Public Partying at Rodia - (Open to All)

[Lily Decoria]

Location: Rodia - Nightclub
Outfit: Party Dress
Tag: Open

It was Summer and time for night out in Lily's mind. She was determined to celebrate the warmer weather, the good fortunes that had been going on and just a way to blow off steam. Lily always enjoyed a night out and having drinks with friends so she invited her friends within the Jedi and those she had gotten to know during her travels, those she had gotten to know and stated that she was heading to Rodia for a night out of drinking, partying and celebrating her friendships with them all. She wasn't sure who would turn up, if there would be people already at the club that she knew there by chance or if she would make new friends. Lily was just excited to have another night out with a big group. Previously, she had been out with friends on Eshan to a couple clubs and enjoying the company there. It was exciting and fun but Lily had spent the time since then focusing on her training more, dealing with the trauma she had faced in her fights against the Sith and the pressures of being the perfect warrior.

That was mostly behind her now. Lily was able to move forward with life and she was excited to move forward.

Arriving on Rodia, Lily headed to the hotel she was staying at to change into her evening wearing and get herself looking perfect for the night out. Lily breathed in deeply, thankful to be here and to being able to enjoy a night with no responsibilities or commitments. It was something that showed how much she allowed herself into getting burned out, pushed beyond the healthy limitations that her mind and body could handle. This was a chance to demonstrate she was ready to move forward, that she was committed to being healthier and kinder to herself. It was a new Summer and therefore Lily was seeing this as a chance to blossoming as her new self. To be thankful to her friends for their support as well as showing them that she was back to being her usual self, the person who would be there for them.

Once changed, Lily headed out of the hotel room and arrived at the club, there was an excited smile on her lips as she had made efforts to ensure that everyone had a fantastic night. Approaching the bouncer, Lily held a confident look, "hey, Lily Decoria, I booked the VIP section of the club for the night. I have potential guests and friends attending, they will give my name to get access to the VIP section." Lily mentioned, knowing that having a more private area to meet, talk as well as the main dance floor. It was an ideal opportunity.

The bouncer nodded his head as he let Lily into the club, who headed right to the VIP bar for a drink. Her heart racing with the excitement of dancing and enjoying her night tonight.

Hey folks, this is meant to be a fun, casual thread. No violence or causing issues. Hopefully everyone has a fun time and a chilled time!

 

[Kaelon Virex]

Kael Virex didn’t know a soul on Rodia tonight.
And that was exactly why he was here.

Sometimes the best cure for restlessness wasn’t solitude—it was anonymity. No obligations, no galactic drama, no familiar faces asking about the past. Just music, shadows, and the neon-flicker glow of possibility. And Kael was chasing all of it, one drink at a time.

The speeder ride from his rented hangar loft to the club had been quick, winding through the muggy Rodian night. He hadn’t even planned to go out until he heard a pair of Zeltrons in the spaceport talking about some Jedi—or ex-Jedi, or someone—renting out the VIP section of the hottest club in this part of the city. Private bar, open invites, big energy.

He could smell the chaos already.

Kael arrived outside the club, eyeing the line with a slow grin, the bass thumping like a heartbeat beneath his feet. His look was unassuming but sharp: dark charcoal button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar open just enough to show the necklace he always wore—an old ring threaded through black cord, weathered and worn. He didn’t dress like he was trying to impress, but somehow, he always did.

He slid past the waiting crowd with a lazy confidence, coming to a halt at the bouncer’s station.

“Let me guess,” the Rodian muttered, unimpressed. “You’re not on the list.”

Kael gave a smooth shrug. “Wouldn’t dream of lying to you, chief. But maybe you could let me buy the lady who is on the list a drink?” He nodded toward the guest registry. “Name’s Lily Decoria, right? Booked the whole top level? I think she might like meeting someone unexpected tonight.”

The bouncer blinked.

Kael added with a smirk, “I’ll behave. Probably.”

A long stare later, the bouncer sighed and let him through. “She tosses you out, it’s not my fault.”

Inside the club, Kael took a second to absorb the atmosphere—pulsing lights, hypnotic beats, bodies in motion. He made his way to the stairs, fingers gliding along the rail as he climbed up to the VIP lounge. The energy shifted up here. It was calmer, cooler. Reserved but not boring. Just the right spot for someone who wanted to watch the party before diving into it.

That’s when he saw her.

Lily.

She stood with an effortless glow—part Jedi grace, part pure, untamed joy. There was a kind of peace in her posture, the kind you only see in someone finally breathing again after a long time underwater. Kael paused, studied her for a second.

Then walked straight to the bar and ordered two drinks.

He slid one across to her without waiting for permission.

"Figured I'd introduce myself before the music gets too loud," he said with a crooked smile. "Name’s Kael. Not on your guest list. Hope that’s not a dealbreaker."

A beat.

"You looked like someone who deserved to be approached with a good drink and no expectations. Am I off the mark?"

 

[Reina Daival]

Location: Rodia
Tags: Open
Clubbing outfit

It was nice to get away from the Temple. The peace and quiet. Being surrounded by lights, noises, people. It made Reina feel alive, even if she wasn't exactly in the VIP area. Maybe she'd make her way in there later, when there were more people she potentially knew. For now, she had claimed her grave for the tonight at the bar. Sure, she might have stopped drinking for answers, but that didn't mean she had stopped drinking full stop. It could be fun as she tapped the counter to get another drink. It was something fruity this time. Bubbly as well. She shrugged her shoulders, it wasn't like beggars could be choosers for their drinks.

With that, she turned her back to the counter and looked out towards the club, narrowing her eyes for a moment. The dancefloor was one place she was staying well away from. She valued her personal space too much to dance up amongst strangers that reeked of booze and sweat. That didn't stop her from watching a few of them dance as if they didn't have a single care in the world. They didn't care if they looked like an idiot, because they were having fun. It wasn't necessarily something she could fault for them if she was honest to herself. She couldn't dance like that. Move like that. She cared too much. She'd look like a right karking idiot dancing out there, especially with her prosthesis. Damned leg.

She just stood there, sipping away at her little drink. It didn't have the kick she was used to, but it tasted nice. A small little aftertaste of some fruit she didn't know the name of. Tonight seemed like it was going to be somewhat enjoyable, even if she didn't do much. She could just listen to the beat and people watch. It was time to see how many of her fellow Jedi let their inhibitions go when it came to partying. A small smirk flickering on her lips. That would be definitely fun to watch.​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Lily Decoria //: Kaelon Virex //: Reina Daival //:
//: Dress //:

Being in High Republic space wasn't the plan for the young Echani Princess. She had wanted to avoid the territory, but their ships needed repair, and she had to go against her better judgment and seek aid in the territory of a potential enemy. Thankfully, outside the Blackwall and in more dangerous territory, she still had access to Echani ship signatures. This allowed her to use the weight of her royalty origins to her advantage.

They were stuck on Rodia for a few days while the ships were being repaired. This gave Echani a moment to let her hair down and explore the planet and its offerings.

One day, Rodia would be in her Empire, and they would flourish under her heel, bringing a slight curl to her lips. The idea of her Empire only brought joy, but it would be a journey - one that she had time for. The longer it took, the more complete it would be, and her rivals and her problems would fade away into the past.

When she was looking into what to do, the nightclub caught her attention. It would be an excuse for her to wear some of the prettier outfits she had brought with her. Diplomacy had a dress code, dancing and nightlife did not. Quietly thinking, she decided it would be more fun than sitting in her hotel room brooding over the extensive meetings she would get into once they left High Republic space.

---

It didn't take long for the Echani princess to step through the VIP entrance of the club. Credits and reputation talked—and Quinn Varanin had plenty of both. Her face had graced enough fashion covers, and her name passed through enough aristocratic lips to make her presence felt when she arrived.

As she entered, the music pulsed through the floor, a deep beat that set the pace of the night. Heads turned. Whispers stirred beneath the rhythm, weaving around her like a current. Quinn walked with a confidence that echoed with each step. The crowd took notice, eyes tracking her movement like gravity had shifted in her favor.

She offered a cool and magnetic smile that was sharp enough to warn.

The club seemed to exhale and return to rhythm as she moved deeper inside, threading through the bodies that instinctively parted for her path. A few bold hands brushed near her as she passed, testing proximity. She let it happen. Let them dream.

But everyone knew—Quinn Varanin didn't chase attention. It chased her.

Knowing she was in Jedi space, Quinn's presence was dull, and the dark side non-existent. A skill she had mastered at a young age, hiding was key to her survival. While nowadays, she was strong enough to defend herself against anyone, it was still easier to blend in.

Leaning on the bar, she looked over at the options; everything was hard liquor or beer, which meant she couldn't get away with a glass of wine.

Biting her lip as she tried to decide, a drink appeared before her, causing the Princess to smile. The bartender, a handsome Echani with a jawline that seemed to be carved by the moon goddess herself, flashed the Princess a smile.

"On the house, my Princess," his voice velvet as he leaned on the bartop and pointed at the drink. "I remember from a royal party I worked at, Bespin Breeze, but with a little extra shuura since that's your favorite fruit."

Quinn was impressed. She remembered having to repeat the order a few times, but when an Echani stepped in, she never had to repeat herself again.

"Oh, I remember you." She smiled, took a sip of the drink, and sighed with satisfaction.

"Perfection as always." She nodded and slipped the man some credits as a tip.

He waved his hand, "Seeing that you're well, your highness was enough - just let me know when you want another one."

Quinn smiled and enjoyed the drink as she let her gaze wander to the nightclub patrons, glancing carefully at the red headed girl ( Reina Daival ) that was only a few people away from her.

 

[Reina Daival]

Location: Rodia
Tags: Quinn Varanin
Clubbing outfit

She was enjoying the vibes far more than she thought she would. It was loud. Chaotic. That's what appealed to Reina the most. She liked the chaos, not to make sense of it, but to enjoy the waves it caused. Sure, maybe that wasn't too Jedi-like...but Reina wasn't entirely peaceful herself. There was a maelstrom of emotions that always were going on inside of her. Sometimes they were positive, sometimes negative. Right now? It was leaning towards a positive storm. She wouldn't say that she was necessarily happy, but Reina felt good at least. Sipping away at her little fruity cocktail until she felt a small breeze against the back of her neck. A sign from the Spirit of the Ocean, or in other words, the Force. Her gaze glanced across the nightclub for a moment, before she settled on a somewhat familiar sight...At least Reina thought they were familiar at first.

It was only after taking a closer look in Quinn Varanin 's direction did Reina realise that this Echani had both eyes. So it wasn't Everest. That made sense. Everest wouldn't wear a dress like that. Not that it was a bad dress. Black just didn't necessarily suit Everest in Reina's eyes. Her eyes glanced at the Echani's glass for a moment, raising an eyebrow before looking back at them. They seemed like they were meant to be someone important. That was easily apparent in the way the bartender seemed to keep attention. It was only then that Reina realised the bartender was also an Echani...Strange. At least she looked...nice. Well, better than nice but Reina didn't have the words for that as her eyes finally settled on Quinn's...

And she smiled in her direction, lifting her hand up in a small wave. She didn't know who they were, but it would be rude not to acknowledge them right? Of course, she was oblivious to any importance that Quinn might have had. Reina wasn't good at taking note of people who had high standing. You could have the Chancellor of the Alliance in front of her, and Reina still wouldn't have recognised them.

There was a part of her debating whether or not she should head over to talk to the stranger...but instead she turned her attention over towards the bartender to get their attention, before pointing at the little fruity drink in her hand, as if asking for another one. She'd cup the drink carefully in her spare hand and made her way over towards Quinn, carefully holding the drink out to her.

"Hey. Thought I should come over. Here. It's pretty nice."

She gently rested the glass on the counter in case Quinn didn't take it before looking out amongst the club once more, leaning her elbows against the counter.

"Nice dress by the way. It goes with your hair. A whole...dark and light element to it all."

Compliments weren't Reina's strong suit. It was easy enough to say "Oh, you look nice" but it was what you said afterwards that Reina always struggled with.

"I'm Reina."

A part of her did feel self conscious talking to a stranger. Reina didn't feel like she came off as super approachable. With the various small scars along her face and her metal leg, she felt like she came off as...broken. It didn't help that she wasn't exactly stood even because of the difference in length between her prosthesis and regular leg.​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Location: Club, Rodia
Wearing: Dress + Gloves
Tag: Jacen Breska Quinn Varanin Reina Daival

The mission had been a success.

Darth Anathemous and TK-710 had retrieved a decidedly uncooperative "asset" through which she once spied on former Rimward Trade League space on behalf of the Second Legion.

Extracting him had been risky as it was time consuming, and now they needed an alibi for the rest of the evening.

The young Darth had specifically requested TK-710, or "Jacen" as she'd since learned, for his experience fighting everything from rogue droids to starweirds. Now he deserved a night off much as any sith lord.

The club easily solved both issues, and getting in had been much easier than their adventure. Outside the blackwall she was still "Kaila Irons", owner of the Red Ronin Clubhouse resort in Canto Bight, and now Jacen was the businesswoman's plus one, or perhaps even bodyguard, should the night become... interesting.

She'd even gotten dressed up for the occasion, wearing a black dress of fine albeit little material, highlighting the warrior's most amazonian features whilst preserving the grace needed to sell the 'moody rich girl' persona she'd cultivated outside the order. It was enough to earn her a few glances as the pair entered, but not so extravagant as to grab too much attention.

"So... do you often go clubbing while on leave or is this your first time?"

She asked, gesturing vaguely with a hand that was always gloved, no matter where nor when the soldiers met her.

Despite the pleasantries however, those golden eyes seemed to dart ever vigilantly as they walked to the sound of clicking heels.

Her gaze began to follow the whispers and subtle gestures, right towards the bar.

​

 

[Eivii]

Outfit: Dress

The club was too warm.
Or maybe that was just her.

Eivii leaned against a column with a half-finished drink sweating in her hand and a pulse behind her eyes that refused to ease up. The beat was loud enough to be a weapon. Her stomach had twisted twice already, and the scent of Rodian shellfruit on someone’s breath nearly made her gag.

She hadn’t eaten much today. That was probably it. Probably.

She told herself this wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t weakness. It definitely wasn’t jealousy. It was just another night to disappear into the noise—one last time—before whatever this was in her body changed everything.

Her dress clung tighter than she remembered. Her balance felt a half-step off. She ignored it. She'd ignored worse.

From her vantage point, she could see the dancefloor: flailing silhouettes, glimmering skin, the kind of laughter that didn't belong to people like her. She wasn’t made for light. She was the shadow in the booth. The mistake in someone else’s bed. The memory you lie about later.

But Nos hadn’t lied.​

He’d kept letting her in.​

Even now.​

Especially now.​

She swallowed hard. That ache in her ribs again. Everyone here reminded her of something. Of Someone. Of how small she’d felt watching from the mezzanine, pretending not to watch at all.

She hated this place.
She came here anyway.
She shouldn't be drinking.

Someone bumped her shoulder. She didn’t move. Just slid her eyes toward them—slow, deliberate, daring.

@Open​

 

[CT-312]

//: Quinn Varanin | OPEN //:
//: Nightclub, Rodia //:
//: Attire //::
​

CT-312 was not one for going out.

Even during her rare shore leave, she typically kept to herself. Small, quiet spaces where she could observe, think, and not feel like a target standing in the open. But this wasn’t shore leave. This was High Republic space. A club…. Loud. Chaotic. Unfamiliar.

She was here on duty.

Her brow furrowed slightly, eyes scanning the club as soon they entered. Tracking exits, blind spots, and clusters of people who looked like they were trying too hard to blend in. CT-312 eyes swept over the ceiling fixtures, the layout of the upper balconies. Making mental notes of which tables had line-of-sight to the VIP lounge. It was a habit at this point. Training. Survival.

The Princess, Quinn, had her dress up for this occasion. Insisting was more like it. Ever since the Art Gallery on Nar Shaddaa, there had apparently been some silent campaign to civilize the DeathDrop’s attire. Apparently, camouflage was not fitting for high society.

Instead, CT-312 now stood in an outfit that felt like a foreign skin. Black leather jacket worn open over a crisp white button-up that was tucked in with a slim black tie. A belt securing dark slacks that fit her form well enough to be presentable without sacrificing movement. Her thick braid rested over one shoulder. Neat, but functional. And of course, CT-312 told the Princess the one compromise she wouldn’t surrender: concealment. Wearing a black mask-scarf, still covering the lower half of her face. Leaving only her sharp blue eyes that rarely blinked, exposed.

It was all far more dressed up than she ever cared to be. CT-312 felt more exposed, not less.

When the Princess slipped off towards the bar, CT-312 took a moment before following. Keeping a tactful distance. Close enough to intervene, but far enough to allow the Princess her space. The Princess blended into these sorts of environments effortlessly. She had a natural gift for it. CT-312’s role was much simpler. Her job was to watch for the ones who tried to get uncomfortably too close. Keeping an occasional eye on the Princess’s expressions for any flicker of disapproval or discomfort.

Once she was sure the Princess was occupied, CT-312 let out a low breath. Her discomfort rising as the pulsing music thudded through her chest. Her hand reached up, tugging at her tie. Loosening it enough to finally get some air. Unfastening the top two buttons of the shirt. ‘Better.’ Slightly. CT-312 resisted the urge to pull the scarf up higher.

She could feel the weight of people around her. Dancing, laughing, drinking, brushing past one another with barely any regard for personal space. This whole place felt like a swirling current she was being forced to stand against. CT-312 clicked her tongue softly. Tsk. A small exhale of mild irritation that was barely audible beneath the thrum of the music. ‘This is going to be a long night…’ Her eyes kept moving. Constantly scanning and watching.

This time her gaze landed on movement approaching the Princess. A woman. Young, red hair, prosthetic leg. A small wave towards the Princess, then a polite offer of a drink. ‘Non-hostile.’ No sudden aggressive movements. Just social. Keeping watch of both body languages. CT-312 took in the height, build, and possible concealed weapon points. If things went sideways, she was already running through response options. Not that she would need to. Probably.

CT-312 sighed quietly under her breath.

Movement from her peripherals caught her attention, a subtle ripple along the crowd’s edge. Two more individuals entered. ‘Ah.’ Faces she recognized. Darth Anathemous and TK-710. She knew that stance anywhere. Now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure TK-710 had ever seen her out of uniform. Helmet always on. Same with the Sith Order. Even the Princess hadn’t seen her full face yet. Would he recognize her? ‘This would be entertaining’. A small amused smirk tugged beneath the scarf.

With that, she returned to her post. Eyes on the Princess and everything else.

 

[Jacen Breska]

RODIA NIGHTS ​

WEARING:: This
EQUIPMENT: HG-88 Hand Cannon
LOCATION: :: Rodia Nightclub ::
TAG: Darth Anathemous

Jacen could count on one hand the amount of times he'd been outside the Blackwall. The rest of the galaxy outside Sith space might as well have been another realm of existence to him, so any chance that presented itself for him to explore more of the greater Galaxy he jumped on as quick as possible. When Lord Anathemous' request came down the line, it was no question that Jacen'd accept. Any Sith Lord got what they wanted, true, but at the very least Anathemous was one Jacen trusted. He knew she wouldn't kill him. Not for nothing, at least, which was something that gave him some measure of comfort.

It took more then a few moments for Jacen to acclimate to Lord Ana-...Kaila's appearance outside of her Armor or official Sith uniform. She was absolutely stunning to him. It took Jacen internally reminding himself that not only could this person kill him with her mind, but she very well could have killed him with her hands as well. It took his appreciation of her to an entirely different level, someone who trained her physical self as much as her mental self.

More than once he found himself subconsciously admiring her and had to adjust his gaze.

For himself, any measure of skin showing felt as if he was exposed. So even when told to relax, Jacen appreciated his black clothing with long sleeves. A simple black leather Jacket and black shirt with some red design he didn't recognize on the front. He looked, or tried to look, positively civilian aside from his hand cannon he kept concealed under his shirt. Simply attending his friend, having a good night, and then quick as they could scampering back beyond the Blackwall once it was convenient to do so. For now, however, he tried to relax and enjoy his night. As they entered the club, Jacen's eyes immediately scanned the occupants, unable to shake the urge to identify any possible threats.

Maybe he needed this night off more then he thought.

"Huh?" He responded, blinking twice in confusion before looking at her, "What? Oh. Uh...No. Never gone to the club before," he looked around, then back at her and smiled, "Some bars but nothing so..." he looked around, feeling the vibe in the room before looking back at Kaila, "energetic?"

Jacen took a few steps forward, feeling out the space and turned to face Kaila again, "What about you, Kaila?" Even as he said the name, it felt out of place in his mouth. It felt like an egregious sin had been committed, and some part inside of him flinched when he said it. Like he expected someone to rap him on the head for it, like he had said a swear word. Pushing that feeling down, he continued speaking, "Do you often come out to the clubs when you're not...doing what you do?"

He did wonder what those with power did during their off time. When you could conceivably have whatever you want whenever you wanted it, what did drive look like? What drove a person who already held so much? What did they do for fun, what did 'fun' even mean? What was luxury, when nothing was out of reach? That must have been the life. The struggle for it all, for every fleeting moment of pleasure and happiness that made him so very Human felt so very overrated by comparison.

A small part of Jacen wondered what he would give to be able to do what Kaila could.

But relaxing was the mission tonight, not this hypothetical. Shore leave outside the Blackwall. If only every Soldier could be so lucky. And so he waited patiently for Kaila's answer.

​

 

[Colette]

OPEN TO ANYONE

She had dressed up somewhat for today. No knife, no canteen, no anything. Much like last time that Colette had been at an event such as this she felt uneasy, but unlike that time there was something in the air tonight that tickled like little needles against her senses. It was an uneasiness that something was wrong when she had no real reason to believe such was the case at all like a phantom sickness of the mind. For all intents and purposes she had come here tonight for the sake of fun, but it would seem the force had other plans.

Staring from across the room to Reina was her master — no, teacher — with eyes set on her like a hawk observing its prey. Or were they? The longer one would look, the more clear it got that Colette was in fact not looking at her pupil as much as the person that she was talking to.

She had the entire case board memorized by this point. Princess of Eshan, Quinn Varanin . Daughter of Ashin and Spencer Varanin. Assumedly a half-breed Echani given the eyes, but that was just an assumption at this point. Average height, average build albeit somewhat more slender than what Colette herself had remembered or even come to expect of an Echani. She was immensely powerful in the force and yet seemingly not even present today.

Although in the end it was perhaps more accurate to say that she was a formidable foe, and the one that had nearly seen Colette dead on Woostri.

The torrential waves of the dancing crowd jumped up and down and amidst it stood one Colette Noble like a solitary rock in a vast ocean. One moment she was there and the next she was not. While she would love to make a scene today and enact some sort of arrest, now was just not the time. She swept into the crowd and then up to the bar a good distance away from the conversation.

There were no words, just a finger pointed at some sort of bottle and then an exchange of money. The less Colette had to speak right now, the better this whole night would be. Was she worried for her apprentice? A little. Did she know it wasn't necessary? Yeah.

Quinn was bound by the same rules as Colette tonight. No fights, no ruckus, just a good time and drinks. She could find comfort in that.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Party time."

Tag - OPEN


The doors didn't open so much as yield.

A sudden gust of heat and bass-laced laughter erupted as a party of six strode into the club—not like patrons, but like a warband returning to civilization after razing a continent. The lights, strobes, and shifting music all took a moment to recalibrate around them, and a subtle hush rolled across the nearest section of the crowd. Not out of recognition, but out of something else—a ripple in the atmosphere. A disturbance in the Force, or perhaps in the mood.

At the head of the pack was a woman who didn't walk so much as glide, like a blade drawn from a sheath by the will of war itself.

Serina Calis.

Tyrant's Embrace moved with her, articulated joints whispering beneath a cloak of infernal silk and engineered terror. The six glowing violet eyes in her helm scanned the room like predator optics, calculating, mocking. Everything about her was wrong for a club and exactly right for a scene. It was as if someone had forged a war goddess in obsidian, then asked her to dance.

And behind her came the mercs.

Human. Loud. Drunk. Deadly.

Veterans of the campaign that had left part of Saijo smoking and the rest… howling, now reliving those experiences in a night of drunken stupor.

Each one was a cliché in boots. Tank-top musclehead with an eye scar and bandolier? Check. Bald thug with a vibro-axe and a cybernetic jaw? Check. One lean-eyed sniper still wearing his camouflage pants like they were formalwear? Absolutely. A stocky woman with grenade earrings and a whiskey bottle hanging from her belt like a religious icon? Naturally.

And they were already laughing.

"—AND THEN," bellowed Kellor, the brawler with a voice like a freighter engine, "I TURNED 'ROUND, AND THE THING'S STILL CRAWLING TOWARD ME. No legs, just guts. All teeth. Like my second wife!"

The whole group erupted into raucous laughter. Serina didn't even flinch. She simply angled her head with mechanical grace, as if approving the comparison between Sithspawn and matrimony.

"You still kept the skull, right?" smirked Vess, the lean-eyed sniper, who had somehow already lit a deathstick despite the club's 'no fire' ordinance. "Tell me you kept the skull."

"Nah," Kellor shrugged. "Gave it to the kid. Birthday present."

That got more laughter. Even Serina's voice emerged—rich, sinuous, and devastatingly amused through her mask's vox, a cold sensuality wrapped in static:
"We did turn that family picnic into a munitions depot, after all."

"Oh, please," barked Jexi, the grenade-earringed demolitions expert, dropping onto one of the VIP corner couches with enough force to make the drinks on the nearby table jump. "The real highlight was when that Sithspawn with the scorpion tail impaled three of you bantha-fodder before Serina turned it into modern art with that cannon."

"Four of us," corrected Brenn, the quiet one. "I was number four."

"Sorry babe, didn't count you because you still had a heartbeat," Jexi quipped.

The bouncer glanced over at the group, hesitated, and wisely decided the laws of inertia—and probable war crimes—meant they weren't to be disturbed. They had claimed the rear corner like it was territory, and the waitstaff instinctively avoided eye contact.

The table was now strewn with half-poured drinks, someone had ordered a roast shaak for the center platter (with one arm still attached for show), and the mercs were already trading tall tales like soldiers drunk on victory and vice.

"The worst was the Fiend," drawled Vess, already slouched with one leg draped over the armrest. "Thing had two heads and smelled like death."

"You mean the one that puked acid?"

"No, the one that mimicked voices. Sounded just like Serina. Kept yelling 'Forward!' while chewing through the front line. I stabbed Gannor by mistake!"

"You stabbed Gannor on purpose," Serina said mildly.

"Oh yeah," Vess nodded with a grin. "That too."

Serina stood beside the couch, arms crossed loosely, glowing gaze scanning the dancefloor with detached curiosity, like she were watching something mildly amusing through a vivisection lens. But she was relaxed. As relaxed as a snake might be while sunbathing before the next kill.

The woman never removed her helm. Tyrant's Embrace was not something you shed—it wore you, as much as you wore it.

"You know," Serina mused aloud, her voice cutting cleanly through the bass-heavy club beat, "for all their unnatural horror, the Sithspawn on Saijo had one redeeming feature."

The group turned toward her, expectant.

She tilted her head slightly, allowing the glow of her helm's eyes to dance across their eager faces.

"They didn't scream quite as much as the Sith who made them."

Silence—then raucous, vile, absolutely wicked laughter.

Jexi pounded the table. "Karking stars, I still have a chunk of that alchemist's femur in my pack!"

"It made a good toothpick," Kellor belched.

"Tell that to the quatermaster last week," Jexi grinned, "nearly passed out when I cleaned my nails with it."

"Cheers," Serina said with mock grandeur, lifting a glass of something blue and probably banned in three systems, "to old Sith, dead monsters, and our continued sins."

They toasted with a chorus of "To sins!" and one muffled "To the bar's therapy bill!"

They were utterly, inescapably loud. They made no effort to integrate with the rest of the club. It wasn't that they didn't belong—it was that the club belonged to them now, whether anyone liked it or not. Like some kind of warpath gravity well, they drew curious glances, occasional horror, and the sharp edge of awe from anyone who got too close.

But no one dared interrupt them.

Except, maybe, the music—until Vess threw a credit chip at the DJ booth and yelled, "Less romance, more murder ballads!"

The music changed two tracks later.

The mercs went back to recounting horror stories with joy that bordered on lunacy, survivors of a campaign that had no medals, only nightmares, and who laughed at them anyway. The very idea of trauma was a joke to them, something to toast.

And Serina?

Serina watched it all like a dark queen seated at a banquet of madness.

Her posture was perfect. Her humor cutting. Her presence magnetic.

But behind the mask—beneath the ridged exosculpt of Tyrant's Embrace, beneath the violet gaze that never blinked—there was something hollow. Not broken. No, she would never allow that. But empty in the way a battlefield is after the smoke clears and the dead have stopped twitching. In the way a victory feels when no one is left to celebrate it with you, except the monsters who helped you win.

This—this chaos, this awful joy, this revelry in ruin?

This was the closest she came to peace.

Because she didn't do peace. She didn't have serenity. That was stolen from her long ago—scraped out of her by the Jedi, by betrayal, by power's endless appetite. All that remained was domination. Corruption. Control. And so she filled the void with sharper things—iron discipline, bladed elegance, wine-dark laughter in rooms filled with violence. She surrounded herself with killers who adored her not for kindness, but for clarity. Men and women who understood, in their own broken way, that the galaxy had no gods, no justice—only those cunning and cruel enough to write their own names into myth with someone else's blood.

She let them laugh. Let them boast and drink and sprawl across velvet couches like they hadn't bled out on cold steel weeks ago. Let them call her Serina, like they forgot who she truly was in the armor.

Because they were hers. Because they were damned, and that made them family in a way the galaxy could never understand.

But she did not laugh with them.

She spoke. She performed. She played the queen. But the joy never reached the core. It couldn't. There was no core anymore.

Only the soft, pulsing light of that violet node in her sternum—beating like a heart that had long since forgotten why it needed to.

Behind the helm, her eyes were tired.

The club's music swelled again—some anthem of lust and rhythm—and around her, the mercs roared and toasted and re-lived their sins with the vicious glee of soldiers too far gone to mourn. But Serina's gaze drifted above it all. Toward the lights. Toward the ceilings. Toward stars she couldn't see anymore.

This moment was hers, yes.

But the tragedy of it—the part no one would ever speak aloud—was that this, this foul and gleeful night of murder-memories and mercenary bonding…

…was the closest thing she had left to home.

 

[Mauve du Vain]

Attire​

The strobing lights. The smell of alcohol seeping through pores and mixing with perfume. The overpowering bass of the music. They all combined in an assault on the senses.

Mauve seemed to hardly care less. She sat in a lounge by herself, a deathstick in one hand and a drink on the table in front of her. A datapad sat in her lap, but she had not looked at it. Not since she pushed a request to U40a - hoping the interloping disco ball would put on a more entertaining tune.

And not since she felt rather than saw Quinn Varanin .

Smoothing over a tangle of emotions with a heavy-pour drink and a sip of the deathstick, her gaze wandered to the lounge directly across from her.

A rowdy bunch gathered there. Some sort of war mercenaries by the look of them. Boisterous and defiant of death and getting quite drunk. They did not interest her. The one in the helmet though...

But behind the mask—beneath the ridged exosculpt of Tyrant's Embrace, beneath the violet gaze that never blinked—there was something hollow. Not broken. No, she would never allow that. But empty in the way a battlefield is after the smoke clears and the dead have stopped twitching. In the way a victory feels when no one is left to celebrate it with you, except the monsters who helped you win.

Mauve could feel that distant stare. That hollow ache. A deeper and more consonant emotion than the lust and abandon seeping through the press of bodies on the dance floor.

The strength of those emotions drew Mauve's attention. Fixed it. And she stared, openly, at Darth Virelia . Soft lilac eyes never leaving the armored figure as Mauve took another drag on her deathstick.

 

[U40a]

Not since she pushed a request to U40a U40a - hoping the interloping disco ball would put on a more entertaining tune.

The nightclub's DJ system put up stern resistance, but Black Sun triumphed. U40a put on the requested track without reviewing it due to time — that had taken a while and he had quantitative service standards to meet — and also the algorithmic weighting associated with certain elements of Mauve.

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Location: Club, Rodia
Wearing: Dress + Gloves
Tag: Jacen Breska
Nearby: Quinn Varanin CT-312 Colette Reina Daival

Kaila smiled.

Just a little curl in the corner of her lip. Not so subdued as her smile often became in her public life, but neither overtly... human. She could tell that Jacen was similarly focused on threat assessment as herself.

On one hand she appreciated professionalism, on the other hand it reminded her this wasn't just free time.

"What about you, Kaila? Do you often come out to the clubs when you're not...doing what you do?"

"Only when I was a 'student'. I hardly have the time now." she admitted, shrugging her broad shoulders.

By student of course she meant Sith Apprentice.

"My work involved lots of backroom deals in places like these. Less freedom, but there was an air of adventure to it."

"Things were... simpler, back then. Low stakes."

The young Darth paused a moment, trying to recall what she did for fun these days.

"Now I read mostly. Well, some gardening too." she chuckled nervously.

It felt strange to say this as a Sith. In fact she wondered if the others would look down on her for choosing such a peaceful hobby. Then again, as a non-Sith, Jacen might be the only person she could tell outside her little circle.

And speak of the devil, her scan of the crowd revealed a part of that circle.

She stopped before ever reaching her seat, catching a glimpse of Quinn Varanin in the neon light.

Instinctually, she rubbed her leather-clad fingers, tracing the ring beneath her glove. Her paramour, her Echani Silver, was right there, tailed of course by a masked CT-312 whom she did not recognize without her signature camouflaged helm. Kaila always found it humorous that the princess traveled with security though she had the power to overwhelm just about any foe. And yet there were always those duty bound or obligated by heart to protect her, including herself.

Kaila could not help smiling, more naturally than before.

"There," she jut her chin toward the ashen haired woman "sitting at the bar."

"Think we should say hello?"

​

 

[Lily Decoria]

​

Location: Rodia - Nightclub
Outfit: Party Dress
Tag: Kaelon Virex | Quinn Varanin | Colette

As Lily ordered a drink for herself, ready to set up a tab for her group so that her friends did not worry about the cost of the drinks for the night, a glass slid her way. Lily took a moment to look at the mysterious drink and then slowly looking over to the person bold enough to offer her a random drink without asking. It was a move that made Lily cautiously look to the bartender, sharing a look of the drink being safe before she paid attention to the stranger who invited himself to where she was hosting her party.

"Bold of you to come here and introduce yourself as someone who should not be here then." Lily stated in a cool tone, attempting to assess what she was making of the guy. It was not unusual for her to find some attention whenever she was at a club but she always tried to assess whether this was an opportunity that she would be interested in or attempt to figure out her escape plan. "Well, Kael, depends on what you consider to be a good drink. I have a very particular palate."

Before more of a conversation could be had, Lily's ears pricked as she heard the name Quinn Varanin. Not a name that would be randomly stated in a club and sure enough, a little looking around and Lily spotted the Echani princess. She cursed under her breath as she feared that Colette might end up here and seeing Quinn would drop the no fighting rules to settle the score. Her friend had been stubborn when they spoke last so Lily prayed that Colette either did not show since club scenes were not her vibe or did not spot Quinn.

Not that the Force was going to be on her side.

She could sense her friend was here as well. "Well, Kael, my friends are starting to arrive so I should go greet them, but hopefully, you find a way to enjoy yourself." Lily stated, turning away and moving gracefully through the crowd to Colette. Hoping to encourage no scene being started as well as getting the chance to catch up with Colette since their previous meeting.

Hopefully the guy who brought the drink for her did not mind her walking away, but some things were crucial in her trying to deescalate.

 

[Kaelon Virex]

Kael watched the drink hover in front of her untouched, noting the way her sharp eyes slid to the bartender with subtle precision. A pro move—calculated, cautious. He respected it. Jedi instincts, no doubt. That cool tone she delivered next didn't sting so much as intrigue him.

"Bold of you to come here and introduce yourself as someone who should not be here then."

Kael's lips curved into a slow, unapologetic smirk.
"Bold's kind of my default setting," he replied, voice casual, relaxed. "But I figured if I was going to crash a party, I might as well be honest about it."


When she mentioned her particular palate, he gave a mock wince and raised his glass.
"Oof. That bad, huh? I was hoping to score at least a six out of ten with that pick. Should've gone with the local spice-bloom tonic. Next time, I'll ask first."


He was leaning just slightly on the bar when he noticed the shift in her focus—eyes narrowing, attention veering elsewhere. He didn't know the name "Quinn Varanin," but he knew what a red flag in a room looked like. And he knew what it meant when someone like Lily cursed under her breath and started scanning the crowd like she was preparing to jump into a battlefield in heels.


Another presence had just arrived.
Kael didn't need the Force to feel the tension slither in.

"Well, Kael, my friends are starting to arrive so I should go greet them, but hopefully, you find a way to enjoy yourself."

He offered a hand-over-heart gesture and stepped back with a disarming smile.
"Of course. Duty calls. But I'll be around. Probably failing spectacularly at not getting into trouble."


As Lily moved away—graceful, purposeful—Kael didn't stare after her like some lovesick fool. He simply chuckled to himself and turned back to the bar long enough to finish his own drink in a clean sweep.


"Figures," he chuckled. "First woman I meet tonight, and she walks off to prevent an interstellar diplomatic incident."

---

He eased his way through the edge of the VIP crowd, not aiming to interrupt Lily's night or barge in where he wasn't wanted. Instead, Kael found an open lounge couch tucked beneath a curved window that looked out over the glittering lights of the lower city. It was quieter here, insulated from the pulse of the dancefloor.

He sank into the plush cushions, unhooked a slim datapad from his inner jacket pocket, and thumbed it to life. His expression softened a notch, fingers skimming the interface as a glowing star map appeared, data entries scrolling in muted blue.


::VIREX NAVLOG - LOCAL SCANS::

• Illegal speeder racing circuit (Upper Portside, Rodia Sector Nine)
• Rumored Black Sun front (spice bar, false façade: closed)
• Jedi satellite outpost registry (last ping: 3 days ago)
• Independent cargo hauler needing security (credits: low, risk: moderate)
• Local museum accepting donations… or "donations"

Kael arched a brow and muttered under his breath,
"Always the same—half the galaxy wants to kill me, the other half wants cheap labor."


He leaned back, letting the cool fabric of the couch press into his shoulders as he tapped a few entries for later, letting the music filter in again. He wasn't here to cause chaos. But he wasn't about to let the night waste away, either.

for now, Kael Virex was content being the stranger in the corner—watching, listening, and waiting for the night to unfold.

Tag: Lily Decoria

Tag: Open

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Party time."

Tag - Mauve du Vain


Serina did not move right away.

She didn't need to. Not when the violet glow of her gaze had already met the lilac of hers. Not when the connection—unspoken, taut as a wire between blades—had already sunk its teeth into the atmosphere between them.

The warband still roared around her. Jexi was halfway through an obscene story involving a Sithspawn, a repulsorlift, and a bacta tank. The others were howling, flushed with alcohol and arrogance. But Serina… Serina had stopped listening.

She turned her helm, slow and predatory, toward the lounge across the way. Toward the woman cloaked in scent and shadow and disdain. Toward Mauve.

Those soft lilac eyes watched her openly. Unashamed. Unafraid.

Curious.

Ah. That was always how it started.

Serina's stance shifted—so subtle. So impossibly smooth. The ripple of it went down her armor like a serpentine wave of intent. Her shoulders squared by a fraction. Her head tilted. The ambient light from her six insectile lenses caught on Mauve's features, refracted like moonlight over still water.

And then, with the inevitability of night falling, she moved.

She walked with grace engineered for battlefields and ballrooms alike—every step a deliberate trespass into space not yet surrendered. Tyrant's Embrace whispered and sang around her, metal and myth flowing as if the armor itself exhaled hunger. She passed through the crowd without asking. People moved. They always did. Not because of who she was—but because of what she had become.

She approached the lounge like a storm dressed in art.

Then she stopped. Close.

Not too close. Not yet.

"Careful," came the voice, curling from behind the mirrored helm like forbidden velvet. Sultry, calm, and threaded through with amusement and threat. "You stare like you're hoping to see something no one else has."

There was no courtesy in the tone. No warmth. But it wasn't cold either—it was hot, dangerous, and crackling with interest. An electric current through the air between them.

"And yet here you sit," Serina went on, "alone with your vices and your silence, as if the galaxy hasn't noticed you yet."

She let that hang, like perfume and blood in the air.

A single claw-tipped hand reached out—not to touch Mauve, but to take the drink from in front of her. Serina lifted it with the elegance of a practiced thief and brought it to her mask. The plating at the front of her helm shifted with a faint hiss, revealing the briefest glimpse of lips painted in something between dusk and defiance.

She took a sip. Unapologetic.

"Too sweet," she murmured, setting it back down with the same practiced grace, violet optics flaring. "But then… I don't imagine you ordered it for anyone but yourself."

There was a pause.

She examined Mauve now—truly looked.

Predator to prey.

Then Serina sat.

No invitation. No request.

She folded into the lounge across from Mauve like she belonged there, like the velvet beneath her was a throne and the club around them a court she was preparing to rule. The armor didn't creak or shift—it adapted to her posture, coils of synthcloth cape unfurling like a carnivorous flower at rest.

One hand—razored, poised—tapped lightly against the table between them.

"Now," she said, voice dropping to a confidential purr, "why don't you tell me a name, and what's behind those pretty eyes of yours, hm? And if you lie, darling…"

Her helm tilted again, almost affectionately.

"…I'll know. I always know."

She didn't smile.

She never needed to.

 

[Mauve du Vain]

The claws. The armor. Not just the implements of death, but the way the warrior moved, all coiled sinew and tensed muscle. The lingering promise of violence. So fitting on the battlefield, Mauve imagined, and yet so utterly out of place in amid the night life.

"Now," she said, voice dropping to a confidential purr, "why don't you tell me a name, and what's behind those pretty eyes of yours, hm? And if you lie, darling…"

Her helm tilted again, almost affectionately.

"…I'll know. I always know."

A long drag on the deathstick. Silence. Plum-dark lips a delicate "oh" around issuing fumes that curled up into the middle-distance between them. Mauve's languid stare cut through the fumes, drinking in the warrior.

"And, as a rule, I don't give my name out to faceless helmets, darling," her words a syrupy drip amid the thudding of the music... or the oozing of venom.

The warrior was so confident in her strength. Reeking of desire for an adrenal surge. Action. Violence. Lust. Anything, so long as it killed the boredom.

So long as it distracted from the persistent, hollow ache.

Mauve felt as though she stared into an emotional mirror, but where the warrior was the prowling feline, stalking down her next meal... Mauve was an ambush predator.

Laying in wait.

After all, who had come to who?

"Besides, my name might be too sweet on your lips. I expect you'll be wanting something else," Mauve looked past the warrior, toward the boisterous table she came from, filled with other, less interesting brutes. "Something smoky with a kick. Is that your vice of choice or..." the gaze tracked back and lingered, "...is there more behind that helmet?"

Darth Virelia

 

[Colette]

Lily Decoria

That bottle lingered in her hands, untouched for but a moment before she deposited a decent part of its contents down her throat with a determined chug. She still had no idea what it was that she had ordered but whatever it was, it was doing its job well. It tasted of grain — wheat, rye, barley — yet burned half as strong as the 'shine from back home. Repackaged grog maybe? Some kind of unholy amalgamation only the wicked would think of?

Who cared? She could detox it at worst, and live just a little more in the moment at best. Alcohol had a simple purpose and she would use it as well as she could tonight within the confines of her better judgment and responsibility to those around her.

Which, given who was on the approach, she wasn't alone with thinking of. Colette was mid-sip by the time her Echani friend approached, her eye peeking to the side as she stepped up next to her.

"Come to check up on your friend?" She asked with a slight grin as her eyes wandered over towards Reina and Quinn. "Or are you here to make sure I'm not doing anything stupid?"

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Party time."

Tag - Mauve du Vain


Serina hadn't planned on noticing anyone tonight. Not really. The club was just a proving ground for intoxicated denial—a place to let her mercenaries dissolve into laughter and old stories, while she watched from behind the cold curve of her mask, removed from the spectacle. This kind of night was meant for appearances: a distraction, a mirage of normalcy. She didn't need pleasure; she weaponized it. Didn't crave intimacy; she corrupted it. And when the drinks were gone and the lights came up, nothing ever followed her out except silence. That was the intention.

But then Mauve had stared at her.

Not with fear. Not with awe. With recognition—and worse, with understanding. Like she knew what it was to hide behind beautiful armor, to poison herself with elegance just to make the ache tolerable. That stare had not been an invitation. It had been a challenge. And Serina Calis did not ignore challenges. She consumed them. Whatever game the woman in the lounge thought she was playing, Serina intended to turn it inside out—and if there was rot beneath that lavender gaze, she would taste it, claim it, and leave Mauve wondering whether she'd been devoured or adored.

The music shifted, a slower rhythm threading between pulses of synthetic bass and flashing violet light. It was as if the club sensed the tension now coalescing in the lounge—like it too wanted to listen.

Serina didn't move for a long moment.

Not a twitch. Not a gesture. Just stillness—that kind of stillness. The kind predators wear when they've found something worthy of study, not slaughter.

Mauve's words had teeth. Pretty, curved ones.

Serina liked that.

The six violet eyes of her helm flickered softly in sequence, like distant stars forming a pattern only she could see. Beneath the mask, the slight part of her lips might've passed for amusement, but there was no mirth in it. Only approval—that cold, assessing kind. The kind that made promises you shouldn't want kept.

The armor whispered as she leaned forward.

It wasn't a lean of relaxation.

It was pressure.

Space surrendered around her like fabric pulled tight across flesh. Her gloved hands, elegant and clawed, folded atop one another on the table in front of her. Every movement exact. Every angle calculated. If Mauve was an ambush predator, then Serina was something worse—a thing that lured hunters into misty woods just to remind them of the corruptive power of nature.

"Names are sweet lies we wrap around our sharper truths," Serina said at last, voice rolling out like velvet-wrapped steel. "But I've never needed names to taste someone's secrets. You bleed too elegantly to be a liar, Mauve. So don't pretend your caution is mystery."

Her tone was slow. Measured. Like molten glass being poured into a mold shaped like desire and doom.

"You already gave me what I needed."

A beat.

The six eyes of her mask glowed faintly brighter as she continued, voice slipping into something even lower, darker:

"The way you watched me. The way you waited for me. The way you curl your voice like smoke around a dagger and pretend the blade's meant for me when it's still warming in your own ribs."

Serina tilted her head. Not much. Just enough to suggest a curious shift.

"You're clever. I admire that. But let's not play shadows and veils. I'm not one of those sweet-eyed acolytes looking to rescue a broken bird from its cage."

Her gauntlet slid an inch forward, claws tracing a line along the table—not toward Mauve, but toward her drink. She circled it idly, a fingertip running laps around the rim like she was coaxing something hidden inside to rise.

"You don't want mercy. You want weight. Something that'll press down hard enough to make you forget who you were when you woke up this morning. A pressure-point. A brand. A reason to feel real again."

She finally looked up.

Those six eyes—all staring now.

"So let's not insult each other with courtship games. You don't want someone to ask your name. You want someone who doesn't care. Someone who will look at you, see the rot and the elegance, the bruises and the boredom, and say—'yes, that one. That's the girl I'll ruin next.'"

A pause.

"But not gently."

Serina leaned back slightly now, the armor hissing faintly as it readjusted, the faint flick of her cape trailing off the lounge like smoke from a smoldering altar. Her entire presence—her body language, her voice, her force of will—remained perfectly poised. Uncompromising. There was no playacting here. No dance to seduce or be seduced. Serina was seduction—but the kind that came with sharp edges and fine print in ancient tongues.

"You asked if there's more behind the helmet," she mused, almost wistfully, almost mocking. "There is. Of course there is."

A beat.

Then the corruption began to bloom in her tone like wine spilled across white silk:

"But you don't get it just because you want it. You don't get it because you're pretty, or sad, or sharp. You get it when I decide you're worth it. Not a moment sooner."

She tapped the table once with her claw. A sound like a punctuation mark. Final. Defining.

"And if you're very, very fortunate…"

The mask dipped slightly, as if she were smiling beneath it.

"…you'll survive it."

She let the moment breathe, let the silence spiral out between them like a spool of dark thread. Mauve could break it. Serina would let her. That was part of the game. Part of the evaluation.