Ezekiel

Coruscant

As Jace continued to follow the presence of what he presumed had been the attacker, further warning signals flared up across the holographic display of his helm.

Warning: Temple Breach Detected

The Supreme Commander cursed silently, but in a way, this likely confirmed much of what he expected. Few groups truly cared for what might remain in the ruins of the Jedi temple other than the Sith or the Jedi, and while matters had become strained between the Republic and the Order, he highly doubted even the most extreme offshoots of the Jedi would resort to terrorism to steal away their old secrets.

Response times were slow, much of the emergency services and military responders had yet to properly react. He may have been named Supreme Commander this very day, but they were still not used to receiving direct orders in the manner he had intended to give them. This would have to change, but right now wasn't the time for reform, he had to act before more bombs went off.

Beneath his armour, Jace rolled his shoulders, before with a steady release of breath, he ran forwards, throwing himself back out the shattered window from which he had arrived. He fell for half a second before with a slow blink, he triggered the jets on his suit. While the Havoc Armour had been based of the Mandalorians, to avoid the structural weakness of the external jetpack, the Havoc armour instead relied on a series of small jets that were more designed to direct falling or for the vacuum of space. He had to fire every single one and burn out their fuel supplies to propel him the distance he needed, and even then, it was hardly a fine art. Maybe not fine, but it was fast.

Jace Maclom burned through the air in a streak of igniting fuel, white and orange. The distance blurred away, only slowing when his suit accounted for the fact he had to survive the landing. With a heavy crash, he connected with the roof upon which his target had been spotted, coming to a crashing halt in what was definitely an emergency landing, rolling several times before he sprang up, pistol at the ready. The indirect form of flight had meant he had more distance than he would have liked between his target and him, but it was better than being several blocks away with a sidearm.

"Drop your weapons, down on the ground." Jace's voice carried 'loud' over the external speakers of his armoured suit, to be heard easily over even the noise of traffic and disaster around them, steadily pacing towards the unidentified target.

[Jedi] Tython

In the absence of Theron, there was only silence. To call it awkward wouldn't be accurate, the pair simply had nothing to say. Nothing to say to each other, or to themselves that might make light or salvage the situation. It had been inevitable, but it hurt all the same for reasons that were both different and alike.

Satele moved first, and Jace allowed her the escape of a few steps of space before following her. Anyone else, well, maybe apart from those Jedi who could sense such things, might not note the change to Satele. It wasn't just from this momentary clash, it was something she'd been carrying this entire time. Theron, if anything, had given her a momentary outlet, a new reason. It was some time before she spoke. Perhaps she was away with her thoughts and hadn't noticed him, or perhaps it had taken her this long to remember his presence wasn't normal anymore.

"Non-Force Sen--"

"Satele, I'm going with you."

"Jace, it's not a matter of-"

"Unless you're going to push me away and bury 'me' under a mountain, I'm going."

He was determined, but not to the point of cornering her, keeping the distance he had maintained throughout their short walk from the meeting chamber. Her eyes narrowed at him for a moment, as if she might really be considering it. He hadn't truly been joking either. She didn't visibly give in, but she turned to carry on walking and he didn't immediately feel a wall of force preventing him from proceeding.

There was a time when the Jedi Order had been fitted with the finest the Republic Civilian and Military industries could provide, but since the growing rift between the Senate and the Order, no doubt fueled by some of his predecessors, those days had passed. The shuttles that ferried individuals down to the surface were, of course, serviceable, but Jace certainly noted that certain military stations had received substantial upgrades in recent years.

Yet more divides to mend

The craft moved easily through the void of space, and Jace used the time to study the view, at least, something that wasn't Satele. He had seen images of Tython, Satele had also described it to him before, even from a vision she once had, before they had even known the place existed. This was not the sight that greeted him. The craft descended towards a world clearly in the throes of trauma. The skies were a swirling mass of storms, some in colours he had rarely seen in weather patterns before. He exhaled steadily, a few moments of apprehension before the adrenaline came rushing in to replace it. He turned to face Satele again and found her eyes on him. Their eyes locked for several long moments, and they saw the same in each other. The thrill. It never went away.

The moment passed and in the next moment, it felt like the entire weight of a world slammed into the small shuttle craft. The pilot, no doubt a skilled Jedi or attache to the order, manoeuvred the craft as best they could, no doubt better than most pilots in the galaxy could, but they could not shield their passengers from the storm. Jace watched the view again, and from what little bearing he could make as they hit the atmosphere and thus the storms, they were thrown about like a ragdoll. Powerful thrusters strained and failed to account for the force of the storm, at one point, they were even moving backwards. The shuttle groaned in such a way that revealed the shielding had failed to entirely account for the storm, it was beginning to physically pull at the craft. Jace knitted his fingers together and looked forwards, studying the far side of the craft. His form tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. A powerful man, in terms of physicality, ability and politics, he did not enjoy such situations where he could not be a part of the solution. Instead, he resorted to his own form of meditation, awaiting the moment he could spring into action in some way or another.

This meditation consisted of assembling his combat armour, loaded into the compartment with him. Each segment was slotted into place over his body, forming the protective shell a piece at a time. The white and orange plate, known the Galaxy over, gradually taking form. It could be done faster, or with aid, but there was a slight ritual to the way he did so, when he had the time, that helped focused the thrill-seeking element of his mind into a useful tool. Once the set was complete, he sat back down, still holding his helmet. Then, he waited.

In the end, the moment didn't come. The craft touched down with a thump that, after the storm, barely registered for those within. The craft's landing doors opened and the interior was immediately assailed with the force of the wind. Jace stood and pressed his helm over his features all in the same motion. He didn't know if the Jedi had some trick against the storm, but he did not, besides, the armour provided some further sense of command. He looked towards Satele, nodding to her.

"Lead on."

[ASOIAF]: Before the Dragons Danced

House Grazadan of New Ghis

Recent History: Many say that the Ghiscari are a broken and decadent people, playing at the glories of Empire while not lifting a finger to make good on their claims of superiority. Those people have not been to New Ghis, where the spirit of the Old Empire still beats strong. Founded by more martial Ghiscari disgusted by the increasing sloth of their brethren, New Ghis is the most dynamic of the cities of Slaver's Bay, able to deal with Astapor, Yunkai, and even Mereen as equals despite its relative youth. And behind this dynamism is House Grazdan, which presents itself as the descendants of the Imperial Line of Old Ghis, whether by blood or by achievement.

House Grazadan was founded by Grazdan the Renewer, who claimed to be the descendant of a survivor of Old Valyria's purge of the original bloodlines of Old Ghis. Before making this claim, however, he was a son of a Mereenese aristocrat who preferred fighting above lounging and commanding free men to slave soldiers. Eventually, Grazdan tired of the decadent ways of Mereen, and left for the island that New Ghis would be founded on with many among Mereen's elite who shared the same sentiments. Once the city was founded, martially-inclined Ghiscari from Astapor and Yunkai would later follow, putting themselves under Grazadan's command in order to refound the glories of the Ghiscari Empire.

But it was not just aristocrats seeking nostalgia that followed, but also pirates, mercenaries, and of course, slaves. New Ghis quickly became infamous for its raids on the Summer Islands, the Qartheen, and even other Ghiscari when the leadership can get away with it. Over time, even ships from Volantis were preyed on, although only when the New Ghiscari can get away with it. And New Ghis grew rich as well as resented.

Now, New Ghis reigns under a new King, Grazadan the Chainbringer, so-called because of his participation in slave raids and campaigns of conquest in his youth, where several cities and outposts on the mainland were forced to acknowledge the rule of New Ghis. But the Chainbringer desires more - His brethren in the Slaver Cities do not acknowledge the need to reform the Ghiscari Empire, and they must be made to.

And no cost will be too high.

Family Members:

Grazadan the Chainbringer

Name: Grazadan the Chainbringer

Age: 36

Appearance: A tall, muscular man with a heavy build, Grazadan the Chainbringer is not an ordinary Ghiscari, with his only concession to traditional custom being the spiking of his hair into horns. Unlike other Ghiscari, he eschews the traditional tokar in favor of full armor, or even just more practical clothing. Face-wise, he keeps a thin beard and mustache, while his broad features are neither ugly or handsome, but more average-looking.

Biography: Grazadan the Chainbringer was the firstborn son of Grazadan the Blademaster, a formidable warrior of New Ghis and grandson of its founder, making Chainbringer himself the great-grandson of Grazadan the Renewer himself. Raised with a high sense of entitlement and desire for glory, Grazdan the Chainbringer soon became a formidable fighter and warrior who had memorized a few military texts as well and desired to use all of those to glorify New Ghis. He would later get the opportunity to do so on a raid against the Summer Isles, where many Summer Islanders were enslaved and brought to New Ghis in chains.

Grazadan would later venture out onto the mainland, subjugating many settlements there and regaining much land that belonged to Old Ghis. One of his greatest achievements was the defeat of a Yunkai-led force of slave-soldiers trying to retake lost ground, and in a touch of irony, enslaving the commanders while freeing their troops, many of whom joined him in many later battles. This was an unprecedented move in Ghiscari culture, and Grazadan was only saved from accusations of being a traitor to custom because he took slaves from other sources and showed no other signs of radical emancipatory urges.

Nevertheless, Grazadan the Chainbringer saw the efficacy of a 'join-or-die' strategy once he became ruler of New Ghis. Not just that, but due to the Unsullied from Astapor being one of the few forces who can match or exceed New Ghis' 'Iron Legions', he has decided to try and get into the Good Masters' good graces by marrying his sister to one of their most influential members, as well as cooperating with them on missions of enslavement. He has also bought Unsullied in increasing numbers, with most of New Ghis' surplus wealth spent in buying these Eunuch-soldiers to supplement the Iron Legions...

@Letter Bee

Looks good to me. Feel free to drop it in the character tab.

Coruscant

Heat and Ezekiel

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Chaos and Chrome

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It had been a long day.

He had expected no less. You can hardly expect to be named the Supreme Commander of a Galactic nation’s military and not have a busy time of it. It was officially peacetime, and so it might have been expected that most of that were pomp and circumstance. This was not the case, Jace had spent the day being informed to a detail even the previously high ranking officer had been unaware of. Within his mind now rested the beating heart of the Republic grand war machine, at least, he hoped to make it grand again.

That had not been the only matter keeping him occupied. At the same time as he was being named Supreme Commander, the Senate was in flux. New factions of senators had risen to prominence and a vote of no confidence had been floored. It was a tense time on Coruscant, and, Jace, being the individual he was, had thrown himself into the security measures required to make sure anyone key to the proceedings, on either side, didn’t end up dead before matters could be concluded. Of course, most feared the internal politics of the Senate. Jace, instead, was on the watch for the Sith. How they would love to extend this period of doubt at the heart of the Republic’s politics.

The apartment assigned to him was the height of luxury by his standards, and he quickly made his way to the living area, pouring himself a shot-glass of whichever bottle they had left out for him as something of a gift. He took a long gulp, before admiring the view. Even if he preferred less built up worlds, from above, Coruscant was unmistakenly beautiful. The vast glass display that made up one wall of the room gave a commanding view of much of the urban sprawl below, and the Senate in the distance. Had it been restored properly, he was sure he would have been able to spy the Jedi Temple. The thought soured his mood, and he turned from the view.

He was in his armour. It had been suggested that he might wear something more...civilian, for his swearing-in, but, he wished to treat this as a wartime position. The white and orange battle armour was an image known across the galaxy, especially with the Havoc decals beside the rank markings. He’d long refused to have them removed. Jace moved his wrist up, the action immediately bringing up a holographic display. When Jace had set out to turn Havoc Squad into the most capable sith-killers he could, they had been granted the finest in technology the Republic could afford to spare. Each feature of the Havoc Battle armour could be brought online, activated, targeted, with the barest of movements. Weapons could be fired with the literal blink of an eye. When you fought against an enemy capable of the impossible, your every action had to count and had to deliver a payload. Thankfully, for now, he was just seeking updates.

His eyes tracked through updates from the security teams, the Supreme Chancellor, their rivals, any political staff and senator who’s death or disappearance would disrupt manners. He looked again and again for the weak point. The weak point he couldn’t find.

Or could he.

Supreme Commander.

That would be a real punch in the gut.

Jace had time to turn, detaching his helmet from his belt and ramming it over his features before the first strike hit. He didn’t see the munitions, or indeed, if there was one, all he knew was that he had turned, and suddenly he was pushed from his feet by the force. That, and now the window was gone.

It was another moment before the hazard alerts along the suit informed him of the depressurisation. He didn’t need the alert, he could see everything around him being sucked towards the abyss. Another moment passed, and suddenly his view was spinning. The lights of Coruscant again, although this time they were rushing towards him. His suit automatically triggered his distress and warning systems, but everything else was left to his own activation. His suit would suppress his life signs for now, he didn’t want to fire the jets or any other feature that might save him, less he reveal himself to anyone watching the cloud of destruction from what had been his apartment.

Instead, he grit his teeth, turning in the air to face the building he was falling from, counting down the moments.

Make the window as small as possible

As he drifted closer to the building, he finally acted. Jets along his armoured fired, not an instant stop, but even still the suit had to project a field across his body to stop his form disintegrating from the GeForce. He continued to descend down several more levels of the sky rise, before his suit punched through another of the windows, bringing him to crashing stop among what had been another living area, thankfully vacant. His side arm was pulled from his thigh. No rifle, this would have to do.

All available units, there has been an incident at Hab-Block 2X-12. Designated Military Apartments. Incident believed to be coming from-

He heard the alert start to come over the military and emergency services ‘frequencies’ but he cut them off with his own override before they could finish.

“This is Commander Jace Malcom. Hab-Block 2X-12 is under attack, all available units, converge. Tighten the guard on the Senators.”

Whoever had attacked him would know their window was closing, if they already knew he had survived, they would strike again soon if they hoped to put him down. The next few minutes would be critical.

A smirk slinked its way across the Falleen’s defined jawline at the sight of the explosion. Clad in an intricate brown robe he seemed like a simple drifter. Just another wanderer on the galactic capital. His narrow, orange eyes blinked slowly before he started to move. A proper assassin always took a moment to appreciate their handiwork. His initial target being the pompous Supreme Commander Malcolm. The soldier’s apartment was now but a blaze, an endlessly pleasing sight to the undercover Sith. Still, his work on Coruscant was not done yet.

In truth, he hated this world, so rife with corruption and two-faced politicians hiding behind pleasing smiles. Elected senators that stabbed the idiots that voted for them in the back. Such problems did not exist in the Empire. Malcolm’s death was a needed one, the man had been a thorn in the back of the Sith Empire for decades. It was only right he perished in such a final manner. From his vantage point across from the now wrecked apartment, the Sith watched through macrobinoculars. His hood was raised over his head, long hair tied firmly in a tight ponytail. As he scanned around, his eyes through the macrobinoculars caught sight of an armor clad man, in another living room far below the one he had fallen from.

Damn it.

Zes’ hands clenched tightly at the sight of the Supreme Commander of the Republic military alive and breathing. Not a smouldering corpse melted into the ground. The fool was tough, he had to give him that. But that wasn’t his only trick today. The Sith assassin’s visit to this decadent world was not as simple as that. He watched from his perched position far above Malcolm, taking notes of the panicking crowds of people in the urban streets. Their screams sounded like the most pleasant of music to him. The lights of the grand city shined in his view as he flicked another switch on his wrist, igniting another set of explosives. In a building adjacent to Malcolm’s apartment, he’d level the entire complex if he had to. If it meant sending the message he had been told to send.

The secondary explosion passed in shockwave form across to Jace’s new perch in the lower portion of the building, but his armour easily dampened the impact on his person. This meant little to the Supreme Commander as he watched yet another building become partially engulfed in flame. Wordlessly, he turned his vision towards the surrounding buildings, the automated systems already scanning for further incoming threats, picking out anything that might be deemed unusual from the chaos gathering all round him.

There

What appeared to be a drifter, watching the destruction through macrobinoculars, either part of the effort of someone with a particularly morbid fascination. Jace was willing to take the risk.

“Republic Forces, patching through a location and identity now. Consider them an active target. I want them brought in alive.” His voice resounded across his communications system, what with only a pistol, he had little chance of striking a blow from this range, but he could still begin to coordinate efforts.

Just another day at the office.

[ASOIAF]: Before the Dragons Danced

Rather than have you all waiting around, I have posted up an IC so we can kick things off. Any characters that have been designed with the intention of being involved in the Step Stones may presume (if they wish) to be aboard the Sea Snake, to take part in the upcoming attack on a pirate stronghold. Likewise, politically focused characters, feel free to be in King's Landing for the politics/merriment of the upcoming tourney.

I'm sure it will all go smoothly.

[ASOIAF]: Before the Dragons Danced

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The Stepstones

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I am getting too old for this.

It was hardly a rare thought for Corlys Velaryon, he'd had the thought more often than not for something akin to the last twenty years. This was a particularly strong moment, for such an argument, however. The surprisingly spry man of almost sixty years rolled to avoid a blade meant for him, rising up to skewer the pirate along his own blade in turn. With a grunt that was more impatience than any real effort, he kicked his foe away, freeing his blade.

The war on the Stepstones had always been a gruelling, close fought, affair. Naval conflict was defined by a lot of waiting and then sudden bursts of visceral, inescapable violence. The winding claustrophobic nature of these rocky islands greatly increased the amount of the latter. Where on the open sea you might have hours of preparation, bombardments, opportunities to surrender or escape, among the Stepstones galleys could almost stumble into each other. A captain would rarely risk an engagement with a clearly superior ship or force, there was little room for survival once combat began, but here where the window was so small, it was fight or die. This did not even necessarily benefit the stronger party, a gruelling melee was a gruelling melee for both sides, as trapped men fought like demons for the slim chance they might prove successful enough to escape.

The Westerosi had one major advantage. They had a dragon. Not only did the dragon bring fire and death from on high, it gave them a scout like no other, even in the winding maze of small rocky islands, they could see when their enemy could not. But Daemon could not be everywhere. Unlike some of the Westerosi captains, Corlys had refused to grow accustomed to the advantage. Thank the Seven that he had not, for the Sea Snake was now entangled with a Myrish vessel of similar size, with no sign of support from the rest of Daemon's forces.

Corlys parried another strike from a new foe, the force shuddering through his arm. He could practically feel his bones creak, but still he pressed on, matching the Sellsword that had swung himself aboard the Sea Snake with a speed that many younger men would be envious of. Corlys Velaryon was dressed as a noble lord of the Seven Kingdoms, his armour, while deliberately lighter than a true set of plate, was heavily stylised in the imagery of his house. It was not his preference, but to the men of Westeros unaccustomed to the nobility looking 'alike' with the men, it gave them something to remain grounded with. The blade he used, likewise, possessed a hilt crafted in the form of two seahorses rampant, the blade as finely crafted as any not made from Valyrian steel. His appearance was undoubtedly noble, and that gave him the element of surprise when he fought like a sailor. His foe matched him blade strike for blade strike, but ultimately did not anticipate the punch to the stomach that staggered and winded him. Before the sellsword could recover, Corlys had buried his blade through the man's neck. The Lord of Tides heaved his foe overboard, down into the waters below. If they weren't there already, the infamous sharks of the Stepstones would shortly be among the froth surrounding the embattled vessels.

The crew of the Sea Snake was a varied bunch, to say the least. It always had been, that was the way Corlys had forged it, a variety of experiences and expertise, but now, more than ever, it was eclectic. The large ship carried a full contingent of Daemon's forces, drawn from Westeros mercenaries and nobility. They were equipped more for fighting on the islands themselves than aboard the ship, and while some had lightened their armour and arms, many had not. While he wouldn't expect much for their chances should they be cast overboard, the unusual stopping power of fully armoured knights at sea, was certainly giving the Myrish pause. More than Westerosi supported Daemon, or had been hired with the wealth of House Velaryon, however. Sellswords, sailors and pirates from across the known world filled Daemon's forces, and, as the de-facto flagship of his fleet, the Sea Snake housed many of them. Many of their commanders, even those with their own ships, were aboard this day, as the Sea Snake sought out one of the piratical strongholds still loyal to the Three Daughters. Each wanted a claim of the loot. Corlys would just be happy to see the day done.

When another Myrish sellsword cried out in his own tongue, swinging over to challenge Corlys, the older man could do little more than groan, readying his blade again.

"Come on then, before the Seven take me standing here."

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King's Landing

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Preparations were well underway for the latest of King Viserys great celebrations. No doubt yet another futile attempt to mend the building divide within the royal family, but it was an effort at least the smallfolk and traders of the city appreciated. King's Landing had grown prosperous and more populous than it had ever been under the current King's reign, but this was never more true than when a tournament of note was planned. A tent city, some might say almost as large as the permanent one, sprawled outside the city walls, extending well into the city's uneven hinterland. The inns and brothels that King's Landing was almost 'most' famous for were filled to capacity and then some. The stench of Flea Bottom was never worse, although the influx of traders in the cities richer quarters, bringing all sorts of exotic smells with them, almost counteracted it for the wealthier inhabitants.

The mood of the city was generally positive, although cramped confines, free-flowing alcohol and the promise of the violent spectacle of the tourney invariably lead to an uptake in violence and crime. If Daemon Targaryen had left King's Landing with one positive before his exile, it was the Goldcloaks, who were at least able to keep a semblance of order thanks for the efforts of the King's brother in turning them into something other than a laughing stock.

Violence among the peasantry was hardly the greatest fear of the gentry, however. Many had noted the growing rift among the royals. At first, an increasing number of noble houses had maintained manses within the city simply to benefit from the produce of a peaceful realm, and to seek the able, if jovial, King's favour. Now, more and more remained within the capital to seek favour with either side, knowing that, however this conflict might be resolved, being 'friends' with the winner would certainly secure some boon in the future. At least it brought greater wealth and attention to the tourney.

[Jedi] Tython

Ezekiel and Ruby

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A Family Reunion

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The Starshine came out of hyperspace and was immediately hailed. They didn't need to be. Deep down Satele Shan knew the message that was about to be relayed, even if she had yet to hear the exact words used to compose the message. And when the message came she still couldn't say she heard every word enough to be able to repeat the message, but there was no ever forgetting the tone of the voice that carried the message across the vacuum of space between the Republic space station over Tython and the Starshine herself.

There was fear. And it made Satele smile.

"They're anxious. Good."

Tython wasn't Coruscant. It wasn't a safe Republic world. If you wanted to thrive on the planet of Tython, you needed to be a Force Sensitive that was as smart as you were a survivalist. Whatever reason the Force called her to Tython in the first place, it felt to Satele Shan as if the soft underbelly of the Jedi Order could use some toughening up. The actual message? "Master Shan, welcome back, the Jedi Council requests your presence at the Jedi Temple. The planet is in Threat Condition 3. The Council believes a Dark Side user has made their way to the planet's surface."

"Dark Side user?"

Brye asked the obvious question. Satele didn't see a Sith fleet outside the Starshine. "Tython does more than call to Jedi, Brye. The Force may have led me to the planet, but I knew eventually someone in the Dark Side would want to step foot on the planet, to see where we all come from. Let us hope this Dark Side user doesn't have a single clue about what's hidden and lost to time on our new home." That, Satele told herself, would be most upsetting.

"We'll get to the Orbital Station and then you can head down to Tython," as much as she felt Tython and it's maelstrom, she believed in her fellow Jedi's capacity to deal with it. To not lean on her. If nothing else she knew Kyla would be at the front and center of it. Kyla didn't need her on the ground getting in the way. How many times had Kyla told her to shut up and sit down like a Grand Master is supposed to? Satele had lost count.

The Orbital Station had her focus for now. Jace was there. She could feel his presence like a current of warm air across a frigid expanse. Inviting, disarming, and comforting. Naturally the sensation made every mental and emotional defense Satele had instantly rise to full alert. That connection and it's anxiety aside, there was another presence that Satele felt. A connection that she never stopped feeling, even if he had turned his back on it in the anger of immaturity from youth. That's what Satele typically blamed it on, at least. Are you even ready for this kind of truth?

"Whew."

Satele's head turned slowly after the sound and sigh, her eyes finding Brye blinking at her. "Nevermind," her brows furrowed, her tone turning stricter and more the Master to the Padawan than usual, "make sure you dock the ship correctly and clean up your bunk area this time. Not sure how long we'll be planetside this time." To the Padawan's credit she simply narrowed her eyes at Satele and moved out of the cockpit. Small mercies. Satele couldn't explain her emotions right now. What they had found in Revan's vault had been one revelation after another. There was enough information for her to chase down leads for years.

To say nothing of all the armor and war droids Grim and Roana had gotten their hands on.

And yet...as the Starshine began it's final approach to the Orbital Station amidst a sea of Jedi starfighters and the Republic fleet stationed around the Station the Jedi Grand Master just stared into space. Even as the Starshine noisly came into docking position and was secured by the Station itself, Satele still wasn't sure if she was ready to step out of the ship and onto that docking ring or not. When she did it was as if she was floating out of the ship. A heavy sigh of relief left her body the moment she stepped off the Starshine and did not see Jace.

Smart. Let me approach.

Not that it took her long to find. The Supreme Commander of Republic Forces was in the Ops Center of the Station, a hive of Republic activity. Most of it freaking out about the high alert called for Tython, and the poor non Force Sensitives trying to come to terms with what was happening. One young human officer with brown hair, freckles, and thin features was trying to explain the weather situation on Tython to Jace. The rapidly deteriorating weather situation, the officer called it. It was a trigger that stepped Satele Shan forward, the Jedi Grand Master announcing her presence with a correction: "It's not just the weather, Lieutenant, it's the presence of a Dark Side force user. Not Sith," the last two words spoken with the kind of tone that made it clear it was knowledge given to her by some of that Jedi mysticism, not hard intelligence a Republic officer could analyze and convey.

She didn't blame him for frowning at it, but Satele was already looking up at the man who had been standing over the young Lieutenant's station in Ops. Bright eyed and apprehensive, Satele nodded, not really knowing what else to do. "Supreme Commander."

Some commanders were the eye of the storm, the calming influence at the heart of things, no matter what chaos was around them, a whirling hurricane of underlings and reports around them, but stoic in their nature. Jace was not. Even like this, at the nerve centre of the station, standing mostly still while receiving reports, Jace was as much a part of the action as anyone. Havoc Squad had not been named such for their cool heads. His mind raced to take in every detail, assign it a proper place, make each incoming report a part of the solution. His eyes took on an ‘almost’ manic quality when like this when the man who had born for action was forced to respond rather than take to the fight himself. He’d never forgive whichever corrupt politician had landed him the role as Supreme Commander.
There was one presence which managed to break through the intensity of his focus and desire for action. He lacked force sensitivity of his own, but there were some beings you could ‘feel’ when they did not wish to hide from you. He’d met, and slain, plenty of Sith like that. Fewer Jedi, but one he had more experience with than any other. It was impossible to not feel her approach and the memories not to return, some painful, many not, all rushing together at once. Even as they had grown older and their bond reforged, they had never spent enough time together to make it ‘normal.’ Some part of him hoped it never would be.

“Grandmaster.” He just about managed her formal title, but when he finally allowed himself to note her approach, not wishing to drop his countless trains of thought until he had preserved them for later, he almost lost it. Once, Jace Malcom could have been considered handsome, in fact, age had done little to harm such a thing, certainly a face that would have graduated into the territory of those men who benefit from a little salt and peppering. The war had changed that, the scars which dominated a full half of his face distorted his appearance. They might never have been fixed fully, but certainly, more could have been done at the time, but it had been war, and Captain Jace Malcom could not justify the expense when more were dying around him. Satele, on the other hand, looked almost the same as when they had first met, true, some of the youthful determination had been replaced with wisdom, and battle hard marked her in odd places, but it was like looking back through time. She could have been the very same girl leaping into battle from the forests of Alderaan.

There were a few other memories from Alderaan as well that surfaced at the sight of her, but he buried those for now, instead turning his attention to the Lieutenant. Recent developments within the Republic and its military had fostered a certain distrust for the Jedi as a whole, and he was not surprised to note the man’s incredulous nature. He had been in that position before.

“Factor that into the report, get to it, Lieutenant,” Jace spoke briskly, before taking a step away from the station, allowing them a few steps of space, which, given the general preoccupied nature of everyone currently around them, was about as much privacy as they had ever hoped for.

“Satele.” It always felt better to say her name. Even his usual matter-of-fact tone crumbled into emotion at that, and the half of his face not partially slowed by its own scarring turned up into a small smile.

He was, as always, too focused on his current objective--or in this case his current focus. Satele cleared her throat quietly, slipped an arm around his nearest arm to her, and proceeding to walk out of the Ops Center with him. They were paying attention, she could tell, and it wasn’t something she could blame them for either: even Jedi would eavesdrop if two Masters just happened to be having a chat a few feet away.

This was even different. This was the Republic Supreme Commander and the Jedi Grand Master having a chat. Satele couldn’t think of anyone, be it Republic, Jedi, Sith, Hutt, anyone, that wouldn’t want to be a fly on THAT wall. And as long as Satele had waited for this moment...she wasn’t about to share it.

“You know, Grand Master is an honorific that is unnecessary. You can just as correctly address me as Master Shan, Jedi Master, Master Jedi…” Her voice trailed as her blue eyes slowly snuck up the height of him to get a peek at his face. When she found his eyes already waiting for the stolen glance, her lips broke out in the tiny smirk.

She’d just been teasing him. Like old times. Then the smirk died almost immediately, as the presence came from the back of her mind to the forefront. She didn’t just step out of the room on Jace’s arm aimlessly. She knew where she was going, she knew where was headed, obvious when she just kept walking out the door and turned to the right, headed somewhere.

“My Padawan and I made it to Dxun. Nasty little jungle moon. I went to ask Grim--you remember Grim, the Mandalorian that fought those Neo-Crusaders who’d gone mad on Rhen Var? I mean, I know you and I remember Rhen Var very differently, but…”

Her lips grinned for only a few beats of her heart. “I went to meet Grim, to get some understanding of the internal politics of the Mandalorians.” She didn’t need to look up to feel the look he was giving her. A look that made her snort in defiance. “I know, I know, but I trusted Grim. Whenever he tried to kill me, he didn’t hide it. And when he tried to help me, he never let me forget it. It worked. It turns out...do you remember when I forwarded that warning the Sith Empire sent to me about a clan of Sith that worshipped Darth Revan as some sort of Force God?”

She felt him tense. Mainly because his arm was so unusually large for a human, his muscles so...big, and when he tensed they just bulged and…Focus, Satele. Another small clearing of her throat, and Satele remembered what she was talking about. “Revanites, they call themselves. They found out about our trip. They got to Grim’s clan and told them if they delivered me to them, that they would give the location of some ancient vault of Revan’s that they were just certain had Mandalorian armor in it.”

Satele pulled on the giant man’s arm to get him to turn left. Of course she had to use the Force to even budge the hulking commando. No wonder he had been able to push Malgus back so far. But after Jace got a little smirk from making her use the Force to budge him, he just went willingly.

He liked teasing her right back. Satele pretended not to notice. “I can’t remember, ten Sith? Plus Mandalorians? We found Grim on the road to his village, some Revanite Sith had been chasing him...he came to warn me. Broke his leg when they tossed him from the speeder. Padawan and I dealt with the Sith on the road, but the ten or so Sith and the Mandalorians waiting for us at his village...I made the Padawan return to the ship and wait for me. I was able to turn the Mandalorians by pointing out any vault of Revan would need me to open it, most likely, if the Revanites wanted me that badly. I promised to give them anything of theirs I found in any vault. So we fought the Sith, I killed so many, Jace. I’ve done it before...but the moment they said his name…”

This time, even Jace would feel a squeeze from Satele’s arm. That NAME. That name always, always caused a reaction in her. And it was never good. “Revan. I stopped trying to preserve life, I was just killing so they didn’t kill me. I’m so tired of the darkness that name invokes…”

She sighed, but the story had to continue, “I got the location of the vault from the leader of the Revanites. My Padawan was taken by a Sith Imperial hunting the Revanites, it seemed, back at my ship. So I broke off with the Revanites and ran. I’ve never moved that fast before.”

She stopped in her tracks and tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. “Not even on Alderaan. I was too late, so I told the Mandalorians to help me get my Padawan back or the deal was off. Not very Jedi, but Grim seemed amused by the ruthless negotiation tactic. It’s never good making Grim happy. We got the Padawan back...Grim said if I didn’t become Revan that the Republic was lost. That without me going to that place, the Republic couldn’t beat the Sith Empire.”

Her eyes fell from his. She sighed again, and shrugged, sadly, before looking back to his pretty eyes. “We went to the Vault, Jace. It was real. What I saw, what I learned….not to mention the amount of Mandalorian armour, and their DROIDS. Grim and Roana, the one who had convinced the rest of the clan to break with his leadership in the first place, they both agreed to take what they could and tell every Mandalorian they knew who did this for them. And who could open the vault to get the rest of it out...there was A LOT. When had he been on Manaan for that long? On the bottom of that ocean? You’re not even legally allowed DOWN THERE, how did he…? Anyway.”

She’d been talking fast. Fast as he’d ever heard her talk. But there was a lot to tell, and she was more nervous than she’d been in she couldn’t remember how long. Afterall their son was on the other side of the door she stopped at, in the conference room it led to, and she was about to have to introduce them.

“I missed you.”

“You need people around you that aren’t Mandalorians talking to you about Revan.” Jace could keep up with her even at the worst of times, not that he ever matched her pace, but as fast as she was putting out information, he was taking it in. Still, when he finally got a word in, that was what he spoke to her. “They’re a broken people that still can’t believe they lost their last great attempt at bringing down the Republic, of course, they worship your ancestor that lead that fight, rather than admit the Republic and the Jedi defeated them.” Despite the fact much of Havoc Squad’s particular skill-set and Sith-hunting equipment had been modelled of the Mandalorians, Jace’s view of them, particularly their almost cult-like beliefs, sat poorly with the man. Just another group of murderers that wished to bring down the Republic.

Jace had always known that the Jedi were complicated, mystical in a way that seemed at odds with the rest of the Republic. He’d, of course, endured a crash course in this when he’d made the hopeless ‘descsion’ to fall for someone tied to the bloodline of Revan. For years he had hoped she might finally take up the mantle in full, that they might take the fight to the Sith Empire and finally win the war, but now that she felt pressed to do so, he couldn’t bring himself to feel any sense of victory in this. “You might be Revan’s ‘heir’ or whatever it is they’re calling you now, but you’re also Satele Shan, don’t let others, even if they’re long dead, decide how you do this.”

As her tone finally slowed, and she turned to him, he resisted perhaps a full moment, before his arms wrapped around her. She had always felt small in his arms, almost delicate. Hard to believe, if he hadn’t seen it himself, the amount of power contained within her frame. He pulled her into the embrace, one arm around her back, the other hand sitting just below her waist, and she was entirely engulfed in him. For just a moment, his lips brushed over her’s, and he murmured

“I missed you t-”

Then the door opened

…

Theron didn’t like this.

He didn’t like being back near Tython, what was worse, was being stranded above it. He knew the Order feared what would happen if he was brought back to the planet, as they feared whatever happened when those without the force interacted with Tython’s unique connection to the force. Nevermind he had been there before, lived among them.

The truth of it was, Theron had fooled them all. Even his mother, that, or she had simply allowed the lie to persist. It was true, he wasn’t force sensitive in the sense that the Jedi would traditionally evaluate, but nor was he the first of his bloodline to lack any kind of touch with the Force. He could feel and observe it in ways that he had found unlike both those with no ability and the Jedi and Sith he had encountered. Tython didn’t react to him because he was ‘nothing’ in the force, not lacking in sensitivity, but a blank observer, no ability to manipulate it himself but not blind either.

He had been told to wait, but he’d barely followed instructions when he had been inclined to do so by order protocol, let alone now. He had ‘behaved’ thus far out of some lasting respect and care for Master Zho, the closest he’d had to any true parent. Patience was a virtue he didn’t feel like exhibiting right now.

He paced about the room for a few further minutes, regarding his surroundings. As far as prisons went, he’d had worse. Already he had been in training for the Republic SIS and a year’s worth of that alone had him used to circumstance well beyond the realm of comfort. Still, it wasn’t a great feeling. Several times he stepped before the exit, testing to see if the automatic entryway would respond to his motion. Each time it did not.

There were no perceptible signs of his surveillance, but that didn’t mean there weren’t eyes on him. His own feeling, however, was that despite his clear position as someone ‘somebody’ important wished to see, that the Station had more important things going on to keep him under constant attention, so long as he was fast. His hands stroked over the wall until he found the almost imperceptible indent of a panel. It didn’t take long to improvise the tools required from his surroundings and what he had been left with, prying open the wall to look at the circuitry beneath. Now it was just a matter of trial and error.

A few minutes and a fair few shocks later, and he finally had it. Theron paused to take account of what he was doing. He had been placed here by the order, but he was on a Republic station. What amounted to no small amount of vandalism might jeopardise the nineteen-year-old’s current position the SIS program. His thoughts kept coming back to that first point though. The Order had put him here. He was done with taking orders from Jedi.

There was a final charged jolt of electrical current before the doors finally slid open.

On the other side was his mother.

And a man.

The man was Supreme Commander Malcom.

The usually active Theron could only stand there as Jace rather rapidly turned to face the sudden arrival, standing in the sabotaged doorway. The pair looked at each other for what felt like an eternity but was probably little more than a moment.

Theron resembled Satele. There was no getting around it, to the point people who had no idea of his heritage had commented on it as if he were some sort of Celebrity Lookalike. Obviously, age had lessened the effect, but it was still there. There was one exception, his eyes. Theron’s eyes were a brown so bright they were almost closer to yellow. It had been perceived as something of a bad omen from the notoriously superstitious Jedi. After all, yellow eyes were a mark of the Sith, and Satele’s eyes were a crisp light blue. A ‘true’ Jedi colour if there ever was one.

Jace’s features had little in common with Theron. He was shaped and built in a manner that humans had once seen as ‘island’ peoples, strong, with a dark tan and almost boxy. As Theron looked him in the eye though, the same yellow-brown gaze met his own.

Maybe it was purely shock, maybe it was partly due to the literal shocks he had just experienced, but Theron collapsed.

…

Jace was moving before the young man could hit the ground, arms reaching out before Theron could strike the metal surface, pulling him into an embrace that was, for the moment, purely to prevent any damage.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you son.” It was a phrase Jace had spoken many times before, and as he spoke it, it began without any deeper meaning. It was the tone with which he had addressed many a struggling trooper, be they in training or injured on the field ‘Stand easy there, son.’ A tone of endearment but hardly a rare one. By the time he actually spoke the word, it meant more, the father slightly slower to come to the same conclusion, but still managing within the scope of a few moments.

Satele had told him some time before. It had broken them yet further at the time, another wedge of grief and pain. TIme hadn’t truly healed that wound, but understanding had been reached between them. A son they could have never raised, not fairly, not with the duties they both had. None of that mattered as Jace held him for the first time. His entire galaxy, for just a moment, became that broken doorway and the teenager that hadn’t quite managed to keep his cool.

It lasted for a longer space of time than either of them would have anticipated, even after Theron returned to his wits. Slowly they stood, and by the time they were back on their feet, they broke off the physical proximity. The years of separation came flooding back. Theron’s attention turned to his mother.

“Not bad, Mother, I always thought the nerfherder theory was a little unlikely.”

Satele Shan stared. What she felt inside was going to stay inside, locked away and frozen behind a facade of Jedi stoicism. Deep she was glad they both knew, but she was also endlessly sad about it. About how this branch of life grew and twisted in directions she had never hoped for. Life had a funny way of doing what it wanted, and how it wanted.

Not even the blood of Revan could stop that.

She waited until they both had a moment to process before she ensured the door behind them was locked. “Revan is alive. I heard him, I felt him. I don’t know how or where, but what he gave me was a warning about the Sith Emperor. Right now my theory is that he went to find that dark mysterious force and found the Emperor and the Sith long before they returned to plague the Galaxy again. I will need help find out for sure.”

Theron watched as understanding dawned over Jace, and immediately understood how his bond with his mother made sense. He took in that information, the information that Satele had not gathered them out of the desire to finally have father and son meet, but instead that she had a purpose for them both. He took in that information and was immediately thinking, planning. He watched the strategy drown out the pain which flooded in.

He, the son who had spent his entire life dealing with such feelings and let downs, was not so quick to let it slide. His eyes watched Satele with exasperation, waiting for there to be more, even if he already knew there was not.

“I’m going to guess there’s some sort of biological lock on most of these things, so, you need a fellow ‘blood of Revan’ to investigate just in case they come up against one of those.” Theron spoke with naked contempt. “Jedi and their prophecies, maybe one day you’ll do something without it having been written down for you, or whispered to you in a dream. You know what the rest of us do when that happens? We wake up.” Theron could feel Jace tensing across from him. He didn’t envy the man’s position, but he also wasn’t entirely sympathetic. In one way or another, both of the people in this room had abandoned him to his life. They’d had more important things to deal with than their own son.

“What is it you need, Satele, so I can get off this station and start doing it?” There was no ‘mother’ now, she’d had her moment, and she’d blown it.

“Grow up.”

The tone came like a lightsaber ignition in darkness; sudden, startling, and with vicious intent. When she turned her head to follow her words to her son, they were large. They were angrier than he’d ever seen them.

“Or did you not spend enough time in the Order to understand the threat of attachment? Would you just like to see me fall to the Dark Side so you could see the death of the Galactic Republic? You’ll have to forgive my sudden loss of patience, SON, I had assumed when you enlisted to serve the Republic you were actually ready to serve something more than yourself. We are losing this war.”

She said it as if the war never ended, and it was precisely how she saw it, it was only a matter of time in her heart and mind until the fighting started again and the Republic desperately needed to find a way to turn the tide. And she just kept going, louder.

“We will die, Theron. We will all of us DIE. Do you understand that? Does that that register? DO YOU GET IT?!”
The wave of anger washed over Theron. It was difficult to ‘not’ be intimidated by Satele Shan when she was like this. He corrected the thought, that would imply it was a common sight. That, in turn, implied it was at all common for him to have seen her at all. For all he knew, she snapped like this every other week. Somehow, he doubted that. He felt her anger more than he saw it, but, as much as it took him a moment to recover, he’d dealt with the galaxy for long enough to not let it hold him in silence.

“Do you hear yourself, mother? You truly believe that your fall would mean so much that the Republic would fall? You’ve been spending too much time with cultists.” Theron’s voice was quiet in the face of her anger, but he was no less enraged then her. “Yes, you are correct, I serve the Republic. Not you.”

Jace, on the other hand, was both physically, and metaphorically, stuck between two people he’d really rather not have been at each other’s throats less than a few minutes after their conversation had begun. He’d avoided envisioning how this might have gone down, he’d known it would never have been an entirely happy moment, but it stung all the same. Eventually he decided to try and take a few steps towards the quieter of the two, approaching Theron before he could carry on down this path of conflict, but instead, his son’s eyes merely turned to him.

“Do not, do not try and father me now.” Theron snapped, and something of his mother’s overt rage bled into his cold tone. “You could have tried harder. I know she didn’t tell you, but you could have ‘tried’ … You don’t get to try now. You let her throw me away because of a bad dream.” Theron’s voice quivered as he finished his words, taking a few steps away from Jace. He saw the hurt flash through the giant man’s stony features, but for now, he didn’t care. A moment later and Theron had turned, heading for the door.

“I think I’ll skip the invite on the next family reunion… Send me the information, I’ll be on it as soon as they let me off this damn station.”

[ASOIAF]: Before the Dragons Danced

We're all a little busy running PW stuff but I shall have a couple of my own sheets up shortly and then we'll be ready to kick things off. No rush for those still working on sheets as the RP won't close at launch.

[ASOIAF]: Before the Dragons Danced

I'm not deeply attached to the name, so I'm fine with keeping it or changing it as desired. I thought it would be amusing and possibly cause some drama with Targaryens and others of Valyrian ancestry who don't like the idea of a bastard having such a name. The IC justification I had in mind in case another character asked him about it was that his mother, a commoner who was born and raised on Dragonstone, didn't really know any better and gave him a Valyrian-sounding name because of his appearance. She could have just as easily named him after some family member though, so there's no reason his name has to be something that would fit on a Targaryen.

@Jorick

That's fine for me, just wanted to clarify it would be deemed as odd ICly.

[ASOIAF]: Before the Dragons Danced

As we've (privately) discussed though, it could actually be an interesting part of the character that leads to him having a bit of drama at court.