Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private My Dahlia

Golden light licked the velvet curtains as a slow rhythm beat beneath the laughter and lace of the evening's entertainment. Smoke coiled through chandeliers, catching on perfumes and glimmerdust, weaving a dream from desire and illusion. The Veil was never just a club—it was an enchantment. And Chelsee moved like its patron saint.


Her bare feet pressed against the gleaming stage floor, knees bent in the hush of a slow descent. Her arms rose in a wave, fingers trembling like leaves in wind. She wore a short see through translucent wrap that shimmered with lunar hues, catching the strobe of pink, violet, and white. It rippled behind her like breath. She felt the music now, no longer just a mimicry of grace. It filled her, reached beneath the hollow ache of thirst she'd come to manage with quiet discipline. She knew its beat like a heartbeat. Like her own.


And she wasn't alone anymore.


At the bar, Solah sipped something tall and citrus-tinted, nodding slightly as she watched Chelsee move. Ravvi leaned next to her, arms crossed and eyes analytical, though softened from the first days they'd met. Mutual respect had become an unspoken treaty between them.
 
Backstage, Arq hovered near the curtain, haloed in his usual eccentric ensemble of feathers, silk gloves, and a crown of twined lumivines. He clutched a datapad, but his eyes never left Chelsee's form as she swayed beneath a cascade of holoflowers descending from the ceiling. His mouth formed the ghost of a grin.

"She finally feels it," he whispered to no one. "She's not just performing anymore—she's communing."
 
After the performance, Chelsee made her usual exit: calm, composed, back straight, breathing steady. She no longer disappeared instantly after dancing like she used to. Now she lingered. She let herself exist in the room.
 
"You were," Arq said, tapping his mood-diffuser ring against his lip. "And everyone saw it. Especially the man in black leather near the end booth. Didn't blink once."

"Just saying." Arq shrugged dramatically. "You've got secret admirers. I can smell the obsession from here."
 
In the dressing room, Solah sat cross-legged on one of the couches while Chelsee touched up her face. She no longer needed heavy glam to mask her pallor. Her skin had gained more natural warmth. Life bloomed subtly across her cheeks—helped by regular feedings from small, forest-dwelling creatures in the outskirts of Nar Shaddaa's rarely traversed biodomes. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.

"You're changing," Solah observed.

Chelsee paused, eyeliner in hand. "Good or bad?"

"Good." Solah met her eyes in the mirror. "You laugh more. You ask questions. You're... less shadow, more light."

Chelsee looked down, lips tugging into something soft and self-effacing. "It took effort. A lot of it."

"Worth it," Ravvi said, entering without knocking. She tossed Chelsee a small velvet pouch. "From an admirer. The note says, 'For the one who dances like she's haunted by stars.'"

Chelsee blinked. She opened the pouch. Inside was a tiny moonstone pendant, strung on a silken red thread. Ancient. Hand-carved. She could feel something faintly alchemical pulsing in it.

Ravvi folded her arms. "Want me to find out who sent it?"

Chelsee hesitated, thumb brushing the smooth curve of the stone. "Not yet."
 
That night, Chelsee walked alone.

Down the rain-glossed alleys past midnight, her boots silent on the duracrete, her senses sharpened—not by hunger, but instinct. The pendant sat against her chest like a whisper. She took the long way home, past the rusted catwalks of the abandoned Foundry District. A place she usually avoided. But tonight, it called her.

A pair of glinting red eyes blinked from a pipe overhead—one of the feral animals she sometimes fed from. It did not fear her anymore. None of them did. They recognized her now.

She crouched and let it approach, letting it press its nose to her palm. The hunger flared, yes—but she curbed it. Mastered it.

As she rose to her feet, a chill moved through her spine.

She was being watched.

From the top of a building three stories above, someone stood at the edge—a silhouette in a trench coat, motionless as a gargoyle. Chelsee froze.

"Who's there?"

The figure didn't speak. Didn't move.

Then, just as she stepped forward, the shadow vanished.
 
Back at the Veil, Arq was waiting with a mug of steaming spice tea.

He glanced up as she entered. "Someone followed you."
 
"He's been around before," Arq said, voice tight with concern. "Always lingers after you dance. Never orders anything. Doesn't speak."

"I can't tell if it's danger yet." He paused. "But he's not the only one looking at you. People are beginning to notice you, Chelsee. And not just for your moves."
 
The Gilded Veil thrummed with its usual allure.

Tonight's color scheme was dusk-rose and amber. The scent of heated oils and vibrosilk lingered in the air, mingling with a curated blend of pheromone diffusers that made even the most stoic patrons loosen their collars. Laughter swelled like a tide; dancers floated through the crowd with the elegance of painted fire. Chelsee had just finished a sultry duet with Ravvi—earned a standing ovation—and slipped behind the curtain, dewy with sweat and alive with applause. The house adored her. The city was beginning to.

But the heartbeat of the club… shifted.
 
From the entrance, a man emerged like an echo stepping out of the past.

He wore a blood-red suede suit, rich and immaculate, the kind of crimson that whispered of old currencies and silent nights filled with bad decisions. His black dress shirt was buttoned to the collar, a single onyx brooch gleaming like an eye at his throat. Matching red shoes, buffed to a high shine, made no sound as he strolled in. His raven-black hair was slicked back, framing a face that belonged on the murals of forgotten dynasties—cold, elegant, arrestingly cruel in its restraint. His slate gray eyes, veined with the faintest crimson, scanned the Veil with the measured ease of a predator that had already fed.

He walked, unhurried, to the bar. Sat on the third stool from the end, one hand resting on the brass rail.

The bartender, normally chatty, paused. The man gave a soft, charming smile.

"Tarisian bloodfruit, neat. And if your manager's available, I'd like a moment of his time."
 
Arq didn't like being summoned.

Especially not politely.

Still, something pulled him out from behind the curtain. Not curiosity—instinct. That deep, flickering sensation he hadn't felt since his earliest days on Nar Shaddaa, when he was still figuring out which rooms were safe to sleep in, and which carried the scent of death even before the first body dropped.

He spotted the man immediately. Not just because of the red suit. Because everyone else leaned away from him. Without realizing it.

Arq approached with an easy sway, mood-ring flickering orange-gold. A performer's warmth. A protector's mask.

"You asked for me?" he said, folding his arms with a smile. "Arq. I curate this little dreamscape."
 
Arq didn't take it.

Instead, he gave a dramatic half-bow. "Ahh, the man with the velvet stare. We've been... noticing you."
 

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