Junction Feast of Iron and Flame || SO/ME Junction of Omwat & Malachor V

[Domina Prime]

"We Are, All Of Us, Stardust. Held Together By Love For An Instant~"
​

O B J E C T I V E | Socialize
L O C A T I O N | Jutrand Palace
D R E S S | Ha'rangirs Regalia

Renn Vizsla | Aether Verd | Darth Carnifex | Darth Prazutis | Srina Talon | Lysander von Ascania

O P E N​

The Imperial Palace of Jutrand was never subtle.

Tonight it was even less so.

Golden lanterns hovered in the air like constellations on strings, casting shifting reflections across obsidian pillars and skybridge arches carved with the triumphs of emperors both dead and dreadfully alive. The courtyards overflowed with feasts, fountains, dancers, and the soft, seductive hum of Sith orchestral operatics. A thousand conversations rose like incense, all perfumed with ambition, envy, seduction, and centuries of political bloodletting.

Domina Prime paused on the threshold, azure horns blazing like ignited cerulean torches as she took it all in.

She'd been here only a few times.
Each time more absurdly decadent than the last.

And tonight...oh, she could already smell the tension beneath the spiced wine and rare meats. The Sith Order always cloaked their distaste behind elegance and etiquette, poisonous smiles, mocking curtsies, little murmurs meant to never reach the powerful.

Yet somehow they always reached the mandalorians too low in rank to safely punch the messenger.

Prime, fortunately, was neither low-ranking nor safe.

Her dress, sinful in shape and scandalous in slit, clung to every scaled curve, her biceps bare, glimmering under palace light like carved blue marble. She looked less like a guest and more like a goddess mistakenly allowed inside.

She arrived fashionably, strategically, late.

No screams.
No blasterfire.
No bodies.

A promising start.

The courtyard was alive. Tables the size of landspeeders sagged under the weight of delicacies that could bankrupt entire outer-rim economies. Goblets overflowed with gold-flecked nectars, refilled by trembling servants before any guest could finish even half a sip. The orchestra played something sweeping, dramatic, and vaguely threatening, very Sith.

Prime strutted in with the swagger of a holy war-priestess on holiday.
Heads turned.
Chairs scraped.
Conversation stuttered.

Perfect.

She immediately helped herself.

A platter drifted by, she stole an entire goblet off it without asking.

Then she leaned over a table crowded with gluttonous robed nobles and plucked a glistening hock of meat directly off the plate of a startled Sith.

He jumped from his seat growling in threat.

Domina loomed. Towering. Smirking. Dangerous in silk.

Her lower arms descended onto his shoulders like affectionate shackles.

"Sit back down before you hurt yourself~" she crooned.

He sat when he saw who it was.

Immediately.

"Good boy~"

She tore a huge bite from the stolen leg, dropped the remainder back onto his plate like a half-chewed gift, then winked as she drifted away leaving the Sith wondering whether to eat it, cry, or start a fight.

She stalked deeper into the revelry, eyes scanning through her visor until she found them, her kin. The warriors of Prime mingling with the black-clad aristocracy of the Sith like a pack of wolves loose at a formal dinner. Renn Vizsla had a goblet raised high, practically roaring a toast. Aether Verd stood beside him, posture prim, eyes sharp, too elegant by half to be truly innocent.

But it was the two Sith with them that truly caught her attention.
Darth Carnifex .
Darth Prazutis
Behemoths of reputation, feared in every shadowed corner of the galaxy.

Prime licked the wine from her fangs.

Delicious.

"Hope ya'll ain't been having too much fun without me now," she called out, raising her goblet in salute as she approached. "What'd I miss?"

She downed the drink in a single barbaric swallow.

Then shattered the empty glass against the marble floor without breaking stride.

The Sith pretended this was normal.
It was not.
But none wanted to be the one to say so.

Prime's attention briefly drifted sideways, to a familiar white-haired figure she passed. Lysander von Ascania . The last time they'd met, she'd nearly killed the poor lad on the Death Star.

He was mid-conversation with a Tortuga when her tail snapped out like a whip and gave him a startlingly firm smack.

"Go get 'em, tiger~" she teased, before leaving him to chat the lass up.

Returning to her kin, she opened all four arms in welcome, the picture of indulgent, predatory joy.

"Well?" she purred with a grin that could split planets. "Someone tell me everything. I'm late, which means I deserve the good gossip."

Her gaze swept the courtyard. Her eyes wandered upward to the balcony overhead with eyes glaring down at them. And Dima lifted her clawed hand and waved daintily at the big wigs overhead.

This was gonna be an interesting night~

 

[Naniti]

Naniti could feel the tension in Lysander dissipate. They way he held her. The ease in his expression. How the pacing sped up with a little more flare to exploration to their steps. The Togruta smiled in turn; her own features softening while her eyes sparkled in the evening light. There was even a little blush to her cheeks -- though not everyone might notice given her violet hue.

This was the first time she'd enjoy done anything like a waltz with trust put in another partner to guide her true across the floor. It was unlike anything she'd done before. Her thoughts weren't even on trying to analyze or memorize their movements. Naniti just stopped caring about everything else as her heels clicked after Lysander's boots in rhythm.

As time went on, his violet companion even let out an unburdened laugh.

She didn't spend a second on thoughts of what came next, but somewhere within there was a hope he'd keep her close when the songs broke. It was such a fantastic scene torn right out of a holo and Naniti would have loved it capped off with something excessively sweet or cheesy. The whole world had fallen away. There was no need to be ultra serious and preoccupied with appearances. She wanted to enjoy the exhilaration. The warmth of Lysander's hand in a surprisingly gentle fashion, and not that of a sparring partner. Just to melt into the moment.

If he indulged her, Naniti's blue eyes would look at him above a smile. "Maybe in our spare time, you can teach me more of these dances." Something more elaborate. Something to show off before such a large crowd. Because they could.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Eenia Vahn | Renn Vizsla | Open

​

TAG: Adelle Bastiel | Renn Vizsla
Wearing: [X]


This was not a place that Eenia had ever pictured herself being, and certainly not under such grandiose circumstances. A celebration of something that she had not personally been involved with, and yet had been invited along to regardless. It had set her stomach in knots, feeling like stones that may get lodged and incapacitating at any given moment. And not for the reasons that some other Force sensitive bodies may be feeling.

No, Eenia knew all about the nature of the darker side of the Force. She had fallen down that hole when her life was at its most harsh and cruel, and she understood first hand the power and freedom it had to offer.

The very thought made a shiver race along the line of her spine, and she brought the drink in her hand to her lips for a sip that would hopefully both satisfy and quell the sensation. She had clawed her way back from those personally dark depths, and had come out on the other side stronger and more confident in herself. Enough so that she had agreed to come to this fancy shindig after all.

When she was spoken to, a smile even tugged at one corner of the blonde's mouth, and she folded one arm while the other kept her glass poised. “Yours nor mine either one.” She agreed, gladly taking the attempt at humor and running with it. “Purple perhaps, or even a dark shade of pink? But no,” Nia's head shook. “Never red.”

"I don't know," Adelle said softly, teasing. "I think a deep ruby might look nice on you."

Nearby, she felt tension compress the air, rage burning under it. A rage born of pain and affront. Adelle flicked her eyes over to the Warden, his gaze fixed on something up by the head table. What could possibly--

A presence, Dark and weighted with authority commanded attention. The Sith Empress herself descended from the dais of the head table, moving with all the grace of a skilled swordswoman. Adelle took a sip from the goblet of wine, letting its burn silence the conflicting feelings inside, and listened to the speech with patience. She'd figure out what had unsettled the usually unflappable warden later.

Her focus was drawn toward her godson ( Aether Verd ) when he commented about the event. The kiss of her mouth twisted upward, ghostly, but with something that could have been a smile if that wouldn't have potentially broken her face. "This is not a party…This is a pressure valve. A momentary release before I ask these people to bleed again…"

And she would.

Slowly, deliberately, Srina rose from the dark throne…Hating being placed there, more than anything. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the exhaustion that threaded between her ribs, the attrition of years spent tempering a civilization that only understood might through destruction. She was highly aware that the presence of the Mandalorian Empire would cause a stir, but they acted accordingly. Srina was wary of them by and large…But Aether Verd made them palatable. Tolerable.

If they were good enough to fight and bleed with them—They were good enough to share an evening with them. That was the Echani warrior speaking, expressing respect for a job well done.

Every movement she made was a whisper while she walked forward. Her clothing was appropriate and lightly armored as much as it could be, fitting her form, as if she had been poured into it. The firelight wavered suddenly, as if bowing in her direction, though it was only a subtle distortion of her power settling across the area like frost. She stepped off the edge of the terrace, away from the dais, and fell forward—Letting gravity take her as she ghosted down to the main level. Small feet found polished stone, and conversations began to choke, music, faltering. The vast gathering shifted instinctively, forming a path without needing to be commanded.

Her presence required no herald.​

"…Thank you all for coming."

It was an odd opening. Polite when considering she hadn't offered a choice. Soft and airy, but it carried over the gathering with absolute ease. Her eyes swept over the faces of the gathered warriors, nobles, acolytes, masters, and Mandalorians…And perhaps a few individuals who did not want to be seen at all. "I have called you from your homes, from battle stations, because it has been too long since you've all been in one place without someone trying to take your heads for a trophy. Make no mistake…"

She breathed in, pausing for a moment, to consider what she might say next. Srina was not well-versed in speech giving, but she did so with common themes. With truth—In a world where everyone, everything lied.

"…The fight is eternal; death is our gift. We must never lose our sharpness…But I remind you that we must also never lose perspective."

Perspective was hard to find when half the galaxy was gunning for them. The Galactic Alliance wouldn't likely be long for this world because they were finally, after taking loss after loss, imploding on themselves…But there were still the Galactic Empire and the other Imperials.

The High Republic.

The war would never stop.

"I have fought with you—For you. I know what it is to stand on the edge of survival. I know what it is to arrive on the other side of that battle, stronger, for your suffering. You are all strong. More powerful than you realize. The Faithless eye of the Galactic Empire looked upon us and saw opportunity. Weakness in the Blackwall. A fracture to be exploited…They were wrong—"

She paused, moving through the crowd, preferring to speak here than from some lofty place on high.

The Sepulchral, minus one, would not be pleased.

"—They were wrong and we did not break. Our territory was largely untouched, and their ritual failed. We have indeed suffered losses through internal strife, but in the wake of it, we do not dwell. We willingly choose to become more. That is what we are meant to do, what many of us were created for. On that note…The Sith Order will recognize three tonight who have shown not only the potential to surpass those who came before us…But purpose.", Srina trailed off, hands coming together for a moment, before they opened to reveal black light that darted up high in the sky. The resulting effect was that of a mystical projector that placed the face of one of their own among barely present stars.

A pause, and the air tightened.

"Lirka Ka."

A symbol of might in the unknown, the warrior, whose propensity for wrath would strengthen the spine of the Order through iron resolve. They were a wild card, a gamble so to speak, for greatness.

The image shifted to that of the King of Korriban.

" Darth Caedes ."

A symbol of wisdom in knowledge earned, fought for and maintained, through meticulous care of the Holy Worlds. He was a striking middle ground between two extreme opposites, something, many Sith could benefit from.

"And… Quinn Varanin ."

The image melted into a likeness that was similar to her own, easily reflecting her daughter.

Quinn was a symbol of youth in the form of a bridge, joining old power and new purpose. She was a representation of the current ethos that proved their culture, built on ruin, might still produce something unbroken. Not a sinner, not a savior…She represented possibility.

"As of this moment, they now join Taeli Raaf and Gerwald Lechner on the Dark Council. Understand that I do not give these positions lightly and without evaluation. They have claimed it through passion, strength, power, and victory. You need only remember battlefields from Brosi to Atrisia to know this is true."

Her hands closed, and their faces disappeared…Shrouding the area back in twilight. Srina remained silent for several long moments, letting the news settle, especially for those stepping into a new role. She had not asked. Merely chosen, based on what had taken place, regardless of familial ties or camaraderie. It was a decision made with the discerning eye of a general, a commander, who looked at all aspects of a battlefield before sending in troops. These three were more than capable.

Each decision process was as unique as the individuals who had been chosen.

"Now…I won't take any more of your time. Enjoy this night...Because you have all earned it. Because it may be the last night before we are forced to act again. Our enemies will not slumber…Neither will we."

And with that…Time that had stopped started again, and the music began to play. Light returned to where it had once been, and the deep darkness of her calling for attention faded. It encouraged conversation to begin anew, and the Empress slipped through moving bodies like a river curling around stone. There were other things that she might have liked to discuss; however, they could wait until the high of victory at Atrisia wore off naturally. She drew a deep breath…Slowly, exhaling.

Now—She only had to ensure her Sith didn't try to kill their Mandalorian guests.

Simple, right?

Tag: Darth Carnifex | Darth Prazutis | Aether Verd | Adelle Bastiel | Eenia Vahn




The night was meant for unity.
For alliances drawn in blood and sealed in honor.
But under the red torchlight of Jutrand, Renn's pulse became the drumbeat of an older war.

He stood at the edge of the gathering, silver armor gleaming against the crimson fires. Blue accents caught the reflection of the braziers, their soft glow washing over his face, a calm mask, hiding a storm. The music played on, elegant and distant, but the rhythm had begun to change in his chest. What had been measured breaths grew heavier. What had been stillness became tension drawn taut beneath his skin.

Then he saw them.

Across the courtyard, ascending the Grand Terrace, two figures cut through the revelers like shadows made flesh, Darth Prazutis and Darth Carnifex . The crowd parted around them as though their presence alone was gravity. The air seemed to darken with every step they took, a quiet dread moving with them. Renn’s hand flexed unconsciously at his side, fingers brushing the edge of his vambrace.

The first bore bracers, blood-iron, alive with the slow, pulsing glow of something imprisoned within. Oaths. Souls. History. The red-black metal shimmered like coagulated flame, and when the Sith lord’s hand moved, Renn saw it, the faint outline of Mandalorian crests, melted and twisted into new shape. A chain at the man’s throat was forged from the same accursed alloy, interlocking links of clan sigils fused together in torment. Vizsla recognized them all: Ordo, Kryze, Bralor, Veshok, family names scorched into iron, desecrated. His stomach turned, his teeth clenched until his jaw ached.

And beside him, the other Sith, Carnifex, wore a cloak unlike any the galaxy had ever seen. A monument of murder. Thousands of small scales interwoven into a mantle that rippled like liquid night, each piece cut from the armor of a fallen Mandalorian. Beskar. Real beskar. He could see the sigils still etched there, half-buried beneath lacquered black: the jagged lines of Clan Rook, the wolf of Mereel, even the sunburst of House Vizsla, desecrated, reduced to ornament. Every movement of the cloak made the metal whisper, a sound like bones grinding in a tomb.

Renn felt the world narrow. The laughter around him became static. The light dimmed. The breath he drew came slow, through his teeth, like a man forcing himself to live through a killing blow.

The blood of the Mando’ade burned in his veins. His hand wanted to find the hilt of his beskad. His heart wanted to shout, to call the names of the dead, to remind the galaxy that Mandalore was not ash, not memory. That it still lived in the fire of its children.

But he did not move.

For behind him, he felt the weight of his people’s eyes, the Mandalorian representatives who had come at his side. Warriors. Clansmen. Proud and silent. They had followed him here under the banner of unity, under the will of Mand’alor ( Aether Verd ), who had made this deal for the betterment of Mandalore. To act now, to let his fury rule him, would not be vengeance. It would be betrayal.

So he swallowed the storm.

Renn’s gaze hardened, silver-grey and unblinking, fixed on the Sith as they took their seats upon the terrace. Prazutis’s bracers caught the firelight like bleeding glass. Carnifex’s cloak moved with predatory grace, every scale gleaming like the echo of a scream. He committed every detail to memory, every glint, every motion, every desecrated crest.

He would not forget.

The orchestra swelled again, the melody sweeping through the courtyard like a spell meant to soothe the restless. Renn exhaled slowly, his expression carved from stone. His voice, when he spoke, was barely more than a murmur meant for himself.

“Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad,” he whispered.

A vow. A remembrance.

He lifted his goblet, the motion steady despite the tremor beneath his skin, and drank deeply. The wine burned like fire, sharp enough to keep his focus. To the revelers, he was a diplomat, composed, courteous, inscrutable. But inside, every nerve hummed with rage restrained by duty, by the iron will of a man who had been forged in war and tempered in loss.

The Mandalorians around him did not speak, but he could feel it, the tension in the air, the quiet fury shared between them. They had seen too. They had heard the ghosts in that cloak’s whisper.

Renn set the goblet down with deliberate calm and adjusted the edge of his cloak. “For the Empire,” he said softly, his voice a quiet echo swallowed by the music. “For Mandalore. For those who cannot speak.”

Then, as the Sith lords ascended their dais and the crowd rose in acclaim, Renn Vizsla bowed his head just enough to hide the fire in his eyes.

He would not dishonor his Mand’alor tonight.

But neither would he ever forgive.​

The Empress' speech done and her presence withdrawn from the common folk, Adelle returned her attention to the burning pain and indignation radiating from Warden Vizsla. He muttered something lost in the sound of the crowd and the music, taking an almost reverent sip from his glass--a toast, perhaps. Adelle discreetly watched those at the head table, feeling a small amount of concern that the Mand'alor sat up there surrounded by people that would behead him if given the chance and incentive. One of the towering Sith wore vambraces, glowing with something otherworldly and abominable. Another moved, his black-scaled cape catching the light and revealing the edges of etchings.

Wait.

She could just barely make out the details. Sigils and crests. Mandalorian.

Two of the honored guests at the head table wore kriffing trophies, proudly displaying them like prized hunts.

Of kriffing course. Leave it to Sith to flaunt insults and thinly-veiled threats at so-called allies, using the thinnest veneer of excuse to justify it and still call it diplomacy. Something icy and burning with frost crystallized into clarity. Small wonder the Warden's presence had changed. Adelle hadn't been Mandalorian during those affairs but she'd heard the stories from the Skiratas who were.

"Pissing on us without the courtesy of calling it rain," she hissed under her breath.

"We Are, All Of Us, Stardust. Held Together By Love For An Instant~"
​

O B J E C T I V E | Socialize
L O C A T I O N | Jutrand Palace
D R E S S | Ha'rangirs Regalia

Renn Vizsla | Aether Verd | Darth Carnifex | Darth Prazutis | Srina Talon | Lysander von Ascania

O P E N​

The Imperial Palace of Jutrand was never subtle.

Tonight it was even less so.

Golden lanterns hovered in the air like constellations on strings, casting shifting reflections across obsidian pillars and skybridge arches carved with the triumphs of emperors both dead and dreadfully alive. The courtyards overflowed with feasts, fountains, dancers, and the soft, seductive hum of Sith orchestral operatics. A thousand conversations rose like incense, all perfumed with ambition, envy, seduction, and centuries of political bloodletting.

Domina Prime paused on the threshold, azure horns blazing like ignited cerulean torches as she took it all in.

She'd been here only a few times.
Each time more absurdly decadent than the last.

And tonight...oh, she could already smell the tension beneath the spiced wine and rare meats. The Sith Order always cloaked their distaste behind elegance and etiquette, poisonous smiles, mocking curtsies, little murmurs meant to never reach the powerful.

Yet somehow they always reached the mandalorians too low in rank to safely punch the messenger.

Prime, fortunately, was neither low-ranking nor safe.

Her dress, sinful in shape and scandalous in slit, clung to every scaled curve, her biceps bare, glimmering under palace light like carved blue marble. She looked less like a guest and more like a goddess mistakenly allowed inside.

She arrived fashionably, strategically, late.

No screams.
No blasterfire.
No bodies.

A promising start.

The courtyard was alive. Tables the size of landspeeders sagged under the weight of delicacies that could bankrupt entire outer-rim economies. Goblets overflowed with gold-flecked nectars, refilled by trembling servants before any guest could finish even half a sip. The orchestra played something sweeping, dramatic, and vaguely threatening, very Sith.

Prime strutted in with the swagger of a holy war-priestess on holiday.
Heads turned.
Chairs scraped.
Conversation stuttered.

Perfect.

She immediately helped herself.

A platter drifted by, she stole an entire goblet off it without asking.

Then she leaned over a table crowded with gluttonous robed nobles and plucked a glistening hock of meat directly off the plate of a startled Sith.

He jumped from his seat growling in threat.

Domina loomed. Towering. Smirking. Dangerous in silk.

Her lower arms descended onto his shoulders like affectionate shackles.

"Sit back down before you hurt yourself~" she crooned.

He sat when he saw who it was.

Immediately.

"Good boy~"

She tore a huge bite from the stolen leg, dropped the remainder back onto his plate like a half-chewed gift, then winked as she drifted away leaving the Sith wondering whether to eat it, cry, or start a fight.

She stalked deeper into the revelry, eyes scanning through her visor until she found them, her kin. The warriors of Prime mingling with the black-clad aristocracy of the Sith like a pack of wolves loose at a formal dinner. Renn Vizsla had a goblet raised high, practically roaring a toast. Aether Verd stood beside him, posture prim, eyes sharp, too elegant by half to be truly innocent.

But it was the two Sith with them that truly caught her attention.
Darth Carnifex .
Darth Prazutis
Behemoths of reputation, feared in every shadowed corner of the galaxy.

Prime licked the wine from her fangs.

Delicious.

"Hope ya'll ain't been having too much fun without me now," she called out, raising her goblet in salute as she approached. "What'd I miss?"

She downed the drink in a single barbaric swallow.

Then shattered the empty glass against the marble floor without breaking stride.

The Sith pretended this was normal.
It was not.
But none wanted to be the one to say so.

Prime's attention briefly drifted sideways, to a familiar white-haired figure she passed. Lysander von Ascania . The last time they'd met, she'd nearly killed the poor lad on the Death Star.

He was mid-conversation with a Tortuga when her tail snapped out like a whip and gave him a startlingly firm smack.

"Go get 'em, tiger~" she teased, before leaving him to chat the lass up.

Returning to her kin, she opened all four arms in welcome, the picture of indulgent, predatory joy.

"Well?" she purred with a grin that could split planets. "Someone tell me everything. I'm late, which means I deserve the good gossip."

Her gaze swept the courtyard. Her eyes wandered upward to the balcony overhead with eyes glaring down at them. And Dima lifted her clawed hand and waved daintily at the big wigs overhead.

This was gonna be an interesting night~

Domina Prime 's entrance knocked all the wind from the anger Adelle had felt as the being waltzed in late with all her usual subtlety and grace. She watched as Prime strode up the steps to the head table, taking a moment to tailwhip the backside of some unfortunate Sith at a lower table, and address the gathered VIPs as if they were close friends. Adelle had to smile at the audacity. At least the Mand'alor had someone up there to back him up if things went awry.

"Hey Nia," she said, an idea coming to her. "Want to play a game? We take a drink every time Warpriest Prime does something that should get her kicked out. Last one standing wins."

Adelle winced and realized just what a terrible idea that was. "I've counted seven so far."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti
​

Lysander’s senses hummed along the beats of their shared waltz; it grounded him more than any duel or lesson ever could. The way her hand fit in his, the pressure of her waist against his, the tiny lift of her shoulder when navigating through the turns, it all registered in a way that arose from years of discipline.

He was mid-conversation with a Tortuga when her tail snapped out like a whip and gave him a startlingly firm smack.

"Go get 'em, tiger~" she teased, before leaving him to chat the lass up.

Then came a gentle tap upon his arm, a touch not born of Naniti’s grace. It pulled a sharp and surprised glance, head turning just so, though the rest of him would continue the steps by muscle memory. Fluid.. unbroken. The blonde let the humor register before offering a small nod, a salute even, to the one who’d beaten him into a pulp aboard the Death Star and still commanded his respect.

Settling again upon the Togruta, a gentler curve unfurled, a dance of liberation etched into his features. The orchestra’s melodies wove through the edge of his consciousness like a breeze. And when he spoke next, it was a confession more genuine than usual.

"Then it's settled.. we make the tunnels ours?"

The words felt both absurd and precise, painting an image of him and her, twirling beneath Desevro’s academy. Somehow, it was ridiculous and perfect. Why not? A tiny rebellion against all that demanded control, even better against an iron grip. The thought of future dances threatened to hover, teasingly bright, but for now, he just let the moment stretch.. as long as the song would permit.

The web of their hands tightened first, before slender digits slid slowly between hers, weaving their connection in an unspoken dialect. Each squeeze, each curl of fingertip around hers was insistent, a quiet summons. His orbs, flames of emerald, reclaimed her gaze again, then mapped the outline of the figure before him. Lysander’s voice was soft enough to be swallowed by the music.

“There’s clarity in this.”

That thought was left suspended.

Through the next shift he guided her, a twist of her wrist under his, the pivot of a heel tracing an arc, bringing her a fraction closer.

Beneath it all, he admitted to himself that he didn’t want it to end just yet.

 

[Naniti]

A lidded look followed Lysander's gaze to the creature that seemed to distract. When his head started to turn back, the Togruta's eyes resumed their full size and luster. He didn't need to be "her's" for Domina to bring out the dark side of Naniti by intruding even briefly. But just as quickly as the mask slipped, it was back in place. Or was the darkness the mask? She didn't know and never gave it much thought. Except when Lysander got her to admit to its existence earlier.

Blue eyes widened as Lysander accepted the idea of them training more than lightsaber in the 'tunnels' of the Academy. "Well, of course. The world only belongs to those that can hold it, after all," she added as if to cover an amicable agreement with a more 'appropriate' rationale. No one would object if some Acolytes thought to claim some territory, would they? Harass those that intruded. It wouldn't bother the instructors, so what would they care?

"Yeah," Naniti breathed, "clarity."

With the way their hands entwined, and how he so gracefully led them across the floor, clarity wasn't quite the word that came to mind. But it wasn't wrong. Her smile even grew a hair as the grasp shifted to draw them nearer.

"I'm going to cheat now, okay?" The Togruta looked up into his eyes for just a moment before her feet carrier her in even closer. She bit the inside of her lip before she twisted her head to lay it against Lysander's shoulder and draw up against his body. While their feet became as entangled as their hands, and Naniti had no way to gauge what the man was going to do next, his partner mananged to stay in step with him without even coming close to tripping or stepping on his feet. Not even a turn or pivot would catch her off guard.

She couldn't use the Force forever to keep up with him, but then they didn't need forever. Not yet.

A smile spread over her lips being so embarrassingly close to Lysander. "Lysander," she softly spoke his name, "you meant it, right? The tunnels." It wasn't just a joke like their habit of discussing food wherever they went? It really would be nice to learn more dances that he was familiar and comfortable with. Nobility tended to frown on those that didn't measure up. Maybe he wouldn't, but those around him might. And she already had a steep climb ahead what with her not being Human.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Revna Marr]

Tag: Darth Caedes
Dress​

A gentle stroke of a warm thumb over the skin of her hand pulled Revna gently back to the present moment; she blinked, ember eyes sharpening as her focus returned and she turned her attention briefly to the man beside her, the same man holding her hand in his own. The two of them were on the upper balcony, partially draped in shadow and content to watch the others below them drink, dine, and conspire. A gentle and soft smile pulled the corner of Revna’s dark rose hued lips as she looked upon the shadowed countenance of Darth Caedes, eyes tracing how the shadows played across his face. Though she wasn’t a fan of big celebrations and gatherings like these, she nonetheless was happy to be here with him - even if he seemed a bit distant or aloof from her, especially more recently. In a shameless show of affection, she lifted his hand that was in her own and planted a soft kiss on it, before she returned her observant gaze to those on the same balcony with the two of them, as well as those gathered below.

Revna recognized many faces gathered here; ally and foe alike, momentarily setting aside their grievances in the sight of the current ruling Sith Empress, Srina Talon . She had stepped up to take over the empty space Darth Empyrean had left behind when he had disappeared. Her ember eyes flickered from face to face, until they settled upon a duo that filled her heart with warmth and affection, and no small amount of amusement and awe. Somehow, Lina Ovmar had convinced Revna’s Father to join her at the celebration; Darth Strosius looked majestic in His ornate robes, and Lina was absolutely stunning in the dress she had chosen for the occasion. She silently told herself that if her Father couldn’t see just how beautiful the woman who was currently holding onto His arm was, then He was hopelessly blind.

Another familiar face appeared amongst the others and made her way over towards Lina and Alisteri. Revna couldn’t hear the conversations taking place from the distance that separated them, but her smile widened further as Madrona A’Mia joined the other couple. She could only imagine the conversations being had, and no doubt Strosius was going off about something in His typical cranky fashion.

A servant girl carrying a tray of mouth watering morsels meandered her way over to the couple, offering to Caedes first but he waved her away, a scowl shadowing his face. The girl curtsied with perfect form and moved off, and Revna watched her go before turning her gaze once more to her beloved. She knew very well his distaste for flesh and blood servants; there was a reason why he employed the Jen’ari. They were wholly loyal to those they were bound to…unable to truly form traitorous thoughts or take up actions that ran contrary to their duties.

A hush soon fell over the gathered crowds, and Revna spied the Empress stepping up to greet them all and offer a small speech - as well as her announcement that three had been chosen for a place upon the Dark Council. A dark shadow passed over Revna’s face when one of them was announced - an enemy and known Kainite. She already knew her Father would have opinions about that. The next individual revealed did not surprise her in the least, though Revna was admittedly not familiar with Quinn personally. She knew that Quinn was close with Srina, an Echani princess, and a supposed heir to the throne of the Sith. A position on the Dark Council was a wise spot for her to be in, as it would prove ample learning opportunities in leadership.

The last appointment, however, came as a rather pleasant surprise, and her hand gripped that of Darth Caedes a bit tighter as a way to reveal her excitement as others in the crowd tried to find him, to put a face to the name. Now, not only was he King of Korriban, but a Dark Councilor as well. The power and authority that came with that put him above all, save the Empress and his fellow Councilors. It was a huge step, a golden opportunity for not just him but for her too.

“Congratulations my love. A well earned appointment, in my opinion.” Revna murmured softly to Caedes, her eyes glimmering with shared triumph and pride as he grinned at her. She lifted her own wine glass in toast, clinking the glass gently with his. “To us, to progress, and to victory over those that would seek to chain us down.” she replied before taking her own celebratory drink. He would know exactly whom she referred to.

After the speech was given and announcements made, the guests returned back to their conversations, drinks or other forms of merriment. Revna exhaled a deep sigh, released Caedes hand to pick up a delicate plate beside her. It contained an assortment of delicious little morsels, of which she dined on while being deep in thought. A lot had happened in a relatively short period of time, and she was wise enough to know that a lot more was bound to occur in the coming weeks and months. More fights, more victories, more stalemates and losses. She knew she would have a lot more on her plate here soon, between her duties to Korriban as well as her ties to the Order of Wonosa and her Father.

"It seems that you will be called away from me and Korriban's throne more often now that you are a Dark Councilor." she commented in the same soft voice, so that only he could hear her. She turned her gaze to him, eager to hear his thoughts on that matter. "I do hope you will allow me to aid you in this. Support you how and where I can."​

 

[CT-312]

//: Jorryn Fordyce Quinn Varanin | OPEN //:
//: Imperial Palace, Jutrand//:
//: Attire //:
//: 1 x Arrow head of Absence | Taozin amulet //:
//: Objective II - HEAD OF THE TABLE//:​

CT-312 could feel the gaze again. It wasn’t the same feeling as disbelief with her attire. No. This was something else. Her visor still leveled toward the balcony. A shift in Jorryn’s tone had the Scout’s brow raised. Noting the tone had dropped to a crisp, too tight and too enunciated whisper. Breaking down the words being said to her.

Dignified.
Honored.
Servitude.

Civilian pride. Fragile. Insecurity disguised as formality? Touchy. Overcompensating. ‘Probably hates that she has to be here.’ and here CT-312 thought she had been the annoyed and irritated one. Maybe this celebration was wearing down on the Handmaiden’s composure.

Simplicity.

The Scout tilted her helmet a fraction at the word. Efficiency was simplicity. Was Jorryn praising her? Reminding herself of the etiquette the Princess insisted she practice. “Thank you.” CT-312 said in a neutral tone, polite. Turning her helmet slightly toward Jorryn. “But it’s not all shooting.” Straight and factual, ammo was a resource and wasn’t infinite. Close-quarters solved problems without waste. “There’s stabbing involved too.”

Bodyguarding wasn’t exactly what she’d been designed for. Adaptation was expected, but still a work in progress. CT-312 was still adjusting. Quinn required a different kind of awareness. One she was still trying to refine and figure out. The Scout made a mental note to ask the Princess later on for an evaluation. Make mention of Jorryn’s comments and see any adjustments needed. “Problems do stop being problems when they cease to exist.”

CT-312’s visor swept the balcony again. Her HUD tracked movements surrounding the Princess’s growing cluster. Someone she recognized personally: Eira Dyn . The apprentice. A fellow operative she’d run several assignments with.

Jorryn spoke, answering her inquiry. Explaining the appeal was being surrounded by so many people demanding one’s attention. CT-312 didn’t understand it. She tried to. This type of celebration was a stark contrast to the one she experienced with the DeathDrop at the noodle bar. This was polished, curated, refined. The other, loud and messy. Once more CT-312 picked up on the Handmaiden’s tone shift. Less bite, a slip of softness. Thin and fraying.

Skulking.

Was this what skulking looked like? Was that what Jorryn thought she was doing? CT-312 hadn’t thought of herself that way. She was off to the side, yes. But not away from duty. The Princess was still in her line of sight. That wasn’t skulking. That was positioning. Tactically optimal. She didn’t need to be close. The Scout watched silently as Jorryn glided off with trays of tea. Hands steady with practiced elegance as she served them.

CT-312 breathed out slowly through her nose. A pulse struck her chest and mind. Then another. The bond. More mixed emotions ghosted across her nerves. Clouding and rising. Too many, too fast. A current she couldn’t sort out. ‘Too much input.’ CT-312 was trained for battlefield chaos, but not this kind. She needed a moment. A quieter place. Distance. Enough to thin the noise.

Snapping her attention to the Princess again. CT-312 trusted Eira who was among the cluster to stop anybody who decided to test boundaries. A subtle pivot. Boots quiet on polished marble, slipping down the stairs into the courtyard below. Not far, just enough to drop beneath the noise line.

—

Here, the air was cooler. The fountain burbled nearby. The courtyard presented itself differently than the balcony. Its quiet splash was far more reasonable than the roar of conversation above. CT-312 didn’t go far. Just enough near the entrance arch. Her visor swept the courtyard. Not empty, but sparse. Fewer overlapping voices. No crowd pressing inward.

CT-312 spotted two figures that stood out. ( Rio Naran Markus Evremonde ) Both tall, around six feet. Both pale, yellow eyed. A man with white hair and a woman with dark red hair. Neither she recognized. Not her concern unless they made themselves one. The Scout watched silently. They were currently absorbed in their own conversation. They didn’t need her involvement, nor did she need theirs. What she needed was a moment to recalibrate.

The surge of emotions kept tugging at her. She could still feel Quinn. Despite the noise, CT-312 was curious. Was there a distance that changed the signal's strength? Making another mental note to ask the Princess later. For now, she’d let the bond settle into something she could carry again. Letting the physical noise drain away.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Valaine Valentine //: Reina Daival //: Eira Dyn //: Vakhari Lutris //:
//: Balcony //:

"Just Quinn, don't worry about titles and the like." Quinn waved her hand. As much as she demanded her title be used in politics, times like this, among peers, just her name was suitable. It allowed her to be and feel as normal as she could among them.

She thought it was, in a sense, adorable for the dark-haired girl to play it casual about her cooking. Quinn had tried it and assumed her aunt had ordered takeout. To hear it was homemade only sparked a bit of jealousy. Eating food like that daily was a privilege. Quinn could only hope for one day.

Another wave of her hand, "Stop, it was good — I promise I don't compliment easily." She paused for a moment and put out the open invitation.

"Any time you're on Jutrand, reach out, we can, like I said, exchange recipes and talk more." Seeing that more were starting to converge, Quinn figured now wasn't the time to continue their conversation. Sometimes, she hated who she was.

Her eyes moved between Reina and Eira. Both congratulated her on the seat on the council. Only one of them knew the weight of it, but she didn't want to stress anyone out. It changed nothing for her; she would just need to be more careful of her activities. Her smile remained, carefully calculated, painted perfectly on her perfect face.

Quinn was the perfect image of a Princess and now Dark Councilor.

"Thank you." Quinn bowed her head slightly, physically showing her thanks. Again, everything was so practiced. Looking towards Reina, her hand dismissed the worry of not knowing.

"It's a political thing, if anything, it's just responsibility." Quinn wasn't wrong, but there were some drawbacks to everything. The public eye was starting to wear on her. Emotionally, she wasn't ready to be out in public like this; her heart was strained, and she felt her emotions were everywhere. At least no one could notice them. Quinn was excellent at 'faking' it, keeping her presence and emotions buried under defenses she had developed since childhood.

A hand patted Eira's forearm, her smile still there. "Thank you, we will definitely have to up your training, speed things up a bit, I hope you're okay with that." A light chuckle. "Maybe it will finally challenge you; you pick things up quite quickly."

Compliments and smiles.

Quinn remained the perfect image.

 

[Selene Valeheart]

Head of the Table

Wearing: Link
Tags: Gerwald Lechner | Irina Jesart | Jorryn Fordyce

She was mid-sip of her wine when Gerwald’s voice rumbled out in response to Irina. Didn’t move, not even the slightest glance her way. And Selene didn’t need to know much, to understand a warning for what it was. She couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, one a mix of amusement and curiosity.

It seemed her fellow apprentice was trying to play with fire, to ignite interest in the Master’s son. Or perhaps she already had, and this was more stoking the initial embers? Trying to garner favour by getting close to the young man?

Aerik was someone Selene had yet to meet, though she imagined a crossing of paths was inevitable. Could probably say the same for many of the faces present.

She was one of Gerwald Lechnar’s apprentices, a man who didn’t take on students lightly. He had seen something in her, enough to see it nurtured and strengthened. That put a particular target on her back, one she’d have to keep an eye on as she continued to grow stronger.

All of a sudden all noise seemed to dim, and for a very good reason. Srina Talon; the Empress, was making herself known. Simple and powerful strides as the woman stepped from her throne and walked forwards. It would be a lie to say Selene wasn’t at least a little awestruck. She had seen and heard the Empress before, but that had been through a broadcast. It was a whole other matter actually being within her presence.

Selene remained where she was, watching and listening as Srina made her speech. The young woman’s focus only shifted when the Empress began naming people, their visage appearing via hologram. She glanced around, trying to find the person to match the face, curious to observe their reactions to the news.

Speaking of targets, I can only imagine the ones painted on the new Dark Councilors…

And then Gerwald stepped forwards, taking a moment to honour and celebrate those who fought in the recent conflict. A type of starship had been manufactured for that very purpose.

With that done, everything seemed to fall back into how it was before. The music picked back up and conversations resumed. Selene sipped at her wine, pausing as she saw someone approaching. Pale skin and silver hair, with a pair of impressive horns atop her head.

The raven-haired apprentice raised an eyebrow at Jorryn’s comment. Her instinct was to retort, but Irina had beaten her to it. Inadvertently, Selene didn’t rise to the Sithspawn’s bait, and merely fixed her with a look.

One that said ‘I’ll remember your face.’

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti
​

Another wave of understanding washed over Lysander as her violet skin shimmered in the room's glow, grounded by the warmth the Togruta radiated. The cadence, the twists, the lifts, they flowed, woven from more than muscle memory or instinct. It was trust that guided their movements now, which allowed the space to breathe without any misstep.

A trespass, maybe, yet void of menace. The blonde's chest hummed, a pulse that sang not to any orchestra, but to something deeper nestled beneath the disciplined exterior. A gentle smile brushed his lips. "Then cheat.." The words slipped softly. Naniti's gesture beckoned him to see, to sense, to.. care.

He let the dance stretch into something private, a space that belonged to no one but them, unclaimed by the judgment or expectation of the festivities around them. The orchestra became background noise, the strings but an echo to what was being composed now. Peace? Perhaps.. against their code? Possibly. He didn’t know, and for the first time in years.. he just welcomed the unknown. He let her rewrite it even, and found that, in that breath, he was okay with it.

His voice threaded through the music. “I meant it. The tunnels.. our space. Yours, mine.. ours, if we choose it”

With a tiny shift of weight, a tilt of his hips, he kept the steps almost effortless. It wasn’t perfection, but there was understanding.

A delicate exhale left him. “I didn’t think a dance could feel like this.” His shoulder nudged her lightly, an unspoken affirmation. A private laugh eased out, more a ripple of vibration than sound, as his cheek brushed hers. From within, a pecuilar flutter stirred.

Much like on Korriban, it was plain to see that her presence was steady against a storm that never stopped whispering of his past, clawing at the edges of his psyche. For no matter how he tried to avoid it, there were moments it threatened to consume.. a shadow dogging him for years.

When his voice descended next, it was a whisper meant only for her ears. “The dark feels different when you’re here,” Lysander confessed, his fingers climbing gently, until they found their rest at the curve of her neck.