- Location
- London, England
I will indeed be contacting players who have submitted character apps here for first refusal when I need to replace a Grand Moff or three.
-
For all readers and writers
After much ado, our new tagging system is here and being rolled out to the userbase. Read more here!
Dark Greetings (Star Wars GSRP)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
- Start date
- Pronouns
- It/Its
What about oversectors five and six? There's A few others untaken as wellAlrighty then, I've gone through the applications and made my choices.
My apologies to those who didn't get in, but I had more than thirty applications for a game where I was originally looking for maybe twelve, and while I have expanded that to fifteen (with five NPC Grand Moffs, in order to provide some space and punching bags), I still had to discard half the list at least.
Without further ado, our cast of Medium Quality EU Novel Villains is as follows:
Oversector 1 "Azure Hammer" - Grand Moff Palima Polevas @Mina
Oversector 2 "Green Mantle" - Grand Moff Kanne Yaxia @AKuz
Oversector 3 "Steel Blade" - Grand Moff Vitiion Korray @Carol
Oversector 4 "White Cuirass" - Grand Moff Alexandraghast Ludentii Arkwright Praji-Kuat @TenfoldShields
Oversector 7 "Golden Nyss" - Grand Moff Inderion Hargrad @EarthScorpion
Oversector 8 "Bright Jewel" - Grand Moff Murswungle Splott the First @Havocfett
Oversector 10 "Crimson Dagger" - Grand Moff Zsinj @Dekutulla
Oversector 11 "Blazing Claw" - Grand Moff Praises-the-Extinction-of-False-Doctrines Pafano @Gargulec
Oversector 12 "Cerulean Spear" - Grand Moff Tradum Gavax @BigBacon
Oversector 13 "Iron Lance" - Grand Moff Clem Shacklemorr @dash931
Oversector 14 "Red Tails" - Grand Moff Lorn Vree Taa @Wade Garrett
Oversector 17 "Chrome Shield" - Grand Moff Bif Krietten @bookwyrm
Oversector 18 "Night Hammer" - Grand Moff Carlo Vikal @NonSequtur
Oversector 19 "Dark Saber" - Grand Moff Vicious Malorax @Squidfam
Oversector 20 "Emerald Banner" - Grand Moff Byg Fauma @Doctor Elsewhere
I have decided to repurpose a discord I used for my previous games for this one, so I'll include a link below for those who aren't already on there:
Join the Dark Greetings Discord Server!
Check out the Dark Greetings community on Discord - hang out with 48 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.discord.gg
- Location
- London, England
I've assigned NPCs to a few spots, on the grounds that it means the workload for me is lower (since a full 20 players could get very messy) and because I think the game benefits from having people to beat up or sabotage without forming interpersonal drama in the player base.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's turn one and the galaxy is on fire thanks to Conil. Absolutely impressed already.
- Location
- London, England
Turn two has begun!
I've had a couple of players bow out so if you'd like to make a pitch, I need someone for Green Mantle Command (the one with Corellia), and having seen how the workload shakes out I am tentatively willing to accept pitches to replace NPCs if they happen to be particularly good.
I've had a couple of players bow out so if you'd like to make a pitch, I need someone for Green Mantle Command (the one with Corellia), and having seen how the workload shakes out I am tentatively willing to accept pitches to replace NPCs if they happen to be particularly good.
- Location
- an unseen void
- Pronouns
- Any
Grand Moff Liburnian Shrike
Preferred Sector: Green Mantle
tl;dr Extremely divorced, extremely middle-aged loser of an internal ISB power struggle is back on the block and he is going to show them. He is going to show all of them.
Liburnian Shrike made his career in the Imperial Security Bureau, a capable and diligent investigator who worked hard and kept himself out of trouble. Never idealistic, never messy - he liked order, mastery of tradecraft, and artful nonchalance. Time and political patronage drew him out of investigations focused on rebel activity into internal affairs, where he was an effective and increasingly vicious attack dog in intra-imperial squabbles. With a growing taste for monologues, performative cruelty, and the comforts of privilege, Shrike adapted enough to climb out of the ranks of function and into the opera of high station. But he was still, at heart, a man who believed that the world made sense, his career was unstoppable, he got what he deserved and what he got was good.
And then he lost.
Overnight a dossier of compromising failures and political overexposure took Shrike from a deputy director of one of the Empire's premier security services to a private citizen forced to retire to "spend more time with his family" - not that his wife waited more than a year before divorcing him and moving on to someone who seemed less like a beaten and increasingly intoxicated dog. He was still rich and powerful. He had decades of bribes, cuts, favors, and personal assets built up, most where neither his nemesis nor his ex-wife could reach them. But he wasn't part of the game anymore, and he found that the status symbols and gossipy insights he'd treated with such detached disdain suddenly mattered to him very much when they were gone.
He rebuilt himself as a model imperial capitalist. He picked on smaller fish and swallowed up their companies. He bought too many mansions and too many luxury vehicles. He got into nonprofits through old connections to COMPNOR and the realization it was an even funnier way to play power games, which spun out of control until he'd grown almost as hooked on archaeology and museums as he was on stimulants and chasing ill-advised marriage prospects.
Really there were too many crisis hobbies to list. The outcomes that really matter for us are these.
What's the point of secret human replica droids? You want people to know anyone could belong to you.
Preferred Sector: Green Mantle
tl;dr Extremely divorced, extremely middle-aged loser of an internal ISB power struggle is back on the block and he is going to show them. He is going to show all of them.
Liburnian Shrike made his career in the Imperial Security Bureau, a capable and diligent investigator who worked hard and kept himself out of trouble. Never idealistic, never messy - he liked order, mastery of tradecraft, and artful nonchalance. Time and political patronage drew him out of investigations focused on rebel activity into internal affairs, where he was an effective and increasingly vicious attack dog in intra-imperial squabbles. With a growing taste for monologues, performative cruelty, and the comforts of privilege, Shrike adapted enough to climb out of the ranks of function and into the opera of high station. But he was still, at heart, a man who believed that the world made sense, his career was unstoppable, he got what he deserved and what he got was good.
And then he lost.
Overnight a dossier of compromising failures and political overexposure took Shrike from a deputy director of one of the Empire's premier security services to a private citizen forced to retire to "spend more time with his family" - not that his wife waited more than a year before divorcing him and moving on to someone who seemed less like a beaten and increasingly intoxicated dog. He was still rich and powerful. He had decades of bribes, cuts, favors, and personal assets built up, most where neither his nemesis nor his ex-wife could reach them. But he wasn't part of the game anymore, and he found that the status symbols and gossipy insights he'd treated with such detached disdain suddenly mattered to him very much when they were gone.
He rebuilt himself as a model imperial capitalist. He picked on smaller fish and swallowed up their companies. He bought too many mansions and too many luxury vehicles. He got into nonprofits through old connections to COMPNOR and the realization it was an even funnier way to play power games, which spun out of control until he'd grown almost as hooked on archaeology and museums as he was on stimulants and chasing ill-advised marriage prospects.
Really there were too many crisis hobbies to list. The outcomes that really matter for us are these.
- Getting up close and personal with relics of the Clone Wars and even older times convinced him that the old "superstitions" about the force were totally legit, and that force-users had played a trick on the Empire by pretending to die out or be ineffectual when really they'd just moved into the shadows, victimizing everyone but really him in particular.
- One day he picked up an advanced robotics company and discovered, in their special projects division, a spectacular technology for revenge: human replica droids.
- His nemesis then very rudely died on the Death Star before Shrike could carry out that revenge, rendering him even more furious and desperate to prove himself but freed of his most powerful rival in the imperial establishment.
What's the point of secret human replica droids? You want people to know anyone could belong to you.
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
Grand Moff Zaviya-ten-Krif
Preferred sector: Shadow Hand
tl;dr: hard woman making hard decisions to become a Grand Moff and use the power of this position to enact a great plan to liberate galaxy from the tyranny of Fate, only she is about as soft as a soggy piece of tissue paper and at least 75% of what she does is trying to prove it to herself that the "in for a penny, in for a pound" principle applies to esoteric atrocities.
Imagine if you were the only one who understood that this it is not the Empire or the Alliance, but an endless cycle of Light and Dark that traps the Galaxy in its stasis and grinds generation after generation to dust. Imagine if you made a promise upon the ruin of everything you had ever held dear that you will break this prison called fate. Imagine if you sacrificed, bit by bit, your every principle, hope, and desire for the sake of this promise. Imagine if you climbed the ladder of atrocity all your life, never once looking down, and never once trying to wash your hands of all the blood that you chose to spill for the sake of the greater good still above you.
Imagine if someone had once asked you if this was all a really fucked up coping mechanism and you haven't recovered since.
Zaviya-ten-Krif is a savant scholar and a master manipulator. Zaviya-ten-Krif digs into histories that everyone else forgot, unearth secrets those with less drive would rather see remain buried, and rules her vast network of spies, doube-agents, and provocateurs from a secret space station orbiting a long-dead star. Zaviya-ten-Krif never refuses to get her hands dirty when her quest for necessary power demands it, and never smiles when blood flows and screams echo. Zaviya-ten-Krif was the doom of many a Jedi cult, and the secret mastermind behind many more. Zaviya-ten-Krif planned the fall of Grand Moff Tracta. Zaviya-ten-Krif has not slept in five days, and done enough triple-refined spice to see the shape of the universe sideways. Zavia-ten-Krif never turns the lights off because once she does, the voices return. Please, do not ask Zaviya-ten-Krif about the voices. Or the very loud sobbing regularly coming from her quarters. There are no regrets. There is no doubt. She follows the plan laid out in her little notebook because she chose to and if she was to stop now then it would all be for nothing, and all that death- fuck, all that death.
Zaviya-ten-Krif is a savant scholar and a master manipulator and she is absolutely not coping.
Preferred sector: Shadow Hand
tl;dr: hard woman making hard decisions to become a Grand Moff and use the power of this position to enact a great plan to liberate galaxy from the tyranny of Fate, only she is about as soft as a soggy piece of tissue paper and at least 75% of what she does is trying to prove it to herself that the "in for a penny, in for a pound" principle applies to esoteric atrocities.
Imagine if you were the only one who understood that this it is not the Empire or the Alliance, but an endless cycle of Light and Dark that traps the Galaxy in its stasis and grinds generation after generation to dust. Imagine if you made a promise upon the ruin of everything you had ever held dear that you will break this prison called fate. Imagine if you sacrificed, bit by bit, your every principle, hope, and desire for the sake of this promise. Imagine if you climbed the ladder of atrocity all your life, never once looking down, and never once trying to wash your hands of all the blood that you chose to spill for the sake of the greater good still above you.
Imagine if someone had once asked you if this was all a really fucked up coping mechanism and you haven't recovered since.
Zaviya-ten-Krif is a savant scholar and a master manipulator. Zaviya-ten-Krif digs into histories that everyone else forgot, unearth secrets those with less drive would rather see remain buried, and rules her vast network of spies, doube-agents, and provocateurs from a secret space station orbiting a long-dead star. Zaviya-ten-Krif never refuses to get her hands dirty when her quest for necessary power demands it, and never smiles when blood flows and screams echo. Zaviya-ten-Krif was the doom of many a Jedi cult, and the secret mastermind behind many more. Zaviya-ten-Krif planned the fall of Grand Moff Tracta. Zaviya-ten-Krif has not slept in five days, and done enough triple-refined spice to see the shape of the universe sideways. Zavia-ten-Krif never turns the lights off because once she does, the voices return. Please, do not ask Zaviya-ten-Krif about the voices. Or the very loud sobbing regularly coming from her quarters. There are no regrets. There is no doubt. She follows the plan laid out in her little notebook because she chose to and if she was to stop now then it would all be for nothing, and all that death- fuck, all that death.
Zaviya-ten-Krif is a savant scholar and a master manipulator and she is absolutely not coping.
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NonSequtur
a body
fuck it we ball, fuck it we ball-
Solarion
For Light and Life
- Location
- Rainbow
Grand Moff Arlan Arcos
"What is best in life? Why, the thrill of plunder, the joy of victory, of seeing your enemies crushed before you, and seeing them weep as you take everything that was theirs!"
The so-called Pirate King, Arlan Arcos is handsome, charismatic and utterly vicious. Enlisting in the Navy some years after the Clone Wars, Arlan quickly distinguished himself as an officer and commander, hunting down Separatist remnants, pirates and other scum with brutal success. And with his boyish good looks, silver hair, charming smile and utter lack of scruples (not to mention his connections as a scion of one of the great Corellian corporations) it wasn't long before he became a Moff.
As a Moff, Arlan conducted himself as a barbarian king in all but name. He led his fleets to plunder wealth and loot from wherever he could find an excuse to do so, whether from pirates or from highborn Imperial scion who committed treason, played games of politics, decked himself in gold and jewels, took mistresses and concubines, and surrounded himself with sycopahnts.
And now, as a Grand Moff, he has reached the peak of his success.
So what if he is slowing down, decades of a hedonistic lifestyle taking their toll, meaning he is no longer as sharp as he was once was? What if his good looks are starting to wither away? What if he no longer is able to charm others as easily as he once could, the behaviour that was roguishly charming on a young man rather less endearing on a man approaching middle-age?
Let his enemies think he is past his prime. The Emperor has recognised his worth, and greater victories and wealth and plunder beyond his wildest dreams still awaits…
"What is best in life? Why, the thrill of plunder, the joy of victory, of seeing your enemies crushed before you, and seeing them weep as you take everything that was theirs!"
The so-called Pirate King, Arlan Arcos is handsome, charismatic and utterly vicious. Enlisting in the Navy some years after the Clone Wars, Arlan quickly distinguished himself as an officer and commander, hunting down Separatist remnants, pirates and other scum with brutal success. And with his boyish good looks, silver hair, charming smile and utter lack of scruples (not to mention his connections as a scion of one of the great Corellian corporations) it wasn't long before he became a Moff.
As a Moff, Arlan conducted himself as a barbarian king in all but name. He led his fleets to plunder wealth and loot from wherever he could find an excuse to do so, whether from pirates or from highborn Imperial scion who committed treason, played games of politics, decked himself in gold and jewels, took mistresses and concubines, and surrounded himself with sycopahnts.
And now, as a Grand Moff, he has reached the peak of his success.
So what if he is slowing down, decades of a hedonistic lifestyle taking their toll, meaning he is no longer as sharp as he was once was? What if his good looks are starting to wither away? What if he no longer is able to charm others as easily as he once could, the behaviour that was roguishly charming on a young man rather less endearing on a man approaching middle-age?
Let his enemies think he is past his prime. The Emperor has recognised his worth, and greater victories and wealth and plunder beyond his wildest dreams still awaits…
Cornuthaum
Be kind to each other.
- Location
- Austria
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Moff Byurroq-Raht
Everything you can do, everything you ever thought about doing has at one point been declared either legal or illegal. Everything in your life, from the moment of your birth to your inevitable death, is ruled by the fetters of law and the social contract. And every single second of every single day for the last twenty thousand years there have been men diligently working to make the fetters of law bind more tightly and the social contract less forgiving.
Byurroq-Raht is one of them. Fifteen years before the announcement of the Empire, at the age of sixteen, he used his position as treasurer of the student council to defund the arts club to curtail unnecessary frivolity. When he was twenty-one and finished his law degree with honours, he used his family connections to ensure that his alma mater would have to cut tenured posts - including that of his student advisor. When he entered the Republican state apparatus as a junior Senate lobbyist, his first efforts went into cutting frivolous Republic healthcare services - and as he grew more involved in politics, his next effort was instating a stringent proof-of-work for any social service payments. When the Clone Wars began, he was responsible for issuing fines for those who left work to try and sign up for the Grand Army of the Republic, and then for promulgating the Emergency Wartime Production Laws that let corporations use SubLethal(tm) force to suppress wartime strikes amongst their workers. When the Empire was announced, Byurroq-Raht, much like his friend Wulf Yularen, simply changed his uniform and went on with business as usual.
In the last twenty years, every time a law has been issued from Imperial Centre that deprived sapients of rights, that made their lives worse in some fashion, be it large or small, every time a new imposition of time and effort was levied against the weakest and poorest of society, somewhere along the chain Byurroq-Raht put his pen to datapad to make it so. Some might wonder why. Some might even ask him why. His answers have always dishonest and facetious from lifetime of lobbying and legal sparring - except once. When the Emperor HImself, Sheev Palpatine, demanded that Moff Byurroq-Raht kneel and speak, something compelled the shrivelled, dried heart of the Moff to speak honestly.
Because he is a man who has never had dreams. Never had a vision. A joyless, withered creature going from day to day making people miserable. Why? Because he wants them to have less. "Less what?" the Emperor asked, that day, and the Moff's reply was simple. Less of anything. Hope. Dreams. Free time. Sorrow. Expression. Aspiration. Joy. Grief. Money. Freedom. It did not matter, so long as someone, every day, woke up having less of something than they had the day before. Only that, and only that, has ever brought Byurroq-Raht a fleeting spark of happiness.
TLDR: The evils of bureaucracy made manifest. Someone who thinks that Centrelink and the Department of Work and Pensions are too nice and forgiving on the destitute and disabled. Someone who would, if Communism did not exist, make sure that a worker's uprising is bound to happen through his iterative workplace policies.
Everything you can do, everything you ever thought about doing has at one point been declared either legal or illegal. Everything in your life, from the moment of your birth to your inevitable death, is ruled by the fetters of law and the social contract. And every single second of every single day for the last twenty thousand years there have been men diligently working to make the fetters of law bind more tightly and the social contract less forgiving.
Byurroq-Raht is one of them. Fifteen years before the announcement of the Empire, at the age of sixteen, he used his position as treasurer of the student council to defund the arts club to curtail unnecessary frivolity. When he was twenty-one and finished his law degree with honours, he used his family connections to ensure that his alma mater would have to cut tenured posts - including that of his student advisor. When he entered the Republican state apparatus as a junior Senate lobbyist, his first efforts went into cutting frivolous Republic healthcare services - and as he grew more involved in politics, his next effort was instating a stringent proof-of-work for any social service payments. When the Clone Wars began, he was responsible for issuing fines for those who left work to try and sign up for the Grand Army of the Republic, and then for promulgating the Emergency Wartime Production Laws that let corporations use SubLethal(tm) force to suppress wartime strikes amongst their workers. When the Empire was announced, Byurroq-Raht, much like his friend Wulf Yularen, simply changed his uniform and went on with business as usual.
In the last twenty years, every time a law has been issued from Imperial Centre that deprived sapients of rights, that made their lives worse in some fashion, be it large or small, every time a new imposition of time and effort was levied against the weakest and poorest of society, somewhere along the chain Byurroq-Raht put his pen to datapad to make it so. Some might wonder why. Some might even ask him why. His answers have always dishonest and facetious from lifetime of lobbying and legal sparring - except once. When the Emperor HImself, Sheev Palpatine, demanded that Moff Byurroq-Raht kneel and speak, something compelled the shrivelled, dried heart of the Moff to speak honestly.
Because he is a man who has never had dreams. Never had a vision. A joyless, withered creature going from day to day making people miserable. Why? Because he wants them to have less. "Less what?" the Emperor asked, that day, and the Moff's reply was simple. Less of anything. Hope. Dreams. Free time. Sorrow. Expression. Aspiration. Joy. Grief. Money. Freedom. It did not matter, so long as someone, every day, woke up having less of something than they had the day before. Only that, and only that, has ever brought Byurroq-Raht a fleeting spark of happiness.
TLDR: The evils of bureaucracy made manifest. Someone who thinks that Centrelink and the Department of Work and Pensions are too nice and forgiving on the destitute and disabled. Someone who would, if Communism did not exist, make sure that a worker's uprising is bound to happen through his iterative workplace policies.
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Baron Ouroboros
Emerald Leaves and Crimson Petals
- Location
- Vancouver
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Grand Moff Shamm Destruce
Having received officer status at the twilight of the Clone Wars at the top of his class, Major Shamm Destruce was unable to implement what he considered his novel ideas of squad based combat into practice. Needless to say, Shamm Destruce felt jealousy over his peers that did contribute to the war effort against the CIS.
Unfortunately for many urban centers across the mid and outer rims, the disappointment he felt about his missed glory did not dissuade him from pursuing martial excellence. Major Destruce participated in many operations with his newly minted stormtrooper companies against both Confederate holdouts and rebellious terrorists. As he rose the ladder of seniority within the Imperial Navy, Destruce was able to finally realize his vision of combat operations: shock assaults by small teams ofdisposable elite stormtroopers that would draw in enemy fire and thus provide targeting for the orbital artillery of the imperial navy to do its righteous job of cleansing traitors and separatist scum. Eventually, he gained many accolades through his destructive executions of traitors via turbolaser, and the opportunity to gain favor with the Emperor presented itself.
Some years before the Battle of Yavin, then Fleet Admiral Shamm Destruce had his chance to destroy a string of rebel cells across the mid rim. He did so by orbitally dropping shock troop teams at suspected areas of rebel activity and having them come into contact with rebel formations. Upon discovery of the enemy, he would order his teams to disperse before unleashing barrages of turbolaser fire at said enemy formations. Though casualty rates were often horrific among these teams, and the infrastructural damage from turbolaser fire was undeniable, the success of his tactics propelled him into Moffship. Shamm Destruce would defend his tactics by pointing out that the use of small formations of assault troops actually limited the casualty rates of the stormtrooper corps as a whole, since the loss of a few brave fireteams was preferable to entire armies lost on the field.
AKA, Shamm Destruce loves planetary assault vessels and drop pods almost as much as he loves the sound of turbolaser fire smashing through town centers.
Having received officer status at the twilight of the Clone Wars at the top of his class, Major Shamm Destruce was unable to implement what he considered his novel ideas of squad based combat into practice. Needless to say, Shamm Destruce felt jealousy over his peers that did contribute to the war effort against the CIS.
Unfortunately for many urban centers across the mid and outer rims, the disappointment he felt about his missed glory did not dissuade him from pursuing martial excellence. Major Destruce participated in many operations with his newly minted stormtrooper companies against both Confederate holdouts and rebellious terrorists. As he rose the ladder of seniority within the Imperial Navy, Destruce was able to finally realize his vision of combat operations: shock assaults by small teams of
Some years before the Battle of Yavin, then Fleet Admiral Shamm Destruce had his chance to destroy a string of rebel cells across the mid rim. He did so by orbitally dropping shock troop teams at suspected areas of rebel activity and having them come into contact with rebel formations. Upon discovery of the enemy, he would order his teams to disperse before unleashing barrages of turbolaser fire at said enemy formations. Though casualty rates were often horrific among these teams, and the infrastructural damage from turbolaser fire was undeniable, the success of his tactics propelled him into Moffship. Shamm Destruce would defend his tactics by pointing out that the use of small formations of assault troops actually limited the casualty rates of the stormtrooper corps as a whole, since the loss of a few brave fireteams was preferable to entire armies lost on the field.
AKA, Shamm Destruce loves planetary assault vessels and drop pods almost as much as he loves the sound of turbolaser fire smashing through town centers.
- Location
- Ruins of Meshan
Kos Erun was the typical captain of an Imperial Star Destroyer. Semi-competent, an orthodox believer in quantity over quality, and in love with his command and the power that came with it. Or at least, he appeared to be. In reality, Captain Erun was anything but. A secret Rebel sympathizer, with a firm belief in their goal to restore the Republic, and a burning need to seek justice for the Jedi Knight Kit Fisto, the Jedi that saved his family's life, meant that when he was approached to join a rebel cell, Kos Erun would quickly find himself "losing" weapons and leaking intelligence to the Rebels whenever he could.
Or at least, he used to be. 34 years after the Great ReSynchronization, Grand Moff Coy would die, murdered in a plot by a wide conspiracy of traitorous Grand Moffs wishing to rule the Empire and overthrow the Emperor. Oversector 16 would fall into chaos, Grand Moff after Grand Moff being appointed, each failing to contain the rampant corruption that had festered in Coy's house of cards for years. When Kos would be finally selected as the latest Grand Moff, he was ecstatic. As he made the trip to Coruscant, meeting the Emperor in his office before the formal ceremony, Kos was full of hope. Hope that distracted him from the fact his wife and daughter hadn't contacted him in over a month.
No one knows what was said in that room, save those that were inside. Kos would return with the uniform of Grand Moff, and the look of a haunted man. Now Kos is a husk, barely recognizable to those that knew him. His former contacts within the Rebel Alliance have gone dark or branded him a traitor, agents loyal to the Emperor watch his every move, and junior officers watch nervously as the warm-hearted Captain they knew and loved has been replaced with a cold-hearted Grand Moff. Already, new efforts to purge the oversector's administration and military of the corrupt and incompetent are underway, achieving surprising successes thanks to higher-ranking personnel not being exempt. New starfighters are rolled out, patrols increase in size and force, and shipyards flare to life again. Imperial institutions and infrastructure are expanded, whispers of secretive superfighter projects similar to the TIE Advanced linger, and new emergency reforms see the stormtrooper corps expanded twofold. The Rebellion watches with concern, the ISB with interest, and the Emperor with glee as Kos readies for war.
tossing my hat into the ring
Preferred Oversector: 16/Ivory Fang
TL;DR: guy likes super-starfighters, wasn't as smart as he though he was when colluding with the rebellion, now has to do terrible things otherwise family dies or he dies, Palpatine is a smug bastard, man is also much better at war than running a sector.
Or at least, he used to be. 34 years after the Great ReSynchronization, Grand Moff Coy would die, murdered in a plot by a wide conspiracy of traitorous Grand Moffs wishing to rule the Empire and overthrow the Emperor. Oversector 16 would fall into chaos, Grand Moff after Grand Moff being appointed, each failing to contain the rampant corruption that had festered in Coy's house of cards for years. When Kos would be finally selected as the latest Grand Moff, he was ecstatic. As he made the trip to Coruscant, meeting the Emperor in his office before the formal ceremony, Kos was full of hope. Hope that distracted him from the fact his wife and daughter hadn't contacted him in over a month.
No one knows what was said in that room, save those that were inside. Kos would return with the uniform of Grand Moff, and the look of a haunted man. Now Kos is a husk, barely recognizable to those that knew him. His former contacts within the Rebel Alliance have gone dark or branded him a traitor, agents loyal to the Emperor watch his every move, and junior officers watch nervously as the warm-hearted Captain they knew and loved has been replaced with a cold-hearted Grand Moff. Already, new efforts to purge the oversector's administration and military of the corrupt and incompetent are underway, achieving surprising successes thanks to higher-ranking personnel not being exempt. New starfighters are rolled out, patrols increase in size and force, and shipyards flare to life again. Imperial institutions and infrastructure are expanded, whispers of secretive superfighter projects similar to the TIE Advanced linger, and new emergency reforms see the stormtrooper corps expanded twofold. The Rebellion watches with concern, the ISB with interest, and the Emperor with glee as Kos readies for war.
tossing my hat into the ring
Preferred Oversector: 16/Ivory Fang
TL;DR: guy likes super-starfighters, wasn't as smart as he though he was when colluding with the rebellion, now has to do terrible things otherwise family dies or he dies, Palpatine is a smug bastard, man is also much better at war than running a sector.
- Location
- London, England
Alright, I think... I will accept the applications of @Potato Anarchy for Oversector 2 "Green Mantle", slot @Gargulec into Oversector 5 "Shadow Hand", replacing Trachta, and... give @Cornuthaum Oversector 16, "Ivory Fang", replacing Ardus Kaine.
Three new applicants is about what I feel comfortable working with right now, so apologies to the rest.
Anyway you three please join the discord if you're not already on it and then shoot me a PM on either discord or SV regarding your starting assets. You begin with five favour, and your Oversectors will begin with 1 control and 2 unrest each.
discord.gg
Three new applicants is about what I feel comfortable working with right now, so apologies to the rest.
Anyway you three please join the discord if you're not already on it and then shoot me a PM on either discord or SV regarding your starting assets. You begin with five favour, and your Oversectors will begin with 1 control and 2 unrest each.
Join the Dark Greetings Discord Server!
Check out the Dark Greetings community on Discord - hang out with 48 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
discord.gg
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Wade Garrett
Just trying to do the right thing
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
Sad bagpipe Amazing Grace for Ardus Kaine, the Grand Moff with the level of father issues that mandate a career as either a fascist warlord or an exotic dancer.
Cornuthaum
Be kind to each other.
- Location
- Austria
- Pronouns
- He/Him
in my infinite mercy I have afforded him a nice, serene lakeside villa with a calm and relaxing environment to help him stabilise his mental wellbeing in these trying times.
you want to visit? well, the planet is under interdiction so that nobody can leave, but if you're sure-
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Baron Ouroboros
Emerald Leaves and Crimson Petals
- Location
- Vancouver
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Violle Enne Buun
Blood. The metallic grind of death machines. Agony. Rage. Violle was raised in hate and molded into a weapon in the gladiatoral pits of Zargothus. Born from the kin of a Near-Human family with bunny-like ears, Violle's civilian parents were killed in a Republic-Separatist crossfire in one of the countless fronts of the Clone Wars. Left alone in the burning husk of his people's village, young Violle could do naught but hide and weather the storm that descended from the heavens. He yearned for salvation as his world burned, and to his surprise hep eventually came. Unfortunetely, said help came in the form of Hutt-aligned pirates. They clamped him in chains, implanted him with a transmitter chip, and sold him to one of the many petty domains of the Hutt Clans.
On Planet Zargothus, Violle spilled blood for the entertainment of passing pirates, slavers, and respectable businessmen. Every kill with his vibroblade enhanced his disgust and contempt for the world. Soon the slavers noticed Violle's disgust and hatred for them, and lashed him every time he returned from the sand pits in an attempt to break his will.
But his refusal to die or bend in submission earned him popularity from both fellow gladiators and onlookers. Before he knew it, Violle was an insurgent celebrity. His fame grew with every kill and every lashing, and he was soon known to the populace as the Lashed Killer. Other famous gladiators in the scene's history were content in achieving enough fame to buy their freedom or at least manage the unfortunates below them if the former was impossible. Not Violle. Over five years of false obeisance and covert planning later, Violle gathered his followers and struck at the head of his tormentors.
The annual Blood Tournament of Zargothus was a grisly affair that nonetheless attracted millions to watch the spectacle. Eveel the Hutt, ruler of Zargothus, had come to know Violle as a famed gladiator but misjudged him as a broken thing that could be paraded within stabbing distance to him. Needless to say, Eveel's complacency proved fatal as Violle ripped out his heart in front of the live holonet broadcast of the Game's opening ceremony. Immediately, the vast majority of gladiators and slaves stormed out of their pens seeking to kill their lashmasters in vengance, as chaos ensued and the arena's crowds trampled over each other in a desperate attempt to escape the carnage. Most of the slaves would die as their transmitter chips exploded at the behest of panicking or dying masters, but Violle and several of his followers managed to remove them. They carved a bloody path through the streets, killing any and all Zargothans in their path. All would eventually fall, except for Violle. Bleeding and broken but still among the living, Violl boarded a light freighter and escaped the planet.
That day, VIolle swore bloody vengeance upon the slavers and their people. He would kill every last one of them. But how, he wondered? From what Violle knew, only one force in the universe held the power to crush all in its path: The Empire. Violle knew the stories. The Empire were slavers and tyrants both. But they were recruiting. If he could only rise in the ranks he would one day have the means to take vengeance.
And rise in the ranks he did, as Violle was both unmatched in brutality and popular with his new comrades. Fifteen years passed, and Violle Enne Buun ascended to the rank of admiral after murdering his superior in his sleep and successfully framing his rival for promotion as both the killer and a rebel plant. As Shacklemorr's fleets burned Hutt Space, Violle made sure to take part, eagerly adopting the Firebrand ideology to further his own aims. In truth, VIolle only had one goal. He personally invaded Zargothus at the head of a stormtrooper legion and slew every non-slave on the planet that did not escape his fleet's interdiction. Knowing Shacklemorr's nature as a slaver himself, Violle offered the newly freed slaves of Zargothus a choice: to join his army or to face death with dignity. Most chose the former and so Violle was pleased. But even as he departed, the naval protege's rage did not abate. Zargothus's mantle may have been exposed by his Star Destroyers' turbolasers at his order as he left, but Fleet Admiral Buun did not feel the joy he sought. Zargothus was just one planet among countless others. The entire galaxy was cruel. And so Violle swore again to gather more power so that the galaxy itself would fall. He would feign obeisance to the emperor, as he did his deceased masters on Zarthothus. The title of Grand Moff would be his, and with it his chance to destroy all that came before.
"Belle. Vym. Dredge. This galaxy will be the funeral pyre I will honor you with." Fleet Admiral Buun stared out of his Star Destroyer's bridge viewport out to deep space and balled his fists. Soon.
Blood. The metallic grind of death machines. Agony. Rage. Violle was raised in hate and molded into a weapon in the gladiatoral pits of Zargothus. Born from the kin of a Near-Human family with bunny-like ears, Violle's civilian parents were killed in a Republic-Separatist crossfire in one of the countless fronts of the Clone Wars. Left alone in the burning husk of his people's village, young Violle could do naught but hide and weather the storm that descended from the heavens. He yearned for salvation as his world burned, and to his surprise hep eventually came. Unfortunetely, said help came in the form of Hutt-aligned pirates. They clamped him in chains, implanted him with a transmitter chip, and sold him to one of the many petty domains of the Hutt Clans.
On Planet Zargothus, Violle spilled blood for the entertainment of passing pirates, slavers, and respectable businessmen. Every kill with his vibroblade enhanced his disgust and contempt for the world. Soon the slavers noticed Violle's disgust and hatred for them, and lashed him every time he returned from the sand pits in an attempt to break his will.
But his refusal to die or bend in submission earned him popularity from both fellow gladiators and onlookers. Before he knew it, Violle was an insurgent celebrity. His fame grew with every kill and every lashing, and he was soon known to the populace as the Lashed Killer. Other famous gladiators in the scene's history were content in achieving enough fame to buy their freedom or at least manage the unfortunates below them if the former was impossible. Not Violle. Over five years of false obeisance and covert planning later, Violle gathered his followers and struck at the head of his tormentors.
The annual Blood Tournament of Zargothus was a grisly affair that nonetheless attracted millions to watch the spectacle. Eveel the Hutt, ruler of Zargothus, had come to know Violle as a famed gladiator but misjudged him as a broken thing that could be paraded within stabbing distance to him. Needless to say, Eveel's complacency proved fatal as Violle ripped out his heart in front of the live holonet broadcast of the Game's opening ceremony. Immediately, the vast majority of gladiators and slaves stormed out of their pens seeking to kill their lashmasters in vengance, as chaos ensued and the arena's crowds trampled over each other in a desperate attempt to escape the carnage. Most of the slaves would die as their transmitter chips exploded at the behest of panicking or dying masters, but Violle and several of his followers managed to remove them. They carved a bloody path through the streets, killing any and all Zargothans in their path. All would eventually fall, except for Violle. Bleeding and broken but still among the living, Violl boarded a light freighter and escaped the planet.
That day, VIolle swore bloody vengeance upon the slavers and their people. He would kill every last one of them. But how, he wondered? From what Violle knew, only one force in the universe held the power to crush all in its path: The Empire. Violle knew the stories. The Empire were slavers and tyrants both. But they were recruiting. If he could only rise in the ranks he would one day have the means to take vengeance.
And rise in the ranks he did, as Violle was both unmatched in brutality and popular with his new comrades. Fifteen years passed, and Violle Enne Buun ascended to the rank of admiral after murdering his superior in his sleep and successfully framing his rival for promotion as both the killer and a rebel plant. As Shacklemorr's fleets burned Hutt Space, Violle made sure to take part, eagerly adopting the Firebrand ideology to further his own aims. In truth, VIolle only had one goal. He personally invaded Zargothus at the head of a stormtrooper legion and slew every non-slave on the planet that did not escape his fleet's interdiction. Knowing Shacklemorr's nature as a slaver himself, Violle offered the newly freed slaves of Zargothus a choice: to join his army or to face death with dignity. Most chose the former and so Violle was pleased. But even as he departed, the naval protege's rage did not abate. Zargothus's mantle may have been exposed by his Star Destroyers' turbolasers at his order as he left, but Fleet Admiral Buun did not feel the joy he sought. Zargothus was just one planet among countless others. The entire galaxy was cruel. And so Violle swore again to gather more power so that the galaxy itself would fall. He would feign obeisance to the emperor, as he did his deceased masters on Zarthothus. The title of Grand Moff would be his, and with it his chance to destroy all that came before.
"Belle. Vym. Dredge. This galaxy will be the funeral pyre I will honor you with." Fleet Admiral Buun stared out of his Star Destroyer's bridge viewport out to deep space and balled his fists. Soon.
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