Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos
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Private It's always HOT in Sommer
- Thread starter Sommer Dai
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- gilded veil sommer dai
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer didn't reply. She kept watching, her instincts quietly folding in on themselves.
Something didn't sit right.
Something in the air had shifted.
But by the time her senses stirred to follow, Pax had already vanished behind the velvet-lined entrance to the women's changing quarters… and was about to be summoned into the lion's den.
Something didn't sit right.
Something in the air had shifted.
But by the time her senses stirred to follow, Pax had already vanished behind the velvet-lined entrance to the women's changing quarters… and was about to be summoned into the lion's den.
Character
The women's changing quarters buzzed with soft chatter, perfume mist, and the shuffle of costume fabrics as dancers prepped for the next rotation. The air was warm with body heat and glamour, lit in golden-pink hues from above. Chelsee stood before a tri-panel mirror, adjusting the glittered strap of her top while mid-conversation with another dancer about a misfired stage light.
Then came a voice.
Soft. Too soft.
"Chelsee…"
She turned her head.
Pax stood awkwardly near the entrance, half-parted curtains still swaying behind him. His face was blank, polite—too polite—and his hands were folded in front of him like he was a protocol droid trying to pass as human.
Chelsee's expression dropped immediately.
She knew.
Her lips parted only slightly, and she exhaled like someone steadying themselves before plunging into a cold pool.
"Let me guess…" she said slowly, brushing a strand of copper hair behind her ear. "He's asking for me."
Pax nodded once. "VIP. Private request."
Her eyes narrowed.
Chelsee didn't need to ask who. The itching beneath her skin answered for her.
Baird.
That name alone made her stomach twist in both revulsion and... something else. Something deep. Something she hadn't yet named. His presence peeled back parts of herself she fought hard to bury—hungers she dressed up in silk and drowned in tempo and spotlight.
She was fed.
Arq had ensured that.
But not full.
Not yet.
Not ever.
The itch curled along the inside of her throat like smoke, teasing her senses as if Baird's proximity stirred something chemical—magnetic—in her blood.
Still, Chelsee wasn't naive.
She could feel the tension behind Pax's movements, the way his eyes didn't seem to blink properly, like a player reading lines from a script he hadn't written.
A spell.
She didn't let it show on her face, but she caught it all.
She smiled then, slow and bold, like a flame licking the edge of something flammable.
"Well," she said, turning from the mirror and grabbing her long velvet shawl from a hanger, "let's see what game he's really playing."
Another dancer called after her—"Hey, you want someone to go with you?"—but Chelsee raised a hand without looking back.
"No," she replied, voice smooth. "This one's just for me."
She followed Pax, her heels silent on the thick carpet, eyes half-lidded but pulse flaring to life.
Then came a voice.
Soft. Too soft.
"Chelsee…"
She turned her head.
Pax stood awkwardly near the entrance, half-parted curtains still swaying behind him. His face was blank, polite—too polite—and his hands were folded in front of him like he was a protocol droid trying to pass as human.
Chelsee's expression dropped immediately.
She knew.
Her lips parted only slightly, and she exhaled like someone steadying themselves before plunging into a cold pool.
"Let me guess…" she said slowly, brushing a strand of copper hair behind her ear. "He's asking for me."
Pax nodded once. "VIP. Private request."
Her eyes narrowed.
Chelsee didn't need to ask who. The itching beneath her skin answered for her.
Baird.
That name alone made her stomach twist in both revulsion and... something else. Something deep. Something she hadn't yet named. His presence peeled back parts of herself she fought hard to bury—hungers she dressed up in silk and drowned in tempo and spotlight.
She was fed.
Arq had ensured that.
But not full.
Not yet.
Not ever.
The itch curled along the inside of her throat like smoke, teasing her senses as if Baird's proximity stirred something chemical—magnetic—in her blood.
Still, Chelsee wasn't naive.
She could feel the tension behind Pax's movements, the way his eyes didn't seem to blink properly, like a player reading lines from a script he hadn't written.
A spell.
She didn't let it show on her face, but she caught it all.
She smiled then, slow and bold, like a flame licking the edge of something flammable.
"Well," she said, turning from the mirror and grabbing her long velvet shawl from a hanger, "let's see what game he's really playing."
Another dancer called after her—"Hey, you want someone to go with you?"—but Chelsee raised a hand without looking back.
"No," she replied, voice smooth. "This one's just for me."
She followed Pax, her heels silent on the thick carpet, eyes half-lidded but pulse flaring to life.
Character
Arq's eyes, sharp as ever beneath their violet-gold shimmer, tracked Chelsee as she glided through the shadows toward the VIP lounge—like a lamb walking into a storm pretending it was just another drizzle.
He didn't like it.
Didn't like the ease in her steps. The tilt of her chin. The way Pax moved like a ghost beside her.
Arq leaned subtly toward Sommer, who was still seated at the edge of the bar, her gaze distant and loaded as if trying to read a language written in the dust motes hanging above Baird's silhouette.
"I'm going to the security suite," Arq murmured, lips barely parting as he spoke. "That thing is unraveling something, and I don't like the stitching."
He didn't like it.
Didn't like the ease in her steps. The tilt of her chin. The way Pax moved like a ghost beside her.
Arq leaned subtly toward Sommer, who was still seated at the edge of the bar, her gaze distant and loaded as if trying to read a language written in the dust motes hanging above Baird's silhouette.
"I'm going to the security suite," Arq murmured, lips barely parting as he spoke. "That thing is unraveling something, and I don't like the stitching."
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer nodded once, eyes never leaving the VIP.
Character
Arq lingered, brushing one long cerulean nail against the edge of the marble bar as he whispered, "If anything changes… you know how to call me."
And just like that, he was gone—sweeping past dancers, patrons, and floor staff with a grace born from years of performance and war. The back corridor swallowed him whole as he made his way toward the club's security matrix.
And just like that, he was gone—sweeping past dancers, patrons, and floor staff with a grace born from years of performance and war. The back corridor swallowed him whole as he made his way toward the club's security matrix.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer remained behind.
Still. Watching.
She swirled the crystal tumbler in her fingers, the liquid inside gleaming a shade between obsidian and fire—her third drink tonight. Not that anyone would dare count.
Not in her house.
Not the bartenders who were trained to anticipate her moods like weather patterns. Not the dancers who understood that when Sommer ordered a third, it meant something was off. Not even Arq, who was probably the only person in the galaxy bold enough to say no—and he was conveniently behind surveillance screens now.
She raised the glass and drank.
A long sip.
Slow. Intentional. As if trying to drain not just the drink, but the storm building behind her ribcage.
Her eyes stayed locked on the entrance to the VIP lounge, where Chelsee had just slipped through, leaving behind the faintest trail of glitter and unease.
Sommer's nails tapped against the glass.
Baird.
Touched.
He was playing with something—testing boundaries not just of rules, but of people. His "proposal" still itched in the back of her skull, that offer to build a sanctuary for "blood drinkers." The audacity. The arrogance.
Sommer exhaled slowly through her nose, setting the glass down with a whisper of crystal against stone.
If Chelsee wasn't careful, she'd be more than entertainment to that man.
And if Baird wasn't careful…
He'd find out why some Queens were forged in fire.
And why others were the fire.
Still. Watching.
She swirled the crystal tumbler in her fingers, the liquid inside gleaming a shade between obsidian and fire—her third drink tonight. Not that anyone would dare count.
Not in her house.
Not the bartenders who were trained to anticipate her moods like weather patterns. Not the dancers who understood that when Sommer ordered a third, it meant something was off. Not even Arq, who was probably the only person in the galaxy bold enough to say no—and he was conveniently behind surveillance screens now.
She raised the glass and drank.
A long sip.
Slow. Intentional. As if trying to drain not just the drink, but the storm building behind her ribcage.
Her eyes stayed locked on the entrance to the VIP lounge, where Chelsee had just slipped through, leaving behind the faintest trail of glitter and unease.
Sommer's nails tapped against the glass.
Baird.
Touched.
He was playing with something—testing boundaries not just of rules, but of people. His "proposal" still itched in the back of her skull, that offer to build a sanctuary for "blood drinkers." The audacity. The arrogance.
Sommer exhaled slowly through her nose, setting the glass down with a whisper of crystal against stone.
If Chelsee wasn't careful, she'd be more than entertainment to that man.
And if Baird wasn't careful…
He'd find out why some Queens were forged in fire.
And why others were the fire.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
The bar's velvet hush fractured as hesitant footsteps echoed across the polished terrazzo—light, deliberate, testing each note before committing to the melody of her approach.
Sommer's gaze slid from the VIP entrance to the newcomer at the bar. Her posture shifted from sentinel to intrigued mentor, steel softened by concern.
A girl stood before her.
Not just any recruit: a younger echo of Sommer herself.
Perhaps seventeen, with waves of pale gold hair tumbling over her shoulders, catching the lantern light like molten platinum. Her eyes—wide, doe-like—held a careful mixture of hope and fear. She wore the nightworker's uniform: a midnight crop-top, high-waisted trousers, and heels that whispered promises on the floor. Yet the stiffness in her shoulders betrayed inexperience, as though she'd recently learned the dance of attention.
The girl swallowed, voice quivering but practiced. "Excuse me—are you the manager of the Gilded Veil? Someone said you might have openings… if I can—move well."
Time stuttered.
Sommer's world didn't shatter—only recalibrated. Memories flickered: thirteen-year-old Sommer, dirt under her nails, eyes bright with longing under Corellian neon; the first time applause and credits taught her the currency of her body.
Her glass felt suddenly heavy in her hand.
She blinked, regal presence reasserting itself.
"I—" Her usual command softened, warmth threading through authority. "Yes. I run this establishment. Please, sit."
The girl sighed in relief and slid onto a barstool, knees together, hands clasped in her lap like a novice pledging loyalty.
Sommer exhaled, reclaiming her composure. She leaned forward, fingers tapping the rim of her nearly empty glass. Every detail at this barstool demanded scrutiny: the girl's jawline, her trembling lashes, the haunted glint in her gaze.
She saw herself mirrored in those features—and something darker: a raw hunger, barely controlled.
Her tone returned, measured and calm. "What's your name?"
The girl blinked, polite smile faltering. "Lyra Vosten."
Sommer let the syllables roll in her mind as she set her glass down. "Lyra—tell me what brought you here tonight. Who told you to come?"
Lyra's eyes darted to the entrance, uncertainty flickering. "A friend," she said, voice low. "Said you look for talent… and that I could earn more credits than I ever dreamed."
Sommer's jaw tightened slightly. "Credits aren't the only currency here," she replied. "Your safety, your body, your future—they're worth far more." She studied the girl's face under the bar's soft glow. "You must understand what you're stepping into."
Lyra swallowed again, nodding. "I—yes, ma'am. I understand."
Sommer's gaze sharpened. "Do you?" she asked quietly. "Or are you just chasing an escape?"
Behind them, the stagelights dimmed for the next act. Music throbbed through the floor, a reminder that the night's true performance lay elsewhere.
Sommer placed a hand on Lyra's shoulder, gentle but firm. "I'll give you a chance," she said. "But you'll do things my way. No compromises."
Lyra exhaled, relief and resolve mingling in her eyes.
Sommer's lips curved in a small, knowing smile. "Good. We'll start with the basics—training, trust, and tests of character. Fail any, and this hall won't feel welcoming anymore."
Lyra nodded again, determination sparking in her gaze.
Sommer signaled to a passing server. "Two waters—and a glass for Lyra."
As the server moved off, Sommer's mind raced with questions she hadn't asked, wary of shadows she couldn't yet see. This wasn't just recruitment—it was the opening move in a larger game she didn't yet understand.
The night stretched before them, promise and peril intertwined like ribbons on a dancer's wrist.
And Sommer Dai—queen, guardian, survivor—prepared to guide her younger self through the tempest she knew all too well.
Sommer's gaze slid from the VIP entrance to the newcomer at the bar. Her posture shifted from sentinel to intrigued mentor, steel softened by concern.
A girl stood before her.
Not just any recruit: a younger echo of Sommer herself.
Perhaps seventeen, with waves of pale gold hair tumbling over her shoulders, catching the lantern light like molten platinum. Her eyes—wide, doe-like—held a careful mixture of hope and fear. She wore the nightworker's uniform: a midnight crop-top, high-waisted trousers, and heels that whispered promises on the floor. Yet the stiffness in her shoulders betrayed inexperience, as though she'd recently learned the dance of attention.
The girl swallowed, voice quivering but practiced. "Excuse me—are you the manager of the Gilded Veil? Someone said you might have openings… if I can—move well."
Time stuttered.
Sommer's world didn't shatter—only recalibrated. Memories flickered: thirteen-year-old Sommer, dirt under her nails, eyes bright with longing under Corellian neon; the first time applause and credits taught her the currency of her body.
Her glass felt suddenly heavy in her hand.
She blinked, regal presence reasserting itself.
"I—" Her usual command softened, warmth threading through authority. "Yes. I run this establishment. Please, sit."
The girl sighed in relief and slid onto a barstool, knees together, hands clasped in her lap like a novice pledging loyalty.
Sommer exhaled, reclaiming her composure. She leaned forward, fingers tapping the rim of her nearly empty glass. Every detail at this barstool demanded scrutiny: the girl's jawline, her trembling lashes, the haunted glint in her gaze.
She saw herself mirrored in those features—and something darker: a raw hunger, barely controlled.
Her tone returned, measured and calm. "What's your name?"
The girl blinked, polite smile faltering. "Lyra Vosten."
Sommer let the syllables roll in her mind as she set her glass down. "Lyra—tell me what brought you here tonight. Who told you to come?"
Lyra's eyes darted to the entrance, uncertainty flickering. "A friend," she said, voice low. "Said you look for talent… and that I could earn more credits than I ever dreamed."
Sommer's jaw tightened slightly. "Credits aren't the only currency here," she replied. "Your safety, your body, your future—they're worth far more." She studied the girl's face under the bar's soft glow. "You must understand what you're stepping into."
Lyra swallowed again, nodding. "I—yes, ma'am. I understand."
Sommer's gaze sharpened. "Do you?" she asked quietly. "Or are you just chasing an escape?"
Behind them, the stagelights dimmed for the next act. Music throbbed through the floor, a reminder that the night's true performance lay elsewhere.
Sommer placed a hand on Lyra's shoulder, gentle but firm. "I'll give you a chance," she said. "But you'll do things my way. No compromises."
Lyra exhaled, relief and resolve mingling in her eyes.
Sommer's lips curved in a small, knowing smile. "Good. We'll start with the basics—training, trust, and tests of character. Fail any, and this hall won't feel welcoming anymore."
Lyra nodded again, determination sparking in her gaze.
Sommer signaled to a passing server. "Two waters—and a glass for Lyra."
As the server moved off, Sommer's mind raced with questions she hadn't asked, wary of shadows she couldn't yet see. This wasn't just recruitment—it was the opening move in a larger game she didn't yet understand.
The night stretched before them, promise and peril intertwined like ribbons on a dancer's wrist.
And Sommer Dai—queen, guardian, survivor—prepared to guide her younger self through the tempest she knew all too well.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer leaned in, eyes steady and compassionate as she regarded Lyra across the bar's sheen.
"Tell me," she prompted softly, "what world do you hail from?"
Lyra swallowed, shoulders tightening. "Corellia," she admitted, voice barely above the music's hum.
Sommer nodded, as though that explained both promise and peril. "Corellia. Tough streets there… and tougher choices. What about your history, Lyra? Any… harder habits I should know?"
Lyra's cheeks reddened. She bit her lower lip. "I—I used spice," she confessed, gaze dropping. "Just bits, at first. It helped me… keep going."
Sommer's gaze didn't waver. "And does it still?"
Lyra's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I stopped," she said quickly. "After… things got out of hand."
Sommer studied her for a long moment, seeing beyond the words to the scars they concealed. "You know, Lyra, regret and guilt can be heavier than any addiction. But forgiveness—self-forgiveness—is the first step to strength."
She reached across and covered Lyra's hand with her own. "You're here now. You get to choose who you become."
Lyra's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she nodded, finding a flicker of hope in Sommer's steady warmth.
"Tell me," she prompted softly, "what world do you hail from?"
Lyra swallowed, shoulders tightening. "Corellia," she admitted, voice barely above the music's hum.
Sommer nodded, as though that explained both promise and peril. "Corellia. Tough streets there… and tougher choices. What about your history, Lyra? Any… harder habits I should know?"
Lyra's cheeks reddened. She bit her lower lip. "I—I used spice," she confessed, gaze dropping. "Just bits, at first. It helped me… keep going."
Sommer's gaze didn't waver. "And does it still?"
Lyra's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I stopped," she said quickly. "After… things got out of hand."
Sommer studied her for a long moment, seeing beyond the words to the scars they concealed. "You know, Lyra, regret and guilt can be heavier than any addiction. But forgiveness—self-forgiveness—is the first step to strength."
She reached across and covered Lyra's hand with her own. "You're here now. You get to choose who you become."
Lyra's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she nodded, finding a flicker of hope in Sommer's steady warmth.
Character
Meanwhile, in the flickering gold of the VIP pavilion, Chelsee Gray moved with hypnotic grace against the low velvet couch where Baird Throne reclined. Her dance was a private ritual—slow, fluid, an unspoken language of curves and shadows. Though Arq's monitors captured every step, no sound came through; the exchange was silent to him, visual only.
But Baird heard every whispered syllable. In the space between her hips and his gaze, Chelsee murmured in the ancient vampiric tongue—an intimate cadence reserved for those who shared her blood's dark heritage.
"We proceed as planned," she breathed, eyes glittering like obsidian under moonlight. "The queen's circle is in motion.
By dawn, our network will be woven. By dusk, the veil will part."
But Baird heard every whispered syllable. In the space between her hips and his gaze, Chelsee murmured in the ancient vampiric tongue—an intimate cadence reserved for those who shared her blood's dark heritage.
"We proceed as planned," she breathed, eyes glittering like obsidian under moonlight. "The queen's circle is in motion.
By dawn, our network will be woven. By dusk, the veil will part."
Devil in Disguise
Baird's thin smile deepened into something both proud and predatory. He reached out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of her midnight hair.
"Excellent," he replied in that same secret dialect. "No one suspects the brood in the wings. Let the others think me foolhardy. By night's end, we will control every shadow in this city."
"Excellent," he replied in that same secret dialect. "No one suspects the brood in the wings. Let the others think me foolhardy. By night's end, we will control every shadow in this city."