Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]



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My, she loved bathing in the blood of her enemies, but a well formed ballroom gathering was a gourmet feast for the senses. Aaliyah made it her purpose to introduce herself into conversations periodically. A warm specter that came and went leaving her conversation partners all the merrier for having basked in her presence. There was nothing wrong with making people feel comfortable. Accepting. Pliable. And there was no better way to find morsels of interest than engaging directly with them.

An electric lavender eye spied a few Shades that tried not to stand out in the crowd. Even a few Champions of morality and order were in attendance. Aalliyah purred at the thought of those two meeting openly for all to see. Such sweet temptation. The cries of horror, the crushing weight of panic... yes, it would be quite the different sort of gathering then, wouldn't it?

But she shouldn't get ahead of herself.

"Aren't you going to join them?" Aaliyah asked. A bold smirk occupied her black lips beneath her black masquerade mask. Not so bold as the outfit she wore; it didn't reveal an ungodly amount of flesh, but it was far from orthodox. Platform boots, latex thigh-highs, and a latex corset stood in sharp contrast to her deceptive warm brown skin.

She'd stopped a few feet behind and to the right of Kasir Dorran Kasir Dorran so as not to alarm him. Fiends of a wing they might be, but that hardly made them fast friends. Eira Dyn Eira Dyn wasn't far off and was another delightful choice whose aura of blood sung sweetly. Precious few not of her kin would have the senses to detect it; she did well to hide her Force presence, but a monster like herself and Kasir saw the world in a different light. Perhaps the lethal thing would join them. Three horrors all gathered together. Perhaps they could divine a way to bring new life to the gathering.

Aaliyah extended a hand out toward Kasir, her nails long and sharp. "Won't you do me the honor?" Well, if Eira did decide to join them, it'd only be a dance until they were available again to discuss all manner of dark tidings.


 

Vexia Tahl

Billionaire, Playgirl, Philanthropist


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Objective: The Moonlight Waltz
Location: Serraris Estate, Near Theeds, Naboo
Outfit: Masquerade Gown
Tags: OPEN

The event was not exactly the normal place to find Vexia Tahl. She was much more of a dance club being than a formal ball goer. That being said, it was not her first time attending such a soirée. Her late husband would have loved the grandeur of the setting. So every once and a while when an invitation like this came along Vexia made it her duty to attend. Besides the people who would be at this party were probably the type that would find interest in her philanthropic interests. And though there was no sight to the end of her funds for such projects it was good to have others to join in.

Aside from the charitable possibilities Vexia loved to dance and she loved attention. A nice big ball like this promised to have plenty of pretty potential dance partners. Even if the dancing promised to be more understated, that didn't bother Vexia in the least. As for garnering attention. The fact that all attendees were required to wear masks put a little damper on Vexia's normal way of going about that. But her dress was colorful and she showed enough red skin that she suspected she would not escape all the eyes of the party.

Of course the fact that Vexia would make a casually late arrival would either have her more noticed or dismissed as being rude. Technically Vexia saw the latter as just as good as the former. Someone who couldn't deal with a little chaos created by a late arrival wouldn't be someone that Vexia wished to associate with with regularity. But said person would probably ask around and so Vexia would be noticed.

As she entered the ballroom, Vexia found it very pretty, if a bit too formal for herself. She knew that she would have to dial down her normal self a bit until she could find someone worth sharing it with. Vexia immediately sauntered over to a waiter where she took a flute of whatever bubbly wine was being offered. Vexia loved the taste of such wines. By now most beings in the galaxy knew that the alcohol within would have no effect on a Zeltron, so feigning drunk had become less and less amusing as she attended more parties. With a sway to her hips, Vexia made her way around the room noting the attendees and food that had caught her eye. She would swoop in for a closer look the next pass.
 

Naboo
Tags: Braze Braze
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Epo-1, Lushi

"Here we are. "

"I suppose so..." Loomi muttered.

It was weird wearing a mask for a party, but that seemed to be the whole point. How strange it was. Surely that had to make security for an event like this difficult. Even now, the young Jedi Knight could feel dark presences intermingled with those more akin to herself. Those little flickers of darkness faded away and masked themselves. It was just enough to make it unclear who anyone was.

That would make it hard to enjoy herself. Even so, she should try, right?

"I've... never been to an event like this," she noted in a hushed tone towards Braze. "What are we supposed to be doing exactly?"


 



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MOONLIGHT WALTZ

Regalia of Ha'rangir

It was her first time trying to dance.

Not in battle, where rhythm was instinct, where movement was purpose, but in this soft, gilded parody of it. A masquerade of lace and candlelight where every motion was meant to please rather than pierce.

The violins swelled, the dancers flowed like silk, and Dima...simply swayed.

She stood on the edge of the ballroom floor, a towering silhouette against chandeliers that glittered like constellations. The couples waltzed in perfect synchrony, a tapestry of grace and laughter, while she...massive, uncertain, shifted her weight from heel to heel, her shoulders rocking back and forth like a pendulum.

Her claws tapped at her sides, her ears flicked with every swell of the orchestra. She tried to follow the rhythm. She tried.
But her feet refused her. They were not made for this kind of dance.

It was a pitiful sight, and she knew it.

Among nobles who spun in threads of gold and light, Dima's presence was like a shadow caught in a dream, real, raw, and wrong. She had imagined herself elegant once. A lady. A being of poise and admiration, not of steel and scripture. But the mirror of the ballroom reflected only truth: she was too large, too loud, too other.

She watched the men bow and the women curtsy, watched their laughter ring in perfect cadence. When she dared call out to one of the lords, a shy, well-dressed noble his eyes widened, and he turned away, vanishing behind masks and murmurs.

Her ears wilted. Her chest sank.

Behind her mask, she pouted like a scolded child trying not to cry.

Perhaps she could have forced the moment. Taken his hand and led him by strength, as she led armies. But what would that make her? A beast among dancers? A brute in silks?

So she stood still and watched.
Like an outsider looking in on a world she could never enter.

Every flicker of laughter stung. Every spinning skirt was a reminder of all the things she could never be. Delicate, effortless, wanted.
She told herself it was fine. That she didn't need their acceptance, that her god would never ask her to be graceful. And yet, beneath all the armor and faith, something small and tender inside her whispered otherwise.

And that was when she heard her name.

Her head snapped up, ears perking. Someone had called to her! Someone had noticed. For a single, burning moment, her heart lifted.

But then she saw who it was.

Siv Kryze Siv Kryze

Steady-voiced, sure-footed Siv.

A fellow warrior, escorting a young woman through the ballroom with all the ease and grace Dima wished she could fake.

"That's Domina Prime," he was saying, his tone even and polished. "Sharp tongue, sharper sense for politics. She'll either like you...or test you."

Her lips twitched at that, a faint, nervous smile behind her mask. When they drew close, Dima tilted her head in that familiar, heavy way, the motion half-curious, half-defensive. She hated politics...despised it with every part of her being and avoided it at all cost. It was...strange to be viewed as one with a sharp sense for it. If anything, she only had the sharp senses to cut such drivel down entirely.

She dodged the implication.

"Suppose I'll be seeing you during sermon?" she managed, her voice bright but trembling around the edges. "The Monastery of Manda is open to you. Be sure to come find me there, yes?"


The xeno smiled at Veyla Krinn Veyla Krinn , Dima tried to hold that smile, but it slipped the moment her gaze fell back to Siv.

She leaned in, lowering her voice, her claws fidgeting at her side.

"Hey, um...how does one get the cute boys to dance?" she whispered, half-joking, half-hurting. "I mean, I'm a lady, right? Am I doing it wrong? S-should I ask girls instead?"

Her laugh came out awkward and too high. The kind of sound you make when you're trying to sound confident but you're already breaking.

She preened, smoothing her hair though not a strand was out of place. Her reflection in the ballroom window caught her eye, towering, horned, strange...and for a fleeting instant she saw not a Domina, not a priestess, not even a warrior. Just a woman who wanted to belong somewhere beautiful.

Only she didn't.

And as the music swelled, as the dancers spun past like planets around some bright sun, Dima found herself swaying again, alone, smiling through a mask that hid too little and revealed too much.

To the onlookers, she might have seemed content.
But inside, she was breaking in quiet, tender ways.
A monster who wanted to be a lady.
And for all her might, for all her holy fire, that was the one battle she did not know how to win.


O P E N
 
The silence lingered just long enough to gnaw at him.

He held the glass between his fingers, watching the way the wine caught the light — red like the glow of blaster fire through smoke. The music swelled again, strings and piano weaving together into something elegant, effortless… and entirely alien to him.

Korda's jaw flexed once beneath the mask before he gave a quiet, self-deprecating breath that might've been a laugh. "My mistake," he murmured, voice barely audible above the orchestra. "I've misjudged the tempo."

He inclined his head slightly toward the woman in black — not so much bowing as acknowledging the error of a soldier who knew when a line had been crossed. "Forgive the interruption. I meant no offense. Formalities…" his gaze flicked toward the crowded ballroom, "…have never been my strong suit."

The faintest shake of his head followed as he stepped back, careful not to brush against anyone — his movements controlled, almost rehearsed, as if retreating from a front he had no business holding. The mask hid most of his expression, but the tightness in his posture said enough.

He set the untouched wine glass on a passing tray, murmured a quiet thanks to the servant, and turned toward the bar across the chamber.

Each step felt lighter, freer, the further he moved from the press of perfume and conversation. The chandeliers' glow softened against the darker corner where the bartenders worked, and the din of the dance faded to a distant hum. He loosened the collar of his suit with a gloved hand, exhaling through his teeth.

"Silk and smiles," he muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to the empty air beside him. "Should've brought armor."

He took a seat at the bar, posture finally relaxing as he tapped the counter twice for a drink — nothing fancy, just something that burned.


For the first time that evening, Korda felt like himself again: quiet, watchful, a shadow among the revelers — a man who could finally breathe.

tags: Open (sorry to the person I tagged in my last one, having kordas anxiety kick in)
 

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HOUSE SERRARIS ESTATE
The Moonlight Masquerade

Josiah’s gaze swept across the glittering floor, tracing the rhythm of the waltz and the polished perfection of Nabooan grace. Every movement was rehearsed, every smile deliberate, and yet something imperfect caught his attention. Amid the whirls of silk and shadow, a young woman had collided with the armored frame of a Mandalorian. It was a brief interruption, but one that drew his focus as surely as a spark in the dark. He studied her posture, the way she recoiled with apology rather than fear, and the faint ripple in the Force that followed her motion. In that moment, recognition found him. The little light he had been sent to guide.

He waited until the Mandalorian turned away, his presence swallowed by the tide of masks and chatter. Then Josiah moved. His steps were measured, his cloak trailing faintly behind him as he crossed the marble floor. Though years of solitude had dulled his grace in noble halls, some habits lingered. His swordhand came to rest against his sternum, and he inclined his head in a small, practiced bow.

“My lady,” he began, voice low and even, the words carrying the quiet polish of old court manners. “Josiah Denko of the Jedi Order.”

He straightened, standing tall beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers. The mask hid the age around his eyes, but not the faint smile that reached them. “I have been looking forward to meeting you. Though,” he said with a touch of humor, “I did not expect a masquerade of this beauty to be the setting for our introduction.”

For a fleeting second, a thought crossed his mind, one he wisely kept to himself. He hoped she knew who he was. It would be dreadfully awkward if he had just introduced himself to the wrong noblewoman.


 

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




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O B J E C T I V E - 1

Kinley Pryse doesn't break hearts. She loots the wreckage


Kinley was surrounded by doting couples, all moon-eyed and whispering sweet nothings. It made her want to gag. The jewels around her neck were worth it though. She lingered by the servant station just long enough to look like she belonged, then drifted to the bar and ordered the gaudiest mocktail she could spot, something neon, sugar-laden, and guaranteed to rot her teeth. Fruit like this flowed easy on worlds like Naboo, but out on the Rim? A drink this pretty could get you knifed faster than a packet of spice.

She settled onto a stool, stirring the syrupy mess with a tiny straw, when movement caught her eye, two young men heading her way. She knew one of them. Hells, she was almost impressed he was still breathing.

A slow smirk tugged at her lips. Maybe the kid was here to buy, or at least to shake some life into this prim little soirée.

As they came within earshot, she leaned back, wishing she had her hat just so she could tip it.

"Well, well… look what the stars dragged in." She lifted her saccharine drink in lazy salute, eyes flicking over the masked pair. "Didn't expect to see you someplace with linens and table manners."

Devin Virell Devin Virell Acier Moonbound Acier Moonbound










A Smooth Criminal

 
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Location: Good ideas are boring
Tags: Sibylla Abrantes Sibylla Abrantes

Aurelian's pulse pounded, drowning out the orchestra's fading notes. Her voice, soft, defiant, and dangerously close, still lingered. "I think I'd rather find out what happens if I'm not." Shiraya had no idea the effect her words had on him.

His thumb lingered along her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin. She gazed up through her lashes, her eyes alight with that familiar challenge that always made him reckless. For years, he'd admired that spark from a safer distance, appreciating her sharp wit, impossible grace under pressure, and the way she never bowed. But now, with her laughter still caught between them and her hand resting over his heart, all that careful distance had vanished.

He should have stepped back. It was the sensible, the politic thing to do. He could already see the fault line if he didn't: the ruin of a friendship that had carried him through more storms than he could count, the one thread of steadiness he'd never dared to test. Losing her, the thought struck him with quiet, raw panic. If this went wrong, if one misstep fractured what they had, it wouldn't just sting. It would shatter him.

And yet, her pulse fluttered beneath his hand. The faint tremor of her breath brushed his lips. Her perfume, faint and clean, threaded with warmth, wrapped around him until he couldn't remember what space had ever existed between them. He'd faced political battlefields and betrayals, yet nothing had undone him quite like this exquisite, suspended moment of wanting.

He exhaled slowly, his eyes tracing the curve of her mask, then the slight parting of her lips. The ache in his chest deepened into something fierce, hungry, and almost tender. He thought of all the times he'd wanted to say more and hadn't, of all the nights he'd let their laughter be enough. Perhaps it still could have been, if she hadn't looked at him like that.

His mouth quirked, barely. "Nez," he murmured, low and rough, the name almost a sigh.

The final note of the waltz shivered through the air. He tightened his hold on her, one hand at her waist, the other still at her jaw. For a heartbeat, the decision hung there, fragile and burning. Then he stopped thinking.

He spun her once more, a sweeping, effortless motion that sent her skirt flaring, light catching on silk and gold. When he caught her again, he drew her in flush against him, their breath mingling, the space between them collapsing to nothing. The roles of prince and diplomat, chancellor and queen, fell away. They were just Marcus and Nez.

F-ck it

He leaned in, silent, intent, every nerve alive, as the world fell away and he went for the kiss.

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The music of Naboo was always a beautiful thing, but tonight it felt unreal, like the players had found a new level of mastery beyond their last. The chandeliers above, crafted from local crystal, caught every angle of light and fractured it into drifting ribbons of silver beams. They danced across the floor like spirits of the planet itself, each one chasing, and fading before returning again. It was amongst these that the court spun and shimmered in silks and masks, laughter rising and falling in time with the waltz.
Bastila stood not at her usual center, instead she was at the edge of the movement, a quiet constant amid the glittering crowds.

Her gown flowed like captured moonlight, its opaline folds threaded with faint constellations that shimmered when she moved. At her throat, a crescent of polished silver caught the light, echoing the curve of the mask that covered her face, the symbol of the lovers embrace rendered in fine Naboo filigree upon her forehead. Tonight, discretion didn’t mean she couldn’t still command the eye of every onlooker, her reputation for elaborate and extravagant formality was demanded by the Moonlight Masquerade, she dressed in homage to the goddess herself, she felt it only fitting.

From her vantage at the ballroom’s edge, she allowed herself to be seen watching the dancers. She watched them with the still focus of a Jedi and the subtle discernment of a cautious handmaiden. Her gaze settled on the pair at the centre; Aurelian Veruna and Sibylla Abrantes, the reason she was stood to the side, the reason tonight she was more on guard then usual. Their movements were too precise she noted, to be mere pleasure. Their waltz was a conversation between just them, each step a word to the other, each pause a thought unspoken.

Bastila observed, very uncharacteristically; she found herself curious of it more than anything. Politics could be as intricate as any lightsaber form, and few performed it with such grace as those two.

Her mind flickered to a memory of her own dance at the coronation, of gloved hands, of motion dictated by tradition yet forced down on desire. There had been tension then, the weight of two of them in every turn. Here, however, there was something else. Intention. Calculation, yes; but also an ease between them, a dangerous familiarity that was becoming very, very public in its subtlety.

The Force whispered at the edges of her perception, something faint and cool beneath the music. Not a threat, but a strange awareness of a ripple carried through the tide of minds gathered here. She followed it, calm and deliberate, until her gaze met Sibylla’s across the room.

Just for a moment.

Behind her mask, Sibylla’s expression wouldn’t change. Nor would the rhythm of the waltz falter. Bastila just gave the gentle nudge of acknowledgement. A silent exchange between two youths of Naboo who had been thrown into the same boiler pot and expected to survive.

Bastila inclined her head ever so slightly, enough for only one person to notice. It was a reminder and a promise to them both, that her duties here as Handmaiden were not forgotten. That Lady Abrantes was not alone in this theatre.

Then the music swelled, the crowd closed in, and the connection vanished like mist beneath moonlight just as Aurelian leant in...

Bastila exhaled softly and resumed her quiet observation. Whatever games were being played on the dance floor, she would remain what she was meant to be for now, the unseen guardian, the watcher in the wings. Tonight like the Goddess she had to be the moon, she would need no applause to outshine the night.







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OUTFIT: Dress | Mask | TAG: Aurelian Veruna Aurelian Veruna | Sibylla Abrantes Sibylla Abrantes EQUIPMENT:

 
Kai'el Brat "Guardian of the Light"

Naboo
Tags: Braze Braze
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Epo-1, Lushi



"I suppose so..." Loomi muttered.

It was weird wearing a mask for a party, but that seemed to be the whole point. How strange it was. Surely that had to make security for an event like this difficult. Even now, the young Jedi Knight could feel dark presences intermingled with those more akin to herself. Those little flickers of darkness faded away and masked themselves. It was just enough to make it unclear who anyone was.

That would make it hard to enjoy herself. Even so, she should try, right?

"I've... never been to an event like this," she noted in a hushed tone towards Braze. "What are we supposed to be doing exactly?"






Tags: Loomi Loomi

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"It's for people to flaunt what they have and flirt a little without ruining their reputation for it," Braze explained. "You're expected to relax, indulge in a bit of cheeky aristocracy, and partake in mild noble politics where honeyed words hide sharpened daggers."

He drew Loomi's hand up and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it before guiding it to rest on his arm, a subtle invitation should she wish to take it.

"The masks let would-be nobles mingle with commoners more freely," he went on. "The mystery suspends all that class and status nonsense for one night."

A faint grin touched his lips. "In the books I've read, they're quite the affair. The fantasy of a commoner meeting some breathtaking noble and falling head over heels after one enchanted evening... it's a classic scene in those romance volumes. Think about how some one liek Corazona von Ascania Corazona von Ascania could be a little more free to mingle on her home planet. "

He led her toward the hors d'oeuvre table, continuing, "It's also a time to simply dance and enjoy yourself. Try delicate sweets you'd never find anywhere else, talk with strangers, lose yourself in the crowd."

He trailed reminicing of a differnt time, not so long ago.

"I've only been to one other such event," he admitted after a pause. "I met the ruling king there and even shared a dance with him. It was... quite thrilling, considering I didn't realize who he was at the time.... But you seem nervous... whatwould you like to do?"

 


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House Serraris Estate
Location: Risk it for the biscuit!
Aurelian Veruna Aurelian Veruna

It felt as if Sibylla’s heart was thundering in her ears, the world around her dissolving into the soft blur of motion and music. Yet, her mind was racing -- racing through months of their growing friendship, of revelations and changes, of all the ways life had shifted since Wielu.

She could still see it, that battlefield of words and silence where everything between them had changed, when she had broken down to Aurelian in the wake of it all that she didn’t want to have to keep up masks or pretenses with him when she already had to do so with everyone one else -- and how he’d agreed that he would try. Since then, she had come to know Aurelian not as the politician or the Prince of Parrlay, but as the man behind the masks and the dangerous charming smile. The man who made mistakes, who could laugh easily, who could lived freely. And somewhere in those quiet, stolen hours, she had begun to care for him in ways she had never thought or wouldve allowed herself to.

When he had kissed her back on Kadaarra, she hadn't been ready. Her heart had still been caught elsewhere, tangled in what she thought love was supposed to be. She had shoved him away, confused and angry at herself for feeling anything at all. But this time, as his thumb brushed her jaw and the air between them thrummed with the weight of everything unspoken, Sibylla knew with frightening clarity that this was different.

This was a choice.

She wasn't reeling from heartbreak or expectation. She wasn't a dutiful daughter or a poised diplomat weighing consequence. For once, she wasn't thinking about her reputation, her House, or the courtly eyes that might be watching even with the annonminity of the masks. She was thinking only of him.

Of Aurelian.

Of the man who had pushed her to live again when all she'd wanted to was to drown herself in work. Who had seen through her masks as easily as she saw through his. Who had made her laugh when she thought she'd forgotten how.

And yes, the thought terrified her. The possibility of something real, something that could burn brighter than it should. The risk of it unraveling everything they had built. But wasn't that what she'd always done? Step back when it mattered most, silence herself out of duty or fear until the moment passed and she was left wondering what might have been?

Not this time.

Her mind flashed with the doubts she'd whispered to him, to Ace, to Dominique. About choice, expectation, and the uneasy question of who she truly was beneath it all. She'd spent so long wondering whether her decisions were ever truly her own. But now, as she stood in his arms, with the world spinning and his voice catching softly on her name, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

This was hers.

Aurelian spun her one last time, and when he caught her again, his hand found the small of her back, his breath warm against her cheek and her heart stuttered and tore through the last of her hesitation.

He was right there, his thumb tracing the edge of her mask, his gaze burning with something raw, tender, and wordless. The tension was unbearable. The ache of weeks of indescion cracked open inside her, spilling into the space between them.

He leaned in.

And this time, Sibylla didn't flinch.

She didn't think of the consequences, or the court, or what tomorrow might bring. She didn't think at all.

She simply moved, leaning up into him, her lips finding his, soft at first, then certain. The world around them fell away, the orchestra fading into silence, the lanternlight blurring to gold. Her hand slid up to his chest, feeling the quickening thrum of his heart beneath her palm. Everything feeling heady and electric all at once.

And this time, she didn't hold back.

This time, she kissed him because she wanted to. Because she knew exactly who he was, and who she was with him.

No duty. No mask. No fear.

Just them.

 
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THE MOONLIGHT MASQUERADE

Location – Naboo
Objectives – Objective one: The Moonlight Waltz
Tags Adelle Bastiel Adelle Bastiel

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What laser-brain had been put in charge of this slow, tiresome music? Did they long to curse people into an eternal slumber with this pace? And while some of the nobility took a liking to it, twirling around on the marble dancefloor, Soliane mostly tried to dance to the familiar melodies in her minds. Old songs such as Niamos! and Huttese songs, that had accompanied her endlessly on her travels to the outer rim. And while her mentors or companions had argued that it was a dangerous endeavour--exposing one to more hazards than not--she had to think of something to keep her sane amid the temples and ruins she explored.

So while others danced slowly and spent more times gossiping and swooning over the other's eyes and what not, the Chandrilan continued a quick and upbeat dance until she reached the other side. Swaying left and right as the alcohol poisoned her systems. Her shoes tapping on the floor over and over again, in rhythm with the imaginary beat. Her shoulders occasionally bumping into the figures of passersby, mostly two figures dressed in Gold or Aurodium tones garbs, who eyed her with disgust as she moved by. Why wouldn't people liven up for once? This was marketed as a feast, a masquerade, as if its core did not revolve around a masked party? Dance, drink, have fun... Though nobles always had their little schemes to uphold--It was a miracle no deaths had yet been reported.

In time, the short woman made her way to the other side of the party, nigh on bumping into one of the grand pillars that supported the second floor's balconies. It, without a doubt, drew the eyes of the other guests attending the event. But such lapses or silly accidents would not deter her from having a grand time, as she already found the next drink upon a table, taking a large swig to fuel the fire in her throat. If she kept drinking, mayhap the hangover, or memories, would not be too bad on the morrow. . . As the burn grew unpleasant, Soliane grabbed three of the buttersweet puffs from the tray beside the chalices and stuffed them in her mouth. Only to hear a voice call out to her, although not by name... She turned to look at the figure dressed in blue, her own cheeks appearing swollen by the sweets.

"If you can handle a drink," She more or less slurred, a puff of powdered sugar leaving her lips alongside her words.



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Adelle watched the faint cloud of powdered sugar dissipated in the air, a slow smile growing on her. Of all the people she'd chosen to talk to, she had found the drunk. Who apparently seemed to be of the impression that a drink was a challenge. Granted, for her, it might actually be one. Adelle smiled crookedly, allowing a bit of mischief in it.

"I'm Corellian," she said. "Better question's which drink can't I handle."

She helped herself to a goblet of blossom wine from a silver tray. "I'm honestly impressed. This is by far the fastest I've seen anyone get drunk at a gala like this. Do you have a preferred poison?"



weirwooddream weirwooddream
 


Lorn moved like a shadow made polite for company. The guards hadn't questioned his entry, a small benefit of knowing how to walk as though he belonged. His borrowed finery was too simple for the masquerade's excess, but his mask of blackened steel and burnished glass lent him enough anonymity to pass among the silk and laughter.

He spent the first half hour skirting the edges of the ballroom, letting the tide of voices and music fold around him. The Force hummed like a quiet wire beneath it all, carrying faint currents of vanity and political intrigue. Ala Quin Ala Quin 's words lingered in his mind: "Just make sure Naboo sleeps easy tonight."

So he watched. He counted exits, cataloged the guards, and noted which guests carried themselves like soldiers pretending not to be. The wine was sweet, the air perfumed, and every smile carried the weight of something unsaid. He'd seen this kind of peace before: fragile, gilded, a heartbeat from breaking.

Then the whisper of a familiar presence brushed his thoughts. It was like hearing an old melody under the noise, centered and calm, yet edged with caution. It was Bastila.

Without thinking, Lorn drifted toward her through the crowd, the way one might follow a star through mist. He plucked a tray from a passing servant's hands and found her where the light thinned near the outer pillars. She stood as still as a statue, her gaze fixed on the dancers.

He didn't need the Force to sense the tension in her shoulders, or the way her attention lingered on the central pair.

"Friends of yours?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough to blend with the music.

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Location: Electricity
Tags: Sibylla Abrantes Sibylla Abrantes

Aurelian hadn't expected her to move. Not after all the times he'd watched her step back from the edge, choosing reason over risk, duty over want. So when she did, when she leaned in, the sheer shock of it stole the air from his lungs.

The kiss hit him like a sudden drop into freefall. Everything important crashed together in a heartbeat, then dissolved until there was only her. Her mouth was soft, warm, and certain. When she tilted closer, his hand at her waist tightened, drawing her against him until he could feel the rhythm of her heart pounding through the silk.

He had imagined this before, though he'd never dared to admit it. Yet nothing had come close to the reality of it: the softness of her lips, the faint tremor of her breath, the way the world seemed to spark and then settle all at once. It wasn't calculated or courtly. It was real. His mind stuttered somewhere between shock and surrender. He hadn't truly thought she would kiss him back like this, without hesitation. It felt perfectly, dangerously right. The ache he'd buried unraveled completely.

When he finally broke away, it was barely a breath's width. His forehead brushed hers, and his eyes stayed locked on her face, as if he needed to hold the moment to keep it real. Her lips were still parted, her breath mingling with his. He couldn't look away. He stared, searching for the hesitation, the regret, the return of reason. But it never came.

His thumb traced the faint line of her mask, and a slow, stunned smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The gold light of the ballroom reflected in her eyes, and the realization hit him, hard and sure. Then, awareness crashed back in. The music had stopped. The room had stilled. Somewhere in the blur of silk and candlelight, the quiet murmur of voices began to rise again. Oh, chit. They were still in the middle of the damn floor.

Aurelian blinked, a breathless laugh escaping. "I think," he said instead, his voice low and still rough, "we've earned ourselves a drink." That familiar grin curved across his face, mischief steadying him. Without giving her a chance to second-guess, he caught her hand in his and tugged her gently through the crowd. Heads turned, whispers stirred, but he didn't care. The feel of her fingers in his was enough.

He found them a corner, shadowed and half-hidden near the bar, and turned back to face her, his hand still tangled with hers. The lanternlight spilled over the edges of her mask, painting her mouth gold. Aurelian signaled to the bartender. "Two," he ordered, his tone casual despite the frantic beat of his heart. "Whiskey. Neat."

When the glasses slid across the counter, he took hers first, brushing his knuckles lightly against her wrist as he passed it over. His grin softened, the playful edge deepening into something profound. "To... bold nights," he murmured, lifting his glass. Then, quieter, his eyes holding hers over the rim, warm, dark, and still a little breathless: "And to making them worth it."

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The great hall shimmered with too much light for Veyla's taste — chandeliers scattering brilliance like a challenge. Beneath her mask, her expression remained unreadable, her eyes sharp and searching through the mirrored haze of nobles and warriors alike. The music was a living thing, sweeping through the room like a tide she had no wish to drown in.

Her boots moved in perfect time beside Siv's steps — not out of obedience, but instinct. Even here, among satin and ceremony, she moved like a hunter: balanced, deliberate, aware of every shifting glance.

Her gaze flicked to the towering Domina ahead — Dima, uncertain but unyielding, swaying alone in a storm of grace and silk. The sight tugged something soft in Veyla's chest, a recognition of strength hidden beneath awkward beauty. She leaned slightly toward Siv, her voice a low murmur that hummed through the vocoder's hum of her armor.

"She's fighting a different kind of war," Veyla said. "The kind you can't win with a blade. But she's got heart. That counts for more than poise."

Her mask tilted his way then — an almost imperceptible gesture, yet somehow it felt intimate. "You've got an eye for the ones worth watching, don't you, Siv?" The faint smirk in her tone softened the edge of her words. "Or do you always make a habit of escorting women into enemy territory?"

The chandelier light caught on the dark curve of her mask as she turned back toward Dima, the faintest hint of a grin audible though unseen. "You lead well," she added after a beat. "Almost makes me wonder what you'd do if someone actually followed your rhythm."

There was challenge in it, quiet, deliberate, veiled behind decorum. Her gloved hand brushed against the edge of her holster as she shifted her weight, still half in combat readiness even here among crystal and silk. "Don't worry," she murmured, low enough for only him to hear. "If this turns into a fight, I'll let you have the first dance."

Domina Prime Domina Prime Siv Kryze Siv Kryze
 

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Objective1: The Moonlight Waltz
Tag: Isobel Serraris Isobel Serraris | Josiah Denko Josiah Denko
Mask
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From his position at the edge of an opulent ballroom, Lysander allowed all the grandeur to wash over him, like a symphony rehearsed for centuries on Naboo. The chalice lingered in his grasp, each flicker of the chandelier causing the crimson liquid to glow, a pulse in his delicate hands, with weight just heavy enough to ground him. From the steps of dancers to the flutter of fans, he captured everything.

More than once, a ripple of recognition brushed along his consciousness, a sensation that went beyond the touch of the Force, something older. The threads of family always had a way of weaving themselves into the tapestry, a constant reminder of his past and his future tangled together. It was no surprise when his attention shifted. He was drawn first to the blonde locks of Corazona von Ascania Corazona von Ascania . In that moment, he felt less like a spectator and more like a younger brother again, watching strength take shape in someone he'd always admired. For an instant, all the galaxy's problems fled away.

Searching further, he found Fatine von Ascania Fatine von Ascania , with another figure at her side, one stirring something familiar. But it was the cadence of their exchange that drew a crease at the corner of his eyes. Ultimately, he let it go and forced his expression to settle.

With a final glance, the apprentice turned his attention towards Darth Anathemous Darth Anathemous and Qyssiyana Qyssiyana , not in a prying sense, nor to prove some kind of blind loyalty, but rather that of one accustomed to keeping a watchful eye for those who resided within his circle.

Amidst the swirl of masks and laughter, he finally found her: Isobel, gracefully awkward and luminous all at once, just as he remembered her with the bouquet, the tea, the quiet corner of Theed. Beyond that, he too remembered the tumble of brown curls. And now, he understood the true meaning behind the flowers stitched into her gown.

Such subtleties might escape the notice of many, but for Lysander, they offered clarity.

His lips curved, gentler than he had intended. Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, he set the glass aside on a passing tray. Her nearness, even imagined, made indulgence feel unnecessary, almost distasteful against such a pure aura. Tea had suited them better. It was honest, just like the Padawan girl herself. And even now, the echo of it brought a warmth no wine tonight could match.

A darkness nestled deep within his chest demanded Force concealment. Thus, he donned a veil, his signature now a ghost.

Closing the distance, he stopped just at the threshold, where conversation might begin, offering the first bow to the older man, a gesture of respect.

The title passed with ease. “My lord.”

A brief acknowledgement, but courteous as it should be.

Only then did his gaze shift. The noise of the masquerade dulled as he inclined his head once more, the motion quieter this time.

“Lady Serraris.” Spoken with care, not overplayed, but simply offered as something that belonged to her.

A shy glint caught his face, amusement ghosting the edges, perhaps in remembrance of their last exchange.

“Even in a hall of masks, I knew you by the flowers.”


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OBJECTIVE 1: THE MOONLIGHT WALTZ
Siv stood between them for a moment — the current of the ballroom pulling around him like a river breaking on stone. Two different battles. Two different kinds of fire.

He turned first toward Dima, his voice lowering just enough to cut through the music's swell.

"Dima," he said, helm dipping slightly. "You're fighting harder than anyone here — even if they don't see it. They mistake silence for weakness and softness for surrender. But you? You're standing here anyway. That's strength."

He paused, the mirrored visor catching the light of the chandeliers as though weighing his next words.

"You want them to dance with you? Then stop waiting for them to think you belong. Walk up, offer your hand, and make the moment yours. You don't need to fit into their rhythm — make them keep up with yours. You've already got their attention; all that's left is to remind them why."

There was no pity in his tone — only quiet, iron respect. A soldier talking to another, not a priestess trying to please a crowd.

Then, his head turned slightly — the faintest hum of servos marking the shift — toward Veyla.

Her words still lingered in the air between them, edged and knowing. He let that silence hang a breath longer before answering.

"You're right," he said finally. "She's fighting a war she can't win with a blade. Most do, whether they know it or not." His tone softened, just enough to show he'd heard the meaning behind her earlier challenge. "And maybe I do have an eye for the ones worth watching — it's how you survive long enough to lead."

His stance eased, the weight of the moment cutting through with dry warmth. "As for escorting women into enemy territory…" A faint rasp of amusement flickered through the vocoder. "Let's just say I prefer company that doesn't need rescuing."

He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping beneath the hum of the violins. "You said you'd let me have the first dance if this turns into a fight," he murmured. "Just make sure you can keep up when it does."

Then he straightened again, helm turning between the two women — one swaying in self-doubt, the other sharp and sure-footed. A small, unseen smile tugged behind the visor.

"Different wars," Siv said quietly, almost to himself. "But both worth winning."


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PARTIES.

CHAMPAGNE.

FANCY DRESSES.

FINE DINING.

SCARLET.

PEOPLE KISSING ON DANCE FLOORS.

SOFT, YET SUBTLE MINOR-KEY SLOW SONGS GIVING WAY TO THINGS USUALLY IN C MAJOR THAT CAUSED PEOPLE TO DANCE AND FEEL THINGS.


Tags: Open

None of which remotely interested Raylin. Infact, he downright hated most of these things. Maybe that's why they kept inviting him, or asking him to go. Sure, sure, he looked good in his dress uniform- Alliance pins, a fancy Pathfinder beret, all that. He however, didn't feel spiffy like he should've. He felt like an nerf herder.
Sure, it was his job to be a Republic trooper, and one of their better ones, at that. But-

That didn't mean he had to like the hoity-toity types of Naboo, right? He wished they'd station him somewhere else. However, his last outing on a remote outpost didn't go so well- but the Sith troops were dead, not him, so. Not too terrible of a day. Alliance be damned. At any rate- he slicked away from the party. Some of the people at the party he'd personally chastised before. It was weird, dressing up, playing fancy, all this.... nonsense, really, when the galaxy was looming on the edge of annihilation of entire planets.

So, he took a walk.

He took a walk in the garden.

He took a brisk walk through the garden away from everyone-

Raylin snuck off to smoke. There, that's the truth. Raylin was a lil stinker.

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The gardens were nice. And secluded. And away from everyone. As a Recon troop, Raylin always had a few things on him. Handcuff key (ex-wife appreciated that once...), commando's fighting knife, cigarettes, a lighter, chewing gum, and.... at a minimum, twenty credits. Twenty credits dropped into someone's hand could get you pretty far, a taxi ride, or at least, gas money to someone to take you somewhere.

But for now, he just wanted to smoke, alone in this nice garden....

And if he was caught, he'd stab whoever found him in the throat and leave them in a bush- he mused to himself. No, he'd just feign ignorance and play dumb. After all, he was just a dumb Commando amidst all these rich, fancy people with their nice shoes.
 
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//: Srina Talon Srina Talon //: CT-312 CT-312 //:
//: Dress //: Mask //:

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Diplomacy had become her life. Alisteri's words still lingered in the back of her mind as she adjusted the gold mask on her face. She was still Sith — choosing diplomacy didn't make her less than. Yet she hated how his voice haunted her weeks later.

Were his thoughts the same as the others'? Did the rest of the Empire look down on her choices? Should she have torn the Sangnir's head from his shoulders the moment he'd dared to condescend?

The Princess exhaled sharply, forcing the thought aside. There were more important matters to handle.

Here, in High Republic territory, Quinn carried a bounty worth one hundred fifty thousand credits. Simply showing her face was a gamble, an open invitation to bounty hunters looking for a payday. At least within the Serraris Estate, she was afforded a degree of safety — the hosts prized civility, and even assassins honored neutrality at an event this prestigious.

The Princess's safety came in numbers, her apprentice being one of them. Quinn had only seen the girl briefly, but figured she was at the height of her youth and was going to enjoy the party.

Her gaze drifted toward CT-312 — the trooper she trusted with much of her safety — standing watch near the walls and doors. A faint smirk curved the Princess's lips as she took in the woman's form, unhidden by the usual layers of armor and camouflage. The mask only heightened the effect, adding a touch of danger to her demeanor.

Arms crossed lightly at her midsection, she rested her hand beneath her chin, the faintest touch against her jaw as she observed. Masked faces blurred together — some familiar, others forgettable, a few she'd rather erase from memory entirely. Yet none of them belonged to the one she sought.

Her focus shifted to the woman standing beside her. Tonight was no social call, nor a romantic venture. This was instruction — an exercise in restraint and perception, one she would need to master before ascending further.

"I've never been fond of masquerades," she mused, her tone quiet, her words directed toward her mother. Even behind a mask, Srina Talon carried herself with the same cold majesty as always. People knew her presence instinctively — Quinn only hoped to one day command such natural reverence.

"Masks only hide what people refuse to face," Quinn continued. "A nuisance, really." She thought of her Sith peers, obsessed with theatrics and symbolism — especially the one who still managed to irritate her despite his absence.

Her hazel eyes flicked toward her mother. "I have plans tonight. I'm looking for someone in particular."

She paused, eyes drifting once again to the mingling crowd. "From what I've gathered — or perhaps, what I assume — she's close to Naboo's king. She's quite beautiful… too much so for someone like him." Her pinky brushed against her painted lips, a small, thoughtful gesture.

"Would it be… diplomatic to involve myself?"

Her voice danced around the edge of mischief, inviting but not confessional. Perhaps her mother would miss the implication — or ignore it entirely. Either way, Quinn would listen to her response. She always did.

"I am curious, though — why this event, of all places?" she asked with a slight grin. "Afraid I might start a war like dear Gerwald Lechner Gerwald Lechner ?"

Quinn couldn't help herself; she knew the history of the Wolf in his more youthful days.

As she spoke, a familiar shade of brunette caught her attention. Bastila Sal-Soren Bastila Sal-Soren lingered at the edge of the crowd. Quinn's lips curved into a soft, knowing smile. She would wait, patient and poised, for the woman to notice her first.
 
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Too bright, too clean, he just listened to the orchestra’s waltz grinding away in the background. Too perfect, too rehearsed, it reminded him of an engine running without grit.. without life. The kind of thing that made his teeth itch..

Eyes narrowing, he followed the Jedi’s gaze across the floor. Yeah. Things were now starting to add up. The Mid Rim was blessed with options. Morals were scarce too, if he had to guess.

He didn’t know the whole story, didn’t need to.

Devin’s head tilted, an impish grin tugging at his mouth. “Diplomatic incident? That's just fancy talk for avoiding married women, ain’t it?" The words came easy, each one laced with smug amusement. And he let the grin linger, because the truth was, trouble had a way of following him.

After their trip on Ord Mantell, he was almost under the assumption that the same could be said for Ace.

“Worst case, you can pull rank, and wave that glowstick of yours around while calling it a misunderstanding.”

Drink glowing like a flare, jewels at the throat catching light. This one definitely didn’t fit here. Too sharp, and too comfortable in her own skin. Devin knew that type; he’d seen it in the underlevels, in the back alleys, where the real games were played.

Seemed the Jedi’s old friend had spotted them before they even made it across the floor.

Apparently, the move was to say something nice at these things. The pilot could manage that. He’d lied with a straight face in Sabacc dens more times than he could count.

Two fingers adjusted the helmet-mask that obscured his face, attention flicking from her necklace to the exposed hand that wore no ring. Absurd to even ask, but he was going to, because that was just his way.

“Nice necklace,” Devin drawled, voice dry as Tatooine’s sand. “Wedding gift?”

He didn’t really care where it came from. It was more of a jab.

 

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