Private Dumplings Under Chandeliers

[Darth Virelia]

"Really going to give this a chance?"

Tags - Zee Caromed




Virelia sat on a curved obsidian bench built into the rear bulkhead of the vessel, her legs crossed with regal ease, motionless except for the slow, deliberate rise and fall of her breath.

Wrapped in Tyrant's Embrace, she did not appear seated so much as enthroned. The armor moved with her breath, subtle pulses of violet light shimmering through the crystalline node at her chest—alive, as if it too awaited direction. The six insectile eyes of her mask cast a faint glow against the shuttle walls, eerie and elegant, watching every screen and reflection with languid, inhuman patience.

The interior...

Clean black lines framed soft underlighting in hues of plum and indigo. A narrow wine shelf extended from the side wall, recessed behind a polished transparisteel case, stocked only with selections older than most planets. A velvet-lined console tray sat folded open beside her, holding a decanter of dark fruit brandy, a single curved glass, and a hand-written note from a sommelier on Polis Massa who'd once sworn an oath never to pour for Sith.

He'd poured for her. Under the thread of gunpoint.

To be completely fair, she was drunk.

She had been sitting there for exactly seven minutes and twelve seconds. She waited. And while she waited, she imagined.

Would he come armed again, just in case? Of course. Brave men didn't stop preparing just because they'd survived once. Would he dress up? Would he fidget? Would he blush if she offered wine? Or would he keep that quiet, measured calm that made him so damn interesting to her?

The thought made her smile—just slightly, with a kind of anticipation.

She had not removed her helm. There was a kind of performance in waiting masked. A test. A temptation. What kind of man arrives to a rendezvous with a creature like this and dares to treat her like a woman?

Her voice—when she finally spoke, softly into the shuttle's internal comms—was low and curved, like silk slipping off a blade.

"Open the ramp. Let him choose the direction."

The ship hissed in response, and a slow, patient stream of city-smog air curled inward through the extending boarding ramp. Polis-lit shadows cast bars of neon across her armor. She made no move to rise.

Not yet.

 

[Zee Caromed]

Zee was, to a casual observer, not much of a Mandalorian. Anyone who thought that hadn't seen him prepare for an event where he didn't know or have control of all of the variables in play, though. He'd sworn the Resol'nare, he tended to his duties and obligations as he understood them. He was a child of both of his parents - the Witchknight juggernaut as well as the ever-armored Alor of Caromed. As that latter figure would have insisted (and factually had herself), Zalke prepared for his date as thuroughly as he would going into battle.

Was the event on her ship or were they expected to go elsewhere? He'd assumed Virelia had a plan, but if not he'd made reservations at the finest restaurant in the Talinn district.
Would he need to be just as able to defend himself as he'd had before? Of course he would. He had less space to stash weapons, though. So he kept his lightsaber in a clutch and openly wore his beskar'ika at his hip.
How did you serve while also tending the constraints of the Six Actions? His clan crest painted expertly on his nails, aforementioned beskar'ika, and his trusty Lotek'k jacket. And, of course, the fetching meditation crystal necklace Braze had so thoughtfully gotten for him. He'd done the nails himself, but he'd gotten a professional for this hair and makeup for once.

Keeping in mind that Darth Virelia had expressed a disdain for the working-class aesthetics that Zee normally surrounded himself with, he had dressed appropriately and arrived chauffeured by armored luxury speeder. After all, Zalke was one of the two children of the head of his clan, and the only one to bear the clan's name - his pedigree was without question, and it honored his family to display their wealth and influence from time to time.

Zee stepped out of the speeder once the door had been opened for him. Wearing a sleek designer evening dress he'd comissioned a few weeks ago under his lotek'k jacket, the svelte nurse took the extended ramp as an invitation aboard and acted accordingly. Strappy heels clicking, he ascended fearlessly into the belly of Virelia's ship.

​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Really going to give this a chance?"

Tags - Zee Caromed




She heard the click of his heels before she saw him.

Virelia liked that.

She remained seated, the obsidian bench cradling her form like a throne, the low violet lighting casting long shadows across her armor. Tyrant's Embrace caught the light as if it had swallowed stars and refused to give them back. Her helm turned incrementally as he approached, each of her six glowing eyes narrowing and refocusing like apertures.

Then she rose.

She moved with inhuman smoothness, the armor unfolding with serpentine grace, each plate whispering against the next like an apex predator stretching after a nap. Her cape flowed behind her like living smoke, the crimson underlayers catching the shuttle's ambient glow with each measured stride.

She drank him in.

The evening dress was exquisite—sleek, tailored, designed to command attention without begging for it. But it was the contrast that intrigued her. The jacket, the saber clutch, the shimmering crystal at his throat—it wasn't posturing. It was framing. He had arrived prepared not to impress, but to match her. To meet power with presence.

And his nails...

Finally, she spoke. Her voice poured from behind the helm like velvet mixed with static, rich and crackling with layered tones. Sultry.

"You clean up beautifully, Zee."

She circled him slowly, each step a soft thunder of intention on the shuttle floor. Her fingers, still sheathed in clawed phrik, hovered just above his shoulder as she passed—not quite touching.

"Nails. Designer evening wear under that jacket. A meditation crystal, of all things, nestled right at the throat."

She leaned in slightly, voice dipping.

"You're dressed like temptation and legacy rolled into silk."

Then—click—her helmet released with a hiss of pressure. The six violet eyes flickered out. The plates retracted with a mechanical whisper.

And Serina Calis—Darth Virelia—looked upon him with her own eyes at last.

Bare-faced, bare-necked, a half-smile teasing the corner of her lips.

Her hair was up—precise, coiled into an elegant knot at the crown of her head, leaving her throat bare.

"You didn't just try," she said, stepping into his space fully now, her voice rich with pleasure. "You succeeded."

She reached out, brushing one clawed fingertip along the crystal necklace—not yanking, not testing, just acknowledging.

"And you arrived like a prince, not a servant. That's important."

She looked him in the eyes.

"So tell me, my darling Mandalorian… have you plans to bring me somewhere decadent and dangerous, or am I pouring the wine here and making you talk?"

 

[Zee Caromed]

Zee was mentally confronted with the plausible scenario where he'd showned up in his beskar'gam to pick her up, and they'd gone out to dinner in full armor both. Maybe done a bit of light dancing. Clack clack clack all during the waltz. It took all of his willpower to not burst into laughter. He sublimated the desire into a satisfied smirk - one that was perhaps a bit too like a smile for the cthulu-skin jacket and red lipstick to entirely disguise.

"I'm glad I have your approval." Zee replied honestly as she examined the necklace Braze had given him. If the proximity of the Sith bothered him at all, he gave no indication. He didn't flinch, he didn't pull away. She had the advantage in armor and in height, but that didn't bother Zee. If she'd wanted to kill him, it'd have happened down in that cave. "I read somewhere that the best way to show someone you respect them is to prepare for their presence and value their time. So that's what I've done."

A mischievous smirk as Zee glanced away, trying not to grin. "I don't want you to think I'm all chipped formica counters and dusty caves, after all." He chuckled.

"So tell me, my darling Mandalorian… have you plans to bring me somewhere decadent and dangerous, or am I pouring the wine here and making you talk?"

"As tempting as that proposition is - and how eager I am to drink a Sith under the table - I do have a reservation prepared if you're interested." Zee promised, his wrist twisting to vaguely indicate towards the way he'd come. Though his evening dress and heels couldn't be more different from the ripped jeans and combat boots he'd worn on their excursion into darkness, Zee's demeanor wasn't measurably. His gestures still oscillated between 'dainty and careful' and 'relaxed and confident' without much consistency. Less that he was caught between two extremes and more that - like a Besalisk passing things between two sets of arms - he was so comfortable being either that he gave no thought to how he moved moment-to-moment. "There's an armored car outside ready to take us to a reserved table at Liliana's, if you're interested. If not..."

Zee reached up and drummed his nails softly down Virelia's armored wrist, a small waterfall of click-click-click. "We stay here and I ruthlessly judge the pedigree of wine you feel I'm worth." The Mandalorian teased. "Your call. My Lord."

​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Really going to give this a chance?"

Tags - Zee Caromed




Virelia's lips parted—just slightly—as his nails drummed their playful rhythm along her armored wrist.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound was delicate. Innocuous.

But there was something obscenely intimate about it, wasn't there? Not the touch itself—barely even contact—but the audacity to trace a line down the Tyrant's Embrace like it was lacquered silk instead of forged sovereign death. No fear. No hesitation. Just finesse.

She liked finesse.

Her smile sharpened.

"Liliana's," she repeated, letting the name roll over her tongue like a vintage she wasn't sure she trusted. "That could mean anything."

She tilted her head ever so slightly, like a queen surveying a piece of art she hadn't yet decided was genius or accident. "Is it a reputable institution… or the kind of place where an underdressed waiter stabs someone for mispronouncing a planet?"

A pause. Thoughtful. Calculating.

"…Because I could enjoy either."

She leaned in, just a little—only enough to breach the space between them with the scent of amber, spice, and warm iron. Her voice dropped to a velvet murmur, all shadow and seduction.

"But if this is some overly lacquered Mid-Rim fusion bistro where the staff say 'experience' instead of 'meal' and call every plate a moment…"

A beat.

"…I will set the sommelier on fire."

And yet, even as she said it, her eyes betrayed no real venom. Just interest. Deep, flickering interest.

Because the truth—the dangerous truth—was that she hadn't checked. She hadn't looked.

She could have. With a thought, she could've combed every review, hacked every table registry, studied the architectural blueprints of the kitchen staff break room. But she hadn't. She'd let him choose. She'd let Zee Caromed steer.

And now, she realized—

She wanted to see where he would take her.

She reached up, her taloned fingers ghosting along the line of his jaw, not quite touching, just tracing warmth through the air between them. "Fine," she said at last, voice honeyed and full of dangerous promise. "You've convinced me."

Her hand fell away, but the smile remained.

"I'll come see your little reservation. And if it offends my sensibilities…"

She turned, her cape trailing like smoke and stars as she moved toward the ramp.

"…then you'll owe me a private bottle of the 714 Rydell Black from Serenno's southern coast."

A glance back over her shoulder.

"And a long, unbroken gaze while I drink it."

She descended the ramp, every step graceful, deliberate, and heavy with amusement.

"Come, darling. Let's see how well you've read me."

 

[Zee Caromed]

"Trying to read someone on the first or second date is a fool's game - especially if they don't want to be easy to read." Zee replied breezily, joining Virelia as they descended from the ship. His heart was still racing a little from the trace of the jaw, from the heady feeling of having an especially affectionate knife at his throat. Heady, and a little intoxicating. Not at all unexpected or unwelcome. After all, life was about taking some risks. "The whole point is getting to know somebody, after all. What they say, what they don't say. Gathering information, building a rapport. Trying to 'read' someone comes off as trying to win at interaction - and people can sense that from a kilo away. That's diplomacy one-oh-one."

The car awaited. At no point did Zee open or hold a door - there was staff for that. Because for all the high talk about not reading somebody, you had to act on observed preferences and data. Zee had brought two men with him tonight, both heavily armed and discrete Caromed men. One to drive the speeder, and the other to act as a physical reminder of his clan's presence in the form of an entirely superflous bodyguard.

The ride to Liliana's was short, mostly because the speeder was going up as much as it was downtown. Like most ecumenopoli, Taris was built vertically - and the higher from the street you were, the further you were from the filth and pollution. The street level was a never-ending cacophony of gunfire, advertisements, groaning homeless. But up here, in the towers? Glitz and glass, lights and finery. The rarest resource on Taris was 'clean', and it all existed up here. The speeder pulled up outside of a fine dining establishment with no signage, no advertisement, simply a sturdy door and military grade bionic security.

Zee noted idly that he could faintly see his family's hospital from here, right up the 'road' about half a kilometer down the speeder-filled abyss between shimmering skyscrapers. The penthouse on the other side.

The guard let the two in without ceremony or checking, revealing the second rarest resource on Taris - wood. Zee gave Virelia a mischevious look and held his finger over his lips as they entered. On the other side, a quiet, subdued restaurant with artisanal wooden floors and an Atrisian aesthetic. The walls boasted scrolls and tapestries of fantastic make, some of them old, most of them stolen. A blindfolded woman awaited at the front counter, the only visible staff. Zee approached without word and placed a coin on the counter.

She accepted without word and motions through one of the curtains to either side, leading them deeper into the restaurant. At no point did they see or hear another soul. Nor were they seen or heard by any, save for the clicking of heels and boots - the woman from the front moved with amazing silence, her bare feet making nearly no noise.

The two were led to a private room dominated by a low, flat table in the Atrisian style. The walls were covered with hand-painted depictions of fish being caught by fishermen, fishermen being devoured by fish, both painted in a highly detailed, macabre fashion. The waitress left without a word, and only then did Zee speak. "Someone once told me that when consumption no longer informs survival, it becomes entertainment." He explained, kneeling by the table.

A bottle of wine had been provided, which Zee poured into two sakazuki cups. "Tonight, entertainment. Speaking softly and conversationally, we'll discuss what makes a woman beautiful. Once we've done so, a woman matching this description will arrive, and we will eat sushi." He explained as he poured. "She will, once we are done, leave. Without a hair harmed."

​