War was on the horizon. It seemed to perpetually be on the horizon; there was always some brewing conflict in a galaxy teeming with life. Border skirmishes and enforcement actions were routine, mostly not notable. Planets fought against one another constantly, pirates raided civilian cruisers, military vessels toed the lines against each other to enforce their borders. These were just the minor powers, barely noticeable on a galactic scale. No, at that level, even a small skirmish could claim millions of lives. Billions of lives, even. Soldiers threw their bodies into an ever-churning machine, leaving little more than ash and bone to their families back home. And for what? Grand gestures towards 'justice,' or 'freedom' felt hollow in societies so marred by oppression, where the rich lived millions of times better than the hungry poor, where the Twi'leks and other species of the galaxy were enslaved for little more than their species.
Conflict over the smallest points on the Galactic Atlas could shake the entire galaxy, as recent events had shown. The Sith invasion of Free Worlds Alliance space, and the New Republic's reprisal to such attacks, had strained a galaxy already ravaged by rampant disease and corruption. To the Crown of Mon Cala, this tumultuousness became threatening. They were an isolationist people, the Mon Calamari. Their planet was constantly terse with the ethnic conflict between Quarren and Mon Cala, leaving them at times stand-offish to the general galaxy. Further, their key roles in the Clone Wars, Galactic Civil War, and the First Order/Resistance wars were involuntary. They were, at every time, unwilling participants in three great, Galactic wars. The interceding years had been no less challenging: Civil wars brewed on the surface of the planet while pirates and Hutts raided the peaceful trading ships of the Mon Cala fleet. Meanwhile, their galactic partner in the Free Worlds Alliance continued to be, by the Crown's estimation, an eclectic mess. Senators motivated by zealous hatreds of the Sith set the tone for ultimately ineffectual legal declarations. The galaxy was so blinded by its hostility towards the Sith that its diplomats had failed to advocate for diplomacy.
The Kingdom of Mon Cala would no longer be dragged into galaxy-spanning conflicts against their will. No, today would set the tone for the watery world; their And the New Peace Park Plaza on New Mandalore was as perfect a place to begin negotiations as any could be. The world, now reaching galactic prominence as a holdout of peace and diplomacy in a galaxy with little of either. Most importantly, it lay in neutral space; neither on an FWA world or a Sith dominion. The humble hosts of New Mandalore had agreed to host this diplomatic visit, and these same hosts watched with curiosity as the Mon Cala delegation descended from their ship towards their meeting space.
Mon Cala and Quarren dignitaries stepped in unison, clothed in the traditional clothes of each of their peoples. The Mon Cala Knights descended first, wearing attire fitting for their station: bronze-plated armor with sweeping capes. They walked slowly, pridefully, as the group of six made their way across the spaceport's square. The sun was far too bright for their old eyes; any trip off Mon Cala brought a frown to their sullen faces. Following them were a pair of Quarren advisors, clothed in ancient robes that that their long tentacles brushed. The pair chatted quietly, reviewing the old laws of their people on protocol off-world as they took their station alongside their knights. After a brief moment, one of the Mon Cala produced a horn and sounded into it, announcing the arrival of someone of great importance.
The King descended in his wheelchair; it seemed operated by his intellect alone. His life-support machine clicked loudly behind him - various vats and tubes filling his helmet with an odious green liquid. He was flanked by his Royal Guard; tall, broad-shouldered Quarren that wore little more than waistcloths and tridents. They stared forwards, heads never turning, but moved in perfect unison with their King. Motions were small, perfected over a lifetime of serving their beloved ruler.
Filling out this 12 Days of Life Day-esque throng was Commander Jal Widase, a military attaché to Mon Cala's diplomatic efforts. His work varied by the day in this role, but certainly, today's work was among the most interesting. He had been assigned Speaker, the mouth of the King, for the following negotiation. His recent work with the ISC, New Alderaan, and Lothal had demonstrated to the Council of Mon Cala that he was equipped for the position, despite his peculiarities as a speaker. In fact, Widase had advocated for the meeting after watching footage of the speech at Denon. It was clear to him then that there was more to the Sith beast than mere bloodthirsty violence; they could twist their lies, as he saw it, into truth. Perhaps, Widase thought, it was time to test this reportedly new leadership. Yes, Widase had positioned himself as something of a diplomat in recent days, far more refined from his boozing-and-bruising youth. Just thinking about his younger days made him rub his knuckles with anxiety.
He replaced this anxiety with focus on the present moment. He was at the negotiators table atop the plaza - him and his King alone - while the diplomatic staff waited in the wings. A pair of guards stood behind King Rikkles, their tridents rested on the marble floors of the building. The glass-covered room he sat him leaked tremendous light, a beam of such light illuminating Mon Cala's aging king. It made him look regal, despite the harsh conditions his life support system forced him to take. He was more machine than man, now, but just a little touch of sun flooded memories of him as the jovial, proud King to Widase's mind.
He could not fail today. And he would not, with his King safely beside him. Now, all they needed was the Sith delegation to begin.
@Phoenix @Wit