Faction Naboo Cultural Exchange

[Tyger Tyger]

He had been sneering on the sidelines. Sat at some mid-height stonewall governing the walkway, Tyger Tyger watched the people transition in and out of the Cultural Exchange. He hadn't really planned on being here, but the Force had a way of not really caring about that kind of thing. A fly in a web, the bounty hunter acquiesced to the lack of control inherent in this experience, instead petitioning a name for some sort of guidance through it.

"Leia," he murmured, standing.

No, not that one. A different one, unique to Milo's own personal lore – an orphan he rescued from a sort of demigod of murderers, but not before she lost an arm. Not before she had forsaken the desire to speak. In the years that would pass, Milo would eventually come to know her voice, but not for very long – not for nearly as long as he went without it.

"I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing here." A confession. He adjusted his jetpack, the armor in which it rested, and shifted his gaze from right to left, left to right, searching the others for some sort of clue as they moved through the stalls with their own self-determining motors. He tried to join them.

"Not in an existential way, but…what do I actually do? Browse? Shop? What am I looking for?" That last question was almost a plea, its weight unexpectedly cumbersome upon delivery.

"Daddy!," he heard a kid shout from the crowd. Tyger Tyger's eyes found her in the Night Market, then traced her eyeline to the man she was addressing, presumably her actual father.

Memories rushed in from every angle, and while Leia hadn't actually been Milo's daughter, that simple fact was difficult to parse as he remembered their day at the Arceneau Trading Expo, however many years ago. The butcher's stall that brough her to tears. The pranking of the robot. The split of some ice cream on the bench, and that fated agreement to become vegetarians.

His not-a-daughter was the missing piece here, but Milo tried not to think about that.

He tried not to think about her, at all, and so, he thought about her all the time.

Tyger Tyger would see the mom or aunt or whoever join the family before he tore his eyes free, submerging into the mass of sentience that was the Night Market.

"As a kid, I would watch these holos where the spook would walk into these expensive vistas and nightclubs, with missions to extract intel from beautiful women, or murder the occasional odd-looking, sentient garbage…fund-raising for the Alliance, etcetera..."

Leia's inability (or unwillingness) to speak made the lack of response just familiar enough to be comforting, even if now it was due to her absence. This one-sided dialog, in fact, had become a surrogate for the internal monologues Milo had always been too physically present in life to perform. The fact that it left him audibly conversing with ghosts – in public, no less – was inconsequential to him.

Buried beneath a name and legacy that wasn't even his, this discourse was perhaps the only way he had come to know himself at all.

"But when I actually started doing stake-outs in those places…the luster wasn't there. It only took three visits before you realized, just like any old dive in any old town, that it was always the same people showing up every week, looking for something, never finding it."

Tyger Tyger approached a food stall – some sort of fungus or vegetable on a stick. The vendor regarded him dubiously. The bounty hunter matched his gaze, peering through it, his mind the furthest place from here. The merchant offered up one of his products.

"Just as lonely, but somewhere beautiful…made ugly by the routine. Tragic by the implication."

Tyger Tyger responded by holding up two fingers, unwilling to disrupt his letter to nobody. The vendor addressed the difference with an additional foodstick, to which Milo would pay accordingly, then detach, making his way over to the ceremonial dance.

"I guess it never occurred to me how inherently social tradecraft is, bounty hunting is, assassination is. After a life of running and hiding, some sort of final, elaborate ritual by which two isolated mal-adjusts can feel somehow connected at a party. Or at least, invent a reason to even be there. ISB creeps were always that brand of karking weird..."

Overlooking the descending stairs into the dance area, he felt underwhelmed. The people looked lovely, and the decorations did their work, but the magic was inaccessible to him. The stage, set for the performance, held all the wonder of a theme park show playing at the top of the hour, every hour.

"…I think I figured, that one day, I would finally crack open and the world would rush in and fill up all the empty spots. But all I ever got was older."

As if on cue, Tyger Tyger arched his back, uncomfortable under his armor. He could hear the increasingly familiar questions bubbling to the surface, wondering if there would ever be a time when he could get away with leaving the gear in the Far Star locker and just moving around the universe that much lighter.

Milo recalled, she said before she left, "That spider that rides you around -- You don't think I can see it, but I always could." This wasn't the first time she had mentioned this kind of thing. In fact, she drew pictures of it when she was younger; a byproduct of the traumatic conditions from which Tyger Tyger had rescued her, he wagered. "It's got its venom in you, and you're dying a little more every day."

"We're all dying," he responded, paradoxically thinking he was being clever when he knew in his heart he had no idea what she was talking about.

"No," she said, "Most of us are living."

Leia would have been 15 years old at the time, but Milo remembered her as 10. He would always remember her as 10.

Tyger Tyger pulled away from his mind to find he had sat down on one of the outer rings of the audience seating, munching thoughtlessly on his fungus-on-a-stick.

But the distraction of eating was over all too soon; and Tyger Tyger found himself sitting there, holding the excess foodstick like a bouquet of flowers for a date that never came.

"Maybe that's why, despite how much I hate all of this…I couldn't really give it up."

He sighed, reclining back in his seat to watch the other mingle from afar.

Milo had no idea where Leia was now, but he hoped with everything that she was, indeed, still living.

Because it sure didn't feel like he was.

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: OPEN |
​

 

[Lancel Atria]

He watched her with a long, quiet appraisal that began at her betrayed cheeks and ended upon the small, proper smile she had hastily assembled to mask her slip. One corner of his mouth lifted in a ghost of a smirk, not quite a smile, and certainly not enough to grant her the satisfaction of knowing precisely what amused him.

His hand remained exactly where it was. Worse, his thumb continued its idle passage across the sliver of bare skin at her hip, tracing slowly back and forth as though entirely unaware of the havoc it wrought. Yet the sharpness in his eyes told a different story. He had noticed her sudden stillness, her fleeting glance toward the chaperone, and the nervous tightening of her hands. He had noticed everything.

"Lancel," he repeated softly, offering nothing more.

When she finally confessed her relief, the smirk deepened, but for one brief moment, something shifted behind his eyes. The crackle of the bonfire, the swell of the music, and even the presence of Guinevere herself seemed to recede, eclipsed by the sudden memory of groaning metal, falling bodies, and Calypso floating in the void of space.

His fingers stopped, only for a moment, before resuming their slow, torturous path. Lancel returned to the present, his infuriating composure entirely intact.

When their eyes met, he did not look away. He simply held her gaze until propriety itself might have grown uncomfortable.

"Come, then. If Set and Veré were cursed to spend eternity apart, it seems positively ungrateful of us to spend the evening standing still."

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Guinevere Cavello |​

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

He had noticed her use of his first name because, of course, he had. He seemed to notice every infuriating little thing she did. Yet when he spoke, there was no offense in his expression. If anything, her slip appeared to genuinely please him, a real true happiness flickering for a moment before the arrogance was back in place.

She felt terribly small beneath that knowing, arrogant gaze and wanted nothing more than to turn on her heel and escape it. Unfortunately, storming away from one's betrothed in the middle of a gathering attended by half the planet's wealthy elite was hardly an option.

Something flickered in his eyes then, something she could not quite name before his attention sharpened and settled completely upon her. The intensity of it made her restless. Her fingers wanted to fidget, her feet wanted to move, yet she found herself strangely unable to look away.

"Come, then. If Set and Veré were cursed to spend eternity apart, it seems positively ungrateful of us to spend the evening standing still."

"As you wish Lord Atria."

She nodded, far more meekly than she would have liked, and shifted with deliberate grace away from the lingering reach of his fingers and toward the dance floor. Despite the nerves fluttering through her stomach, her movements remained elegant. Years of breeding and etiquette had seen to that. It occurred to her, as they joined the other couples, that this would be the first time they had ever danced together.

An odd realization, considering they were engaged.

Then again, they had spent surprisingly little time in one another's company. Their courtship had hardly been conventional, though since the bundling he had begun writing to her with far greater frequency than she had expected. His letters had become regular enough that she had caught herself anticipating them, a fact she had absolutely no intention of examining too closely.

When he offered his hand, she placed hers gently within it.

It was the same careful gesture she gave any nobleman who requested a dance. Such occasions demanded a delicate balance. Her culture expected virtue, modesty, and an almost absurd degree of distance from male attention, while noble etiquette insisted that refusing a perfectly respectable invitation could be interpreted as a calculated insult.

So she accepted his hand as propriety demanded, keeping a respectable space between them the way she had been taught and the only way she knew how.

The music began.

She lifted her eyes to his and offered him a small smile. Her nervousness was still plainly written across her face, but beneath it lingered something warmer.

Despite herself, she was enjoying his company.

Wearing: X | Tags: Lancel Atria

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

Things had been chaotic since the retreat from Thyferra.

There were refugees to assist, quarantines to establish, and entire sections of Republic space to isolate while scientists desperately worked to identify whatever the Sith had unleashed upon the population. The infection that turned the dead and dying into technobeasts still lingered in isolated pockets, and every new outbreak had to be contained before it could spread.

Then there was the loss of Thyferra itself and the rippling effects that followed. Without its bacta production, the Republic had been forced to look elsewhere. Manaan had stepped forward with increased shipments of kolto, while worlds throughout Republic space were assessed for whatever medical resources they could provide. Rimos had already been identified for its bacta reserves, and scientists were dispatched to secured facilities in the hope of developing some manner of treatment, vaccine, or cure.

And that was merely the Republic -- Naboo presented another matter entirely. Sibylla's earlier contracts had ensured the planet possessed considerable bacta reserves of its own. Now those stockpiles were as much political leverage as they were a safeguard for Naboo's people.

"Unified," Sibylla quietly agreed. They would support Dominique and stabilize what they could not just with the Republic, but with Naboo as well. Between the Senate, the Jedi's response requesting they destroy the artifact, and Dominique trying to determine how the Republic moved forward without stumbling blindly into another catastrophe, Sibylla and Aurelian had barely had time to truly speak about what had happened.

Every meeting since Thyferra had demanded the King and his Voice, never simply Aurelian and Sibylla. Never the two people beneath those titles who cared deeply for one another and were still trying their damnedest to keep precisely how deeply hidden from the galaxy.

Perhaps that was why Sibylla noticed what others might not. Like the strain around Aurelian's eyes or the shadows beneath them that even those absurdly expensive serums could not quite conceal. To everyone else, he remained the confident, shameless Monarch of Naboo.. but Sibylla knew better.

Something had happened to Aurelian on Thyferra. Something that affected him deeply, beyond what she had witnessed with his father, or even Thessaly. This was different.

So, before those doors opened and the galaxy claimed them again, Sibylla stopped. With precious little time left to simply be them, she reacted in the only way she knew how, even as Aurelian's wry teasing about her dress tried to lighten the weight between them. Her gloved hand returned to his cheek, gently coaxing him to face her. Then she leaned in, Sibylla's head tipping up as her lips met the warmth of his.

She kissed him slowly and deeply, breathing him in as the familiar scent of his aftershave surrounded her. For the briefest moment, Aurelian drew still under the unexpected tenderness before what remained of his tension gave way. A strong arm slipped around her waist, pressing against the warmth of bare skin, drawing her carefully against him as he returned the kiss with an intimacy that betrayed just how badly he had needed this too.

For those few stolen seconds, the King disappeared and there was only Aurelian holding her tightly against him, as though some part of him needed the same reassurance she did. There was no Stuyveris, no Sith, no ghost of a Thyferra and its dead burning behind their eyes. Just the quiet insistence that they were both alive and they were here together.

When Sibylla finally drew back, her eyes remained closed for another heartbeat. Then she looked up at him, thumb brushing along his cheek before gently smoothing a wayward dark curl from his forehead.

"Come what may, Aurelian, you will not face it without me." The words lingered before the corner of her mouth slowly curled upward, bringing a little more light into her hazel eyes.

"Like the dress? You will have to thank my modiste, then." Her brow arched. "Although, as for the magic of the dress..."

The corner of her mouth perked up as her half-smirk deepened.

"Play your cards right, and perhaps you may find out later."

| Outfit: x x | Tag: Aurelian Veruna |​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic stared at the offering for a silent moment, then raised his gaze to meet hers. The words seemed to work a quiet well on him. The rigid embarrassment gripping his features softened, giving way to a more subdued, stubborn resolve. "Then I suppose I ought to make the attempt worthwhile."

His head shook in a faint, rueful motion, his smile barely breaking the surface. "No. Not this time."

He planted a palm against the cold stone, dragging a knee beneath himself. It was ugly, ungraceful work. His forearms trembled under the sudden weight, a boot heel slipped against the grit, and for a few agonizing seconds, it seemed he would inevitably collapse right back into the dirt. Instinctively, Skilch shifted forward.

Dominic's eyes flicked toward the movement. That small motion was enough to still the aide.

He fought upward again. One knee locked into place. Then the other. He jammed his palm hard against his thigh for leverage, his shoulders shaking violently with the strain until, by some minor miracle, Dominic Praxon stood.

He wasn't straight. He wasn't steady. But he was on his feet.

He drew a ragged breath and looked at Tatiana, the crooked confidence of his smile flashing a glimpse of the man he used to be. "You said the important thing was standing again."

Dominic extended his hand. "May I have this dance?"

His balance wavered almost instantly, the momentum nearly toppling him and forcing a quiet, self-deprecating laugh from his throat. "Though you may have to help hold me up."

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Tatiana Sah |​

 

[Addison Porte]

Aiden Porte

YOUR_STORY​

Addison's brandy gaze followed her brother's over to where his daughter was gathered with a bunch of her friends across the market. It was good to see kids being kids especially in these chaotic times if only for a moment.

"Lira is as outgoing as you were at that age. Kind of like two peas in a pod I'd say," she smiled remembering how Aiden was always the one to befriend people - Not her... Addy was the introvert of the twin siblings.

"You look nice, it wasn't just the festivites that brought you here was it? There a certain individual your hoping shows up?" The Jedi Knight inquired with a small smirk, looking back across the market.

"Oh, and thank you for looking after Lira while I was gone. She says you guys had a good time."

The brunette looked away for a moment to hide the blush trying to rise on her cheeks, then the Jedi pilot looked back his way tucking some wavy locks behind her right ear with a little defiance.

"I don't now what you're talking about but thanks for the compliment," Addy answered, sticking her tongue out quickly and making a face at him in a sisterly manner he only knew too well.

"You're most welcome... It was fun. We worked more on Lira's control of telekinesis with water balloons like Dad had us do and I took her up in my X-wing for a short spin around Naboo. I think Gizmo has a crush on her now," she laughed and just shook her dark head at the thought.

"So what's next for you, Aiden.... slaying a dragon or more cooking lessons with Chef Porte? Those cookies you made before you left were the best I've ever tasted."

​

 

[Rathir]

THE HIGH REPUBLIC

RATHIR
JEDI INITIATE • LIVING FORCE

LOCATION EVENFALL ESTATE ◆ OBJECTIVE THE NIGHT MARKET

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Rathir blinked, his eyes dropping briefly to the space between them before looking back to the socialite.

"No? I don't think so?" He took a step back. "Sorry. I didn't know you wanted more room."

Rathir adjusted the plate in his hand and looked toward the little circles of dough moving through the fryer. For a few seconds he simply watched them turn beneath the powdered sugar.

"I was asking about those. I've never had them before." He glanced back toward her. "Are they good?"

Another bite of shaak followed while he waited.

The dress caught his eye again, still conspicuous enough among the market stalls that it seemed worth asking about.

"Were you dancing inside?" Rathir asked. "I saw people doing it earlier. It looked more complicated than I thought it would be."

He chewed, looking back toward the fryer.

"What's your name?"

Rathir lifted the plate slightly, realising she had not shared her own. Still, that didn't stop him wanting to continue the conversation:

"Have you tried anything else out here? This is the first thing I've found that I want more of."

His eyes settled on the donuts again.

"Well... probably the second now. Are we getting some?"

────────────────────────────────────────────​

TAGS
Persephone Dashiell ​

FIRRERREO • FORM V • JEDI INITIATE​

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

NIGHT MARKET

Persephone wanted to pinch the bridge of her nose but that would ruin her makeup. Not that it particularly mattered but she did like to present a certain look while in public. Socialite and heiress tended to require a certain level of decorum. A level of decorum she was trying to remember in this moment. This was a public place. No way were rumors going to swirl that she eviscerated some kid in front of a donut stand of all places.

"Have the Jedi not taught you to read?"

She had serious doubts - weirdness of this encounter aside - of the Jedi educational system. Rote learning of religious teachings and knowing how to fight seemed the only two subjects offered in their cultist schools. Very concerning that the Jedi were pushing out mindless little drones without any real literacy skills.

Hand motioned to the sign above them, peach-pink fingernails that matched her dress waggled slightly to draw attention.

"The sign says 'Naboo Nik's Donuts'." Hand dropped back down to her side. "So donuts, as we can see, are round fried balls of dough. They cook in this machine, this is a fryer, with an automatic conveyer belt that drops down to the drying rack. These here are paper bags filled with powdered sugar, they are placed inside and are shaken up. Then they are eaten."

Persephone motioned between them.

"We will not be eating them. However, because Jedi have two extremes of practical homelessness or owning a multi-million credit organization, and trust me, you look like you fall in the first crowd, I will buy you a bag. Then you will take that bag and forget that I ever existed."

A small beat passed.

"Do you understand?"

Rathir​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Sophelia Ardemark Cerys Dyn

​

Elian was surprised, to say the least. That was the first time he had ever heard music described quite like that. It was interesting, certainly unique, and it piqued his curiosity enough that his eyes widened slightly. A smile soon graced his face when Cerys followed it all by saying that the music was simply nice. He had intended to speak once more, perhaps offer some thought of his own, but she managed to beat him to it.

"Do you intend to dance?"

Elian raised his shoulders in a small shrug and opened his mouth to respond. "Perhaps if..."

"I mean generally," she added in a frantic rush. "Not specifically with me. Unless you wanted to. Which is also not an invitation."

Cerys spoke again before he could finish, prompting another smile from him. "Of course, it wasn't..." Elian replied as he raised the glass to his lips and took a small drink.

It was not necessarily that he found the situation amusing, though perhaps there was something amusingly familiar about it. Listening to her speak reminded Elian of himself whenever someone made the mistake of asking him about engineering, construction, or whatever project had managed to occupy his attention at the time. There had been several occasions when he had spoken to Sophelia about his work, in particular the memorial he was assisting with. He would become increasingly animated as he explained some design or mechanical problem, only to suddenly realize how long he had been talking. The realization was usually followed by an apology for rambling about something he loved far more than anyone else reasonably should.

"...I should have stopped speaking several sentences ago."

Elian shook his head and casually waved away her concern. "Nonsense. I thought you did great." he assured her, his voice carrying an easy confidence that he hoped might lend her some of her own. Given everything he had just heard, however, he was not entirely certain what would happen next.

Elian glanced toward the others gathered nearby. His attention wandered briefly towards the bar to see Sophelia speaking to an individual, seemingly occupied with a conversation of her own. He smiled, before turning his attention back toward Cerys, lifting his glass and taking another small drink.

"I am open to a dance." He said, lowering the glass. "If you wish?"

​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Addison Porte

​

"Lira is as outgoing as you were at that age. Kind of like two peas in a pod I'd say,"

Aiden shrugged his shoulders lighlty, a chuckle leaving him. "I don't know, she's definitely much braver than I am."

"I don't now what you're talking about but thanks for the compliment," Addy answered, sticking her tongue out quickly and making a face at him in a sisterly manner he only knew too well.

"Ohhhh....." Aiden snapped his fingers, smirking. "Being secretive about it, that's clever sister. I like your tactics." He shook his head, this was something he truly missed, more than anything. Listening to the things they did while he was away. Granted he had heard about them already, Lira was so excited to tell him all about them. In particular the flight they took.

"So what's next for you, Aiden.... slaying a dragon or more cooking lessons with Chef Porte? Those cookies you made before you left were the best I've ever tasted."

"Lira insist on adding more sugar to everything. That's the way of things in the household. Well maybe not everything, can't exactly do that. That's been another of our past times. Usually we get visitors out there pretty often, they are greeted with tea and cookies. Its not grand, but its a simple enough gesture."

Aiden, thought back to the first part of what she said, seemingly bypassing that completely before it registered in his mind once more. "Well, I honestly don't know. Besides Lira, Alina, you, and of course Naboo and its people...." Aiden let out a happy sigh, looking around, shaking his head. "There really isn't anything else out there for me."

Aiden looked to Addison. "And you?"

 

[Rathir]

THE HIGH REPUBLIC

RATHIR
JEDI INITIATE • LIVING FORCE

LOCATION EVENFALL ESTATE, NABOO ◆ OBJECTIVE THE NIGHT MARKET

────────────────────────────────────────────​

Rathir's expression settled as the young woman spoke. His eyes followed the motion of her hand toward the sign, reading it before returning to the fryer while she explained the process anyway.

"I can read," he said, correction calm. "I just didn't know what a donut was. I've never seen them before."

The comment about homelessness earned a longer look. Rathir glanced down at his robes, then toward the belt pouch where he kept his credits. He hoped he didn't look homeless.

"I can buy my own."

Forget that she existed was straightforward enough, even if the phrasing was not particularly kind. He still hadn't learned her name, but asking again would probably defeat the point. She clearly didn't want anything to do with him, which was a shame because he thought she might have been an interesting person.

Rathir looked at her again, quieter now than he had been a moment before. "You don't want me to talk to you." His attention returned to the fryer. "Thanks for explaining how they make them, though."

He stepped away, leaving considerably more space between them, and turned his attention back to the stall. Whatever else had happened, he still wanted to try the donuts.

Rathir took another bite of the shaak while he waited.

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TAGS
Persephone Dashiell ​

FIRRERREO • FORM V • JEDI INITIATE​

 

[Sophelia Ardemark]

Isar du Vain cc: Cerys Dyn Elian Abrantes

It was ire first that floated on the tip of her tongue. That muffled voice may have been easy to mistake. The sensation that someone loomed behind her. But it was that lavender-sage smell that was impossible to ignore. It tickled the tip of her nose.

It couldn’t be.

She turned. Slowly. The folds of the deep blue fabric swishing against her legs. Those two drinks forgotten on the bar top. Azure eyes snapped to those lilac pools. Even as she stumbled over all those details of his outfit. His mask.

“How…”

Surprise.

“Why…”

Then a small frown as she realized she couldn’t sense him.

“Is that really…”

A part of her heart warmed. A quick glance over his shoulder at Cerys Dyn snd Elian Abrantes . They seemed like they were doing just fine. No acts of congress needed, yet.

“You’re here.” She finally settled on, finding his eyes again. Fingers lifted, smoothing one of those red-highlighted locks away from the edge of his mask. As if she needed to touch him to convince herself he really was here. And not an illusion.

“New look, hm?”

Corner of her mouth ticked upward. A part of her wanted to know why he was here. But another part of her didn’t care and was just glad he was.

​

 

[Isar du Vain]

Spoiler

A Zeltron did not need the Force to feel the threads of surprise mingling with another emotion inside Sophelia Ardemark. One that Isar Du Vain never elicited: Happiness.

It appeared the viscount was quite the charmer.

Violet eyes narrowed behind the mask at the brush of her fingers against his hair.

"Very forward. Have we met before?"

The Zeltron's offhand snapped up, gloved hand wrapping around her offending wrist.

"I am the Viscount Idris Tel Idros... and you are a noblewoman from Tapani?"

The barest hint of an accusation wove through his tone, though it almost sounded like beneath the mask the man was smiling. Who could say. He let go of her, looking at the drinks on the bar top, then following her gaze toward a group beyond him and back to her.

"For me? You shouldn't have"

He tilted back his mask so that he could quaff the last of his own drink, set it down on the bartop, then snatched up the whiskey.

"And who should I address my thanks to, Ms...?"

Sophelia Ardemark

 

[Tavian Djo]

NIGHT MARKET

Spoiler

A young man in the blue and gold uniform of a Hapan Royal Navy officer walked through the grounds of the E'Eeverwest Estate, pursing his lips as he passed a set of ruins in the night that reminded him of another night that seemed long ago now, though it had only been four or five months. The smells of the stalls ahead assaulted his senses and he felt a reflexive pang of hunger.

Overhead, paper lanterns floated with beautiful soft orange glows. Five months ago, Tavian Djo would have stopped dead in the middle of the street and stared up at those lanterns, watching and thinking and losing himself in a dream. That was before the Academy. Before three months of grueling training and an assignment as a SigTel intelligence officer.

Now he had his first posting here on Naboo as part of a military exchange between the Republic and the Hapan Royal Navy, or the Hapan 'Resistance' as they were referred to in some circles.

His shined black, calf-length boots carried him down the rows of stalls toward Persephone Dashiell and Rathir .

 

[Kameron Angellus]

This is insane.

Insanity.

A Reactor core is not made with Corellian Whiskey. What is this? Level 1313 on Coruscant? I shouldn’t be surprised anymore as this is Naboo… the discount department store of nobility. I should not be surprised though as this is Naboo, the place where rich people come to pretend to be nobility, the place where nobility pretends to be rich, the place where nobility pretends to be among the people. Naboo nobility: all silk and no steel. One wonders how they ever managed to rule anything larger than a lily pad.

Two minutes here, and I have not been addressed once. In fact, I have not even been acknowledged. I mean, Jedi are here. Jedi… the teacher’s pets of galactic governance. I tell you, I do not like the idea of an Empire, but at least they know where their priorities lie: order and law. The court of Theed still believes elaborate headpieces compensate for a complete absence of genuine bloodlines.
Naboo society is like their architecture—beautiful from a distance, hopelessly impractical up close, and rather damp.

I mean, this “lady” that I am actually approaching.

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: OPEN |​

 

[Sophelia Ardemark]

Isar du Vain

A golden brow arched as his gloved fingers encircled her wrist. Just as quickly letting her go. A mild huff. A look as if to say: this is what we’re doing?

Fine.

Fingers found the glass meant for Cerys and she took a nice, long sip. Oh boy. She figured this moment would come eventually. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to tell him. It just…never came up. The bubbles of the sweet wine tickling down her throat. It wasn’t Soph’s preferred drink. She raised it toward him all the same. A cheers.

Perhaps for finding out who she was.

She trusted him more than he’d tell her she should. All he had to do was utter one word. Her race name. And her reputation would be dragged through the mud. Then again, she could do the same. But those fears were like morning dew on her thoughts. Burned quickly away. Burned away by those lilac eyes looking at her beneath that gilded mask.

“You are very perceptive, Viscount.”

Blues sparkled with mischief and a hint of chagrin.

“Something tells me I am at a disadvantage and you already know who I am.” She took another sip of wine. Fingers idly playing with the glass stem. One. Two taps.

“Is that fair play, Viscount? Tell me, how has Naboo been treating you? First time?”

​

 

[Ilsoon Jul]

The wealthy delegates remained clustered in their circles, wringing their hands over supply chains while the string instruments played on. Deciding he had sat long enough without any company, Ilsoon set his half-empty glass on the stone pedestal and began moving through the crowd at a leisurely pace.

He made his way through the small cliques of gossiping nobility, keeping his eyes low to observe the layout of the grounds. Near the edge of a terraced foundation, a flower bed caught his attention that was filled with dark-tinted plants that seemed entirely out of the ordinary for this type of environment.

Curious, he bent down to inspect the unfamiliar leaves just as the sound of boots hitting the stone surface caught his attention. Ilsoon straightened himself out and turned around to face the approaching figure, his eyes observing the man. Realizing that he had been mistaken for a woman from behind, the Duros offered a brief nod in Kameron Angellus direction.

"If you were looking for a bright, spry and beautiful female Holostar, you have not found one." Ilsoon said with a small smile, gesturing toward himself. "Senator Jul of Cato Neimoidia." He started the conversation by introducing himself with the curious title of Senator of Cato Neimoidia. The noble might find it odd given that the Duros and the Neimoidians were bitter rivals. So, why was he representing a species controlled by the Trade Federation?
​

 

[Kameron Angellus]

”Senator…”

How… political…

Goodness this drink is so droll. I mean really, it is just basically colored Elba Water with tree bark thrown into it. It’s a wonder that anyone drinks this stuff on a regular basis. It is a wonder that anyone drinks anything on a regular basis here and gets anything out of it. I mean, what is the point, but at least it is easy enough to know that these people are easy to use.

“So, the irony of Cato Neimodia being a part of a Naboo government. Forgive me, I don’t much care for politics, but I enjoy history. You people have changed.”

Oh, this alien is going to take the derogatory, they all do, whatever. She’ll get over it, I’m sure. Is it a she? Or a he? They all look alike to me.

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: OPEN |​

 

[Ilsoon Jul]

Ilsoon stood still, listening as the man spoke about the irony of Cato Neimoidia joining a Naboo-led government. The remark felt sloppy and beneath the dignity expected of true nobility, leading Ilsoon to suspect the man hadn't inherited his title through bloodline, but had likely married into it instead. Rather than taking offense, he decided a simple correction would put the matter to rest so they could move on.

"History is rarely written by those who stay still," Ilsoon replied. "Cato Neimoidia value results over sentiment. The Republic offers trade routes and economic stability, so we take our place at the table regardless of who holds the gavel." He rested one hand near the silver clasp of his belt, his red eyes taking in the man's stiff posture and the dissatisfied look he gave his own glass.

Ilsoon could tell the noble found the local drink as tedious as the company, a sentiment he privately shared even if he refused to show it. Naboo's soft traditions were an adjustment, but showing annoyance only broadcast weakness to observers.

"Though if it is history you enjoy, you know that commerce always dictates policy in the end," Ilsoon added, stepping slightly to the side to give them both a better view of the main pavilion. "The Sith's control over our bacta supply will create far more issues for the Republic than any drink could. This makes me curious if your planet and people have felt the impact of the ongoing shortage." The Duros was eager to gather such information to present to the Senate, hoping they would address the decline in medical supplies.
​

 

[Lancel Atria]

The dance began with a veneer of perfect propriety. Lancel kept to the respectable distance Guinevere had so carefully established, guiding her through the first few measures with an ease that suggested he had learned these steps before he could read. But his gaze refused to cooperate, lingering on her face far longer than tradition allowed, mirroring every nervous smile she gave him with a faint tug at the corner of his mouth.

When the turn came, the distance evaporated. His hand shifted against her waist, catching bare skin, and smoothly reeled her in. There was no jerk, no break in their rhythm; he simply closed the gap until the polite little gulf between them ceased to exist.

"Surely, Princess," he murmured, inclining his face toward hers, "we need not imitate the god's tragedy quite so faithfully."

His thumb brushed slowly across her skin. Their faces were so close now that he could lower his voice without fear of being unheard, close enough that his gaze could wander briefly to her mouth before returning, shamelessly, to her eyes.

Lancel smiled. It was easier here, warmed by the heat of the fire. It was easier to focus entirely on Guinevere's warmth beneath his hand, the synchronized movement of their bodies, and the way the lantern light caught in her eyes, far easier than remembering Thyferra.

His thumb rested a moment, but just for a single, fleeting second before resuming its slow stroke. Perhaps distraction was cowardice, but it was an accusation he was fine living with.

| Outfit: xxx | Tag: Guinevere Cavello |​