Populate [RNR] Dance of Veils | RNR Populate of Triffis

[Orantha]

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the top of the Eclipticon Summit Spire detached from the tower and rose into the sky, suspended in perpetual twilight above Alassa Major's crystalline coast. Below, shuttles arrived in sleek procession, delivering the Core's finest—draped in silk, masked in ambition—to a night where elegance masked intent.


Whispers swirled of shifting hyperlanes, vanished systems, and fortunes made in silence. Behind mirrored walls, futures were bought and sold with a glance. Agents watched. Deals formed. And somewhere in the crowd, the shadow of the Five Veils Conspiracy moved unseen.


Tonight was not merely a gala. It was a crucible. And no guest would leave unchanged.

They called it The Final Light — not because anything was ending, but because something had begun. As the last golden rays of sun spilled across the Eclipticon Summit Spire, the great ballroom came alive with music and masks, lights and laughter. Unlike galas past, this night was not reserved for the aristocracy alone. The doors had been opened — wide enough for senators and soldiers, aides and artists, diplomats and dreamers — for every citizen of the Royal Naboo Republic with reason to witness what comes next. This was not merely celebration. It was convergence.

Here, beneath crystal chandeliers and mirrored illusions, history was already shifting. Mistakes would be made. Secrets would slip. Loyalties tested — some fractured beyond repair. Dances might begin in beauty and end in betrayal. And behind every mask, a question loomed: What do you seek in the final light? Truth? Power? Love? Or something still hidden, veiled and waiting, just beyond reach.

High above the ballroom — and far removed from the music and finery — the uppermost spire of the Eclipticon Summit housed a space where masks were shed, and words were weapons. The Celestial Exchange was quiet, soundproofed, precise. Its walls shimmered with animated star charts, holo-threads mapping the chaotic new patterns of the galaxy. No one here danced. They debated. Bargained. Positioned. In the wake of the hyperlane collapses, this was where futures were drawn — not with Force, nor faith, but funding.

And yet, even here, nothing was quite as it seemed. Some delegates whispered about planned disruptions. Others questioned the coincidence of the galaxy’s reconfiguration, as if stars and routes could be bent to someone's will. Promises are made in this room — but so are threats. And while the room is silent to the outside world, every deal made echoes far beyond it.

Officially, it was just another wellness enclave — terraced gardens, sun-kissed lounges, soft robes and softer lies. But behind the gentle facade of palm shadows and ocean breeze, the Wellness Directive was fully operational. Holo-displays flickered like spa lighting, data nodes hid in sunlamps, and agents spoke in murmurs and gestures rather than transmissions. The Eclipticon's most scenic overlook had become a nest of surveillance — high society above, high stakes below.


Of course, not everyone was there to scheme. Some came only to soak in the mineral pools, sip floral cocktails, and let the view do the talking. Between the meditation domes and aromatherapy gardens, it was easy to forget the galaxy was burning.

Still, observation thrived on proximity. Naboo agents mingled freely among the guests, drinks in hand and smiles rehearsed, every conversation a potential lead, every flirtation a calculated risk. The setting encouraged closeness — and blurred intentions. In this paradise of curated ease, even rest could be part of the game.

Threads Referenced:
Upper Management Will See You Now
The Five Veils Conspiracy​

 

[Ala Quin]

The ballroom shimmered in the last golden breath of daylight, and Ala shimmered with it.

Her silver high-low gown caught every glint of sun as she stepped from the lift platform, the sheer train floating behind her like mist. Hair curled and swept to one side, she wore her glittering mask with playful pride—but underneath it all, her heart beat faster than she'd admit. This was unlike any Jedi mission, and yet it felt no less important.

She paused at the edge of the gathering, eyes scanning the vibrant crowd.

Would Lorn be here tonight? The thought made her cheeks warm behind the mask. Part of her knew it was silly. Another part, the quieter part, clung to the hope like a whispered wish.

A couple brushed past her. The woman gave a kind smile. "That dress is absolutely stunning. Naboo?"

Ala’s voice came out soft, but bright with delight. "Yes! Well, it's... sort of custom. I wanted something that felt like starlight!"

The man chuckled, lifting his glass. "You've succeeded. Here's to starlight, then."

Ala raised her own borrowed flute of something floral and fizzy. "To the stars — and to seeing who shows up beneath them."

In the back of her mind, Ala kept quietly tracing the steps of her evening plan—if all went well, tonight would be the night she finally kept a promise that mattered.

| Outfit: This | Tag: @Open |​

 

[Yasima Zyntra]

Location: The Spa
Gear: Age appropriate red outfit with pool skirt
Tag: OPEN

​

Yasmia sat feeling the hot bubbling water all around her, just making small talk with some older teen who had joined her in the pool not long after she had arrived. The guy was suprised that she little younger than he had first anticipated, but everything was good and they were chatting and just chilling out, her with her iced melerunade him with his expensive, colourful and exceptionally manly mocktail complete with tiny little umbrella.

"Hey, hold this for me, I need to make a video." she said, handing him her drink and reaching for her personal device. She loaded up her VidSync social app and looked at her face in it.

"Oh come on, don't be one of those girls, what is it, Hologram? Starsnap?" he laughed and splashed her.

"And is it a problem if I am?" she grinned back pursing her lips at him.

"Whatever, I'm gonna bounce if you are doing that. Nice chatting to you."

"I don't think I'm into this drink, I'm just gonna leave it here" she muttered, at the same time waving bye to her fleeting friend.

"What did you say? Anyway, I'm not really feeling this drink any more. Just tell the bus boys I'm done with it."

She gave a thumbs up and he walked off. She downed her melerunade and picked up the colourful glass the moment he was out of sight, suddenly alone and making silly faces to the rest of the pool gathering to see if any of her other friends were about to come and entertain her. She would wave them down and invite them in to her lair if she spotted anyone.
​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

The Final Light
Tags: Open

Something simple and easy, taking a suggestion from his sister that he should get out more. Duty was great and all, but without some sort of fun and lighthearted outing. It was enough to burn someone out. He had experienced that burn out yet. Cassian though back to his last outing with Lysander von Ascania and Sibylla Abrantes

The auction, that was a rather fun night. Just to be out and about, instead of sticking to his basic scenario that involved briefing rooms, training, clandestine missions and such.

He wore a simple all black tuxedo and a simple mask to his face.

Cassian approached the bar and he ordered a drink. The beginning of many for the night, maybe. Hidden behind the mask was still the man of duty and honor. More concerned with the welfare of others, he would do his best at least for tonight to try and relax once more.

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Dominique found a troubling pattern emerging in regional and local markets. Certain events had prompted that she set talent to work analyzing recent activities -- inexplicable delays, unfortunate accidents, sudden buyouts and the sort. She could afford the best. Denon could afford the best. And while there was certain assertions that could be made, there wasn't nearly as much hard evidence in any particular direction. There was something out of place, but was it Cortessan? Or were they merely a player? A front.

The upcoming gathering at the Eclipticon Summit Spire was an alluring opportunity. Not just because of its ability to influence trade, but as an opportunity to see if others had noticed anything unusual. That session on Naboo with the Jedi Investigator had certainly not engendered a notable response in others. If anything, one of the other Senators was quite certain everything was perfectly in order -- which to Dominique screamed the exact opposite. Whenever someone was 'absolutely certain' it usually meant they hadn't looked hard enough, or were full of bluster. Which was precisely why this outstanding opportunity also had her conscious of its own... curiosities.

Unlike the assault on the Nivek-Falleen Station, a sordid adventure not proven to be related to Cortessan, she would not arrive unprepared.

After she arrived at the Spire, the white-clad dom of Denon took her time arriving at the lift for the seclusion of the Celestial Exchange. Her outfit had molded itself into a shoulderless fashionable attire; Dominique was not one to wear mass-market appeal styles. Bright, golden eyes shone in the dark as she stepped out to find what other intrepid souls had ventured to the upper level.

Her steps drew her near one of the consoles with a holographic map displayed above it. If there was time, perhaps she would find someone to dance with in the ballroom, but first there was business to conduct. Deals to make, whispers to claim. It was the price you paid being one of the authority figures of a world like Denon -- either you stayed on the ball, or got rolled under it; and Dominique had already experienced being toppled once before as a mere Senator.

OPEN​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

The Final Light​

Lorn entered like a shadow stitched into silk. All black - of course. Not just for the aesthetic (though, Shiraya help him, it did look good), but because anonymity was easier in the absence of color. Jedi or not, he'd never been comfortable with attention. The Republic's finest might preen and pose like rare birds, but Lorn moved with the careful grace of someone trained to disappear - and tonight, he meant to. At least until he saw her.

Ala shimmered like a star had crash-landed on the ballroom floor and decided to stay. No Force-sense was needed - he could've been blind and still found her. The light bent around her like it wanted to stay close. Her laugh stirred something soft and terribly inconvenient in him.

He hesitated. He was good at hesitating - an expert, really. But tonight wasn't for hesitation.

Lorn crossed the floor, weaving through glimmer and perfume and diplomacy wrapped in velvet, until he stood just close enough to hear the fizz of her drink.

He tilted his head, voice calm and low, almost teasing:

"Forgive me, but I'm supposed to be looking for someone. She's supposed to be wearing starlight and trouble. Have you seen anyone like that tonight?"

And just like that, his heart gave a traitorous little thump.

Because Shiraya help him, there she was.

Ala Quin​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Final Light
Tags: Open

A quick scan around the room and Aiden gave a small smirk, and mood lightened up a bit. He drew a deep breath, that shuddered lightly at the pain in his side, but quickly diminished. Call it hobby, or something else entirely. If the Jedi business went under he could at least save the galaxy with his cookies, or perhaps....kill the galaxy?

He chuckled lightly as he was able to obtain a helper to cart in the few trays of cookies and set up them up next to what treats and such that they had. He made sure the other area would receive a tray. No doubt his biggest order to date. Granted he wasn't exactly making money of off this. It was enough to keep his mind occupied and away from other thoughts that clouded his mind. Aiden glanced up after everything was set up neatly and ready to go. And at this point his job was complete, nothing else to do but enjoy the nights festivities.

Whatever they did bring, it looked to be good. He adjusted his hat and his mask a bit before he made his way towards the bar.

"Whiskey, thanks my friend." Aiden tapped on the bar lightly and showed a small smile. The Jedi's gaze moved around as they lingered on Lorn and Ala and he couldn't help but show a big smile and he even giggle lightly. Aiden had hoped, that something would transpire between the two for the good of them both. Especially for Lorn, he wanted his friend to be happy. He felt it would no doubt make things even better for him and Isla.

Oh!

Aiden sent a quick message to Isla Reingard letting her know that there were cookies in the Wellness area. Yea wellness was good and all, but so were cookies.

The bartender arrived with his glass and set it in front of him. "Thank you." Aiden raised the glass to his lips and savored the taste of the cool liquid. He wasn't going to have another escapade like at the Life day event. But he hoped to have more fun and little bit less doubt in his mind.

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The chandeliers blazed in molten crystal above the ballroom, a galaxy of flickering candlelight suspended in gold. Vaulted ceilings soared, etched with constellations that mirrored the night sky beyond the palace dome. Music poured from the raised ensemble like wine — bass and treble in careful conversation, laced with the hush of anticipation that always precedes revelation. Nobles and envoys, adorned in silks and starlight, whispered behind half-masks of ivory and onyx. The masquerade was in full bloom.

And then the music shifted.

Just subtly — a swell of rhythm, a reverent build from the speakers that filled the chamber like rising tide. Heads turned toward the wide staircase at the end of the hall, where shadows parted beneath the gleam of a thousand candles.

There she stood.

At the summit of the marble steps, framed in velvet and light, Bastila emerged like a myth made flesh. Her gown — if it could even be called that — was a marvel of artistry and technology, a convergence of couture and the cosmos. Micro-holoprojectors woven seamlessly through the fabric caught and bent the light, responding to her movements and the chamber’s ambient mood. Galaxies bloomed and receded across her form in real time — soft, flowing veils of brilliance mimicking nebulae that shifted from dusk rose to indigo, stardust flaring gold before deepening to violet with each measured breath. It was not a dress. It was the galactic sublime made tangible — a secret worn like skin.

The effect was hypnotic — not ostentatious, but captivating in the dim light. Every motion called forth a new cascade of celestial radiance, as if her very presence stirred unseen tides.

The gown’s silhouette was regal: a sculpted bodice with a faint iridescent shimmer; sheer sleeves that gave the impression of starlight through mist; and a flowing skirt slit high along one leg, crafted from energy filament that clung like vapor. Discreet antigrav threading granted it an imperceptible float, giving the illusion that she drifted more than walked. A translucent cape trailed behind her, weightless and veined with programmed glimmers of moving light — not sewn, but coded — gliding with the dignity of forgotten starships and royal lineage. It lifted gently with her stride, as if caught in solar winds only she could feel.

At her throat glimmered a sigil of a crescent moon, wrought from rare metals and stardust-cut gemstones — a single piece worth more than the economies of minor worlds.

Her mask was carved in onyx and shadowed steel, a lattice of ancient starmaps and swirling filigree that hinted at the warrior beneath the guise of opulence. It revealed only the curve of her lips and the glint of eyes sharp with knowing — the kind of gaze that sought no permission, only understanding.

Her hair, pinned in a sweeping twist, bore no crown.

She needed none.

The dress was crown enough.

She descended the staircase not like a guest, but like something the ballroom itself had summoned. Each step caught the shifting light of her gown, casting starbursts across the polished marble floor. Gasps were swallowed. Conversations faltered.

No one asked who she was — not yet.

But all of them felt it: the sudden tilt in the room’s gravity. The unmistakable pull of someone who did not belong to their games of power and pretence — because she answered to something older, deeper. She walked like memory. Like prophecy. Like the echo of a name unspoken for years, but never truly forgotten.

And somewhere — perhaps beside a marble colonnade, or cloaked in the shadow of the tallest chandelier — someone watched with more than idle interest. Their breath caught. Their chest tightened.

Because they knew.

Not the name. Not the mask. But the feeling.

That a story had just started again. That destiny had chosen its moment once more.

And Bastila walked into it, head high, like she had always known it would begin this way — stealing the hearts of many, drawn down from the stars themselves.

​

Dominic Praxon​

 

[Isla Reingard]

The Wellness Directive
​

Isla stepped through the arching entryway of the Wellness Enclave with the mild enthusiasm of someone promised inner peace but delivered eucalyptus steam and a robe three sizes too big. The warm lights hummed, the air smelled faintly of citrus and secrets, and her sandals made an obnoxious flick-flack sound with every begrudging step. She pulled her towel tighter around her shoulders, brown hair damp from the sonic rinse, and narrowed her eyes at the suspiciously perfect lounge music.

Lorn had practically tossed her out of the speeder with a wink and a "go meditate or something," before disappearing into some date-night haze, probably to have deep philosophical conversations about hyperspace currents and the moonlight reflecting off his cheekbones. Whatever.

She sniffed the air. Cookies. Actual cookies. That was not a lie. She'd gotten Aiden's message. At least someone in this place understood basic wellness principles. She made a mental note to thank him later.

And then she saw her.

Yasima.

The Yasima.

Sitting like a movie scene at the edge of the mineral pool, messy hair, glowing skin, and making fish faces into her device like she owned the art of not caring. A shimmer of excitement lit up Isla's whole aura. For half a second, she panicked - what if Yasima didn't remember her? What if she did? What if she said something embarrassing and fell in? What if she said something cool and Yasima invited her to sit?

She took a breath and approached, smile crooked but honest, and hovered just at the edge of the water.

"Hey," Isla said, trying for casual and landing somewhere between enthusiastic and awkward. "You looked like you were summoning a fish or something, I figured that meant you needed a friend."

Yasima Zyntra​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

DANCE OF VEILS
WEARING: Evening Suit
TAGS: Aiden Porte | Lorn Reingard | Cassian Abrantes
Ala Quin | Isla Reingard | Bastila Sal-Soren | Dominique Vexx | Yasima Zyntra

Balun Dashiell leaned casually against the bar, the counter to his right supporting a relaxed elbow while his left hand held a half-burnt cigarra, its faint smoke curling lazily into the air. A tumbler of amber liquor rested before him, half full, its golden hue catching the ambient light. He had chosen his position with quiet consideration—close enough to observe, but removed enough not to intrude on the comfort of the non-smokers scattered across the venue.

To most in the room, Balun would be recognised as a Force User aligned with the Order of Shiraya, yet it wasn't his connection to the Order that had drawn him to tonight's affair. This gathering, decadent and draped in finery, touched a different thread in the tapestry of his life—his place among the galaxy's upper crust. Ever since his partnership with Liin "Tera" Terallo , his world had been stitched together with wealth, influence, and the careful networking of high society. No longer her employee, Balun had carved a niche of his own—one bolstered by the founding of the High Society Guild and by the business alliances he had fostered in the name of Dashiell Retrofit™, and Dashiell Incorporated™.

He wasn't here simply for spectacle. Where prestige gathered, opportunity followed. New faces meant potential partners, alliances, and lucrative ventures. Balun wasn't naive to the subtleties of such events; even if the Masquerade wasn't his usual scene, he understood the value of presence. Even if he felt like an outsider to the dancing and pageantry, he knew it was part of expanding his reach, both professionally and personally.

Not that he'd be caught dead on a dance floor. The thought alone made him wince inwardly. Grace, at least when it came to dancing, had never been his strong suit. He could handle a blaster, command a crew, or pilot through a war zone—but twirling around in formalwear? That was a battlefield he wasn't keen on stepping into.

Still, the night wasn't without its comforts. Balun could already sense familiar presences mingling in the room, faint glimmers in the Force. One in particular stood out—his Master, Ala Quin . It didn't surprise him to feel her here; this was exactly the kind of celebration that suited her vibrant spirit. He could picture her already, smile alight, laughing as she danced effortlessly among strangers like they were old friends. The thought warmed him, coaxing a faint smile to his own lips.

But for now, he stayed where he was, letting the drink burn slowly in his throat and the smoke settle in his chest. The night was still young, and if he was going to socialise, he needed just a little more time—and perhaps a few more sips—to dull the nerves that still clung to the edges of his confidence.

"Speech".
'Thought'.

 

[Dominic Praxon]

The music flared behind murmuring voices, velvet and silk swaying like banners in the warm draughts of the Eclipticon's grand hall. Dominic stood amidst a small constellation of impeccably adorned figures — a circle of commerce-bound influence and court-pressed ambition.

A portly Aqualish, layered in too many brocade sashes and not enough patience, gestured with an ornate cane fashioned from tinted transparisteel. His voice, though gravelly, carried the edge of practiced persuasion.

"The vote is close, Lord Trozky. If Secundus Ando is to play its rightful part in the future of the Five Veils, the matter must be settled before the quarter ends. The route favors us naturally — hydrosupply, droid relays, labor contingencies — you know this. But bureaucracy listens better to friends."

Dominic smiled — thin, mannered, but not without warmth. He lifted his glass slightly, then replied with that ever-careful voice of his, each word smoothed like riverstone yet not without subtle edge.

"And yet, my dear Councilor Nephorr, I find bureaucracy listens best not to friends, but to fears. What fears, I wonder, would be soothed by so direct a course? What unrest would be quieted, what risk averted?"

"Prosperity is stability," added a Mirialan woman in crimson trim, her accent clipped and diplomatic. "The Republic has every incentive to reward proven contributors. Secundus Ando provided resources during the Naboo stabilization — surely that memory counts for something?"

Dominic inclined his head, expression ever-polite, though his mind was a little less present than his posture implied. Something — someone — shimmered at the top of the staircase. He turned only slightly, just enough to glimpse what the others had already begun whispering about.

A figure framed in light and cosmos.

His breath hitched.

Only for a moment.

And then he returned his attention, blinked once, and sipped his wine as though the weight of a supernova hadn't just realigned the very geometry of his heart. Bastila.

"What counts, Madam Verossa, is not what was done in the heat of loyalty's flare, but what is expected when the glow begins to cool. I believe your world makes a fine case, but let us not mistake proximity for inevitability."

The circle laughed, a courteous kind of laughter — never quite mirthful, always rehearsed. Verbal fencing was its own art, and Dominic, as always, played with a blade sheathed in silk.

He glanced again, just briefly, to where Bastila descended. Their agreement lingered at the edge of his thoughts — no interference, no indulgence where duty was concerned. But stars, did she know how to arrive. Like myth. Like poetry dressed in gravity wells.

Still — he was here to speak with the Senator of Naboo. And the Senator would not be swayed by stardust or sentiment.

"Now," he continued, folding his hands behind his back with an air of deliberate ease, "shall we speak of contingencies? If Secundus Ando's corridor is to be championed, I daresay it must dazzle — not only the eye, but the Assembly's conscience."

Bastila Sal-Soren Annis Riyaré @open
​

 

[Brandyn Sal-Soren]

THE CELESTIAL EXCHANGE

“I thought it was just the stars that shifted,” Brandyn murmured as the turbolift doors parted, “but it seems the gravity has too.”

The top floor of the Eclipticon Summit was a cathedral of silence, stitched together with threads of old secrets and new ambitions. It suited Brandyn more than he cared to admit. Beneath the layers of noble poise and Order of Shiraya regality was a man still weighing how much of his father’s legacy he wished to carry — and how much he must dismantle.

Clad in bespoke navy attire from Glitterstim’s unreleased line — the final designs of Baros Sal-Soren before his infamous fall — Brandyn moved like a wraith among the commerce kings and cloaked envoys. The fabric shimmered faintly, and for a moment he felt like a ghost of a dynasty too fractured to haunt anything but itself.

A pair of financiers, eyes gleaming with polished sympathy, intercepted his path.

“Master Sal-Soren,” one began, voice dipped in velvet, “it is good to see your name still carrying weight among the stars. Your father… well. He was never short on bold ideas.”

Brandyn offered a measured nod, eyes lingering just long enough to acknowledge what wasn’t said.

“His legacy, like this trade route, seemed…open to redirection.” He did not wait for a reply.

Instead, his attention swept the chamber — past the holomaps and quiet glances — until he found the luminous gaze of the Senator from Denon. Their eyes met, and Brandyn inclined his head in respectful greeting.

“Senator Vexx.”

There was a current moving through the Celestial Exchange — unseen but felt. Farstine’s underbelly had revealed something wrong in the Five Veils. And Brandyn had come not to accuse, but to illuminate. Quietly. Carefully. As his mother taught. As his duty now demanded.

| TAG: Dominique Vexx @open |

​

 

[Ala Quin]

She lit up the moment she saw him. That signature Lorn-walk—half deliberate, half vanishing act—made her grin bloom from ear to ear. Ala’s heart felt like it might forget its job entirely.

“You look...” Her voice trailed off as she reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. “The fabric's lovely.”

Her hand lingered. Then her eyes widened and she pulled her hand back, fingers clasping behind her back like a guilty child. “Sorry. That was too personal, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean—well, I did—but not like—” She bit her lip, trying not to laugh at herself.

She swayed slightly on her heels, practically bubbling. “I have a surprise for you.” Her eyes sparkled. “But you have to stay right here. You have to promise.”

She leaned in a little, whisper-serious but sunshine-warm. “It’s going to make your night.”

One more backward step. Two.

“Promise me? Not far. I’ll be back soon. Just... just go with it!”

With a final bright grin, she turned and vanished into the crowd, her short frame slipping between velvet gowns and polished boots like a star gone shooting.

---

The ballroom gave way to the cool hush of a service corridor, then the clatter and hum of the kitchen. She stepped in, the door swinging gently shut behind her. A few staff looked up. Confused. “Ma’am… are you lost?”

Ala blinked. Her plan, it turned out, had a few holes. “Um… no. I mean. Sort of. Could I get…two milkshakes?”

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Annis Riyaré]

Annis Riyaré, Countess of Lopenthé, Senator of Naboo

Location:
Gear: Voidstone bracelet
Tag: Bastila Sal-Soren . Dominic Praxon

Spoiler: wearing

Annis walked across the room looking at the resplendent dresses that everyone was wearing, sparkles here, holograms there, enchanted silks elsewhere. If anything she was underdressed in comparison, she wore a relatively simple but elegant red gown that highlighted her form. Why would she wear something more extravagant, a work of art was not improved by the addition of a gaudy frame. She smirked and looked across at Bastila Sal-Soren in her own, frame. Perhaps it was the way that Dominic Praxon watched her descend the stairs but the poor Sal-Soren woman had immediately made herself the poster child for such sentiments. Annis embraced a jealous streak that would make the witch that trained her as a teenager proud.

Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.

Words to live by.

But she was also a seasoned politician and the Senator of Naboo so she smiled beautifull and greeted Bastilla with a raised glass as she moved down and into the floor.

Annis made her way towards and past Dominic, she mimicked the way he had teased her by uttering something and then retreating except she wouldn't go as far as Dominic and would be there for him to find in her splendour.

"If you expect the spider world to sparkle, perhaps that makes you a leg man."

What?

She put her glass to her lips to supress a giggle at her girlish games while waiting for the real politics to begin.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

The Final Light​

Lorn barely kept his expression in check when she lit up like that. The Force had seen fit to scatter a few suns across the galaxy, and then- apparently - condensed all their light into her smile.

When her fingers brushed his chest, he nearly forgot how to breathe. He'd faced down warlords, interrogated cultists, stared into the screaming void between dying ships - but that? That near-weightless touch from Ala, half-curious and half-something-else? That was a tactical nuke in the shape of a compliment.

"The fabric thanks you," he murmured, watching her retreat like a spark about to become a fire. His mouth curved into a real, rare smile - quiet and a little uneven, like it was still learning how to be used. "And for the record… that wasn't too personal."

Then came the promise.

His brow quirked as she leaned in, all glitter and gravity. Whatever it was, he didn't stand a chance. Not against that tone, not against her eyes.

"I promise," he said simply. And he meant it.

She vanished into the crowd like a ripple in spacetime - swift, bright, and slightly destabilizing. Lorn exhaled slowly, catching the eye of a passing server and relieving their tray of something tall, pale, and undoubtedly expensive.

He tossed it back in one smooth motion. It tasted like citrus and regret.

The music swelled. Around him, diplomacy performed its ancient mating dance - politicians bowing with knives behind their backs, dignitaries laughing just a hair too loud. But Lorn's eyes tracked only the path Ala had disappeared through, like some part of him believed if he looked hard enough, she'd loop back around instantly.

He adjusted his jacket. Fidgeted with the edge of his mask. Tried very hard not to glance at the nearest reflective surface to check how out og place he looked.

This wasn't like war. It was worse. No battlefield had ever made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something good - something that might break him in all the right ways if he let it.

So naturally, he stood there like a fool. Waiting.

Ala Quin​

 

[Indra Quin]

The invitation had said all were welcome. A rare thing. No noble seal required. No need to belong. And so she came.

The Force around her was still. Suppressed. Not masked in fear — simply folded inward with clinical precision, like a blade sheathed beneath silk. She moved through the twilight ballroom unnoticed by senses that might otherwise have flared. That was the point.

Crimson silk brushed the floor as she paused beside the mirrored colonnade. From here, she watched. Ala Quin.

She didn’t need to ask someone her name. She already knew it. Too well. The Sith’s whisper still echoed in her thoughts like a flaw in the code: Ala.

She had followed every thread, every archive, every classified citation her access could pull — and yet nothing had connected the Jedi Knight with anything relevant to her creation, her warpath, or the secrets Diarch Rellik held like gospel.

And yet..there she was. Laughing. Dazzling. Embraced in the eyes of a man who looked like he might break if he blinked.

Indra tilted her head. She stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. Her movements lacked the urgency of someone who belonged to a warzone. Tonight, she belonged to the mask.

Crimson against dying light. Curves against restraint. Hair sweeping one shoulder — just as it had for the girl who had left him waiting. And she said nothing. Only offered a soft smile. A faint tilt of the head. A presence that shouldn’t have matched Ala Quin’s quite so well — and yet somehow did.

Her eyes lingered on his. Not searching — mirroring. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, smooth and ambiguous. “Didn't want to keep you waiting.”

She turned her body slightly, as if to step past him — then stopped. She looked out over the crowd. Then back to him. That was all. Let him decide what he saw.

| Outfit: This | TAG: Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Ala Quin]

The kitchen staff froze for a moment when she stepped inside. Her sparkly dress, glowing cheeks, and radiant energy didn’t exactly scream “authorized personnel.” But Ala smiled brightly anyway.

There was a pause. One of the chefs raised an eyebrow. “Milkshakes?”

“Yes, please. Just—y’know—cold, creamy, joyful? Preferably with a straw?”

They exchanged glances. Someone stifled a laugh. “Miss, this is a galactic-tier event kitchen. We’re doing precision-plated tasting clouds and frozen gemstone sorbet spheres.”

“No blender. No syrup. No milkshake.”

“Oh.” Her enthusiasm dimmed slightly, but she rallied fast, fingers tapping together in front of her. “Is there maybe someone else I could talk to?”

A sous-chef sighed and pointed to the far end of the hall. “Try the concierge liaison. His job is making impossible things happen. He’s your best bet.”

---

A few minutes and a lot of apologetic “excuse me”s later, Ala found the concierge. He was poised, polished, and looked like he hadn’t blinked since the gala began.

She stepped up, trying her best not to bounce with urgency.

“Hi! Could you… um… quickly arrange two milkshakes? It’s for something really important.”

| Outfit: This | Tag: Lorn Reingard | Equipment: One very important idea, zero milkshakes |​

 

[Dominique Vexx]

A fine brow rose as her chin lifted slightly. "Route the shipment through the Denebe Starport. You'll find them quite accommodating," Vexx explained. Sometimes you had to give in order to get. Foster good relations. It usually paid in the long-run and that was her personal focus; let others wring their hands over their short-term gains and losses.

The moment's conversation partner was, of course, thrilled at overcoming a bureaucratic mess in need of an alternative route. They pardoned themselves and left Dominique to look out into the crowd where she caught sight of Brandyn Sal-Soren . Young and ambitious, she could understand what Brandyn was going through.

Oh, not because her Father was a notorious criminal, of course, but cleaning up after someone else's public mess. Her time as a Senator with the Alliance had been filled with that. Some might say her time with the Republic as a Senator might be much the same, only this time she had a hand on the till herself. Dominique wouldn't let the DireX make a mess of things if she could convince enough of them for more surgical responses.

"Mister Sal-Soren," she replied warmly and with a smile. Family might be blood, but that didn't mean anything in the world of business interests. Sins of the Father only mattered when it came to paying your debtors. Doubtful even if he had any on Denon they'd waste her time whining about collecting; and if they did doubtful Dominique would listen -- collecting debts wasn't difficult if mattered so much. "Pleasure to see you here this resplendent evening."

"If you don't mind me asking, what brings you to the exchange?"

OPEN​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Time passed so very slowly. Or maybe that was just the second drink. Or third. Lorn had lost count somewhere between the senator from Koorvia mispronouncing five planets in one sentence and a minor trade mogul nearly tripping over a diplomat's train while trying to look suave.

He stood there, still in the same spot she'd left him, a static point in a moving galaxy. Waiting. One boot slightly tapping against the polished floor like a quiet metronome of anxiety.

Ala had said "just a moment." But moments in places like this had a way of stretching into hours, or headlines, or histories.

He was just beginning to worry. Not the good kind of worry. The messy kind. The kind that said Maybe she ran into someone better.

He'd just lifted another too sweet, too foamy cocktail from a tray when the world stopped and restarted.

She was there.

Same hair. Same eyes. Same way of moving like she didn't fully know the effect she had on a room, but part of her absolutely did.

But-

His breath caught.

Her dress was different now. No longer starlight silver, but crimson - a deep, deliberate red that clung like memory. She looked…

Unreal.

For a second, his mind fuzzed, not from alcohol but from the subtle shift in the air around her. She was still her, but her presence - it had become different. Less radiant, more... precise. Like her light had been folded inward.

Probably just the drinks. He had three kinds of fruity, sugary alcohol in his bloodstream and one of them might've been fermented star-cherry.

Still, she stepped up to him with that same smile, same tilt of the head, and something in his chest uncoiled.

"You changed," he said softly, blinking once to clear the static behind his eyes. His tone tried for casual but landed somewhere in reverent awe. "That the surprise? Because I'm not going to lie, you looked incredible before, but this, this is…"

He trailed off, giving her a once-over that was entirely too personal.

"…statistically unfair."

He shifted his weight, searching her face like it was a map with just one symbol out of place. Something didn't match. Not wrong, not dangerous, just… off. Like someone had dimmed a lightbulb by one watt. But the eyes were hers. The mouth. The expression. The heartbeat his had started syncing with before he even knew it.

He chuckled faintly, a little self-deprecating. "I was starting to think maybe the surprise was going to be a diplomatic ambush. Or a holographic pie to the face. Something ceremonial."

His hand brushed the edge of her arm. Not a grab - just a gentle, grounding contact. Real, his fingers said. She's real.

"Okay then," he said, quiet and steady, as if she were the one who might vanish this time. "Shall we dance?"

Indra Quin | Ala Quin | WHAT IS GOING ON​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The descent ended, but the gravity she carried did not. Bastila moved from the final stair into the sea of candlelight and murmuring masks, and the ballroom seemed to fold around her — not parted like a path, but curved, as if space itself yielded in quiet deference.

She did not rush. Each step was measured, her gown a living constellation that responded not just to movement, but to mood — stardust and electric violet now, with filaments of silver that shimmered like comet trails as she walked. Conversation resumed around her, but softer, laced with that curious kind of reverence reserved for the unknown.

She glanced to her right — across the ballroom’s golden spine — and her eyes caught on the glint of a red gown and a sharper smile.

Countess Annis Riyaré.

She was unfamiliar with the Countess and Senator in all aspects but name, Bastila’s foray into the noble world has meant that she knew of Riyaré, her reputation, her standing. There was no animosity to be had, not here, not now. Bastila dipped her chin, just enough to be respectful, giving the acknowledgment of presence — two orbits brushing for the briefest moment.

And then; a shift.
She turned her head slightly, just slightly toward the colonnade. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to find him in the crowd.


Dominic.


He stood as he always did in rooms like these: poised, deliberate, the centre of a constellation of power without appearing to seek it. But his gaze had slipped. Just once. Just enough. Their eyes met across the polished span of the ballroom, and for a moment, there was no one else in the room but the two of them.


She didn't smile.


She didn't need to.


That moment — that glance — held weight enough to tip whole balances. Then she turned away, graceful and unhurried, shifting her attention like the stars shifting position, inevitable and without apology.

“Stars above, if it isn’t Little Lady Sal-Soren.”

The voice came from just off her left flank — warm, unmasked, and threaded with the kind of disbelief that only joy brings. She turned before she fully recognised the man now standing beside her, and then she smiled — truly smiled — the tension in her shoulders giving way.

Rendell Vane.

He was older now — beard silvering, hair combed back with only modest success — but the core of him was unchanged. Still tall, still broad, still wrapped in the same homespun charm he’d always carried despite the estate he managed on Brentaal. A long time friend of her father. A man who’d once held her hand as a child when she’d tried (and failed) to sneak into a starport hangar at age six.

“Mr Rendell Vance,” she said, her voice lighter, real. “It’s meant to be a masquerade, for all you know you’ve just spoken to Lady Harken of Rendili.”

He laughed, full and unbothered by pretence. “Oh dear, I probably have. You, however, look like a dream from a Corellian opera. I didn’t recognize you until you moved — that stride. All Sal-Soren. Harken’s walk like Rancors”

She took his offered hand and gave it a small squeeze. “A dream? You always said I’d walk into trouble one day.”

“And yet here you are, walking into a ballroom and causing far more than that. Your mother would be scandalized.”

“She’d blame the dress.”

“It is a show stealer. I’m pretty sure I heard some of the old Courtier’s die of shock when you entered.”

They laughed — quiet, contained, but sincere. Around them the masquerade resumed its natural rhythm, the music a steady pulse of elegance and formality, but for a moment Bastila stood in a bubble of something more genuine.

Rendell’s expression softened. “I’d glad you accepted my invite. When I heard you were in system… Well. It’s been too long, child.”

“It has,” she agreed, and for a flicker of time, the mask she wore — not the one carved of starmaps and polished onyx, but the other one, the invisible one — slipped.

There was a gravity to her silence. The kind that comes from too many corridors walked alone. But Rendell didn’t push. He simply offered his arm.

“Come. Walk with me. I’ll introduce you to the new Chandrilan trade attaché before the hounds from the Assembly start their dance. I’ve heard there is a particularly nasty Brentaalan one who is dancing most furiously these past few weeks, best keep you a close secret.”

She took his arm, not because she needed to; But because she wanted to.

And as they began to move — nebula trailing in her wake, eyes still lingering in her periphery — Bastila let herself exist, briefly, in the warmth of a memory made real. Not a weapon. Not a mystery.

Just Bastila Sal-Soren. Walking into the heart of the storm with the stars still blooming on her skin.

Dominic Praxon Annis Riyaré

​