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 ​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Dress + Gloves
Tag: Jacen Breska

They shared a lot.

Some of it made her laugh, some smile.

Some of it pulled her lips into a tight line.

There was nothing right about the power dynamic between them. Maybe she chose to be better but he was absolutely right, there was nothing to stop her from just eliminating him on the spot if she ever felt he'd betrayed her trust, not even Imperial law could stop her. Because it actively encouraged the behavior that she and Jacen so despised.

She felt like a God playing with fragile toys.

And for all that power, a part of her hated it.

But it also made his trust in her that much more endearing. They he felt comfortable enough to laugh in her presence, to joke, sometimes horribly and sometimes not, to call her a friend.

"312. Don't even know her real name. Only ever her number. She only calls me by mine. But she comes back every mission, we protect each other every mission. There's a couple others," he thought of the spy woman on Trenwyth, the one who called herself Aedan, "but...honestly I don't think I have friends besides for you two."

Kaila nodded slowly, understanding now.

"In a few ways, we're not so different you and I."

"We keep our circles small. We've done... things, for the cause."

"I've got Revna, she's a teacher at one of the academies. Then there's uhm."

She blinked, and her features seemed to shrink as a memory bubbled up from somewhere. Rather than finish that train of thought she decided to fill her drink and knock it back in one fluid motion, uncaring how it affected their little competition.

Even if the alcohol was finally messing with her head.

"Well, I'd like to think my apprentice and I have a healthy teacher student relationship."

She put on a smile, trying to focus on the positive even as she began rubbing at her temples.

"...Huh." He shook his head slightly, not enough to jostle his drunken brain, but enough to clear the thought. Jacen immediately pivoted, trying to bring the conversation back into a lighthearted territory, "Hey I gotta know, here's my question. Really, what is it like to do the things you can do? To be able to move stuff, control stuff. Is there ever a moment where you're just like 'yeah I can do really cool chit'?"

"Hmm."

Kaila traced little circles around the rim of her glass, pondering that question which she'd never considered before.

"In a way." she smiled nervously.

"It's intoxicating, Jacen. I mean... I went from being the most powerless person I know to..."

Her lips pursed, trying to find the right words.

"It's taken sacrifice, but I've conquered things—people—that I once had nightmares about."

"I take the living essence of a God, and with it, shape the world."

"...I don't think I can stop." she realized mid sentence.

"I don't think I could ever stop."

​

 

[Jacen Breska]

Rodia Nights​

WEARING:: This
EQUIPMENT: Nothing
LOCATION: :: Rodia Nightclub ::
TAG: Darth Anathemous

Did Jacen mean to keep his circle small?

He furrowed his brow, a pensive look shown on his face. It was one of those things that all would agree was a quality over quantity kind of thing. He had 'friends' as a child, people who said one thing and did another. They never really felt like true friends. It was always forced...it made Jacen feel more alone then he ever thought possible. Perhaps it was better then to only have a few friends you felt you could truly count on. But still, did Jacen mean to have only one or two friends? No. He wanted more friends. The feeling the couple he had gave him was intoxicating. More so then the whiskey, he thought. Perhaps that was endlessly Jacen's curse. Wanting more, rather then appreciating what he had. He wouldn't do that now, not with this friend.

If she was right, and they were quite alike despite their differences, then her friendship would be one he'd treasure. He did not want it to slip away.

"I was always, well maybe not always, kinda recently I guess...uhm...I am kinda curious what the academies look like," Jacen said, almost to himself, "not that I think I'd sign up to a tour, or nothin' like that...I'd be much too scared. Very intimidating. Very....grandiose, y'know? Like you look at some of these buildings, not that I've seen them in person just like a picture or two, and you think...wow. Y'know?" He turned to look at Kaila, and watched as she knocked her drink back. Thinking for a second he was falling behind or otherwise missed his designated drinking time, he followed suite and downed his shot glass, recoiling at the taste as he set the glass back down, sticking his tongue out in an effort to clear the substance. "Blech," he shuddered and exhaled, regaining his composure before he looked to her again, "I'm sure I knew at some point you had an apprentice," he leaned forward on the bar, propping his chin up with a fist. Part of him thought to bring up the rumors circulating some trooper ranks about the nature of some Force users 'teacher student relationships'.

...Jacen decided not to even joke about that. As good of friends as they may be or grow to be, he didn't think he'd blame Kaila if she threw him through the bar after making such a crass joke. Instead, he smiled, "your student is lucky to have you as an instructor, I think. You're not some...hermit with a beard down to the ground, overly long fingernails, or a maniacal cackle."

He stopped and leaned closer, "you don't have a maniacal cackle, do you?"

...When she began to answer his question, speak honestly, he listened. The way she explained how she felt with her powers. All Jacen could do was nod along, and when she said she couldn't stop, wouldn't want to stop...How could Jacen blame her? For all he talked, Jacen wished he could do what she could. He'd never admit it aloud. But sometimes when they moved things without touching them, when they seemed to know something before it happened… he'd wonder. If he'd been born different. If he could've done more. Been more. What he could do with that power? Using it for her was intoxicating? Imagining having it was intoxicating for him. It'd be...cruel of him, of anyone, to ask someone like her to give up their gift.

"so...it was something you suffered for?" He asked, his eyes locked on hers. It wasn't really something he thought about before. Some part of him imagined it was just...easy. It just happened. Perhaps that was why so many Sith were insufferable themselves. It was some trauma they'd acquired from their teachers, or just the nature of the Force itself?

"I can't blame you for that. Who could give that up? The only thing I could ever like...compare it to was one time CT-312 tried to take my dessert one night."

He shook his head his face full of solemn determination, "wasn't gonna happen," he smiled.

"Thank you. For telling me. I have so many questions about it, about you...if it ever gets to be too much, please tell me. I just wanna know."

​