Life Is But A Dream... [Public Party Thread]

[Tan'yill Vizsla]

The volume of the music in the club called for her to lean closer to the battle torn bounty hunter to hear him better. She remembered back on Corellia she had thought he was handsome, and he still had the looks with him. Even if he was a little older now, he had aged well. She nodded in response.

''It's good to see you alive, though!'' she said before raising her bottle of Ebla beer to her lips, taking a good healthy sip of the chilled drink.

She sat the bottle down on the counter again. The question got her to squirm slightly, barely noticeable that it was the still sensitive question that was the reason. Shifting her qeight from one feet to the other she looked back at Valentine.

''I... I came to the insight that I wanted to try something else!'' Simple. So simple. A way to simple explanation to be her. He would not buy that so easily so it would be better to tell the story he seemed to want to hear.

''Well, it was about a year after we met... I met this duro smuggler on the shipyard I worked on, I don't know if I ever told you that, but anyways! He was looking for a ship mechanic and I guess I kinda saw my chance to leave. So, I left.'' she paused for a moment to grab the beer bottle again, taking another pull from it.

''Along the way he taught me the smuggling business and I learned how to pilot his ship... He retierd and I got to, sort of inherit the 'Ryvius' as she's called and his business. To keep a long story short!''

[member="Julian Valentine"]

 

[Srina Talon]

“It was what you requested.”, Srina responded softly to the smiling man, surprised, that she could hear the sound of her own voice easily in this strangely quiet area. After listening to music so loud that it felt like her teeth might fall out of her head it felt like she was screaming despite the fact that her voice hadn’t raised from that of a typical conversation. Briefly, the slender woman frowned, a little confused. She did not know this man as well as she ought to. “If not Slave…What do they call you?”

Silver eyes, filled with starlight, followed his movements quietly. The gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles was something she had not expected, yet, she allowed it. Out of all of the greetings she’d had as of late it was likely the least strange. At least he hadn’t proposed. Or tried to kill her. It was a nice change of pace. She deliberately shifted her weight from one foot to the other but otherwise barely seemed to move. Everything about her seemed otherworldly. Perhaps, an android, were it not for her footprint in the Force.

If she breathed, even, it could not be seen—despite the form-fitting ivory dress she wore. It left little to the imagination but the Echani thought little of it. Eshan did not favor the excessively modest clothing that she tended to adhere to when handling Confederate business. It was simply what she, mistakenly, thought the rest of the galaxy expected. “It is it still flattery if it is fact? I see many ships. You know how the Confederacy feels about technology. This is... Unique.”

Mirror-like orbs followed him in silence. They caught the golden flash, the way he mixed a drink, and she found herself curious. The small Exarch had been to many parties. Generally, she was too busy trying to keep her Master from getting intoxicated to worry about it. Her hesitance felt childish. Yet, it was honest. “Thank you—but I am afraid I would not know what to ask for.”

Darth Metus enjoyed his whiskey while the Minister of Commerce liked girlish cocktails. Her friend, Adron Malvern, occasionally drank scotch. She knew what they liked by heart. Srina had no idea about herself. As a general rule, she deliberately did not imbibe, to keep her wits about her. There was always some new enemy. Some new threat. She couldn’t afford to be compromised.

If Srina recognized that the Slave was assessing her form she did not acknowledge it. Nor did she seem to recognize the vaguely vulturine curve to his mouth when he grinned. Instead, she glanced down at herself, before smoothing the snug material over her hips. “I wanted to look like a guest. Like everyone else.”

Primrose painted lips twitched with barely noticeable humor. All of her life she had looked exactly like everyone else. Her mother’s, her sister’s, her cousins, and even some of her neighbors. Now she was trying to blend in and had basically failed. People noticed, for whatever reason, and more than one head had followed her while she searched for her host.

“I do not believe I blended in well enough.”

​

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Pondering her question for a moment, he considered everything he had been called to date. From Tai Fa, to Dorian; there was no real shortage of names to call him, an excessive amount choosing the vaguely annoying ‘John Doe’, though he couldn’t blame them. In truth, he had refused to take a name to date, as he never felt he earned the right to one, despite all that he accomplished. The nagging sensation of failure that tinged the outwardly impenetrable ego that he was.

None of these thoughts showed however, as he took another sip of his drink and shrugged; swallowing before speaking,

“In truth, nothing. Whatever you’d like to name me I suppose.”, he said with a softer smile.

Another sip of his drink as he leaned against the table he used to make drinks; the small alcove glittering with various bottles of renown he had collected through his amassed fortune in arms dealing. Various numbers, years, and brands caught the eye, most notably when a rampant laser from outside their seclusion barrier reflected off.

“I suppose a drink would depend on your taste. Something sweet, perhaps? Bitter? Or do you enjoy sour?”, he said as his own gaze fell upon the lines of bottles.

A quick wave of his hand, as if to present her infinite options. He enjoyed the finer things in life, that much could be assumed just by looking at what surrounded them now, and his collection was made in that same fashion. Electrum eyes fell back on her as she continued however;

“I must say, Srina, it’s hard to blend in when you look…”, he paused, glancing her over once more.

“- Well, like that. Your kind aren’t so common in these parts, and the crowds enjoy that.”

“Exotic, I suppose. Something I wouldn't mind studying.”, he said as his grin formed once more.

The soft tunes of an AI came over a small speaker, her voice soft and womanly, though her tone obviously carried a teasing nature to it;

“Don’t mind John. He’s been drinking.”

This forced a quick, dirty look to the speaker as though it could see it, only for the AI to offer a synthesized giggle in response. The Slave took to his drink once more, downing a noticeable amount before setting it on the table next to him.

[member="Srina Talon"]

 

[Srina Talon]

​

Srina’s pale primrose lips pressed into a delicate frown. She didn’t understand. [member="The Slave"] was so confusing to her sometimes that she couldn’t quite follow his thought process. It wasn’t so much that it was entirely strange that it just didn’t follow the normal flow of consciousness that she was used to. Most sentient beings were obsessed with naming things. Titles. Why wasn’t he? “I do not wish to call you what I want. It is your name. You should choose it.”

He smiled, but, the pale woman remained still as death as he explained the beverage options available. She supposed that she liked things that were sweet, but nothing so saccharine that it was hard to get through, or made her teeth hurt. She didn’t like sour. She didn’t like bitter. Srina looked away from the man, letting silver eyes turn to the lights, reflecting the color. “Sweet, I think.”

“Just not…Candy floss sweet.”

She moved and it was like a statue pulling from its mooring. The Echani did not move toward The Slave but instead headed toward the window. She watched. People were dancing, moving, and enjoying the music in a way she could relate to. At least they generally weren’t speaking. Eshan had little use for flowery words and tended to rely on body language for communication. This—she understood. The snow-kissed beauty could feel the eyes of her host on her person as he spoke. “Exotic. That’s…”

“Humorous.”

There was an entire world of women that looked just like her. She knew that to some cultures she seemed ethereal. Like an angel that had fallen from on high. Srina simply didn’t see herself the same way that the Slave did. With that in mind, she also didn’t understand half of the unspoken innuendo. It simply didn’t register. “You may study me. I wouldn’t say that I am the best example of an Echani female. But, sufficient.”

Srina looked up when a vaguely robotic voice began to speak and turned back toward the flaxen-haired man. She completely missed the part about his apparent intoxication and mercurial eyes flickered over his. Silver clashed with gold. “You are John?”

Her head tilted as the AI giggled. Her gaze focused just a little bit. She wasn’t sure if she would call him a John. But, if that was the truth of it, she would oblige him. It was only polite.

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“Oh, dear-”, Cybele began, “That isn’t at all what he meant.”

Despite the robotic nature she carried, there was a faint motherly tone to how she went about it. If she had a face, she’d of been young, a faint joy in her features that accentuated a dreamer; and all of this became present in her waif like tone of voice. It was an oddity really, how alive the voice seemed.

“Not important.”, The Slave quickly jutted in as he averted his attention.

Glazing over her necessity for a name, the man known simply as ‘The Slave’ moved with some elegance as his hands quietly began to make her a drink. Something not to sweet, not to sour, but the faint expression of delicious that flitted over the tongue without buzzing in the back of the throat.

When he was done, he lifted a small glass with light electrum accents around its base. In it, a thick mixture of ice with its own golden tones was offered to her. It smelled of lime and sugar, and the soft hint of maple; an odd mixture no doubt, but one that would fit well with how she described, though the amount of ice within made it an almost refreshing alcoholic slushy. Offering it to her, he’d moved on with whatever he found to be important;

“As far as the name, only Cybele-”, he said motioning to the speaker, “-Actually calls me that. Well, and an old master, though we haven’t talked in sometime.”

Shaking his head, he quietly moved to sit on the singular couch that looked over the whole of the nightclub, letting his gaze wander through much of it with almost lack of wanderlust. Day after day, night after night, he’d grown accustomed to the ways of the hedonistic, and somehow…

Somehow it lost its flare.

He sighed lightly as he glanced to Srina;

“Do you play any instruments, Srina?”

[member="Srina Talon"]

 

[Drogh]

While others gorged them selves on drugs, lust, and alcohol, in the lavish and refined halls of the ship, Drogh was confined to the toilets, vomiting out his guts and what little food remained in his burning stomach. No matter where he was, Drogh always seemed to find him self in the lowest of places, although this was often times deliberate rather then unfortunate circumstance. Drogh despised it here, perhaps that's why he drank so much and snorted so much spice, to make a wall of madness between him and reality, although that was failing some what. The toilets them selves were remarkably shiny, refined and pristine, which gave Drogh some measure of humor that he was vomiting all over the place.

While others had come dressed in fine clothes, Drogh wore filthy black robes dripping with disgust, the stench of old chemicals stained into his cloak, blood and much more unpleasant things was even strong enough to slightly break though the miasma of alcohol, spice and other such pretty stenches. How or why he was here was mystery to Drogh him self, had he snuck in? Was he allowed in?

It hardly mattered but the small rational part of him, buried beneath the bombardment of drugs and alcohol believed that his entrance was noted. Drogh had a very, very small impact on the criminal world, compared to the titans and tycoons that he was surrounded by, his little presence was hardly important. Drogh him self doubted anyone here knew him, he had made deliberate efforts not to be known, but sadly he could not always hide from the prying eyes of the galaxy. As Drogh recoiled from his session of sickness, taking heavy breaths, praying to the stars that an unexpected burp of vomit did not ambush him. When he was relatively secure that he would not add more interesting smells to his cloak, he left the bathroom, staggering around with utterly no grace or coordination.

Although he was starting to sober to the point where his natural suspicion and paranoia was catching up on him. Certainly there was something in the air that made Drogh a bit more, at ease and he definitely didn't appreciate the gesture. While his vision was semi-blurred, he could make out the vague shapes and sizes of those around him not to bump into them, dragging him self to the counter where he hoped the bartender would continue his efforts at assisted suicide with Drogh, hoping that he had credits, if any.

 

[Zev Cata]

His plan was simple, Zev would enter the Club in the middle of a random group of partiers, from there he would emerge from the his hiding spot in the group to start his own personal mission. He would get a drink and walk around, all the while pick pocketing the wealthier of the guests. He figured after a while he would accumulate a rather good amount of not only credits but maybe some valuable miscellaneous objects that he could sell. He wasn't in a desperate position for money, but with no work to do he tended to get into trouble. Zev wouldn't expect his thieving to be very hard, most of the club's audience was under the influence of drinks and spice, and even if some one were to catch him and decided to cause a scene, Zev still had his concealed blaster to swiftly deal with them. He didn't see his mission to steal as being evil or criminal, most if not all of the club's visitors had done bad things before so he viewed it as karma coming back to them.

When he entered he was blown away by the vibrant lights and the earsplitting music. After getting some Kyrf from the bar he decided to get to work. Right off the bat Zev noticed the ungodly amount of spice. "It's like I'm on Kessel" Zev thought as he took a sip of his drink. Immediately he realized the Kyrf might not have been the best choice as he suddenly felt woozy. "I've got to keep calm and put down this horrible drink..." thought Zev. But it was too late, he dropped the glass and it shattered on the ground. "Great..." Zev muttered. His mind and stomach was on fire and slowly but surely he walked to a booth and sat down to ease his pain.

Zev wasn't sure how much time had past before a Twi'lek came over to him and asked him if he was all right. Being drunk, Zev told the Twi'lek to piss off and fired his blaster at him. However, due to the overly loud music and flashing lights no one else had noticed the blaster's discharge, except for the Twi'lek who went running off, scared for his life, into the crowd."Uggh" I feel horrible murmured Zev.

 

[Srina Talon]

Srina’s eyes flickered up toward where she imagined the speakers might be for the voice that kept making insightful comments. Was it an AI? She didn’t know. The Echani appreciated the matter-of-fact language regardless. “What does he mean?”, she queried the female voice, since apparently, the Slave didn’t plan on elaborating. She hated when everyone felt the need to leave her in the dark. "And what may I call you?"

They could trust her with access to the entirety of a Droid Army and enough defoliators to wipe out a small civilization—but explaining metaphor? Figures of speech? Never.

Her host also refused to simply choose a name. Srina sighed, softly, and proceeded to let it go. She would continue to call him the Slave despite the negative connotation. If that was what he preferred over “John” or any of the others. Her expression remained passive when he mentioned not speaking to his Master anymore. Her head tilted. Was that the norm? “I cannot imagine not speaking to my Master.”, she intoned faintly, though, she remembered the incidents on Haseria. “However, as I understand it, I am an oddity. I have no wish to surpass [member="Darth Metus"]. I would protect him rather than destroy him.”

“Apparently this is not the way of the true Sith.”

Decency, loyalty, and everything that made up the honorable way she’d been trained all her life meant nothing in order to gain strength in this new world. Srina only wished for just enough. Just, enough, to protect that which she cared for. What was life if not for the people within it? Technology, droids, and even AI could provide succor…But was that really enough? Not to Srina.

Quietly, she watched him make a drink. She was inquisitive as always and accepted it with a gracious murmur. Ever polite, and proper, she held it rather carefully. It was surprisingly cold but the shade made her hesitate. It didn’t look unappealing, however, it didn’t look like something that should be downed swiftly. Bringing it to her lips she took the tiniest sip, like a child, that didn’t trust what they’d been given for dinner. Wintry gray eyes widened just a sliver. “It’s not bad.”

Not too sweet, not too sour, not bitter—just like she’d asked for.

The Slave took a seat himself and the white-haired woman pulled away from the window to join him. It seemed rude to keep facing the wrong direction while they were holding a conversation. The svelte woman, a vision in ivory, moved with grace that was almost achingly painful. It was not deliberate, merely a combination of birth, and stringent upbringing.

Her head tilted at his sigh. Was something wrong? He had thrown what appeared to be a well-enjoyed gathering, that everyone below was enjoying, but here he remained. Alone. His question caused the edges of her lips to tilt upward slightly.

“I do. A few. Music and art are prized on Eshan. Not as much as combat prowess but it is still expected.”

Then again, so was preparing meals, but Srina had never excelled in that. Her attempts at culinary feats were generally an unmitigated disaster and entirely inedible. At best, she could make caf, and slice her own fruit. That was it. She glanced down, feathery eyelashes dusting against pale cheeks, as she took another sip of the drink. Her consumption was deliberately slow. She still felt something different. Something in the air and made her head feel a little foggy. “Do you? Play?”

​

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“My name is Cybele, and I think he made a very poor euphemism for intercourse.”, she said with a slight laugh. This brought no reaction from The Slave as he simply stared into the distance of the party.

“In all technical aspects, I am this ship, so if you need anything just let me know.”

With that, the womanly voice went quiet behind the speakers.

The Slave was quiet for a few moment before he spoke, never turning to face her;

“I play the piano.”, he voice placid, though an apathetic sadness rooted itself in his body language, something any echani could easily pick up on.

“I used to play it all day, with the help of a doctor. Back when I was an actual slave, she helped teach me much of the academic knowledge I know now.”

The Slave paused once more, taking a long sip from his drink before setting it back in his lap.

“I still play it from time to time… Time to time.”, he sighed as he finished speaking.

“Its not important, Srina. Just the idly prattling of someone far too intoxicated for their own good.”, he said offering her a somewhat weak smile, before he pointed with the cup in his hand to a small box near her;

“Could you open that for me? There is something inside I’d like to show you.”

[member="Srina Talon"]

 

[Srina Talon]

“Hello Cybele.”, Srina responded slowly, turning silver eyes back toward the Slave, while she tried to figure out the euphemism. Connecting the dots in her ever-logical brain was proving difficult and rather than miss the point entirely, she instead, focused on the aspects that she could relate to. “You should warn him that it is highly unlikely that study of my person would result in intercourse. He has not been briefed on the proper pre-requisites for potential offspring.”

The pale-skinned woman spoke of genetic compatibility for starters. Srina was mostly certain that if she reproduced with the Slave their progeny would be agreeable, however, she had definite reservations about mental stability. Not all hereditary traits could be seen with the naked eye and the interesting creature before her was not something she understood. At best, she could say near-human, but there was something else mixed in. Something familiar, though, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

At least, he was gifted with a sensible instrument. If she had to hear one more thing about a valachord she was likely going to demand that the Vicelord ban them from Confederate space.

"I do too. Most of my siblings and I sing or play. Those that don't have acquired other skills. For example, they may dabble in metalwork."

His sadness moved as he spoke further on the subject and winter-gray eyes flickered over the top of the glass. She noted that it had become more than just phantom whispers and she settled delicately into the empty seat nearby. “If it brings you enjoyment you should endeavor to play more. Place the parties, the alchemy, and weapons to the side for a little while. It will still be there when you return for it.”

The Slave seemed to catch himself and dismissed the quiet conversation just as easily as it had arrived. The snow-kissed woman nodded her head slowly in acceptance. It was one thing to pry about a name, but another entirely, to wade around in the aura of emotion. Despite his nonchalance, the Echani knew to be wary of sentiment. Few things could ruin a gentle atmosphere faster than the discussion of unpleasantness, especially, because Srina so often misread her own empathy. The Force Bonds that she held between a Sith and a Jedi constantly pulled her in two very opposite directions. It made things cross. Blur—until she couldn’t see the truth anymore.

He gestured to a box resting neatly on a low table and the willowy Sith Apprentice obliged his verbal request. Slender digits unfurled and she pulled at the object with the Force. It felt strange, however, she didn’t know what to make of it yet. Srina set her drink down on the table so the box could rest lengthwise across her knees. “What is it?”, she questioned softly, ever curious, but not sure what she might be disturbing within. Her hand moved in the air again, just above it, and the hinged lid lifted of its own accord.

A dark cloth, velvet black, ran along the inside—almost teasingly obscuring her view. Srina moved gingerly to pull up on the corner and caught a glimpse of metal. The Echani looked back at the Slave, uncertain if she was allowed to peek, and waited for permission. “May I?”

​

[member="The Slave"]​

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“Between you and me, I doubt he’s worth much gene wise…”, she said with a mocking tone directed at the alabaster stranger with a drink in his hand. “You’d probably get better children out of a hutt cloning factory.”

This forced The Slave to give the bodiless voice a dirty glance, staring down the speaker as Cybele offered a quick and joyess laugh; causing the victim of the jokes to drink a little longer, a little quicker before setting it back to his lap. It took him a moment to speak up, though his voice seemed quieter the longer they spoke, his gaze sitting longer on the horizon of the party than it had before;

“The piano doesn’t make me happy, Srina.”

“Just the memories of it do.”, he said, almost hoarsely.

Glancing to her as she picked up the box however, he quietly nodded; revealing the squared tipped blade of a sword that seemed to darken the light within the club off mere presence alone. Now exposed to air, it chilled it as Srina looked it over, the runic text on its face shifting and changing just as she’d look at it, never to be fully understood by anyone but who know its cryptic intent. The handle was wrapped in a black leather, one that in itself carried a disgusting nature to it, though in its entirety it held a soft beauty not unlike the woman who held it even now.

“Its a gift. To you. To whoever you’d like I suppose.”, he said as he finished his drink and set it down near his feet.

“Don’t ask why I made it, nor why I’m giving it to you. Simply thought it…”, he paused for moment.

“Just thought it seemed right.”

[member="Srina Talon"]

 

[Drogh]

Drogh staggered forth among the cluster of shapes, dancing to some sort of distorted rhythm, he was like a haggard drunken ghost, swaying from side to side, yet there was a odd elegance in his uncoordinated steps. Forcing him self onto the counter barely clinging on as he basically fell on it, Drogh gave cold spiteful glances at those who gave him a disgusted and surprised glares. Muttering some vile under his breath as he waited for a bartender to help him forget that he was here. At this point the noise had merged into one large cloud of distortion and chaos, the music, what ever it was had lost it's purpose on Drogh and he was growing to despise it. Drogh hated everything about this place, even the liquor couldn't kill him.

As the world around him danced and smoked, and drank and sniffed, Drogh snarled and waited with a ever ebbing patience. Behind the counter were fine stacking of liquor, things Drogh wanted. The darkside was not some not grand evil at times, it could easily drive men to pettiness and self destruction as it could men to conquerors and warlords. Or perhaps it's not the darkside at all, just a simple excuse used by those who don't want to be responsible for their actions, but one thing was clear: Drogh wanted more alcohol.

There was no brilliance, grace or even intelligence in his attempt at thievery, as Drogh simply leaned forward until he fell onto the other side of the counter. Some looked at him amusement, seeing a drunken fool being foolish, others gave glares of disdain and disgust, some one who clearly had no respect. It did not once cross Drogh's mind, that he was stealing from a ship, which was controlled by a very powerful person, in the middle of space where no where to run but the ship it's self. Drogh either didn't care or simply didn't think, but he did it anyways. Picking him self up, remarkably the bartenders did not instantly notice him as he began to drink what ever he could reach, forcing it down his gullet with a suicidal glee.

Seconds later Drogh was confronted about this breach in trust. "What the kark do you think you're doing?" A man said to Drogh in a way that he did not appreciate in the slightest. Drogh could of responded with some slurred nonsense, but he believed it would of been far more entertaining to respond with a bottle to the face, as he smashed it against the poor man's skull. Was anyone surprised? Did anyone gasp or even pretend to be shocked? Of course, no the only worrying thing was that it had not happened sooner, it was a shame that someone like Drogh was the first to cause trouble.

Drogh smiled to him self, then he realized the looks of amusement was now turned with looks of sadistic vultures, looking for a opportunity to hurt some one, the best expressions he could find was utter indifference, among slasher smiles and faces of burning rage.