![]() Attaches and advisors stood slightly behind and to the side of their superiors, with all under the watchful eye of crimson imperial guards and the darkly clothed visored cadets of headmaster Gentis. ![]() He sat on one of eight prominent seats situated around a round durasteel table shaped like the spoked Galactic Roundel, otherwise known as the Republic Crest. It couldn't be helped, even the warmest expression looked oddly strained and sinister when touched by Byss' teal shadows. Tarkin took stock of the odd menagerie of guests before him, forcing his forced smile not to appear too much like a sneer. In times like this however they were like methane ice, and a single spark could set them alight. His eyes could be chilled and distant when required the result of a special kind of military discipline that demanded steadfastness even in the face of superiors or choices that might repel lesser pedestrian sentimentalities. The vaunted Katana Fleet hanging in orbit over the eerie blue green tinged planet had just upended the status quo of the Clone Wars, and by the look on Moff Tarkin's face, its Imperial masters wished to gloat. Now it played host to refugees, ambassadors and the biggest wildcard in galactic affairs since modifiers were added to sabaac. The fortress world of Bys had recently been a place of madness and failure.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |