Faction The Reckoning of Oleander Webb

[Gerwald Lechner]

TAG: Oleander Webb

Gerwald Lechner stood in the great hall of the Obsidian Spire, his silhouette bathed in the crimson glow of Kyber sconces. The air was thick with silence, but it was not empty. Power filled the chamber, curling in the corners like a waiting predator. He breathed it in, exhaling it slowly, measured. He was not alone. Those loyal to him were present with him as well. They would observe to give them a taste of what they could expect when their time came.

The Reckoning was more than tradition. It was a necessity.

Strength alone did not make one worthy. He had seen too many who thought otherwise, who mistook unchecked power for control. The Sith who followed him would be different. They would be tested, reforged, forced to prove they were more than just weapons wielded by the Force. This was the purpose of the Reckoning: to burn away weakness, to strip away illusion, to decide who would stand at his side and who would fall beneath his heel.

And now, it was Oleander Webb’s turn.

Gerwald’s gaze flicked toward the darkened entrance of the hall, his thoughts drifted back to another time, another life, before the Spire and before the Sith. They harkened back to when they had worn different colors, when the banner of the Confederacy still flew over their battlefields. The Knights Obsidian had been their order then. They were warriors forged in duty rather than ambition. He had been the Lord Commander, leader of their ranks. And Oleander Webb had been his Shadow.

Even then, Oleander had existed in the periphery, a specter moving between missions like a wraith. He had never sought the spotlight, never demanded recognition, but he had always been there. When Gerwald had given an order, Oleander had made sure it was carried out. When enemies threatened the Confederacy, Oleander had eliminated them before they even knew they were marked. His presence had been felt, even if it was unseen, silent, watchful, and efficient.

And yet, the Confederacy had fallen. The Knights Obsidian had crumbled. The names and banners they once swore to meant nothing to the galaxy now.

But some bonds, some roles, had endured.

Srina Talon was still a commanding presence in the galaxy. Gerwald had risen from the ashes, and Oleander had remained in his orbit, lurking in the darkness, watching, waiting, and serving. But for how long?

Lifting a gauntleted hand, Gerwald reached through the Force, his command stretching outward like a clawed hand grasping at the void. The Spire trembled in response, the air growing colder, thick with the weight of what was to come.

<< “Oleander Webb,” >> he broadcasted mentally. << “Come.” >>

The summons was given.

His Reckoning awaited.

 

[Oleander Webb]

Gerwald Lechner

The general moans and groans of pain that filled the interrogation chambers had long since faded from the furthest corner. Words had been traded for strained silence with the occasional wet slurp.

The last of those who had been apprehended on Susevfi had been determined not to break under the pressures the Sith torturers had brought to the table. Whoever had trained the poor fool should've been proud. It didn't matter in the end, though. Their fate was sealed the moment Oleander had received his assignment.

The body slumped back into its restraints heavily as the Anzat withdrew from his latest meal. His nose scrunched as the proboscis slid back into their hidden pouches, Oleander rolling his shoulders as he considered the information he pulled from the body in their final moments. It took a practiced effort to perse through such information over the euphoria of delectable consumption, rifling through the intricacies of thought and perception. The Sea of Memory had found a veritable well in the presence of Oleander, only encouraged under the employment of the wolf.

His brow furrowed when he reached for a datapad, annoyance tugging at his features as it's unlocking system refused to acknowledge his fingerprint. The woes of a body that gave off no heat. A minor inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless. Glaring at the piece of technology, he unlocked it via another method before busying himself with notating the final interrogation. Gerwald would be pleased. Or he'd deal with it. Oleander's care for the mission started and ended with the delivery of the datapad.

The summons came at just that moment, speak of the Wolf. The creases in Oleander's brow deepened. The full name was...odd. It also briefly crossed the Anzat's mind to point out that he wasn't the dog of the two of them. Yet the formality of the summons stilled his telepathic tongue. And so, once his notations were concluded, he turned his back on the interrogation chamber, datapad in hand.

Gerwald hadn't specified a location, nor had he needed to. Oleander could follow the flavor of the soup he once eagerly sought to consume. As he drew closer, he was once more given pause. Gerwald wasn't alone. How even more curious. Briefly, he considered circling the room, entering through a hidden entrance like the shadow he was. Yet with a report in hand and the vaguely serious summons, he thought against it.

A cool, clouded gaze drifted over those who filled the room with their presence, calculating threats and piecing together theories before his gaze settled on he who would call Death his apprentice. "Those of Susevfi have been dealt with," the datapad drifted from his fingers in the direction of the Dark Councilor. "You called?"

 

[Gerwald Lechner]

TAG: Oleander Webb

Susevfi. Gerwald was working on getting to the bottom of whether or not there was something deeper to the rebellion which had happened. It was not enough to have Quinn Varanin safe, nor was it enough to know that the city had burned for the transgressions of their people. The Dread wolf was tempted to ask more questions, but they could wait. Oleander would share it with him in time. The most pressing matter at hand was a promise which he needed to fulfill.

The Anzat had been a tool, and the Wolf had treated him as such for far too long. In his own right, Oleander had proven himself more than capable of being something other than the instrument Gerwald had made him out to be. It was time for the Dread Wolf to ensure the Anzat understood that he was seen as something more.

It started with gifting the agent his own ship. A small display of trust was something Gerwald hoped would go a long way. Gold eyes, corrupted by the dark side, washed over the Anzat and regarded the power which radiated from the monster. He had come by it in his own right, though the wolf would claim that he had a hand in it.

“I did.”

The answer to the question was simple, and followed by his own…

“Do you remember some time ago when I used you to test someone? Tell me… did you ever wish that it was you being recognized?”

It was a genuine question. Of all the things he had discussed with Oleander, his ambition had never been a topic they addressed.
Gerwald caught the datapad with a flick of his wrist, but he did not look at it. The details of the mission, of what Oleander had done, were secondary to the moment. The Reckoning had begun the moment the Anzat had stepped into the light.

And now, there was no turning back.

“It is time for your Reckoning.”

 

[Oleander Webb]

Gerwald Lechner

His skin prickled under the scrutiny of those gathered. A part of him had wondered if this was an attempted execution. Which was comical in its own right.

"I remember." A relic from another age, Oleander had been no stranger to being used for another's trial. Be it testing their combat prowess or mental fortitude, he'd seen plenty of Knights Obsidian attend to ascend the ranks.

He hadn't, however, considered his own trials.

"Given my occupation, recognition is a fickle mistress. The way we'd operated before, the less people knew of my existence, the better." That didn't answer Gerwald's question, not really. Their arrangement has been effective, the credits had been good, what more could he have asked for?

Perhaps there has been a part of him, towards the end especially, that had started to anticipate his own trial, or contemplate if by participating in so many he had disqualified himself from actually receiving one.

A snort of a chuckle reverberated in his chest and nose. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a while." His posture shifted, ever alert yet distinctly aware that the trial of combat was often first in the Reckoning.

"Very well, am I to fight you?"