Public Partying at Rodia - (Open to All)

[Malrok Duskwell]

MALROK DUSKWELL
⟁Tip the Scales⟁

The blinking wall wasn't a warning panel.

He'd stared at it for nearly thirty seconds before realizing it was only... decorative. Possibly sentient. Possibly playing rhythmic commands for mating rituals. The meaning escaped him. So did the tempo.

A server with glowpaint freckles tried to hand him something blue and fizzing. He didn't take it. The glass looked like it would melt through armor.

Instead, he kept walking—slow, deliberate—each step earning glances as if a dust storm had wandered in and stolen someone's drink ticket. His boots left faint mineral prints behind. The club’s lights bent slightly around him as though confused by his presence.

This place makes no sense.

To his left: creatures gyrating beneath suspended rings of fire.
To his right: a rodent playing a flute from inside a jar.
Above him: something screamed. Could've been music. Could’ve been ritual agony.

He paused near a mirrored pillar. Glanced at his own reflection. Ash-streaked hair. Burn scars. Spear across his back like a banner of war.

Behind him, a Zabrak brushed past—startled, then disoriented—grabbing at her head.

She felt it. That silence. Like gravity cut out for a second.

A human man made eye contact. Gave a nod like they shared a joke. Malrok did not nod back. He was still cataloging exits.

One way in. Two ways out. No shadows worth trusting. Smells like citrus and blood. Floor's too slick. Ceiling’s got vents. No proper cover.

He stopped beside a bench that looked like it had grown out of the wall organically, covered in velvet and some kind of... fur? Or lichen. Possibly both.

He leaned against it slowly.

"This is not a shrine." He said that aloud. To the bench. Or maybe to the bass.

It didn’t answer.

@OPEN​

 

[Eivii]

Outfit: Dress

The music pulsed again—hard enough she thought her teeth might crack. Her stomach lurched, and she pressed her lips together until the wave of nausea passed.

Too warm. Too loud.
Too much perfume on the air that wasn’t hers.

She took another slow sip of the drink she still didn’t want, letting the glass cool her fingers. Her other hand drifted unconsciously to her midsection. No bump. Not yet. Not even confirmed.

Still.

Something in her had changed.

That was when she saw him.

Ash-colored, spear-backed, and moving like he'd stepped through the wrong door in the middle of a war. He left mineral prints behind like some kind of elemental ghost. The lights refused to know what to do with him. The crowd instinctively parted—like prey sensing a predator they couldn’t name.

Eivii tilted her head, watching from behind her glass. He didn’t move like a hunter, though. Not really. He moved like something that didn’t care if it was hunted. Or maybe like someone who had no concept of shame, velvet benches, or bass drops.

She watched him lean on the seating like it might give him answers. Then—

"This is not a shrine."

He said it out loud.

Eivii snorted.
Not loud, but loud enough.
She stepped away from her column and crossed the floor toward him – each step controlled, heel-clicking, predatory in its own right. She stopped a few paces off, arms folded, brow arched.

"Depends on what you're worshiping," she said dryly. “Most of them seem pretty devout about bad decisions.”

Her gaze flicked up to the spear.
Then to his scars.
Then back to his eyes—unflinching.

"You lost, gravel-boots? Or just inspecting the local insanity for cultural preservation?"

Malrok Duskwell​

 

[Malrok Duskwell]

MALROK DUSKWELL
⟁Tip the Scales⟁

Her voice cut through the noise like a flint spark.

Malrok didn’t look at her right away. His gaze remained on the crowd, the flickering lights, the grinding of bodies against rhythm. All movement. All ritual. None of it made sense. The chaos was too calibrated. The perfume too strong. Like it was all grown in vats somewhere—manufactured joy poured into a soundstorm.

Eventually, he turned.

Chiss. Clean stance. Shoulders set like a duelist. Eyes don’t flinch.

Her words weren’t hostile. Not exactly. But they were close enough to sharpen the air between them.

"I'm preserving my sanity. What's left of it." His tone was flat, dust-dry. "Figured if this was a cult, someone would've tried to bless me or bleed me by now."

A beat.

He adjusted his weight slightly—instinctively—keeping one eye on the writhing dancers and another on her hands.

No weapon drawn. Yet.

"And I’m not lost."
A pause.
"...I just wasn’t aware this planet hosted localized seismic activity set to melody."

He looked down at the floor. At the bench again. Then at her shoes.

"You seem... acclimated." A sideways glance. Almost curious. "How long does that take?"

It was a genuine question. Not sarcastic. Not flirtatious.

Just a man surrounded by alien comforts, asking a local how long before the room stopped vibrating.

Eivii ​

 

[Eivii]

Outfit: Dress

The way he said it—“preserving my sanity”—made something twitch behind her eyes.

Eivii’s arms crossed more tightly as she leaned one shoulder against the mirrored pillar beside him, her reflection flickering in the glass like it couldn’t decide who it wanted to be.

"Blessings usually cost extra," she said, dry as rust. "Bleeding’s free, though. Stick around long enough, and someone’ll offer."

She should’ve stopped talking. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him more openly now. Burn scars, mismatched posture, war-scorched aura. Definitely not here for the drinks.

Neither was she.​

When he looked at her shoes, she smirked faintly. The heels had been a mistake. Everything tonight had been a mistake.

“Acclimated’s a strong word,” she replied. “You get used to the smell. It stops bothering you once something worse starts.”

Her gaze flicked away, briefly—like she’d revealed too much in too few words. She bit it back with another sip of her drink, then immediately regretted it.

The liquid turned heavy in her gut, and a mild wave of nausea rolled up her spine without warning.

Not now.​

She didn’t flinch, but her jaw set. For a few seconds, she just focused on her breathing. In through the nose. Out through clenched teeth. The throb behind her temples pulsed in time with the beat.

When she looked back at him, her expression hadn’t changed. But something behind her eyes had—just for a moment.

"Give it fifteen minutes," she murmured. "You’ll either find your rhythm... or you’ll start thinking the floor’s moving. At that point, doesn’t really matter if it is."

She handed him her drink, unable to stomach it further. She needed fresh air.

Malrok Duskwell​

 

[Malrok Duskwell]

MALROK DUSKWELL
⟁Tip the Scales⟁

He took the glass without comment.

Held it up to the light. Watched something inside swirl. Bubble. Refract neon like it was planning to escape. He didn’t drink it. Just observed it like a biotoxin sample.

Then he looked back at her.

Jaw tight. Breathing controlled. Eyes flicker-sharp.

Something had changed. He wasn’t sure what. But the stillness in her now wasn’t casual.

"That one’s not going to help," he said flatly, tilting the glass away from her. "You’ve got something turning over in your gut already. No point giving it allies."

No judgment. Just observation. Same way he might note a faulty coolant valve or blood pooling under armor.

He stepped once to the side—subtle—opening space near the pillar. Letting her lean, shift, breathe, exit if needed. He didn't move with grace. He moved with intention. Quiet accommodation without fanfare.

"Smell’s not the worst thing in here." He looked at the dancers. The lights. The sweat-slick joy. "It’s the... insistence."

A pause. Then, after a moment:

"You here alone?"

Not a threat. Not even suspicion. Just a flat check-in. The kind someone used in warzones, not nightclubs.

Like he’d accepted that everything here was dangerous.

Including her.

Eivii ​