Salamander
Writer
Location: Tintagel, Cophrigin V
Wearing: Messala's ring
Cophrigin had “never been a planet of much note”, to quote the imperial records. The habitable world’s domination by the Sith Empire had been overshadowed by the invasion of nearby New Alderaan, which was considered of far greater importance by the Imperial war machine. Still, the lush garden world had harbored some secrets and intrigue. Rebels had hid in the forests, and a Jedi had sought to protect the legacy of the “Dark Woman” who had gone into exile on the planet centuries ago, only to be defeated and captured by the Lady of Secrets, Taeli Raaf.
Now it held the private residence of Arrius Messala, the Lord of Doubt.
It was early morning on Cophrigin, and the garden world was still shrouded in darkness. Cloaked in shadows, the abode of the Sith Lord looked quite unreal. A scraggly techno-castle topped by an enormous crescent-shaped structure, it both imitated and clutched at the moon, as though harboring ambitions of dethroning the pale satellite and assuming its place in the night sky.
The peace and quiet was disturbed by the arrival of a starship. Having called in ahead of time to announce its arrival, no weapons trained upon the vessel or tried to impede it as it alighted on the large landing pad, rustling the leaves on the trees at the edge of the clearing.
Upon arrival, the visitor was greeted not by servants or workers (or armed guards, for that matter), but by the lone figure of Messala himself approaching across the field. The Half-Bothan was known for keeping his appearance obscured on the few occasions he appeared in public, and at this distance he remained indistinct. But the closer he came, more of him was revealed. The distinct gait of his equine legs as he made his way across the uneven grassy ground; the hunching of his back, exaggerated by his stiff posture with his hands thrust in his pockets as he walked.
At last, he reached the landing pad and took a single step onto the platform. Not only was his head uncustomarily uncovered, he had obviously come directly from his bed—treating his guest to the rather comical sight of an old faun wearing a bathrobe over a pair of striped pajamas.
“You arrived earlier than expected,” he said. “Everyone else is still asleep. But no matter. Welcome, Councilor Vandiir, to my home.”
AMCO
Wearing: Messala's ring
~~~
Cophrigin had “never been a planet of much note”, to quote the imperial records. The habitable world’s domination by the Sith Empire had been overshadowed by the invasion of nearby New Alderaan, which was considered of far greater importance by the Imperial war machine. Still, the lush garden world had harbored some secrets and intrigue. Rebels had hid in the forests, and a Jedi had sought to protect the legacy of the “Dark Woman” who had gone into exile on the planet centuries ago, only to be defeated and captured by the Lady of Secrets, Taeli Raaf.
Now it held the private residence of Arrius Messala, the Lord of Doubt.
It was early morning on Cophrigin, and the garden world was still shrouded in darkness. Cloaked in shadows, the abode of the Sith Lord looked quite unreal. A scraggly techno-castle topped by an enormous crescent-shaped structure, it both imitated and clutched at the moon, as though harboring ambitions of dethroning the pale satellite and assuming its place in the night sky.
The peace and quiet was disturbed by the arrival of a starship. Having called in ahead of time to announce its arrival, no weapons trained upon the vessel or tried to impede it as it alighted on the large landing pad, rustling the leaves on the trees at the edge of the clearing.
Upon arrival, the visitor was greeted not by servants or workers (or armed guards, for that matter), but by the lone figure of Messala himself approaching across the field. The Half-Bothan was known for keeping his appearance obscured on the few occasions he appeared in public, and at this distance he remained indistinct. But the closer he came, more of him was revealed. The distinct gait of his equine legs as he made his way across the uneven grassy ground; the hunching of his back, exaggerated by his stiff posture with his hands thrust in his pockets as he walked.
At last, he reached the landing pad and took a single step onto the platform. Not only was his head uncustomarily uncovered, he had obviously come directly from his bed—treating his guest to the rather comical sight of an old faun wearing a bathrobe over a pair of striped pajamas.
“You arrived earlier than expected,” he said. “Everyone else is still asleep. But no matter. Welcome, Councilor Vandiir, to my home.”
AMCO
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