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

[Annis Riyaré]

Annis Riyaré, Countess of Lopenthé, Senator of Naboo

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

Spoiler: wearing

She let Dominic dance with her, leading her into the dance floor and enjoying the feel of his arm around her waist. He was a good dancers, which went very well with his handsome good looks and his pleasant aroma.

Annis saw the Sal-Soren woman approaching, moving with grace, elegance and a mission. She smiled happily to see the other noble woman "Lady Sal-Soren" she said with a polite nod of her head as she greeted them and then none to subtely interjected herself into their dance. Dominic is it? Interesting. The back and forth glances had given her suspiscion but the first name and the immediacy of its use clarified it more for her. Annis knew that woman, she had been that woman and seeing this stirred up the witch inside her. But she wouldn't allow her emotions to rise out and let Bastilla have that power when she was so clumsily playing her hand.

"Oh, of course Mr Praxon, dont let me stop you. It must be terribly urgent for the lady to interrupt our dance like this." she smirked and gently bowed as she took a step back from Dominic. As Bastilla took his attention she found herself swirling her finger round in circles in the top of her glass like a witch mixing so much ichor.

 

[Ala Quin]

For a moment, Ala was all bounce and brightness. She grinned up at him, cheeks flushed and curls frizzed with the stubbornness of someone who refused to be defeated by time, weather, or dairy-based disasters. “Okay... but you’re still drinking that. Because I fought the galaxy for that shake.”

She gestured vaguely at herself with the hand still holding her own cup. “And if you hate the outfit, please know I had a whole... plan. With a dress. And a dramatic return. There was even a joke about milkshakes bringing Jedi to the ballroom but I spared us both.”

She gave a small, breathless laugh, but her eyes flicked over his face again. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling.

And slowly, something changed in her expression. Just a flicker. Barely visible. But real. The light dimmed behind her eyes as the possibilities caught up. What if this wasn’t funny to him? What if she’d ruined everything by being herself?

She stepped back half a pace. Just enough to give space. Just enough to brace for it.

Her fingers tightened around her milkshake. She took a long sip, partly to give herself something to do—partly to keep from saying the wrong thing too fast. Then, she spoke softly. “…You’re about to end this, aren’t you?”

Another sip. Her throat moved once. “Not that it’s a thing to end. But if you are… just—just get it over with. Say it. I can take it.”

Her voice didn't break. But it swayed—like it wanted to. She looked down. Then up. She was still smiling. A little. Because Ala Quin always smiled. Even when it hurt.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn didn't answer her right away.

He just stood there, milkshake in hand, watching the way her smile fractured at the corners like glass trying not to break. The way she pulled back, half a step, half a world away. The way her voice held steady when everything else inside her clearly wasn't.

His throat tightened.

Not because she said something wrong. But because she thought she had to.

Because Ala Quin, the brightest damn thing to stumble into his life when he wasn't even looking, was standing there preparing to be left. Preparing for disappointment. Preparing for him.

That was what cracked it.

Lorn took a sip of the milkshake. It was warm, hopelessly melted, more milk than shake. He tasted half-hearted chocolate and some faintly sour hope. It made his lips twitch.

"Oh..." he murmured, tone deadpan.

Then he looked at her again. Really looked.

She was bracing for it, the way she always did, with her shoulders squared like she was facing a firing squad of expectations and trying to beat them with charm. That stubborn curl on her lip. That desperate little joke hiding in her throat. Her fingers white-knuckling a sad, sweating cup like it could keep her from unraveling.

She didn't know it, but she was trembling.

Lorn's hand moved before his mind did. One step. Then two.

"Ala," he said, softly, sharply. Just enough weight to stop her next breath.

She blinked. Looked up.

And he kissed her.

No warning. No preamble. No battle plan.

Just warmth.

His hand found her jaw, thumb brushing just under her ear, steadying her as his lips met hers with the kind of gravity that had nothing to do with force or fate. It was firm, grounding, and desperately real. It didn't ask. It didn't explain. It anchored.

And stars, there it was.

The tilt. The rush. That fire behind his ribs that lit like a thousand stars going nova in perfect silence. The thing he had waited for. Imagined. Doubted. Hoped. It hit like home.

He pulled back just barely, his forehead resting lightly against hers, his voice low, shaken, but certain.

"You are not the thing I'd ever want to let go of."

A breath or two more.

"There was someone here. With your face. Same everything. But it wasn't you." His brow furrowed. "I don't know who she is, but I think she's in trouble. Or maybe… she is trouble. I don't know."

His hand was still on her cheek, his thumb moving in a slow circle. "But I thought I'd lost you. And for a second, I believed it."

He stepped back just enough to see her eyes again, searching them. Needing this to be real. This light. This wild, perfectly imperfect force of nature in a catering uniform and two tragic milkshakes.

He exhaled. Then smiled, finally.

"You are exactly the storm I want."

And this time, he held on.

Ala Quin​

 

[Aiden Porte]

The Final Light
Alina Grayson

"Another woman might've mistaken that for a very bold move."

Aiden chucked lightly as he simply nodded his head for a moment. "Yea, I tend to jump before I think sometimes." He spoke softly to her, as the dance continued. The small shade of red leaving him finally. There were plenty of other ways to apologize, a kiss on the cheek seemed to be the best thing for the present situation.

The Padawan smiled at her, in regards to thanks for the compliment and then she reiterated what had he said just moments ago. In regard to how she was dressed. He wasn't lying, she was dressed rather beautifully. He couldn't let that go unsaid, if there was someone to give her the compliment he was glad it was him.

"You are the one who noticed though."

"I did....didn't I?" Aiden smirked not betraying the fact that he could have smiled much bigger. Moments like these were good, needed and essential. Not just the words and emotions. Just the simple human interaction. He thought back to when he first met Alina, that was impressive and now she was here. He was glad she decided to call this place home, if only for a while.

"I'm sure there are others, who have noticed. They just won't say anything. Because I'm here, and I might hurt them if they do?" Aiden spoke in a teasing manner, as he twirled her around again just as the song ended.

"You want something to drink?"

 

[Alina Grayson]

Alina returned from the twirl with effortless grace. Her hand found his again just as the final note of the music faded into the hush of the ballroom the soft kind of silence that followed something beautiful, however brief.

His comment hung there between them. About being the only one bold enough to compliment her. About scaring off the others.

She glanced up at him through the delicate edge of her mask, her expression calm but the spark in her eyes unmistakable.

"Perhaps," she said with a slow, deliberate pause. Then, just before her lips curved into a wry smile, "Or maybe they were simply too stunned to find the words."

Her tone carried the tease dry, smooth, and very much intentional.

As they stepped off the floor, her hand lingered a moment longer in his before slipping away. Around them, the press of the crowd returned elegant masks, murmured conversations, a hundred small dramas unfolding but she remained at his side with the same quiet assurance she'd carried into the dance.

"A drink sounds lovely," she said, her voice low and even. Then, with just enough edge to hint at the joke behind the formality: "I'll take whatever you're having. Unless it's awful in which case I'll politely pretend you didn't offer."

And this time, the smile that followed was unmistakable.

TAG: Aiden Porte

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic felt the particular shift in the room’s weight that only Bastila provided. The silent hush of recognition. Their souls had entered one another's orbit again, and everyone, knowingly or not, tilted toward them. He did not turn to meet Bastila’s approach. Not at first. He had no need to.

He knew.

And when her voice met his ears, calm, deliberate, edged with a command cloaked in civility, he turned with the pace of someone whose patience had already begun to fray. “Lady Sal-Soren.” The words were smooth, polished to a shine but not warm.

He didn’t release Annis’ arm. In fact, he shifted his hand ever so slightly, resting it more deliberately in the crook of hers, an unspoken gesture that answered Bastila’s interruption without needing to name it. A message made entirely of posture.

“A word?” he echoed, as though tasting the request with faint disbelief, “of course. Though I suspect the floor of a ballroom mid-dance is neither the time nor the place for anything that warrants urgency.”

He let the words hang in the air like expensive perfume, subtle, elegant, but unmistakably pointed. Then, turning slightly toward her, not enough to abandon the senator, but just enough to offer a measure of grace. “I will, naturally, make myself available later. Privately. As we agreed.” His emphasis on the final word was gentle, but firm. A reminder, both of boundary and of role.

The glance he offered her was not cruel, but it was coldly measured. He did not scowl, did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His disappointment lived in precision, not theatrics.

And when he turned back to Annis Riyaré, offering her the faintest, conspiratorial smile as if she were the only one who truly understood the absurdity of the interruption, it was as if the interruption had never happened.

“Now...where were we?”

Annis Riyaré Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Lady Sal-Soren, spoken like a formality, not the warm regard he had given her at the ride, nor that night at the estate, this had been carved from ice and it plunged into her very soul with a diamond tip. Dominic was hitting every note in the game, from his words to the way his hand adjusted in the senator’s arm, slow, deliberate, performative. Of course she noticed it. He wanted her to.

But gods, it burned like a flame against her heart.

Her jealousy wasn’t wild, it was like an apex predator, it was surgical. Precise. The kind that didn’t scream or make scenes. The kind that settled low in her gut and sharpened her tongue. The kind that asked, with deadly calm, “How dare you?”

Her voice, when it came, was a quiet furnace; no longer civil.

“Very well. Mr Trosky.”

There was no mistaking the crack beneath her control now, it was becoming glaringly obvious for those with the eyes to see it. He had chosen to humiliate her. In public. With her.

“Remember everything has its cost, Dominic.”

Her eyes moved to Annis Riyaré; Sharp, and with a hint of something scathing beneath the surface, scratching at the air, begging to be set free. The other woman was beautiful, yes. Elegant. Clever. But Bastila knew exactly what she was doing. Dominic did too, and was gracefully playing along at the expense of a Sal-Soren. Her stomach twisted, her fist closing for a moment longer then it should as the air around her tightened. Everyone felt it, whether they were paying attention to them or not, it was like Bastila had commanded them all to not be allowed a single breath more until she said otherwise and each and everyone of them did as they were told.

“Enjoy your dance, Senator,” she said, letting the words stretch, her voice smooth but glittering with acid. “When you are done with him I would appreciate you allowing him some time for me in private.”

The silence that followed was a scream.

Then Bastila turned, the movement a deliberate severing. She felt every gaze in the room, every prickle of attention but none of it mattered. Only the weight behind her did. Him.

And stars help her; she wanted him to follow.

She felt that pull in the corner of her eye, the slow build up of liquid that would be down her cheek before she knew it. Pride wouldn’t let her look back. She left him with her final cut, quiet and trembling with the force of everything she wouldn’t say aloud.

“As agreed.”

Dominic Praxon Annis Riyaré

​

 

[Ala Quin]

He kissed her. Whaaaaaat?

Her breath hitched just slightly, still tasting the kiss on the edge of her lips, still caught in the warmth of his hands, the sound of her name said like it mattered. Her milkshake was caught between fingers that suddenly didn’t know what to do.

She smiled, of course. Of course she smiled. That stunned, crooked smile that always came when joy snuck up on her too fast for words.

“That was supposed to be my big moment,” she whispered, a half-laugh trembling behind the words. “There was gonna be a speech. Something dramatic about whipped cream and destiny.”

In the flurry that followed, one of the milkshakes hit the floor, splattering across the polished marble. Ala did not care. Her arms were wrapped around Lorn's neck again as she kissed him back. All aglow with the release of pent up want and angst, clothed in her borrowed service worker's uniform, Ala had not felt this alive in a long time.

The words he had spoken still rang in her head, but it was drowned out by the pure joy of mashing her lips against his and feeling the scratchiness of her beard on her face. She would probably grow to find it annoying, but right now she did not care. Her feet dangled, kicking playfully in the air while she made the moment last...and last...before pulling away for a breath, and delving straight back in for another kiss.

After what was really less than a minute, but felt like a year, Ala relinquished her hold of Lorn's neck, and dropped back to the ground. Her eyes spoke of promises, antics and places she would rather be with Lorn right now, but his other words had already begun to claw their way back into her mind.

“Wait... what do you mean someone with my face?”

The mood shifted. She didn’t panic. Not yet. But the question weighed heavier than it should have. Her thoughts moved fast. Too fast. Faster than she could steady them.

“Kaila saw someone like that recently too. Said she swore it was me... but I wasn’t there,” Her voice quieted, “and I thought maybe it was just trauma. Or memory tricks. But you saw her too.”

She glanced away, toward the windows, as if the stars beyond might offer a better explanation. “Cloning?” she said, more to herself than him. “But no one's...not like that. Not in...”

She stopped. Her fingers only now noticed the missing milkshake. Her gaze flicked down, cheeks coloring at the mess on the floor. She didn’t finish the thought. “So why now? Why her?”

There was a moment where she almost seemed far away, like a girl staring at her own reflection and wondering if it blinked differently than she did. Then, suddenly, she looked back at him. Steady. Present. A little rattled, but not afraid.

“We’ll figure it out. We’ll find her,” she said, her hand reached out and rested lightly on his chest.

Her lips quirked again, soft. She was already jumping back into Lorn's arms and burying her face in his neck. “We’ll go after her, of course we will. But right now? I just want to steal you away. All night.

| Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

He watched her go. Not with regret, not even with curiosity, but with the kind of thoughtful silence one might afford an unscheduled thunderstorm. She was dramatic, perhaps even invigorating, but best observed from beneath a well-constructed roof.

With the faintest lift of his brow and a glance laced in dry amusement, he turned once more to the Senator at his side. "Now that the youthful tempests have taken their leave," he said smoothly, "perhaps we might return to the finer pursuits of reason, and company worthy of it."

And with that, Dominic offered Annis his undivided attention, as though the storm had never passed at all.

Annis Riyaré Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Brandyn Sal-Soren]

Brandyn accepted the flimsiplast card from Myr Dhurri without hesitation, his gloved fingers brushing the slick surface as he glanced at the shifting Umbarese design before it translated into something more practical.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly in that way that suggested he saw far more than he voiced. “I’ve learned the strangest jobs are often the ones that matter most. I’ll keep your frequency on file.”

He slipped the card away with a small nod, appreciative, not dismissive, then turned to Dominique. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest shift in his posture, the subtle shift of a man stepping from curiosity into caution.

“Senator Vexx,” Brandyn offered with a slight bow of his head, “when the time permits, I’d appreciate a private conversation. Your vision for the Five Veils deserves full clarity, away from the noise of the chamber.”

There was no hint of accusation. No heat. Just the steady calm of a Jedi who knew that not all truths revealed themselves in public. He said no more, stepping back into the quiet again, and let the chamber breathe.

The Moderator, who had been politely watching this side exchange unfold with increasing tension in his jawline, stepped forward with renewed control in his voice.

“Esteemed delegates,” he said with a measured tone, “while we welcome the exchange of insight and proposals, I would remind all present that formal agenda items must be submitted in writing to the Committee Secretariat for inclusion in the review docket.”

His gaze fixed half way between Vexx and another delegate who was shocked to have the Moderator looking anywhere near them.

“Further discussion of potential reroutings, privatized extensions, or related matters will be tabled until such submissions are appropriately filed and approved. We will now resume consideration of the Svivren–Elshandruu Pica juncture.”

The map display rotated slowly, adjusting to highlight the sector in question. Brandyn, now quiet, watched it unfold — eyes sharp, but lips sealed.

| TAG: Dominique Vexx Myr Dhurri |

​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

He barely registered the milkshake casualty. A splash of tragedy against the marble, sure, but there was Ala, arms around his neck, joy pressed against his lips like it had been waiting this whole time to be real. She kissed him with the kind of reckless, radiant certainty that made the galaxy feel survivable again.

He kissed her back like he meant it. Like she meant it.

When she finally pulled away, only to launch straight back in, Lorn let out the quietest laugh against her mouth, dazed and breathless, a man who'd just rediscovered gravity and decided he liked where it was.

And then came the shift. The words. The weight of them.

What do you mean someone with my face?

He felt her slip into that analytical spiral, the way Jedi sometimes did when the mystery cracked too close to the heart. He didn't interrupt. Just watched, hand still warm on her waist, grounding them both while her mind tried to outrun the implications.

Cloning. Trauma. Memory tricks. She cycled through them like stepping stones across water too deep to see the bottom of. And all he could think was: She deserves better than this. She deserves time. Peace. Stars, just one uninterrupted night.

When she rested her hand against his chest, Lorn covered it with his own. Warm. Steady.

"We'll figure it out"

He nodded. "We will." His voice was quiet, but carved from stone.

She smiled. That ridiculous, unstoppable smile. And then she burrowed back into him, curls tangling beneath his chin, laughter soft against his collarbone.

"I just want to steal you away"

Lorn wrapped both arms around her this time, tight, anchoring. He leaned his cheek gently against the top of her head, eyes closed, savoring the weight of her, the scent of sugar and stardust and a lot of hairspray.

"You already did," he murmured.

A beat. Then, with a grin only she could coax out of him: "But if we're running off, I'm going to need a new milkshake. Preferably one not currently soaking into my shoes."

He felt her laugh against his chest and that was it. That was everything.

Ala Quin​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

She had nearly made it away, she had so nearly made it. The air ahead promised distance and escape. Where Bastila Sal-Soren would not have been there, she could have been anywhere but the quiet death that had just taken place in the space between them.

And then she heard him.

“Now that the youthful tempests have taken their leave…”

She stopped. Every syllable landed like a blade in her back. Youthful tempests. It was like a flare igniting in the back of her head, too often had they referred to her as the storm and the lightning had just made it real.

“…perhaps we might return to the finer pursuits of reason, and company worthy of it.”

The words weren’t cruel. Cruel she could have answered. They were worse.

Dismissive.

Sanitised.

The kind of words designed to erase someone. To file them neatly into a box labeled "mistake" and never open it again. The force rippled, a voice somewhere in the distance screamed the scream she could not do, the scream she would not do.

She turned.

It was with the grace of a dancer, her instinctual Jedi grace kicking in as she took two, three, four step back across the ballroom floor. Each one feeling like she was walking through a fire she had lit herself. She didn’t care if eyes followed, let them watch. Let them witness.

She reached him, eyes locked on his as if she could find the part of him that remembered, yet all she saw was smug detachment and practiced charm;

Her hand flew.

CRACK.

The sound snapped through the room like a whip. His head turned with the force of it, a perfect red mark blooming on his cheek like a seal of shame.

A dozen gasps. A few frozen stares. Somewhere, a diplomat tried to pretend this wasn’t the best moment of the entire evening.

Her breath came fast now. Not from exhaustion, but from restraint.

“You arrogant, pathetic coward.” The words spat from her mouth and Bastila was surprised they did not ignite into fire. ”Stop hiding behind your wit. Nobody wants to hear it.” Her voice rose. Not to shout, but to cut. “Don't you dare ever...”

Don’t cry.

She stepped closer. Just enough for her voice to fall to a low, intimate knife's edge, like at the estate where they had met under lanterns and told each other of duty.

“And if Annis Riyaré is company worthy of reason, then maybe that’s all you ever wanted, a free step up and a reason to run.”

She held his gaze. Just long enough to see if anything flickered beneath that polished calm. Hurt. Regret. Guilt. She begged with those eyes, by the force for Dominic to show her something.

She turned without another word, her scent of Naboo peaches mixed with fury in her wake. The storm didn’t pass. It walked out towards the doors, trying to contain a wild fire that had ignited inside her very soul. Dominic's voice echoing around inside her head, only it wasn't alone anymore, there was another voice now, one far more frightening to Bastila, a memory of her father.

Burn them all.

Dominic Praxon Annis Riyaré

​

 

[Myr Dhurri]

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

Dominique spoke differently than Brandyn and the difference was exciting; both were punchy but in their own respective ways, each seemed to lay into the proceedings more and more. Perhaps risking ire but standing carefully testing that line. Myr, though, was largely at an impasse, he had proven his worth and given out his cards to those who had caught his eye, the rest was locked up behind committees and governmental proceedings he had no interest in.

Myr offered a polite bow of the head to Brandyn and Dominique, they had largely done what they had come here to do and so began their retreat. "Thank you," he said, already backpedaling. "Strangeness is the way of the galaxy, those who can navigate those strange ways find ourselves often in the right place at the right time... May the rest of this lovely event keep you — entertained!" He resisted the urge to chuckle and that impish grin instead was the compromise.

After about ten paces, the Umbaran turned smoothly on his heels and began mingling into the crowd, handing out more of his business cards to individuals who seemed either rich or foolish enough to over-charge. He was never quite sure whether there was any difference between the two but he couldn't care too much, either way he got paid and a payday was a good day.

Once he had made his way toward the turbolift, he quietly murmured into his comlink. "Leethree, get the ship warmed up and start looking for a suitable landing bay in the sector; we're going to be staying in the area but the hotels here are outrageous... I refuse to spend that many credits on pillow chocolates and towels." There was a galaxy of credits waiting for him out there, after the right job he could buy his own chocolates!

「 EXIT POST 」​

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