Unreviewed Port Avalon

[Avalon Gray]

• Intent: To create a mobile smuggler and pirate haven
• Image Credit: xxx, Midjourney
• Canon: N/A
• Permissions: xXx
• Links: Port Avalon

• Space Station Name: Port Avalon, Avalon’s Reach
• Station Model: xxx
• Classification: Shadow Port
• Location: Port Avalon is generally found near or within Black Sun Territory
• Affiliation: Avalon Gray
• Population: Heavy
• Demographics: The inhabitants come from all walks of life and are as diverse as species which roam the galaxy. Some of the most notable species are Humans, Zeltrons, Duros, Rodians, Falleens, etc.
• Accessibility: It is fairly easy to find and access Port Avalon provided you have the coordinates. It never stays in the same location for longer than two standard weeks. Those who know where to look can usually find the location listed on the dark net.
• Traffic: High
• Description: Carved into the jagged crust of a shattered moon, Port Avalon is as much legend as location. Once a mining colony abandoned during the Clone Wars, it now thrives as a pirate-run outpost under the loose control of Avalon Gray, smuggler, captain, and charmer supreme.
  
  What began as a bolt-hole for spice runners has grown into a full-fledged black market mecca: Cantinas serve Zeltron wine and Corellian whiskey in equal measure. Docks hum with outlaw freighters, patched-up fighters, and sleek blockade runners. Dealers, bounty brokers, slicers, and syndicates all walk freely under Avalon’s loose protection. No governments. No taxes. No questions.
  
  If you’ve got credits or something worth trading, Port Avalon will take you in, just don’t overstay your welcome or cross the wrong crew. Some say it’s a paradise for the damned. Others call it “The Last Free Port.” Everyone knows: you don’t find Port Avalon. It finds you.

The docking bays of Port Avalon are carved into the heart of the entrance, a massive impact crater turned into a multi-tiered docking cavern. From the outside, the approach is tight and disorienting. Ships must enter through a narrow tunnel at the moonlet’s equator, flanked by dormant-looking cannons and faux debris fields. The moment a vessel clears the blast doors, gravity shifts, stabilizers engage, and the true scale of The Maw reveals itself.

The Reachwalk is the core of Port Avalon’s internal city, a central transit spine and marketplace, carved through the superstructure of the fractured moon. Suspended along the inner curve of the hollowed crust, it arcs like a great spinal bridge through the artificial cavern. From the Maw’s upper terraces to the deep tunnels of the Black Zones, everything connects back to the Reachwalk. No matter how secret the deal, how dark the hiding place, you pass through the Reach.

Tucked into the upper arc of The Reachwalk, just beneath the weightless promenade that cradles Avalon’s Court, sits a sprawling crescent of curved transparisteel and shimmering durachrome, the Violet Blue, the third jewel in Avalon’s infamous chain of luxury nightclubs. Where his first club was built for the pleasure seekers of Zeltros and the second for corporate elites, this one was made for legend.

From the outside, it pulses like a heartbeat in the stone, deep cerulean light filtering through stained-glass panels set into the wall like cathedral windows, each one depicting stylized Zeltron figures entwined in dance, war, or whispered sin. The door has no lock. It recognizes intent. You either belong, or you don't.

Inside, sound becomes gravity.

A pulsing, atmospheric mix of industrial bass and Zeltron rhythm ripples through the club’s air in layers, more felt than heard. Sonic diffusion panels woven into the walls shift acoustics in real-time, shaping private spaces out of open ones. The deeper you walk, the more the beat changes, tailored to your heart rate, your mood, your desire.

The floor is a transparent hexaglass platform, suspended above a kinetic lightbed that surges like a digital ocean, its waves timed to the music, crashing and glowing with every shift in tempo. Dancers glide like smoke, augmented with programmable light-tattoos that flicker with coded messages and strobe in rhythm. Many aren’t entirely human. That’s part of the allure.

Avalon’s Court floats like a crown suspended above The Maw, tethered by magnetic stabilizers and invisible grav-locks. From below, it appears as a glowing ring of black glass and gold light—a place both revered and unreachable. Inside, it’s part command center, part private lounge: curved obsidian floors hum with starlight panels, while panoramic transparisteel windows overlook the endless motion of the port. Plush seating in crimson and midnight hues lines the circular promenade, where holograms flicker beside statues of forgotten empires. The air is perfumed, cool, and charged with the hum of control. Every surface responds to Avalon’s presence, whether to serve a drink, dim the lights, or initiate a station lockdown.


At its heart lies the Command Core, veiled behind a ripple of energy, housing Port Avalon’s real brain: SIN, the Slicer-Integrated Navigator. It monitors every breath aboard the station, routing information through sleek touch interfaces that respond only to Avalon Gray and Felicity Rainwater. Behind a curved crescent bench, his throne without a crown, Avalon watches the galaxy pass through his port, making decisions with charm and silence. The Court isn’t just a control room. It’s a performance space, a sanctuary, a trap. When you stand in Avalon’s presence here, you don’t just feel watched. You feel chosen or measured. And maybe, if you're lucky, both.

The standard living quarters on Port Avalon are tucked into the mid-tier corridors branching off the Reachwalk. They are compact, modular, and always dimly lit. Each unit is a repurposed cargo cell, roughly four meters by three, with bulkhead walls lined in faded plating and noise-dampening foam. The ceilings are low. The air smells faintly of ion sterilizer and recirculated steam.

A bunk folds out from one wall, with a sealed storage compartment beneath and a privacy screen that hums when activated. The opposite wall features a narrow counter with a built-in sink, holoslot, and ration warmer. A small refresher unit occupies one corner, tight enough you have to choose between raising your arms or turning around. Lights are set on a motion sensor, but flicker often. Most tenants string up personal lighting or charm-beads, decorating the sterile space with flashes of color, prayer tags, or stolen things.

The rooms aren’t luxurious, but they’re private. On Port Avalon, that’s worth more than most realize.

The deluxe suites on Port Avalon are a world apart from the standard bunks. Located on the upper interior tier of the Reachwalk, these quarters are built into reinforced spires of alloy and glass, offering panoramic views of the port’s inner cavern. Each suite opens with a retinal scan and pressure-sealed door that hisses open to reveal a split-level space bathed in low, ambient light. The floors are dark synthwood or cushioned mesh, and the walls are inlaid with reactive panels, capable of projecting starfields, misted skylines, or complete blackout privacy.

A king-size grav-bunk floats slightly off the floor, wrapped in high-thread linens and bordered by touch-controlled lighting. The room includes a private refresher suite with a full water-shower, heated tiles, and a compact sonic cleanser. Along the far wall, a lounge area features a curved settee, a personal drink dispenser with top-shelf selections, and a holo-slab that links into Avalon’s entertainment network. The suite hums with quiet efficiency, shielded from the noise of the port and designed to offer something rare on Avalon’s Reach: peace, comfort, and absolute discretion.

Felicity Rainflower’s suite is located in a private spire adjacent to Avalon’s Court, accessible only by a curved glass lift that recognizes her biosignature. The entry opens into a seamless, arched chamber that feels more like a sovereign’s residence than a smuggler’s quarters. The walls are paneled in dark violet lacquer, embedded with soft-gold threadlines that shimmer in ambient lighting, custom designed to respond to her presence with cool lavender during rest, and warm rose during moments of focus or negotiation.

The main chamber is sprawling and circular, with floating silk drapes that divide the space like veils, never fully closed, but never quite open. A luxury grav-bed rests in the center, suspended slightly off the ground, layered in black velvet, silver-threaded sheets, and a deep plum coverlet embroidered with her crest: a rainwater sigil formed of three falling stars. Overhead, a starlight projector cycles through constellations from long-lost homeworlds.

Felicity’s private sky.

To one side, a sunken sitting parlor is framed by crystalline furniture and scattered cushions in shades of dusk and smoke. A low table of sculpted obsidian is always stocked with fresh fruit, fine liquors, and decanted teas imported through Avalon’s personal channels. A private bath chamber, clad in white stone and copper fixtures, features a soaking pool fed by a silent sonic waterfall and a wall of reactive glass that frosts at a touch.

A walk-in dressing gallery occupies the rear quarter of the suite, filled with tailored garments for every occasion, negotiation, subterfuge, or seduction, flanked by a collection of accessories housed in low-gravity suspension fields. Hidden among the elegance are defense systems keyed to her movement, and a private communication alcove lined with silk and shadow, where she meets with only her most trusted contacts.

Felicity doesn’t need opulence to command respect, but when she allows herself indulgence, this suite is where it lives.

Carved into the highest habitable point within Port Avalon’s inner crown, Avalon Gray’s suite is less a residence and more a monument to himself, a living testament to style, indulgence, and carefully curated myth. The entryway alone is two stories tall, flanked by mirrored obsidian statues of Zeltron warriors in stylized poses, their eyes aglow with soft violet light. The doors, twelve feet high and forged from reforged durasteel plating, open without sound, revealing a space more palace than quarters.

The interior unfolds into a vast, multi-level atrium layered in black marble, illuminated by floating light-ribbons that drift through the air like glowing silks. Polished gold trim gleams along the edges of sunken lounges, arched balconies, and curved staircases leading to private levels. The walls shift colors subtly with the hour always flattering, always deliberate. Panoramic transparisteel windows look out over the life below, casting everything beneath him in scale and shadow.

At its center is his signature grav-bed, round and massive, resting on a suspended platform with concentric rings of starlight above. It’s draped in deep violets and blues, with a hint of creme—sheets handwoven from Zeltrosi dreamfiber, rumored to cost more than some ships.

One side of the suite houses his private bath, a reflective black pool with mood-sensitive lighting and perfumed steam, surrounded by sleek pillars and lounge recliners. The other opens into a performance parlor, complete with a low stage, custom instrument alcove, velvet seating, and a crystal drink tower stocked with only the rarest vintages and toxins.

His wardrobe gallery stretches an entire mezzanine, robes, coats, and armor variants suspended in individual climate-sealed pods, each labeled with a star-date and occasion. In the corner? A grand piano of carbon crystal and chromed durasteel that plays both manually and by thought-command. The walls whisper music faintly at all times, notes Avalon has composed himself or stolen from forgotten cultures.

Security is silent but absolute: biometric locks, micro-drone sentries, and hidden weapons caches behind false artwork and floating sculpture walls. SIN maintains a permanent node here, routed through a living crystal console disguised as a work of abstract art. Only Avalon can truly speak to it, and it only ever whispers back to him.

To visit his suite is to feel the weight of his presence, even when he’s not in the room. Every surface, every light, every scent has been chosen to captivate, disarm, and impress. Because in Avalon Gray’s world, opulence isn’t decoration.

It’s declaration.

Provide a Security Rating: Maximum

External Security:
Padlocke
Aesir System
Satet Point Defense Turret
TL-01 Counter Missile
Locksley Counter Missile Launcher
Phalanx Testudo

Internal Security:
Droidekas
Magnaguard
Contracted Mercenaries
Biometric Lockdown
Blast Doors
Scanners and Sensors
Surveillance Systems
Force Field Generators
Selective Blaster Neutralizer

[ JOUNAL ENTRY - AVALON GRAY ]

Let me tell you a secret, love. Port Avalon was never meant to exist.

It was supposed to be a tomb. A Separatist mining moon, wrung dry and left to rot after the Clone Wars went belly-up. I found it drifting like a ghost in the dark no name, no traffic, no purpose. Just cold rock and dead ore shafts, scarred by old droids and forgotten maps.

I was running spice at the time. Fresh off a bad deal with a Twi’lek broker who thought he was smarter than me. I had two things to my name: a half-broken courier ship and a promise I made to myself. Never die in a cage.

That’s when I found this place.

Now, most would’ve passed it by. No glow, no life, no signal ping. But I felt it. Not through the Force, mind you, I’m no Jedi. I felt it in my bones. This place wasn’t dead. It was waiting. So I landed. Sealed the hangar behind me. Lit a flare and walked down into the bones of the moon.

What I found? Infrastructure. Power cores still humming. Old mining lifts, intact. Rooms filled with dust and silence, but strong enough to last a thousand more years. All it needed was someone reckless enough to wake it up.

That was me.

I patched in a few circuits. Bartered fuel cells off a broken freighter. Convinced a slicer to wire me a new AI, SIN, you’ve met her, charming thing. And I started building. Not just walls. Not just docks. I built a promise. A haven for those who didn’t fit, didn’t kneel, didn’t want to be numbered or named. Port Avalon was never for the galaxy. It was for the forgotten, the hunted, the wild-hearted.

I installed the engines later. Stole the sublight drives right out of a scuttled Confederate hulk. Hauled them piece by piece across three systems. Took me two years and three fake names to get the hyperspace tethers working.

Worth every credit.

Now we drift. Quiet. Invisible. A moving myth. We don’t host starfighters. We don’t play politics. We don’t care if you’re Sith or Jedi, noble or slave.

All we ask is this: You pull your weight. You keep your blaster holstered until it’s needed. And you don’t forget who let you dock when the rest of the galaxy turned its back.

They call this place lawless. I say it’s free.

So pour a drink, sweetheart. You’re standing in the last thing in this galaxy no one’s claimed.

Welcome to Avalon’s Reach. Try not to make me regret it.

[SIN RECORDING - AFTER HOURS]

The silence was never total on Port Avalon, but this was close. The club had long since emptied, the last freighter had cleared The Maw, and the light from the Walk had dipped into its lowest hue a deep, pulsing violet that gave every shadow teeth.

Avalon’s coat trailed behind him like a velvet tide, its hem catching on old weld seams and layered deck plating. His gloves were off, tucked into his belt, and his hands brushed the rails as he walked, trailing idle fingers across the cool, repurposed metal. Beside him, Felicity Rainflower walked with a grace that was deliberate. She wore soft boots, quieter than his, and a long coat with the collar half-popped a navy synthleather, lined in silver thread. Her blue hair was swept into a loose twist, a few strands escaping, as always, like they had somewhere better to be.

She glanced sideways at him, not breaking stride.

“You only do this walk when you’re restless,” she said.

Avalon smirked, but didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stopped at a wide viewing port overlooking The Maw, the vast cratered docking chamber where the last of the lights shimmered off hulls too empty to cast shadows.

“It's quiet,” he finally said. “I hate it.”

Felicity stepped closer. “You did build it for control.”

He exhaled softly. “No. I built it so we’d never have to beg again.”

His reflection in the glass was older now just enough lines, just enough wear. The light caught the edge of his cheekbone, turned his magenta skin silver-blue. His eyes, violet and sharp, scanned the emptiness below.

“You know what I miss, Fliss?” he said. “The sound of impact welders. The smell of ozone when we laid in that first spinal beam. I miss knowing we didn’t have a name yet. Just… ambition.”

She leaned a hip against the rail beside him, arms folded.

“We still don’t have a name. Not one anyone speaks without flinching.”

“Exactly,” Avalon muttered. “When did we become a threat, not a promise?”

Felicity was quiet a moment.

“The moment you stopped flying solo,” she said. “The moment you gave the forgotten a place to belong.”

He chuckled, soft and bitter.

“I just wanted somewhere I could play my music loud, and not owe anyone for the power cells.”

“And now you’re a sovereign myth with a nightclub chain,” she teased.

He turned, eyes glittering, and gave her a rare, genuine smile.

“Still not rich enough to quit.”

They walked again, their steps echoing. Past locked hatches, sealed loading arms, hollowed-out freight corridors. The air was warm, recycled, familiar. At one point, Avalon paused beneath the illuminated crest of Port Avalon’s sigil. Below it, the small script was barely visible.

No Masters. No Limits.

He stared up at it a while, then glanced at Felicity.

“If I’m gone tomorrow, who keeps this place from burning?”

Felicity shrugged, then smiled faintly.

“If you’re gone tomorrow,” she said, “the fire’s the point.”

Avalon looked forward again. Past the Court. Past the lights. Into shadow.

And he nodded.