[Mission End] MSNPC Chavrainne - The Unchained Voice
Carter Schimpff
(( Bridge - Deck 1 - USS Artemis-A ))
Luirétt: Captain Munro… Thank you. ::ceremonial bow:: You and your crew has saved my people from a catastrophe not seen since the loss of Ellet... It is a debt I will never be able to repay.
Chavrainne: ::softly:: Nor I.
Tho'Bi: ::to Munro:: Confirmed, Captain. All plasma on the Cityship vented safely. ::beat:: no further risk to our Away Teams or the Boraxian population.
Ops Officer: Incoming hail from … the Great Mother.
Munro: Onscreen.
The viewscreen shimmered to life.
Elirielle manifested in light and signal – adorned in cascading jewels, her arms raised, flanked by joyous Boraxians arrayed behind her like a pageant of order returned.
Elirielle: Captain, it seems your teams were successful. I'm receiving reports from all districts that violence has begun to subside. And order has been re-established. Ellet has shone brightly upon us.
Munro: I'll breath a lot better once my teams are returned to the Artemis.
Tho'Bi: ::quietly to Munro:: We're beginning to pick up our Away Teams ::fingers danced:: transferring additional power to boost matter gain.
Elirielle: Luirétt, and Advocate Chavrainne. I hope your discussions have :: indicates the people around her :: We have been preparing for this new age of Boraxian prosperity. And to welcome back our beloved Yurum.
The Great Mother smiled, and extended all four of her arms.
Luirétt: Our talks have concluded, Great Mother. I shall see you soon…
Chavrainne stepped forward stiffly. She bowed deeply to the screen – lower arms folded behind her back in ritual pose, upper arms stretched straight outward.
It was the first ceremonial movement she had made in nearly 36 hours.
And, though no one else yet knew it, it would be the last for the foreseeable future.
Chavrainne: All is… as it should be, Great Mother.
Tho'Bi: ::quietly to Munro:: Transporter Chief reports ::beat:: first of the Away Team are back on board ::fingers danced:: transported directly to Sickbay.
Munro: I'll let you return to your duties, Great Mother :: to Ops Officer :: Close channel.
The channel closed.
Chavrainne turned slightly toward Munro. Her voice was low, formal – but not distant or cold.
Chavrainne: Captain Munro, the Boraxian people–
She paused, her gaze shifting to Luirétt. It held there, meaningfully, for just a breath.
Chavrainne: All of us owe you and your crew a debt beyond measure.
Tho'Bi: ::quietly to Munro:: Away Teams are in Sickbay.
The Acting-Captain turned to the two Boraxians on the bridge.
Munro: This is just the beginning for you both. No matter what you decide :: to Luirétt :: For those who want it, I intend to submit a recommendation to Starfleet Command and the Federation government to accept the asylum request from the Yurum and :: looks to Chavrainne :: any other Boraxian that would like to leave.
Luirétt: I will give your offer to my fellow Yurum, Captain... And I shall bestow my role as Captain of the New Hope and Leader of the Sectarian Faction to VahlJeahn for the journey towards the Federation heartland.
Chavrainne did not reply aloud.
Instead, she turned her eyes to Munro – and inclined her head.
A nod not of obedience, nor even of gratitude, but of understanding.
Of choice.
Luirétt: We tried to force change. ::looks to the Boraxian Cityship on the viewscreen:: But our people deserves better. This time, I’ll do it right.
I. “THE SEAL”
(( VIP Quarters, Deck 2 – USS Artemis-A ))
The room was empty now.
Her attendants had returned to the Cityship. The Starfleet officers had drifted away with polite nods and promises of diplomatic follow-up. Even the light through the large viewport had dimmed to something cooler – something more honest.
Alone, Chavrainne stood before a small ceremonial case.
Her Advocate’s robes – brought along, yet never donned – lay draped across the back of a plush chair. They shimmered faintly, an echo of prestige woven in gold and guilt. She ran her fingers across the outer folds, slow and reverent.
One by one, she removed each ornament, each jewel, each chain – every gleaming thread designed to project power, control, and sanctity.
The final piece was the seal – the sigil of the Advocate of the Great Matriarch.
Etched with the glyph of the Great Matriarch, it had once rested proudly on her breast like a second heart.
She took a breath.
Then drew a blade.
It wasn’t theatrical. There was no flourish. There was no sound at all, in fact, other than the soft snap of thread sundering to honed steel.
Freed from her robes, she folded the sigil into a square of soft cloth, placed it inside the small box, and closed the lid.
II. “THE CROSSING”
(( The Golden Spire – Boraxian Cityship ))
The Cityship didn’t weep when she left.
No klaxon marked her absence. No attendants trailed behind her, robes streaming against the lush violet of the artificial sky.
The doors before her hissed open with their usual hydraulic sigh – precise, bloodless, and unaware that they were abetting treason in the eyes of some.
Chavrainne stood alone on the edge of the Skycraft platform, one hand on the final rail between her and the automated vessel bobbing politely aside it.
All her life, she had traveled either with the Great Mother herself on the Royal Barge, or at the very least in one of the Royal Household’s fleet of ancillary craft. She had always dismissed these Skycraft as crude, utilitarian, unbecoming – unbeautiful.
Today, the craft before her gleamed like the first natural sunrise she’d ever seen.
She had packed lightly.
A single satchel hung from one shoulder – unadorned, save for a strip of cloth she’d tied to the strap. Not for ceremony – for memory. A remnant of the same gold silk that once spilled through her Advocate’s robes – a symbol of sacred duty, now repurposed.
She had not brought the robes.
She had folded them, sealed them, and left them in the antechamber of the Hall of Reflection – along with a final message she’d written in her own hand to Elirielle.
I served you with all that I had, all that I was, and all that I was raised to be. I go now in search of what I was never allowed to become. This is not defiance. It is simply devotion, redirected. May our paths cross again in peace and love.
She had not signed it with her title – only her name.
Her fingers lingered a moment longer on the railing, then released.
There were no watchers. No final rites. No sacred recitations.
Only the sound of her footsteps – and the whisper of a door sliding gently shut behind her.
III. “THE FAULT LINE”
(( Forward Chamber – New Hope ))
They argued in circles.
Twelve voices, raised and fraying, each convinced theirs was the right course forward – not out of ego, but desperation and ignorance. New Hope had entered disputed space earlier that day, and the alien vessel shadowing them made no effort to conceal its interest.
Some of the Yurum wanted to retreat. Some wanted to open hailing frequencies.
One – young and trembling – had suggested they arm the scant weaponry they possessed.
That had quieted the room.
Not from shock – but from the terrible, collective awareness that none of them truly knew what to do.
And then, without truly meaning to, she spoke.
Chavrainne: We will not arm our weapons. To do so would be an unnecessary escalation, and we lack both the force and the diplomatic status to justify such an action. We will instead–
She caught herself.
Two fingers rose instinctively to her lips – sealing them, but too late.
That snap of command. That gilded edge. It had come far too easily.
What she had meant as counsel had landed like decree.
Silence gripped the room – not with reverence, but recoil.
Across the table, VahlJeahn’s face was a mask – calm, silent, and watchful.
From her right, one of the younger Yurum spoke with trembling clarity, their tone both melancholic and accusatory: You said you would walk with us – not lead. Not govern. Just… walk.
The words struck harder than any reprimand ever had.
Not because they were cruel – but because they were true.
Chavrainne opened her mouth. Closed it.
She looked down at her hands, folded neatly on the tabletop – the same posture she’d assumed countless times before. The same tone. The same instinct to shape the room around her.
Chavrainne: Forgive me. It is difficult to remember where my voice ends and yours begins. But I will learn. Will you… teach me?
There was no applause or absolution – just a long silence. Then, gradually, the meeting resumed – voices overlapping again, not perfect, but unafraid.
Chavrainne did not speak again that day.
She listened.
That night, she wrote the young Yurums words in her journal.
Not as admonishment, but as scripture.
IV. “THE STEP FORWARD”
(( Unknown Location - Foreign Vessel ))
The airlock hissed open.
Beyond it, a delegation waited.
Tall, sharp-eyed aliens with mottled skin and unreadable posture. They stared wordlessly at the Yurum delegation aside her, then at her – the woman who bore no sigil, had no rank, and wore no chains.
Chavrainne stepped forward.
Her robes were simple loose-cut linen. Dyed not with ritual colors, but with a simple rust orange made from the root of a plant grown in New Hope’s seedery. Once, she would have called it primitive. Now, it reminded her of firelight. Of home.
Of freedom.
The leader of the alien delegation inclined their head. She inclined hers in return.
Chavrainne: I am Chavrainne. Advocate to the Yurum.
Around her, the Yurum said nothing – they did not need to. Their presence filled the chamber in which they stood.
They were not subjects or supplicants.
They were stars, finding their orbit.
End for Chavrainne
===
MSNPC Chavrainne
Advocate to the Yurum
As simmed by:
Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1