Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]

[Domina Prime]

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MOONLIGHT WALTZ
Regalia of Ha'rangir​

The music of Naboo's grand masquerade swelled like liquid gold through the air, strings and flutes weaving in decadent rhythm beneath the crystal chandeliers. Beneath that soft, gilded light, the Grand Priestess of Ha'rangir looked almost mortal for once.

The azure titan of the Arks stood among silk and perfume, her polished armor traded for layered finery that shimmered with every breath. Jewels glimmered across her horns, her mask carved in the likeness of some mythic goddess, and her long tail coiled nervously around her frame as though it might shield her from the judging eyes of the elegant. She was trying, really trying, to play the part of a noble lady tonight. But beneath all that velvet and gold, she was still Dima: fierce, awkward, and radiantly alive.

When she approached the masked ronin, she half expected to be laughed off, brushed aside for her brutish stature and alien heritage. Every ounce of confidence in her posture trembled at the edges. She had fought gods and slaughtered kings, yet the thought of being rejected for a dance made her stomach twist in knots. Her tail curled tighter, claws fidgeting with the hem of her silks as she forced a smile beneath her porcelain mask.

But then, Kito moved.

The woman's hand rose, lifting her mask just enough to reveal lips curved in quiet strength, voice warm and steady as she told Dima not to speak so lowly of herself. The words alone disarmed her completely, like a prayer answered.

And then came the kiss.

A soft brush of warmth on her claws, delicate yet deliberate, sending a jolt of shock straight through her chest. Dima froze, all five of her eyes widened behind her mask, her crystalline pupils dilating in wonder as her entire face flushed blue with heat. Her fingers twitched in Kito's grasp, and she brought a second hand up to her cheek as if to hide the light glowing beneath her skin.

"O-oh my stars... oh gods above and below, you, you really think so?" she gasped, her voice pitching high with girlish disbelief. "You think I could be a beautiful princess?"

Her words stumbled out in a bubbling rush of laughter, equal parts flustered and elated. The mighty Warpriest of the Iron Clergy, slayer of a hundred foes, was suddenly nothing more than a bashful maiden at her first dance.

And when Kito guided her to the floor, Dima followed in an enchanted daze. She glanced toward the crowd, catching sight of Siv Kryze & Veyla Krinn across the room, and instantly threw up three exuberant thumbs in their direction four if her remaining hand hadn't been claimed by her charming dance partner.

Then the music took her.

Kito's hand settled on her hip, guiding her through the rhythm. Dima tried to follow, gods, she tried. Her steps large and clumsy at first, her tail swishing so hard it nearly upended a passing waiter. Each misstep was punctuated by a nervous giggle and a whispered apology, until finally she began to match Kito's movements, her body learning by instinct the same way it did in battle.

When Kito leaned closer, voice low and teasing, whispering that she didn't wait for "cute boys", that there were better choices, Dima's glow erupted. Her scales shimmered in pulsing waves of azure and violet light, her tail curling and uncurling with frantic joy.

"You, you think I'm a better choice?" she purred breathlessly, her voice trembling between laughter and awe. "Then maybe... just this once...I'll let you lead, my lady knight."

Her grin widened, soft and radiant behind the mask, as the two of them spun across the marble floor. Around them, guests stumbled to avoid her wagging tail, laughter spilling through the air, but Dima didn't notice a thing.

For one perfect moment, under the moonlit chandeliers of Naboo, the goddess of war became something else entirely.

Not a warrior, not a prophet, not a monster.

Just a woman, laughing, glowing, and utterly in love with the moment.

Kito​

 

[Isobel Serraris]

THE MOONLIGHT MASQUERADE​

Location — Naboo, Serraris Estate
Objective — Objective one: The Moonlight Waltz
Tags — Lysander von Ascania
Paraphernalia — Outfit, Lightsabers (concealed)

When her eyes lifted to the dais, a single glance from her father screamed his disapproval, his confusion, and his struggle to intervene. The faint twitch of his lip as he folded his arms was a common warning, an unspoken promise of the nightmares that might follow in the Masquerade's wake.

Incompetence was the bane of noble society, the tightening shackle around a lord's wrist, for someday they must answer for their lapses and that of their kin--The latter a nightmare in the family Serraris. Unprofessional footwork, nightly escapades to forbidden fetes or accusations of scheming. And while Isobel's flaw appeared so shallow, so precise, it was the worst of the three siblings. To present oneself in public meant to present their house, their values, their worth, to stumble and frolick would be to confess there was no order, no... potential--marriage or otherwise. So whatever words Lys may conjure up to make her blush, it would not diminish the damages that must be answered for.

A faint smile was brought forth to her lips, its glee would not meet her eyes, which glimmered dimly in certain sorrow, or regret. "You charm me, mister." Formalities forged shield and armour to protect oneself from the embittered knives from their foes. And yet, the way her jaw tensed lightly and her smile fainted in discomfort, dared speak volumes on her strife. The following silence dried her lips and fell uneasy on her mind, although his resolve refused to falter. The proposed balm an abandoned remedy, one that would not even soothe her own spirits in the aftermath of their eve. The forlorn disagreement of one bringing a hex on what had been joyous and pleasant. But such had been the way of things. . .

Lysander's words echoed with a particular edge of understanding to them, as if he too had been troubled by such expectations. "Strength matters not in the eyes of some. Or at least not the 'strength' you imply." She spoke softer, not permitting his name to roll from her tongue. And yet... the Nabooan stepped closer, her arm weaving around his. The closest nobility may be without the holo-tabloids were being crowded with lengthy articles about who courted who and what scandalous acts had been unleashed in and out the ballroom.

Her fingers tapped absent-mindedly on the sleeve of his arm, whilst her thumb brushed lazily over the fabric. His presence the only steady one amid the crowd--the Force translating it into a gentle, resonant hum which moved in waves over her senses. "Mayhap I would have quit earlier--had I not a perfect teacher dragging me through the dance." Her words were slow, caged, and yet glittered as her thoughts repeated the night's chaotic events. Isobel did not move yet, not until the façade of 'courtly perfection' cracked at the mention of his departure. Part of her had longed to show him the everlillies, or do a tour of the gardens, but her mind agreed that further interaction may sully their reputation further.

With a single nod, she fell into step beside him, the two of them weaving through hordes of nobles chattering about investments and developing motions and laws, while others nearly spilled their champagne on her gown as they brushed past. Once outside, the cold air met her skin with a shiver, her hand holding on a little tighter to his arm, before coming to terms with her flaw and taking her distance. The Padawan's hands sat nervously at her sides as the silence threatened to consume the pair again. What must one say in farewell after this eventful night? A joke? A compliment? An apology? The words died on her tongue as her gaze flicked over his face, looking upon every detail in a matter of seconds.

The doors of the ballroom closed once more, outside it was quiet... Nature's song allowing itself to be heard over the faint clamour of instruments and the never-ceasing chatter between guests. She was expected to return soon, for lingering any longer would only feed the leeches. So Isobel stepped closer, rising onto her toes to mayhap place a kiss on his cheek. Yet... nothing came. In time only the chill of the night brought a kiss to his skin, as stammered words was all Isobel dared conjure up. An apology, something else? Possibly. . . One thing, however, remained certain, she had left him behind in the gardens to reclaim her place on the dais by her kin.

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[Braze]

Tags: Loomi
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Braze gently drew her in, guiding both her hands to rest on either side of his neck.
"I've been thinking about asking you that since the first time we met," he murmured, his voice low and warm as he moved with her in step to the music.

"I felt bad, seeing you stranded like that. I wanted to do something… something that might make life a little better for you." His tone softened further, a hesitant smile ghosting over his lips. "Truth is, I could never quite work up the courage to ask. It always felt like it might be a touchy subject."

He hesitated, eyes flicking toward hers before dropping briefly, bashfully. "The more I thought about it, the more unsure I became about what you'd think. I've spent more hours than I'll admit walking that tightrope... pretending you were there with me."

He sighed softly as he took her hand and took a few more steps gently leading her along.
"Girls... are strange to me... I suddenly loose my voice when I realize I'm talking to one and forget what I want to say... or think way too much about what is okay to say.... Was always afraid I'd say the wrong thing... "

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Bastila Sal-Soren​

Lorn stayed quiet as she spoke. The corner of his mouth twitched when she accused him of making sincerity sound fashionable. That was a first. He wasn't sure if that counted as a compliment or a warning, but he took it.

He let her talk, about trying, about breaking, about pretending the cracks belonged there. He didn't interrupt. He just listened, arms folded loosely, his head tilted slightly toward her. The part about ruining better men earned a faint huff of air through his nose, a sound that was neither a laugh nor disbelief. "Good thing I'm not one of the better ones," he said under his breath, more to himself than her.

When she warned him not to look at her like she was worth mentoring, he didn't flinch away. If anything, he looked steadier. He understood that kind of deflection; the way people used humor to patch over trust that had gone missing a long time ago. He'd done it himself too many times to count.

When she finally said she'd take the help, the quiet that followed was full but not uncomfortable. Lorn nodded once, slow and deliberate. "That's all I ask," he said simply. He offered no grand promises or lectures. Just that small agreement between two people trying to figure out how not to fall apart in the same galaxy.

He straightened a little, glancing toward the dance floor, where the music was swelling again in all its practiced elegance. "You know," he said, his voice lighter now, "I've been told I'm terrible company at parties. Something about standing too still and glaring too much." He gestured vaguely toward the dancers. "So do me a favor: try and have some fun tonight. At least one of us should."

He let the smallest smirk ghost under his mask. "And don't worry. The snark stays. Wouldn't want to make the galaxy too quiet."

 

[Eira Dyn]

Objective: 1/3
Outfit: Dress with Mask
Equipment: None
Tag: Korda Veydran | Aaliyah

Eira could feel eyes on her, it was to be expected and she welcomed it. From an early age, the Sith apprentice knew she was considered a beauty. It was only in more recent years that she had begun to learn the skills needed in order to weaponize her looks to her advantage. Wearing outfits that accentuated her figure and drew the eye. It was also a risky move since she was in a den of Light Side fools but Eira figured the more that she stood out, the less others would be suspicious of her presence here. Why would such an apprentice dare to attend a ball at the home world of her arch nemesis and dress in a manner that would call her to attention?

It just made her grin at the notion that the weak did not notice a lioness was amongst them.

Sensing someone approaching, Eira gave the appearance of being caught off guard but her mind and body were well prepared for his arrival. "I thought so as well. It would be of poor standing for a lady such as myself to appear anything less than fabulous." Eira stated, her voice was low, husky though still feminine in tone. Her blood red eyes flickered over to the man's face, taking in what she could and attempting to discern who he might be. Was he Jedi, High Republic, something else? Anyone who wasn't a Sith from the Sith Order would be someone of value in terms of a potential informant.

"Perhaps I stand still because I am merely waiting for the right person to appear, to stand out from a crowd of meek and shy." A gentle smirk played on her full lips as she lifted the glass and took another sip of the wine. Eira could feel the eyes of someone else lingering on her, eyes that saw through the guise that she was portraying. It was someone else who lingered in the darkness, someone that was not an ally of the Jedi. Eira was curious but she was not going to rudely leave the conversation she was involved in to investigate. Especially since there was more to benefit from this interaction than meeting people with the same agenda as her.

Offering her hand for Korda to kiss, Eira nodded her head, "Lady Keela." A false name that Eira had given in order to attend this ball, it would be stupid to provide her real name since it would undermine the whole undercover aspect of her work. "Of the noble House of Caevolus from Kalinda." Another fictitious name from a fairly unremarkable world. Eira figured that no one would be able to fact check her identity till this ball was far from over and therefore she would remain safe for the night.

"A night of conversation, dancing and drinking... That is something I assumed was guaranteed for a ball such as this one. The masks just allowing us to speak more freely of ourselves than we would without them." Eira took another sip of her wine. "I do not seen an intrusion from you yet, but is it truly all you wish to do, merely drink?" Eira raised an eyebrow, curious what the man truly desired from this.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

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Objective1: The Moonlight Waltz
Tag: Isobel Serraris
Mask

Lysander didn’t deign to follow her gaze, perhaps a different dance, one too delicate. But in that whispered moment, a subtle shift may have been enough to know where they landed; and in that brief glance, he could almost surmise the thoughts swirling within Isobel.

So instead, it dropped to a small space of polished floor between them, a place where words dared not tread. The silence that wrapped around him there was louder than any song, though he felt patient and serene, not pressing, not chasing.. just allowing everything to breathe. Much like their afternoon over tea where he enjoyed nothing more than the melody of her presence.

The word charm fluttered in his ear like a stranger, tied to a past he'd nearly forgotten. There was no plan to weave magic into words, only to let a piece of the self untouched by shadow slip free in her golden aura. The curve of her lips resembled a shy wildflower, one untouched by the deep pools of her eyes, and it was then Lysander observed the sorrow nestling in the gentle folds of her expression. A thread of quiet pain tugged lightly at the heartstrings. Though he’d summoned the courage to ask for her escort, it was the touch of her arm slipping through his that truly stole him away. His gaze softened, drifting shyly to where her hand brushed a sleeve. For a beat he just looked, surprised even at how natural it felt, for the request had been a formality, and in return, the reality became something sweeter.

“But it was you who showed me something worth learning. That strength isn’t in the perfect step.. but in choosing not to quit. For that, I owe you my thanks, for the memory of an evening I won’t forget.”

The words slipped from his tongue smoother than intended, softer than he meant, polished, as if plucked from a poem. Lysander winced at himself, knowing sincerity shouldn't sound so gilded.. but they'd already fallen, and he meant every syllable.

Stepping out into the night's embrace, the cool air spilled across his exposed flesh, replenishing and invigorating after the suffocating ballroom, thick with the scent of perfume, as if Naboo herself finally exhaled. The hush of gardens pressed closed, and the sounds of nature wove a softer tune than any orchestra inside.

...Only then did he turn to her, emerald flames soaring to meet her, unshielded, a bloom unfolding beneath morning sun, a glimpse into the real him, an unbarred portal. Though the gravity of a silent invitation was present, he would not breach her sacred space; how profane it would be, to trespass the very thing that drew him to the Padawan. To him, she was pure, untouched, and infinitely beautiful, the very stars that made her shine.

A silhouette rose softly, a fragile bridge across the void. The Sith's breath stalled, shoulders drawn forth. But when she retreated, only stillness became his chosen path. What was left behind was akin to a blade's murmur. An absence rippled through him, quietly, settling like dust across his chest. It wasn't to say the silence was empty; no, it was full of her, of what she withheld under armor, of what she almost gave. Lysander did not deflect with pride nor wit.. he simply surrendered. In doing so, he honored it.

The gap could have been closed in a single step, a single breath, claiming what hovered between them, but devotion for Lysander was measured in patience, honed by cruel trials in the Outer Rim's storms. Beneath the pale moonlight, he stood tall, where quiet gathered just long enough for clarity to arrive. And when truth crept forward, a veil lifting, what rose in place may have bore the grace of a blessing bestowed by Ashla, a prayer answered; in her presence, the truth was simple. For the first time in years, the Dark’s harsh grasp began to unfasten.

-Exit-

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[Loomi]

Naboo
Tags: Braze

Epo-1, Lushi​

"Girls... are strange to me... I suddenly loose my voice when I realize I'm talking to one and forget what I want to say... or think way too much about what is okay to say.... Was always afraid I'd say the wrong thing... "

"Even after you had free access to my dreams?" Loomi noted, her mouth forming into a gentle smile. "A gift is someone's heart bared to another... I would have happily accepted them if you did so."

The Godoan leaned in and pressed her cheek to Braze's, letting out an exhale.

"I'll always wear my feelings on my sleeve," she expressed. "I'm an open book. I can promise you with certainty that everything is as you see it. You know that I'll listen to anything you have to say..." The young woman paused, letting out an airy chuckle. "You talk a lot after all. Someone has to pay attention to everything."

That was how Loomi worked best. Listening to others to better understand them, so that when she spoke it was meaningful. Something that improved other's state of mind.

 

[Braze]

Tags: Loomi
​

It was nice, hearing such kind words from Loomi. She always had that gentle way about her, saying soft, sweet things that warmed the hearts of those around her. Braze liked that a great deal about her. There weren't many like her, kind in every breath, light in every word.

For a while, he said nothing, simply leaning into her touch, the quiet between them comfortable and bright. Then, with a soft breath, he turned, guiding her through the slow rhythm of their dance. His steps were careful, almost reverent, as though afraid to disturb the moment. When he paused, it was only to let the motion bloom again, his hand loosening just enough to spin her outward, the movement catching a rustle of fabric as she turned.

"There... is so much... more... That I never say. "

 

[Fatine von Ascania]

So he did get rattled. Just not in the way that elicited an outward reaction. And possibly, not by her.

Fatine nursed her drink with a slow sip, lips lingering on the rim of the glass.

"But tell me honestly, what would you have done if I had been?"

"Hm," hummed a thoughtful murmur against her cup. Fatine let the wine simmer on her tongue before lowering her glass and raising a dark brow.

"I guess we'll never know."

She decided that Cassian lived somewhere in the space between honest and playful. Murky waters, but ones she was intent on exploring with a smile that sat on the edge of mischievous.

"You have siblings, yes? You strike me as the older-brother type. Always so assured and calm," she said, rolling the wrist of her free hand. "It's annoying."

Perhaps that was how he managed to handle her childish attitude as well as he did. Fatine gave her glass a gentle swirl, peering down into the pale yellow liquid. The girl didn't know what she was looking for, only that the gesture looked sophisticated.

"However many you have, I've got you beat," she bragged. "I'm one of ten."

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

For just a heartbeat she said nothing, instead she just regarded him with that familiar half-smile; the kind that hinted she was thinking far more than she was saying. Then, quietly, she inclined her head.
“Then we have an agreement,” she said. “Help, without lectures. Survival, without sermons. And I’ll try to find something resembling fun in this place.”
Her tone carried that dryness, yet with Naboo grace, but it was softened by something more genuine. The corner of her mouth rose faintly. “You might be terrible company, Lorn, but at least you’re honest about it. That already makes you better than most in this room.”

She turned towards him properly. “As for training…” Her gaze moved up to meet his, calm but certain. “I won’t keep running from what I was meant to be.”

It wasn’t a vow, not yet; Bastila didn’t make those lightly anymore, but there was a quiet conviction in her voice, the kind that meant she intended to keep it.

Sensing that fate has run it’s due, she straightened and smoothed the folds of her gown with practiced grace. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a favor to return.”

Her mask caught the moonlight as she stepped away from the pillar, the shimmer of her gown rippling like liquid silver through the crowd.

She moved easily among the dancers, a shadow of elegance threading through the tide of color and laughter. The orchestra’s rhythm rose around her; soft strings that flowed from a crescendo of violins; and for a moment, she let herself feel the hum of life that filled the room.

Then she saw her.

Quinn Varanin; gold mask, still as a flame held behind glass. She was gliding across the floor with that unnerving calm that made the air around her seem thinner. Bastila slowed, the Force stirring faintly in her chest, It seemed to do that when proximity to certain individuals felt too much like gravity. Her fingers twitched against her side, telling of a silent battle inside between curiosity and restraint.

She was still watching when the world reasserted itself in the form of a solid shoulder.

Bastila stumbled one step back, catching herself, about to turn on the other party when she froze.

“Dominic.”

His name slipped out before she could catch it. It was only a whisper but the sound of it broke something in the air between them, sharp and fragile at once.

She hadn’t seen him since the Senate attack, and yet here he was, the crowd moving around them as though the galaxy hadn’t shifted at all.

Bastila’s breath caught, just enough to betray her surprise; before she pulled her poise back around her like a cloak. “Of course,” she murmured, voice calm and deliberate, clearly hiding her embarrassment. “Only I would manage to walk into someone in a room this size.”

The mask did its work, hiding the flicker in her expression. Her heart, however, hadn’t quite learned the same discipline.

The music swelled again, bright and unrelenting. The crowd unaware, as it always was that it was playing silent witness to another collision Bastila hadn’t planned to survive gracefully.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lorn Reingard | Dominic Praxon | Quinn Varanin EQUIPMENT:

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[Alina Grayson]

Objective: 2
Memorial Gardens

Alina’s hand met his without hesitation, the contact brief but anchored. There was no fanfare in the gesture only quiet understanding. Her fingers curled around his with the same ease she used to steady a blade or calm a frightened child. Intentional. Measured.

"You are very welcome.," she said softly, with a smile.

The archways gave way to the open hush of the gardens, and she let her senses stretch with each step. Not reaching outward in search, but listening. The ground here had stories. The trees whispered old names. Even the stones beneath their feet had known triumph and blood and the long, still years between.

Lanternlight caught at the edge of her features the faint shimmer of gold at her collar, the soft sheen of the pale fabric brushing her legs as she walked. Her presence did not demand attention, but it held it. A deliberate sort of grace, a woman not here to be seen, but who was never overlooked.

She glanced sidelong at Aiden, her expression thoughtful. "Masks hide what we protect. But sometimes… they let us see things more clearly. People get complacent in their anonymity. This is why so many favor these gatherings" Her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat longer, then moved away to the trailing vines along a nearby wall. "For some it affords them some courage they might not otherwise have.”

Her steps slowed near the edge of a small reflecting pool. The surface shimmered with the night sky, lanterns floating like captive stars. She looked into it for a moment before speaking again.

"I don’t think peace is the illusion," she murmured. "I think it’s the hope that we can hold it without ever getting our hands dirty. But real peace the kind that lasts it’s never clean. It’s earned. Fought for. You and I both know that well. Still, I think that's enough philosophy for the evening."

She turned back to him, the distance between them measured in heartbeats, not paces. "Tonight is supposed to be for us to relax, we can debate the finer points political games another time."

TAG: Aiden Porte