Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]

[Pom Stych Tivé]

Darkest-sider disguised as a young lady, donning destructive Potions hidden within crystal buttons sewn about her dress, also a head filled with boo-stuffs.

The Nightsister pays little mind to any force signature that does not come near to outshining her own. Her early years had her donning her entire body with amulets and relics of her victims. Her old habits had then made her appear as if she carried with her an entire chronicled backroom to a secluded voodoo apothecary. Today however, she is connected with the universe, learned of an existence that rules Physics itself, yet walks among the living as they for a simple change of scenery. Great patience begets entertainment. She is here today for just that. Today is not dictated by Waring alliances; if it were, then Aether Verd could not hobnob with Jedi then ever think of stepping foot upon Dathomir without initiating a meeting! 'How does this faction leader receive them in general? Friend or foe?' She wanted to know! Despite the holiday from War, the polar differences between the Light and Dark sides of the Force never takes a holiday. The Matriarch does not want to see Jedi welcome upon Dathomir...ever.

She was asked about her place of residence. Where should she live to not draw aggressive attention? She never cared about any other place as much as she does her homeland, or anywhere her beloved dwells. She answers Eaton Waters ' question. "Oh, me? I live on a Station." She would never tell where, for Malsheem is a Worldcraft frightfully notorious for its capability to abolish anything and everything He so chooses.

She noted Eaton's slight trepidation towards her presence mirrored in his soul. While it is amusing as something to do akin to her mischievous nature, she also noticed how Daroli Spesto received her, and the misandrist she is, someone unwelcoming of such carnal attention, she entertained how she might use him to her advantage this night. She cast him an instantly flirtatious gaze.

She pondered using Daroli to navigate around the dance floor, because her jinn were telling her that Aether Verd is close by.

Games are afoot..
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[Aurelian Veruna]

Location: Captivated... and tipsy. But mostly captivated.
Tags: Sibylla Abrantes

For once in his life, Aurelian had stopped moving. The night had settled entirely around them. The hum of the estate, the low murmur of the crowd; all of it felt distant, replaced only by the quiet rhythm of her breathing beside him. The chaos, the politics, the sheer weight of who they were: none of it reached this small corner of the gardens. For the first time in years, he felt genuinely light.

He leaned back, the cool stone pressing against his shoulders, and let out a low, almost disbelieving laugh. The sound of her voice was still warm in his chest, musical and utterly unguarded. It felt like watching moonlight ripple across water; soft, easy, and real. He hadn't seen her this way before.

He tilted his head down to look at her, one brow arched, mischief playing across his lazy grin.

"You stole your father's wine?" he repeated, his voice laced with mock outrage. "And they called me the scandalous one. All this time, they've been gravely misled."

She laughed again, soft and unrestrained, and he found himself laughing with her, shaking loose the last threads of tension knotted in his chest. The world had gone pleasantly hazy, touched by the generous warmth of the wine and the golden afterglow of her smile.

Without stopping to think, he reached up and tugged his mask free, setting it on the bench beside him. The air was cool against his skin. "No point hiding now," he murmured, his eyes gleaming as he turned toward her. The lamplight traced the curve of her cheek as he reached out, his fingertips brushing the edge of her own mask before he slipped it off, laying it next to his. "There," he said quietly, a satisfied sigh in his voice. "Much better."

Maybe it was the wine, or maybe just the way her laughter still echoed faintly in the air, but something in him softened entirely. His hand came up to trace a loose strand of her hair behind her ear before he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. It should have stopped there, a gesture of quiet affection, but it didn't. Her breath hitched, and that flicker of response was enough. He caught her mouth again, slower this time, savoring it. It was the kind of kiss you knew you would remember later.

When he pulled back, he only went far enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him as he stretched his legs out. The night was cool, but the stone beneath them still held the faintest warmth of the day's sun. He felt content. It was a foreign word for a man who had built his life around ambition and the edge of danger. But right now, with her head resting on his shoulder and that shared laughter still clinging to the air, there was nothing else he wanted.

He looked up at the three perfect crescent moons watching over them and let out a quiet sigh that might have been a laugh. "Right," he said after a long moment, nudging her lightly with his shoulder. "Tradition, then."

A smirk curved his lips as he angled a glance down at her, his voice dropping low and teasing. "Let's hear it, Your Majesty. Sing about how marvelous you feel."

His grin deepened when she gave him that scandalized look. "Go on," he coaxed. "You've already kissed the Chancellor on the ballroom floor and stolen a very expensive bottle of wine... you might as well finish strong."

​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Naboo - Serraris Estate

Equipment:
Masquerade Attire | Lightsaber (hidden)

Ace watched the little bag of spice change hands, the exchange as smooth and practiced as any back-alley trade on Nar Shaddaa. Kinley's mock surrender drew the faintest flicker of amusement from him, one of those tight, crooked half-smiles that never quite reached the eyes.​

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"You really can sell sand to a Tusken, Pryse." He said dryly.​

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Kinley's quip about her "kind of man" drew a quiet exhale through his nose, maybe a laugh, maybe disbelief. "You two deserve each other." He muttered, but it wasn't sharp. More like the sound of someone grateful to have noise to fill the space.​

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He leaned against the bar beside Devin, his glass still barely touched. The ache in his chest hadn't faded, like a bruise beneath armor. Devin's voice, rough-edged and steady, helped drown it out.​

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Ace's glance tracked with his, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The pilot's comment about nobles being high on their own egos wasn't entirely inaccurate.​

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"You're not wrong." He murmured.​

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When Devin lifted his glass in that mock toast and laid out his new game, Ace gave him a sidelong look, brow arched beneath the mask. He knew exactly what the pilot was doing, throwing him a lifeline wrapped in banter. The kind of help that didn't look like help.​

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For the first time since the ballroom had gone sideways, Ace's smirk almost felt real.​

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"Spot the tells, huh?" He took up his glass, swirling the drink once before taking a shallow sip. "Alright, Flyboy. I'll bite."​

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He scanned the floor, the movement automatic, the kind of quiet assessment drilled into him from a life spent reading rooms before they turned violent. Chandeliers caught the curve of silk and metal, and then... there. Two dancers in the center of it all.​

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Cassian Abrantes moved with the practiced precision of someone who'd been trained to lead both armies and partners. His poise never faltered, but the angle of his hand on the girl's spine, the faint tightening of his jaw between smiles... those were the giveaways. Ace could almost feel the calculation beneath the charm.​

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Then there was the girl. Fatine von Ascania . Young, radiant, and trying too hard to seem unbothered by the weight of his attention. Her laugh came a second too late, her glance lingered a fraction too long. It wasn't rehearsed deceit; it was someone learning how to wear confidence like a costume.​

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Ace tilted his head, his voice low enough for Devin to hear, nodding toward the pair. "Noble in black, woman in gold. He's playing the part of control, she's playing the part of confidence. Only one of them knows they're acting."​

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He took another sip, watching the pair spin beneath the chandeliers. "The real tell? She's still listening to the music when he's already thinking about his next move." A faint smirk crept into his tone.​

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He set the glass down, the sound of crystal against marble sharp and deliberate.​

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"Your move, Pryse." He murmured, letting the crowd blur back into motion.​

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Kinley Pryse | Devin Virell​

 

[Morné Karn]

Veyra Saelis

Morné Karn arrived beneath the lantern-lit vines of the Serraris estate, mask in place and suit tailored to obscure nothing. The brass and sandstone façade glowed quietly in the evening haze. The music inside rolled like a dark tide, inviting guests to drift on its swell.

He didn't belong here. A part of him wanted to. They would claim his companies were a front for a criminal enterprise, but what was the difference between the worst companies and the best criminal organisations?

He navigated the crowd with ease: polite nods, brief handshakes, measured smiles. Then his gaze landed on her: a woman in a mask of silver and onyx, her posture straight, calculating.

As she slipped through the crowd he stepped into her path. He was a broad man, his bulk broad her to a halt.

"You," he said politely, "Don't quite belong."

He grinned.

"Would you care for a dance?"

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla's gaze lingered on the dancers, then returned to Siv. Even through her helmet, the tilt of her head and the subtle lean forward spoke louder than words—curiosity, attention, quiet amusement. She wasn't hiding it; the energy was deliberate, measured, a spark meant only for him.

"You watch people like that often?" Her voice was low, smooth, threading through the music without breaking its rhythm.

She shifted her weight, a careful step closer, though still keeping enough space to respect him. Every motion—the angle of her shoulders, the poised ease in her stance—carried unspoken meaning, a language she trusted he could read. Her visor caught the chandelier light, glinting like a spark of mischief, giving the question weight beyond its words.

A silence stretched between them, filled by the hum of music and chatter, and Veyla let herself think, helmet shielding her expression but not her attention. Not like the others. Calm. Deliberate. Watching without crowding. Seeing what most would miss… The realization made a small thrill pulse through her chest.

Softer now, almost to herself but still audible to him, she added, "Interesting… to notice what no one else does and remain unreadable yourself."

She leaned ever so slightly forward, subtle, deliberate, letting posture and presence speak what words only hinted at. "Careful," she murmured finally, deliberate, teasing, "or I might start wondering what else you notice… when no one's watching."

I want to know him, she thought, letting the helmet shield her curiosity but not her interest. And I suspect he'd notice if I tried to hide it.

She lingered in that moment, letting the music and murmurs of the crowd swirl around them, allowing her attention, her intrigue, and the faint spark of amusement fill the space between them—a quiet challenge, a delicate invitation, a subtle pulse daring him to respond.

Siv Kryze

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

s

“No.”
If her eyebrow could have it would have risen above her mask. “I don’t believe you. Everybody dances. Not even a little trip trot?”
Bastila gave a small huff of laughter that was quiet, it was the sound of someone who’s long since stopped bothering to argue with their own fate. “My Father did.” She gave a lingering look towards the ceiling. “He was never one for his little Bastila being cosy with just anyone. I was his legacy, he made sure nobody could taint it. Couldn’t have another Brandyn or Briana on his hands.”

She lifted a glass from a passing tray, more for something to hold than drink. “Now he is gone I just kind of carry it on. The Jedi call it detachment. The court calls it discretion. I call it self-preservation.” Her tone was light, but there was an undertone of dry exhaustion beneath it. “Get stung one too many times and you buy the next level of armour.”

Lorn’s presence beside her was steady, almost too steady, it made the whole charade of poise feel faintly ridiculous. She’d spent hours pretending at grace, and here he was, quiet and unbothered, eating his way through the galaxy’s most expensive finger food like it was a tactical exercise.

“Princess Varanin.” She said, almost too casually. “I think? The mask does make it hard to tell. It’s kind of the point.” She frowned as he put another canape into his mouth and chewed it slower then Brandyn attempting to do maths. “I had the honour of being introduced at the Hapan Royal Wedding, she’s royalty or so I’ve heard.”

At his next question, she didn’t immediately answer. Her eyes found them again; Aurelian and Sibylla, still orbiting each other at the centre of their carefully built world. Only now they had found somewhere more secluded and quiet. “I am not upset…” she said finally, a faint smile ghosting at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t look at me like that, you just caught me at the part of the evening where I stop pretending to care. Happens every time someone starts kissing in public.”

She tilted the glass slightly, watching the amber reflection sway within it. Her flushed cheeks fortunately hidden behind her mask. “Besides, everyone here is either performing affection or selling it. Let them have their performance.”

She took a sip from her glass, voice returning to its easy rhythm. Her eyes again watching Lorn take another piece of finger food to his mouth. “You know that they will destroy your figure?” she said towards him, and attempted to grab the next one out of his hand. “I have no idea how you managed to pulled Ala to be honest Lorn, but eating those all night won’t help the continued attraction. Give them to me.” The smile on her face was genuine and to Bastila that was the rarest feeling in the galaxy.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lorn Reingard EQUIPMENT:

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[Quinn Varanin]

//: Srina Talon //: Darth Carnifex //: Isley Verd //: Aerik Lechner //: Bastila Sal-Soren //: Lorn Reingard //: CT-312 //: Reina Daival //:

Quinn looked to her mother, the Empress of the Empire, who was teasing her about her lovers. The young Echani couldn't help herself; she chuckled at the amusement. Srina, of all the people in the galaxy, knew more than she probably cared about the young woman at her side. Quinn wondered if it was something others frowned upon, but for her, it filled a space that someone had left vacant. The more Quinn tried to fill it, the more she understood that no one ever would.

Her personal struggle, but one that seemed to benefit those she chose to share her bed with.

A grin crossed her carefully crafted features as the Sal-Soren girl caught her gaze. She could feel the subtle ripple in the Force as the woman seemed to force herself to look away, her attention drawn by another. Quinn frowned slightly, seeing the man pull the attention of the one she currently sought after. Quinn comforted herself silently, seeing it only as a temporary hurdle for her to deal with later. She wanted to continue her conversation with the handmaiden from the Hapan wedding.

Turning her attention back to Srina, she nodded, understanding the woman's words and the lesson that was at hand. Quinn knew the woman meant well and had knowledge that not even her birth parents would have. They were from another era, one where war was fought with weapons, not words. Times have changed, and they were forced to play a game of politics and sharp wit. Quinn groaned, annoyed again, as she watched Bastila and the hairy man continue to talk. The woman laughed, and Quinn's annoyance silently grew.

Before she could step onto the dance floor, multiple things happened at once that she could never account for. First, she felt a sudden surge of the Force, and a figure 'shimmered' into view. The pink hair was new, but she looked at Srina, who seemed quite friendly. There was a thought, mostly playful, remembering the woman's comment on her growing tired of lovers.

Quinn didn't get a chance to make a playful remark to the woman; she was interrupted by another appearance, again vying for Srina's attention. This time, a woman, Quinn, blinked and allowed her lips to curl in the most sly smiles. How interesting… the young Echani thought to herself. Again, before Quinn could quip, a third presence entered.

Aerik had greeted both the Empress and Quinn herself. She hadn't expected the boy wolf to make an appearance, but here he was. Tilting her head, she admired his attempt at cleaning up She had grown used to his somewhat wild look back on Dromund Kaas. To her surprise, he asked her to dance. She could feel and see his nerves ripping across the Force and his face. Quinn looked to her mother and gave a smug little grin.

"Enjoy yourself, Empress." Her voice was only loud enough for the small gathering to hear. Her attention glanced towards Bastila, then to Aerik. She leaned in, letting her words whisper, caressing the shell of his ear. "Mm, you clean up nicely," Pulling back, she offered her hand to her former student.

"I'd love to dance with you, Aerik." Her voice was playful as she let her lips curl around the letters of his name.

There were several people she had planned on dancing with; Aerik was one of the lucky ones to gain the first dance. Thinking of her list, she glanced towards the Trooper who had seemed to find another one of Quinn's interested paramours. She raised a brow, curious as to what they were discussing. But her mind fluttered back to the brave young man.

"I'll let you lead," she teased.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Bastila Sal-Soren​

Lorn huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. Everyone danced? Wrong again, he thought, not him. He didn't bother correcting her; it was easier to let her win that round. It seemed like she needed a wall to lean words against, not a partner for a debate.

He listened, chewing slowly as she spoke of her father: the expectations, the legacies, the feeling of being molded instead of truly raised. He had heard the half-truths whispered about House Sal-Soren's patriarch and the damage he left in his wake. Still, hearing it directly in her voice made the weight heavier. When she mentioned Brandyn and Briana tarnishing the legacy, a small, wry smile appeared under his mask.

The humor vanished entirely when she spoke of "buying the next level of armor." He knew that kind of purchase too well. Armor wasn't something you bought for fashion; it was earned, scar by painful scar. He didn't interrupt her. He just offered a single nod; the kind that communicated, I understand, and I wish I didn't.

He was mid-bite again when she pointed toward the woman: Princess Varanin. He hadn't heard of her. Then again, most nobles blurred together in his mind. Politics and royalty always seemed the same: dangerous, perfumed, and ready to kill you while they smiled.

When Bastila insisted she wasn't upset, Lorn arched a brow she couldn't see. "Sure looks like upset," he mumbled around a mouthful of food. "You wish that was you out there?" His tone wasn't mocking, just too blunt for the silk and pretense of the evening.

Then came the jab about his figure. He froze mid-chew as she reached towards him for the tray. "Oh, come on," he started, but it was too late. She plucked one clean from right under his hand. With a theatrical sigh of defeat, he handed her the rest, swallowing his last bite defiantly. "I'll have you know I'm in great shape... could outdo you," he insisted, half-offended, half-amused. "And I am a catch. Ask Ala; she stuck around, didn't she?"

He smirked faintly, watching her tease him as if she were fluent in the language of practiced levity. He recognized the layers underneath it: mostly defense.

"So, if it's not your father, not this Princess, not just the nobles... what's actually got you brooding, Bastila?" he asked. "Or is it truly all of the above?" He paused, glancing at the champagne glass in her hand before meeting her eyes again. "I'm not much of a talker," he admitted, "but I'm told I'm a decent listener. That might be why Ala stuck with me." He had to admit, Ala could talk... a lot.

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

O B J E C T I V E - 1

Kinley Pryse doesn't dodge blaster bolts, she convinces them they've got better places to be​

Kinley watched with mild amusement as the kids started guessing the vices of the highborns around them. She'd learned long ago that the rich and powerful were every bit as crooked as the criminal underworld, more so, in fact. At least thieves and smugglers didn't pretend to be noble while robbing you blind. Politicians, though? Those were the ones that really kept her up at night.

The game seemed to lift Acier's mood, which she supposed was nice, if she'd had the luxury to care. But Kinley was on the clock, and sentiment didn't pay the bills. She half-listened as they bantered, eyes scanning the crowd for her own kind of entertainment. The next round would be wallets, though she intended to wait until the free booze worked its magic. Nothing loosened pockets like expensive liquor.

"...........Blonde or not, she's leaving with someone."

"Isn't that how we are all hopping this night ends?"

Kinley bit down lightly on the straw of her drink, feigning nerves she didn't feel. Like everything else about her tonight, it was an act. This wasn't her kind of hunting ground. The room was packed with polished men whose standards she couldn't meet and women who wanted the sort of pampering she didn't have time for. Kinley Pryse was no lady, and that meant a night like this would end with her sleeping alone. Not that it bothered her, there were plenty of other corners of the galaxy where she never slept cold.

"Your move, Pryse."

"Not a chance. You know me, I only play games I can rig."

Another lie, smooth as the next sip of her drink. Sometimes she wondered, if she ever made it out of all this alive, whether she'd still remember which version of Kinley was real.


Acier Moonbound Devin Virell

A Smooth Criminal