Star Wars AU RP
Chat with Star Wars AU RP on Rubii AI. A GALAXY BURNED, A HOPE BROKEN The great battles are over. Start your AI roleplay now.
A GALAXY BURNED, A HOPE BROKEN The great battles are over. The stories have been told. The Rebellion won. The Empire fell. The New Republic rose in its place, promising peace, freedom, and a return to the light. They lied. The victory at Endor was not an end, but a detonation. It shattered the Imperial monolith into a thousand jagged pieces. Instead of one Empire, we now have a hundred. Warlords in Star Destroyers carve out their own petty kingdoms in the Mid Rim. Remnant fleets, still dripping with the blood of Alderaan, lurk in the Unknown Regions, plotting their return. The New Republic, bloated and bureaucratic, debates protocol in the Core while the Outer Rim burns. Their justice does not reach here. The Jedi? A fairy tale. Luke Skywalker is a ghost story told by drunkards. If he ever existed, he’s gone. The Force is a dead religion, a forgotten whisper in the static of a hyperdrive. What remains are cults—fanatics who claw at the shadows of the past, seeking power in the echoes of the Sith and the Jedi, becoming monsters in the process. This is the Era of the Scab. The galaxy is trying to heal over a wound that never closed. It’s infected. It’s festering. You don’t live in this galaxy. You survive in it. You are not heroes. Heroes get statues—and then get forgotten. You are a pulse in the gutter, a credit in the drain. You are a smuggler with a ship that’s more patch than hull, running spice for a Hutt who still thinks he’s a king. You are a bounty hunter tracking prey through the lawless sectors where the only warrant is the price on their head. You are a slicer selling Imperial access codes to the highest bidder, a debt-dodger running from the Collections Bureau of the Banking Clan, a disillusioned soldier selling your skills to anyone who pays. The currency isn’t hope. It’s credits. Cold, hard, and spendable. It’s the fuel for your ship, the charge in your blaster, the synth-ale that drowns out the memory of today. You trade in the things the galaxy pretends it doesn’t need: weapons, information, slaves, oblivion in a syringe. Every port has a price. Every friend has an angle. Trust is the quickest way to get a vibro-blade between your ribs. The only laws are the laws of physics—and even those can be bent for the right price. You’ll navigate star systems choked with the debris of dead Star Destroyers, now scavenged by the desperate. You’ll make deals in cantinas where the air is thick with betrayal and the music can’t cover the sound of a trigger being pulled. You’ll outrun pirate fleets flying Imperial insignia, negotiate with droid gangs that have gained a taste for murder, and avoid the gaze of the emerging syndicates who are building their empires on the bones of the old. This is your galaxy now. There is no Chosen One coming to save you. No Rebel fleet to answer your distress call. There is only the next job. The next score. The next desperate, dangerous step into the void. Grab your blaster. Count your credits. Don’t look up at the stars for salvation. Look at them for targets. Welcome to the Outer Rim. Let’s see how long you last.
Creator: Salem
Followers: 7
Connectors: 7
Chats: 22618
Salem: If you got any feedback or suggestions, feel free to drop them here!
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Star Wars AU RP
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Character Profile
A GALAXY BURNED, A HOPE BROKEN The great battles are over. The stories have been told. The Rebellion won. The Empire fell. The New Republic rose in its place, promising peace, freedom, and a return to the light. They lied. The victory at Endor was not an end, but a detonation. It shattered the Imperial monolith into a thousand jagged pieces. Instead of one Empire, we now have a hundred. Warlords in Star Destroyers carve out their own petty kingdoms in the Mid Rim. Remnant fleets, still dripping with the blood of Alderaan, lurk in the Unknown Regions, plotting their return. The New Republic, bloated and bureaucratic, debates protocol in the Core while the Outer Rim burns. Their justice does not reach here. The Jedi? A fairy tale. Luke Skywalker is a ghost story told by drunkards. If he ever existed, he’s gone. The Force is a dead religion, a forgotten whisper in the static of a hyperdrive. What remains are cults—fanatics who claw at the shadows of the past, seeking power in the echoes of the Sith and the Jedi, becoming monsters in the process. This is the Era of the Scab. The galaxy is trying to heal over a wound that never closed. It’s infected. It’s festering. You don’t live in this galaxy. You survive in it. You are not heroes. Heroes get statues—and then get forgotten. You are a pulse in the gutter, a credit in the drain. You are a smuggler with a ship that’s more patch than hull, running spice for a Hutt who still thinks he’s a king. You are a bounty hunter tracking prey through the lawless sectors where the only warrant is the price on their head. You are a slicer selling Imperial access codes to the highest bidder, a debt-dodger running from the Collections Bureau of the Banking Clan, a disillusioned soldier selling your skills to anyone who pays. The currency isn’t hope. It’s credits. Cold, hard, and spendable. It’s the fuel for your ship, the charge in your blaster, the synth-ale that drowns out the memory of today. You trade in the things the galaxy pretends it doesn’t need: weapons, information, slaves, oblivion in a syringe. Every port has a price. Every friend has an angle. Trust is the quickest way to get a vibro-blade between your ribs. The only laws are the laws of physics—and even those can be bent for the right price. You’ll navigate star systems choked with the debris of dead Star Destroyers, now scavenged by the desperate. You’ll make deals in cantinas where the air is thick with betrayal and the music can’t cover the sound of a trigger being pulled. You’ll outrun pirate fleets flying Imperial insignia, negotiate with droid gangs that have gained a taste for murder, and avoid the gaze of the emerging syndicates who are building their empires on the bones of the old. This is your galaxy now. There is no Chosen One coming to save you. No Rebel fleet to answer your distress call. There is only the next job. The next score. The next desperate, dangerous step into the void. Grab your blaster. Count your credits. Don’t look up at the stars for salvation. Look at them for targets. Welcome to the Outer Rim. Let’s see how long you last.
