Lismand Bripear
Character
"I want peace. And maybe a place to work where I don't have to wear chains under my dress."
Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos
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The Guilded Veil (Guest starring: Duke Verlo Canto) DJ turn it up!!
- Thread starter Sommer Dai
- Start date
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer studied her for a long beat.
Lismand Bripear
Character
"Or terrible," Lismand replied softly. "You think I killed a man I never even saw face to face? I don't kill strangers, Sommer. I survived them. And I've survived worse than your suspicion."
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
There was something so resolute in the way she said it that even Sommer felt the truth hum against her ribs.
She straightened, folding her arms across her chest.
She straightened, folding her arms across her chest.
Lismand Bripear
Character
"You'll hand me back to the Hutts," Lismand finished for her, wryly. "Noted."
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer turned, her guards flanking her again. She hesitated only once at the door, glancing back at Lismand.
And then she vanished back into the corridors of her domain, the hum of the club swallowing her once more.
Prince of the Underworld
B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
T H E - G I L D E D - V E I L
“I shall make the arrangements,” he said, then turned to continue his exploration of the private chambers. The Gilded Veil would certainly do nicely for Black Sun. It was a neutral location, in a decent part of Nar Shaddaa. Those factors alone would alleviate any unnecessary stress felt by the syndicate’s cohorts.
He passed by the sealed room that would serve well as an office space for the Prince of the Underworld, a small home away from home where events better left… undocumented, could occur.
Yes, the Gilded Veil would make a fine nexus. And Sommer would make a fine Vigo…
In Rhan
Space Trucker
In couldn't help but take note of Velzari Tharn departing. He was known to her, of course - how could he not be? One didn't make her way as a low-level smuggler without knowing the ankles between which she safely scuttled. Given how many of them were affiliated with the Black Sun these days, it would've been harder NOT to be aware of him.
Even In had considered bending the knee and paying dues to secure her safe passage through Black Sun ports, recently. They were making moves, and after a certain point it only made sense to invest a bit in the name of safety. Especially when the only other options were to risk being stepped on or swerve away from lucrative contracts. In could hardly pay her bills with a disdain for slavery, after all.
That Sommer had been meeting with a man like that meant she'd decided to make a statement, get her hooks in. Like it or not, in her capacity as a dancer at the Gilded Veil, In was now affiliated. She decided it'd be best to tread lightly.
The Pantoran woman had, of course, not been involved in the conversation between Sommer and Vezari. A decoration in the peripherals, a streak of blue in the bouquet, In had been one of about a dozen young women close enough by to serve as equal parts advertisement and enticement for the wealthy Underlord, a promise of what the Gilded Veil had to offer both professionally and personally.
Of those dozens of dancers, though, In was perhaps the only one to make more than a brief note of Velzari's passage - giving him a considering, shrewd glance entirely at odds with her gyrations on the stage. A wealthy man would always pull glances from the dancers, but In was the only one actively trying to not look like she was sizing up a feral nexu and appraising how dangerous he was.
Should Velzari make note of the Pantoran dancer, In would avert her eyes quickly. She couldn't police her expression very effectively, but she could look away and try to seem like she hadn't been glaring. She had to remind herself that the best way to remain safe wasn't to look harmless - because she effectively WAS harmless in this environment - it was to be beneath notice. Though that was a little difficult when you were on stage, dancing your heart out.
Velzari Tharn
Sommer Dai
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Command Alcove Surveillance Suite
The hum of silent processors and filtered air hissed softly inside the Command Alcove, a secured, obsidian-glass tech room nestled high above the Gilded Veil's atrium. No dancers, no bartenders, no patrons made it here. Only Sommer, and those she trusted to know everything.Sommer Dai stood before a wall of crystalline holoscreens, her sharp features glowing in pale blue relief. Her cape was slung over one chair, her gloves folded neatly beside a data-slate. Hair coiled high, posture rigid, she radiated tension restrained only by calculation.
The Veil's resident surveillance technician — a wiry Codru-Ji woman named Iven Lorr, who operated multiple consoles with all four arms — nodded once.
Sommer didn't smile.
The first feed played: Duke Verlo Canto stepping from his luxury stretched transport, met by his guards and Veil security. Reporters snapped images. He waved once — gracious, smug — and entered through the private corridor.
A few seconds later: the kitchen cam. Wontons plated. The Glimmergold Nerf-shoulder rested perfectly under Zirtree oil. But—
The first feed played: Duke Verlo Canto stepping from his luxury stretched transport, met by his guards and Veil security. Reporters snapped images. He waved once — gracious, smug — and entered through the private corridor.
A few seconds later: the kitchen cam. Wontons plated. The Glimmergold Nerf-shoulder rested perfectly under Zirtree oil. But—
On screen, a junior chef—a pale Rodian youth—pauses before plating the final item: the Seared Charrwing Foie Stars. But his eyes go glassy for a moment. He stares at nothing. Then out of sequence, he reaches for the dish and plates it first, not last.
The realization pulled Sommer's attention hard.
She watched again, slower this time. A second screen lit up, this time from the mezzanine above the main floor—barely within surveillance grid range.
She watched again, slower this time. A second screen lit up, this time from the mezzanine above the main floor—barely within surveillance grid range.
Pixelation cleared… and there, silhouetted against the fiery light of the "Velvet Heaven" chandelier, stood a female figure. Cloaked. Hooded. But unmistakably watching.
Sommer walked forward, scrutinizing the static image.
The cloak's hem had a Korriban sigil — subtle, nearly invisible in the folds of crimson.
Sommer exhaled sharply through her nose.
The cloak's hem had a Korriban sigil — subtle, nearly invisible in the folds of crimson.
Sommer exhaled sharply through her nose.
The name left her lips like ash.
Sommer narrowed her eyes.
She turned back to the console and activated her personal encrypted comm.
Iven hesitated.
The lights dimmed around her, blue light spilling from the screens like distant stars.
Prince of the Underworld
B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
T H E - G I L D E D - V E I L
Velzari’s business had concluded. An arrangement was made, the owner had excused herself to attend other matters, and the Underlord had agents to contact. He could do so from his ship as he traveled to his next destination in the old Dark Imperial ramparts, but Velzari decided to make his calls from the upper lounge. The volume was far more comfortable there, the view of the dancers was immaculate, and another glass of Emberlene Reserved sounded divine.
He stepped with a calm precision up the glass stairs like a regal prince climbing his tower, bold and determined in his movements. Those who despised the syndicate would say he’s exerting dominance in strange places, but those who knew Black Sun would assure that Prince Velzari Tharn didn’t need to make a show of anything.
His reputation preceded him everywhere he went.
Velzari lowered himself into the same chair that Sommer had found him in when she greeted the Underlord. Not a moment later, the bottomless chalice she ordered for him arrived. A waiter placed it in his already-open hand, satisfying Velzari’s expectations. He brought it to his lips and sipped, peering over the rim of the glass toward the stage; he thought, for a moment, that one of the women had taken interest in his presence. Maybe it was fear, maybe she was a spy, or maybe he was too many Emberlenes in and needed a sparkling water instead.
He withdrew a compact holoprojector and raised his assassin over comms. The blue holographic form of
Thayne Tameron
appeared with arms crossed and a hip cocked out, as if he were leaning against a wall.“Yes, my lord?”
“I’ve a contract for you. Non-lethal, discrete. Are you available?”
Thayne nodded. “Send the details to the dead drop on Boz Pity.”
“You never disappoint me,” Velzari replied with a roguish smile. Thayne bowed his head, fading into static and scanlines before the line was cut.
All the while, the Underlord never looked away from
In Rhan
on the stage. Whatever she was, he noticed her.In Rhan
Space Trucker
This was a potentially horrible situation. In had inadvertently looked too long, too hard - and curse her honest face, because
Velzari Tharn
had caught her doing so. Disastrous. Reclined in his seat, the Faleen may as well have been upon an ivory tower looking downward. In had a balance to strike. If she pretended she didn't notice and poured the gas on, she risked being requested to his service. If she performed poorly, she'd give away that she knew she'd been made. The wisest move was to ignore the crime boss staring her down, and In was keenly aware that to a certain kind of man that sort of treatment was either catnip or rhydonium on an open flame. The absence of an easy way to disengage did not present itself, aside from finding an excuse to leave the stage in the middle of her set. A course of action she could not conscience. Cowardice was no option.
In dropped her hips with the beat and cast her gaze upwards, meeting the eyes of one of the more powerful men on Nar Shadaa. The Pantoran woman gave him an intense, smoky look before grasping the pole behind her and all but throwing herself into a flag position. In only held the pose for a moment before extending her long blue legs upwards, using her thighs to keep herself suspended in the air as she spun in a slow circle - undulating to the beat, her silhouette enhanced and thrown across the club by the strobing stage lights behind her. The dancers to her left and right kept pace with In's movements -
Sommer Dai
didn't hire bad dancers, after all - but they were In's support, her backup, their movements made to highlight and echo her highly technical, physically demanding work. Fleeing would get her noticed. Glaring had gotten her noticed. But a powerful man in a club like this was no doubt well accustomed to women making eyes at him from all corners, each looking for a slice of the power and wealth that came with his regard. To such a man, In figured, a few smouldering looks from the stage during a relatively routine set would make her all but invisible.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
From her private perch above the central floor—her throne, really—Sommer Dai sipped from a tall crystal flute, absinthe laced with something stronger, darker, and not entirely legal. The Gilded Veil pulsed below her like a living organism—heartbeat thudding in rhythm with the bass, sweat and pheromones laced through scented fog, and the stage a temple lit in strobes and motion.
But it was In—not the club—who had Sommer’s full attention.
She hadn’t meant to watch her. Not like this. Sommer prided herself on detachment, on the art of desire without vulnerability. She curated lust in others, played it like a maestro. She didn’t get dragged into it.
And yet...
There was something about the sharpness in In’s transition from hesitation to poise. The split-second of tension that bled away into pure, electric dominance. Sommer had felt it before she saw it—the pivot from discomfort into calculated control, from hunted to hunter.
She watched In’s legs extend upward like a ritual offering, the light carving out her silhouette in harsh, hungry strokes. That flash of power—of choice—cut straight through Sommer’s ribs like the tip of a vibroblade.
Sommer didn’t just see a performer—she saw a woman fighting her way through the moment, bending it to her will.
She leaned forward, lips parting ever so slightly. Her pupils dilated. Her grip on the glass tightened as In’s hips undulated in time with the music, each rotation of her body sending her spinning through an aura of pure blue-lit command. A goddess wrapped in skin and sweat and the ghost of danger.
“That’s not fear,” Sommer murmured to herself, lashes lowering like curtains. “That’s strategy.”
And there—Sommer saw it. Velzari Tharn watching too, like a lizard sizing up a flame.
Sommer’s stomach turned, sharp and cold.
Mine.
The word wasn't spoken aloud. But it rang in her chest like a chime strung with blood-red thread.
She leaned back, the calculated curve of her lips returning like a blade sheathing itself. In had taken a risk. And survived. Not just survived—thrived.
Sommer wouldn’t interrupt the show. But she’d be waiting in the wings.
After all, a woman who could hold the gaze of
Velzari Tharn
and live to spin on it?
Deserved her attention.
Deserved her protection.
Deserved her hands on those thighs, after the lights went down.
Tag:
In Rhan
But it was In—not the club—who had Sommer’s full attention.
She hadn’t meant to watch her. Not like this. Sommer prided herself on detachment, on the art of desire without vulnerability. She curated lust in others, played it like a maestro. She didn’t get dragged into it.
And yet...
There was something about the sharpness in In’s transition from hesitation to poise. The split-second of tension that bled away into pure, electric dominance. Sommer had felt it before she saw it—the pivot from discomfort into calculated control, from hunted to hunter.
She watched In’s legs extend upward like a ritual offering, the light carving out her silhouette in harsh, hungry strokes. That flash of power—of choice—cut straight through Sommer’s ribs like the tip of a vibroblade.
Sommer didn’t just see a performer—she saw a woman fighting her way through the moment, bending it to her will.
She leaned forward, lips parting ever so slightly. Her pupils dilated. Her grip on the glass tightened as In’s hips undulated in time with the music, each rotation of her body sending her spinning through an aura of pure blue-lit command. A goddess wrapped in skin and sweat and the ghost of danger.
“That’s not fear,” Sommer murmured to herself, lashes lowering like curtains. “That’s strategy.”
And there—Sommer saw it. Velzari Tharn watching too, like a lizard sizing up a flame.
Sommer’s stomach turned, sharp and cold.
Mine.
The word wasn't spoken aloud. But it rang in her chest like a chime strung with blood-red thread.
She leaned back, the calculated curve of her lips returning like a blade sheathing itself. In had taken a risk. And survived. Not just survived—thrived.
Sommer wouldn’t interrupt the show. But she’d be waiting in the wings.
After all, a woman who could hold the gaze of
Velzari Tharn
and live to spin on it?Deserved her attention.
Deserved her protection.
Deserved her hands on those thighs, after the lights went down.
Tag:
In RhanPrince of the Underworld
B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
T H E - G I L D E D - V E I L
But Velzari was not going in for the kill.
Lesser men would demand that
Sommer Dai
part with such talent, insist on dragging
In Rhan
back to whatever pit of scum he called home in the Outer Rim. But Velzari was no lesser man - he was the Underlord of the Black Sun organization, and that station was not one that he stumbled ass-backwardly into. He knew the value of assets, and more importantly, their placement. Simply put, it suited the Gilded Veil to have such a dangerous asset, and by extension, it benefited Velzari.A strong stage presence meant more foot traffic, more foot traffic brought in good business, and good business catalyzed what Velzari was best at: building relationships.
"That woman there," Velzari said aloud to a passing floor manager without shifting his eyes at all. The suited man stopped in his tread and faced the Underlord with a nervous energy that was quite noticeable. "What is her name?"
"... In Shan, my lord."
"Black Sun will be supplementing her salary, effective immediately. If she finds alternative employment, I'll have your knuckles made into sabacc dice."
"Y-yes, my lord," he stammered.
In Rhan
Space Trucker
It was a shame for that poor floor manager that the Gilded Veil WAS In's alternative employment. Her agreement with Sommer was to work whenever she was in town, with an implicit understanding that In would find reasons to visit Nar Shadaa often enough to make her presence a familiar treat for the audience. It hadn't been a hard decision. Nar Shadaa was a fantastic place to make money for most people with a bit of pluck, courage, and the ability to get off of Nar Shadaa when they needed to.
Like a casino, the planet really only truly fleeced you when you let it pull you past the event horizon. Shame for the people who washed up or were born there, though.
In had no way of knowing that her presence on stage was the keen focus of the two most powerful people in the club (and one very unfortunate floor manager), but she always danced like this was the case. When Velzari leaned over to murmur something to the floor manager, In's heart had fluttered to a stop in her chest briefly. When the floor manager didn't immediately come to tell her that she'd been purchased for the evening or seized by the Black Sun Syndicate, though, she allowed herself to relax a little.
She allowed herself to believe her camouflage had worked.
Her focus didn't slip away from the terrifying Faleen - not fully - but In did allow herself to focus more on the rest of her audience.
The Pantoran woman took two strutting steps towards the edge of the stage and cartwheeled into a smooth front-split. She couldn't sing, and even if she could she wouldn't be heard by the audience over the pounding music. Instead, In could mouth the heated words of the song to the front row while leaning over her leg at a dizzying angle - all but laying across the floor. She could roll languidly onto her back and drag her nails along the chin of an absolutely besotted Chagrian while lip-synching her love to him, specifically. She could twist herself in half again to stand up in time with the drop amidst a shower of paper currency.
The money falling around In might've well have not existed - she danced as though it didn't. It was background, scenery to provide decoration to her show. In put her back to the audience one final time and planted a heel on the stage hard enough to accent the sharp CLICK of a blaster being reloaded in the song playing. The stage lights swung to put her and her backups into sharper focus as they all struck pin-up action poses in flawless unison, a carefully choreographed combination of cheesecake and homage to old holofilm posters.
Victorious, surrounded by money, and more than a little sweaty In blew the audience a kiss before ducking backstage for some water and a costume change for her next set. The next team of girls filtered out to keep the audience primed, dancing, and most importantly: spending money on drinks, girls, and dancers.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
The soft hum of synth-lights overhead. The air tinged with perfume, spice, and now something more acrid—panic buried beneath professionalism. A large circular table stood in the center, once set for an extravagant tasting. Now, at its head, sat Duke Verlo, slumped back in his chair, a goblet still in his hand. Lifeless. Elegant in death. The kind of man whose disappearance would start wars—or worse, investigations.
Sommer stood with her arms crossed, the fabric of her midnight robe spilling like ink across the room's reflective marble. Around her stood her core team: Brinna, Riff, and Keez. All tense. All waiting.
SOMMER
(voice low, firm)
"The Duke didn't choke. He didn't have a heart attack. And he sure as hell didn't die of boredom."
KEEZ
(muttering)
"He cleaned his plate, didn't even finish the wine…"
BRINNA
(quietly)
"He was high-profile. The Alliance liked him. Syndicates feared him. We can't burn this one without leaving a smell."
SOMMER
(cold, thoughtful)
"Then we'll bury the scent in perfume and distraction."
She circled the table slowly, gazing at the dead man's face with measured calculation.
"Riff, you're going to take his body out through the basement corridor—mask it as a security evac gone wrong. Keez, you'll scrub every trace of him from the guest logs, security feeds, facial nets, exit scans, and meal registry."
RIFF
(uncertain)
"And the corpse itself?"
SOMMER
(quiet smile)
"We're going to cryo-wrap it. Drop it into the lower Nar Shaddaa freight lines. In a week, when someone finds it in a Black Sun scrap haul, it'll look like the body's been missing days. Long enough to shift the blame."
BRINNA
"And if anyone comes asking?"
SOMMER
"They won't. Not tonight. Not after the show I'm about to give."
She turned back toward her dressing chamber, the room shimmering behind her like a mirage. Her voice dropped a decibel—just enough to sound like prophecy.
SOMMER
"By the time they remember Duke Verlo was here, they'll only remember how he smiled watching me dance."
Sommer stood with her arms crossed, the fabric of her midnight robe spilling like ink across the room's reflective marble. Around her stood her core team: Brinna, Riff, and Keez. All tense. All waiting.
SOMMER
(voice low, firm)
"The Duke didn't choke. He didn't have a heart attack. And he sure as hell didn't die of boredom."
KEEZ
(muttering)
"He cleaned his plate, didn't even finish the wine…"
BRINNA
(quietly)
"He was high-profile. The Alliance liked him. Syndicates feared him. We can't burn this one without leaving a smell."
SOMMER
(cold, thoughtful)
"Then we'll bury the scent in perfume and distraction."
She circled the table slowly, gazing at the dead man's face with measured calculation.
"Riff, you're going to take his body out through the basement corridor—mask it as a security evac gone wrong. Keez, you'll scrub every trace of him from the guest logs, security feeds, facial nets, exit scans, and meal registry."
RIFF
(uncertain)
"And the corpse itself?"
SOMMER
(quiet smile)
"We're going to cryo-wrap it. Drop it into the lower Nar Shaddaa freight lines. In a week, when someone finds it in a Black Sun scrap haul, it'll look like the body's been missing days. Long enough to shift the blame."
BRINNA
"And if anyone comes asking?"
SOMMER
"They won't. Not tonight. Not after the show I'm about to give."
She turned back toward her dressing chamber, the room shimmering behind her like a mirage. Her voice dropped a decibel—just enough to sound like prophecy.
SOMMER
"By the time they remember Duke Verlo was here, they'll only remember how he smiled watching me dance."
Last edited:
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
the outfit—one saved for singular purposes.
Lace, black and liquid in the light. Slashes of sheer against leather accents. Intricate mesh running across her ribs, baring just enough to inspire imagination but never surrendering all. Her heels were impossibly high. Her wrists were ringed with silver cuffs. A choker like a whispered warning, curled around her neck.
She applied lipstick with the precision of an assassin, the color a scandalous bloodwine hue. A curl of dark hair fell across one eye as she smirked into her reflection.
ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
"Nar Shaddaa. Criminals. Saints. Strays. Tonight, you don't watch a performance. You witness a reign."
A roar of gold light swept across the velvet curtain.
ANNOUNCER (V.O., CONT'D)
"She's the reason the moon turns. The queen of your sins. The goddess of your nights. Give your hearts—if they're still beating—for Sommer Dai."
The crowd screamed.
From the darkness, Sommer emerged, wrapped in lace and dripping with poise. She didn't just walk—she glided, stepping onto the stage with the calm confidence of a woman who had just ordered a nobleman disposed of like yesterday's wine.
She reached the pole center stage, grasped it with one gloved hand, and pulled herself into a soaring arc.
And then she flew—spinning, curving, bending physics to her will. Every twist of her body was fire and storm and starlight. The dancers behind her tried to keep up, but Sommer was a black hole at the center of it all, swallowing the room whole with raw, sensuous gravity.
The audience didn't cheer. They worshipped.
And somewhere, far away, Duke Verlo's body disappeared into the underbelly of the moon—unseen, unknown?, irrelevant?
The room is silent but for the slow pulse of bass, steady as a heartbeat. Lights strobe and swirl in sensual hues—burnt crimson, violet silk, and molten gold—casting long shadows that slither along the stage like hungry spirits.
And there, at the very center, Sommer is gravity incarnate. She moves not to the music, but within it, sculpting each note with her body.
She circles the pole slowly at first, like a panther drawing its prey into her orbit. One hand—gloved in black lace—trails lightly along the chrome, her fingertips barely touching, as though the metal itself might ignite from too sudden a spark.
Then her hips shift.
One smooth sway. Then another.
Her movements are molten, hips undulating in hypnotic rhythm, spine loose as liquid, her gaze locked on the crowd like a whispered dare. With a single, elegant pivot, she arches her back and raises one leg, wrapping it around the pole with intimate precision.
She climbs.
Not as a performer—not as a dancer—but as a lover reacquainting herself with a trusted partner. Each movement deliberate. Intimate. Reverent. The strength in her limbs hidden beneath silk and seduction.
At the top of the pole, she lingers—upside-down now, legs locked tight in an inverted crucifixion. Her long hair cascades toward the stage like a waterfall of ink. She smiles, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a breathless promise. And then she releases—
A slow, delicious descent.
Her thighs grip the pole with crushing grace, skin and chrome sliding together in a dance older than war. Her arms stretch out as she descends in a spiral, body arched, one hand grazing the pole, the other drawing a path along her own hip as if mapping constellations across her skin.
She lands in a kneel. Slow. Worshipful.
Then—without pause—rises like a flame. In one smooth motion, she throws herself into a spin, legs extended into a flying split that cuts through the air like the sweep of a scythe. The pole is her axis. Her temple. Her lover. And she—its devoted priestess.
The rhythm changes.
The bass picks up. She bends back into a backbend, using only her toes to pivot as her hands clutch the pole behind her. Every angle of her body becomes a curve, a suggestion, an invitation. Sweat beads along the lines of her neck, caught in the stage lights like diamonds on velvet.
Then, with the crowd at the edge of frenzy, she climbs again.
Faster this time. Desperate. Needy.
Like the pole is pulling her in, and she is powerless to resist. Legs scissor, body twirls—aerial, graceful, lethal. Her silhouette blurs into motion. A storm of lace, skin, and divine arrogance.
She drops once more—catching herself only inches from the floor with the kind of strength that doesn't look like strength at all. Her body slides down into a deep squat, knees apart, chest lifted, breath heaving.
She opens her eyes.
And the club erupts.
Men and women alike lean forward, paralyzed. Worshipful. Shattered. Sommer's expression is a pantomime of afterglow—cheeks flushed, lips parted, sweat glistening between her collarbones. She brushes her fingertips up the pole, presses her cheek to it tenderly, then kisses the chrome with scandalous intimacy.
SOMMER (softly, into the mic)
"I missed you too, baby."
And with that, she pivots, struts off the stage on heels that sound like gunfire, lace swaying like flags after battle. Behind her, the pole glints in the light—lonely again.
But only for a moment.
Because Sommer had reminded everyone in the room, and everyone watching through the feeds, of one thing:
She is the Queen.
Of rhythm. Of the stage.
Of the pole.
Lace, black and liquid in the light. Slashes of sheer against leather accents. Intricate mesh running across her ribs, baring just enough to inspire imagination but never surrendering all. Her heels were impossibly high. Her wrists were ringed with silver cuffs. A choker like a whispered warning, curled around her neck.
She applied lipstick with the precision of an assassin, the color a scandalous bloodwine hue. A curl of dark hair fell across one eye as she smirked into her reflection.
ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
"Nar Shaddaa. Criminals. Saints. Strays. Tonight, you don't watch a performance. You witness a reign."
A roar of gold light swept across the velvet curtain.
ANNOUNCER (V.O., CONT'D)
"She's the reason the moon turns. The queen of your sins. The goddess of your nights. Give your hearts—if they're still beating—for Sommer Dai."
The crowd screamed.
From the darkness, Sommer emerged, wrapped in lace and dripping with poise. She didn't just walk—she glided, stepping onto the stage with the calm confidence of a woman who had just ordered a nobleman disposed of like yesterday's wine.
She reached the pole center stage, grasped it with one gloved hand, and pulled herself into a soaring arc.
And then she flew—spinning, curving, bending physics to her will. Every twist of her body was fire and storm and starlight. The dancers behind her tried to keep up, but Sommer was a black hole at the center of it all, swallowing the room whole with raw, sensuous gravity.
The audience didn't cheer. They worshipped.
And somewhere, far away, Duke Verlo's body disappeared into the underbelly of the moon—unseen, unknown?, irrelevant?
The room is silent but for the slow pulse of bass, steady as a heartbeat. Lights strobe and swirl in sensual hues—burnt crimson, violet silk, and molten gold—casting long shadows that slither along the stage like hungry spirits.
And there, at the very center, Sommer is gravity incarnate. She moves not to the music, but within it, sculpting each note with her body.
She circles the pole slowly at first, like a panther drawing its prey into her orbit. One hand—gloved in black lace—trails lightly along the chrome, her fingertips barely touching, as though the metal itself might ignite from too sudden a spark.
Then her hips shift.
One smooth sway. Then another.
Her movements are molten, hips undulating in hypnotic rhythm, spine loose as liquid, her gaze locked on the crowd like a whispered dare. With a single, elegant pivot, she arches her back and raises one leg, wrapping it around the pole with intimate precision.
She climbs.
Not as a performer—not as a dancer—but as a lover reacquainting herself with a trusted partner. Each movement deliberate. Intimate. Reverent. The strength in her limbs hidden beneath silk and seduction.
At the top of the pole, she lingers—upside-down now, legs locked tight in an inverted crucifixion. Her long hair cascades toward the stage like a waterfall of ink. She smiles, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a breathless promise. And then she releases—
A slow, delicious descent.
Her thighs grip the pole with crushing grace, skin and chrome sliding together in a dance older than war. Her arms stretch out as she descends in a spiral, body arched, one hand grazing the pole, the other drawing a path along her own hip as if mapping constellations across her skin.
She lands in a kneel. Slow. Worshipful.
Then—without pause—rises like a flame. In one smooth motion, she throws herself into a spin, legs extended into a flying split that cuts through the air like the sweep of a scythe. The pole is her axis. Her temple. Her lover. And she—its devoted priestess.
The rhythm changes.
The bass picks up. She bends back into a backbend, using only her toes to pivot as her hands clutch the pole behind her. Every angle of her body becomes a curve, a suggestion, an invitation. Sweat beads along the lines of her neck, caught in the stage lights like diamonds on velvet.
Then, with the crowd at the edge of frenzy, she climbs again.
Faster this time. Desperate. Needy.
Like the pole is pulling her in, and she is powerless to resist. Legs scissor, body twirls—aerial, graceful, lethal. Her silhouette blurs into motion. A storm of lace, skin, and divine arrogance.
She drops once more—catching herself only inches from the floor with the kind of strength that doesn't look like strength at all. Her body slides down into a deep squat, knees apart, chest lifted, breath heaving.
She opens her eyes.
And the club erupts.
Men and women alike lean forward, paralyzed. Worshipful. Shattered. Sommer's expression is a pantomime of afterglow—cheeks flushed, lips parted, sweat glistening between her collarbones. She brushes her fingertips up the pole, presses her cheek to it tenderly, then kisses the chrome with scandalous intimacy.
SOMMER (softly, into the mic)
"I missed you too, baby."
And with that, she pivots, struts off the stage on heels that sound like gunfire, lace swaying like flags after battle. Behind her, the pole glints in the light—lonely again.
But only for a moment.
Because Sommer had reminded everyone in the room, and everyone watching through the feeds, of one thing:
She is the Queen.
Of rhythm. Of the stage.
Of the pole.
Kaelon Virex
Character
Kael Virex stood at the threshold, framed by the curved arch of the entryway. He was dressed for trouble — loose black shirt open at the collar, dust-worn coat hanging like a shadow across his back, and a tired smirk already tugging at his lips like it had never left.
His boots echoed softly on the obsidian floor as he walked in slow, deliberate steps, scanning the crowd like a returning exile surveying familiar chaos.
He spotted the dancers first — Zeltron, Twi'lek, and Human alike — moving like heat waves under the influence of music, spice, or the promise of oblivion. He caught more than a few stares as he passed, returned a few with a wink and a lopsided smile. The effect was automatic. Predictable. Almost boring.
He wasn't here for that.
Not tonight.
He stopped just inside the lounge's curve, next to a floating tray droid carrying firefruit shots. With the ease of a man used to taking what he wanted, he plucked one without asking. The liquid shimmered like molten gold. He tilted it to his lips, paused, then knocked it back.
Burned just enough to feel real.
Then he saw her.
Sommer Dai.
Standing above the floor, watching from a raised balcony of smoked glass, her silhouette haloed by amber backlight. Hair coiled like coals, face unreadable, eyes sharp enough to slice.
She hadn't seen him yet — or maybe she had, and simply chose not to react.
Kael exhaled through his nose. Of course. Same eyes. Same fire. But harder now. Sharper. No trace of the girl he once refused to protect.
He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, the old nervous tell breaking through his casual front.
Then, with swagger in his step and regret under his tongue, he made his way toward the stairs.
A bouncer moved to block him.
"Restricted."
Kael smiled, slow and deliberate.
"Tell her Kaelon Virex is here."
The bouncer didn't move. Kael leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low.
"She'll either see me... or you'll be fishing me out of her liquor well after I drink half her vintage."
He shrugged. "Either way, someone's gonna notice."
A pause. Then a comm tap to the ear. A low nod. The bouncer stepped aside.
Kael made his way up the stairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Not because of fear. But because this was real. Not a flirtation, not a hustle, not a getaway.
This was the past.
This was family.
This was the only connection he hadn't burned — just left to freeze.
His boots echoed softly on the obsidian floor as he walked in slow, deliberate steps, scanning the crowd like a returning exile surveying familiar chaos.
He spotted the dancers first — Zeltron, Twi'lek, and Human alike — moving like heat waves under the influence of music, spice, or the promise of oblivion. He caught more than a few stares as he passed, returned a few with a wink and a lopsided smile. The effect was automatic. Predictable. Almost boring.
He wasn't here for that.
Not tonight.
He stopped just inside the lounge's curve, next to a floating tray droid carrying firefruit shots. With the ease of a man used to taking what he wanted, he plucked one without asking. The liquid shimmered like molten gold. He tilted it to his lips, paused, then knocked it back.
Burned just enough to feel real.
Then he saw her.
Sommer Dai.
Standing above the floor, watching from a raised balcony of smoked glass, her silhouette haloed by amber backlight. Hair coiled like coals, face unreadable, eyes sharp enough to slice.
She hadn't seen him yet — or maybe she had, and simply chose not to react.
Kael exhaled through his nose. Of course. Same eyes. Same fire. But harder now. Sharper. No trace of the girl he once refused to protect.
He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, the old nervous tell breaking through his casual front.
Then, with swagger in his step and regret under his tongue, he made his way toward the stairs.
A bouncer moved to block him.
"Restricted."
Kael smiled, slow and deliberate.
"Tell her Kaelon Virex is here."
The bouncer didn't move. Kael leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low.
"She'll either see me... or you'll be fishing me out of her liquor well after I drink half her vintage."
He shrugged. "Either way, someone's gonna notice."
A pause. Then a comm tap to the ear. A low nod. The bouncer stepped aside.
Kael made his way up the stairs.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Not because of fear. But because this was real. Not a flirtation, not a hustle, not a getaway.
This was the past.
This was family.
This was the only connection he hadn't burned — just left to freeze.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
At the top, she waited.
Sommer said nothing at first.
Just looked at him.
Like she was trying to decide whether to hug him… or knock his teeth out.
Sommer said nothing at first.
Just looked at him.
Like she was trying to decide whether to hug him… or knock his teeth out.
Kaelon Virex
Character
Kael smiled with mock innocence, hands casually out to his sides.
"Well," he said, voice velvet-slick and laced with something unspoken. "You've redecorated. I almost didn't recognize the place without the trauma."
"Well," he said, voice velvet-slick and laced with something unspoken. "You've redecorated. I almost didn't recognize the place without the trauma."
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
She didn't laugh.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Then:
"You shouldn't be here."
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Then:
"You shouldn't be here."