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

[Ala Quin]

The vendor’s cart was small but inviting, lights glowing warmly against the chill of the planet’s dusk air. Ala all but skipped to it, hope beaming from her in waves. “Two milkshakes, please! Extra cold!”

The vendor nodded, hands moving fast—until one of the drinks, mid-hand off, tipped far too early. Ala gasped.

The milkshake hit her squarely in the chest, the creamy contents cascading down her once-beautiful dress like some cruel cosmic joke. She stared at it in mute horror, droplets slipping from the silvery fabric to the pavement.

She froze. For multiple reasons.

"No. No no no—please tell me this didn't just happen—" She looked down, horrified. "This was supposed to be..." she lifted part of the train. "…completely ruined!"

"Oh—oh no. I'm so sorry," the vendor winced, clearly distressed. "I didn't mean to! That lid wasn't secure—uh—okay okay, breathe—"

Ala held the one intact milkshake like a sacred relic, the other dripping slowly from her bodice to the cobblestones. Her breath hitched.

"I left him to get these. I left the Spire. I made him promise not to move! I was going to surprise him and now I look like a bantha fell in a dessert cart and—"

"Right! Uh, okay. We—one of our staff didn't show tonight. We've got a clean uniform. Freshly pressed. It's in the back. If you want it—?"

She blinked at him. "A uniform?" Her voice cracked.

The vendor gestured gently. "Look, it's not a gown, but it's not covered in whipped cream either."

Ala looked down again. Her dress was utterly unsalvageable. Sticky. Heavy. She could feel it cooling against her skin.

A long, tragic silence. "…Yes. Please."

---

The restroom she changed in was lit like an interrogation room and smelled like damp citrus and despair. She maneuvered out of the gown with as much grace as a desperate Jedi could, stuffed it into the fresher bin, and pulled on the vendor uniform.

It swallowed her.

Sleeves past her hands. Pants rolled to her knees. Her reflection looked like a child pretending to be a line cook. She laughed.

A cleaning droid beeped and trundled in just as she exited.

"Perfect timing," she muttered with a grin.

Two milkshakes in hand (again), Ala ran back toward the shuttle bay. She didn't care anymore about the dress, or the uniform, or the looks. She just wanted to get back to Lorn.

| Outfit: This | Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Myr Dhurri]

「 Tag: Brandyn Sal-Soren | Dominique Vexx | Joran Del-Finn 」​

"The Celestial Exchange recognizes all present—" Came the words of the Moderator, drawing Myr's attention from the aloft maps. Myr moved from his spot toward one a bit better suited to listen to the Moderator as he listed off planets and their respective values as points of origin for a new hyperlane. He seemed to be cut from the typical cloth of the bureaucrat, a cog in the larger machine of civic engineering and public service.

An immense endeavor, this. Thought the Umbaran, his pale eyes flicking from the Moderator to the maps to remind himself where planets like Skynara and Svivren even were, least of all now with the chaos that was the state of the galaxy.

As the Umbaran's eyes wandered back to the the Moderator, they fell upon a pastel-clad man. Joran was large man, seemingly to be double the size of Myr in all dimensions. A factoid the Umbaran was quick to factor as he evaluated the broad man. Could he be some sort of gladiator? Perhaps a soldier— ah, but he wore no dress uniform. A blaster-for-hire, yes, maybe...

But even as he attempted to divine the truth of the man, another — Brandyn — would speak. This one was easier to read with his uniform and the composed way he carried himself; he was some sort of career military-man for sure, but, clearly a well-learned one for his line of questioning was cut-throat yet so elegantly coifed as to not arouse ire.

With the casual grace of a dancer, Myr moved through the now largely stationary crowd in order to move closer to Brandyn to best hear what this one had to say. His movements were punctuated with intentional missteps and the occasional, soft request for pardon to various dignitaries as he put them off-guard, disrupting their cerebral footing to keep the crowd at bay while Brandyn and Myr waited for the Moderator's reply.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

The Final Light​

Lorn's breath hitched. Not the kind that came with want - the kind that came with warning. A ripple through the Force, subtle but undeniable. Like a note gone sour in a perfect melody.

She was still in his arms. Still Ala. But suddenly… not.

The way her hands moved - not reverent, but claiming. The way she watched him - not with affection, but assessment. Like a tactician testing the strength of his armor. Like a thief deciding what to steal first.

And then she said her name again. Ala. But not as herself. As if she were someone else talking about her. And Lorn froze.

His smile faltered. Not all at once. Just a slight hitch at the corner of his mouth, like a ship drifting off-course before anyone notices it's sinking.

"What… do I see in her?" he echoed, slowly. Carefully. His voice shifted, still soft, but now wrapped in the kind of steel you only forge after you've bled for it.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Those same eyes. But now, for the first time, he really looked into them. Past the perfect symmetry. Past the curated expressions. Past the illusion.

And what he saw wasn't warmth. It wasn't light. It was calculation. The kind of calculation he'd seen behind enemy lines. In the quiet before betrayals. In the face of someone who was wearing something they didn't earn.

"You know," he said, voice suddenly dry, eyes scanning hers like a map he wasn't sure he should've trusted in the first place. "That's a strange question. Coming from you."

He stepped back. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a single, deliberate pace. Enough to breathe. His heart thudded, hard, in his chest. Because the Force was no longer whispering something's wrong. It was shouting it. He looked her over again. Same face. Same body. But the presence was all wrong. Folded in, too still, too sharp. The echoes didn't line up.

He'd told her he was happy. That he'd finally let his guard down. That he wasn't waiting for betrayal.

And now here it was.

"…Who are you?" Lorn asked. Not in anger. Not yet. Just quiet devastation. The kind that slips in under the door when you thought you'd finally found peace.

Indra Quin | Ala Quin​

 

[Indra Quin]

For a moment, she didn't answer. She just looked at him — really looked — and something behind her eyes twisted. Not rage. Not panic.

Pity.

Her posture changed. Just slightly. The barest slump of her shoulders. The faint exhale of someone disappointed by the outcome, but not surprised. She looked down. When she looked back up, the heat was smouldered, but in ruin.

Now she wore something else entirely: Ala's hurt. Or at least, a clever approximation of it.

The kind that knew exactly how to look broken.

Her fingers curled around his wrist — gentle, hesitant, almost shaking. Her voice softened, not sultry this time, but caught between confession and shame.

"I tried," she said quietly. "I tried to give you something you wanted. Something I didn't think…" — she raised her fingers and gave a mocking little air quote — "…'Ala' could be."

There was a hollow laugh behind her breath. Just one. Enough to sting.

"But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

Instead, she let go of his wrist, turned on the soft press of her heel, and walked — not like a predator in retreat, but like a woman who'd just been rejected by someone she loved too much to hate. Her steps were slow, controlled, filled with sorrow she didn't feel and regret she didn't earn.

| TAG: Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

She let the familiarity of Rendell’s presence tether her just enough to steady her in a room that still felt like it tilted slightly on its axis.

He guided her gently toward the next conversation, weaving between knots of diplomats and heirs to dynasties their laughter polished, their masks hiding little and revealing less. Bastila moved with ease beside him, her fingers resting lightly on his arm, the nebulae of her gown adapting once again — softer now, the flare of comet light giving way to something more subdued. Lunar silver, delicate as breath. She wasn’t dimming. Just choosing when to shine.

She listened as Rendell introduced her to the new Chandrilan attaché, a man with kind eyes and careful hands who clearly had no idea who she was. That suited her fine. She bowed her head, offered a wry smile, said very little.

They made pleasant conversation — pleasant enough that Bastila barely noticed the seconds stretching beneath her skin like thread being drawn too tightly through fabric. Her awareness didn’t flicker outward, not obviously, but some part of her — the part that had always lived two seconds ahead of herself — kept note of the movement across the floor.

Where Dominic had been.
Where he was now.
Where he might go.

Not because she sought him.

Because the air itself had changed the moment they’d seen each other.

Still, she gave no outward sign. She was the picture of composed grace, responding to compliments with soft gratitude, to veiled inquiries with amused ambiguity. Her mask — literal and otherwise — remained in place.

But she felt him.

Whether he moved or stood still, whether he approached or waited — it didn’t matter. His presence pressed gently at the edges of her mind like a song remembered from long ago, half-heard beneath other sounds.

“…and of course, your ensemble is unlike anything I’ve seen,” the attaché was saying now, clearly emboldened. “It must be a Core design. Or is it something new from—?”

Bastila tilted her head slightly, cutting the compliment off with a gentle, unapologetic smile. “It isn’t from anywhere,” she said. “It’s just a reminder.”

“A reminder?” he echoed, confused but charmed.

“Of the stars,” she said simply.

Then — as if summoned by something quieter than music — her attention shifted. Just enough to signal a drift. Not an escape — not yet — but a natural orbit adjusting course. She turned back to Rendell, her voice low enough to stay private.

“Did you mean it, what you said earlier?” she asked. “About the Five Veils?”

Rendell’s smile thinned, just slightly. “Of course, I have personal interest in that Trade Route, after all any means to get my business that far down is welcome. Word’s quiet. But not silent. I’ve heard two different dynasts mention renewed interest in the corridor’s southern axis — someone’s testing the waters near the Republic border fringes. Trade permissions, old mining claims. Could be nothing. Could be a recalibration.”

“Or a private claim dressed in public interest,” she murmured.

“Exactly that. But tonight’s not the night for strategy, is it?”

“No,” she said. “Just observation.”

He looked at her a beat longer, then offered his arm once more. “Walk with me? Just to the north dais.”

They moved again — past mirrors and marble, past conversations frozen mid-thought. And when they reached the edge of the dais, Bastila let her hand drop gently from his arm.

“I’ll find you later,” she said.

Rendell’s reply was soft, a relic from an older time: “Keep your eyes up, and your heart guarded.”

She smiled — for him. Just him. Then turned.

Alone now, she crossed to the overlook beneath the towering mural of the Twelve Moons, the cape of her gown lifting in soft solar winds only she could feel. She stopped at the marble rail and rested her hands there, letting her eyes sweep the ballroom below like a queen from a myth not yet written.

And she waited.

Not for Dominic.

For the inevitable.

Because this night was always going to find its shape eventually —
and Bastila had never feared the shape of things to come.

Not when the stars were already written on her skin.

Dominic Praxon Annis Riyaré

​

 

[Ala Quin]

The milkshakes were still cold. Miraculously.

Ala’s boots thudded against the permacrete as she dashed back into the shuttle bay, wild curls bouncing, uniform too-big and flapping at the ankles. She was beaming again, flushed from the run, pride recovering from earlier indignities—and then she saw the queue.

Or more specifically, the lack of shuttles. Her smile wilted. “No,” she whispered, voice cracking. “No no no no no—”

A lone astromech beeped from a maintenance lane. A dockhand shrugged at her from behind the kiosk. "All grounded for refuel or reroute. Next available in twenty.”

Ala stared at him. Twenty?

What was she supposed to do—guard these milkshakes with her life while they melted?

She slumped onto a supply crate. The uniform’s oversized collar slouched over one shoulder. Her hair stuck to her neck. She stared at the drinks in her hands like they’d betrayed her. “I came all this way…” she murmured. “There were cleaning droids. I changed in a broom closet.”

Another shuttle landed. Not hers. She sighed. The minutes ticked.

Then—finally—a fresh shuttle door hissed open. Ala nearly jumped to her feet, nearly dropped a shake, and definitely power-walked like a woman who would not be delayed again.

She boarded without a second thought. Two milkshakes. No gown. Still somehow... smiling.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

The Final Light​

Lorn stood there, caught in the aftershock of her retreat, staring at the space she'd left like it might explain something. What just happened? The galaxy had shifted under his boots and left him in the ruins of a moment that had felt, only seconds ago, like salvation.

Was this a test? Some elaborate courtly game they played that he didn't know? Was Ala testing him?

No.

No, this wasn't her.

But it was. It had to be. The way she touched him, the weight of her voice, the ache - that didn't come from nowhere. You can't counterfeit connection. Right?

Lorn's heart thundered like it wanted out. His thoughts tripped over each other. I tried to give you something you wanted… The words echoed. Mocking. Earnest. Both. Neither. He didn't know anymore.

Across the room, Aiden Porte , he caught his glance. Lorn gave him a look. Not an order. Just… What the hell was that?

But Lorn wasn't done yet.

He moved. Fast.

Weaving through the crowd with practiced footwork that had nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with battlefield momentum, he caught up to her just before the mirrored archway leading out of the ballroom. His hand shot forward - firm but not rough - closing gently but unrelentingly around her wrist.

She stopped.

"Wait," he said, not a command. A plea. Low and hoarse.

He stepped in front of her, searching her face. Not with the awe from before. Not with softness.

With need.

"Tell me what's going on."

His grip loosened. He wasn't here to control. Just to understand. "Because that - what you just said back there - that wasn't you. Not really. It didn't feel like you, and it sure as hell didn't sound like-"

He stopped himself. A breath. A beat.

"You don't get to drop that on me and disappear. Who are you really? Is this some kind of game? Is Ala - are you - in danger? Because if this is some kind of act to push me away for my own good... But if there's something you're not telling me…"

His voice cracked, just barely.

Indra Quin​

 

[Indra Quin]

THEN
​

She was pulled from the battle with less dignity than a gundark trying to dance the Alderrian Waltz. Soldiers pushed forward as medics pulled her back. The impact of hitting the floor of the med-evac speeder was the last thing that she felt, besides the lingering hatred.

She awoke with that hatred still ringing in her soul. The Sith that had defeated her. The confusion on her face. It had ripped open Indra's reality. The Sith had looked at her like she knew her, or like she expected to know her. And the name she spoke rung in Indra's ears. Ala.

It took everything in her not to question her Diarch. Her Lord. He had been so good to her, flattering even. She suspected that he would attempt to woo her, when she had accepted her own station in the Diarchy. But now. There was distrust.

The look on the Sith's face had not just been recognition. It had been horror, the type that could only come from a betrayal beyond imagining. And then the Sith had declared that Indra was not her. The rage with which the Sith then fought had scared Indra. The power was raw, untamed, and fuelled by the emotion that this...Ala...had left behind.

Indra had to know what it all meant. She had to understand. Had to learn what this Ala was, and why they had affected the Sith so.

NOW
​

When his hand took her wrist, and his voice spoke in the low quavering tone that it did, Indra finally understood. Ala was loved. Because she was loveable.

The anger and spite within Indra broke into a thousand shards of sorrow. She barely even heard what the Jedi - whatever his name was - was saying. Despite seeing through Indra's game, the Jedi still chased her. Just for the mere hope that she was Ala and this was all some impractical joke.

Indra felt her chest heave with a sigh. She had refused so far to turn towards him, even as his voice begged for a woman that she could not be. Her eyes looked up to see that she had made it as far as the entrance to the shuttle bay.

"No games..."

Her words were laden with the knowledge that she was not the one. Her mind raced for answers, searching fragments of her memory and seeing Diarch Rellik in all of them. Perhaps the question she should have been asking was not, "Who is Ala?" But maybe it should have been, "Who am I?"

The nearby protocol droid working the shuttlebay registry desk looked up as they approached, tone clipped and mechanical. "Reingard, Lorn. Order of Shiraya shuttle on standby."

Indra flinched — just slightly. Reingard Lorn. So that was his name. Her gaze stayed low.

The game was over. He knew Ala too well to see Indra as the woman he loved. She turned, eyes downcast with resignation. Her voice came soft, like a child repeating a half-remembered story. "What do you see in…me, Mister Lorn?"


She meant it sincerely. And yet, as soon as it left her lips, her chest ached with something that felt like irony.

| OUTFIT: This | TAG: Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Aiden Porte]

The Last Light
Tags: Open

Lorn's eyes met that of the Jedi Padawan, a look of understanding of the situation that seemed to be spiraling out of control. So many question remained, yet something spoke to the Padawan that this wasn't Ala Quin. And if it wasn't, where was the real Ala Quin at? If something happened to her, what if something happened to.....

Isla....

Was she okay too?

Aiden watched as Lorn went after the one who may or may not be Ala. The Jedi turned to the woman he was dancing with. "I apologize, I haven't been as forthcoming as I should've when I asked you to dance." Aiden raised her hand and gave it a small kiss.

"It was fun, despite your attention being elsewhere." She spoke with a small teasing tone, appreciating the proper farewell that seemed to be coming.

"I apologize." Aiden said with a small smile, as his eyes glanced quickly to the other situation and back to her. "Perhaps we will do it again sometime..." Aiden smiled and bowed his head in as gentlemanly as he possibly could before he moved past her. Going after Lorn Reingard not immediately jumping in the middle, as he still kept a little distance, but if necessary he could close that gap in a second or two.

What in the world was going on? He couldn't hear what they were saying, not that he was trying to listen at least not now. He reached for his datapad to send Isla Reingard a message. Nothing drastic at all, but just checking in to make sure she was doing okay, having fun. If she responded normally he would know she was okay.

Indra Quin Ala Quin

 

[Yasima Zyntra]

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

​

Yasima let Isla slide into the pool next to her and giggled. "No, you goon, Eshvika is a place, its where I grew up." she elbowed her in the ribs gently teasing her. She liked Isla, she was sweet, she came across a little goofy but who didn't sometimes.

She felt the foot but hadn't even registered it to be honest, she didn't care and the adamant explanation from the other girl made her grin. "Thats good, cos I saw a Sando beast under the water earlier and I'd rather it be you than him." she joked again before twisting round and placing one of her legs on Isla's knee so she could get in close and offer the other girl a go on the straw. It had a fruity and citric tang to it. It had no alcohol in it but there was no way of knowing that just to look at it and the oh so cool Yasima quite enjoyed that fact.

She giggled at Isla's observation "It does, doesn't it, very summery I think, try some. If you like it we should go halves and get another one." That was an excellent plan all things considered, it came across friendly, which she intended to be, but also allowed her to keep quiet on the fact she hadnt brought very many credits with her.

​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Lorn stared at her like he was trying to hold two versions of her in his mind at once, and failing.

She had her eyes downcast now, but the rest of her posture, the tilt of her shoulders, the ache in her voice - it was Ala. Or it looked like Ala. Or maybe it was something buried inside him, wanting her to be Ala so badly he couldn't see straight. He didn't know anymore. Nothing felt solid beneath him. Every moment since she'd said "Indra" had turned to fog.

And then she said it. That name. Mister Lorn.

He actually flinched. Just slightly.

Because Ala had called him that before - at the very beginning, in the kind of voice that was trying very hard to sound formal but couldn't hide its warmth. Back when they'd met in Theed.

But now…

Now it was like hearing a ghost say your name with someone else's voice. Like a memory had put on new clothes and tried to walk around in the present.

Lorn's brow furrowed. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Cautious. Like he was talking to a dream he might wake from if he got too loud.

"What do I see in… Ala?"

A breath.

"…I see someone who doesn't know how bright she is. Someone who walks into a room and makes everything feel less heavy just by being there. She says things like she's thinking out loud, but somehow they end up being the exact words you didn't know you needed to hear. She's stubborn in all the good ways. Kind in all the dangerous ones. She's -"

He stopped. Looked at her.

"She's full of light. Not because she's trying. Because she can't help it. Like she was made of it. And you don't stand next to that without… without feeling like maybe, just maybe, you could hold on to something good again."

His throat worked, a flicker of pain crossing his face like lightning behind a cloud.

"That's what I see in Ala."

He didn't say you. Not this time. Because he couldn't anymore.

But still, still - he stood there. Not pulling away. Not walking. Just watching her, lost in a storm of questions and hope and dread. Because if this wasn't Ala, then where was she?

And if it was… what had happened to her light?

Indra Quin​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla's entire soul flinched when Yasima called her a goon, but in the best way, like being slapped with a compliment wrapped in a joke. She blinked, caught between surprise and embarrassment, and let out a weird half-laugh, half-sputter. "Wait - Eshvika's a place?!" She smacked herself lightly in the forehead. "Ugh, I thought it was like... a girl with good hair and strong opinions."

She was just processing that when suddenly - leg.

Yasima's actual leg. On her actual knee.

Isla's brain short-circuited like a droid dropped in bathwater. She stared at the leg like it had just manifested out of nowhere, and then blinked at the drink now being offered like a ceremonial goblet at a coronation. She was not mentally prepared for this level of coolness. Yasima had leveled up to Legendary Chill Friend mode and Isla was still fumbling through the tutorial.

"Oh. Uh. Thanks," she mumbled, leaning in to take a careful sip, trying not to make it weird by like, slurping too loud or touching the straw wrong or... breathing incorrectly?

She sipped.

Whoa.

Citrus. Tropical. Something that tasted like being admired. "That's actually... ridiculously good," she said, blinking, then grinned shyly. "If I had a drink like that every day, I think I'd ascend to another plane of existence."

She adjusted her legs nervously under the water so her knee didn't feel like it was on display, and tried to act like this was totally the kind of interaction she had all the time. Which it wasn't. At all.

"I'd totally go halves. Like, spiritually and economically." She paused. "Though, fair warning, I only have like… four credits."

Then, with a flicker of sincerity that rose up through the awkward fog, she glanced over. "So... Eshvika. That's where you're from? What's it like?" Her voice had softened. Curious, real. "Sounds kinda amazing."

Yasima Zyntra​

 

[Dominique Vexx]

The galaxy? Dominique's smile never wavered, but she had serious doubts about Brandyn's optimistic appraisal. One could argue it was balanced, but as she recalled, the galaxy bent toward entropy in the long arc of all cosmic things. It took effort to hold things together. That his eyes weren't filled with blind, zealous optimism suggested the man knew just what sort of effort it took for that 'balance.'

She watched the man as he stepped aside, curious what thoughts he held from their exchange.

At last, however, she was left alone and turned to regarding a report scrolling across the interior of her glareshades. At least until a voice call out from the center of the room, which turn her attention along with everyone else present. Curious, she thought. Why were they speaking through the console and not present with them in the room?

And Brandyn was the one to call out why one of two 'points of origin' for the Five Veils Trade Route had already been secured. Not the first person Dominique would have expected to address the matter. It was interesting, however, was it not? Some backroom deals? Something exchanged as it were. But with whom? Was this not a project being overseen by the Royal Naboo Republic? The commission was being far from proactive in providing their documentation as she'd requested, but surely something this important would have been documented somewhere already. No, they would claim it just happened. Her lips pressed together to keep from clicking her tongue at such obvious maneuvers.

"Perhaps it would help to bring everyone up to speed on past activities, such as which parties agreed to secure Skynara's place?" Dominique Vexx casually. "With such a large project that spans countless star systems it stands to reason not everyone attended every meeting and may have questions. Questions lead to doubt. Doubt leads to anxiety. Anxiety curtails investment." She was, herself, curious as to whom made this choice and perhaps together they might be able to coax out such information. It might be a smoke screen, but there was -- seemingly -- still time to discuss Svivren's fate (or lack thereof).

Brandyn Sal-Soren | Myr Dhurri | Joran Del-Finn​

 

[Brandyn Sal-Soren]

A new holomap shimmered to life at the moderator's gesture, displaying the intricate design of Skynara’s starports, transit hubs, and orbital lanes — all humming with theoretical readiness. The pitch was familiar: history, infrastructure, expediency. It was a solid case, undeniably.

Brandyn glanced sideways at Dominique and offered a small, respectful nod — quiet approval for her push for transparency.

“And how many other proposals were seriously considered?” he asked evenly, voice crisp against the hush of the chamber.

The moderator’s voice, steady and rehearsed, responded: “Three proposals were presented to the committee. The vote to designate Skynara as the primary point of origin was unanimous.”

Brandyn’s brow ticked faintly.

“May I ask,” he continued, his voice softening into something more inquisitive than accusatory, “the names of those who voted?”

The room fell silent.

“Confidential,” came the reply. “For security purposes.”

“Whose security, I wonder…” Brandyn murmured under his breath, his gaze lingering on the holomap. It was, in truth, a well-made decision. Skynara had every logistical advantage. But that didn’t make it clean.

And still… nothing solid. No link he could expose. The smuggling trail remained smoke without flame. Just whispers. Just doubt.

Brandyn stepped back slightly from the gathering, the Jedi in him slipping quietly behind the diplomat. Perhaps he’d already said too much.

The room churned forward — politics, promises, plans — and Brandyn Sal-Soren, for now, simply listened.

| TAG: Dominique Vexx Myr Dhurri Joran Del-Finn |

​

 

[Myr Dhurri]

「 Tag: Brandyn Sal-Soren | Dominique Vexx 」​

Myr observed the exchange between Brandyn and the Moderator with the attention of a prowling animal — savoring its upcoming meal. It was all plain, of course, logically there was no better choice than Skynara for it could clearly support the influx of traffic and not suffer some sort of gross disaster as ships and bodies move through its space at new rates that boggled even the most prepared statistician's mind.

The push for more, the questing for further data points, all of it seemed to spur something within the crowd... But what? Myr lacked data of his own; he felt a certain wrongness in the affair, he registered the subtle movement of Brandyn's brow and the curling of words unintelligible at this distance. What was wrong here?

Myr stepped forward. He was not a diplomat nor a Rootai trained politician, but he was trained in covert operations and this was merely another form of espionage. He cleared his throat softly and his voice, melodious and dulcet, far deeper than one might expect from someone so visibly lithe but soft like velvet, rang out toward the Moderator.

"Your Honor, ah, dear Moderator," Myr was stood now decidedly outside the crowd, he did not like being this exposed but he had to gather data to form a better picture. "I am a simple spacer who will be looking for employment along this new route, what will protections for us folk look like? I'm no stranger to protecting my cargo but it's always nice to know that a patrol or two will have my back in a scrap."

There. Myr thought. If this uniformed man wants to know who voted, let the Moderator answer this question. Anyone voting will likely have been influenced through campaign donations, gifts, or similar such common tactics of the ruling class. We need only figure out who specifically sent these bribes: for if the defenses are privatized then look to the military contractors hired, if the defenses are left up to planetary navies then look to what planets have the best defenses, and if it was left purely in the hands of the government then look to the arms companies who would profit the most from outfitting the navy for anti-piracy duties.

Myr's gaze, pale blue and ever-so unnerving in its intensity, shot briefly from the Moderator toward Brandyn as if asking does this help? The silent question was punctuated by an impish smile, it softened the Umbaran's edge and made him seem a far more mischievous than malicious yet there was unmistakable danger to him. Like a creature from the pages of an old fairy story given life, not evil but certainly not to be trusted.

 

[Dominique Vexx]

Vexx used an ocular gesture to set her glareshades to record what was being displayed. Sometimes asking a question in public encouraged even shady business partners to offer something up to cut short a line of uncomfortable questioning. Good to see it had worked here. It would take time to properly review everything they displayed -- and no doubt that had been the point of an information dump.

Brandyn had a few follow-up questions afterward. She hoped he wouldn't keep pressing them too hard on the matter. It might start to make them nervous wondering what the Jedi might know. As someone that had to deal with that very thing herself several times, Vexx well understood how they felt. But, the man had confirmed the Committee's involvement. Perhaps some of the records would substantiate it and help identify those purportedly responsible.

A third stepped forward and asked about employment security along the trade route. Dominique kept her eyes focused on the displays and stepped forward to listen carefully to what the masses were murmuring about. As it turned out, they'd immediately turned back to the second choice. Given the opportunity to weigh in, they were content not to press on the choice taken out of their control. Adorable.

After a few moments, Dominique turned to regard the center of the chamber -- the Moderator. "Identifying the far reaches of the Five Veils trade route is important, of course, but I couldn't help notice its official trail head." A few finely-manicured fingers entered in a short sequence on the controls to bring up the other end of the route. "The Iktotch are, of course, a most capable people, but the spaceports and platforms of Denon would facilitate considerable more shipments and materials. I would propose to the Committee to consider extending the route further north. The Authorities of Denon are quite familiar with our local region. I don't foresee this posing a financial burden on the initiative, and the rewards would be well beyond imagination."

Was there a conspiracy? Quite likely. Had they failed to bribe her? Certainly. Could she still wrestle some form of benefit out of this for Denon, despite needing to excise a monopolizing influence? No question whatsoever. Even if Cortessan secured their interests, the two of them would find some way to reach an accord. The alternative would be to the detriment of both parties.

Brandyn Sal-Soren | Myr Dhurri | Joran Del-Finn​

 

[Indra Quin]

She blinked slowly, as if surfacing from some dream that hadn’t ended kindly. Then, in a voice barely louder than the hum of the shuttle systems behind her, “It’s strange hearing you say all that… like you're remembering something I haven't lived.”

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She stared at him, but not into him — not quite. Like she was trying to see through herself instead.

“Sometimes I feel like there’s this... shape I’m supposed to fit into. Something unfinished. Someone else’s shadow still clinging to my skin.” She took a breath. Her lips parted like she might say more, but nothing came.

Instead, she moved toward him. One step. Then another. And then she was there, wrapping her arms around him in a single, sudden motion — pulling him close with a quiet desperation she didn’t fully understand.

She clung to him like she needed to be reminded she was real. Her cheek pressed against his chest. Her breath caught. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be right now,” she whispered, “but I know I need someone.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a lie. It was a space between truths — one that only he could choose how to fill.

| TAG: Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Lorn stood frozen, arms slack at his sides as she folded into him, as if she belonged there, or wanted to. The smell of her, filled his lungs, and still he didn't move. Not right away.

Because this wasn't the kind of embrace that warmed you. It hollowed.

"I don't know who I'm supposed to be right now…"

The words slid into him like a blade that apologized on its way in.

He finally moved, his arms rising and settling around her in careful, uneven increments. Like a man handling something fragile that might either fall apart or explode, or both. His chin brushed the top of her head. His eyes stared over her shoulder, unblinking.

And for the first time since she said "Indra," he stopped trying to solve her.

He just let the ache be what it was.

"You don't have to be anyone right now," he said quietly. "You just have to be… honest."

His hand found the back of her head, fingers brushing her hair with a gentleness that had outlived too many battlefields.

"I don't care what your name is. I don't care what you were told to be. If you're in trouble, if someone's using you, twisting you, breaking you, then you don't have to carry that alone."

He pulled back enough to look at her, really look at her. The face that wasn't hers. Or maybe was. He didn't know anymore. Maybe he didn't need to.

"I've spent too many years holding broken things together with my bare hands. People. Promises. Pieces of myself. So if you're asking me to see you, even if you don't know who that is…"

A quick pause.

"…then I will."

It wasn't a declaration. It was exhaustion shaped like mercy.

And for now, he held her. Because someone had to.

Indra Quin​

 

[Indra Quin]

Something slipped.

Not from her fingers, or her lips — but from somewhere deeper, somewhere buried. And the moment it happened, Lorn would feel it through the Force. A pressure. Then a release. Like glass cracking inward instead of shattering out.

A flicker. An impression. Just for a heartbeat — and only if he was attuned to it — Lorn would glimpse it: jagged memories, or the hollow where memories should be. A faceless medic turning away. A Sith’s eyes wide with horror. A name screamed like a prayer and a curse. Then nothing.

Blank space. And in that emptiness, his face. Lorn’s. Becoming the only fixed thing in a spinning void.

Her arms tightened around him, and she tilted her head upward, pressing her cheek gently against his chest. Her breath caught, then steadied in the quiet space where his heartbeat lived, just beneath her ear.

“My mind came apart tonight…” she whispered, “…not broken. Just scattered. Like a thousand pieces of something I was never taught to hold.”

She pulled back slightly — not away — just enough to meet his eyes.

"What I'm chasing doesn't have a name. It's too fragile, too wild to be boxed in by something neat."

Her fingers brushed his jaw, a touch trembling but deliberate. “I don't know what I am...but I know what I want...”

Her eyes searched, vulnerable and gleaming with tears half-formed.

“…it’s you.”

Then, without rush or flourish, she kissed him. Not a claim. Not seduction. Just a kiss — steady, searching, and unbearably human. A plea pressed against his lips, not for passion, but for recognition. For an anchor.

She didn’t say she loved him. She didn’t say she was Ala. But when she stepped back, the echo lingered between them like a half-formed memory.

“Is it so bad to want just one real thing?”

| TAG: Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Annis Riyaré]

Annis Riyaré, Countess of Lopenthé, Senator of Naboo

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

Spoiler: wearing

She smiled at the complement from Dominic Praxon "Thank you, I find it quite fascinating to observe how people present themselves to the outside, there is someone quite beautiful fashion on display. Myself, I took one look at this and knew it the only thing I could possibly wear tonight." she smirked and turned towards him a little.

She had wondered a lot about the Five Veils and how it impacted the Republic. "Naboo and Enarc both, the Veils are an interesting question. Of course it is quite easy to argue the economic benefits of such a large entity, and many do. But for a long time that area of space has been plagued by the fact that the credit speaks loud enough to silence any other factors." she shrugged and took a drink from her glass. She found her eyes scanning the room again to fall on Joran Del-Finn a particularly muscular gentleman she had had little personal correspondence with her looking over. She raised her glass politely before continuing to Braxton.

"However this is not how things work in the Republic, so one of us has to adapt" she let out a little laugh, it wasnt going to be the Republic, as much as some of the corpocrats might wish it so. Annis glanced towards Bastila Sal-Soren again following the eyes of the gentleman, the woman was hard not to look at after all.