Private a beacon for trade

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Denon
Outfit
Mask

The massive city skylines of Denon were reminiscent of Coruscant, it held a familiar feeling for Damian. Of course the clear difference was evident in what was expected between the two planets, Coruscant the jewel of the Core and right below the shadow of the underworld. But Denon? If corruption was the subtle undertone of Coruscant, Denon marched to the beat openly. Damian for his part accepted for what it was; credits making the world spin faster. Or slower.

Nothing better than to disguise the rather ugly business of. . . business, than galas and other formal parties. Such an event that Damian found himself partaking, it was indeed a rather quaint idea to host a masquerade. The young du Couteau heir wasn’t sure if there were many that would appreciate the irony of it all. Instead Damian hoped it would buy him enough goodwill and some leniency for future deals. As well as parties such as these provide great cover unforeseen expenses.

Damian’s mask only left out his mouth, which allowed him to present a different mask as he smiled and greeted those attending the masque. He danced when it was polite to do so, Damian made sure that many people saw him move around and talk and mingle. Only after he figured a suitable amount of time had been spent ingratiating himself did he begin to gracefully move towards a secluded area near the balcony. There was a time when he had the energy to entertain everyone through the night, but as time wore on Damian had found himself lacking the drive to pursue such efforts past an acceptable point.

The air had turned rather frigid, the skyscraper they had hosted the party was chosen deliberately for this reason. The cold-blooded need the warmth to live. Damian sighed happily as he took in the fresh chilly air of the Denon night. Deals had been made, mostly with the shipyard guides but the bankers and other investment firms needed a more personal touch so the masquerade was created for tonight. He had spent his time carefully to align all his tools and made the proper adjustments for any possible errors.

“Now we just need direction.”
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

A Beacon of Trade
Location: Denon
Objective: Pep Talk
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Damian du Couteau

"Damian, oh Damian.."​

A soft chuckle slipped into the cold night air.2

"Direction?"

The voice was smooth, indulgent, and laced with amusement—like velvet brushing against steel. It carried the same dangerous familiarity as a whispered secret, meant only for those clever enough to listen.

Serina Calis stepped forward from the shadows of the balcony's edge, the flickering neon skyline of Denon casting shifting hues against the elaborate mask she wore. A deep, angular design covered the upper half of her face, laced with delicate patterns that shimmered in the low light—crimson and magenta highlights pulsing faintly like embers beneath a dying flame. Beneath it, her lips curled into something equal parts knowing and dangerous.

"You've always struck me as a man who already knows where he's going," she mused, stopping just beside him. "Or are you simply waiting for the right breeze to push you forward?"

The chill of the Denon night didn't seem to bother her. If anything, she seemed perfectly at home in it, her cape shifting lightly behind her, catching the wind like the banner of an army unseen.

She turned slightly, her blue eyes glinting behind the mask as she regarded him.

"You've been busy, heir du Couteau," she purred, the teasing lilt unmistakable. "Building bridges, cutting deals, dancing just enough to be seen." A small, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. "How diplomatic of you."

She let the words linger before shifting her attention to the cityscape beyond.

"Denon is… charming, isn't it?" she continued, her voice taking on a mockingly contemplative tone. "Where Coruscant pretends at civility, Denon doesn't bother with the façade. No grand illusions of honor or duty—just business, profit, and survival. Refreshing, in its own way."

A pause. Then, with a sidelong glance, she added,

"And yet, you're here playing your role, same as always."

The words weren't quite a jab, but they weren't entirely neutral either.

Finally, she exhaled, letting the moment settle before tilting her head slightly.

"So tell me, dear Damian," she murmured, her voice dipping into something richer, more serpentine. "What direction are you looking for?"

She took a step closer then, the space between them narrowing just enough for the scent of her perfume—something faintly floral, but edged with something darker—to mix with the cold night air.

"Or is it that you already know," she continued, her lips curling ever so slightly, "and you're simply waiting for someone to say it aloud?"

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Denon
Outfit
Mask

Damian turned his body to face Serina, offering a bow along with a wry smile as he returned his gaze out towards the city. He had intended to meet with her sooner, the whole Sith incursion had put a brake on those plans. Yet here, all those troubles look so far away. The stars above held wars, tragedy and untold terrors, yet from where he stood those stars shone brightly and beautifully.

“The winds blow whichever way, all we can do is see the direction it takes.” Damian stretched out his hand. Seemingly attempted to grab the wind and opened his hand before retreating his arm back to his body.

The space between the two of them grew closer when Serina took in a step, there was a moment of uncomfortableness and wariness. The fragrance of her perfume however brought back an old memory of a floral spring. Damian turned his masked face to Serina, his visible lips offering a soft smile.

“You can say anything here, the winds will scatter your words, disappearing across the planet.” Damian spoke, an assurance that their meeting was about openness.

“When credits flow as freely as they do here, shifting through it all will carry any influence further than any can anticipate. . .” Damian explained and warned as he turned his body and faced the entrance of the balcony.

“Denon here is where a future trade lane will end, so imagine for a moment of how ancient miners would pan for gold near the bottom of a river.” Damian turned his head back to Serina, taking in her mask which held equal beautiful detail as her armor when they had first met. "A golden river, flowing with potential riches."

“So, Lady Calis, when I reach my hand to direct this flow; what should I collect and search for near the end of this river?”

Damian was thankful for the mask covering his eye, the uncertainty of the future had only grown. Faith provided the reason to wake and move but the very floor he walked on wasn't built with faith alone. The apprehension of future though had grounded Damian to keep himself guarded, ready for any potential damage control. It's not about covering my steps, but making sure there are future steps to cover.
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

A Beacon of Trade
Location: Denon
Objective: Pep Talk
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Damian du Couteau

"Damian, oh Damian.."​

Serina watched him with quiet amusement, the neon glow of Denon's skyline casting fractured light across her mask. The way he spoke—so measured, so careful, yet undeniably ambitious—was a game unto itself. There was something calculated in his words, yet never reckless. He was a man who saw the board but refused to let himself be swept into the illusion that he controlled all its pieces.

Good.

That meant he understood something most men in his position never did—power was never truly held, only managed.

She let the silence stretch between them for a moment, watching as he reached for the wind, fingers curling around nothing but the night air before retreating. It was poetic in its own way, his soft assurances that she could speak freely, his gaze flickering between her and the endless possibilities laid bare before them.

Serina tilted her head, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips beneath the mask.

"You speak of rivers, of golden flows," she murmured, "but tell me, Damian—do you wish to pan for wealth? To sift through the current, collecting what the water deems fit to leave behind?"

She let the question settle, let it press against the space between them before she turned slightly, her eyes following his toward the city below.

"Or do you wish to dam the river? To shape its course and decide who gets to drink?"

A soft chuckle slipped past her lips, low and indulgent.

"Your trade lane," she mused, "this golden river you so carefully direct—it will do more than line pockets, more than create prosperity. It will decide which worlds rise and which fall. It will determine which families grow fat from the spoils and which are left to scrape at the edges of history."

She turned to him fully then, her voice dipping into something darker, something laced with meaning.

"Do not simply collect from this river, Damian. Own it."

Her gloved fingers reached out then, a slow, deliberate motion, brushing lightly against the sleeve of his coat before retreating just as quickly—a fleeting gesture, there and gone.

She exhaled, letting the cold air coil between them.

"And if you mean to own it, you must ask yourself a different question entirely."

Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

"Who do you intend to drown?"

The words carried no malice, no overt cruelty. They were not a threat, nor even a suggestion. They were simply the inevitable truth that every architect of power eventually had to answer.

Serina took a slow step back, as if giving him the space to absorb the weight of her words.

She let the moment stretch before speaking again, this time lighter, smoother, her tone returning to that velvety amusement she so often wore like armor.

"As for what you should search for?" She hummed thoughtfully, tilting her chin slightly. "Loyalty, first and foremost. You will find no shortage of eager hands willing to cup the water you spill, but only fools mistake beggars for partners."

Her smirk returned, playful and dangerous all at once.

"And if you are to build this golden river, you will need those who understand why it must flow in the first place."

She turned then, the neon lights of Denon catching the intricate details of her mask, making it shimmer like some ethereal artifact in the dark.

"One day, Damian," she murmured, stepping toward the balcony's edge, "you may find that your river is not gold at all."

She cast a glance back at him, her lips curling ever so slightly.

"But blood flows just as easily."

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Denon
Outfit
Mask

It was as if the manifestation of avarice appeared before him, the influence and urges to reach out further than ever. Damian understood the market economy, capitalism was an ever present power that dictates the galaxy. Probably give the Force a run for its money in terms of influence. Free trade allowed the birth of major industry in travel and ship building, such feats fueled exploration and markets to heights never before seen.

Damian listened carefully, he didn’t move when Serina moved her hand to brush against his coat. When he had first met her it had taken him a bit of time to adjust to her presence, a near constant fight in himself to both keep his guard up and allow himself to be open minded. Her poetic language challenged his own fanciful and flowery vocabulary, a difficult thing to weave through subtext and analogies or metaphors.

“I’ve spent time dealing with analytics, consumer behavior reports, and handling reports of planetary economies during economic slow-downs and market contractions.” Damian spoke, his voice had hardened a tad.

He slowly removed his mask and placed it so he could look directly at eye-level for a moment, his lips formed into a straight line.

“When unemployment rises by a single point there is a significant statistical rise in yearly depression and suicide rates. . . and the more a planetary economy is connected to a wider galactic market the larger compounding affects become to all market participants.” Damian slowly placed his mask back on as his voice turned cold.

“There’s already blood in all these rivers, long before either of us have been born and no doubt will continue until the heat death of the universe.”

Damian sighed as he leaned against the railing of the balcony, his right hand gently rubbed his chin before he crossed both arms over his chest. These kinds of discussions were always the reason he worked long hours through the night, he couldn’t remove humanity from his equations and graphs.

Hundreds of trillions of Alliance civilians, what a ludicrous number to even fathom.

He shifted through countless data-slates filled with reports and instinctively Damian could calculate the percentage of how many children would go hungry or families broken when certain economic downturn thresholds were met.

How much my home has and will continue to suffer, even after liberation.

“I usually find myself as a councilor when it comes to these deals, for that very reason of needing people whose loyalty can be measured with a bank statement.” Damian shrugged, he needed to consider how to better surround himself in the future. An area to work on in the future.

“Appearances matter far too much for these situations, any actual ownership can be dangerous information. So best to let others build dams with promises of unimaginable potential and they’ll gladly accept losses, dreams of wealth are difficult realities to crush.” Damian explained, a standard plan of letting others absorb the losses while he collects the positive credit flow elsewhere.

“And Lady Calis, I’d avoid any short term investments within the Core. Our memories can be short but habits are difficult to change. Even if the malignant forces of the Maw have been scrubbed clean; the Markets won’t reflect the change. Worst yet the prospect of reconstruction and reconciliation will only drag the economies in those systems down.” Damian spoke matter of fact as the night air sent a chill down his spine. It is quite cold out here.

“I can have my reports sent to you if you desire them.” He offered, his masked face turned towards Serina. “-Unless you have any other private matters to discuss, perhaps we should head inside.”
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

A Beacon of Trade
Location: Denon
Objective: Pep Talk
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Damian du Couteau

"Damian, oh Damian.."​

Serina's lips curled as she listened, the indulgence in her expression deepening with every carefully measured word that passed from Damian's mouth.

Ah, so this was the depth beneath the charm.

Beneath the pleasantries, beneath the courtly smiles and soft-spoken diplomacy, there was a man who knew the weight of numbers not just as figures on a ledger, but as lives. He did not simply calculate profit and loss—he felt them, even as he steeled himself behind the cold arithmetic of his profession.

How deliciously rare.

She took a slow step forward, deliberate, knowing exactly how close she was getting, the warmth of her presence contrasting against the chill of the Denon night.

"Do you ever tire of carrying all that?" she murmured, her voice dipped in honeyed silk, yet tinged with something far more predatory. "Of running the calculations in your head, knowing exactly how many children will starve before a single credit changes hands?"

She reached up, letting a gloved finger trace along the balcony's railing, almost absentmindedly, as she tilted her masked face toward him.

"You play the role of the counselor," she mused, her tone dipping into something almost sinfully smooth, "yet I wonder if you ever long to be something more. Something… indulgent."

Her voice dripped like molten gold, coating each syllable with something languid and dangerous.

She took another step, closer still, just enough for him to feel the faintest brush of her cape against his sleeve.

"We both know how this works, dear Damian," she purred, her breath just barely above a whisper, a private intimacy wrapped in the guise of professionalism. "Loyalty is a currency, and men will sell their souls for the right price. But what about you?"

Her fingers trailed from the railing to the very edge of his sleeve, a featherlight touch, a barely-there implication.

"What would it take for you to spend instead of simply collecting?"

Her blue eyes gleamed behind her mask, sharp as a knife's edge, her smirk deepening.

"Or do you prefer to watch from the sidelines, enjoying the show as others drown in their own ambition?"

She let that hang for a moment before exhaling a slow, indulgent sigh.

"As for your reports," she murmured, voice dipped in something close to seduction yet laced with absolute professionalism, "I would be very interested in them."

Her lips parted slightly, her gaze flicking just barely toward his masked face before dragging back to meet his eye.

"After all, if I am to play in your golden river, I should at least know how deep it runs."

The words could have been spoken about finance, about markets, about strategy.

And yet.

There was something else in them, a deliberate decadence, a tease wrapped in layers of professional intrigue.

She let the silence stretch between them before turning ever so slightly, the movement sending the scent of her perfume—floral, but edged with something dark and lingering—drifting between them.

"Inside, then," she murmured, her smirk still in place.

"Before I decide to keep you out here all night, just to see how long before you beg for warmth."

And with that, Serina turned on her heel, the glow of Denon's neon skyline casting a sultry haze along the edges of her form as she strode toward the entrance—not waiting to see if he would follow, but knowing that he would.

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Denon
Outfit
Mask

Damian often wondered if the weight was shrugged off but the dangers of never being able to bear it again. The struggle had been so much of his life that Damian would feel lost without burdens, but the question remained. Am I tired enough to find anything better? He shook his head, maybe in the future he would label it a curse marked on his soul, but Damian found the courage to see it as nothing more than his responsibility.

“Maybe in a different life I would be quite self-indulgent.”

The night remained cold and Serina took a careful step forward, again she invaded his personal space. The flora aroma and the subtle touches of fabric and once with her hand against his sleeve. Perhaps in another life indeed Damian might have played along with this game; but his coldness had grown and only a select few knew where to find the softness left in his heart.

“I’ll be sure to provide proper safety wear for any swims.” Damian knew the dangers that when people drown they grasp for anything or anything and bring others down with them to the depths.

Best to avoid such blatant desperation if at all possible, or keep a healthy distance between them.

Damian followed Serina back inside, the murmurs and chatter of other party attendees grew as the two approached. The quietness that he had wished to find solace within was soon assaulted as Damian braced himself. His lips gently formed an impish smile, the only part of his mask that offered no cover. It’s important to keep myself smiling, better to have proper practice.

“Many people here believe themselves to be vipers, but most are garden snakes. Ambitions you’ll come to find are nothing more than hair-dressings. Desperation they hide and their envy and lust blinds them.” Damian softly spoke, his head tilted towards the side and closer to Serina.

“But all the same, I must ask about your exposure tolerance,” Damian kept his smile as his words turned rather serious, “-Because while I am comfortable with scrutiny, the Senate might at times be rather feckless but they are neither incompetent or without reach.”
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

A Beacon of Trade
Location: Denon
Objective: Pep Talk
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Damian du Couteau

"Damian, oh Damian.."​

- Music -

• 
  
  
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• 
  
  

Serina did not hesitate as she re-entered the masquerade, moving with the same effortless grace as though she had never stepped away from the lights and whispers of the gathering. She listened as Damian spoke, the amusement in his voice laced with something harder, something colder beneath the polished exterior.

She did not need to look at him to feel the shift in his demeanor.

The smile he wore was not for himself, nor even for her. It was for them—the vipers, the garden snakes, the ones who slithered about, mistaking their well-practiced illusions for power.

Serina let her own lips curl into something indulgent, something knowing.

"They are all so desperate to be feared," she murmured, tilting her head slightly toward him as if sharing a private amusement. "But true predators do not waste time hissing."

She let the words settle before shifting her attention back to the masquerade, allowing herself to enjoy the sight of ambition wrapped in silk, of hollow confidence masked beneath careful laughter.

When he spoke again—of exposure—her eyes flicked back to him, her smirk deepening.

Ah.

Now that was a question worth considering.

She stepped just slightly closer, her voice dropping into something languid, something meant only for his ears.

"Oh, Damian," she purred, her tone rich with indulgence, licentious in a way that was meant to distract but never truly conceal. "I thrive beneath scrutiny."

Her fingers trailed lightly along the edge of a passing champagne flute, the gesture idle yet deliberate.

"The Senate may be neither incompetent nor powerless," she continued, tilting her chin just enough for the soft glow of the chandeliers to catch the gilded edges of her mask. "But they are predictable."

Her blue eyes gleamed behind the ornate design, sharp and assessing.

"And I do so enjoy a predictable game."

She turned slightly, as if considering the gathered guests, before shifting her gaze back to him.

"Let them watch," she murmured, her smirk laced with something darker, something close to invitation. "Let them whisper, let them wonder."

Then, ever so slowly, she reached out—not for his hand, not for his sleeve, but for the edge of his mask, a touch so light it barely even registered as contact.

"You wear it well," she mused, her voice lower now, more intimate.

"But do you know why you wear it?"

A pause.

Then, with the same deliberate, lingering motion, she withdrew her hand, her smile never faltering.

"Scrutiny is only a weapon if you fear it," she continued, the heat of her breath almost brushing against his ear before she leaned back, her expression one of wicked delight.

"Tell me, Damian—do you fear it?"

There was no mockery in the question, no outright challenge. Only the undeniable truth that Serina was playing a game of her own, one that did not end with mere influence and whispered negotiations.

No, she wanted something else entirely.

Something far more dangerous.

And she had every intention of finding out just how much he was willing to risk.

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Denon
Outfit
Mask

Damian froze, his lips kept his smile as his lone eye focused on Serina as her hand danced towards the side of his face. Even with the mask he wore it was if a phantom touch brushed across him. He wondered if this was a test from her as she coiled around him, a careful prod to see where his buttons were. Her lips were far too close to her ear, a whisper of sorts that nearly sent a shiver down his spine.

The young du Couteau heir always worried about scrutiny, it was almost a job for him to internalize potential public perception. Clean ups, payouts, potential litigations and such all required careful attention and even further focus to more deftly avoid such appearances on audits. Years of careful curation of a perfect image could be wiped out near instantly do to a single poor choice. Or poor placement of a camera.

“I would have guessed you avoided predictable games, on account of potential boredom.” Damian commentated.

Slowly he regained his ability to move, his arms gently crossed over his chest as he tilted head and looked at Serina with a subtle expression of surprise. He offered a shrug of support, many games often ended predictable once a certain level of skill had been achieved. Yet there was always still some fun to be had for the sake of perfection of any game.

“But to your question of fear? Certainly. Maybe not to the extent of it being debilitating but I hardly see it as a weapon. . . more skin a passive alarm.” Damian’s voice held a tinge of argumentativeness.

He paused for a moment, a realization that maybe she did in fact trigger a flight or fight response. Damian took pride in his ability to seek out his weakness and cracks in his armour, but to leverage such an ability as a strength was folly. Lost though was such a thought as he continued to maintain a mask of unguarded attention with a smile.

“Regardless, I might need to recheck the risk tolerance parameters later.” Damian sighed in defeat as he began to plan on how to configure future reports. “Though would it be too difficult to be a tad more subtle?” He asked, though his voice gave a hint of a plea.
​

|| Serina Calis​

 

[Serina Calis]

A Beacon of Trade
Location: Denon
Objective: Pep Talk
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Damian du Couteau

"Damian, oh Damian.."​

- Music -

• 
  
  
• 
  
• 
  
  

Serina regarded Damian for a long, drawn-out moment—longer than most would dare in a room full of hungry eyes and poised daggers. In that silence, wrapped in the warmth of laughter and the clinking of crystal, her expression remained unreadable behind the elegant mask, though the curve of her lips and the slight angle of her head betrayed the ghost of something ancient and alluring: appetite.

Not hunger for flesh or even for affection—though those, too, could be tools—but for weakness. For the cracks that revealed themselves not in defeat, but in resistance.

And he had resisted.

His stillness, that flicker in his eye, the tension coiled beneath the surface of his carefully composed posture—it was a symphony of restraint.

Beautiful.

She savored it like the first sip of rare wine.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, velvety, and polished—every syllable a note plucked from an instrument long out of tune with morality.

"Subtlety," she echoed, with the air of one indulging a child's modest request at a grand table. "Damian, darling—if I were subtle…"

She stepped to his side, her tone never rising, never rushing, her presence still and poised like the eye of a storm.

"…you wouldn't be thinking about me at all."

A passing servant offered champagne. She waved it away with a flick of her fingers, not rudely, but with the unconscious dominance of someone used to being served—not interrupted.

"You asked earlier whether I grow bored of predictable games," she continued, her voice a silky murmur meant only for him as they stood just barely apart amidst the masquerade's golden glow. "But what you misunderstand is that I do not play them for the outcome."

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, half-lidded behind her mask, shining with something dangerous and magnetic.

"I play them for the people. You, for instance."

She didn't touch him this time. She didn't need to. Her words slid along the skin more intimately than fingers ever could.

"You hide behind calculation, behind neat categories and measured variables. The strategist. The counselor. The protector. You dress your fear as caution, and your heart as duty."

She turned slightly, letting her gaze drift toward the crowd once more as if letting her attention wander—but the edges of her mouth twitched into a knowing smirk.

"I have met men like you before, Damian. Men who believe that by keeping the storm outside, they can stay dry inside. But they never realize…"

Her fingers, gloved in fine black silk, tapped the edge of her mask once.

"…the storm is already within them. All I do is show them the reflection."

Her words weren't mocking. There was no cruelty in her voice, only that infuriating, intoxicating confidence—an intimate knowledge of corruption not as something to force, but something to reveal.

And for just a moment, the mask of the courtier slipped—not fully, but enough for him to glimpse something older than politics and sharper than ambition.

Serina Calis did not seek power for its own sake. She was not a glutton, nor a tyrant.

She was power. Or rather, what power became when it stopped pretending to be righteous.

A living temptation. A mirror turned back on the world, whispering: you could have more.

"And you worry," she added softly, tilting her head so her golden hair caught the chandelier light, "about what a poor choice might do to your perfect record. Your calculations, your reports, your controlled appearances."

She took a breath. Not deep, but slow. The kind of breath someone might take before leaning in to kiss, or before whispering a confession into the dark.

"But there's a truth you already know, somewhere beneath the layers of protocol."

She leaned in, close enough that only he could hear the next words:

"You cannot chart the shape of a soul on a spreadsheet."

Then, like vapor, she stepped back again—graceful, composed, her voice lifting just slightly back to its professional register.

"As for your parameters," she said, returning to the earlier thread as if it had never strayed into something more intimate, "I'll leave those to your discretion. Though I do enjoy seeing where the margins blur."

She reached for a champagne glass now—not to drink, but to hold, the way one might hold a secret.

"But do send me the revised risk models," she added with a slight incline of her head, her voice gliding back into professionalism, albeit tinted by that ever-present, velvety warmth. "I like knowing the odds. Even when I intend to ignore them."

Then she turned her body ever so slightly toward the ballroom again, though not fully away from him—never fully away from him.

She allowed the music to rise between them for a moment, before she said, almost absently:

"Tell me, Damian…"

Her tone was coy, but her expression remained impassive—dangerously neutral.

"…at what point does caution become its own kind of vice?"

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Denon
Outfit
Mask

Damian found himself dangerously close between visible discomfort or broken composure, the noise of the party had grounded him for a moment. His effort to remain not just presence but to figure out who Serina was had collided with his obligation to remain as things were for the time being. She moved with certain grace and forbearance of someone truly unique or perhaps Damian had simply been unable to keep with her from the start.

My instincts were right, dangerous was not just a label.

“Well if I am your plaything, I do hope as a child you had not the reputation of being careless with your toys.” He voiced his concern, sarcasm dripped from every word. A new tactic, a different shield.

“I can be quite the fragile porcelain doll.”

He relaxed inward, even as Serina moved closer and spoke with an almost breathless voice that felt as if after his own breath. In his own opinion there was plenty that numbers could chart that would give most people an idea of where those lives amounted in totality. He had little reason to despair over such reality, most lives could be counted on a data-slate in his office.

A number, that is all we can ever count ourselves to be. . . . or is there more? A terrible notion that the young du Couteau heir feared. The want for more.

“The margins may blur as I attempt to keep things from spilling over, but it may surprise some that as a bean counter; I tend to not count every bean that falls to the wayside. . . it appears more natural on the charts and sheets.” Damian explained, his confidence had grown back into his voice.

He glanced to his side for a moment, the party had steadily moved along and Damian could feel satisfaction in the air. A sensation that no doubt would pass for many of the attendees as they leave the building and return to their lives. Damian returned his attention back to Serina, her question of his vice was a bit different.

I may be afraid, but never am I scared.

“Care for a single dance before the night ends?” He raised his hand upwards, an impish smile tugged the corners of his lips. His mask had returned and along with his bravery. His pride was his vice; as a Tetan Noble groomed to be among the elite and expected to see himself unique all the same.
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

A Beacon of Trade
Location: Denon
Objective: Pep Talk
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Damian du Couteau

"Damian, oh Damian.."​

Serina paused mid-step. One foot pivoted elegantly on the polished marble floor of the ballroom, the hem of her gown catching just so in the ambient light—half flame, half shadow.

His words—sarcastic, shielded—drifted behind her like an afterthought he hoped might protect him.

Porcelain doll.
Careless with her toys.

She smiled.

Not the smirk she wore like jewelry, nor the dangerous curve of indulgence that usually lined her lips. This one was smaller. Slower. Knowing. As though he'd revealed more in jest than he ever would in confession.

She turned back toward him, her posture unhurried, regal in its calm as she approached once more. But this time, her movements were gentler—less like a predator and more like a storm that had chosen not to strike… yet.

"Porcelain shatters only when dropped," she said, her voice like silk sliding over glass. "But I don't drop my toys, Damian."
Her tone was polished and low, each word drawn out with a measured care that made it impossible to tell whether she was reassuring him… or warning him.

"I learn their weight."
A step closer.

"I test their balance."
Another.

"And when the time comes…" Her gloved hand lifted—halfway between invitation and demonstration—"…I set them down exactly where I want them."

She let her fingers fall, gently, into her palm. A closed gesture. But the tension in the room, in the air between them, felt wide open.

Then came his deflection. His control. The pride slipping back into place like a practiced mask.

Serina admired that.

Truly.

It meant he was still playing. And for someone like her… that was everything.

She circled slightly, slowly, around him—never touching, never rushing—until she stood just behind his shoulder. Her voice followed him like a whisper, carried on the delicate perfume of violet and spice and something unknowably ancient.

"You're not wrong," she murmured. "Not every bean should be counted. Not every secret should be told. Appearances, after all…" She leaned in, her lips nearly brushing the edge of his mask. "…must be maintained."

And then she pulled away.

With all the grace of a woman who had never stumbled.

With all the certainty of one who never needed to.

He offered his hand.

A dance.

Not as a challenge, nor as an obligation. But as something else. Something braver.

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked at his hand, his posture, his perfectly reconstructed poise. The lone crimson eye behind the mask. The slight curl of a smile that spoke not of comfort but of defiance. Pride as a vice. Control as identity. Fear—yes—but fear worn like armor.

Serina reached out and slid her gloved hand into his.

"I accept."

Simple. Professional.

But then her thumb brushed his wrist, slow and deliberate.

Licentious.

A thousand unspoken meanings in one movement.

She let the music wrap around them as they took their first step onto the floor—his pace sure, her presence liquid. They moved through the sea of masks and silent negotiations, two actors in a play that neither audience nor cast had been invited to understand.

And as they danced—gliding effortlessly, silently, like two constellations locked in some ancient orbit—Serina spoke again.

Calm. Low. Lethal.

"Tell me, Damian…"

Her head tilted subtly toward his as they turned.

"…what do you desire?"

She didn't ask like a consultant, nor a partner. She didn't couch the words in euphemism or soften them with diplomacy. There was no suggestion of limits, nor expectation of reward.

Only certainty.

Certainty that she could.
Certainty that she would.
Certainty that this game they played—this beautiful, elegant deception of civility—was nothing more than the surface.

And she was offering him the deep.

Not in promise.
In invitation.

"What deal," she murmured, her lips close, her breath warm against the side of his jaw, "are you too careful to make in the light?"

And beneath the mask, behind the elegance and the poise and the practiced diplomacy…

She waited.

Poised not like a blade—no, she was far more refined than that.

She was the hand that offered it.

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Denon
Outfit
Mask

Damian understood the “game” that all nobility play in the courts and palaces, it was taught to him from a very young age. His father despised the game but grew to accept it for everything that it was, he never intended for his children to ever entertain such wombats in the belfry behavior. The young du Couteau heir inherited much of what his father feared to pass on, none to blame but the cruelty of it all in the galaxy.

But the game was old, perhaps as old as the galaxy, and it demanded a heavy cost for those who wished to continue to play. And even a heavier cost to those who wish to never play again. Damian for his part embraced it all for everything that it wasn’t. It gave him the ability to not cast judgement and keep many thoughts simple and straight forward.

Their dance together was near effortless, but Damian could recall tales of harsh dance instructors. The effort was clear as day in his movements, his body instinctively moved, the years of practice honed deep into his bones.

He listened to Serina, her words pressed against his ear and Damian took a moment as he allowed the flow of music and their dance to pace his next words. As he pressed closer to Serina, his voice lowed for only her to hear.

“Control, control over the Force.” Damian expressed through his wry lips, a hint of bitterness escaped like droplets. “-By any means.” He was the only du Couteau in his family to not had been born to wield the Force.

A truth he had been determined to keep it deep within the darkest corners of his mind and heart.

Damian then pulled back, he could tell by the music their dance neared completion. He pulled back in, the corners of his lips tugged upwards to a boyish grin. He enjoyed the game.

Silly games for a silly galaxy. Perhaps that was what made it all that more tragic, the perseverance of those with the determination to find deeper meaning.

“That or love.” He found himself able to laugh as he continued to hold his mask as tightly as ever.
​

|| Serina Calis ||​

 

[Serina Calis]

A Beacon of Trade
Location: Denon
Objective: Pep Talk
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Damian du Couteau

"Damian, oh Damian.."​

The moment the word passed his lips—control—Serina felt it.

Not in the way one feels surprise, or revelation. No. It was far more intimate than that.

It was like a ripple across still water, a tremor beneath glacial ice. That one word, spoken through the mask of wry charm and well-practiced poise, told her more about Damian du Couteau than any dossier ever could.

Control over the Force.

By any means.

The bitter little fracture in his voice, that vulnerable spill of truth so neatly disguised as casual conversation, was exquisite. It wasn't just ambition. It was yearning.

She knew yearning.

Oh, how she knew it.

Their bodies moved in synchrony, his precision obvious in the arc of his steps and the tension in his grip—not stiff, but deliberate, controlled. He danced like a man who had been trained to entertain but taught to guard himself. There was strength in that. Beauty, too.

But Serina Calis was not here for beauty.

She was here for weakness.

Not to exploit it, no—that would be crude, artless. A lesser being's game. She was here to become it. To offer the reflection of what he feared most… and most desired.

As Damian spoke the second word—love—and laughed behind his mask, Serina smiled. It was not a smile of amusement, nor even of pleasure. It was the faint, unreadable curve of lips that knew the weight of both those words far too intimately.

Control.
Love.

Two sides of the same poisoned coin.

When the final notes of the music drifted like smoke into the crystalline ceiling, she didn't release him immediately. Her hand lingered in his just a breath longer than propriety demanded. Her presence hung in the space between them like incense, rich and unshakable.

She leaned in again, as she had before—but slower this time. Not to whisper. Not yet. To watch.

Her blue eyes searched his, framed in gold and shadow, and for a moment—just one—there was no performance. No smirk. No mask.

Only hunger.

And then she spoke.

Her voice was velvet, wrapped in fire.

"The Force," she murmured, "is the greatest seduction of all."

The words fell soft, like petals—like ashes.

"Some seek it to heal. Others to conquer. But those who crave control…" She trailed a fingertip along the edge of his sleeve, the gesture ghost-light, electric. "They are the ones who see it for what it truly is."

Her lips were near his ear again, but the tone was different now. Not flirtation. Not manipulation.

Reverence.

"And what it is… is a lie."

A pause.

"Not because it deceives."

Another breath, a whisper.

"But because it tells you the truth, and dares you to reach for it anyway."

She pulled back slightly, and her smile returned—not playful this time, not mocking. But knowing. Deep. Hollowed by experience.

"I have seen men destroy worlds in the name of peace. Women sacrifice everything they love for strength they could never hope to master. The Force does not care. It only answers."

Then, finally—finally—she let him go, taking a slow, elegant step back, her fingers slipping from his with the gentleness of silk leaving skin.

But her presence did not leave him.

It never did.

She turned halfway toward the crowd, her mask catching the light again, casting her in a glow of gold and crimson that made her seem half-statue, half-specter.

"I do not fear it," she said, just loud enough for him to hear. "Because I do not serve it."

And then, slowly, she glanced back over her shoulder—eyes gleaming beneath the mask, lips parted just slightly, like the edge of an invitation carved in marble.

"I do not love it either."

A pause.

"I simply let it surrender."

Then she turned fully, her cape trailing behind her like spilled ink, vanishing into the crowd as if she had never existed at all.

But Damian would know.

Oh, he would feel it.

The truth of her—not just a woman, not just a noble, not even just a Force user—but something more elemental. A temptation shaped into flesh. Not the chaos of evil, nor the rigidity of Sith dogma. Something older.

The living embodiment of corruption.
The gentle, damning hand of seduction.
The voice that spoke not to your fears… but to your desires.

She had offered him a question.

What do you need done?

And now, the far more dangerous one hung in the air:

What would you give for it?