Ayumi Pallopides
Heir to the Emperor, Former Senator of Denon
OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION
A low quality audio recording that has been recorded from a copy of a copy of a copy degrading the quality. With rumors of a different versions throwing much of its authenticity into question.
CONTENT INFORMATION
O seeker of tales spun from the threads of starlight and shadow, harken to a vision that dances upon the edge of dreams, where the Market of Whispers, a mirage of splendor, shimmers in the lofty spires of Denon, as elusive as a zeltron's promise of chastity and as radiant as the jewels of a forgotten emperor's crown. This is no mortal souk, but a palace woven from the breath of the cosmos, conjured in the twilight of eternity, where only those touched by the gods of fortune may tread. Its gates, hidden within the labyrinthine towers, open not to the clamor of coin but to the silent yearning of souls who seek wonders beyond the veil of worlds.
Picture, O wanderer, a hall suspended in the mists of enchantment, its arches soaring like the wings of a celestial roc, crowned with tapestries of star silk that shimmer with the light of constellations lost to time. These draperies, woven from the dreams of dying stars, ripple with hues that shift like the sands of a desert sea now sapphire, now crimson, now the pale gold of a moon's sigh. They whisper secrets in patterns that twist and coil, forming sigils that pulse with the heartbeat of the universe, as if the market itself were a living spell cast by a force king in an age when gods walked among men.
The stalls, O listener, are not stalls but altars of otherworldly craft, hewn from woods plucked from the heart of vanished realms wroshyr from Kashyyyk's ancient groves, heartwood from Ithor's sacred glades, and ebony from worlds drowned in the tides of oblivion. Their surfaces gleam like polished obsidian, etched with runes that glow with a spectral light, as if the spirits of forgotten forests linger within, singing of bargains struck in the dawn of creation. Each is tended by a merchant whose form is a riddle of shadow and flame, their eyes twin embers that burn beneath hoods of midnight silk. These are no mere traders, but masters of the bazaar, their voices a sibilant chant that weaves enchantments, their gestures conjuring visions of treasures that could ransom the stars. To meet their gaze is to glimpse eternity, to feel the weight of destinies unwritten, as though they hold the threads of thy fate in their hands.
Through the throng glides a veiled princess, her form as ethereal as moonlight on a desert pool, her robes woven from the essence of nebulae, shimmering with colors that shift like the tides of a cosmic ocean. Her veil, delicate as a spider's web, conceals a countenance said to rival the beauty of the stars, yet her eyes glinting like twin comets hold the wisdom of ages and the allure of the unknown. She is the guide of the Market of Whispers, a spirit born of the bazaar's own heart, leading the chosen through its labyrinthine aisles with a gesture of her hennaed hand. To follow her is to walk the edge of a dream, for she knows the paths to treasures that defy mortal reckoning planets bartered as pearls upon a string, moons traded for secrets that could unmake empires, and relics that pulse with the power to bend the heavens.
The air is heavy with the perfume of celestial incense amberbloom from Corellia's lost vales, myrrh from planets erased from memory, and spice-resin that burns with the sorcery of Twi'lek witches. These scents coil like spirits, mingling with the haunting strains of melodies older than the galaxy, played on lutes of crystal and harps strung with filaments of starlight. The music rises from the stones themselves, a chorus of whispers that tells of oaths sworn in the shadow of creation, of pacts sealed with the blood of gods. Guarding this dreamlike realm are sentinels whose forms shimmer as if woven from mist and moonlight, their masks of obsidian and silver veiling eyes that drink in all light. Their armor, inlaid with sigils that flare like comets, seems forged in the heart of a dying star, and their blades curved and gleaming whisper of enchantments that could cleave both steel and soul. These are masters of the blade, bound to the market by pacts older than time, their silence a vow, their stillness a storm held at bay.
No price is named in this elusive palace, for to speak of cost is to shatter the illusion of its grandeur. The wares are beyond mortal ken: holocrons that whisper forbidden truths, starships that sail the currents of the void, and the fealty of entire races bound by oaths of starfire. Planets are offered as one might offer a jewel, moons bartered for scrolls inscribed with the secrets of the Force, and regions of space traded for artifacts that hum with the power to unravel time. The patrons, cloaked in auras of power that could ransom galaxies, move as shadows among shadows, their whispers shaping the fates of worlds. A single tithe from their dealings could gild the spires of Denon or Coruscant for a thousand years, yet the market remains a phantom, unseen by all but those who bear the mark of its invitation a sigil burned into the soul, granted only to the elite of the elite.
O bearer of tales, the Market of Whispers is no mere souk but a dream woven by force wielding kings, a palace where the boundaries of reality dissolve and the impossible is bartered as easily as a sigh. It is said that Rashiri, emperor of emperors, once walked these aisles in disguise, seeking solace for a troubled soul, guided by the veiled princess who whispered of wonders even he could not fathom. Here, he saw planets traded like grains of sand, secrets that could topple gods, and relics that sang of the galaxy's birth. Yet even he, in all his glory, found the market's splendor a fleeting vision, for to linger too long is to risk becoming part of its myth a shadow lost in its labyrinth, a name forgotten in its whispers.
As the stars rise and the towers of Denon burn with a thousand fires, the Market of Whispers fades into the night, a mirage that lingers only in the dreams of those who have seen it. To step within is to dance with the architects of destiny, to trade in wishes that reshape the heavens, and to glimpse a truth that vanishes with the dawn. Yet beware, O wanderer, for the market is a dream that claims its own, and those who enter may find themselves bound to its spell, forever chasing a vision that was never meant to last.
HISTORICAL INFORMATION
There is not much known about the audio recording, most suspect it to be a fake or a hoax. The rumors of the invisible market, a high end and exclusive place beyond the black market is a thing of conspiracy spoken of to justify why the ultra elites have all of the credits.... but what if there was such a place in the background and its rare ubs around the galaxy serving as a means for people to meet. Only a handful of worlds would be able to benefit from it and with even a portion for the right to do transactions it could go a long way.
- Intent: To codexify an aspect of Denon for lore expansion
- Image Credit: N/A
- Canon: Invisible Market
- Permissions: N/A
- Links: District 19 - Upcity
- Media Name: The Market of Whispers
- Format: Audio Clip from a lower district bar
- Distribution: Rare (only a few people heard it and even less took it seriously)
- Length: Medium
- Description: Spoken by an unknown party, the recording it low quality and passed around between people building it more like an urban legend... with the rumor that there are two versions on the planet. Tales of a place where the richest of the rich spend their credits to shape the galaxy itself.
- Author: Unknown
- Publisher: Unknown it is passed around back alleys of the districts across Denon
- Reception: Some believe it, some seek it out, some think it is not true.
A low quality audio recording that has been recorded from a copy of a copy of a copy degrading the quality. With rumors of a different versions throwing much of its authenticity into question.
CONTENT INFORMATION
O seeker of tales spun from the threads of starlight and shadow, harken to a vision that dances upon the edge of dreams, where the Market of Whispers, a mirage of splendor, shimmers in the lofty spires of Denon, as elusive as a zeltron's promise of chastity and as radiant as the jewels of a forgotten emperor's crown. This is no mortal souk, but a palace woven from the breath of the cosmos, conjured in the twilight of eternity, where only those touched by the gods of fortune may tread. Its gates, hidden within the labyrinthine towers, open not to the clamor of coin but to the silent yearning of souls who seek wonders beyond the veil of worlds.
Picture, O wanderer, a hall suspended in the mists of enchantment, its arches soaring like the wings of a celestial roc, crowned with tapestries of star silk that shimmer with the light of constellations lost to time. These draperies, woven from the dreams of dying stars, ripple with hues that shift like the sands of a desert sea now sapphire, now crimson, now the pale gold of a moon's sigh. They whisper secrets in patterns that twist and coil, forming sigils that pulse with the heartbeat of the universe, as if the market itself were a living spell cast by a force king in an age when gods walked among men.
The stalls, O listener, are not stalls but altars of otherworldly craft, hewn from woods plucked from the heart of vanished realms wroshyr from Kashyyyk's ancient groves, heartwood from Ithor's sacred glades, and ebony from worlds drowned in the tides of oblivion. Their surfaces gleam like polished obsidian, etched with runes that glow with a spectral light, as if the spirits of forgotten forests linger within, singing of bargains struck in the dawn of creation. Each is tended by a merchant whose form is a riddle of shadow and flame, their eyes twin embers that burn beneath hoods of midnight silk. These are no mere traders, but masters of the bazaar, their voices a sibilant chant that weaves enchantments, their gestures conjuring visions of treasures that could ransom the stars. To meet their gaze is to glimpse eternity, to feel the weight of destinies unwritten, as though they hold the threads of thy fate in their hands.
Through the throng glides a veiled princess, her form as ethereal as moonlight on a desert pool, her robes woven from the essence of nebulae, shimmering with colors that shift like the tides of a cosmic ocean. Her veil, delicate as a spider's web, conceals a countenance said to rival the beauty of the stars, yet her eyes glinting like twin comets hold the wisdom of ages and the allure of the unknown. She is the guide of the Market of Whispers, a spirit born of the bazaar's own heart, leading the chosen through its labyrinthine aisles with a gesture of her hennaed hand. To follow her is to walk the edge of a dream, for she knows the paths to treasures that defy mortal reckoning planets bartered as pearls upon a string, moons traded for secrets that could unmake empires, and relics that pulse with the power to bend the heavens.
The air is heavy with the perfume of celestial incense amberbloom from Corellia's lost vales, myrrh from planets erased from memory, and spice-resin that burns with the sorcery of Twi'lek witches. These scents coil like spirits, mingling with the haunting strains of melodies older than the galaxy, played on lutes of crystal and harps strung with filaments of starlight. The music rises from the stones themselves, a chorus of whispers that tells of oaths sworn in the shadow of creation, of pacts sealed with the blood of gods. Guarding this dreamlike realm are sentinels whose forms shimmer as if woven from mist and moonlight, their masks of obsidian and silver veiling eyes that drink in all light. Their armor, inlaid with sigils that flare like comets, seems forged in the heart of a dying star, and their blades curved and gleaming whisper of enchantments that could cleave both steel and soul. These are masters of the blade, bound to the market by pacts older than time, their silence a vow, their stillness a storm held at bay.
No price is named in this elusive palace, for to speak of cost is to shatter the illusion of its grandeur. The wares are beyond mortal ken: holocrons that whisper forbidden truths, starships that sail the currents of the void, and the fealty of entire races bound by oaths of starfire. Planets are offered as one might offer a jewel, moons bartered for scrolls inscribed with the secrets of the Force, and regions of space traded for artifacts that hum with the power to unravel time. The patrons, cloaked in auras of power that could ransom galaxies, move as shadows among shadows, their whispers shaping the fates of worlds. A single tithe from their dealings could gild the spires of Denon or Coruscant for a thousand years, yet the market remains a phantom, unseen by all but those who bear the mark of its invitation a sigil burned into the soul, granted only to the elite of the elite.
O bearer of tales, the Market of Whispers is no mere souk but a dream woven by force wielding kings, a palace where the boundaries of reality dissolve and the impossible is bartered as easily as a sigh. It is said that Rashiri, emperor of emperors, once walked these aisles in disguise, seeking solace for a troubled soul, guided by the veiled princess who whispered of wonders even he could not fathom. Here, he saw planets traded like grains of sand, secrets that could topple gods, and relics that sang of the galaxy's birth. Yet even he, in all his glory, found the market's splendor a fleeting vision, for to linger too long is to risk becoming part of its myth a shadow lost in its labyrinth, a name forgotten in its whispers.
As the stars rise and the towers of Denon burn with a thousand fires, the Market of Whispers fades into the night, a mirage that lingers only in the dreams of those who have seen it. To step within is to dance with the architects of destiny, to trade in wishes that reshape the heavens, and to glimpse a truth that vanishes with the dawn. Yet beware, O wanderer, for the market is a dream that claims its own, and those who enter may find themselves bound to its spell, forever chasing a vision that was never meant to last.
HISTORICAL INFORMATION
There is not much known about the audio recording, most suspect it to be a fake or a hoax. The rumors of the invisible market, a high end and exclusive place beyond the black market is a thing of conspiracy spoken of to justify why the ultra elites have all of the credits.... but what if there was such a place in the background and its rare ubs around the galaxy serving as a means for people to meet. Only a handful of worlds would be able to benefit from it and with even a portion for the right to do transactions it could go a long way.
