Seasonal Fun at the Red Ronin [TSC & Friends]

[Emissary of Strife]

NAR SHADDAA
RED RONIN CLUB [X]

No one was really sure who organized it or why, but members of the Sith Covenant ended up at the Red Ronin Club on Nar Shaddaa. Officially, it was owned by an alias of Kaila Starfall, more infamously known among the Sith as Anathemous. Now? Lysander von Ascania ran the place on her behalf.

There was a fully staffed bar, a dance floor, and even an arena, all located on the first floor alone. It was crowded, too, with a party that never stopped. The windowless space, dark lights, hypnotic sound... little was the difference between an hour and a day at the Red Ronin, where time always seemed to slip away. Then, there was the roar of bloodthirsty applause from the arena, where spectators packed themselves in to watch fighters take on everything from alien beasts to each other.

Above, on the second floor, was the VIP section - reserved that night for "serious conversation" between Covenant higher-ups, if you believed the hearsay. There was also a third floor, but that was entirely off-limits, unlike the roof above, where one might abscond for a bit of privacy.

It wasn't exactly the most authentic Life Day celebration, but hell, it was a party.

Objective One - Party: You don't have to square off, threaten to kill each other, or anything like that at all. Like seriously! Just be normal. Have a drink and dance. Please just be normal and party!

Objective Two - Animal Control: A droidbreaker was let loose in the arena and killed the poor fighter pegged to bring it down, and now the handlers can't subdue it. The thing eats metal - it's eating its way out of the arena! It'll eat the city too if it gets out there. Someone needs to stop it!

Objective Three - Listen: In the VIP Room, Mercy and her inner circle discuss their plans for the Core. Or at least that's the rumor. Maybe someone could sneak up there and find out what the hell this talk is all about.

Spoiler: OOC

This is a low-stakes social thread. Feel free to throw in on any objective, or move between them, bring your own if you want! There's no post order or nothing.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Objective One: Party
Naniti Varin Mortifer Acier Moonbound Naamino Zuukamano Vestra Tane Arris Windrun Seren Gwyn Kirie Nilira Vornix Ghruna Jorryn Fordyce Suzaku Mercy Hasuras Na-Gerra Calyx Sundrift Darth Imperius

The Covenant’s academy on Smuggler’s Moon wasn’t the only thing demanding his attention lately. There was other oversight required, this nightclub among it. From experience, obligation rarely had a way of announcing itself with warning.. and this had arrived much the same way. Unexpected and full of potential. Growth always was, he’d learned that early, learned it the hard way too, and wouldn't shy away from it simply because it was inconvenient.

The air was mingled with scents of alcohol, cheap vices, perfume, and warmed by far too many bodies in close proximity. Neon red bled over everything around him. It wasn’t often you’d see the blonde dressed like this; matte black slacks, polished boots, and a coat cut close to his lithe frame. Beneath it was a high collared shirt, fastened at the neck.

A swarm of acolytes, apprentices, and even Sith Lords crowded the space around him.. some known, others less so. It was rare to see so many of them gathered outside the academy, not plotting the downfall of their next target.

Well, at least not here at the bar.

With a good portion of the Covenant packed into the Red Ronin.. the reality was simple enough. Tonight, this was undoubtedly the safest spot on Nar Shaddaa. Violence would think twice before introducing itself here.

With a nod to the bartender, Lysander ordered another round, making sure the generous pour reached everyone sitting close by. Sharing drinks like this always had a special way of bringing people together. The stubby glasses slid across the bar, vibrating with the room's pulse.

Lysander brought his glass up; just enough to be noticed. A toast. “To everyone who’s carried their weight.” A roguish curve graced his mouth before fading. “And to the ops. They won’t be a problem again.”

Then he drank, the liquid burning as it slid down.

 

[Arris Windrun]

Arris raised her glass to the toast as she walked behind the crowd gathered around Lysander and headed upstairs. She'd have to compliment him another time for both the venue and his fight on Genarius.

The door slid shut behind her, drowning out the roar from downstairs, as she stepped into the VIP section. Besides the guards and one bartender, the room was quite empty.

She sauntered across the open space, sipping her drink, and sat down in a private booth towards the very back.

The cyborg opened a channel on her implanted comlink. "Tell Vestra and Mercy I've arrived."

Mercy Vestra Tane Lysander von Ascania

 

[Suzaku]

If it were any other club or cantina. The corpse holding a glass and raising it for a toast would of been the only sentient creature inside. But in this place? The Red Ronin was as strange as clubs came, especially when sith owned the establishment.

Midst the cheers, Suzaku's overly guttural sounds could be heard. A raspy moan before the glass was turned and inversed into his toothy decaying maw. The liquids pouring down, only to spill out onto floor. Escaping out of holes in his stomach and torso.

Its not like I can taste this anyway.

A single eye veered of its own accord toward a figure that seemed to toast, drink and then veer off from the group. A female? Arris Windrun . Dropping the glass, the undead acolyte moved through the gathering of sith to follow the woman...

The door slid shut behind her, drowning out the roar from downstairs, as she stepped into the VIP section. Besides the guards and one bartender, the room was quite empty.

Approaching the door, Suzaku examined the structure or so it seemed he was. He just stood there. Not only blocking the way but also staring into space. Lost in a trance....

 

[Riffraff Ranat]

Tags: Lysander von Ascania | Open
Location: Red Ronin

She'd been landside for some time, homesick from her clan and flagship certainly, but this was important work that needed doing and Riffraff refused to send anyone in her place. It had taken some doing, ingratiating herself amongst the workforce of the establishment some weeks prior. The ruse started with mopping up puke in one of the refreshers, making sure someone had seen her quietly doing the work. It was amazing how a workman's jumpsuit and carrying around cleaning supplies or tools could get you into secure locations.

Once Riffraff had been spotted by a few staff doing little odd jobs, she moved up to servicing a droid here, lending a death stick there. She didn't smoke the stuff herself usually, but always carried a pack as religiously as one might carry a credit purse. After putting in enough time to be assumed by most as an employee, Riffraff grew bolder. Her ultimate objective was to carve out a place for herself and eventually her clan, but she needed to find the right niche.

Word of a Sith Covenant had come to her and felt like a promising lead.

The larger ruling body of Sith was well known to her, having worked countless gigs cleaning up after their concerts and lavish parties, tuning up gong droids and shipping refuse away from their stately worlds to be dumped in places they'd deemed worthy of their trash. However, Riffraff was leery of the iron fist with which they aimed to rule. The way that certain crime was excusable while other kinds would get you introduced to an executioner had the wily ranat sleeping with one eye open whenever she traversed their territories.

The Covenant however had a wild, chaotic streak to it and known ties to the Black Sun. A far more comfortable arrangement for the smuggler, slicer, and all around handywoman. When murmurs of a party being hosted at the Red Ronin reached her pointed ears, Riffraff knew she'd want to be there.

​

With her disguise established, Riffraff blended into the backdrop as if she'd worked there from opening day. When the well dressed blond made a toast to the room, her keen orange eyes took him in with calculation. She'd pieced together that this was Lysander, the young man who now ran the establishment and Riffraff wasted no time in loading up a little tray under the pretense of delivering more drinks to parts of the room too far from the bar. It was doubtful anyone would notice she wasn't well dressed like the waitstaff, given that she balanced the tray atop her head which brought the drinks to about waist height for most patrons.

Riffraff circled, glowing eyes keeping track of the center of activity, planning her approach when the opportunity presented itself. She was loathe to do business out in the open and so she awaited the moment that might Lysander break away from the others. All she needed was an initial introduction, enough to initiate curiosity before she laid more cards out on the table.

 

[Ghruna]

Ghruna did not hate this.That surprised her.

The Red Ronin was loud, crowded, and smelled of sweat and alcohol. Music hammered through the floor hard enough to rattle bone. Bodies pressed too close together. Voices rose in challenge, laughter, and provocation. It was chaos.

It reminded her, faintly, of home.

Maldrani feasts were never quiet affairs. They were violent things. Drums, shouting, contests of strength, coupling that left bruises. This place lacked the open sky and the crackle of real fire and the carnage, but the pulse of it felt familiar enough that Ghruna did not feel the need to bare her teeth at it.

She stood near the bar, glancing past a duracrete pillar scarred by old impact marks towards the dance floor.

The glass in her hand was strong liquor, poured without asking. She had accepted it with a nod and drank half of it without ceremony.

Lysander brought his glass up; just enough to be noticed. A toast. “To everyone who’s carried their weight.” A roguish curve graced his mouth before fading. “And to the ops. They won’t be a problem again.”

She realised that this was some kind of tradition where she was supposed to wait and drink with the others.

She hesitantly lifted her glass. She was tall and long limbed, still not filling out her form. She raised her glass high in the air.

Her tail flicked once behind her, slow and controlled.

This seemed nice and simple. Far better than the quiet dance on ice where people were expected to speak quietly and joke and perform for strangers.

She drained the rest of her glass and set it down loudly on the bar.

"Another!"

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Pre-Arrival:​

Varin’s ship exited light speed as Nar Shaddaa came into view. CC-14 began flipping switches to stabilize the ship as Varin finished getting ready.

“Master Varin.”

CC began to speak quietly to him.

“Are you aware that there is a…girl…on the ship with you?”

Varin let out a deep sigh as he buttoned up his nice vest.

“I’m aware, CC. I invited her to the event, figured she could use a good time. Besides, you don’t have to mutter.”

He leaned in close to CC and whispered.

“I think she can hear you.”

CC blinked a few times before looking at Seren and then back at Varin.

“Oh, of course. Madam I do hope you excuse the mess, Varin is not the cleanest person when it comes to his rooms.”

Varin stopped midstride as he noticed the various clothes and junk strewn about the ship, some old food he forgot to throw out and a few bottles of whatever drink he was sipping on at the time.

“Uh…yeah…the place still looks like luxury living before Haro helped me fix it up though, so theres that.”

He gave a nervous chuckle towards Seren as the ship hit light turbulence.

Arrival:​

Varin stepped off the ship with Seren as they both headed towards the Red Ronin Club. Apparently his battle brother Lysander took it over after the disappearance of Darth Anathemous. Some of the personnel of the club even escorted them into the club where he saw all the acolytes, faces familiar and some not as familiar, gathered around Lysander. A drink was pressed into his hand as he gave his toast. Holding his glass up Varin listened to each word as if Lysander himself were speaking to him. He gave a light chuckle when he referenced the ops and then downed his drink, which happened to just be straight hard liquor, burning down his throat. He let out a cough.

“I guess that was sipping whiskey instead of an actual shot.”

His voice was a bit harsh from the bite back of liquor. He shook his head and coughed slightly to clear his throat. He then turned to Seren with a slight smirk.

“Lys!”

He called over to him as he walked over, the dense crowd seeing the bulky tall man and instinctively they parted from him as he made his way through, also leaving a gap for Seren to follow.

“Moving up in the world rather quickly huh? Your own club. Seems rather fitting for you.”

He gently placed his hand on his shoulder.

“It looks good here.”

Seren Gwyn | Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Seren Gwyn]

Seren had taken the ship in with quiet interest long before CC said anything—every scuff on the bulkhead, every abandoned bottle, every half-forgotten object told a story. Not judgment. Context.

When the droid finally spoke up, she didn't bristle. She only inclined her head slightly, amused.

"No offense taken," she said calmly to CC. "I have seen worse from people who claimed to be disciplined."

Her eyes slid—not unkindly—across the scattered state of Varin's quarters. When he noticed and chuckled nervously, she arched a brow, the faintest hint of dry humor touching her expression.

"You have the living space of someone very clearly unattached," Seren observed. "A bachelor who spends more time surviving than settling."

There was no bite in it. Only truth, stated the way she always did.

Then, softer—almost conspiratorial:

"If you survive the night," she added, glancing back at the mess with a hint of warmth, "I would not object to helping you clean. Consider it… preventative maintenance."

By the time they arrived planetside, the noise and heat of Nar Shaddaa rolling in around them, Seren's attention shifted fully outward. The Red Ronin pulsed like a living thing—neon, sound, bodies packed too tightly together, power thrumming just beneath the surface.

Inside, when the drink was pressed into Varin's hand, and he promptly discovered the difference between sipping and not sipping, Seren watched his reaction with quiet amusement, one corner of her mouth lifting as he coughed.

"An educational experience," she murmured dryly.

When he called out to Lysander and moved through the crowd, she followed easily at his side, unhurried, unbothered by the way people made space for him. She noticed it—the instinctive recognition of presence, of contained violence—but her gaze stayed on Varin instead.

As he clapped Lysander on the shoulder and complimented the club, Seren took in the scene with a measured sweep of her eyes.

"It does suit him," she said quietly to Varin, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the music. "Controlled chaos. Purpose disguised as indulgence."

Then she glanced back up at him, amber eyes catching the red light.

"You, on the other hand," Seren added, tone lightly amused, "look like someone who rarely allows himself to arrive anywhere simply to enjoy it."

A pause—then, an invitation rather than a challenge.

"Tonight," she said, "you should try."

And with that, she let the noise and motion of the Red Ronin swallow them whole—standing with him, not behind him, ready for whatever the night decided to become.

Lysander von Ascania Varin Mortifer

 

[Snees D'ner]

Objective One: Party

Tags: Varin Mortifer Seren Gwyn Riffraff Ranat Suzaku Ghruna | Open

Snees wasn’t sitting on a chair. Chairs were for people with longer legs. So, the Jawa was perched directly on the bar’s counter, boots swinging over the edge, dangling like he’d claimed the fethin’ the space outright. After all, that was the only way he could meet the room at eye level. And he learned a long time ago that eye level was where all the deals and bad ideas lived.

He was wrapped in layers tonight. A thick sand colored robe draped over his small frame. Around his neck and shoulders, an orange scarf was wound high, hiding most of his face. A soft wide brimmed hat sat low. Two yellow eyes burned beneath the brim. Curious, high, and still alert.

Beside him on the counter rested a slugthrower, nearly half the length of one arm. It almost looked comical.. until you realized how casually it had been left there.. as if Snees had no fear of anyone getting stupid ideas.

Smoke curled lazily around him. A joint was pinched between his little fingers, the ember glowing whenever he drew in another slow pull. The smell was skunky and unmistakable. If anyone noticed, that was ok. Let them think he was relaxed and not paying attention. Half of his credits came from those who underestimated him. The other half were usually on the receiving end of one pistol or another.

He paused just long enough to clock the others. Two blondes, then some girl with horns and muscle. Then there was a really tall one. Big and loud. The woman with him seemed the most steady of them all. Riffraff was a given. Big boss brain.

Another exhale, smoking ribboning upward. Then the toast came, everyone's glasses lifting. Snees liked that. Taking the glass, he lifted it as high as it could really go. Yeah, he’d pulled his weight alright. Pulled theft. Always out of someone else's pocket. For him it was like collecting taxes. Everyone had to pay up eventually.

The amber liquid sloshed as he tipped the glass back. It burned.. hotter and meaner than Tatooine’s twin suns. He hissed into his scarf, eyes narrowing.

Then he thunked the empty glass onto the counter.

 

[Gillem]

Party Time
Theme​

He took a long draw from his cigarette. The scent of the tobacco was sweet as it clouded around him. The slow exhale eased the tension in his shoulders as he tapped his metallic fingers on the bar for another round. He watched as a group of, well what he could assume were basically college kids in Sith form doing some sort of frat party, began to take a toast. It drew a soft chuckle out of him.

He remembered being that young. Ready for any adventures he could take. Then he saw the bigger one walk in. Good lord. What a bounty he could have.

The liquid in his glass melted the ice just enough for the ice to shift and clatter inside. He wrapped his mechanical fingers around the glass and tipped it back, watching the big kid down the whole glass. His reaction drew another chuckle out of him.

“No kid, that ain’t shootin whiskey. That's the real stuff.”

He mumbled to himself.

He got a glimpse of everyone. His eye picked up multiple bounties in the resort. Hell the whole place was swimming in money regardless of how you looked at it.

The skunkweed however caught his eye, well more like his nostrils. He turned to see a Jawa just sitting on the bar right by his gun. Gillem was not dumb enough to reach for anythings weapon, especially one about knee high and on the stuff. Then there was another shorter one, balancing a tray on her head. One thing was for certain. He wasn’t on Tatooine no more.

He slowly made his way over to the Jawa, his boots lightly thudding on the floor.

“How much for some of the good stuff on you?”

He reached into his pocket pulling out some credits as he began to count it. The lit cigarette glowing and smoking in a trail above him. The revolvers hung loosely at his hips.

Snees D'ner | Open​

 

[Reina Daival]

Tag: Open
Location: Red Ronin Club
Outfit


In the past, Reina would have been at the bar. Drinking herself into blissful oblivion and racking up a fairly substantial bill...But alas, that was back when she could handle her liquor. It was different now. Her tolerance for what she had viewed as nectar had been stolen. And sure, she might have agreed in the past that alcohol wasn't good for her health and wasn't a good coping mechanism. Though compared to her current coping mechanism...Well, drinking wouldn't hurt as much.

The Ersansyr wrapped the bandage over her arm, preparing herself for the fight in the arena. Even as she could hear those chanting and cheering off towards the bar, Reina couldn't bring herself to enjoy in their "merriment." It was strange if she thought about this place. About the so-called "Sith Covenant". The redhead had met some of the higher ups. Back on Dagobah. But there was also a few of the Acolytes she had met. Some on friendly terms...some on less so friendly terms.

As she waited for the fight to be ready, part of her wondering what was taking so long for the arena to be prepared, Reina pulled out her dagger, gently dangling it in front of her gaze as her iridescent eyes took in the details of it. She could sense the Sith Alchemy that had been used in its creation. A small exhale of frustration escaped her lips as her hand wrapped around the dagger's hilt. It made the Darkness more apparent. The storm battering against her. A storm she didn't know how to control. She could endure it. She could fight it. But control was a completely different beast. Perhaps like any beast, she'd learn how to control it. But that was not today.

No, today was for entertainment.
​

 

[Naniti]

A Club? Lysander seemed to land himself more than enough responsibilities to stay busy. Was it that or were people trying to keep him busy? Out of the way? The Togruta couldn't help but notice the obvious -- the place was full of people that enjoyed power. In a word, Sith. In two words, Dark Siders. She could go on, but the point needed no explanation to any in the building. Well, almost any.

Naniti took a glass and waited until Lysander made his toast. Whatever was going on in the shadows, he at least managed his customary bold mask of aplomb. She joined in the cheer, of course, and took a responsible drink of the alcohol.

Her blue eyes had been taking in the faces of a lot of those gathered. It was a talent to find trouble; one she leveraged as often as breathing. That was her vice whereas others in the crowd downed their drinks like they were water -- obviously their vice. Not one the Togruta shared. How lithe women like that weren't instantly wasted was a miracle in and of itself.

The glass lowered in her hand as her head turned aside. It was shoved into the chest of someone Naniti passed as she followed a figure through the crowd. They weren't unknown to her. In fact, she'd been there when they made their debut. Which was interesting to see they'd managed to hold onto their autonomy and not end up in some Lord's private research lab. Good for them. Might be bad for everyone else though. Which made a Togruta curious where they were going with such intent to their strides.

She stopped out of sight from the door that Suzaku had taken root in front of, however. With her back against the wall, Naniti kept her eyes and ears open for a change. What were they doing just standing there? Why that room?

Lysander von Ascania | Arris Windrun | Vestra Tane | Mercy

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Nar Shaddaa - Red Ronin Club

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace didn't arrive with fanfare. Bass thudded hard enough to vibrate through bone, through metal, and through the thin layer of patience he carried with him.

He stood just inside the perimeter of the bar crowd, not pressed into it, but not removed from it either. A place where people wouldn't look twice. A place where you could hear things without being invited into conversations you didn't want.

A glass had found its way into his hand. Ace took a slow pull, enough to justify holding it, but not enough to dull the edge. This wasn't celebration, not to him at least. It was indulgence. Sith pretending the galaxy wasn't on fire for a night because the Dark side was up a few points.

His gaze tracked without fixing. Bodies. Power. Gravity wells in flesh and posture. Lysander was easy to spot, not because he demanded attention, but because the room subtly bent around him. When the toast came, Ace didn't lift his glass higher than necessary. Just played along with that usual dead expression.

"To everyone who's carried their weight." He repeated to himself, drinking again at that. A fraction deeper this time.

He was about to settle back into the rhythm of observation when something shifted. Arris moved. Away from the bar, away from the floor, toward the upper levels where music dulled and conversations sharpened. People didn't leave parties like that unless they were done pretending.

Ace didn't follow immediately. He knew better. Instead, he finished his drink. Let the glass rest on the bar a little longer than necessary. Watched the door she'd gone through. Clocked the figure planted there... Suzaku, unmoving, wrong in that way that made instincts itch. He couldn't tell whether he was a guard, or following a similar hunch.

Naniti lingered nearby too. Watching. Great. Ace didn't head for the stairs. That route was being watched now. He moved along the edge of the room instead, away from the bar and into the line of booths built into the wall. The sound dropped off there, unevenly. One booth leaked muffled arena noise through a half-engaged dampener. That told him enough. He stopped with his back to the wall, just another acolyte avoiding the crowd.

Behind him, a recessed service panel sat flush with the wall. Environmental controls, sound routing. He didn't need access, just position. Ace had learned a long time ago that soundproofing always cheated, what it took from one place surfaced somewhere else.

Faint voices carried down from above, distorted but distinct from the music. Conversation. The arena roared louder, covering it. Ace stayed still and listened.

Lysander von Ascania | Arris Windrun | Naniti | Suzaku​

 

[Snees D'ner]

Objective One: Party
Gillem

Snees clocked the man before he reached the bar. He didn't budge an inch, boots still swinging in a way that was anything but urgent. Only those piercing yellow eyes narrowed with calculation beneath the brim of his hat, sizing up what might be a threat. Tall and weathered with a revolver at the hips. Not a tourist. Not a fool. The Jawa liked that more than he should have.

The herb burned clean in his lungs. That wasn't his first joint tonight, and probably not his last. He heard the man speak as smoke curled and wandered. Galactic Basic.. again. That.. more than anything, annoyed him. It wasn't because he couldn't understand it; he hated answering it. There were days he missed the desert.. letting Jawaese roll out fast and watching others fail at guessing the meaning.

His focus dropped to the hand slipping into the pocket, pulling out a stack of credits. There it was. Now that was the holy grail. Snees didn’t even have to shake the man. Perhaps such easy spending was second nature to him.

Leaning forward, he ashed the joint into a tray shaped like a holocron. Then, extending it between two fingers, he offered it. He wasn't offering friendship. Might as well let the brute sample it; the product might sell itself, and he wouldn't be yapping unnecessarily all night.

Only then did he speak.

“One ounce minimum.”

He returned to the credits in the man’s grasp . Definitely not enough. It was a bluff, but at the same time, he was looking to move real weight, not crumbs.

“Brosi stock. Not for beginners.” The yellow gleam flickered. “Careful. Makes tall people quiet.”

 

[Gillem]

He looked at the offered joint and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. He let out a slow exhale as he ground the glowing end into a nearby glass full of ice. Next he slowly took the offered joint and examined it.

“Brosi huh? Ain’t that the new Spore Industries location? Heard great things.”

He listened to the broken common that was returned to him and his brow raised.

“Feel free to speak in Jawan. I learned how to speak it out of necessity.”

He took a slow drag of the joint, making sure to fill his lungs with ease. The taste of it spread throughout his mouth overpowering the sweet tobacco before he tilted his head back and slowly exhaled. The feeling of tiny pricks filled his lungs but he resisted the cough. Almost instantly he could feel an ease in his body, yet his eyes almost sharpening.

“Hm. Not bad at all.”

He looked down at the credits in his hand.

“An ounce you say? That's not a whole lot. Might even last me the night.”

He offered the joint back, a sign of good faith.

“The stuff's good. How much for an ounce?”

He grabbed his drink again taking another reasonable sip, the burn of the whiskey complimented well with the burn in his lungs.

Snees D'ner​

 

[Anet Raine]

Anet hated Nar Shaddaa. She said as much to Anathemous, the Sith Lord who last invited her, to this very place no less. Why did she hate it? No unique reasons. None interesting, at any rate. She didn't like urbworlds, and she didn't like Hutt Space, and the Smuggler's Moon was where both things met.

The scholarly acolyte found herself surrounded by partygoers on all sides. She had a drink in her hand, something disgusting but strong. Lysander raised a toast. She raised her glass back. That was how things were supposed to go. Anet sighed, sipped her drink until it was mostly ice, and squeezed her way through the crowd, towards a little corner with some personal space.

Or so she thought - because before she arrived, the half-pantoran bumped into Reina Daival and dropped her drink. The glass spilled across the floor, shards mixing with the melted ice.

"Fuck!" She exclaimed, then turned to the offended party. "I am so sorry!" She nearly bumped into someone else as she backed up.

There were a few snide remarks thrown her way at the mess, just in time for a little MSE droid to roll on by with a vacuum attachment to clean it up.

Anet moved a little closer to the woman, attempting to place a familiar hand on her wrist, as if they were friends already.

She spoke up to be heard above the loud music. "I didn't get any on you, did I?"

 

[Ghruna]

Faint voices carried down from above, distorted but distinct from the music. Conversation. The arena roared louder, covering it. Ace stayed still and listened.

Ghruna had decided she should speak to someone. She had come to the academy with singular purpose, and not for socialising. Her people had only scraps of sith knowledge that had been passed down from before the Gulag plague. She was here to learn and prove herself to a father.

The hunt had proven to her that she still needed to learn more about outsiders and their ways. Her future might have been to lead a regiment of minotaurs into battle and take her father's crown one day, but those were long term aspirations.

The Red Ronin was loud in a way she understood. It was not a maldrani feast but the bodies were packed together, the noise was pressing in from every direction. It was quite familiar.

She stood a full head taller than almost everyone around her. Seven feet of horned silhouette and lithe muscle wrapped in dark leathers that did not quite belong in a nightclub. There were plenty of people in leathers here, but the style was very different.

The crowd parted around her without meaning to. She looked for someone who was not dancing.

She watched one of the sith who half-heartedly joined the toast and then went to a booth. That felt easier to approach than laughter and movement. She headed after him.

"This place is loud," she declared. With her people, a typical way of making an introduction was to start a fight. It was, after all, obviously the quickest way to make firm friends. She now understood that it was not their way.

She tried to sit. The universe had a wide variety of species but humans were common. This booth had been made for them. She had to awkwardly fold herself into the space. Her tail flicked in irritation and her horns caught the light hanging over the table.

She glanced back to him again, expression open in a blunt, unfamiliar way.

"I am Ghruna."

She did not offer a hand. She was never sure when that was expected. She was completely unaware that he had come to the booth to listen in to other conversations alone.

 

[Reina Daival]

Tag: Anet Raine
Location: Red Ronin Club
Outfit

"Don't touch me."

Even with the melodic tone that she always had as an Ersansyr now, her voice was firm. Reina pulling her wrist away from the stranger, as her gaze focused on the half-Pantoran for a second. Reina wasn't naive. When it came to people bumping into you in a place like this? You needed to check your belongings. So Reina patted herself down, making sure nothing was stolen.

"Even if you did get some on me, it's just liquid."

Reina turned her focus towards herself, using the Force to focus on the small little molecules of drink that had landed on her before using her Hydrokinesis to flick the droplets off to the ground, drying herself out for a moment before her gaze then went back over towards the stranger, a small scowl on Reina's face.

There was a part of her that debated coming off as aggressive. To use the dagger as a threat. To shift her teeth into fangs, to look more like an Ersansyr...but that wasn't Reina. She didn't want to work off fear. Instead she spoke once more, the annoyance in her tone fading...Though it still sounded as if her every word was almost like a song.

"Be more careful next time. You never know how people would react in this place."

In the past? Reina definitely would have been one of those people who would have smashed someone else's face in for bumping into her. She supposed that was at least another small benefit of her Jedi training. A better control of her more...violent habits.
​

 

[Snees D'ner]

Objective One: Party
Gillem

Snees watched the burn, how it settled deep before it was let go. That earned a rasping chuckle from beneath the orange scarf, shoulders bouncing as boots kept their idle swing. The word came out pleased. “Ayeee.”

At the mention of Brosi, Snees’ head tipped back just enough for the yellow to brighten. He'd seen the process himself once, not on some tour or through transparisteel, but close enough that the plants brushed his sleeves, and close enough to feel the warmth from the lights. He’d even pinched a bud straight off the plant when no one was looking.

“Best from the Outer Rim.”

Speak Jawaese.

He laughed again.. sharper this time.. then rattled off a short burst of Jawaese.

"Hkeek nkulla Juwi."

Then he switched back to Basic.

“You understand?”

Once more, his attention dipped to the credits , weighing them the way he weighed everything. Then he settled on the man.

“One fifty.”

Internally, the math clicked together just right. He was still looking to charge Core World prices. More than double what it should be. Enough to offend, depending on how well traveled the man was. And it was also a test. Not necessarily of credits.. but his attitude.. whether the man might scoff, negotiate, or just pay.

The thought of him burning through an entire ounce in one night tickled something in Snees’ chest.

“Your lungs must be made of durasteel. Or you don't got plans tomorrow."

One shoulder rolled in a gesture towards the bodies nearby.

“Why this club with all the scum?”

 

[Gillem]

Best from the outer rim. How often has he heard something like that? Though this may have some truth to it, he had tried all kinds of this skunk weed, even some that was mixed with cooking spices, in his younger days he was even swindled WITH cooking spices.

His gaze dropped to him when he spoke Jawan. Oh he knew alright what he said and a smirk of amusement fell upon his face.

“You have quite a mouth on you.”

He chuckled, before he pointed his metallic finger towards him.

“But feth you too, little man.”

He didn’t show any signs of hostility, this was just how dealers and buyers would talk sometimes. Whether it were just the two sizing each other up, seeing how dumb they were or just friendly banter. Jawas seemed to have a mix of the three when it came to talking with buyers of any kind. His eyes squinted at his price.

“One fifty? What are you planning on selling to the empress herself? There's no damn way any sane person would pay that!”

He chuckled at his last remark. The ice in his drink clinked as he tapped the bar for another refill. The bartender was quick to act, pouring him another refill of his chosen whiskey.

“Call me a connoisseur of sorts. It ain’t my first rodeo on this stuff.”

He looked down at his credits then back to the Jawa. Obviously he needed to make some profit.

“Tell you what, two hundred credits and I will take two ounces off of you.”

He leaned on the bar as he packed another roll of tobacco leaf, before placing it on his lips. His mechanical thumb folded back as a small blue flame shot up like a small torch, lighting the end as he inhaled.

Snees D'ner​