Faction Future Regents Dinner [THR]

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Kaadara Estate, Naboo
Directly Interacting with: Decarii Tithe | Loria Sorelle
Nearby: Bastila Sal-Soren Dominic Praxon John Locke Aurelian Veruna Corazona von Ascania Cassian Abrantes Her Bastila Sal-Soren Vemric Keldra Aiden Porte @
Wearing: Dress | x x

​

"Then we are alike in that, my lady. Naboo asks much of us all, and it is only natural to hope our choices prove worthy of her trust." Sibylla quietly replied to Bastila Sal-Soren , her smile lingering, but the woman's attention had already turned towards Aurelian.

Nonetheless, Sibylla still marveled at Bastila's decision to enter the race for the throne. All she truly held was a name, and though Sal-Soren carried weight, it was not so distant from scandal. The House had only preserved its standing by cutting loose the one branded as a terrorist.

Beyond that, Bastila had no record of policy, no Assembly debates, no years honing law into practice. Theory was not governance. And then came the revelation of her Jedi ties, followed swiftly by her renunciation of them. The Assembly was clear: no Jedi could sit on the throne. To run, Bastila had stripped herself of that identity.

Why, then? Sibylla's gaze softened into one of contemplation as she took a slow sip of wine. What spark drove Bastila into this race?

As it was, there was no time to muse, for it was time to sit.

Yet Sibylla couldn't help but notice the subtle yet deliberate game Lady Sal-Soren played with the nameplates. A flicker of hazel eyes flicked from Bastila to Aurelian Veruna , the most subtle of arches of her brow in query, before settling in beside Bastila and offering the seat beside her to Decarii.

It was a good thing she had already taken her seat, for the name Aurelian offered to Lord Dominic Praxon struck like a stone cast into still water.

​

...but I suspect this Lady Corazona von Ascania is actually the true ruler.

Von Ascania.

Sibylla's composure cracked at the edges. Her fingers stalled just above the stem of her glass before curling back against her palm. Hazel eyes darted to the cluster of foreign delegates, and there she was. The blonde woman in the hoverchair. Lady Corazona von Ascania .

Von Ascania. Ukatis. Lysander.

A tremor brushed her lower lip before she smoothed it into a practiced, cordial smile. Across from her, Loria leaned in, her voice carrying that conspiratorial lilt as she mused how very riveting it all was.

"Riveting, indeed…" Sibylla murmured, forcing her hand to lift the glass, but the vintage was wasted on her tongue, the dull ache in her chest spreading as her pulse quickened. Her mind raced, and she barely managed to find a low, easy jest to cloak it.

"Though I must ask, Lady Sorelle, which part do you find most enthralling? The politics? The whispers?..."

Just then, Blaire Sal-Soren swept in, casting greetings around the table to everyone but her. To an onlooker, it could have read as a deliberate snub.

Sibylla barely spared it a thought. Dignity was armor, and she wore it still. Full lips curved again as she added lightly to Loria Sorelle , "...or perhaps the way half the table pretends not to eavesdrop on the other half?"

Yet even then, despite her attempts to quell it, Lysander's words came back unbidden.

I wish you joy. Not the kind that flickers, but the kind that endures beyond all else.​

As if summoned, the Ukatis delegation approached to provide their greetings to Aurelian and Bastila. No greeting towards her direction, but for once Sibylla was grateful -- for as her eyes drifted over the table towards Corazona von Ascania , Sibylla felt the truth of it still...a quiet hurt that refused to disappear.

Her lashes lowered as she set the glass down with deliberate care and reached for a handkerchief, dabbing her lips as though the motion might steady her.

I wish you strength. Not to fight, but to rest. Because I've seen the weight you carry.
Because I finally understand your silence.​

Her eyes caught those of the young King Fabian, and Sibylla did her best to give an incline of her head in greeting just as an attendant appeared at her elbow with a glass of water. Sibylla accepted it with a gracious incline of her head, murmuring her thanks, though her throat felt tight around the word.

I wish you someone who sees you clearly. And if you ever think of me, please let it be gently.
Let it be without sorrow.​

Without sorrow. As if that were so simple. Time and throwing herself into work and the campaign had dulled the ache, softening its edges so it no longer cut with every breath. But dulled was not the same as gone.

Whatever game Aurelian played with Tona's presence, whatever honeyed baited barbed words he and Bastila traded loudly enough for others to overhear, barely reached Sibylla's notice. Perhaps that was telling. She lifted her glass again, drank deep, and still the wine tasted empty.

Her lips pressed together, a silent line of restraint, as the din of voices pressed closer. For all the open air, she felt stifled.

Another sip. Another smile, carefully shaped, even as she swallowed against the ache in her throat.

She had a role to play. An important one.

And heartbreak had no place in it.

 

[Loria Sorelle]

LORIA SORELLE
Kaadara Estate, Naboo

Loria's gaze drifted across the hall with effortless grace, as though the evening itself had been laid before her to be studied. Every whisper, every subtle glance, every measured tilt of a noble's head became another note in the delicate music of the night.

At the head of the table, the Monarch-Elects remained the center of attention, yet it was the shifting movements of guests that truly drew her eye. And among them, a familiar sight: Blaire.

'Lovely to see you as well, Lady Sal-Soren.' Loria inclined her head with warm composure, though Blaire vanished again as quickly as she had arrived: with style.

For a time, her heart was calmed. Dominic's quiet presence, his warmth, had soothed the nerves that had threatened her composure just moments earlier. Still, the thought of Dominic in Marcellan's company sent a sense of unease through her chest. Oh, the horror indeed.

Her hand came lightly to rest on Dominic's arm, a gesture of intimacy. A smirk pulled at her lips when his fingers found hers in return. 'I'm not going anywhere, Lord Praxon,' she whispered, her words meant only for him, and her gaze lingering on his a touch longer than courtesy might excuse.

She got the message.

Loria considered the idea of the two senator-elects meeting, and with the faintest exhale she replied, '…and we shall see.'

When he once again raised the matter of a reading, that same reading first whispered of at the defense fund auction, Loria inclined her head in inevitability.

A sip of wine steadied her, but at the mention of Thistlebark, her ears pricked up again, her poise focused. Though Dominic's teasing carried her back, and she answered with a gentle laugh. 'Oh, stop!' she tittered, her voice coy as she leaned in closer, her eyes holding his with a closeness meant to be witnessed, even if not spoken of.

And then, her gaze slipped outward once more. Sibylla. Decarii. Sibylla's careful selection of words prompted a clever response, and she did so with an arched brow, her smirk quick. 'Why not all three?' she countered, her tone carrying confidence and humour.

The jest lasted but a moment before Loria's keen perception caught the falter- Sibylla's smile drawn too thin, and her glass lingering for too long. Loria's expression softened, her voice lowering, intimate, near to kindness.

'Lady Abrantes…' she leaned just a little closer, not enough for spectacle but enough to be felt, '…are you quite well?'

Suddenly, an attendant arrived, parchment and quill set gently before her, the ink shining beneath the warm lights. Around the table, the shuffle of ballots shifted between hands, pleasantries now hardening into politics.

Her eyes lingered on the parchment as she considered her choices:

Aurelian Veruna, a politician to the bone, weathered and calculating.

Bastila Sal-Soren, a Jedi, or ex-Jedi, radiant with ideals yet untested in Naboo's political landscape.

One offered certainty, perhaps suffocating. The other, possibility, however precarious.

After a moment of consideration, she leant toward Dominic once again. 'Who do you think?'

She had no strong opinions of her own, or at least none she would admit aloud. Politics, to her, was more theater than conviction, its players shifting masks as readily as roles in a play. And yet, she found herself curious and eager to hear his thoughts.

His judgment steadied her in ways she would never confess; to know where he placed his trust might give shape to her own judgement.

Interacting with Dominic Praxon , Sibylla Abrantes & Decarii Tithe
Mentioning Aurelian Veruna , Bastila Sal-Soren & Blaire Sal-Soren

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

X | X​

Bastila's words pressed against him with an unexpected weight, formal and sharpened, layered not only for him but for their audience across the table. He felt it clearly. She wasn't speaking solely to him; this performance was meant for Dominic as much as for himself. A smile twitched on Aurelian's lips, one that didn't reach his eyes.

He let the smile settle and took a long sip before setting the glass down. His gaze drifted past Dominic, past Loria's sparkling anticipation, and landed on Sibylla. Something in her face was different, not the curated poise she always carried, but a hairline fracture, visible to anyone who knew where to look. Loria leaned close, murmuring, "Are you alright?" For the first time that night, Aurelian's brow furrowed.

Without hesitation, he lifted two fingers and summoned a passing attendant. "A whiskey, neat. For Lady Sibylla," he said, his voice low but carrying authority. He didn't explain. If she wouldn't allow herself to break, perhaps the burn of Corellia's best vintage would offer her the armor she needed.

Only then did he turn back to Bastila, who leaned into her performance like a songbird learning to sing in a storm. Her gaze burned, her smirk teased, her words were heavy with challenge. And yet, all he could think was how transparent it felt: a girl with no record, no scars from Assembly floors, trying to spin silk into steel in front of nobles who had lived this dance since the cradle.

Aurelian scoffed quietly, shaking his head. The sound was a ripple of dismissal, meant to roll over her barbs until they broke against him like waves against cliffs. He leaned closer, his smile meant for her alone, though his voice remained audible to those who strained to listen.

"Enough," he said. "Enough with the games, Bastila. You are far out of your depth, and the longer you pretend otherwise, the more obvious it becomes. I've tried to be generous tonight... to unite us under something greater, for Naboo. But don't mistake my courtesy for weakness. I will win this election. The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes. The only chance you have of being Queen…" He narrowed his eyes. "…is if I find it favorable to look your way in marriage. A mercy pact. A hand extended to a girl who would otherwise be devoured."

He let the words linger, sink like a blade turned to remind her of its edge. Then, as her whisper about his "plan" hung between them, he gave her exactly what she asked for... every word sharpened into a weapon.

"You want to know my plan? Very well. I plan to never allow a Jedi with a favorable surname to take the throne. That path leads only to ruin. Jedi cannot master themselves. They never have." His voice dropped lower, dangerous, as his gaze slid toward the quiet, watchful figure of Lossa. "I read once, from one of your own long ago, that once someone touches the dark side, it's a constant struggle not to be consumed. Do you understand what that means? Why would Naboo risk that plague at the heart of her monarchy?"

He pivoted deliberately, his eyes catching on Corazona von Ascania. For the first time, his mask cracked just enough to show teeth. "And I should remind you... your Order has already failed you. One trained by your own family defected, two of your kin. A Jedi who fell to the Sith. I saw it myself in the Kaggath... Lysander von Ascania. Tell me, why should I trust that you will not one day follow him? Why should any of us?"

His words were not shouted, but they carried, low and resonant, meant for her and for the whole table. Meant to seed doubt.

"I refuse," he declared, raising his chin toward Cora as though offering a toast, "to let such temptation ever plague my people. The people of Naboo deserve better."

Now his voice swelled, reaching the table and beyond. "I will usher in a renaissance for Nabooian culture. I will see our influence grow, as it already has with Ukatis. I will see our borders defended, as I have with my War Bill. These people..." he gestured subtly to the nobles gathered, his hand sweeping across the room like a benediction, "are my responsibility. And I will never let anyone else dictate otherwise. Not you, not the Jedi, not any family name carried like a shield against inexperience. This is my board. My pieces. My rules. And I have been playing since the day I could walk."

He leaned back finally, glass raised, his dangerous smile returning in full strength. "So understand this, Lady Sal-Soren. You are not here to win. You are here to be measured. And thus far, all you've shown me is that persistence is not the same thing as power."

The silence that followed clung like smoke, heavy and waiting to be broken.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Cassian had learned to read a battlefield in silence, and this was no different. The table was its own front, banners draped in words instead of steel, but every move still carried weight. He caught the flicker in Sibylla's hand before she mastered it, the way her glass hesitated at the name von Ascania. Few would have seen it. He did. The rest of the hall could have their whispers, their smug smiles, their eyes fixed on Bastila or Aurelian, but his gaze lingered on his sister. Composure restored, she looked the picture of serenity, but Cassian knew armor when he saw it. He'd worn it himself often enough.

The name still rang in his own ears. Von Ascania. Ukatis. Lysander. He hadn't forgotten. He doubted Sibylla ever could. And Aurelian, smug bastard that he was, dropped it into the room like a vibroblade across fine porcelain.

His hand slid to his glass, not for the wine but the water beside it, and he raised it fractionally toward her, an unspoken gesture, hold steady, you're not alone.

Cassian had heard battlefield speeches before. Captains rallying troops before the line broke. Generals dressing strategy in poetry so men would march to their deaths with pride. Aurelian's voice had that same cadence, not for Bastila's sake alone, but for the ears straining all around them.

The soldier in him recognized the tactic, admired its precision. The brother in him bristled.

His hand tightened around the stem of his glass, though he forced himself to set it down lightly, without noise. He would not give Aurelian the satisfaction of reaction, not when Sibylla sat across from him, her mask already tested, her hand trembling once before it stilled again. She was his measure in the room, not Veruna's theatrics. But when Aurelian called Lysander's name into the open air, Cassian felt something in him coil tight, a quiet rage that flared hotter for how still he kept himself. Lysander's choices were his own. To wield them now, like a blade across Sibylla's silence, was a cruelty dressed in statesmanship.

Cassian's jaw worked once before he found his breath. He leaned back, posture deceptively relaxed, though his eyes never left Veruna. That smile of Aurelian's, polished, sharp, too eager to bare teeth, reminded him less of a king and more of an officer untested by real war, who mistook shouting orders for courage.

Still, Cassian said nothing. Not yet. His restraint was its own weapon, and silence carried more edge than fury ever could. Let Aurelian think he had won the table. Let the nobles sip their wine and murmur. Cassian was not here to trade barbs or make speeches. He was here to remember every word. Every calculated cruelty. Every fracture Aurelian pried open in those he cared for.

When the time came, and it always did, Cassian Abrantes would not meet Aurelian Veruna across a table of silver and glass. He would meet him as he was meant to be met, with blood and steel.

Cassian's eyes drifted back to his glass of water, where the lingered for the longest of times. He could hear it, once more. The words of their father in his mind, she could handle herself...

His fingers strummed along the table every so lightly, as he sat back in his chair gaze rested on the glass of water refusing to look anywhere else.

What could he do?

What could he do...?

 

[Decarii Tithe]

Kadaara, Naboo

Sibylla Abrantes | Aurelian Veruna | Bastila Sal-Soren | Loria Sorelle | Dominic Praxon | Blaire Sal-Soren

“You know, I didn’t catch his name,” Decarii replied with a wry smile as she followed Sibylla to the dining table. The minor lord had served his purpose by getting the lawyer into the event, and her only thoughts of him were her efforts to avoid him. Surely he had gotten the hint. “But hey, he wasn’t my type anyway. And I get the feeling that I’ve landed in much more delightful company.”

The Arrgauun took her seat at the table. Deportment was the same galaxy-wide, and she had learned how to carry herself through her years of winning and dining clients for the Trade Federation. Her position at the table was enviable - she seemed to be the only being without noble Naboo blood invited to dine this evening.

Introductions were made as gentle dinner music drifted over the room. Aurelian Veruna welcomed Decarii to the table and thanked her for her work on the recent emergency defence funding legislation. Dominic Praxon , whose path she had not previously passed, introduced himself. Loria Sorelle greeted Decarii, and commented that the Naboo intrigue was riveting.

“You’re going to have to catch me up, ma’am,” Decarii declared as a waiter topped up her glass. While she belonged to one of the richest families in the galaxy, her blood did not contain a single drop of a distinguished Naboo line. Tithe’s were new credits, the Royal Houses were old credits. She would have to earn a place in their world. “The courtroom, the High Assembly, that’s where I play. A lot of lies, deceit and credits. So I think I’ll be able to fit right in.”

At the head of the table, Aurelian joked about a ballot to determine the next sovereign of Naboo, and had a turse exchange with Bastila Sal-Soren . Like the rest of the table, Decarii was pretending not to eavesdrop.

She turned to Sibylla to ask about the feud between Aurelian and Bastila, and immediately saw the distress on the Ambassador’s face. A career spent in the galaxy’s courtrooms and boardrooms had taught her how to read people. Something, or someone, was upsetting Sibylla. Decarii’s gaze moved around the room as she took another sip of wine, but without knowing the history and power dynamics of the royal household, it was hard to tell what was causing distress.

“Thinking of buying a place. You know, escape from Theed, enjoy the peace and quiet.” Lake houses and sprawling weekend manors went hand in hand with the royal families. It was a way to signal to the royals that she was a player in their world. “Any advice on where to invest? I have to say, I haven’t gotten out of the city much. But I hear good things about the lake country.” Decarii continued to scan the room, trying to determine what was upsetting the woman next to her.

 

[Kael Varnok]

Kael's jaw tightened at Aiden's words, though his expression remained unreadable in the half-light. The danger isn't the demon. It's believing we are powerless against it.

For the briefest instant, his gaze darkened — not outward, but inward. A whisper coiled at the edge of his thoughts, sharp and sardonic:

"Powerless?" it murmured. "You've seen their faces, heard their screams. You know what demons are. You are what they fear in the dark."

His hand flexed once against the railing before stilling. The silence between them stretched, long enough that Aiden might have felt the flicker in the Force — a ripple like smoke trying to slip through cracks in stone.

Then Kael drew in a measured breath and let it go. When he spoke, his voice was calmer, the iron discipline of a Jedi cloaking what lingered beneath.

"Perhaps you're right," he said, though the words sounded more like concession than agreement. "If demons exist, they feed on the stories we tell ourselves. And perhaps the only way to strip them of strength is to name them for what they are — scars. Pain. Memory."

He straightened, as though setting the weight back into its harness, and inclined his head toward the nobles gathered on the terrace. "Then let us see that the shadows stay outside. Tonight of all nights, their illusions have no place here."


The darkness within hissed at the retreat, but Kael forced the whisper down, shackled again — at least for now.

Aiden Porte

 

[Jael Amnen]

Jael allowed herself to be guided, though her presence upon Cassian’s arm was as light as the breeze itself. Every step shimmered with quiet poise, as if she were not following him to the table but rather allowing him to accompany her there. Where Cassian was steady, she was fluid, luminous.

As they drew near the seats, she inclined her head toward him, silver-shadowed eyes catching his with a warmth that seemed to see too much. “You honor me with such steadiness, Lord Cassian. The Mother blesses Naboo with men who carry the burden of responsibility with grace.” Her smile curved just enough to suggest there was more behind the words than their surface, a recognition, perhaps even an invitation to be seen more deeply.

When they reached their places, she released his arm with the same gentle grace, fingertips lingering a heartbeat longer than required. Jael claimed her seat near the end of the table, beside a Corporate representative, the distance from the center only serving to make her presence all the more striking. The soft gleam of her gown caught the lantern-light, constellations playing across the sheer fabric as though the night sky had bent itself to attend.

She leaned slightly toward Cassian as she settled, her voice lowered into a cadence meant only for him. “Take care, my lord. There are this table, those that would not speak so plainly as you. Fear not to take all my attention should you deem others unworthy.” The words were kind, and leading.

With effortless composure, she turned her attention down the table, inclining her head in serene greeting to those nearby. The priestess had found her seat, but she remained every inch the hostess.

Her shifting, flowing silver irises turned to the woman at the end of the table. "Greetings in the name of the Goddess, friend," she said to Her .

Cassian Abrantes​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Cassian had faced storms in armor and silence on watch, but Jael's words pressed against him with a different kind of weight. Not the heavy strike of command, nor the cutting edge of intrigue, but something gentler, more elusive. A recognition cloaked in reverence, and a warning wrapped in kindness. Her hand leaving his arm lingered in his awareness longer than it should have. He steadied himself with habit, shoulders straight, gaze measured, as though discipline could shield him from the effect of silver-shadowed eyes. The priestess spoke as though she knew him, as though she could see beneath the lacquered titles and the sharpened duty, to the brother who bore too much in silence.

He offered her the smallest incline of his head, not courtly flourish but soldier's respect. "I'm sure the Mother's blessing rests more with those who keep their burdens quiet," he murmured back, low enough that only she would catch it. His words were plain, without polish, but no less deliberate. "Still, I thank you."

When she turned her attention down the table, Cassian followed her lead, though his gaze lingered a moment longer on the constellation-patterned gown, the quiet power of her presence set apart from the center. She made the periphery into a throne.

It struck him that Jael did not need to raise her voice to be heard. She didn't play at dominance as Veruna did, or strike sparks as Bastila tried to. She was, and that was enough. He caught himself exhaling, a fraction slower than before, as though he had remembered to breathe only once her words had faded. Whatever else the night demanded, Cassian knew one truth: she had marked him, not with spectacle, but with the quiet assurance of being seen.

Cassian angled slightly toward her as she spoke, careful that his movement betrayed nothing more than courtesy to an onlooker. Yet her words, soft and sure, brushed past his defenses more easily than any blade.

Fear not to take all my attention should you deem others unworthy.

The soldier in him bristled instinctively at the implication, that he should compete for her gaze like some courtier with polished wit and gilded manners. But beneath the surface, he recognized the gift in it: not temptation, but invitation. An acknowledgment that he was not as invisible at this table as the nobles sometimes made him feel. His mouth tugged at the corner, not quite a smile, but something close. He inclined his head just enough that the dark edge of his hair shadowed his expression from the rest of the table.

"I am no court poet, my lady," he answered in a voice pitched for her alone, low and steady. "But if my plainness holds your attention, perhaps I need not envy the gilded tongues of others."

The words were measured, not flirtation but candor shaped into courtesy. He let them rest there, unwilling to push further, yet unwilling to retreat into silence as he so often did.

Jael Amnen

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

Bastila listened in silence, the tide lapping quiet whispers at her back, and for a moment it seemed she might offer no reply at all. The weight of his words hung between them, aimed not only at her but at every ear around the table. When she did move, it was not with retort, but a small, deliberate breath. Her shoulders lifted in a quiet shrug that drew as much attention as any outburst might have.

“Do you feel better now, Aurelian, got all you wanted to say out?” Her voice was steady, but not unkind; if anything, there was a thread of concern woven through it, as though she wondered what burden pressed him so hard that he would lash out so.

Her gaze shifted then, briefly, to Lady Abrantes. The flicker of strain upon Sibylla’s face had not gone unnoticed. Bastila’s expression softened a fraction, promising in silence that she would not let such unease pass without care.

When she returned her focus to the table, her tone steadied. “Your concerns are valid, and it is a good thing the throne of Naboo is not a political standing seat. That would free me to serve as a bridge between Naboo and the Republic; as what I am, a member of the Grandmaster’s family. Between the Order and the people. To ensure that the fears you voice are not fears to live by. After all one of the main purposes of the monarch is to act as link between the two?”

Her chin lifted, pride and pain flickering together in her eyes. “I agree, Aurelian. Enough of the games. You say not to mistake your generosity. I don’t, I am fully aware of the place in your mind it comes from. But I also say to you, do not mistake my political inexperience for naivety.” The warmth drained from her voice, leaving only steel. “You want me to kneel in gratitude for your approval? Be careful not to delude yourself. I have bled for Naboo, Aurelian. That is not rhetoric; it is truth written in scars I bear. I have stood between her people and death while you polished speeches and courted influence.”

The air sharpened with her words, but she did not raise her voice. “I am still a Jedi. I can see through you, Aurelian, and so will Naboo. You will find I am no girl to be devoured. Many have already tried. Don’t find yourself the one swallowed whole.”

Her voice fell quiet. She let her eyes slip from the Prince, taking in the table for the first time in full. And then, unavoidably, she found Dominic. A steadying presence amid the storm; the one anchor she allowed herself, yet it was the anchor that was currently harbouring someone else’s ship.

“Now I would very much like to enjoy this dinner rather than arguing who wears the pants at the table. So a truce for now?” She casually picked up one of the bits of perfectly cut Naboo Peach that was sitting on her plate and put it into her mouth raising a questioning eyebrow towards the Prince of Parrlay

Aurelian Veruna Sibylla Abrantes Corazona von Ascania Decarii Tithe Dominic Praxon Loria Sorelle​

 

[Jael Amnen]

Her silver-dusted eyes softened, the faintest shimmer of mirth rising behind them. "No poet, you say?" Jael's voice was low, laced with a warmth that carried easily past the hum of the hall, "and yet you speak of gilded tongues with the care of one who knows the works of the greats."

Her gaze lingered on him a fraction longer, quiet admiration threaded into the curve of her smile. She tilted her head slightly, braids brushing her bare shoulder, onyx beads catching the lantern-light. "If you mean to convince me you are not a poet, my lord, you will have to try harder." She let the tease hang, not mockingly, but offered like incense wafting in the air.

When she spoke again, it was softer, meant only for him. "Do not envy the tongues of others. Your honesty is rarer coin, and far more costly to counterfeit."

Her hand brushed the stem of her glass, the gesture as fluid as her tone, as though she were both present at the feast and slightly beyond it. A priestess touched by the moon, and a woman quietly, dangerously taken with the soldier at her side.

Cassian Abrantes​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic's jaw clenched. The argument between Bastila and Aurelian was not unexpected. But it was most unwelcome. For a moment, he forgot the game he played for Loria's affection, and his eyes focused in on the two candidates for Monarch.

Disappointment. Both failed in different ways, leaving Dominic concerned for Naboo's future.

Veruna was a petulant child that would need placating more often than a litter of a newborn fathier. Bastila, though not succumbing entirely to Veruna's outburst, did not pass with flying colours. Dominic felt a migraine coming on. One that he was sure only liquor could remedy.

"Enough of these words. They serve only to waste our energies on fighting those that want Naboo's best. No matter the victor," his eyes narrowed while he met tried to hold Bastila's gaze, "we are all allies in that."

"Who do you think?"

His mind was pulled away from his indignation for just a moment, to paint a smile across a face that did not deserve it. He leaned over to Loria, and whispered for her to hear. "Despite her age and experience, my vote has been with Sal-Soren from the start. I would not have presented her for candidate if I did not believe her capable of this role. But I request you vote with your heart and mind...what is best for Naboo."

He leaned back again, lifting a hand and gently waving his hand over to an attendant who promptly provided the parchment for he and Loria. Then insured all at the table had what they needed.

Reaching inside his coat pocket, he pulled out a pen. Quills, indeed. Aurelian probably still wipes his ass with palm leaves. Archaic try-hard.

He wrote his vote, folded the paper, and then handed the pen to Loria. "To save from any errant ink blots that may ruin your lovely dress," he said, loud enough that everyone could hear, but not really for their ears.

His attention again turned to Veruna. Dominic's head tilted, smile forced to endure. "Tell me Aurelian. What is your first endeavour to be as King of Naboo?" He glanced at Bastila, "should you win...of course. An actual project...something to back up your indignity at being challenged for the role. Perhaps the Lady Bastila could offer a similar answer to move us beyond theatrics."

Loria Sorelle Aurelian Veruna Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Cassian felt the weight of her gaze, steady and luminous, and for once he could not look away. The tease lingered between them like incense indeed, curling in the space where duty usually suffocated anything so delicate.

Not a poet. He had told himself that. Believed it. Yet the way Jael spoke, with silver eyes softened and braids catching the lantern-light, made him feel as though she were writing him into verse whether he willed it or not.

His lips curved, faint and fleeting, a smile tempered more by restraint than mirth. "Then perhaps I should stop trying to convince you of what I am not," he murmured back, his voice low, the cadence clipped in soldierly fashion but warmer than he intended. "Better that you see for yourself, and judge whether plain speech suits me."

He let the words stand, though something in his chest stirred uncomfortably, not the unease of danger, but of being seen more clearly than he allowed most. Her claim that honesty was rarer coin struck harder than any flattery. Honesty was all he had ever carried, and more often than not, it had left him standing apart from tables such as this. For Jael to call it costly… for her to suggest it was a treasure, not a flaw…

He shifted in his chair, steadying his glass between his fingers, grounding himself in the familiar weight. His eyes drifted down the table toward Sibylla for the briefest moment, her composure still taut, her silence a blade's edge. Duty demanded his vigilance. And yet, when his gaze returned to Jael, he found the storm of the feast muted. Her presence was like a calm eddy in the river, pulling him in whether he admitted it or not.

"M'lord Abrantes?" Cassian's attention broke at the sound of his name as he looked over to see a parchment and the like being extended to him. A small sigh escaped him as he reached out with practices ease and held it before him.

On the surface, it was a simple calculation. Aurelian had experience, a record of legislation, an undeniable charisma that could sway even hardened cynics. He spoke of Naboo's defense, of culture and strength, and his War Bill had teeth. For a soldier, for a man who valued walls that held and fleets that arrived when called, that should have been enough.

And yet—

Cassian's jaw tightened. Aurelian's words were sharp, yes, but too sharp. Every sentence cut not only the intended target but those seated near them, collateral wounds dressed as statesmanship. Tonight, it had been Bastila. Tomorrow, perhaps Sibylla. Already he had seen his sister's composure fray at the edges under Aurelian's casual cruelty. What kind of monarch played with fractures like that, widened them for sport? Aurelian claimed he would shield Naboo from Jedi influence, from instability, from weakness. But Cassian had seen the measure of true shields, men and women who bled so others would not. Veruna's shield was himself, and himself alone. Everything he promised Naboo was filtered first through the prism of his own ambition.

Cassian's fingers brushed the rim of his glass, though he didn't lift it. Would he keep Naboo safe? Perhaps. Aurelian was clever enough to know that a throne without a people was nothing. But would he keep Naboo whole? Would he lift her rather than rule her? That was another matter. His eyes flicked toward Sibylla again, her smile perfectly placed, though he knew the ache behind it.

The soldier in him whispered that a strong leader was better than a fractured one, even if the strong leader was dangerous. The brother in him whispered that there were other kinds of danger, subtler, quieter, more corrosive, and that Aurelian carried them all.

The Former General took the pen and wrote the name on the piece of parchment. The name of the person he despised the most sitting at this table. Honor and duty seemed to be chains more than they were shackles these days. It was honor and duty in Cassian that pushed his vote in Aurelians favor. For in truth he knew nothing about Bastila. Cassian folded the piece of parchment and placed it back in the attendants hands. He waved down the passing server, the same one whom had given Sibylla her glass. Requesting the same, and it had arrived. The whiskey in them was gone, just a few seconds apart, shortly after being placed on the table in front of him.

Jael Amnen Sibylla Abrantes Aurelian Veruna Bastila Sal-Soren

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Kaadara Estate, Naboo
Directly Interacting with: Decarii Tithe
Nearby: Bastila Sal-Soren Loria Sorelle Dominic Praxon John Locke Aurelian Veruna Corazona von Ascania Cassian Abrantes Her Bastila Sal-Soren Vemric Keldra
Wearing: Dress | x x

​

"Lake country is beautiful. I'd recommend investing there. If it's mountains you want, Dee'ja Peak. But the seaside has its own charm," Sibylla said lightly, answering Decarii Tithe as she lifted her fork. The food tasted rich, but it might as well have been ash on her tongue.

Breathe. Just breathe.

She held the mantra tight. She needed it, because Aurelian and Bastila's sparring had done the one thing she couldn't brace for. They'd brought up his name.

Lysander. Kaggath. Sith.

The words struck home. So easy for him to say in his bid to make a point to Bastila, and yet the cut landed deeper in Sibylla than she wanted to admit. It dragged her back to the last time she had seen Lysander, to how it had ended without answers. To how she had never truly understood why he chose Korriban. How she still didn't. The ache of it flared like fresh heartbreak. An almost first love, gone, unfinished.

It was Lady Loria Sorelle ‘s quiet but genuine concern that cut through Sibylla's racing thoughts. Sibylla pushed past the swell of emotion and forced a small smile as she replied.

"Yes, thank you. Forgive me. The conversation reminded me of Wielu. Being shot at by Black Sun Syndicate proxies at point blank range is… not easily forgotten."

It was a clever explanation. Reasonable, believable. She had just spoken with Decarii Tithe on the subject, after all. Flashbacks to that moment were natural, expected and safe to claim. Sibylla knew that the primary rule of politics was this: Tell as much truth as you can. Especially when there was a Jedi at the table

The flashbacks had stirred her mind earlier. This was no lie. But it wasn't the whole truth of it.

"Advisor Tithe and Senator Annasari barely survived an assassin themselves," Sibylla added, gesturing toward the blonde beside her. It invited Decarii into the conversation, legitimizing her excuse with ease.

It was then she caught her brother Cassian Abrantes ’s gaze. His small incline of acknowledgment nearly undid her all over again. He didn't know the full story, but he didn't have to. He'd told her once in the piano room that he was here for her, in every way.

He had promised he would be there, and he was. His reassurance was the balm she needed to remember herself.

Yet the lowball glass sliding into place before her by an attendant made her pause. Neat amber. Corellian Whiskey. Sibylla recognized it instantly, her hazel eyes flicking instinctively to Aurelian Veruna , still in that deep, incessant conversation that slung provocations as they measured each other. His attention upon Bastila. And yet, he knew.

Memory rushed back. His office after Wielu. Their fight and how he pushed and prodded until she unraveled. Her breaking point. His apology, his supportive embrace, and then the glass he had pressed into her hand. You'll find what you like eventually. Whiskey just might not be it…Though it grows on you when you've needed it enough.

How could he be both? The man who cut her deepest without knowing, and the man who noticed enough to hand her armor when she needed it most?

She almost laughed at the cruel irony. Instead, she smoothed her expression and turned back to Lady Loria and Decarii just as Lord Dominic Praxon ‘s voice cut in sharp, insisting the table focus less on fighting among themselves and more on the real debate at hand.

It was then that Sibylla took the glass of amber liquid and took a measured swallow.

The whiskey slid down, hot and steady, its sweet, spicy, oaky notes burning a path through the ache and stitching her together again. Not a drink. Not tonight. Tonight it was armor, a shield she wrapped around her heart, a ritual to drown the tremor in her throat so that when she finally spoke, her voice would not betray her.

Sibylla set the glass down, and when she rose, it was with deliberate calm. She took the quill and parchment, and with distinct clear penmenship, wrote down for all to see a single name. Then, her hazel eyes swept the table, the rustle of silk and the clink of cutlery falling still as one by one, heads turned toward her. The air seemed to pull taut, waiting.

"My lords and ladies," she began, her voice clear and steady despite the storm inside. "Forgive me. But the root of the matter is being lost."

Every pair of eyes was on her now. She felt it, heavy, pressing, but she didn't look away.

"I was the first to declare for the throne, knowing what it demanded. And even then, I knew: this crown is not about glory. It is about survival. We are at war… not tomorrow, not one day, but now. To pretend otherwise is to court disaster. Neither Royal House nor commoner is safe."

She let the silence hold for a heartbeat, then pressed on.

"As the Ambassador to the Mandalorian Empire, I have seen what true preparedness looks like. On Mandalore, every man, woman, and child can defend the ground beneath their feet. Let me speak with candor the truth we all try to deny - - Naboo cannot say the same. We need a leader who sees and understands that truth, who can turn it into action. Someone who knows when to speak, when to hold silence, and when to press until the outcome is secured."

Her gaze slid briefly toward Bastila before sweeping back to the others.

"Do not mistake bleeding for Naboo as only physical. Politicians bleed too. In the endless hours of drafting laws, of arguing over language to protect farmer and House alike. In the negotiations that pull balance from chaos. I was there when the Sith Princess struck at Prince Veruna. I saw the wound that should have felled him. I stepped in when the bolt was meant for his head. He wears his scars, as do I. Do not presume that without a weapon in hand we do not fight for Naboo every single day."

She drew herself taller, her voice gaining strength as the words carried her forward, even as the vote with Aurelian’s name was drawn up for all to see clearly, where exactly her vote and her confidence and trust lay.

"That is why I stepped back from the race. Despite the polls. Despite the certainty of my victory. Because the mark of a true politician is not only knowing when to advance, but when to step aside. And I chose to unite behind Prince Aurelian Veruna. His intelligence, his resolve, and yes, his willingness to listen… these mark him as the leader Naboo needs. I will stand as Voice of the Houses to support him. Because only together can we endure what is already at our gates."

Her gaze swept the table once more, hazel eyes burning with the clarity of both warning and hope.

"If one is in search of a project for Naboo, there is none greater than this: to face and cut out the taint that is infecting our assembly and our Republic worlds by the Black Sun Syndicate. To resist the Sith pressing at our borders. To prepare for the Empire whose gaze will soon fall upon us. Naboo is not merely another world. She is the Republic's heart. Her course will shape the galaxy. And there is no time left for division. Only unity."

Sibylla lifted her glass high, her voice carrying with finality. "To Naboo…may she endure, may she thrive, and may we all have the wisdom to stand together when it matters most."

​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Cassian Abrantes Jael Amnen (Interacting) Aurelian Veruna Sibylla Abrantes Bastila Sal-Soren Dominic Praxon Loria Sorelle Decarii Tithe Her

Cora had noted, with mild disdain, that she was sat a chair ahead of Fabian. By now, she'd learned that Aurelian didn't make mistakes - it was a subtle, but intentional slight.

She did her part by suppressing the motion of an eye roll with a sip of wine. A thread of distress pulled her attention, which she followed toward the young woman Veruna had been staring at earlier. Something lingered at the edges of her cool, cordial composure. Like a gemstone whose polished surface hid deep, scoring cracks.

Fabian returned Lady Sibylla's nod with a gentle tilt of his head and a courtly smile.

Cora peered at the girl with her lips still on the rim of her wine glass. Then, her gaze flicked to Aurelian and Bastila. Even without the context of their conversation, she recognized the tension that hung between them.

Aurelian had some connection to Lady Sibylla, which instinct told her might exist beyond the professional. Now, Aurelian was speaking with another woman and Sibylla looked a touch upset.

Hm.

The story was writing itself. Cora almost pestered Roman to retrieve her datapad, but it would've been rude to start taking notes during dinner.

A tickle of amusement died in her chest when Aurelian levied the name of her brother like a cruel jab. Perhaps the barb wasn't meant for her, but it still caught.

Lysander Von Ascania.

He'd watched the kaggath.

For a short moment, Cora's eyes fluttered closed. In the dark space behind her lids, she saw him falling, she heard her scream rise through the din of the crowd, she saw the oak tree on their family estate he'd asked to be buried under. Centuries old, it stood at the crest of the hill overlooking the von Ascania manor. An ancient, silent sentinel that watched generations of their family rise and fall.

Her eyes slivered open. Cora's fingers pinched the stem of the wine glass, one digit stroking along the delicate stem as she was overcome with the urge to throw her drink in Aurelian's face. As the smug prince sought her gaze, she'd meet him with a smile that was far too tight to be anything but a silent admonishment.

Where the tickled died in her chest, a longing ache began to bloom. It rolled through her like violent breeze, rising into the ocean tide of eyes.

Perhaps the Naboo Jedi had a role to play in Lysander's fall, but not any more than she had. It was a personal failing, one she carried like another wound that refused to heal. Before she could discern whether Aurelian's comment regarding temptation of the darkness was a reference to her own father's corruption and subsequent murder, Lady Sibylla rose, pulling the attention of every guest in attendance. The vote made her stance clear, but the explanation that followed offered a strong foundation for her beliefs.

Cora leaned a little closer to the pair of lovebirds that were flirting ever-so-charmingly beside her.

"She speaks well," came her conversational murmur. "What do you think, My Lord, My Lady?"

The Ukatian delegation were observers straddling the border of the Republic, and thus, not eligible to vote even in a mock election. Cora had mixed feelings about her interaction with Aurelian, and though she'd never met Bastila, the Sal-Soren name carried weight.

"Are Shirayan Jedi allowed to rule? I'm not familiar with their code."

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

X | X​

Aurelian's fingers drummed once against the stem of his glass, the faintest tick betraying the storm beneath his calm veneer. He felt the weight of eyes, dozens of them, pressing down on him, judgment heavy in the silence Bastila left in her wake. For the first time all evening, he knew he had overplayed his hand.

Bastila's steel had caught him off guard. What was meant to be a clean strike instead painted him in venom's colors. They would all whisper it later: the Veruna temper, the Veruna arrogance. In that moment, Aurelian knew he would need to master the one enemy he'd never yet conquered: his own fury, if he were to ascend to the throne.

His jaw clenched, but he forced himself to breathe. Patience. Legacy demanded patience. He swept his gaze across the table, cataloging reactions like a general reviewing his battlefield. Bastila still sat next to him, chin lifted, eyes blazing. Dominic's ever-irritating smirk hid poorly behind his lecture. And then Cora. The woman in the hoverchair. Her blue eyes were glassy, her face pale from the mention of her brother's name. The knife he'd wielded against Bastila had gone too deep, accidentally cutting Cora. Aurelian's chest tightened. He'd make it up to her later. The von Ascanians were too important to estrange.

But then Sibylla. Her rise had been deliberate, her words steady, her presence like a clarion bell in a storm. Aurelian had seen her break once, in the shadows of his office, when the weight of Wielu had nearly crushed her. Tonight she stood unbowed. When she spoke his name, when she raised her voice for him, clear and unwavering, the knot in his chest loosened. For the first time all evening, he felt supported, a stark contrast to being cornered or challenged.

When she sat, glass raised, her vote plain for all to see, Aurelian caught her hazel eyes across the table. The corner of his mouth softened, shedding his usual dangerous grin for something rare, something almost vulnerable. He mouthed the words, "thank you," deliberate and meant only for her.

Dominic could fume, Bastila could posture, and whispers might ripple around them. Aurelian had what he needed: Sibylla Abrantes at his side, his undeniable Voice.

He lifted his glass and rose just slightly from his chair, enough to command the table without stealing Sibylla's moment. "My lords, my ladies," he said, his tone measured now, tempered with restraint, "Lady Abrantes has spoken with both eloquence and truth. The crown is not a prize to be won in games of pride or sharpened words. It is a burden. To bear it, one needs more than ambition, one needs allies."

His eyes lingered on Sibylla, a public acknowledgment that carried weight. "I believe Lady Abrantes and I will make a formidable team. Naboo could ask for no wiser Voice of the Houses. Together, we will ensure her safety, her strength, and her unity."

The words hung, steady as stone, before he eased back into his chair. His knife cut into the delicate roasted fowl on his plate, movements precise, almost casual now. Aurelian chewed thoughtfully, letting the silence stretch as though the entire exchange had been no more disruptive than a change of courses.

Inside, though, he felt something altogether different: a flare of satisfaction. Bastila had her theatrics. Dominic had his platitudes. But Sibylla had given him something none of the others could tonight. Legitimacy.

And Aurelian Veruna would never forget a debt. He swallowed the bite, reached again for his whiskey, and smiled, shedding the venomous curve from before for something quieter. Dangerous still, yes, but dangerous in its calm.

The game was not lost. Far from it. The board was his. The pieces were shifting. And now, more than ever, he had no intention of letting Bastila, Dominic, or even the ghosts of Lysander or his father dictate Naboo's fate.

This was his game to win.

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

​

Bastila’s gaze lingered on Aurelian as he returned to his seat, a measured calm settling over him; a rare, almost disarming quiet. She allowed the moment to breathe, letting the table feel the tension shift slightly.

When Sibylla had spoken her voice had cut through the entire evening, steady and deliberate, carrying the same unflinching certainty that Bastila had come to admire when researching who this Daughter of Abrantes was in the lead up to announcing candidacy. In a way Bastila was still confused as to why Lady Abrantes had removed herself from the potential crown-elect, but there was little space for questions at this time. Sibyella had removed herself as what was to Bastila’s opinion an absolute surety of a win, leaving the families of Sal-Soren and Veruna to take to the hearts of the people.

“Prince Veruna if I may have a moment to address the table, with your leave of course. I do fear this may be my final chance to move a piece as we so elegantly like to say.” She gave him a warm look, far from the angered exchanges of a few moments earlier. She nodded warmly towards each of the members at the table. “I respect the faith Lady Abrantes has placed in you and as such I and my family respect your intent to protect Naboo. No matter which of us is chosen to bear its crown the grace of the crescent goddess smiles down on all of us.”

Bastila rose, every movement calmly deliberate, she knew this would be it. There would be no more speeches for the youngest of the Sal-Soren’s after this. The table seemed to hush, the clink of silver and murmurs fading as she let her gaze roam the table; There was no arrogance, just the calm certainty of one who wanted to speak truthfully.

“My lords and ladies,” she began, her voice carrying like a bell through the open air, it was warm and strong, reminiscent of her father in his years at the royal court. “Tonight we are reminded that leadership is never simply a title. It is a test, a responsibility, and a promise to those we serve and to the generations yet to come.”

Her eyes lingered on Sibylla, bright with admiration. “Lady Abrantes, your words tonight are a mirror of wisdom. You remind us that the weight of decisions cannot be shouldered lightly, and that clarity, courage, and conviction are what shape true leadership. For your voice, and for your unwavering resolve, I am grateful, as I know others at this table are of your presence among us. You will be a great Voice to the senate and Naboo.”

She turned towards Dominic next, her tone softening, almost conspiratorial in its warmth. “Lord Praxon, your trust honours me. And yet it is more than trust; it is guidance. You see not merely the promise of the name, but the weight of the life it carries. That sight is rare, and it will not be forgotten.”

Then she met Aurelian’s gaze, calm and direct. “Prince Veruna, I thank you; for this evening, for this gathering, for reminding us that even in the midst of debate, there is space for vision, for dialogue, and for the minds of Naboo’s greatest to meet. That alone gives me hope that no matter which of us is chosen, Naboo is in good hands.”

Her hands lifted gracefully, as if drawing the room into the orbit of her very being. “It is true; I am a Jedi. From my earliest memories, I have lived that life without question. Duty pressing upon me like a constant tide. I have walked the edge between war and peace, between life and loss, and I have emerged steadfast. The mind of a Jedi is tempered by both discipline and compassion, sharpened by sacrifice, and honed to see clearly when others cannot. To be the voice of those who cannot speak”

Her gaze faltered for a moment, she swore that her father’s face had looked back at her from the table, but now all she saw were the same faces from a moment before. She raised her tone, adding richness and resonance. “In the war to come, and war there is no matter how some of us ignore it; what steadier hand can Naboo trust than one trained to act with clarity, courage, and reason? What greater shield could there be for our people than the wisdom of those who live in service, who know the cost of each decision, and bear it without falter?”

Her voice softened, almost to a hushed reverence, as if speaking not only to the table but to the very heart of Naboo. “My family has served, as all of yours have, and together we carry the values that bind our houses: loyalty, honour, and the relentless pursuit of justice. These are not words. They are a legacy. And it is a legacy I offer to Naboo freely, with no hesitation, and no reserve.”

She lingered on Sibylla once more, she was the warmest of souls among them all and Bastila was almost taken aback by it again and again, then she moved to Aurelian, who in every sense of her being was starting to appear more the human she knew he was and finally swept the table as a whole once more. “Tonight we are reminded that Naboo is more than stone and water, more than palace and Senate. She is the heart of the High Republic. She is the light that will guide a people through the darkness to come. And for that, she deserves not the timid, nor the complacent, but those who have walked the fires, who have bled for her people, and who will stand unshaken when all else falters.”

Her voice was almost lyrical and unyielding, “I am ready to stand for Naboo, not as a symbol, but as a sentinel. Not as a figurehead, but as a force to unite, to protect, and to elevate. I will give my mind, my strength, and my life, to ensure that Naboo does not merely endure, but rises; radiant, steadfast, and unrivalled.”

Bastila paused, allowing the words to land like stone across the table. Her lips curved into a confident, almost imperceptible smile, eyes bright with fire and purpose. “Thank you, my Lords and my Ladies, for your attention, your judgment, and your courage. Together, let us see Naboo not as she is, but as she must be. And together, let us choose who shall wear the crown to bring in this inevitable greatness.” She again moved her eyes towards Aurelian. “Either Prince Veruna or myself, both options bring promise and potential. I trust in you and your judgements. I am sure both of us would continue to serve Naboo to the fullest of our ability win or lose."

She lowered her hands slowly, the room still suspended in the echo of her voice, and took her seat with a hand quickly moving towards the closest glass.

Aurelian Veruna Sibylla Abrantes Dominic Praxon Loria Sorelle Corazona von Ascania Decarii Tithe​

 

[Blaire Sal-Soren]

Blaire made attempts at conversation with Zeri who continually buried her face in her mother's shoulder instead of answering any of Blaire's questions. It eventually became a game where everyone Zeri hid Blaire would tickle the little girl in the back. Blaire's efforts earned her a handful of giggles and she thought that made the whole trip to this island worth it.

The table was beginning to get full. Blaire figured she should grab a seat before all the good ones were taken. She found an unoccupied seat a few chairs down from Bast and the rest of the excitement of the head of the table. Hers was not the name engraved the ivory placard but alas she would heroically save whom ever she sat next to from unending diatribes on tax and trade.

She should've introduced herself to those around her; she did not know any of them it would seem but just as the thought occurred to her a member of the staff passed carrying a tray with a single glass of what the Corellian in her blood told her was whiskey. Corellian whiskey at that, and all well intentioned politeness was forgotten in her haste to make sure she got one for herself.

The attendant with the whiskey did not go far. Just in the other side of the stranger to her right sat Sibylla Abrantes and from the look on her face it was clear that she could use that drink.

Blaire again felt the impulse to correct her terrible manners but at this very moment she overheard a portion of the rather more heated than she knew conversation happening a handful of seats away.

"The only chance you have of being Queen, is if I find it favorable to look your way in marriage. A mercy pact. A hand extended to a girl who would otherwise be devoured."

"Are you fucking serious?" She asked aloud but to no one in particular. She suppressed the urge to grab whatever was closest to her and hurl it at Aurelian. She was like to hit him too. Blaire had always had a penchant for throwing things and her arm was twice as good as her aim, which wasn't all that bad in itself. Be should count himself fortunate that she was yet to receive her whiskey.

Blaire was saved from embarrassing herself by the lady Sibylla Abrantes of all people. Lord Praxton had made his own efforts to redirect the focus of the table but it was lady Sibylla's open and full throated endorsement of Prince Veruna which settled the anger which had risen in Blaire.

She spoke of his goodness, his wit, his bravery, and why she had turned from political opponent to his staunchest supporter for the monarchy. Blaire knew very little of Aurelian Veruna in truth and what she'd been told of him could hardly be considered glowing. She'd been witness to his wit in person very recently and she supposed he'd had a certain charm to him, certainly a confidence that not only bordered on arrogance but danced with it.

If there truly was more to the Prince of Parrlay, perhaps a more private audience would be a benefit to them both.

Parchment and quill in hand–there were few better ways to feel one's privilege than deliberate anachronisms–Blaire did not hesitate to write down her choice. Bastila's name was bold on the parchment in elegant swooping handwriting.

Of course she had chosen Bast here in this place and at this table. This was nothing more than some game by Prince Aurelian and one with the desired outcome of making her little sister a fool. Blaire would not pile on Bastila. Among these people there would be no doubt where Blaire stood, and that was with her family.

When the time truly comes to choose, that time there may be a different story. Blaire truly loved her sister and after his outburst here, she found herself weary of Aurelian or at the least cautious of what kind of man he may be but there was no denying that behind the venom and the grandstanding he spoke the truth. Bastila was by any measure a good candidate to rule, save for her experience in politics, she was smart, charismatic, determined, driven, beautiful. She was a new face with an old name, a hero, not only of Naboo but of the Republic as a whole and she was Blaire's own sister besides.

Why should Blaire support anyone else?

It all came back to the Jedi. As it always did. Bastila herself was wonderful but as Prince Veruna had stated and as Blaire was well aware, they would be making a grave mistake to place the rule of Naboo in the hands of a Jedi, even one as heroic and as good as Bastila. Sister or no, it would be a cold day in Corellia's seven hells before Baros' Sal-Soren's daughter sought to empower a Jedi. In fact Bastila's desire to rule gave Blaire pause enough. Power hungry Jedi were dangerous as Naboo should well remember. Were they not bonded by blood Blaire would do well more than have silent reservations.

"Are Shirayan Jedi allowed to rule? I'm not familiar with their code." Asked the stranger sitting across from Blaire.

"If they leave the order," Blaire answered without having been asked. "A silly rule, really."

She chose not to share her thoughts on the topic, though she found it more than foolish to allow any Jedi, former or no, to rule on Naboo.

"Please forgive my horrid manners. I'm Blaire Sal-Soren, and you are?" She asked Corazona von Ascania .

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: xxx | Equipment: xxx |​

 

[Thessaly Veruna]

The sun was set. The speeder had come to a rest. And the widow awaited the opening of her door.

Her driver was offensively slow at getting to her door. He would be replaced. She gave him no heed as her legs swung out of the sleek, aerodynamic speeder. Attention was not paid to incompetence.

She was wrapped in mourning attire, from head to toe. A veil fell over her face, but the fully black outfit still sat on her, tailored to her form. Dark red stilettos peaked out from under to floor length dress, a reminder that beneath the facade of grief, Thessaly was still Thessaly.

The driver held out his hand, which she accepted and pulled herself to her feet. She was not tall, but towered over the men about her, imposing her presence with a disinterested glance.

Acutely manicured fingernails tugged at her sleeves, just to insure that everything was in its rightful place. And then her purposefully loud march began, her heels pronouncing every step forward like a drum beat of inevitability.

"Greetings, my lady," said the attendant waiting the door, "may I have your name please?"

Her hand gestured towards her driver. "Deal with this." And she proceeded to the door, which did not open for her.

The driver was already talking to the attendant, who had begun to protest, but was cut short. She did not look his way, instead, standing before the door awaiting its obedience.

"I...am...so sorry, my lady..."

The door swung open. Her lip curled in disdain. She did not speak to the likes of him.

She stepped into the open air room, ignoring the view, and the bustle of attendants around the table. She instead walked to the chair that had its back to her. Her eyes rolled dramatically, hands carving languid arcs in the air as though brushing away invisible irritants.

"Aurelian. Do sit up straight, you slump like a Dug sitting in a brothel," she said, tone as dismissive as her eye line, "disgusting creatures."

Her voice was proper. Diction clean and precise. Her tone was sharp enough to cut to the soul with the slightest of whispers.

Her hand rose to dab and non-existent tears on her cheek. "I am in mourning Aurelian, do give me your chair," said the widow, "I am feeling rather faint."

She casually reached over and swatted at Aurelian's hair, a purposefully absentminded looking action. "Oh. Do get a haircut. Up with you now. I may pass out from all of this sorrow."

She slid into the chair, leaning her elbow upon the armrest. Her eyes barely looked at the others at the table. She had just unseated the would be King of Naboo. And now looked...bored.

Aurelian Veruna Sibylla Abrantes Bastila Sal-Soren Vemric Keldra Cassian Abrantes Decarii Tithe Corazona von Ascania Her John Locke Loria Sorelle


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[Aurelian Veruna]

X | X​

Aurelian's fork hovered in mid-air, the carved slice of fowl forgotten. Bastila's speech still hung like incense in the rafters; her voice was steady, measured, and vibrantly alive, commanding the room's full attention. He had expected zeal from her, even passion, but this had been something closer to an invocation. He watched her with a mask of polite calm, but behind his stillness, his pulse quickened. Bastila Sal-Soren had just cast herself as Naboo's sentinel, its living shield. She hadn't merely spoken, she had claimed.

He let his glass roll slowly between his fingers, his eyes cutting across the table. Dominic looked smug, that irritating half-smile plastered like a badge of vindication. Blaire, though, surprised him. He'd caught the sharp note of her voice earlier, a flare of disbelief when he'd spoken too cruelly. For a moment, he'd wondered if she'd leap across the table to hurl a candlestick at his head. Now, however, she had scribbled her name upon the parchment with a loyalty that made his teeth tighten.

He swallowed a sip of whiskey, smoothing the flicker of irritation into a shadow of a smile. These Sal-Sorens were playing the game well, better than he had anticipated. He knew he would have to play it better still.

The scrape of the door opening barely drew his attention at first. Then, a hush fell, a profound silence that made his spine lock. The click of stilettos, slow and merciless, carved through the chamber. Heads turned. Servants froze. And then, a voice.

"Aurelian. Do sit up straight, you slump like a Dug in a brothel."

The voice struck him like a blow: cold, sharp, unmistakable. For the first time that night, Aurelian Veruna's dangerous smile vanished. His body went rigid. The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered against porcelain. His jaw parted, but no words came. Not even a jest, not even a curse.

The woman glided into the room as if she had never left Naboo, as if the years of absence and silence were nothing but smoke. Shrouded in black, her veil a curtain of mourning, she cut through the table's tension with the ease of a blade slicing silk. Thessaly.

"Oh. Do get a haircut. Up with you now."

His body obeyed before his mind caught up. Aurelian pushed back from the table, his chair scraping stone as he rose. There was no usual grace, no charm or theatricality, just raw instinct. He moved aside as she smoothly lowered herself into his seat, her claim effortless, unquestionable.

And then he stood there. Upright, hands stiff at his sides, his glass forgotten at the edge of the table. He was Aurelian Veruna, the clever wolf who had played games with Jedi, nobles, and senators alike, but under Thessaly's gaze he was nothing. He was dead in the water.

The court watched. The guests watched. All saw him stripped bare in a single stroke, dethroned before ever wearing the crown. His chest rose, then fell, then rose again. His lips twitched as if to form a quip, to retrieve some shred of control, but the words died in his throat. For once, Aurelian had no smile, no mask, no hidden blade. He simply stood, shock flooding through him, unable to do anything but yield.

​

 

[Aiden Porte]

The moment she entered, Aiden felt the room shift. Not through the Force at first, but in the air itself, the scraping halt of conversation, the tightening of shoulders, the way nobles disguised their glances behind jeweled fans and crystal stems. Grief hung on her like a veil, but it was not sorrow that rippled outward from Thessaly. It was gravity.

He let his senses brush against the disturbance, subtle as breath. The widow carried no weapon. Yet every step, every cutting word, cleaved through the gathering with the efficiency of a blade. Aurelian's composure frayed at the edges, though his body betrayed little, a stiffening of the jaw, the careful rise from his chair.

Aiden did not move, though his fingers twitched once at his side, the instinct of a warrior confronted by an unseen strike. This was not a threat of violence. Not yet. But the Force whispered with unease, as though the tide itself recoiled from her presence.

His gaze flicked once toward Kael Varnok , then back to Thessaly as she claimed the seat of Aurelian's without contest. It was a dangerous thing, to upend the order of a room so effortlessly. Dangerous not because of what she had done, but because of how easily she had done it.

The shadows we guard against do not always come with blasters drawn, he thought. Sometimes they arrive dressed in silk and mourning, their heels striking like war drums.

Aurelian Veruna Thessaly Veruna Sibylla Abrantes Corazona von Ascania Bastila Sal-Soren