Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Duel An Epica Duel of Epica Proportions







EPICA

His visible comfort with parting with that many credits for so little made him stand out.

Even his outfit drew attention. He'd gone for something casual—deliberately casual. A tropical-themed shirt, unbuttoned over a plain white undershirt, paired with cargo pants that matched his white socks and sandals. A yellow straw hat sat atop his head, and a pair of sunglasses hung from the collar of his shirt.

Overpriced was the first word that came to mind as he watched the bartender serve his drink. Coruscanti whiskey—single malt, on the rocks. He could've gotten the same pour for a quarter of the price back home in the Underworld. The picture formed in his mind: Eddie's, a dive he frequented after missions to unwind and think—cheap drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He'd trade the fine leather stool and lacquered wooden bar for that place any day, especially with prices like these. He wouldn't be surprised if the vending machines here had even more exorbitant markups—and those things were already overpriced by design.

But he supposed this was the norm. Epica was a place of luxury and wealth, and the businesses there were keen to take advantage of that fact. Well, he'd just charge it to the Order—or snag it during a mission. He had his methods, and they consistently kept the credits flowing. That said, even a stable flow wouldn't support overpriced whiskey like this for more than a few months.

Still… he had to admit—the place was nice. And nice places attracted the rich and powerful. But the rich and powerful weren't where the best fights were. He'd heard whispers about deathmatches hosted by the affluent, but hadn't bothered to chase down the rumors. Effort wasn't something he was looking to spend. Not today.

He was on vacation, after all.

Srina Talon Srina Talon
 

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Tag: Drystan Creed Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Bar]
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The salty sea air wrapped itself lazily around the open bar, mingling with music, the low hum of laughter and the occasional clinking glass. It reminded her of the time she'd spent with Darth Empyrean Darth Empyrean on the Technicolor Beat before his more…Sobering, calling to Eternalism. The slender Echani moved through the crowd as if she were a creature conjured of myth. Real, but only just. There was nothing ostentatious about her presence, nothing that identified her as anything other than a patron, though she always carried the cloying scent of jasmine and rain.

Most would mistake it for perfume, rather, than excess power leaking from her being.

She would not correct them.

The Echani-born warrior wore a long white skirt that danced around delicate ankles and a silvery top that shimmered just enough to catch the eye without being too loud. The fabric skimmed her skin—cool and modest, though it left her shoulders bare and hinted at the line of her back. Matching sandals wrapped elegantly up her calves, silver ties drawn up with effortless care, as if she had strolled the coastline all morning before deciding, on a whim, to stop here.

Silver-white hair had been pulled up into neat buns on either side of her head, a playful style, that seemed to suit the golden-eyed woman despite the seriousness of her expression. Twin streams of long hair fell down her back from each bun, braided, while dotted with white-gold beads and charms. If one inspected closely enough, they would realize that the design on flat surfaces, wasn't just for show. They were glyphs…Alchemically created to hide who, or rather what, she was.

The Sith Empress making herself known in Galactic Alliance space was not on her agenda. What was intended to be a quick exchange could easily turn into an act of war. Not that she held any fault for their northern neighbors, were their places swapped, she wasn't entirely sure what her reaction would be. What nation would ignore the enemy on their doorstep?

Srina took a seat at the bar, the movement fluid, like water filling space. One leg crossed over the other. Her hair caught the sunlight like threads of dawn as she raised her hand to the bartender to signal that she needed service. He looked twice. Thrice. She was almost ethereal but so distant that she seemed untouched by it. As though, this appearance belonged to someone else, and she was merely borrowing the shape. "Something cold and non alcoholic…", she murmured, her glacier tones naturally smooth, and unbroken by the noise of the bar. Quick fingers caught the wrist of the bartender to halt him from leaving immediately.

A pause…"Not too sweet."

He nodded, flashing a grin, and she let him go.

There was no urgency or tension. She wasn't hiding—Only making herself slightly less visible as a Sith in a place where they would be wholly unwelcome. She waited, poised and patient, the perfect illusion. Her gaze, pale and unreadable, scanned the room once. Just once, before she settled.

The courier hadn't arrived yet.

Pity.

She had been very clear in her instructions and tardiness for one who dared to waste her time would certainly come at a cost.
 
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EPICA

"Okay, I can handle the overpriced drinks. But a mandatory tip?"

Cortosis-plated fingers ran through raven hair as Drystan eyed the check, his relatively healthy skin going pale at the sight of even more fees stacked atop an already expensive beverage. This would be the last time he visited this place. Maybe even this planet. It had been a similar experience across the board—good quality, sure, but not enough to justify the exorbitant prices. The locals could afford it, of course… but they also wore watches worth more than his ship.

He elected to finish his drink outside, rising from his stool and paying the required credits, visibly unhappy about parting with such a large sum. At least now he could leave and get some air.

With glass in hand, he turned around and took a step—

Splash.

Drystan halted mid-stride, staring up at a now-alcohol-drenched Dowutin. A massive fellow, even by his species' standards—three meters tall, a ton of raw muscle and horn, and clearly not someone who took embarrassment lightly. His now-soaked custom suit clung to him like wet tissue, gold jewelry glinting with every slow breath of rising anger.

Realization widened Drystan's eyes just as the Dowutin's scowl deepened.

Silence.

"…Sorry?" Drystan offered with a sheepish grin.

The Dowutin responded by bending an arm and launching a punch designed to crater skulls.

But in that half-second, Drystan's eyes sharpened—barely perceptible. His knees shifted just slightly, evading the blow with surgical precision. To the average onlooker, the punch merely missed. But a trained eye would've seen the deliberate movement—dodged at the last possible moment, using the smallest motion required.

Then his foot swept forward, exploiting the Dowutin's overcommitment. One well-placed kick tripped the brute, staggering him onto a knee.

The entire exchange happened in a heartbeat—seeming no more than a clumsy lunge and stumble to the untrained eye.

He had to act fast. Defuse the situation. Drawing attention was the last thing he wanted.

"You should leave me alone and find a seat at the bar." He waved a hand, his voice laced with quiet command, the Force slipping into the cracks of the Dowutin's mind.

"I leave you alone and find seat," the Dowutin muttered, before lumbering off—right toward a nearby stool.

"You. In my seat." He now loomed behind a woman—an Echani, judging by the unmistakable silver hair. The heavy perfume confirmed she was probably a local.

Drystan had just reached the exit. His head turned back slowly, eyes wide with horror.

I should've been more specific.

He rarely used the mind trick. And this half-baked command had just roped an innocent into his mess.

Kark. I better clean this up.

Srina Talon Srina Talon
 

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Tag: Drystan Creed Drystan Creed
Location:
Epica [Bar]
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The faintest clink of ice in her glass was the only sound the Echani made.

Srina had felt the Dowutin's approach before the incident ever took place. It wasn't through the Force, not a premonition at all…But by the reverberations that rippled through the floor when it moved. By the way the tile beneath it groaned and creaked from the sheer mass it had to support. These were leathery-looking humanoids who never stopped growing, and this one was at least a century or two old. She didn't see the drink that got spilled, but gold-hewn orbs did follow the "fight" in the mirror behind the bar.

She hadn't expected service and a show…But so be it.

The bar quieted. Not completely—No one screamed, no one ran, but the shift was tangible.

It wasn't her problem, however…Until it was.

She felt anger pressing into her back as if it were heat…But the pale woman sat entirely still. Empty orbs took in the sight of the golem-esque descendant of a herd animal by way of reflective glass, his clothing dripping with whiskey, pride bruised, but relatively intact. Behind the hulking monstrosity that made the liquid in her glass shake like a wave when he so much as shifted his weight from one massive foot to the other stood the reason her peace was interrupted. Her head tilted…She could feel his eyes.

Not the beast, the man in the hat, hovering at the edge of it all—Watching. Eyes so wide. So...Horrified.

"You. In my seat." He now loomed behind a woman—an Echani, judging by the unmistakable silver hair.

The light around her bent, shifting when she started to straighten up, turning flaxen hair into silk-spun threads of white-gold. Srina exhaled quietly through her nose. Not a sigh. Never that. Just a soft acknowledgement of general annoyance. The Dowutin towered above her now, seething, but obviously confused. His mind was clouded. Addled with influence that was not his own. The subtle disturbance in the Force hadn't gone unnoticed, and she took another leisurely sip of her drink while evaluating her current position and the source of the Force ability on display.

She had seen minds bent, twisted, too many times not to know what this was.

This manipulation, however, was vulgar and unpolished…

Lovely. Just, lovely.

Her glass hung lightly in her hand, condensation just beginning to bead at the top. Time seemed to slow, but her expression remained the picture of tranquility. Such a clumsy attempt to patch a simple misstep, barely guided. The confusion of the much larger creature deepened, his focus redirected fully…To her. His lips curled while his chin horns rose indignantly, taking her silence as defiance.

A beefy hand with the weight of a small bantha behind it reached for her shoulder to physically remove her—But she rose.

Or rather, she unfolded, rising with unhurried grace. The movement was so fluid that it would appear as if gravity had suddenly decided to adjust itself around her. Up close, the full weight of her presence began to bleed through the seams of her glamour, but only slightly, like a warm breath to the skin. The scent in the air changed. Jasmine and rain remained…But there was another layer, subtle and strange, rising around her like something blooming in ruin. It was clean, sharp, metallic, and reminiscent of electrical sparks or burning wires. Ozone.

Still. It was carefully maintained…Showing only enough to remind an evolutionary predator that they were in the company of something higher on the food chain. It was not proclaimed, not stated, but a warning that attached itself to base instincts. She turned just enough to meet the eyes of the Dowutin, who seemed entirely perplexed that he couldn't put his hand down. He was frustrated. Shoulders twitching while he prepared to lash out…But the clarity of her hawkish eyes gave him pause.

There was no fear in her.

No offense taken. No escalation.

"Your seat?", the soft murmur was pointed, but frigid, like glass that had been rapidly cooled in a blast chiller. "No, I don't believe it is."

She didn't raise her voice, yell, or make a scene. Her eyes merely held the gaze of the half-ton beast, and he followed her will as if he were caught in a tractor beam. He hesitated. Blinked. And then slowly began to lower himself into the stool next to her, as if that had always been the plan.

As if the mental suggestion had found its proper mark after all.

Srina watched him settle for a long moment, then turned calculating eyes on the culprit of the whole debacle. In reality, the whole event had only lasted a few minutes. Seconds. The bar was already getting back into the swing of things, with music, dancing, and muted laughter that carried sweetly into the rafters. The bartender gradually relaxed, waving off security, while ordering the big man a new drink. He was sullen and compliant…But the Force lingered around him like a heavy fog.

It would take time for it to work itself out of his dim thoughts.

She set her mostly full drink down at the bar and politely paid her tab before turning to leave. Srina would need to make new arrangements with her courier. There was no way they would make an appearance now, not when there were eyes of the Alliance everywhere. Her gaze slipped over the man in the garish tropical shirt, wearing socks and sandals, and found that he was just about as confusing as the whole scenario. Was he a force-sensitive beach-hobo who knew a few tricks? Or a Jedi that had gotten rusty while slumming it with the rich and spoiled denizens of Epica?

He was understated…In the loudest possible way. But, he was clever enough to dodge a three-meter mountain and bold enough to bend another sentient being to his will. So. Not a complete moron.

Srina came to a stop just behind him. Close, but not too close. No contact. No spectacle. Just presence—Unmistakable and absolute. "You owe me a new drink."

—And about five seconds of her life that she would never get back. Once again, she looked him over. Not judging, not rude, just clinical. One might mistake it for the look a tailor would give to a poorly made suit. A ghostly smirk settled into the kiss of her mouth, there and not there, with a flicker of pale amusement making itself known before it died. "And next time you decide to weaponize incompetence…Do yourself a favor…Aim it somewhere else."

She didn't wait for a reply, didn't need one, and instead started to make her way back toward the beach. The cold sea was a much better companion than a Dowutin and a boy playing puppet master.
 

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