Public Near the Blackwall || A Port Nowhere Story

[Csariden]

ＢＬＵＥ ＧＲＡＶＥ – Hangar Floor

She didn’t flinch beneath the crosshairs. That alone was rare.
She stepped closer. Rarer still.

Csariden didn’t move as she spoke, didn’t interrupt the weave of her words, though the camp behind her had gone death-still. Even Triggen, still holding the scattergun like a loaded thought, said nothing. There was no permission given—but something unspoken passed between them. This was his moment, not theirs.

And he let her take it.

Not because he trusted her.
But because part of him wanted to see how close she'd come before the fire burned.

---

She said he bled real.

He didn’t know what that meant to someone like her.
But it sounded like admiration. And that was almost more dangerous than a threat.

A long pause stretched between them, heavy with static and dust.

He tilted his head slightly—not much. Just enough for the glow of his cybernetic eye to cast a narrow glint across the floor between them. When he finally answered, the voice that crawled out of his vocoder was quieter than before. Measured. Like each word had weight he was trying not to show.

“Rare things usually don’t survive the first cut.”​

There was no menace in it. Just a statement of fact.

Then a step.
Not toward her, but toward the center of the holotable—placing himself between her and the war-hardened mess of the camp. The glow from the flickering blue projection bathed half his face in ghostlight. The rest remained shadow and scar.

He gestured—barely—a tilt of his fingers toward the edge of the table.

“Let's talk, then. Before this stops being interesting.”​

The grin he wore was brief. A notch of expression, sharp as his jaw and twice as fleeting.

His words and vocoder tone were disharmonious – the words kept the distance, but the tone invited her in.

He hadn’t stopped looking since she walked in. That alone said enough.

Parvati​

 

[Parvati]

ＰＡＲＶＡＴＩ
Communing with ✦ Csariden ✦
↳ Signal Confirmed // Your Eyes Only // Burn After Reading

Parvati moved like she had all the time in the galaxy, and not a second to waste. She didn't immediately step to the table. She circled it, her dark eyes skimming the cracked holoprojection, the scattered datapads, the lingering scars of a life lived by fire and retreat. Not quite inspecting, not quite judging. Just… noticing.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the console, light as perfume. Then she looked up again, and that familiar, unreadable smile returned, never showing teeth, never begging reaction. Just hovering, half-wicked, half-knowing.

"Rare things don't survive the first cut," she echoed softly, as if tasting the words. "No. But the ones that do tend to be… unforgettable."

She let that linger in the air between them, half compliment, half omen, and only then slid into the space he'd offered her, one hand resting delicately on the edge of the war table. No sudden moves. Just presence, as practiced and poised as any assassin's strike.

Her gaze never dropped, never wavered.

"You know...some people call what you're doing here desperation." She spoke lightly, conversational. "Others call it terrorism. But I see clarity. You've done what entire governments haven't: You've made them remember your name. That's not desperation. That's legacy."

Her fingers traced the corner of the holotable once- idly, like a woman brushing dust off an old crown.

"I think you know what you want. I think the question is...how much noise are you willing to make getting there?"

She didn't sell. Didn't push. She let the suggestion hang there, rich with promise. A hint of something more: something only offered to those who knew how to ask for it.

Mistress of the House ⛧ The Velvet Guillotine ⛧ High Priestess of Vice​

 

[Asaz Asil-i]

B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
N E A R - T H E - B L A C K W A L L

Jerec Asyr provided a compelling explanation about the Jedi and Sith Order's potential endeavor to find the Shadowport would ultimately be a futile effort. His outlined that they would approach with caution, sending researchers before any grand assaults which would by time for Port Nowhere to slip away back into Hyperspace before they set up jammers.

While it was not an absolute certainty it did represent a calculated risk, as all undertakings in the Criminal sector were. The mummers of "artifacts" and "strip mining" coming from Mammut further emphasized the possible profits that could be extracted from Mykr which would benefit herself in maintaining control from the larger syndicates down below such as the Hutt Cartel and the Pykes.

"Your arguments are sound, Vigo Jerec." Azaz admitted.

She leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting lightly on the thrones' arms.

"However the true opportunity and risks lie in the specifics. What are the precise terms for this 'mooring site'? And what beyond a vague hint of rising tides does the Black Sun expect in return for sharing access to such a profitable location. Surely the less people that know about this location, the more profits you would have for yourself." She questioned with a raised brow as her lekku gently swayed behind her. There had to be some hidden strings attached to what seemed like an extremely favorable offer.

 

[Csariden]

ＢＬＵＥ ＧＲＡＶＥ – Hangar Floor

He watched her circle the table like a predator dressed for a gala—grace in every motion, calculation in every silence. Her fingers skimmed the war map as if she owned it. As if she'd bought and sold greater wars than his.
Maybe she had.
Csariden’s gaze followed her without shame. He didn’t pretend to be above it. He didn’t look away.

They call him desperate. Call him a terrorist. Good. That helped push the Revengeancy. It meant the narrative was working.

He stepped forward again leaning into the flickering blue glow of the holoprojector until it shimmered like plasma across the plates of his jaw. His voice, when it came, was softer, but no less distorted.

“Let them call it desperation.”​

“Let them whisper ‘terrorist’ with cracked teeth. Let their children flinch when they hear the name.”​

His smile flashed in a cruel daydream.

“That’s how legacy works. You burn it into the ones who survive.”​

He let his hand rest on the opposite side of the table from her. The placement was no accident. The light between his fingers flickered—interference patterns glitching in silent pulses.

“Noise,” he echoed. “We can make.”​

The grin returned—slight, unfinished. As if it had somewhere else to go.

“Corpses, ruins... Such is our legacy, and that we will gladly spread.”​

Then, quieter. Just for her.

“And if we're on the same page regarding what I want..."​

His gaze swept over the femme fatale in the camp.

"I can be however loud you like, if you are willing to pay the price." ​

He was blind to Triggen's grimace and the loyalists’ mutters behind him.

Parvati​

 

[Parvati]

ＰＡＲＶＡＴＩ

Communing with ✦ Csariden ✦
↳ Signal Confirmed // Your Eyes Only // Burn After Reading

​

Parvati let the silence linger just long enough to make it feel intentional, her gaze steady on Csariden's. She didn't rush to speak, didn't fill the air with unnecessary sound. She let the weight of what hadn't been said settle into the room, like dust or danger, depending on who you were.

When her voice came, it was low and calm, but never soft. "You speak like a man who's never had anything given to him," she said. "Only taken. That's rare."

Her gaze flicked, not away, but around. To the watchers at the fringe of the room. Half of them stared like they'd seen a ghost they didn't trust. The others, like they'd seen something they might pray to later. She wore their mistrust like perfume and their hunger like a crown. She didn't mind being misunderstood- it meant she still had the upper hand.

When her attention returned to Csariden, something in it had changed. Not softness, Parvati didn't do softness, but recognition. Like she was looking at something that made sense to her.

"You do what most people can't," she continued. "You act. Without permission. Without apology. That's not desperation, Csariden. That's power."

She didn't stand, didn't gesture, didn't lean into drama. Instead, she adjusted slightly in her seat, her silhouette flawless against the gritty backdrop of the hangar. One leg crossed with slow, unconscious elegance beneath the holotable, her manicured fingers resting lightly on her thigh. She owned the moment by doing almost nothing.

The blue light from the war table pulsed softly across her face, painting her features in waves of electric shadow. Each flicker of the projection passed over her skin like light reflecting off dark water- rhythmic, mesmerizing, fractured. The effect was unintentional, but she knew exactly what it looked like. A specter dressed in skin and silk, offering empire like a whisper.

"There's something I'm after," she said. "A ship. Ancient, broken, forgotten by most- but not by me. A war machine with a long history and an uglier end. I plan to take it. Break it. Rebuild it into something that doesn't just survive, but casts a shadow."

Her voice lowered, not dramatically, but intimately, like the words were no longer meant for the room, only for him.

"I want to make it mine. Something that speaks long after I'm gone. Something beautiful."

She gave him a moment with that word. Let it land. Let it mean more than what it sounded like.

"I could hire mercenaries. I could bribe warlords. But that's not why I'm here." Her eyes didn't waver. "I came to you because you know how to take. The right way. The hard way."

She sat straighter then- not standing, just shifting with the precision of someone recalibrating the tone. The blue light caught the edge of her jaw and washed her in that war-map glow again, making her look carved out of stone.

"If you help me seize it," she said, voice steady now, "I can give you something your enemies never will."

She paused just long enough to give it weight. Then: "A future. A place that doesn't vanish the second you lower your weapon. Where someone like you doesn't have to keep one foot on the escape ramp just to feel safe."

And finally, the last line, delivered not as a plea, but as a promise.

"Help me build it... and I'll make sure your enemies are buried beneath its foundation."

She didn't blink. Didn't move. Just held him there, between the flicker of blue light and the quiet promise of something far bigger than either of them.

Mistress of the House ⛧ The Velvet Guillotine ⛧ High Priestess of Vice​

 

[Csariden]

ＢＬＵＥ ＧＲＡＶＥ – Hangar Floor

She didn’t blink. That’s what stayed with him. Not the promise. Not the plan. Not even the warship.

Just the stillness. The poise of someone who knew he would say yes before he even realized he was going to. At this moment, he wanted everything she offered. and everything she didn’t.

He stepped closer to the table again, letting the light climb up his throat, wash across the prosthetics jaw, the glow of his artificial eye painting a reflection across her cheek. His voice was quiet—private—but every Chiss in the camp could hear it.

“Then tell me where this ship sleeps.”​

His gaze dragged across her silhouette, slow and hungry, far from subtle.

“I’ll take it. I’ll carve your name into its hull…”​

A pause. His head tilted, shadow bisecting his face like a razor. Behind him, however, Triggen shifted. The crowds of chiss remained silent, but not still. Others looked between the two figures at the table, but none interrupted. They heard what this outsider offered. It was a chance to rebuild, potentially. A chance to stop living on the run. The hope they'd been killing for.
Csariden didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. His attention remained solely on the woman, not his own people.

The vengeful leader already envisioned victory, but every word he spoke was already surrender.

Parvati​

 

[Parvati]

ＰＡＲＶＡＴＩ
Communing with ✦ Csariden ✦
↳ Signal Confirmed // Your Eyes Only // Burn After Reading

The mistress's eyes drifted when the Chiss looked her over. She was used to that kind of attention, she had grown up with it, fought through it, weaponized it. Csariden, at least, had the good sense to be respectful. If he hadn't, the conversation would have ended before it began. Being taken seriously by a band of mercenaries as a woman walking in alone was never a guarantee, but Parvati didn't tolerate disrespect. Not from anyone. Not even from numbers. If someone had crossed a line, someone would've died, even if it meant her as well.

What he said nearly brought another smile to her lips. He didn't even have a name yet, and already he wanted the coordinates. Already ready to spill blood on her behalf. Another woman might've seen that as victory and left the room with her leverage intact. But Parvati wasn't here to win one battle. She needed something deeper than obedience. She needed loyalty. The kind that lasted. The kind that built.

"You've heard my proposition," she said, voice calm but laced with intention. "And you've agreed to help me without hesitation."

She let that settle before her gaze drifted past him, to the shifting figures beyond. The camp hadn't spoken, but it had certainly reacted. "You're wise enough to see the potential in this," she continued. "But your people…" she nodded lightly toward the crowd with a subtle nod, "they seem to be questioning whether you've just been seduced by a pretty face looking for a leg up."

Her posture shifted slightly, elegant and natural, as she straightened again in her seat, having leaned forward before. It wasn't a retreat. It was a return to full presence.

"I don't deal in half-measures," she said. "As I've stated, if I wanted muscle, I could buy it. If I wanted flattery, I could command it. What I want is to build something that endures." She extended her arm now, the gesture slow and deliberate, not to him, but beyond him... to them.

"And I reward those who protect that vision. Not just you." Her voice didn't rise, but it deepened with clarity. "All of them."

A pause.

"If legacy is your currency, then I pay well. Money. Power. Territory. Reputation. Whatever it is you need to carve your name deeper into the galaxy- I have it. And I share with those who help hold the knife."

Mistress of the House ⛧ The Velvet Guillotine ⛧ High Priestess of Vice​

 

[Csariden]

ＢＬＵＥ ＧＲＡＶＥ – Hangar Floor

The silence that followed Parvati’s words was sharper than a blade.

Csariden let her voice hang in the air, impossible to ignore. She was no longer speaking to him. Not only. She was speaking to them. His camp. His soldiers. His cause.

And they were listening.

He could feel the shift, just beneath the surface. But he didn’t name it. Didn’t recognize it for what it was.
Instead, he stepped into the moment like it still belonged to him. Delusional suited him well.

He turned slightly—just enough to face the men and women who filled the shadows of the hangar, silent and still.

“You heard her.”​

The vocoder crackled under the weight of restrained heat. Heat, not anger.

“She guides us to the target – We bring the fire!”​

He stepped fully into view now, framed between flickering bulkheads and battered banners. His voice carried.

“The were ghosts. We were ashes. We were the ones who were lost. No longer."​

A few heads nodded. One or two fists rose in tight silence. The others held back.

Behind the noise, Triggen stood like a statue—shotgun cradled, jaw locked tight. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. The bulky Chiss knew what was happening, but his face betrayed nothing. Csariden himself either didn’t notice... or refused to.

He turned back to Parvati now, only for her. His eye traced the line of her extended arm before meeting her gaze again, lit in war-table blue.

“Call upon me – us – when you're ready for blood.”​

His voice was low now—meant only for her, though the whole camp could hear. Every word more oath than order.

“We’ll take your ship. Paint your future in sheared and shattered steel. When the deed is done..."​

A flicker of a grin, an expression of ambition, of bloodlust.

“...the foundation for our legacy will be set.”​

Parvati​