Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]

[Sibylla Abrantes]

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House Serraris Estate Gardens
Location: Trouble is as Trouble does
Aurelian Veruna

Sibylla came out of the kiss laughing, breathless, and utterly undone. Her cheeks glowed pink, and she found herself incapable of wiping the foolish grin off her face. All the while, she kept her eyes closed, savoring the moment still half lost in it.

"Trouble?" she murmured, keeping her eyes closed even as her lips slowly curved up with a teasing grin. "Well, that is rather rich coming from the infamous Prince of Parlay." Her laughter bubbled again, shoulders shaking as she tilted her head toward his.

"I'll have you know, I consider it quite the feat to be called a menace, trouble, and your certain death all in one evening, and be thanked for it in the same breath."

Yet when he pressed a kiss to her temple, her laughter softened into something more tender. Her lashes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with a small, dazed smile. Just seeing how he was looking at her sent her heart tumbling all over again.

It took effort to remind her tipsy mind that dawn would come and that they both had duties waiting. But even then, the heart still didn't quite listen to reason, not when he offered his arm with that crooked, disarming smile.

"Well…" she breathed at last, catching his arm with a grin that was all fond mischief. "I suppose I shall accept your escort. If only to spare you from Corde's dreadful wrath."

I don't want this to be just one night, he'd said, and Shiraya help her, she wasn't sure if the flutter in her chest was from the wine or the weight of those words.

Then, halfway to leaving, she paused and turned.

"Oh, our masks!" she exclaimed, moving to retrieve them from where they'd been set aside. She held his out to him and gave him a playful tap with her own.

"There," she grinned, bringing the mask up to hold it over her face again briefly before bringing it back down, "Your momento of a wonderful night!"

She slipped her hand back through the crook of his arm, her smile curving as she tilted her face toward him.

"We could always go to another event..." she mused, tone lilting with tipsy delight. Then her gaze flicked up to meet his, her eyes dancing with a daring challenge. "Or perhaps you might surprise me instead?"

As she gave another laugh, she let out a soft sigh. She didn't know what this was becoming, or if it would fade with the dawn and the weight of politics waiting to reclaim them both. But for now, in the afterglow of the masquerade and the peach sweet haze of the wine, Sibylla only knew one thing: she wanted to see him smile like this again.

~ Exit ~​

 

[Nianuke cyt]

Equipment:My armor and helmet, Vibroknife(Hidden)

The music of the orchestra, so pleasant to the ears of the guests, reached Nianuke Cyt as a muffled, undulating wave of sound. Out here, against the chill, ornate iron railing of the garden balcony, the rhythmic thrum was less a distraction and more a strange, consistent pulse. The air was thick with the conflicting perfumes of this opulent world: the sweet, heavy scent of exotic night-blooming flowers from the meticulously cared-for gardens, layered over the sharp, cold odor of credits and high-grade synth-alcohol clinging to the night air.

Nianuke's attention, usually a cold, efficient beam focused solely on threat assessment, found a strange lull. She ignored the glittering, swaying silhouettes of the dancers inside. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the star-scarred sky visible between the dizzying heights of the skyscraper towers. She was charting the dark, silent space, calculating flight vectors, but as she watched, a different kind of calculation took hold.

The lights. The colors. The sheer scale of the distraction.

Too exposed. Too predictable, Nianuke's training had initially whispered about the guests. But then, a different thought arose: the scale of the masquerade, the volume of the noise, the sheer depth of the crowd—it was perfect. It was the ultimate camouflage.

In the covert, silence had been safety, but here, this noise was her safety. She realized, with a faint, unfamiliar stir of something akin to awe, that the chaos was exquisite. Every movement inside was randomized, every flash of light distracting. Her target was utterly lost in a sea of his peers, and no one, absolutely no one, would spare a glance for a dark, motionless shape on a shadowed balcony.

She was hidden in the garden shadows, who carried the crushing weight of her Clan's silence and the constant, chilling fear of its annihilation, for once was calm. More than calm—she was appreciative. She was observing not a target, but a masterpiece of misdirection. The orchestra's swell and fall, the rhythmic pulse of hundreds of heartbeats below her, the smell of life and luxury—it was all a massive, complicated system, and she was the only one who understood how to move outside of it. She was the still point in the turning world, and in that isolation, in that complete professional mastery of the moment, she allowed herself the briefest, sharpest flicker of enjoyment.

 

[Devin Virell]

Acier Moonbound Kinley Pryse​

The rim of Devin’s glass caught the chandelier light, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. He was watching Ace’s eye track down the man he mentioned earlier as though staring down a ghost. That little shoulder bump and banter earlier was his means to keep Ace grounded, but the way his breath slipped now, it made him believe that much was fraying.

Either way, he’d keep trying.

“Streets just teach you the truth early. Every table’s rigged, every mask’s a lie..”

He leaned in, elbow braced against the bar, body angled just so, but the gaze was sharp. That smirk that lingered might as well have been for the whole room. For a few beats, his hand drummed against the bar’s surface, a rhythm to cut through the static. He didn’t press.. didn’t ask. Ace would talk if he wanted. And until then, Devin would just try to keep the noise steady.

Devin tracked Kinley’s saunter with the clarity of a pilot who’d seen too many hustlers walk away with the pot.

“Pryse,” he called, voice just loud enough to cut through the chatter, smooth as smoke. The syllables stretched.

His glass tipped in a mock toast. “If you’re runnin’ a side hustle in there, cut me in. Hate to miss a good scam.”

The grin widened a fraction before the crowd swallowed her.

Rolling the stem of his vessel between his fingers, he sat it down with a clink, leaning back like he had all the time in the galaxy.

“Biggest fraud?”

Scanning the many gowns and painted smiles, he chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s a crowded field. Could be the man with the too perfect laugh, could be the lady nursin’ the same drink for an hour.” Another nudge was thrown, lighter this time. “It might even be me, pretendin’ this swill passes for liquor in a borrowed suit, talkin’ like I belong.”

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

s

Bastila let out a quiet laugh — the kind that barely made a sound, a small exhale through her nose. “You know what Lorn?” she said, tilting her head toward him. “For someone who doesn’t like talking you sure do like to ask questions.”
Her tone wasn’t cold, maybe just a little guarded if anything; it had that Naboo kind of composure, polished enough to pass for ease. The chandeliers above shifted, scattering ribbons of light across the floor. They danced over her face as she spoke, soft silver tracing sharp lines.

Again she turned the glass in her hand, watching the staining of the now absent pale liquid catch the light. “I want to be a Jedi. Still. For all the cracks in the Order, all the sanctimonious lectures and blindfolded politics; I still want it.” Her mouth curved faintly, a self-aware smirk tugging at the corner. “It’s not noble. It’s become habit. I’ve spent my entire life wanting to be one that I don’t know what else to want.”

Her gaze slid sideways toward him. “But I’m not naive enough to pretend I’ve done everything right. The limitations?” A small shrug. “Half of them are mine. Maybe more. I talk too much, feel too much, question too often. That doesn’t play well with people who demand calm and discipline."

She took a slow inhale, buying herself the moment to breathe before continuing. “The truth is, I’ve been a decent imitation of a Jedi for years. I can follow rules, quote the codes, make the lightsaber hum when it needs to. But the peace, the clarity; I think I lost sight of it somewhere between trying to be the soldier that the order needs in this day and age and trying not to disappoint my family.”

Her eyes met his, sharp but tired. “I don’t need saving, Lorn. Or someone to tell me what I already know. I just need someone to show me I haven’t been wrong to try.”

For a moment, the weight of it lingered between them, it wasn’t heavy, just honest. Her smile shifted to faint and wry. “That’s the great flaw of idealists, isn’t it? We think if we just work harder, someone will notice the effort.”

She gestured vaguely toward the dancers, her tone returning to its dry rhythm. “And before you get that look; no, I don’t mean them.”

“You can keep your philosophy, I’ll keep my ambition. One of us has to stay interesting.” She added with a continued smirk.

The orchestra swelled, laughter rippled through the crowd, and Bastila let her attention drift with it, as though she hadn’t just handed him something fragile and called it humour.
“Now eat something,” she added, her voice quieter, almost teasing. “You look like you’re about to start giving advice or make a declaration that you're going to regret tomorrow. I’d hate to ruin a perfectly tolerable evening.”

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lorn Reingard EQUIPMENT:

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[Corazona von Ascania]

Jorryn Fordyce
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If there was one thing Cora admired in a person, it was a dedication to their craft.

Well - there were several aspects she admired, but those were neither here nor there.

The flower's sanguine nature earned an arched eyebrow from the blonde. A tic that would be hilighted by her lack of other visible facial features.

"A blossom that feeds on blood, serving as a live vector for biological testing and a synthesizer for heme products," she summarized. While Jorryn had taken care to extoll the boons of her plant, its potential for nefarious uses did not escape Cora.

"Impressive. Most impressive, actually. I thought I detected a trace of iron."

They twirled about the dance floor, a graceful mingling of white and black fabric. Appraising eyes wandered from the edge of the room, but Cora paid them no mind.

Suddenly, the Echani's grasp tightened, and she leaned closer. The particular tilt of her head made it clear where she was looking.

Up went the other finely manicured blonde eyebrow.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd gather that your Syringa Sanguis was created through darker means," she mused. Her lips, unseen, curled faintly behind dark gems. What had been the point of wearing lipstick tonight, she wondered. "But so many things feed on blood and bone. Bodies break down and enrich the soil. Living things return to the earth, and give rise to more life in turn."

"In that way, I can't think of anything closer to the Light itself."

She laughed, once, lightly, as the Echani lead them into the smooth, flowing steps of a waltz. What a cunning predator this woman was.

"A name?" She echoed thoughtfully. Her thumb idlybrushed along the pale line of Jorryn's knuckle where their hands clasped together.

"Perhaps a name that honors its particular roots: Atropa. As for my own…"

"I go by Odette." A moniker she'd used at - unsurprisingly - another masquerade.
She was enjoying this moment for what it was; a dance with a beautiful stranger, a playful interaction made of clever words and subtleties.

“What should I call you?”

 

[Fatine von Ascania]

Cassian Abrantes

Fatine's narrowed eyes had locked onto Cassian's face, eagerly searching for any signs of discomfort. She felt a flutterer of satisfaction at his sharp inhale, though she would've liked to see a grimace.

At his crooked smile, she felt another flutter. This one lived in her chest.

Perhaps she'd felt a little remorse of quite literally stepping on his toes, but Cassian recovered quickly.

"Pity," she tsked as he swept them back into the rhythm with hardly a wobble. "I should've worn heavier heels."

He was still playful as ever, and the girl didn't quite know what to make of that. She'd once pulled the same move on a suitor at an event back home, and had almost cost her family a labor contract with a nearby provincial lord.

"Fine, truce," she agreed with a ragged, perhaps overly dramatic sigh. "White wine. Sweet."

Really, she didn't know why she was pouting. Perhaps she felt outmatched, finding his unflappable nature grating. He refused to be her plaything, but was she turning into one?

"Nothing really rattles you, does it?" She asked as they absconded from the dance floor. "I suppose that makes sense, given you're a military man and the galaxy is at war."