation, Depression, Homesickness. All symptoms of the sickness at the heart of this world. He drank of it, letting it flow through him, concentrating it and manipulating it. He was no great master of it, but the mood of the marketplace changed almost immediately to the Warrior’s direction. The river was guided to darker things, higher levels of entropy. Predation. 

 

Conflict is Evolution. 

 

The Sith felt small hands probe at pockets; the boy had taken the pause as an invitation to rifle his pockets. Blackmorne’s dispassionate eyes locked with those of the boy’s handlers, and he placed a gauntleted hand upon the boy’s head. The armor allowed sensation enough for him to feel lice begin to swarm from the unwashed scalp. The man's eyes were unchanged. Dispassionate. 

 

Before the Sith could drive his fist through the child’s sinuses, there was a change in the river’s flow. A street over, someone had been killed in anger, with the clumsy assistance of the Force. Unchecked and unrefined. There were several possibilities now. The most likely was that it was bait to trap him. Blackmorne’s jaw set, his teeth grinding like gravel. 

 

A small gasp came from the pickpocket as Bloodletter materialized in a gauntleted hand, its blade of shifting midnight and stars sprouting from his young chest like a horrific growth of Sithmetal. The ragged edge cut free as the Sith turned away, stalking away from the crumpled body towards the backalleys and possible conflict. 

 

Instead of Jedi and Imperial Knights, all he saw was two boys; one choking on a slit throat, mewing away his lifeblood in spurts of crimson. Eyes of Sulphuric Yellow traced the blood as it ran in the cracks of stone and cobbles, running away in the chaotic flow as the boy drummed his heels upon the stones as he tried to breath. The desperation was palpable, and upon it the other boy seemed to feed. 

 

Potential. 

 

The Sith Lord spoke then, his voice like that of shifting gravel. He drove the tip of Bloodletter into the cobbles, letting its shifting blade drink of the boy’s clumsily spilled lifeblood, its reflected stars taking on a crimson hue.

 

“Who would dare steal from you, child?”