Just Justice, Jaemus

[Laranil Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

It was a new day—if the same day as before. One more morning like the former. As early as any other. The same space with four walls, eight corners, one window, one door, one ceiling. One pillow. One woman. Alone. Head resting on hands, elbows bent, gaze ahead, blue eyes on white, blinking.

Sleeping with eyes closed was one phrase for this face. Vacant. Absent of expression. Awake. If distant. Not slumbering. Just wondering. Watching. Looking at that metallic contraption that hid the storey above it. Yet, within this building designated for Imperial officials and agents like her, this ceiling did not hide what lies beneath.

Hers was a story not so unique in this galaxy. A woman is a daughter, the eldest sister of her siblings amid the House of Sylverian, born into nobility. Yet her family was far removed from this world, her new home, where only one dragon was present, alone. She’ll curl her talons, preserve both dynasty and hegemony, all on her own, though she wasn’t so lonely.

White. It was certainly an accurate description of that ceiling above her eyes. Off white, in a manner; what might have symbolized purity and innocence was instead cold and empty. If no less minimalist. There wasn’t much to it. White was white. Ceiling, walls, floor. Uniform.

It was what she donned at the crack of dawn, when night subsided, evening gave way to the morning, day just beginning. A new day. A new dawn. The same garments. The same objective. The same mission. No real difference, either way, for day and night were much the same for eyes that never fade.

She got up. She washed. Got out of the shower and got dressed. Turned off the alarm before it ever hit. She never woke up to it. Always one hour before. Maybe that was some notion of never really sleeping, always being awake, always ready. Then again, it might just be a nod at her being an insomniac.

A watcher. A guardian. Day and night. It was her office, her duty, her charge; to protect this planet, to preserve its perfect beauty, even if it often meant being dishonest. For, in truth, there was no perfection in this system or in this universe, no government was pure, and no one was innocent or so full of truth.

Peace is a lie. A Sith might have thought it, but it’s just a woman at this moment, not even Force-sensitive for it. There is only war and the breath of it. The calm before the storm. Her eyes in the mirror, looking back at her, vacant, cold and naked, blue as glacial ice. No longer a Sith, if ever an Imperial, built of material akin, similarly territorial, and forever a dragon.

“From the blood,” she whispers, with steam in the mirror, a hand on glass, seeing clearer.
“Fly from above.” She remembered, standing not in black red armor, not in house colors.
Rather, in the off white uniform of the Imperial Security Bureau; subtle grey in the mirror.
“And land on dust.” To discover, to conquer. This dragon is patient, but her blood burns.

For herself, or for her family, or for the universe, the Sylverian's blood was forever on fire.
Only this one was a bit more composed, patient, even as her own wings might fly higher.
It wasn't about her, in the end. It wasn't even about her family's legacy. It was the Empire.
She has no lightsaber, no lightning, but Laranil Sylverian's intelligence must burn brighter.

 

[Laranil Sylverian]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Her day began basically the same way as yesterday and other days. Open the door donned in the uniform and it wasn’t so intricate. There was no bow. There was no red. There was no black. There was no medal pinned to her breast. No sigil of House Sylverian on her chest. Hers was the uniform of Imperial Intelligence. White was its stripe.

Yet, Agent Laranil was first and foremost, ever and always, a member of her family. The blood of House Sylverian ran through her very veins. They and their name stayed with her wherever she went, whenever she came. Once a Sith, now an Imp, but her intelligence forever remained. For her, it was always the same game, just different players.

From the door of her quarters to the door of ISB headquarters. On Valc, at least. She walked forth. She didn’t greet anyone with words, datapad in hand, but she didn’t ignore others either. She met gazes with her gaze, never mind her icy eyes, or her countenance nearly bereft of any emotion. No smile. It wasn’t worth her while.

She traded glances from her pad to her environment, but she did not pretend that she was reading. She was reading morning reports on the populace, statistics on crime or dissent, and was pleased to not see anything terribly concerning just yet. Apparently I am also in for a number of meetings.

That was rather routine procedure, however. Overseer Aron Lektish would no doubt be in the boardroom already waiting for her and other agents, but first he liked the privacy of preparation. First things first for her, however, and she had plenty of time for it. Ever dependable, Laranil was never late. She learned long ago to follow the saying: early is on time, on time is late and late is punishable.

So, on her way to the briefing room, wherein one would find only the complement of water to drink per Overseer’s explicit preference, down the corridor passing white uniform after white uniform, the Sylverian paused in the room of her designated partner. At least on this planet, a partner was not just encouraged but a requirement.

“You’re early,” Dax Beckett expressed. He sat at his desk in their office.
“Yes” was all Laranil said. She was always early. He always mentioned it.
“Well I’ve got it hot and ready for you.” He stretched. “Oh, your seat as well.”
He enjoyed humor. He knew she didn’t. She found her desk, enjoyed a smell.

“Still can’t quite figure out how you or anybody enjoys that. Honestly.”
Datapad on desk, ignoring Dax, Laranil poured a cup, sipped coffee.
Opened up her computer, checked the time, checked her messages.
DOO’s notice. Memo from DOA. Curious. What’s this? “It’s delicious.”